"Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol. LX, No. ccclv, Dec. 1879 (3)": electronic edition

White Wings: A Yachting Romance by William Black

Chapter XIV.—Evil Tidings.

We had indeed returned to the world: the firt thing we saw on entering the saloon in the morning was a number of letters—actual letters that had come through a post-office—lying on the breakfast table. We stared at these strange things. Our good Queen T—was the first to approach them. She took them up as if she expected they would bite her.

`Oh, Mary,' she says, `there is not one for you—not one.'

Angus Sutherland glanced quickly at the girl. But there was not the least trace of disapppointment on her face. On the contrary, she said, with a cheerful indifference:

`So much the better. They only bother people.'

But of course they had to be opened and read—even the bulky parcel from Strathgovan. And amid much trivial domestic and other news, one of us stumbled upon one little item that certainly concerned us. It was a clipping from the advertisement column of a newspaper. It was inclosed, without word or comment, by a friend in London who knew that we were slightly acquainted, perforce, with Mr. Frederick Smethurst. And it appeared that that gentleman, having got into difficulties with his creditors, had taken himself off in a surreptitious and evil manner, insomuch that this newspaper clipping was nothing more nor less than a Hue and Cry after the fraudulent bankrupt. That letter and its startling inclosure were quickly whipped into the pocket of the lady to whom they had been sent.

By great good luck Mary Avon was the first to go on deck. She was anxious to see this new harbor into which we had got. And then, with considerable dismay on her face, our sovereign mistress showed us this ugly thing. She was much excited. It was so shameful of him to bring this disgrace on Mary Avon! What would the poor girl say? And this gentle lady would not for worlds have her told while she was with us—until at least we got back to some more definite channel of information. She was, indeed, greatly distressed.

But we had to order her to dismiss these idle troubles. We formed ourselves into a committee on the spot; and this committee unanimously, if somewhat prematurely and recklessly, resolved:

First, that it was not of the slightest consequence to us or any human creature where Mr. Frederick Smethurst was, or what he might do with himself.

Secondly, that if Mr. Frederick Smethurst were to put a string and a stone round his neck and betake himself to the bottom of the sea, he would earn our gratitude, and in some measure atone for his previous conduct.

Thirdly, that nothing at all about the matter should be said to Mary Avon; if the man had escaped, there might probably be an end of the whole business.

To these resolutions, carried swiftly and unanimously, Angus Sutherland added a sort of desultory rider, to the effect that moral or immoral qualities do sometimes reveal themselves in the face. He was also of opinion that spare persons were more easy of detection in this manner. He gave an instance of a well-known character in London—a most promising ruffian who had run through the whole gamut of discreditable effenses. Why was there no record of this brave career written in the man's face? Because nature had obliterated the lines in fat. When a man attains to the dimensions and appearance of a scrofulous toad swollen to the size of an ox, moral and mental traces get rubbed out. Therefore, contended our F.R.S., all persons who set out on a career of villany, and don't want to be found out, should eat fat-producing foods. Potatoes and sugar he especially mentioned as being calculated to conceal crime.

However, we had to banish Frederick Smethurst and his evil deeds from our minds, for the yacht from end to end was in a bustle of commotion about our going ashore; and as for us, why, we meant to run riot in all the wonders and delights of civilization. Innumerable fowls, tons of potatoes and cabbage and lettuce, fresh butter, new loaves, new milk; there was no end to the visions that rose before the excited brain of our chief commissariat officer. And when the Laird, in the act of stepping, with much dignity, into the gig, expressed his firm conviction that somewhere or other we should stumble upon a Glasgow newspaper not more than a week old, so that he might show us the reports of the meetings of the Strathgovan Commissioners, we knew of no further luxury that the mind could desire.

And as we were being rowed ashore, we could not fail to be struck by the extraordinary abundance of life and business and activity in the world. Portree, with it wooded crags and white houses shining in the sun, seemed a large and populous city. The smooth waters of the bay were crowded with craft of every description; and the boats of the yachts were coming and going with so many people on board of them that we were quite stared out of countenance. And then, when we landed, and walked up the quay, and ascended the hill into the town, we regarded the signs over the shop doors with the same curiosity that regards the commonest features of a foreign street. There was a peculiarity about Portree, however, that is not met with in Continental capitals. We felt that the ground swayed lightly under our feet. Perhaps these were the last oscillations of the great volcanic disturbance that shot the black Coolins into the sky.

Then the shops: such displays of beautiful things, in silk, and wool, and cunning wood-work; human ingenuity declaring itself in a thousand ways, and appealing to our purses. Our purses, to tell the truth, were gaping. A craving for purchase possessed us. But, after all, the Laird could not buy servant-girls' scarfs as a present for Mary Avon; and Angus Sutherland did not need a second waterproof coat; and though we reached the telegraph office, there would have been a certain monotony in spending innumerable shillings on unnecessary telegrams, even though we might be rejoicing in one of the highest conveniences of civilization. The plain truth must be told. Our purchases were limited to some tobacco and a box or two of paper collars for the men; to one or two shilling novels; and a flask of eau-de-Cologne. We did not half avail ourselves of all the luxuries spread out so temptingly before us.

`Do you think the men will have the water on board yet?' Mary Avon says, as we walk back. `I do not at all like being on land. The sun scorches so, and the air is stifling.'

`In my opeenion,' says the Laird, `the authorities of Portree are deserving of great credit for having fixed up the apparatus to let boats get water on board at the quay. It was a public-spirited project—it was that. And I do not suppose that any one grumbles at having to pay a shilling for the privilege. It is a legeetimate tax. I am sure it would have been a long time or we could have got such a thing at Strathgovan, if there was need for it there. Ye would scarcely believe it, ma'am, what a spirit of opposition there is among some o' the Commissioners to any improvement: ye would not believe it.'

Indeed,' she says, in innocent wonder; she quite sympathizes with this public-spirited reformer.

`Ay, it's true. Mind ye, I am a Conservative myself; I will have nothing to do with Radicals and their Republics; no, no, but a wise Conservative knows how to march with the age. Take my own poseetion, for example: as soon as I saw that the steam fire-engine was a necessity, I withdrew my opposition at once. I am very thankful to you, ma'am, for having given me an opportunity of carefully considering the question. I will never forget our trip round Mull. Dear me! it is warm the day,' added the Laird, as he raised his broad felt hat, and wiped his face with his voluminous silk handkerchief.

Here come two pedestrians, good-looking young lads of an obviously English type, and faultlessly equipped from head to heel. They look neither to the left nor right; on they go manfully through the dust, the sun scorching their faces; there must be a trifle of heat under these knapsacks. Well, we wish them fine weather and whole heels. It is not the way some of us would like to pass a holiday. For what is this that Miss Avon is singing lightly to herself as she walks carelessly on, occasionally pausing to look in at a shop? ```And often have we seamen heard how men are killed or undone, By overturns of carriages, and thieves, and fires in London.''' Here she turns aside to caress a small terrier; but the animal, mistaking her intention, barks furiously, and retreats, growling and ferocious, into the shop. Miss Avon is not disturbed. She walks on, and completes her nautical ballad, all for her own benefit: ```We've heard what risk all landsmen run, from noblemen to tailors, So, Billy, let's thank Providence that you and I are sailors!''' `What on earth is that, Mary?' her friend behind asks.

The girl stops, with a surprised look, as if she had scarcely been listening to herself; then she says, lightly,

`Oh, don't you know the sailor's song?—I forget what they call it. ```A strong sou'wester's blowing, Billy, can't you hear it roar now? Lord help 'em, how I pities all unhappy folks on shore now!'''

`You have become a thorough sailor, Miss Avon,' says Angus Sutherland, who has overheard the last quotation.

`I—I like it better—I am more interested,' she says, timidly, `since you were so kind as to show me the working of the ship.'

`Indeed,' says he, `I wish you would take command of her, and order her present captain below. Don't you see how tired his eyes are becoming? He won't take his turn of sleep like the others; he has been scarcely off the deck night or day since we left Canna; and I find it is no use remonstrating with him. He is too anxious; and he fancies I am in a hurry to get back; and these continual calms prevent his getting on. Now the whole difficulty would be solved if you let me go back by the steamer; then you could lie at Portree here for a night or two, and let him have some proper rest.'

I do believe, Angus,' says his hostess, laughing in her gentle way, `that you threaten to leave us just to see how anxious we are to keep you.'

`My position as ship's doctor,' he retorts, `is compromised. If Captain John falls ill on my hands, whom am I to blame but myself?'

`I am quite sure I can get him to go below,' says Mary Avon, with decision—`quite sure of it. That is, especially,' she adds, rather shyly, `if you will take his place. I know he would place more dependence on you than on any of the men.'

This is a very pretty compliment to pay to one who is rather proud of his nautical knowledge.

