once precipitated him from his pride of place, and threatened to destroy both his reputation and his life.

On returning home one evening, he found his wife assassinated and his house robbed. An Italian servant, on whom suspicion naturally fell, could not be found. An inquest took place, and, as the result of the investigation, Cano was proved to have been jealous of his wife, and to have had an intrigue with another woman. Thus suspected and endangered, he fled from Madrid, and took refuge in the Chartreuse of Portacli, a convent about three leagues from Valencia, for which he painted several pictures; and, when he thought the accusation against him forgotten, he returned back to the capital. But his return was premature; he was arrested and put to the torture, obtaining, as a concession to his excellence as an artist, that his right arm should be spared by the executioner. His iron nerves, or his consciousness of innocence, enabled him to endure the torments of the rack without uttering a syllable that could criminate himself, and he was therefore pronounced guiltless of the crime imputed to him, and set at liberty. The evidence against him must, indeed, have been very imperfect, for we find him after this still retaining the favour of Philip, and the post of drawing-master to the Infant. Mr. Ford treats the story of his criminality as "an idle calumny of the gossiping Palomino, unsupported by any evidence.' Some time after this melancholy episode in his life, Cano left Madrid and took up his residence in his native city of Grenada, where he was soon appointed by the King to the office of a minor canon of the cathedral of Grenada. Part of the chapter murmured against this appointment, but Philip only replied-" Had Cano been a learned man, I would not have been content with making him a canon, but would have placed him at your head as bishop of Grenada;" or, according to another account, "I can make canons like you at my pleasure, but God alone can make an Alonso Cano."

The chapter of Grenada soon benefitted by the genius and assiduity of their artist-canon. He adorned the cathedral with eleven pictures, and, for the high altar, carved an image of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception, for which an Italian is said to have offered 4000 doubloons. He also furnished designs for the improvement of the cathedral of Malaga, and, during his stay in that city, a circumstance took place which furnished him with an opportunity of displaying his ready wit in a somewhat trying position. The story is thus related by Mr. Stirling:"During his stay at Malaga, the city was visited by a dreadful inundation of the sea, of which Palomino tells a ridiculous story at the expense of the bishop. The waters rising rapidly, whilst the clergy were assembled in the cathedral praying for their decrease, the terrified prelate left his throne and took refuge in the organ, telling Cano, who ventured to ask why, that it was better to be crushed to death in the mighty instrument than to undergo the slower process of drowning. 'My Lord,' replied the canon, 'if we are to perish like eggs, it matters little whether we be poached or boiled,' a pleasant conceit, which, uttered in such a conjuncture, says the historian, displayed great magnanimity. The flood happily subsided, leaving the organ unshaken, and the bishop in the enjoyment of his mitre, and the canon of his jest."

During his residence in Grenada, Cano was betrayed by his passions

into the commission of an imprudence similar to that which, a century and a half before, had proved fatal to Torrigiano. An auditor of the Royal Chancery had commissioned from him a statue of St. Anthony of Padua, for which the sculptor demanded 100 pistoles. "What!" exclaimed the auditor, one of those matter-of-fact imbeciles who can comprehend nothing beyond the narrow orbit of their own revolution, "you have been only twenty-five days in carving this statue, for which you charge at the exorbitant rate of four pistoles a day; whereas I, an auditor of Grenada, and your superior, can only earn half the sum by the utmost exertion of my abilities." "Fool!" replied the indignant artist, "know, that in order to make that statue in twenty-five days, I have laboured for forty years;" and seizing the sculptured saint, he dashed him to pieces against the pavement, upon which the astonished auditor beat a speedy retreat, fearing lest one who had shown so little respect for a departed saint, might show still less for a living lawyer. More fortunate than Torrigiano, Cano escaped with suspension by the chapter from his office of canon, to the functions of which he was afterwards restored by the King, on condition that he should execute for Queen Mariana a crucifix, of life size, which he had long neglected. Cano accordingly completed the work to her Majesty's satisfaction, and was replaced in his benefice in 1659.

