ered in the solitude and
drank the moonbeams as they strayed through disjointed rocks and fell
silvery and glowing on our path. Our reverie ended in a mistake, for we
unconsciously passed the point where we should turn to Gougane Barra,
then the scene of a ceremony, half religious, half superstitious, as it
has been during the autumn season from time immemorial. People come
great distances to perform "stations" on the ruins of a very ancient
church on poor Callanan's "green little island." We were advised against
returning, but told to seek shelter in a publichouse at a place called
Ballingeary, on the banks of Lough Lua through which the infant Lee
runs. We found the house quite full, in consequence of a fair which was
to be held the Monday following at Bantry. We were accordingly refused;
but we insisted on remaining in the house. We had some milk and whisky,
in which we asked the host to join us, and after one or two potations,
he and his wife offered to give us their own bed and remain up. We
thankfully and gladly accepted the offer. I know not whether they
recognised us, and if not, it is not easy to account for the generous
kindness that prompted such a sacrifice. The next day being Sunday, we
proposed to spend it wandering about the lovely lake in the bosom of the
hill, and to return in the evening to dinner. The day was an anxious
one; but we left no spot on the island or near the lake which we did not
explore.

[Illustration: Dunmanway from the Bridge on the Cork Road, 1848]

The "Green Little Island," is surpassingly romantic. The old ruin of a
monastery, God knows how old, gigantic forest trees, bowing their aged
limbs into the clear water, the shadows of the frowning mountain thrown
fantastically on the bosom of the lake, form a _tout ensemble_ of lonely
loveliness rarely equalled. Then the play of

"The thousand wild fountains
Rushing down to that lake from their home in the mountains,"

the scream of the eagle on the crags of Mailoc, far, far on high, all
justify Callanan's preference for the spot which was meetest for the
bard. We endeavoured to recall his tender strains, and thought
mournfully of his sad prophecy--alas! when shall it be fulfilled?

I too shall be gone, but my name shall be spoken,
When Erin awakes and her fetters are broken
Some minstrel shall come in the summer's eve gleaming,
When Freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming,
And bend o'er my g