`Well,' he says, laughing, `the responsibility must rest on you. Order him below, to-night, and see whether he obeys. If we don't get to a proper anchorage, we will manage to sail the yacht somehow among us—you being captain, Miss Avon.'

`If I am captain.' she says, lightly—though she turns away her head somewhat—`I shall forbid your deserting the ship.'

`So long as you are captain, you need not fear that,' he answers. Surely he could say no less.

But it was still John of Skye who was skipper when, on getting under way, we nearly met with a serious accident. Fresh water and all provisions having been got on board, we weighed anchor only to find the breeze die wholly down. Then the dingey was got out to tow the yacht away from the sheltered harbor; and our young doctor, always anxious for hard work, must needs jump in to join in this service. But the little boat had been straining at the cable for scarcely five minutes when a squall of wind came over from the northwest and suddenly filled the sails. `Look out there, boys!' called Captain John, for we were running full down on the dingey. `Let go the rope! Let go!' he shouted: but they would not let go, as the dingey came sweeping by. In fact, she caught the yacht just below the quarter, and seemed to disappear altogether. Mary Avon uttered one brief cry; and then stood pale—clasping one of the ropes—not daring to look. And John of Skye uttered some exclamation in the Gaelic, and jumped on to the taffrail. But the next thing we saw, just above the taffrail, was the red and shining and laughing face of Angus Sutherland, who was hoisting himself up by means of the mizzen boom; and directly afterward appeared the scarlet cap of Hector of Moidart. It was upon this latter culprit that the full force of John of Skye's wrath was expended.

`Why did you not let go the rope when I wass call to you?'

`It iss all right, and if I wass put into the water, I have been in the water before,' was the philosophic reply.

And now it was, as we drew away from Portree, that Captain Mary Avon endeavored to assume supreme command, and would have the deposed skipper go below and sleep. John of Skye was very obedient, but he said:

`Oh, ay. I will get plenty of sleep. But that hill there, that iss Ben-Inivaig; and there iss not any hill in the West Highlands so bad for squalls as that hill. By-and-by I will get plenty of sleep.'

Ben-Inivaig let us go past its great, gloomy, forbidding shoulders and cliffs without visiting us with anything worse than a few variable puffs; and we got well down into the Raasay Narrows. What a picture of still summer loveliness was around us!—the rippling blue seas, the green shores, and far over these the black peaks of the Coolins, now taking a purple tint in the glow of the afternoon. The shallow Sound of Scalpa we did not venture to attack, especially as it was now low water; we went outside Scalpa, by the rocks of Skier Dearg. And still John of Skye evaded, with a gentle Highland courtesy, the orders of the captain. The silver bell of Master Fred summoned us below for dinner, and still John of Skye was gently obdurate.

`Now, John,' says Mary Avon, seriously, to him, `You want to make me angry.'

`Oh no, mem; I do not think that,' says he deprecatingly.

`Then why won't you go and have some sleep? Do you want to be ill?'

`Oh, there iss plenty of sleep,' says he. `Maybe we will get to Kyle Akin to-night; and there will be plenty of sleep for us.'

But I am asking you as a favor to go and get some sleep now. Surely the men can take charge of the yacht.'

`Oh yes, oh yes,' says John of Skye. `They can do that ferry well.'

And then he paused, for he was great friends with this young lady, and did not like to disoblige her.

`You will be having your dinner now. After the dinner, if Mr. Sutherland himself will be on deck, I will go below and turn in for a time.'

`Of course Dr. Sutherland will be on deck,' says the new captain, promptly; and she was so sure of one member of her crew that she added, `and he will not leave the tiller for a moment until you come to relieve him.'

Perhaps it was this promise, perhaps it was the wonderful beauty of the evening, that made us hurry over dinner. Then we went on deck again; and our young doctor, having got all his bearings and directions clear in his head, took the tiller, and John of Skye at length succumbed to the authority of Commander Avon, and disappeared into the forecastle.

The splendor of color around us on that still evening!—away in the west the sea of a pale yellow-green, with each ripple a flash of rose-flame, and over there in the south the great mountains of Skye—the Coolins, and Blaven, and Ben-na-Cailleach—become of a plum-purple in the clear and cloudless sky. Angus Sutherland was at the tiller, contemplatively smoking an almost black meerschaum; the Laird was discoursing to us about the extraordinary pith and conciseness of the Scotch phrases in the Northumbrian psalter; while ever and anon a certain young lady, linked arm in arm with her friend, would break the silence with some aimless fragment of ballad or old-world air.

And still we glided onward in the beautiful evening; and now ahead of us, in the dusk of the evening, the red star of Kyle Akin light-house steadily gleamed. We might get to anchor, after all, without awaking John of Skye.

`In weather like this.' remarked our sovereign lady, in the gathering darkness, `John might keep asleep for fifty years.'

`Like Rip Van Winkle,' said the Laird, proud of his erudition. `That is a wonderful story that Washington Irving wrote—a verra fine story.'

`Washington Irving!—the story is as old as the Coolins,' said Dr. Sutherland.

The Laird stared as if he had been Rip Van Winkle himself: was he forever to be checkmated by the encyclopedic knowledge of Young England—or Young Scotland rather—and that knowledge only the gatherings and sweepings of musty books that anybody with a parrot-like habit might acquire?

`Why, surely you know that the legend belongs to that common stock of legends that go through all literatures?' says our young doctor. `I have no doubt that Hindoos have their Epimenides; and that Peter Klaus turns up somewhere or other in the Gaelic stories. However, that is of little importance; it is of importance that Captain John should get some sleep. Hector, come here.'

There was a brief consultation about the length of anchor chain wanted for the little harbor opposite Kyle Akin: Hector's instructions were on no account to disturb John of Skye. But no sooner had they set about getting the chain on deck than another figure appeared, black among the rigging; and there was a well-known voice heard forward. Then Captain John came aft, and, depite all remonstrances, would relieve his substitute. Rip Van Winkle's sleep had lasted about an hour and a half.

And now we steal by the black shores; and that solitary red star comes nearer and nearer in the dusk; and at length we can make out two or three other paler lights close down by the water. Behold! the yellow ports of a steam-yacht at anchor; we know, as our own anchor goes rattling out in the dark, that we shall have at least one neighbor and companion through the still watches of the night.

Chapter XV.—Temptation.

But the night, according to John of Skye's chronology, lasts only until the tide turns, or until a breeze springs up. Long before the wan glare in the east has arisen to touch the highest peaks of the Coolins, we hear the tread of the men on deck getting the yacht under way. And then there is a shuffling noise in Angus Sutherland's cabin; and we guess that he is stealthily dressing in the dark. Is he anxious to behold the wonders of daybreak in the beautiful Loch Alsh, or is he bound to take his share in the sailing of the ship? Less perturbed spirits sink back again into sleep, and contentedly let the White Dove go on her own way through the expanding blue-gray lights of the dawn.

Hours afterward there is a strident shouting down the companionway; everybody is summoned on deck to watch the yacht shoot the Narrows of Kyle Rhea. And the Laird is the first to express his surprise; are these the dreaded Narrows that have caused Captain John to start before daybreak so as to shoot them with the tide? All around is a dream of summer beauty and quiet. A more perfect picture of peace and loveliness could not imagined than the green crags of the main-land, and the vast hills of Skye, and this placid channel between shining in the fair light of the morning. The only thing we notice is that on the glassy green of the water—this reflected, deep, almost opaque green is not unlike the color of Niagara below the Falls—there are smooth circular lines here and there; and now and again the bows of the White Dove slowly swerve away from her course as if in obedience to some unseen and mysterious pressure. There is not a breath of wind; and it needs all the pulling of the two men out there in the dingey, and all the watchful steering of Captain John, to keep her head straight. Then a light breeze comes along the great gully; the red-capped men are summoned on board; the dingey is left astern: the danger of being caught in an eddy and swirled ashore is over and gone.

Suddenly the yacht stops as if it had run against a wall. Then, just as she recovers, there is an extraordinary hissing and roaring in the dead silence around us, and close by the yacht we find a great circle of boiling and foaming water, forced up from below and overlapping itself in ever-increasing folds. And then, on the perfectly glassy sea, another and another of those boiling and hissing circles appear, until there is a low rumbling in the summer air like the breaking of distant waves. And the yacht—the wind having again died down—is curiously compelled one way and another, insomuch that John of Skye quickly orders the men out in the dingey again; and again the long cable is tugging at her bows.

`It seems to me,' says Dr. Sutherland to our skipper, `that we are in the middle of about a thousand whirlpools.'

`Oh, it iss ferry quate this morning,' says Captain John, with a shrewd smile. `It iss not often so quate as this. Ay, it iss sometimes ferry bad here—quite so bad as Corrievreckan; and when the flood-tide iss rinnin, it will be rinnan like—shist like a race-horse.'

