ice apartment in one of the turrets,
and doubtless howled as seldom as possible. But all this glory has
passed away, and now, the rooks and sea-birds have the famous old
castle all to themselves--wheel fearlessly about the lofty black
precipices, and scream back the shrillest shriek of the storm-winds.
Now, no bard, however poor, ever visits that once hospitable hall, to
"sing for his supper," and even the gloomy Banshee has retired from her
turret in disgust.

A branch of the Mac Donnels clung to the haunted, dilapidated, old
castle as long as possible, to keep up the family credit, I suppose.
It was within this century, I think, that a frightful accident
happened, which drove the last of them away. In a terrible storm, one
winter afternoon, the part of the castle containing the kitchen was
blown down, and tumbled over the precipice into the sea, with the
family stores of meat and potatoes, and Biddy, the cook, who was
preparing dinner, and Teddy, the little scullion, who was turning the
spit. The Mac Donnels, for all their pride, were shocked and afflicted
by this misfortune,--for Biddy was an excellent cook, and Teddy, her
son, though careless and lazy, and given to little thefts and large
stories, had his good points, as what Irish boy has not. So they, the
Mac Donnels, sought out some other home,--safer and more comfortable,
if not quite so grand in its isolated, ancient gentility,--and it may
be, took the Banshee with them for their comfort. Trouble, I believe,
always goes with people in this world, wherever they move to,--in some
form or other, it travels with them, and settles down with them,--as
sorrow, ill-luck, disease, disgrace, discontent, fear, or remorse,--and
if we may credit Irish traditions, the old nobility and gentry had to
endure howling Banshees in addition. No wonder they wasted away under
their aristocratic infliction.

In my story, I shall make bold to turn my back on the Causeway, Dunluce
Castle, the Mac Donnels, Banshees, and all,--return to the beautiful
neighborhood of Glenarm, and relate a little incident in the lives of
some humble peasant people there.

THE POOR SCHOOLMASTER.

Some forty or fifty years ago, there lived at Glenarm, near the castle,
a poor schoolmaster, named Philip O'Flaherty.

Philip, though a very quiet, well meaning man, was singularly
unfortunate in all but one thing--he had an excellent wife. Yet she,
poor woman, was but "a weakly body," while, as for P