important ane was maybe the Nabob's unpopularity now that the frenzy o' the rising was ower. And they blamed the officers o' the troops searching for the outlaws for want o' tact and energy, and they directed Colonel Adair himsel' to tak' on the pursuit in person. Colonel Adair soon after he took ower the command showed a great liking for my father, and, as you ken, he later attached him to his ain private service, where he long remained. The first proof he had that he was a favorite was ane evening when the Colonel sent for him privately. "Sergeant Thomson," said he, “you know this corps better than I do. Now I want to-night a dozen men for secret service it's not dangerous but it may be trying to their nerves. I want meЛ who are not always channering about warlocks and bogles, and who would face the devil himsel' if he did turn up. Get them ready by twelve tonight, and tell no living thing anything about this."

My father said naething, but as he went awa' to carry out the Colonel's orders he thought to himself-"Heavens above us! is it possible he's going to try and catch the O'Hara wi' only twelve men? Pray God ony o' us ever sees the morn's light again."

Well, he quietly warned twelve o' the stoutest-nerved men in the corps to be ready for service the night at twelve, and to say no word about it to ony ane. And then he went to his ain quarters and drew the charges o' his pair o' holster pistols and recharged them, putting in instead o' bullets twa silver buttons that he cut frae his service waistcoat. Not that he ever believed that the O'Hara was a warlock, but he was aye a prudent man, and he thought it weel to be on the safe side.

At twelve o'clock my father wi' the twelve troopers rode slowly up to the Colonel's quarters. He came out wi'

out summons, mounted his horse, and bidding them mak' as little noise as they could, rode off towards the auld Duncairn Road. They rode silently along it till they were in the Duncairn Wood, within twa mile or so o' auld Duncairn Castle. Here not far frae the road there was a rough bit o' a cliff some hundred feet high, wi' sma' ledges on its face and sma' bushes growing here and there. Under this the Colonel dismounted, and motioned his men to do the same. When they had done so he said to them, speaking very quietly

"Lads, I have information that the O'Hara and MacEagan are hiding in some old secret dungeons underneath the ruins of Duncairn Castle. There's a subterranean passage leads to them from the face o' this cliff. It's long and it's dark and it's low, and we must crawl along it without noise on our hunkers till we get to the dungeons.

If

all has gone well they won't have any firearms to use, but I cannot speak surely of this. Now, I want six of you to come with me up the passage armed only with pistols, the others to remain here and guard the entrance and our horses and swords. Who will volunteer to come?"

Well, Starkie's men may hae been as wicked and as cruel as men can be, but they were brave lads. Every man o' them volunteered.

"You cannot all come," said Colonel Adair. "Sergeant Thomson, you have picked well the men to start with us: now pick again the men to come with us to the end."

My father soon made his choice. Those selected took off their swords, looked to the priming o' their pistols, and then climbed after the Colonel to a wee ledge about half way up the face o' the cliff. There the Colonel pu'ed frae behind a bit bush a thin skelf o' stane, and behind it the men could see through the darkness a black

hole aboot twa feet high and three wide. The Colonel creeped through it, my father followed, and the other men came after ane by ane.

After the party had gone a hundred yards or so, the roof grew higher and the floor smoother; but still they a' had to travel on their hands and knees. It was, my father confessed, gey nervous wark creeping along for twa miles under the grund and in the dark, wi' the prospect o' grappling wi' the warlock O'Hara and the giant MacEagan when you got to the end. But nane o' the men faltered in the task.

At last they saw a light afore them, and a whisper passed doon the line to be mair carefu' than ever. They a' crept along as noiselessly as a cat stalking a bird, till they reached a door just enough ajar to let a ray o' light through. Then there was a pause, while they got their breath for the attack. At last Colonel Adair flung the door wide and sprang intil the room. As he did so he cried in a loud voice, "Surrender, in the King's name!"

My father jumped in after him. When he got intil the room the O'Hara had seized a pair o' pistols, and had one levelled at the Colonel's head. He pu'ed the trigger. There was nae flash. He glanced at it hastily and flung it to the ground. He glanced at the other and seemed for a second dumbfounded. Then he flung it down and caught a sword frae the waa' and rushed on the Colonel.

Colonel Adair fired. He told my father he didna want to kill him, and so, as you might speer, he missed him a'thegither. My father, to save the Colonel, now fired. He hit the O'Hara on the thigh, and he fell at ance to the ground. My father and the Colonel sprang on him.