However, by dint of much hard pulling and judicious steering, we manage to keep the White Dove pretty well in mid-current; and only once—and that but for a second or two—get caught in one of those eddies circling in to the shore. We pass the white ferry-house; a slight breeze carries us by the green shores and woods of Glenelg; we open out the wider sea between Isle Ornsay and Loch Hourn; and then a silver tinkle tells us breakfast is ready.

That long, beautiful, calm summer day: Ferdinand and Miranda playing draughts on deck, he having rigged up an umbrella to shelter her from the hot sun; the Laird busy with papers referring to the Strathgovan Public Park; the hostess of these people overhauling the stores, and meditating on something recondite for dinner. At last the doctor fairly burst out a-laughing.

`Well,' said he, `I have been in many a yacht, but never yet in one where everybody on board was anxiously waiting for the glass to fall.'

His hostess laughed too.

`When you come south again,' she said, `we may be able to give you a touch of something different. I think that, even with all your love of gales, a few days of the equinoctials would quite satisfy you.'

`The equinoctials!' he said, with a surprised look.

`Yes.' said she, boldly, `Why not have a good holiday while you are about it? And a yachting trip is nothing without a fight with the equinoctials. Oh, you have no idea how splendidly the White Dove behaves!'

`I should like to try her,' he said, with a quick delight; but directly afterward he ruefully shook his head. `No, no,' said he, `such a tremendous spell of idleness is not for me. I have not earned the right to it yet. Twenty years hence I may be able to have three months' continued yachting in the West Highlands.'

`If I were you,' retorted this small person, with a practical air, `I would take it when I could get it. What do you know about twenty years hence?—you may be physician to the Emperor of China. And you have worked very hard; and you ought to take as long a holiday as you can get.'

`I am sure,' says Mary Avon, very timidly, `that is very wise advice.'

`In the mean time,' says he, cheerfully, `I am not physician to the Emperor of China, but to the passengers and crew of the White Dove. The passengers don't do me the honor of consulting me; but I am going to prescribe for the crew on my own responsibility. All I want is that I shall have the assistance of Miss Avon in making them take the dose.'

Miss Avon looked up inquiringly with those soft black eyes of hers.

`Nobody has any control over them but herself—they are like refractory children, Now,' said he, rather more seriously, `this night-and-day work is telling on the men. Another week of it, and you would see Insomnia written in large letters on their eyes. I want you, Miss Avon, to get Captain John and the men to have a complete night's rest to-night—a sound night's sleep from the time we finish dinner till daybreak. We can take charge of the yacht.

Miss Avon promptly rose to her feet.

`John!'she called.

The big brown-bearded skipper from Skye came aft—quickly putting his pipe in his waiscoat pocket the while.

`John,' she said, `I want you to do me a favor now. You and the men have not been having enough sleep lately. You must all go below to-night as soon as we come up from dinner; and you must have a good sleep till daybreak. The gentlemen will take charge of the yacht.'

It was in vain that John of Skye protested he was not tired. It was in vain that he assured her that, if a good breeze sprung up, we might get right back to Castle Osprey by the next morning.

`Why, you know very well,' she said, `this calm weather means to last forever.'

`Oh, no! I not think that, mem,' said John of Skye, smiling.

`At all events we shall be sailing all night; and that is what I want you to do, as a favor to me.'

Indeed, our skipper found it was of no use to refuse. The young lady was peremptory. And so, having settled that matter, she sat down to her draught-board again.

But it was the Laird she was playing with now. And this was a remarkable circumstance about the game: when Angus Sutherland played with Denny-mains, the latter was hopelessly and invariably beaten; and when Denny-mains in his turn played with Mary Avon, he was relentlessly and triumphantly the victor; but when Angus Sutherland played with Miss Avon, she somehow or other, generally managed to secure two out of three games. It was a puzzling triangular duel. The chief feature of it was the splendid joy of the Laird when he had conquered the English young lady. He rubbed his hands, he chuckled, he laughed—just as if he had been repeating one of his own `good ones.'

However, at luncheon the Laird was much more serious; for he was showing to us how remiss the government was in not taking up the great solan question. He had a newspaper cutting which gave in figures—in rows of figures—the probable number of millions of herrings destroyed every year by the solan-geese. The injury done to the herring fisheries of this county, he proved to us, was enormous. If a solan is known to eat on an average fifty herrings a day, just think of the millions on millions of fish that must go to feed those nests on the Bass Rock! The Laird waxed quite eloquent about it. The human race were dearer to him far than any gannet or family of gannets.

`What I wonder at is this,' said our young doctor, with a curious grim smile that we had learned to know, coming over his face, `that the solan, with that extrordinary supply of phosphorus to the brain, should have gone on remaining only a bird, and a very ordinary bird too. Its brain power should have been developed; it should be able to speak by this time. In fact, there ought to be solan school boards and parochial boards on the Bass Rock, and commissioners appointed to inquire whether the building of nests might not be conducted on more scientific principles. When I was a boy—I am sorry to say—I used often to catch a solan by floating out a piece of wood with a dead herring on it: a wise bird, with its brain full of phosphorus, ought to have known that it would break its head when it swooped down on a piece of wood.'

The Laird sat in dignified silence. There was something occult and uncanny about many of this young man's sayings—they savored too much of the dangerous and unsettling tendencies of these modern days. Besides, he did not see what good could come of likening a lot of solan-geese to the Commissioners of the Burgh of Strathgovan. His remarks on the herring fisheries had been practical and intelligent; they had given no occasion for gibes.

We were suddenly startled by the rattling out of the anchor chain. What could it mean?—were we caught in an eddy? There was a scurrying up on the deck, only to find that, having drifted so far south with the tide, and the tide beginning to turn, John of Skye proposed to secure what advantage we had gained, by coming to anchor. There was a sort of shamed laughter over this business. Was the noble White Dove only a river barge, then, that she was thus dependent on the tides for her progress? But it was no use either to laugh or to grumble. Two of us proposed to row the Laird away to certain distant islands that lie off the shore north of the mouth of Loch Hourn; and for amusement's sake we took some towels with us.

Look now how this long and shapely gig cuts the blue water. The Laird is very dignified in the stern, with the tiller-ropes in his hand; he keeps a straight course enough, though he is mostly looking over the side. And indeed this is a perfect wonder-hall over which we are making our way—the water so clear that we notice the fish darting here and there among the great brown blades of the tangle and the long green sea-grass. Then there are stretches of yellow sand, with shells and star-fish shining far below. The sun burns on our hands; there is a dead stillness of heat; the measured splash of the oars startles the sea-birds in there among the rocks. `Send the biorlinn on careering, Cheerily and all together— Ho, ro, clansmen! A long, strong pull together— Ho, ro, clansmen!' Look out for the shallows, most dignified of cockswains: what if we were to imbed her bows in the silver sand?— `Another cheer! Our isle appears, Our biorlinn bears her on the faster— Ho, ro, clansmen! A long, strong pull together— Ho, ro, clansmen!'

`Hold hard!' calls Denny-mains; and behold! we are in among a net-work of channels and small islands lying out here in the calm sea; and the birds are wildly calling and screaming and swooping about our heads, indignant at the approach of strangers. What is our first duty, then, in coming to these unknown islands and straits?—why, surely, to name them in the interests of civilization. And we do so accordingly. Here—let it be forever known—is John Smith Bay. There, Thorley's Food for Cattle Island. Beyond that, on the south, Brown and Polson's Straits. It is quite true that these islands and bays may have been previously visited; but it was no doubt a long time ago; and the people did not stop to bestow names. The latitude and longitude may be dealt with afterward; meanwhile the dicoverers unanimously resolve that the most beautiful of all the islands shall hereafter, through all time, be known as the Island of Mary Avon.

It was on this island that the Laird achieved his memorable capture of a young sea-bird—a huge creature of unknown species that fluttered and scrambled over bush and over scaur, while Denny-main, quite forgetting his dignity and the heat of the sun, clambered after it over the rocks. And when he got it in his hands, it lay as one dead. He was sorry. He regarded the newly fledged thing with compassion, and laid it tenderly down on the grass, and came away down again to the shore. But he had scarcely turned his back when the demon bird got on its legs, and, with a succession of shrill and sarcastic `yawps,' was off and away over the higher ledges. No fasting girl had ever shammed so completely as this scarcely fledged bird.