Like his Calabrian contemporary, the painter Matia Preti, Cano spent the last years of his life in pious exercises and in acts of charity. When he had no money to bestow upon the petitioners for his bounty, he would sketch a design on paper and hand it to the beggar, showing him, at the same time, where to dispose of it. Cano, however, was an orthodox Spaniard of the purest breed; his benevolence extended only to Christians, and he hated Jews with a most pious fervour, deeming the slightest contact with them contamination. If he happened to brush against an Israelite in the street, the garment which had been polluted by the touch of the unbeliever was for ever discarded. On one occasion, he found his housekeeper haggling within his house with a peddling Jew; he drove both of them from his dwelling, and repaved the spot which the Israelite had polluted with his feet. He was attacked by a fatal illness in the autumn of 1667; but, almost in his last moments, retained his hatred for Jews and his love of art. The curate of the parish in which he lived came to see him, in order to know whether he wished to confess and receive the sacrament at his hands, when the dying canon inquired whether he ever administered the sacrament to Jews condemned by the Inquisition, and, upon being answered in the affirmative, instantly and sternly rejected his proffered services. During his last moments, a rudely-carved crucifix was placed in his hands by the officiating priest, and feebly repelled by the dying sculptor, whose sense of the beautiful, strong even in death, was offended by the vileness of the workmanship. "Give me a simple cross," he exclaimed; "I can adore that and the Divine image in my own mind." His request was complied with, and he died in a most edifying and exemplary manner. His death took place in 1667, in the 66th year of his age. He rests in the burial-vault of the canons, under the choir of the Cathedral of Grenada. Cano's portraits represent him as a Dantesque-looking man, with stern prominent features. In the Royal Gallery at Madrid, there

Our route to Letterkenny was through Dublin, Dundalk, Ballybay, Omagh, and Strabane, by rail, coach, and car. Having travelled all night, and refreshed our inner and outer man by a toilet and breakfast, we started at once on a jaunting-car and native pony gaily to our destination that is to say, to the avenue-gate of Glenveagh. And here I may casually remark, that when one pulls up at the avenue-gate of a friendly demesne, it is reasonable and usual to consider oneself nearly at home, within a few minutes of reaching the hospitable hearth"Mais ici nous avons changez tout cela." We found we still were five long Irish miles from my host's romantic cottage at the upper end of the Glen.

Dick Martin was reputed to have been the owner of an approach thirty miles long to Ballynahinch Castle. His, however, was the highroad from Oughterard to Clifden, open to everyone, and on which coaches and mail-cars ran; but I know of no other proprietor, noble or gentle, in Ireland, than the Laird of Glenveagh, whose actual private avenue extends to the extraordinary length of five Irish miles, on which no other foot but his own may tread.

Astounding as the distance seemed to us at first, yet our lassitude began quickly to disappear on 'proceeding a short distance from the gate along the shore of the lake. Before we had gone half a mile we found ourselves surrounded by beautiful and singularly wild scenery. The glen, the lake, the mountain, gradually opened on us, and we wound our way through the most lovely natural woods, composed of oak, birch, alder, holly, and juniper. This latter graceful shrub is here indigenous and plentiful, supplying the place of the arbutus of Killarney. The avenue winds along the southern or left shore of the lake, and had been laid out with much taste, not many years ago, by the late proprietor, who is said to have expended a large sum upon it and other romantic pathways through the woods. On the opposite or northern side the shoulders of Dooish Mountain rise perpendicularly from the water to the height of a thousand feet. His hoary head appears towering in the distance fifteen hundred feet high. The lake is here about half a mile wide, having several islands grouped at the eastern end. The bare and precipitous cliffs of the opposite side are not unlike those of the Gap of Dunloe, though grander and loftier.

After a walk of two hours, during which we often diverged from the direct route, pausing to admire the ever-varying vistas, scrambling up an enchanting wooded ravine, or loitering over rare wild plants, we passed the upper end of the lake, with its beautiful beach of snow-white granite sand, and at length arrived at the cottage, which we found to be a mere mountain lodge of most unpretending architecture.

The evening though fine was not too sultry for a bright turf fire, over which we sat till bed-time, giving utterance to our mutual impressions of delight at the sublime solitude around us, or speculating on the charming liberty of life that a poet-philosopher might have at Glenveagh, totally withdrawn from the purlieus of "Civilization," and the fripperies and discordances of "Society."

Having agreed to divide our week into daily expeditions suitable to the weather, the morning after our arrival was devoted to the exploration of the "woods, caves, and hollow trees" of my friend's territory

places like those which, according to Goldsmith, were tenanted of old by Nature's priests, the Druids.

The day was fine, the sky clear, and the breeze light. After an early breakfast we started, stick in hand, clad in costumes suitable to the occasion, legs well cased in ribbed woollen Connemara stockings, and having crossed by a rustic bridge the sparkling little river which feeds the lake, we proceeded up the nearly perpendicular cliff close to the waterfall of Astellion (Anglice, the tumbling or rolling waterfall). At the summit, before the stream descends the cliff in tawny foam, it is divided into two parts, leaving a small rocky island in the centre. Of this "small green isle" we heard some curious tales, which I cannot here divulge, but which might haply be whispered to prudent ears, if at any time we should be caught in a communicative mood over a bowl of Dooish punch, which heavenly dew is a rare treat even in those parts, and though not an impossibility, requires "early rising" to pro

cure it.