All this had occupied only twa seconds. Eagan MacEagan had stood throughout it paralyzed wi' surprise. The faa' o' the O'Hara brought him to

his senses, and he seized a pike and dashed at Colonel Adair and my father, wi' whom the O'Hara was struggling wi' the strength o' a giant in spite o' the wound in his leg and his sma' size. By this time the other troopers had got intil the room, and they got between MacEagan and the three men fighting on the floor. They caught the pike, and levelled pistols at MacEagan's head. As they did this, a wee, thin, piercing voice caa'd oot

"Dinna hurt my father! Dinna hurt my father! The Colonel promised he wadna suffer."

My father says the O'Hara heard Michael MacEagan's shrill voice above the din o' the fechting, and immediately, ceased to struggle. He lay still for a moment, and then he said in a low tone, "Help me up, gentlemen: I surrender!"

Eagan MacEagan had heard his son's voice too, and the words a'thegither dumbfounded him. He too ceased to struggle. He stood quiet and silent, gazing from ane to anither in a dazed way, as if trying to understand what had happened.

A guard was placed on him. Colonel Adair and my father lifted the O'Hara into a chair. Apparently the shot had broken his leg. One o' the troopers that had been orderly to a surgeon during the rebellion bandaged the wound as well as he could. Meanwhile my father turned ower the table and took the feet off it, so as to mak' it into a sort o' cradle on which to push the wounded O'Hara doon the lang souterrain.

As they were finishing their preparations for leaving the dungeon, my father heard wee Michael MacEagan whispering to Eagan in Erse, "It was to save oursel's, father, that I done it." Eagan looked at him in a dazed way. My father never was certain whether he understood the words or no.

After much trouble the O'Hara and

Eagan were got through the souterrain. The other troopers left behind were getting very anxious, for the arresting party had been awa' twa or three hours. As my father had fired the shot that broke the O'Hara's leg, he insisted that the O'Hara should hae his horse. The Colonel approved, and directed my father to tak' the bridle, while he himsel' rode by his side. Eagan MacEagan, as he was by the arrangement wi' Michael to be pardoned, wasna bound, but walked a few paces behind his maister, while the troopers rode in files on each side. Michael walked by himsel' behint, naebody speaking to him or caring for his company.

It was a cauld clear morn, my father said, when the wee company left the auld Duncairn Road and debouched on this mountain-path along the cliffs, about a mile south frae here. The tide was out, and the sun was just rising ower the far awa' hills o' Scotland. Up till then the O'Hara hadna ance spoken. When the fresh air o' the sea blew on his pale face he wakened up a wee and looked out ance or twice in a wistfu' sort o' way ower the ocean. Then he drooped his head on his breast again and seemed to muse. Suddently a bit doon there he lifted his head and turned to Colonel Adair.

"It's a sair thing, Colonel," he said, "that the last o' the O'Haras should die on the scaffold like a felon."

"It is a sair thing, O'Hara," answered Colonel Adair, in a very soft and kindly voice.

The O'Hara was silent again for a minute.

"And it's a sairer thing," he then said, "that he should be betrayed to death by ane o' his ain household."

"It is a very sair thing," answered Colonel Adair.

The O'Hara was again silent. "O'Hara," said Colonel Adair after a

wee, "dinna think it's wi' ony glee I'm doing this wark, but it is my duty."

"I didna blame you, Colonel," answered the O'Hara. "I tried to do my duty too."

A minute or twa after they reached this cliff, just about whar we are sitting. As they did so, the O'Hara suddently kicked his horse fiercely wi' the heel o' his unwounded leg. It bounded forward, pu'ing the reins frae my father's hands, and nearly knocking Colonel Adair out o' his saddle. Before ony ane kenned what he was about, the O'Hara jumped the horse ower this dike and headed straight for the cliff. Colonel Adair caa'd on him

to stop, but he answered only wi' a wave o' his hand as the horse wi' him on its back bounded ower the edge o' the precipice.

All the company ran up as near the edge as they daured in fine excitement. As they glowered ower it a wild squeel o' terror was heard. Every ane turned towards whar it came frae, and there they saw Eagan MacEagan wi' wee Michael in his arms disappearing ower the edge, shouting as he went, "Ye misshapen cur, come after the maister ye hae betrayed!"