We bathed in Brown and Polson' Straits, to the great distress of certain sea-pyots that kept screaming over our heads, resenting the intrusion of the discoverers. But in the midst of it we were suddenly called to observe a strange darknes on the sea, far away in the north, between Glenelg and Skye. Behold! the long looked-for wind—a hurricane swooping down from the northern hills! Our toilet on the hot rocks was of brief duration; we jumped into the gig; away we went through the glassy water. It was a race between us and the northerly breeze which should reach the yacht first; and we could see that John of Skye had remarked the coming wind, for the men were hoisting the fore stay-sail. The dark blue on the water spreads; the reflections of the hills and the clouds gradually disappear; as we clamber on board, the first puffs of the breeze are touching the great sails. The anchor has just been got up; the gig is hoisted to the davits; slack out the mainsheet, you shifty Hector, and let the great boom go out! Nor is it any mere squall that has come down from the hills, but a fine, steady, northerly breeze; and away we go, with the white foam in our wake. Farewell to the great mountains over the gloomy Loch Hourn; and to the light-house over there at Isle Ornsay; and to the giant shoulders of Ard-na-Glishnich. Are not these the dark green woods of Armadale that we see in the west? And southward and still southward we go, with the running seas and the fresh brisk breeze from the north: who knows where we may not be to-night before Angus Sutherland's watch begins?

There is but one thoughtful face on board. It is that of Mary Avon. For the moment, at least, she seems scarcely to rejoice that we have at last got this grateful wind to bear us away to the south and to Castle Osprey.

Chapter XVI.—Through the Dark. `Ahead she goes! the land she knows!'

What though we see a sudden squall come tearing over from the shores of Skye, whitening the waves as it approaches us? The White Dove is not afraid of any squall. And there are the green woods of Armadale, dusky under the western glow; and here the sombre heights of Dun Bane; and soon we will open out the great gap of Loch Nevis. We are running with the running waves; a general excitement prevails; even the Laird has dismissed for the moment certain dark suspicious about Frederick Smethurst that have for the last day or two been haunting his mind.

And here is a fine sight!—the great steamer coming down from the north—and the sunset is burning on her red funnels—and behold! she has a line of flags from her stem to her topmasts and down to her stern again. Who is on board?—some great laird, or some gay wedding party?

`Now is your chance, Angus,' says Queen T—, almost maliciously, as the steamer slowly gains on us. `If you want to go on at once, I know the captain would stop for a minute and pick you up.'

He looked at her for a second in a quick, hurt way; then he saw that she was only laughing at him.

`Oh no, thank you,' he said, blushing like a school-boy; `unless you want to get rid of me. I have been looking forward to sailing the yacht to-night.

`And—and you said,' remarked Miss Avon, rather timidly, `that we should challenge them again after dinner this evening.'

This was a pretty combination; `we' referred to Angus Sutherland and herself. Her elders were disrespectfully decribed as `them.' So the younger people had not forgotten how they were beaten by `them' on the previous evening.

Is there a sound of pipes amid the throbbing of the paddles? What a crowd of people swarm to the side of the great vessel! And there is the captain on the paddle-box—out all handkerchiefs to return the innumerable salutations—and good-by, you brave Glencoe! you have no need to rob us of any one of our passengers.

Where does the breeze come from on this still evening?—there is not a cloud in the sky, and there is a drowsy haze of heat all along the land. But nevertheless it continues; and, as the gallant White Dove cleaves her way through the tumbling sea, we gradually draw on to the Point of Sleat, and open out the great plain of the Atlantic, now a golden green, where the tops of the waves catch the light of the sunset skies. And there, too, are our old friends Haleval and Haskeval; but they are so far away, and set amid such a bewildering light, that the whole island seems to be of a pale transparent rose-purple. And a still stranger thing now attracts the eyes of all on board. The setting sun, as it nears the horizon line of the sea, appears to be assuming a distinctly oblong shape. It is slowly sinking into a purple haze, and becomes more and more oblong as it nears the sea. There is a call for all the glasses hung up in the companionway; and now what is it that we find out there by the aid of the various binoculars? Why, apparently, a wall of purple; and there is an oblong hole in it, with a fire of gold light far away on the other side. This apparent golden tunnel through the haze grows redder and more red; it becomes more and more elongated; then it burns a deeper crimson, until it is almost a line. The next moment there is a sort of shock to the eyes; for there is a sudden darkness all along the horizon line; the purple-black Atlantic is barred against that lurid haze low down in the west.

It was a merry enough dinner party: perhaps it was the consciousness that the White Dove was still bowling along that brightened up our spirits, and made the Laird of Denny-mains more particularly loquacious. The number of good ones that he told us was quite remarkable—until his laughter might have been heard through the whole ship. And to whom now did he devote the narration of those merry anecdotes—to whom but Miss Mary Avon, who was his ready chorus on all occasions, and who entered with a greater zest than any one into the humors of them. Had she been studying the Lowland dialect, then, that she understood and laughed so lightly and joyously at stories about a thousand years of age?

`Oh, ay,' the Laird was saying, patronizingly to her, `I see ye can enter into the peculiar humor of our Scotch stories: it is not every English person that can do that. And ye understand the language fine....Well,' he added, with an air of modest apology, `perhaps I do not give the pronunciation as broad as I might. I have got out of the way of talking the provincial Scotch since I was a boy—indeed, ah'm generally taken for an Englishman maself—but I do my best to give ye the speerit of it.'

`Oh, I am sure your imitation of the provincial Scotch is most excellent—most excellent—and it adds so much to the humor of the stories,' says this disgraceful young hypocrite.

`Oh, ay, oh, ay.' says the Laird, greatly delighted. `I will admit that some of the stories would not have so much humor but for the language. But when ye have both! Did ye ever hear of the laddie who was called in to his porridge by his mother?'

We perceived by the twinkle in the Laird's eyes that a real good one was coming. He looked round to see that we were listening, but it was Mary Avon whom he addressed.

`A grumbling bit laddie—a philosopher too,' said he. `His mother thought he would come in the quicker if he knew there was a fly in the milk. `Johnny,' she cried out, `Johnny, come in to your parritch; there's a flee in the milk.' `It'll no droon,' says he. `What?' she says; `grumbling again? Do ye think there's no enough milk?' `Plenty for the parritch,' says he—kee! kee! kee!—sharp, eh, wasn't he? `Plenty for the parritch,' says he—ha! ha! ho! ho! ho!'—and the Laird slapped his thigh, and chuckled to himself. `Oh, ay, Miss Mary,' he added, approvingly, `I see you are beginning to understand the Scotch humor fine.'

And if our good friend the Laird had been but twenty years younger—with his battery of irresistible jokes, and his great and obvious affection for this stray guest of ours, to say nothing of his dignity and importance as a Commissioner of Strathgovan? What chance would a poor Scotch student have had, with his test-tubes and his scientific magazines, his restless, audacious speculations and eager ambitions? On the one side, wealth, ease, a pleasant facetiousness, and a comfortable acceptance of obvious facts of the universe—including water-rates and steam fire-engines; on the other, poverty, unrest, the physical struggle for existence, the mental struggle with the mysteries of life; who could doubt what the choice would be? However, there was no thought of this rivalry now. The Laird had abdicted in favor of his nephew Howard, about whom he had been speaking a good deal to Mary Avon of late. And Angus—though he was always very kind and timidly attentive to Miss Avon—seemed nevertheles at times almost a littie afraid of her; or perhaps it was only a vein of shyness that cropped up from time to time through his hard mental characteristics. In any case, he was at this moment neither the shy lover nor the eager student; he was full of the prospect of having sole command of the ship during a long night on the Atlantic, and he hurried us up on deck after dinner without a word about that return battle at bézique.

The night had come on apace, though there was still a ruddy mist about the northern skies, behind the dusky purple of the Coolin hills. The stars were out overhead; the air around us was full of the soft cries of the divers; occasionally, amid the lapping of the water, we could hear some whirring by of wings. Then the red port light and the green starboard light were brought up from the forecastle and fixed in their place; the men went below; Angus Sutherland took the tiller; the Laird kept walking backward and forward as a sort of look-out; and the two women were as usual seated on rugs together in some invisible corner—crooning snatches of ballads, or making impertinent remarks about people much wiser and older than themselves.

`Now, Angus.' says the voice of one of them—apparently from somewhere about the companion, `show us that you can sail the yacht properly, and we will give you complete command during the equinoctials.'

`You speak of the equinoctials,' said he, laughing, `as if it was quite settled I should be here in September.'

`Why not?' said she, promptly. `Mary is my witness you promised. You wouldn't go and desert two poor lone women.'

`But I have got that most uncomfortable thing, a conscience,' he answered; `and I know it would stare at me as if I were mad, if I proposed to spend such a long time in idleness. It would be outraging all my theories, besides. You know, for years and years back I have been limiting myself in every way—living, for example, on the smallest allowance of food and drink, and that of the simplest and cheapest—so that if any need arose, I should have no luxurious habits to abandon—'

`But what possible need can there be?' says Mary Avon, warmly.

`Do you expect to spend your life in a jail?' said the other woman.