Having gained the top of the Fall, and taken a survey of the scenes below and around, including the lake, the wood, and the opposite heights of Gartan Mountain, we proceeded over the several shoulders of Dooish, disturbing by the way many an old bachelor grouse, who challenged hoarsely, "Go back! go back!" But not heeding those inhospitable hints, we persevered, and at length found ourselves perched on his apex, against which I found growing up a diminutive juniper bush, evidently of great age, singularly dwarfed by the everlasting breezes which shave the bald head of the mountain. It grew out of the bare rock, unless a few inches of granite sand can be called soil. Drawing forth my "fern extractor," a dagger-knife with a blade five inches long, with a few sweeps the matted roots were severed from their ancient nook, and eventually the little old mountaineer was transplanted, along with other Donegal specimens, to a new climate and soil, where he now contributes his share in adorning an artificial waterfall, over a pond for gold fish, 200 miles from his native region.

From the summit of Dooish we descended some miles, until the shores of Dunlewy Lake were reached. This lake lies under the base of Errigal Mountain. At right angles with Dunlewy Valley is the "Poisoned Glen," of which sinister spot, where the sun never shines, we had a full view. In the same neighbourhood is Glenluck, which contains the Lucknoo, or long flag, on which Colombkill was born; a rather hard couch, we should suppose, for a baby saint. Errigal (or the White Arrow) is a mountain of strikingly beautiful outline, standing boldly and proudly in the vast solitude. At a short distance is Muckish, one of the highest and noblest of the Donegal mountains.

Shaping our course eastward, we took a cast round the base of Errigal, and after some miles of rough descent through heather three feet high, granite boulders and rushy dells, we reached the high road, the only one through this part of the country. Along this we proceeded for about six miles, to the eastern end of the lake. Getting a boat, we were rowed to the cottage, which was reached at seven o'clock, having thus accomplished a circuit of about twenty Irish miles.

Next morning there was the most unlooked-for change in the weather -clouds rolling, mists drifting, and soon a deluge of rain-such as one

VOL. III,

H

seldom sees even in this land of "dropping weather." Glenveagh, however, is the realm of waterspouts. Several of these have left traces of their power. In one spot in particular the mountain-side is rent from brow to base, as if by a thunderbolt. Huge granite boulders, some of them ten feet high, have been hurled from the summit, where the waterbolt struck, and split into fragments below. In another a broad avenue is cut, or rather torn by them, through the thick, hanging woods; and several smashed oaks, carried down by the torrent, show the irresistible force of the waterspout. The Falls were, of course, in all their glory. The one (Astellion) opposite the cottage, rolled down the cliffs in magnificent foam. It had a singularly tortuous appearance, and from an optical illusion, seemed to twist round in its slow descent, as if it were a great serpent of froth, gliding in convolutions down the mountain's side. Meantime, the cataract in the woods on the other side of the lake bubbled and hissed, and sang to such wild music as would have enchanted Southey or Coleridge. The ferns hung lovingly over the cataract, which left upon them the impress of its tears. Here we wandered for a long time, pausing at every step to admire a hundred different cascades, each a picture in itself. The huge granite blocks which formed them were covered with dwarf ferns, ivy and mosses, in large feathery clumps, luxuriating in the genial moisture and dreamy shade, which the direct rays of the parching sun never entered. The whole ravine has an aboriginal air, its great boulders seem as if they had been hurled downward by the pre-Adamite giantess, Nature, in one of her cosmic gambols or games of pitch-and-toss with mountain tops.

The remains of this "real Irish" day we spent in the endless woods, full of treasures to the botanist, in the shape of rare ferns and mosses. The hymeno phyllum, or fern-moss, was found in several shaded nooks, where water ever oozes even in the driest summer. I have no doubt but that the tricomenes, or rare fern of Killarney, may be found there also, as these generally grow together.

On our return the rain ceased, and out came countless myriads of midges, for which the glen is noted; these attacked us unmercifully as something new in the feeding line, it being long since they were sated with native blood. Ours must have been to them like a new sauce to a Frenchman, or an inexperienced author of talent to a stale, sour-minded critic.

On the fourth morning of our sojourn a change came again" o'er the spirit of our dream "—a hurricane had superseded the rain of yesterday. The most noble bursts of atmospheric wrath came howling down the narrow ravine at the head of the glen, lashing the waters of the lake into yellow foam, which put an end to an intended fishing excursion. That was a great disappointment to us, as the lake abounded in the finest salmon, and red and white trout, and is a haunt highly prized by the few knowing disciples of Izaak Walton; however, we had to give up the joy of our piscatorial paradise. Fastening our caps well down, and buttoning our coats, to make ourselves small-which many in this world often do, while intending the reverse-we faced the mountain side, and getting ourselves near to an old, deserted eagle's nest, under shelter of an overhanging cliff, we enjoyed a magnificent sight.