scoffed at the fantastic folly of human vanity, the short-lived influence of human passion.

The strangers both started, and remained for a moment silent and motionless.

"We have been overheard," said the elder.

"I should say by nothing human," replied his companion. "Look round you see, we are alone: all is now silence and solitude."

"Now, perhaps, but not a moment back.-Look there, something is in motion."

They both darted forward. The moon had sunk in clouds, the stars were few, the pavement broken, and their steps uncertain. Still the Commodore attained the object of his pursuit. It was an old mule grazing on the scanty herbage which sprang up among the ruins.

"This is a most ludicrous adven

ture!" said the Commodore; "and we had better terminate it by returning to our inn and our supper.

The younger stranger still loitered, still mused: the elder drew his arm through his they proceeded in silence; and though during their meal they talked of indifferent subjects, it was evident to the quick perception of the latter that the incident of the abbey had deeply affected the imagination of his fanciful companion; he, however, made no allusion to it, and his silence corroborated an inference founded in fact.

CHAPTER III.

Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens,
And shades of death. All monstrous,
All prodigious things!

MILTON.

BUTTEVANT, the Bothon of Ecclesiastical books, the Kilnemullagh of Spencer, immortalized by his residence in its neighbourhood, was the last stage which the travellers had agreed to pass together; and whether a feeling of regret attended this conviction, or other causes secretly operated to protract their departure, they left Holy-cross at an hour comparatively late, to begin a journey of some distance through one of the wildest mountain tracts, and least frequented cross roads, in the province of Munster.

Their next stage, however, was excellent: it was only to Cashel; and to judge from the group of sturdy fellows, who lurked about the door of the inn to which the travellers were driven, that town was not without its due portion of idlersa natural circumstance in the capital of a grazing county. As the chaise stopped, the gentlemen were looking over their travelling map. They had marked out their route by the road-book, and had chosen the most picturesque, rather, perhaps, than the best line of progress; and in crossing the elevated chain of the Galties, they had selected the road by Gaul Bally (the town of the Gauls or Celts), with its monastic ruins, in preference to the glen of Agherlow, a valley on the opposite side of the mountains, which would have lengthened their route, but would have presented a more beaten track, though in itself sufficiently wild and romantic. Whichever way they took, the driver assured them that they

would reach Buttevant by sunset, "God willing, and barring accident."

As they descended, therefore, from their carriage, they ordered a chaise and horses for Gaul Bally, to be ready against their return from the rock.*

"Certainly, Sir," said the landlord,† slightly touching his hat, and resuming his conversation with aman-of-businesslooking person, who was talking to him "Barney, a chaise on to

at the door.

Gaul Bally."

Barney, having taken due time to consume a portion of tobacco, called out in his turn to a driver near him, "Tim, honey, just call out a chay to Gaul-Bally.”

* The rock of Cashel, the romantic scite of its cathedral.

+ As inns, in common with the royal cara vanseras of the eastern apologue, are subject to a frequent change of masters, it is probable that some such revolution has occurred at the inn at Cashel since these events took place: at least, the author has no reason to charge its present occu, pants with incivility.