`No,' said he, quite simply. `But I will give you an instance of what a man who devotes himself to his profession may have to do. A friend of mine, who is one of the highest living authorities on Materia Medica, refused all invitations for three months, and durng the whole of that time lived each day on precisely the same food and drink, weighed out in exact quantities, so as to determine the effect of particular drugs on himself. Well, you know, you should be ready to do that—'

`Oh, how wrong you are!' says Mary Avon, with the same impetuosity. `A man who works as hard as you do should not sacrifice himself to a theory. And what is it? It is quite foolish!'

`Mary!' her friend says.

`It is,' she says, with generous warmth. `It is like a man who goes through life with a coffin on his back, so that he may be ready for death. Don't you think that when death comes, it will be time enough to be getting the coffin?'

This was a poser.

`You know quite well,' she says, `that when the real occasion offered, like the one you decribe, you could deny yourself any luxuries readily enough; why should you do so now?'

At this there was a gentle sound of laughter.

`Luxuries—the luxuries of the White Dove!' says her hostess, mindful of tinned meats.

`Yes, indeed,' says our young doctor, though he is laughing too. `There is far too much luxury—the luxury of idleness—on board this yacht, to be wholesome for one like me.'

`Perhaps you object to the effeminacy of the downy couches and the feather pillows,' says his hostess, who is always grumbling about the hardness of the beds.

But it appears that she has made an exceedingly bad shot. The man at the wheel—one can just make out his dark figure against the clear star-lit heavens, though occasionally he gets before the yellow light of the binnacle—proceeds to assure her that, of all the luxuries of civilization, he appreciates most a horse-hair pillow; and that he attributes his sound sleeping on board the yacht to the hardness of the beds. He would rather lay his head on a brick, he says, for a night's rest than sink it in the softest feathers.

`Do you wonder,' he says, `that Jacob dreamed of angels when he had a stone for his pillow? I don't. If I wanted to have a pleasant sleep and fine dreams, that is the sort of pillow I should have.'

Some phrase of this catches the ear of our look-out forward; he instantly comes aft.

`Yes, it is a singular piece of testimony,' he says. `There is no doubt of it; I have myself seen the very place.'

We were not startled; we knew that the Laird, under the guidance of a well-known Free Church minister, had made a run through Palestine.

`Ay,' said he, `the further I went away from my own country, the more I saw nothing but decadence and meesery. The poor craytures!—living among ruins, and tombs, and decay, without a trace of public spirit or private energy. The disregard of sanitary laws was something terrible to look at—as bad as their universal beggary. That is what comes of centralization, of suppressing local governmemnt. Would ye believe that there are a lot of silly bodies actually working to get our Burgh of Strathgovan annexed to Glasgow—swallowed up in Glasgow!'

`Impossible!' we exclaim.

`I tell ye it is true. But no, no! We are not ripe yet for those radical measures. We are constituted under an act of Parliament. Before the House of Commons would dare to annex the free and flourishing Burgh of Strathgoven to Glasgow, I'm thinking the country far and near would hear something of it!'

Yes, and we think so too. And we think it would be better if the hamlets and towns of Palestine were governed by men of public spirit, like the Commissioners of Strathgovan; then they would be properly looked after. Is there a single steam fire-engine in Jericho?

However, it is late; and presently the women say good-night and retire. And the Laird is persuaded to go below with them also; for how otherwise could he have his final glass of toddy in the saloon? There are but two of us left on deck, in the darkness, under the stars.

It is a beautiful night, with those white and quivering points overhead, and the other white and burning points gleaming on the black waves that whirl by the yacht. Beyond the heaving plain of waters there is nothing visible but the dusky gloom of the island of Eigg, and away in the south the golden eye of Ardnamurchan light-house, for which we are steering. Then the intense silence—broken only when the wind, changing a little, jibes the sails and sends the great boom swinging over on to the lee tackle. It is so still that we are startled by the sudden noise of the blowing of a whale; and it sounds quite close to the yacht, though it is more likely that the animal is miles away.

`She is a wonderful creature—she is indeed.' says the man at the wheel, as if every one must necessarily be thinking about the same person.

`Who?'

`Your young English friend. Every minute of her life seems to be an enjoyment to her; she sings just as a bird sings, for her own amusement, and without thinking.'

`She can think too; she is not a fool.'

`Though she does not look very strong,' continues the young doctor, `she must have a thoroughly healthy constitution, or how could she have such a happy disposition? She is always contented; she is never put out. If you had only seen her patience and cheerfulness when she was attending that old woman—many a time I regretted it—the case was hopeless—a hired nurse would have done as well.'

`Hiring a nurse might not have satisfied the young lady's notions of duty.'

`Well, I've seen women in sick-rooms, but never any one like her,' said he, and then he added, with a sort of emphatic wonder, `I'm hanged if she did not seem to enjoy that too! Then you never saw any one so particular about following out instructions.'

It is here suggested to our steersman that he himself may be a little too particular about following out instructions. For John of Skye's last counsel was to keep Ardnamurchan light on our port bow. That was all very well when we were off the north of Eigg; but is Dr. Sutherland aware that the south point of Eigg—Eilean-na-Castle—juts pretty far out; and is not that black line of land coming uncommonly close on our starboard bow? With some reluctance our new skipper consents to alter his course by a couple of points; and we bear away down for Ardnamurchan.

And of what did he not talk during the long star-lit night—the person who ought to have been look-out sitting contentedly aft, a mute listener—of the strange fears that must have beset the people who first adventured out to sea; of the vast expenditure of human life that must have been thrown away in the discovery of the most common facts about currents and tides and rocks; and so forth, and so forth. But ever and again his talk returned to Mary Avon.

`What does the Laird mean by his suspicions about her uncle?' he asked on one occasion—just as we had been watching a blue-white bolt flash down through the serene heavens and expire in mid-air.

`Mr. Frederick Smethurst has an ugly face.'

`But what does he mean about those relations between the man with the ugly face and his niece?'

`That is idle speculation. Frederick Smethurst was her trustee, and might have done her some mischief; that is, if he is an out-and-out scoundrel; but that is all over. Mary is mistress of her own property now.'

Here the boom came slowly swinging over; and presently there were all the sheets of the head-sails to be looked after— tedious work enough for amateurs in the darkness of the night.

Then further silence; and the monotonous rush and murmer of the unseen sea; and the dark topmast describing circles among the stars. We get up one of the glasses to make astronomical observations, but the heaving of the boat somewhat interferes with this quest after knowledge. Whoever wants to have a good idea of forked lightning, has only to take up a binocular on board a pitching yacht and try to fix it on a particular planet.

The calm, solemn night passes slowly; the red and green lights shine on the black rigging; afar in the south burns the guiding star of Ardnamurchan. And we have drawn away from Eigg now, and passed the open sound; and there, beyond the murmuring sea, is the gloom of the island of Muick. All the people below are wrapped in slumber; the cabins are dark; there is only a solitary candle burning in the saloon. It is a strange thing to be responsible for the lives of those sleeping folk, out here on the lone Atlantic, in the stillness of the night.

Our young doctor bears his responsibility lightly. He has—for a wonder—laid aside his pipe; and he is humming a song that he has heard Mary Avon singing of late—something about `Oh, think na lang, lassie, though I gang awa', For I'll come and see ye in spite o' them a',' and he is wishing the breeze would blow a bit harder, and wondering whether the wind will die away altogether when we get under the lee of Ardnamurchan Point.

But long before we have got down to Ardnamurchan there is a pale grey light beginning to tell in the eastern skies; and the stars are growing fainter; and the black line of the land is growing clearer above the wrestling seas. Is it a fancy that the first light airs of the morning are a trifle cold? And then we suddenly see, among the dark rigging forward, one or two black figures; and presently John of Skye comes aft, rubbing his eyes. He has had a good sleep at last.

Go below, then, you stout-sinewed young doctor; you have had your desire of sailing the White Dove through the still watches of the night. And soon you will be asleep, with your head on the hard pillow of that little state-room; and though the pillow is not as hard as a stone, still the night and the sea and the stars are quickening to the brain; and who knows that you may not perchance after all dream of angels, or hear some faint singing far away? `There was Mary Beaton—and Mary Seaton—' Or is it only a sound of the waves?

The Connemara Hills. II. by J. L. Cloud

It was now twilight. As we advanced over the rocky path, the air, sweet with the scent of the heather, was still warm. The sky was gold and purple, the mountains were clothed with a rich and mellow tint, and the mists that settled between the lakes and hills were now russet, and again nearly blue. The quiet lakes reflected the beautiful tints of the arc above, and the shrill cry of the curlew broke on the air with a strange, wild emphasis. Yesterday every leaf and sod was dark and dripping with rain, but now the heather was like a soft carpet, the vegetation dry and aromatic from the ripening sun, and the tints of the landscape had the depth and richness seen in Southern climes. We were now compelled by the ruggedness of our path to dismount, and leave the horse and car in charge of the light-footed maiden. We continued our way over a narrow stony foot-path among the furze, which here grew breast-high, until, arriving at the brow of the hill, we saw beneath us a lake almost encircled by precipitous cliffs, one side alone opened to the mountains and sea. The lake was about a mile in length, while its breadth varied from a few yards in some places to a mile in others. A multitude of islets dotted its waters, some consisting of a mere rock and clump of brush, others large enough for a pleasure-garden or little farm, if such similitudes are not too incongruous for so desolate a scene.

