e candle over the head and
shoulders of his colleague sitting below--and up on the hill is a kirk
and a churchyard; the latter, as is the case with all the churchyards in
this part of the world, in a truly disgraceful state of neglect, with the
graves, which are but a few inches deep, covered with long grass and
weeds. At one corner is what evidently was a receptacle for holy water,
and all around the place there is an antiquity--in the grass growing in
many of the streets, in the deserted walls of houses crumbling to decay,
in the weather-beaten, ancient look of the people, certainly by no means
suggestive of gaiety or life. Tobermory reminds me, says the Doctor, of
what the auld woman said of the sermon--that it was neither amusing nor
edifying. The Doctor's lady, overcome by her feelings, writes verses,
which I transcribe for the benefit of my readers who may not enjoy the
honour of her acquaintance.

"Off Mull
'Tis rather dull.
Hope is vain,
Down pours the rain;
The wind howls
Like groans of ghouls."

But the subject is too much for her, and we land to have a chat with the
natives. A deal we get out of them, as we wander, something like the
river of the poet--

"Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow."

They seem to me suspicious and reserved, as the Irishman when at home.
We meet one of the natives--an ancient mariner, with a long, grey beard,
and glistening eye. He can tell us all about the legends connected with
the Well of St. Mary, we are told.

"You have lived here all your life?

"Oh, yes," replies he, thoughtfully, picking the lower set of left
grinders in his mouth.

"And you know the place well?"

"Oh, yes," says he, commencing picking on the other side of his mouth.

"And you can tell us all about it?"

"Oh, yes, sure," says he, as he calmly proceeds to pick the remainder of
his teeth individually and collectively.

"What about the well--you know that?"

"Yes, it is up there," pointing to the spot we had just left.

"What do the people call it?"

"The Well of St. Mary."

"Can you tell us why?" said we, thinking that at last the secret which
had been hidden from the policeman of the district and the inn-keeper (I
beg his pardon, in these parts every little cabin in which you can buy
whisky or get a crust of bread is an hotel), and every man we met. "Can
you tell me why the place is so called?"

"Yes," says he, "the Well of St. Mary--that is the questi