`Do you see there beyond on the far island a curl of smoke?' asked the potheen-maker, pointing to what I had supposed to be the blue mist hanging over the lake. `That is our island, and on it is our still, which by the blessing of God we have run, father and son, among these hills and islands for a hundred years.'

We descended a steep path, carved among the bog and rocks, into a rude stairway, and arriving at the border of the lake, saw tethered there a miserable, frowzy-looking pony, which could do his forty miles with a load on his back, I was told, on a handful of outmeal and a drain of water, and moored to a clump of brush a rickety boat, half filled with water. My companions immediately set to work bailing out the skiff, while I stood in the mud, feeling my curiosity growing cooler every moment.

Before reaching the island to which the skiff now served to carry us, the potheen man rose three times to his feet, at the imminent risk of capsizing the craft. I learned that his movements would be taken as a signal that all was right to those who were watching from the island: without it, all the appliances of their trade would be hidden, and the spirits either buried or thrown into the lake before our arrival. On landing, we were accosted by a straight-haired, wide-browed youth of seventeen, as handsome as Apollo, but with a great deal more vivacity of expression. Through the deepening twilight I descried the rank underbrush and the long ferns forming a very romantic-looking retreat for so vulgar and reprehensible an occupation as the illicit distillation of whiskey.

In a wretched hovel, without window or chimney, three men were seen through the smoke, busied with the fire and the still. They looked more like gnomes than human beings. The suffocating smoke, combined with the odor of the potheen, was more than my inexperienced olfactories could endure, and I retired precipitately to the purer air without. Here, seated on a stone, we partook of a repast of potatoes and buttermilk. I profited by this occaion to make a sketch of my host, while he entertained me with some particulars concerning his trade. Thirty years ago, he informed me, there were between forty aand fifty thousand private stills at work in Ireland, but now there are not many hundred, the most of it being made by small farmers who have a surplus of grain. Although it is sold for one-half the price of the `Parliamentary whiskey,' as he termed it, the profits are still so large that, notwithstanding the severe punishment inflicted on detection, it seems impossible for the government to thoroughly eradicate the evil. The islands off the Connemara coast are even more extensivelly occupied in its manufacture. One of the principal duties of the coast-guards, we are told, is the prevention of illicit distillation on the islands, and in conjunction with the police they have to make visits as frequently as practicable for the purpose. When the chance offers, the islanders have their stills at work, and at such time have a sentinal with a telescope on a high rock to give warning of the approach of the enemy. Manufacturers from the mainland also frequently avail themselves of the favorable situation of the island to come across and make a venture. If the look-out is vigilant, a capture is rarely made. When the approach of the coast-guards or police is annnounced, the rapidity of the work of concealment is said to be marvelous. The still is taken to pieces and hidden amongst the rocks or buried in the sand, sometimes taken out to sea and sunk, with a small floating mark attached, and the materials secreted in various ways. Every one gives help except the light-house keeper and his assistants, as it is a point of honor to do all that is possible to outwit the revenue.

The moon had now arisen, and shone with a wonderful brightness; it seemed as if the lingering twilight had melted back into day. I hurried to resume my journey; and on taking leave of the illicit distiller he pressed upon me a bottle of spirits, which he assured me upon his oath to be twenty-five years old.

As I sped along the road I admired Nature under a stranger and wilder aspect than I had ever seen her. The lakes and sky seemed like a flood of subdued silver light, broken by the greenish-gray of the mountains and the strips of brown heather; here and there jutted forth a rugged line of rocks. The gray stones, which by daylight gave a dreariness to the scene, now glittered like silver and gold. Far off we heard the roar of the sea, and the cry of the curlew, as restless by night as by day.

Since leaving the potheen-maker, Flanigan had been unremitting in beating and scolding the pony, without any apparent reason. When spoken to, he said the same thing over many times, with a thickness of enunciation that savored strongly of potheen. In answer to my suggestion that he had been imprudent in his libations, he called on a very select and respectable company of saints to witness the contrary, assuring me that nothing had passed his lips save a little luncheon. He then lighted his pipe, and relapsed into silence. After some miles the constantly recurring mountains and lakes became monotonous, the pony seemed to have lost his ambition, and even my driver's whistle lacked its usual sharpness. I took out my book and read with ease by the clear moonlight, until the fleecy clouds that had slept on the horizon multiplied and darkened the sky; the wind, bearing its salty ocean odor, sighed fitfully over the moors, and warned, with most solemn cadence, of an approaching storm. Something of this melancholy crept over me. The clouds, rapidly gathering into huge masses, obscured the moon, and left only a few stars. Flanigan adjusted my water-proof and India rubber coverings, and buckled around me a strap which these outside cars are always supplied with as security against falling. At last the storm came, and obscured everything. The monotonous sound of the pony's feet on the hard road acted like the old prescription of counting to make one sleep. Notwithstanding that great gusts of rain were dashed into my face from the hand of the storm, I fell into one of those persistent sleeps which we often experience under unaccustomed circumstances, and thought of the troopers I had seen in deep slumber in their saddles during the Franco-Prussian war. The pattering of the pony's hoofs seemed now the glib chatter of an Irish peasant, and again and again I awoke, straining to catch their sense. Sleep still pursued me, and still came these uncomfortable awakenings, now caused by the jolt of the car, and now by the strap which kept me from falling to the road beneath.

When I became thoroughly aroused, I found I had been asleep many hours. On the other side of the car crouched Flanigan, with his head bored into the corner of the car; the pony was proceeding at the slowest possible walk, and I think was asleep too. The storm had passed, and the sun was rising over the distant mountains, which, instead of being on our right, now surrounded us. I felt stiff, cold, and fatigued, and deeply annoyed at my guide's remissness. I awoke him, and reproved him in no very amiable terms. He did not himself know where we were, and his bewilderment was probably increased by my severity. I concluded, however, to continue, in the hope of meeting some one who could set us right. Ere log we descried an individual standing at the door of a hovel, smoking his matutinal pipe, who upon being asked whither the road led, replied. `To Joyce's Country.'

`Where is that?' I said, in despair.

`Isn't it a quare thing to say,' he replied, in an indignant tone, `that ye niver heard of Joyce's Country?'

While I was trying to excuse my ignorance, a priest passed. I begged him to tell me the most direct road to Clifden; he said we would have to return and take the third road to the right: it was twelve Irish miles. I was drenched with rain, and too tired to go further without some rest or refreshment. I looked about vainly for a resting place. The priest, pointing to his own house, a cabin far off on the mountain-side, said his fare would be too humble for me; `but a gentleman lives near, to whose house I will accompany you, and I am sure he will give you an Irish welcome.' He took a seat on the car, and after fifteen or twenty minutes' ride we arrived at a little cottage surrounded by trees and shrubbery. In front was an old-fashioned garden, with well-trimmed borders, and an assemblage of dahlias looking like country girls in their Sunday finery. Even the well-trimmed thatch told of comfort: it was thick and new, and crossed by innumerable ropes, as though it defied both wind and rain.

A loud knock brought an old woman to the door, who gave the priest the usual welcome, and bade us enter, adding that both master and mistress were within. We were ushered into a parlor, whose genial warmth and home-like aspect were most welcome; on either side of a large grate, that was packed with blazing turf, were great broad chairs, whose arms seemed outstretched to welcome us. Everything in the room looked at least a hundred years old, but an air of cleanliness and care pervaded all. On the mantelpiece were some ornaments of the now celebrated old Chelsea ware, a well-worn but neat carpet covered the floor, and heavy curtains hung at the window. The picture was a charming one: to complete it, two old people in the costume of George's time were needed to fill the arm-chairs. Soon the door opened, and an old gentleman entered, followed by his gentle wife. They both welcomed the priest, who explained my troubles to them. The old lady cried out, `Why are you standing, when the chair is there waiting for you by the fire?' I said I was very tired. `To be sure you are,' said the host, `and you must go to sleep, after a cup of tea, and rest until mid-day.'

A Frenchman would have turned to the priest and added: `Monsieur le curé, since it is to your good offices we owe the pleasure of madame's visit, increase our obligation by giving us the pleasure of your company to dinner.' But the Irishman said, `Bedad, father, there will be only three of us to dinner now, and as it is an unlucky number, you'll make another at the table for luck.'

`Ive made three so often,' the father replied, `that I suppose I owe the amends of making, when possible, the luckier number.'

Meanwhile my hostess hurried about, giving orders to a maid, who finally announced my room was ready. It adjoined the parlor, and was, as regards comfort, a reflex of it. On a tiny three-legged table stood a miniature Japanese tea service. A fragrant cup of tea and a piece of bread sufficed; for the luxuries of warm water, and the bed whose snowy covers were already turned down, were irresistible. I resolutely shut my eyes to the quaint furniture and ornaments of the room, promising myself the pleasure of another inspection after my nap.

I awoke feeling fully refreshed, and set about my preparations for dinner, with some feminine regrets at having nothing in the shape of dress with which to do honor to my entertainers. An old piece of tapestry—it was so well preserved that I only knew its date by the costumes of the figures upon it—covered the wall of one end of the room, and little oval-backed arm-chairs, covered with embroidery of the time of Louis XVI., stood around.

When my toilet was completed I rang, and the maid appeared, followed by her mistress, who was again so warm-hearted in her hospitality that I felt deeply touched. In the parlor I found the priest and the old gentleman in warm discussion upon the question of Home Rule. I do not suppose that the fact of my being an American had any weight in the cordial hospitality of this excellent lady and gentleman; I am sure their greeting would have been as warm to any stranger in need of it; but they spoke with affection and interest of America. The old gentleman added: `Our poor boy went there many years ago, but he did not succeed very well. He lost his health, and came home and died; but I know a great many who, having gone there with nothing but their brogue and blunders, have amassed large fortunes. Those who go in the steerage come back in the cabin, and those who go in the cabin come back in the steerage. In a little while, I think, there will be no Irishmen left in the land.'

I will confess that pleased as I was with the good people around me, I was more so when the repast was served. Although we may affect to despise the material part of life, a good dinner occupies the large portion of every traveller's time and thoughts. May I stop for an instant to say how delicious were the dainty little trout and fat salmon, which were all the sweeter because they had been enjoying life a few hours before. The lobster was large and red enough to have been an alderman, if there be aldermen in the sea; and a roast of the delicious mutton that is peculiar to these mountains, along with great mealy potatoes which had burst the buttons off their jackets in a plethora of heartiness, formed part of our dinner. The national dish of bacon and cabbage stood with a kind of proud reserve, as if awaiting that homage which it knew every true Irishman would accord. Nor can I pass by without some notice the rare old china, the worn, polished silver, spread upon linen of snowy whiteness and finest texture, that seemed to have just issued from the family stores of some lavendered press.

As we lingered over our dessert, my good priest expatiated upon the beauties of the Irish language, which is certainly the best preserved, as it is the purest, of all the Celtic dialects. It contains written remains transmitted from so remote an antiquity that it has become nearly unintelligible. Manuscripts so old that they had become ancient in the fourth and fifth centuries, and required a glossary, which glossary has become nearly as obsolete as the work it was designed to explain, formed part of the possessions of this language. As an evidence of the love of the peasantry of Connaught for their own tongue, he told the story of a priest who was called upon to administer the last rites to an old woman. As he entered she spoke to him in English; he conversed with her a few moments, whereupon she began her confession in Irish. To the priest this was an unknown tongue, and he told her so. `If you can't speak to me in my own language,' she said, `what brought you here?'

He replied: `You understand English, wherein the rites can be as well administered as in Irish.'

The dying woman raised herself from her pallet of straw, and angrily cried:

`And do you think I am going to say my last words to the great God in the language of the Sassenach?' with which she dismissed him.

The priest's reminiscences of his people and the antiquities of their language interested me so much that he was encouraged to dwell upon them at great length. These recitals had a contrary effect, however, upon our host and hostess, probably because they were no longer new to them, for they were fast asleep. On parting for the evening, the priest proposed to accompany me to a `hurling,' which, he said, will give a clearer insight into Irish character than any other scene. `You will there see their fighting and their love-making, their mixture of the tenderest sentiments with the rudest sport.' I promised to defer my departure for the purpose of accompanying him, and found the scene no less curious and characteristic than he had described.

He re-appeared with the morning sun, and after taking leave of my kind entertainers, he accompanied us as far as the little village where the hurling was to take place. Our way lay over a rugged mountain road, but our slow progress was deprived of all tedium by the beauty of the scene. Every hawthorn bush and barren stone was made bright and beautiful by a sun as warm as midsummer, but tempered by the delicious mountain air, and made musical by the robin, thrush, the piping bullfinch, the linnet, and all the family of glorious songsters that abound in Ireland. The gray granite of the mountains glistened like the precious minerals which their bosoms contain, and the clear blue sky above shone with richness and brilliancy.

Far to the left of us, through a little gorge, rose the shrill and hurried notes of the pipes. Turning in that direction, we saw a procession of merry-makers. At the side of the piper a man bore a pole, upon which was suspended a basket made of laurel branches, and on the summit floated a green flag. The chosen bride, with her friends and companions, followed. Twelve stalwart fellows, who were her champions, were in one group, while about her were ranged as many laughing girls. Their best apparel was donned for this occasion, and arranged according to the taste of the wearer. The bride had on at least five petticoats and a cloak; the others varied from the same number to two or three. The worldly wealth of these mountain girls is exhibited just as much by the number and quality of their petticoats as is that of the most aristocratic lady by her silks and diamonds. They exhibit them by adjusting each one in such a manner that the hem of the other is seen beneath it. The cloak is seldom worn in Connemara; a petticoat serving as a mantle is used instead, sometimes covering the head, again prettily worn upon the shoulders, and one side thrown up to disencumber the arm; others put the head and one arm through, and gather it up with much grace.

They wound along to the village, and stopped at a shebeen, where they partook of refreshments, and joked and gossiped with each other.

The priest informed me that the games of hurling were made the occasions of bringing young people together in a kind of match-making frolic. The heads of two families who have an eligible son and daughter meet and arrange the preliminaries of the game. The boy—they are all boys in Ireland until married—chooses twelve companions, or groomsmen, the family of the girl selects twelve others from their relations or friends, and each party starts to the ground selected for the festivity, led by a piper and banner-bearer, as we have seen. The basket made of laurel branches which surmounts the banner is filled with oranges and apples, and is planted on the ground till the conclusion of the game, when a general scramble takes place for its contents. As nearly all assemblages of Irish rustics terminate in a fight, a good deal of `skull-cracking' is often done on these occasions. Matches are also made between other participants of the game and the fair damsels, who now meet for the first time, perhaps, the young men of the neighboring parishes; another day for hurling is then appointed, and the same scenes are again enacted.

The newly arrived party were now busy with their preparations for the game, and already beginning to circulate the mether of potheen.

`The boy is late,' cried one, to the the intended bride; `he is going to skirt.'

`No matter for that,' said an old woman; `she'll get his equal any day: the year is long, and God is good.'

The shrill notes of the bagbipes announced that the groom and his company were approaching. They passed through the only street of the village, preceded by a piper and a banner-bearer as before. The hurling boy, a fine stalwart fellow, and his twelve groomsmen, were followed by his family and friends. A loud shout of welcome arose from the assemblage, quickly repressed, however, as they caught sight of the priest, whom they now descried for the first time. Every hat was raised, and a murmur of `God speed your reverence, and give you long life!' broke from every lip; and an old man stepped forward, and kneeling, asked a blessing.

`You see,' said the priest, turning to me, `I will spoil their merriment if I remain; and to save you a disappointment, I will take my leave of you.' With which he bade me adieu, and I never saw him again.

The mistress of the shebeen was a tall, black-haired woman, who was busy preparing refreshments. When I entered she took down a chair from a nail on the wall, and giving it an extra polish with her apron, placed it for me in the chimney-corner. I watched her make the cakes, as they are called, and relished them so much after they were made that I can not refrain from giving the recipe. Into half a stone, or seven pounds, of flour she mixed thoroughly a small quantity of soda, and upon it she poured gradually a pint of buttermilk. The oven in which it was baked was a large iron pot with a heavy lid, on which hot coals were placed, while beneath and around it was heaped a mass of burning embers. The bread, eaten warm with fresh butter, was delicious.

I turned to the window, and witnessed the game without. The poles were planted in the field, where the wickets and hurls were placed, and the boys began to prepare for the contest. The hurl is a sort of curved bat, which they use with great dexterity. Some twenty-five or thirty were engaged in it, and all not being supplied with hurls, they went to work madly with feet and hands, sending the balls in every direction. Many severe blows were dealt, and many a fight took place, before the game was done. Meanwhile serious flirtations were going on among the company; even the bride so far forgot her position as to smile upon one of her champions so amiably that her intended made a frantic attempt to deface the charms of his rival then and there. The old people walked about, or sat upon the rocks talking of the crops and the weather, for which they invariably blessed God when complaining of its severity.

While the landlady was at work, two old men strolled in for refreshment. One of them was evidently a small farmer. He wore his hat pulled down over his eyes, and appeared occupied by a matter of some weight. Talking to him earnestly and in a low tone, his companion, an old fellow with a shabby hat, shiny breeches, and much-worn shoes, looked about him with cunning eyes for the most retired nook, and pulling out an old stool, said,

`Sit ye there, man, and we'll have a pint and a talk.'

The colorless potheen was served them, and each drank a tumblerful of it as if it had been water.

`Now man,' said the smaller and older of the two, `why not make a match between them? He is a smart lad, and she is a fine girl, God bless her! Just say what you will give her, and we can have done with it before the game is out.'

`Well,' said the farmer, after pulling and cracking all his fingers, `I have no thought of being mean. I will give her a cabin, a quarter acre of land, with the potatoes tilled and brought to the door.'

There was silence on the other side.

`I will give her a fine feather-bed.'

`Very good, very good,' said he with the cunning eyes. `We'll have another pint.' They were served with the fiery liquid, and smacking their lips over it, declared it the best.

`The players must be near through.'

The farmer, staring in the bottom of the cup, added, `I will give her fifteen pounds in gold.'

A short quick laugh from his companion was the response: `That's very good, man; you are doing well, God bless you!'

`Her mother will give her the best of petticoats—and that is about all.'

`And enough it is, if her mother would not forget the old silver beads, so that she can prepare her soul for heaven when the end comes.'

`What then,' said the other, a little defiantly, `has your boy got?'

Drawing his stool closer, and fixing his little gray eyes on the old man, he said, `Sorra a h'apenny; but he's a good lad for all that, and can knock as much work out of day as any boy in the country, and in a fight can bate anybody that stands before him.'

`It isn't a fighting man I want for my daughter,' responded the farmer, testily; `there's little good comes of it.'

`Well, well, he need not do that same, but he's good for it if wantin'.'

`I'll not stand for money, as he's a nate, tidy boy:' the farmer was somewhat mollified. `I'll buy him a boat, and he can knock his living out of it.'

`Long life to ye! Shall it be next Thursday? I'll stop to-night to see the priest and have it all ready.'

To my horror, the farmer now called for another pint, with which they sealed their bargain.

In spite of all the wishes and manœuvres of the parents, the boys and girls meet sometimes others whom they prefer, and the match falls through.

I saw from the window that the game was about finished. A dash was made for the poles, the apples and oranges were scattered about, and the players struggled madly for the fruit. Shouts and yells of pleasure and wrath filled the air. Not a leaf of laurel or piece of fruit was left uncrushed. After partaking of the buttermillk bread, tea, and whiskey, they prepared for the dance. The suitor took his bride, and the attendants paired off for a jig, which was entered into with surprising spirit and energy, to the shrill accompaniment of the two bagpipes, which made up in vigor what they lacked in time. After a while the old folks left their bread and tea to join in the dance, aroused by the notes of some old Irish air, and hobbled off as merrily, if not as briskly, as the youngest of them. In passing the hats of the pipers, each dancer bestowed a piece of money.

We again set out for Clifden. Flanigan's luncheon on this occasion not having been of an intoxicating nature, he was fully alive to his duties. The fine weather and dry roads—a few hours of sun and wind suffice to dry this soil—tempted me to walk. I sat down upon rock that overhung the road, and sketched one of the most beautiful little lakes I had seen on my travels. Its waters gleamed in the sun, and the little islands basked on its bosom, the homes of innumerable birds. Not a sound broke on the air—the songs of birds seemed to enhance rather than mar the stillness that reigned.

I had finished a sketch of this charming spot, when a ragged boy approached, leading a little girl, who was vainly trying to screen herself behind him; another in petticoats brought up the rear. Observing my occupation, they had, with more intelligence than most peasants, divined its character, and begged me to take their likenesses. Notwithstanding this ardent spirit of patronage for the arts, I could not conscientiously advise an aartist to take up his abode in that region. The urchins, like the most civilized of amateurs, were pleased to see themselves on paper. The eldest, after looking at the drawing for some time, said, `That'll do.'

Our road now led through a ravine, past the hovel, miscalled a house, from which this little brood had come. It admitted the rain, and did not keep out the cold. I asked their father, a stalwart fellow clothed in rags, with an anxious expression of face, why his landlord did not repair the hut.

`Oh, your honor,' he replied, `he would tell me to lave it. And lave it I must this year, for the potatoes are black, and where can we get money to pay our rent? A society gives us free tickets now for Australia, and though I am sorry to lave the old country, I must go, for the childer's sake.'

As I left him standing by his wretched home, with his poor little family around him, ready any minute to leave their land forever, Goldsmith's lines seemed more sadly true than ever: `Scourged by famine, from the smiling land The mournful peasant leads his humble band; And while he sinks, without one arm to save, The country blooms—a garden and a grave.'

Further on, where a few sheep were sunning themselves on the rocks, and some long-haired cattle sniffing for rain, we passed a little whitewashed cottage, at the door of which stood a beautiful girl, talking, with laughing and blushing face, to a knee-breeched swain, who, leaning upon the back of his ass, unmindful of a listener, poured into her ears, I doubt not, the story which in all climes and among all classes is still the same. At least such was the verdict of Flanigan, who, eying them through a whiff from his pipe as we rode by, laconically remarked, `Courting.' They were probably arranging matters with much less parade and a happier result than the match-makers I had quitted a few hours before.

Impelled by that curiosity which is too generally admitted an endowment of our sex to need apology here, I stopped and asked the shortet road to Clifden. The man, who had no mind to be interrupted in his love-making, vouch-safed no reply; but the girl, with that womanly address which never appears to be doing what she is doing most, left her lover, and pointing to a hill before us, said, `Clifden is just beyond; you can see it from the top of the hill.'

Just before arriving at Clifden we passed through a collection of miserable huts, which is hereabouts dignified with the title of a village. A forlorn beggar, going from door to door, stopped before one more miserable than the rest, I thought, from which emerged an old woman, who gave him two or three potatoes. One would suppose this poor woman a more pitiable object of charity than the beggar upon whom she bestowed her mite. All over Ireland one meets the strange spectacle of the poor begging from the poor; there seemed to be none so abject in their poverty but that another can be found still more wretched.

One does not often find a more beautifully situated town than Clifden. It seems to have been placed by a poet whose sole consideration was setting a picturesque village in a situation where it both adorns and is adorned by the surrounding mountains and sea. As we approached it I was fascinated by its beauty, and promised myself a repose of some days in this charming spot. This anticipation, however, was doomed to a bitter disappointment. As a reverse to the beautiful picture presented by the town from a distance, I found houses and people, on a near inspection, the most insipid, common, and utterly uninteresting I had ever seen. The buildings, comparatively new, for the most part unpainted, had a pitiable look of cheap respectability. Indeed, it had the appearance of a town built by contract, but which the absconding contractor had heartlessly abandoned before completion, so that houses and streets seemed to be hopelessly waiting for their finishing touches. When we arrived at the hotel door my enthusiasm was in this manner almost entirely dispelled; but when I entered the imposing-looking hostelry, the wood of whose doors and windows grinned through a single coat of paint, as if in mockery of their disguise, my heart sank within me. New as the place was, at its very threshold I perceived a musty oder. The reckless flinging about of chops, potatoes, and dusting rags, so eminently characteristic of Irish hotels, was evidently here in its carnival season.

When I have more leisure I will write a dissertation upon Irish landlords, who always greet their guests as if they were a bad bargain, only accepted from a force of circumstances, who always have the air of grand gentlemen that have seen better days, and who are excessively punctilious in their ideas of the consideration due them. The landlord in this case had greasy lapels to his coat, and a profusion of garnet studs in his bosom. His hair, of which he wore an elegant sufficiency, shone with a pomade which I think even he would have changed had his nose occupied any other place than the centre of that radius of perfume which he bore about him.

The table d'hôte, served with great pretension and formality, would have speedily quieted the keenest appetite. Even in this out-of-the-way place I descried among the guests at table a fellow-countryman in a tall lank youth with a small head, long neck, and untrimmed hair. His nonchalant manner, and the peculiar dry contempt with which he measured everybody and everything, apart from being a birthright of Americans, had something familiar in it. I recognized a youth who had impressed himself upon my memory a year before, during a visit to the Tower of London. He had excited my interest by the silent pertinacity with which, while his keen and restless eye wandered unceasingly over every object, he had masticated the same mouthful of tobacco from the court-yard, through the wondrous collection of ancient arms and armor, past the Koh-i-noor and crown jewels, till he arrived at the cell where we were informed Sir Walter Raleigh had been imprisoned thirteen years; thereupon he expectorated sufficiently to remark, `It was good for him.'

When I went to my window the next morning a terrible Atlantic storm was venting its fury upon the town. The gusts of rain beat against the window and streamed down the panes, and the wind seemed to shake the house from its very foundations. The chamber-maid who entered to make the fire dropped a courtesy, and saying good-morning, added, `It's a cruel day, ma'am, glory be to God!'