When Colonel Adair had recovered from his amazement at this awfu' ending o' the business, he caa'd on his men to follow him doon to the shore to recover the bodies before the tide came in. Though they went doon the hill at a brave pace, it took them a good wee while to reach the bottom o' the cliff. When they got there they started looking into ane anither's faces in a startled way. The bodies o' wee Michael and the horse were there dead enough, but na trace could they find o' those o' the O'Hara and Eagan! As they searched right and left wi'out result, the men whispered in an awesome way amang themsel's. The cliff is five hundred feet high. Nae human being could jump ower it and live wi'out the

as

aid o' heaven or hell. Had the O'Hara some such aid after a'? The men, ay and Colonel Adair himsel', were pale as corpses as they thought o' a' this, and my father thanked God he had put the silver buttons in his pistols, or maybe nane o' the yeomen wad e'er hae left that auld secret dungeon alive that morn.

When my father had gathered his wits thegither again, he thought o' an explanation which was afterwards put about as the true ane by the authorities. The shore along the cliff here was then, as now, a great place for kelp-gatherers; and then, as now, they came doon to it whenever the tide was out, though it was the very skreigh o' day; and then, as now, a' the kelp-gatherers were Glens folk. That morn my father noted not ane was to be seen when the troopers reached the shore. Well, how was that? Was it no that they had seen the men coming ower the cliff, and finding out wha they were, had, to save the bodies frae indignity, ta'en them awa' to ane o' the mony caves kent o' only by themsel's and their friends the smugglers?

Blackwood's Magazine.

However that may be, the bodies were never found, and the Glens folk wad never admit that the last O'Hara was dead. They always said that he was saved by the intervention o' the Virgin, and was living wi' his faithfu' Eagan in a cave high up the face o' the cliff, whar he wad bide till the Catholics were ance mair oppressed, when he wad ance mair come to their aid. Ay, and the Protestants, though they pretended they had nae doubt but the bodies had been stolen awa' and buried secretly, were in truth no sae sure o' that after a'. Lang, lang after the leap, travellers by night ower the auld Duncairn Road wad tell tales o' seeing the O'Hara or his ghaist, wi' his big flaming eyes and his big red-brown beard, hovering about among the dark places in Duncairn Wood, and for mony years ony ane wha had done wrang to a Glens man wad grue when such tales were told. And to this day auld Protestant women along the shore still talk o' the warlock O'Hara, and frighten their bairns wi' the terror o' his name.

Andrew James.

"Skellig!

Skellig! Go to Skellig!" It is half a lifetime since I heard the cry, but it rings in my ears still. Each Shrove-Tuesday in those far-off days a band of "the boys" paraded, making life painfully adventurous for any of either sex who had too long run counter to local sentiment by avoiding the holy estate of matrimony. The penalty in the case of the unprotected was sometimes rough enough. Buckets full of water, a souse in sea or lake, a compulsory boating, these were some of the consequences; plead as the victims might, there was no escaping the water. A form of torture less primi

tive, but often exquisitely painful, was the Skellig List. In it the weapons of anonymous satire had unlimited play: names were coupled together in a way that was always reckless; and when for any reason the subjects were unpopular, the list degenerated into an exceedingly scurrilous lampoon. It is no wonder that as Shrove-Tuesday drew near, bachelors and spinsters alike winced at the thought of being exposed to such floods of ribald raillery.

I do not know that it would be possible to recover specimens of those old Skellig Lists, proper or improper;

I am quite sure that, if I could, the Editor would think many of them undesirable for the purposes of publication. The following couplet alone lingers in my memory:

-'s blood is bright and clear; It will not mix with his small beer.

If so solitary a specimen gives no idea of the variety and ingenuity of the attacks, it will at least serve to illustrate the personalities with which the darts were barbed.

Had Skellig Lists and the cry Go to Skellig been limited to the southern town in which I lived, not many would think either the one or the other worth recalling. So far as I can ascertain the force of outraged public opinion has almost suppressed alike the lists and the observances. I find however that all round the south-west of Ireland the Skellig customs were once general, and that in remote corners traces of them still remain. I find also an explanation of the rites, in a source which seems to have exercised an influence powerful and widespread in early days, and one whose fascination under a different form still makes itself felt, these things show that Go to Skellig is more than a local cry, and is likely to command general interest.

Some miles from the mainland off the coast of Kerry, he who consults the map may find two dots-one the Great, the other the Little Skellig. At first sight ordinary islands, they are in reality rocks, which rise, in forms of singular beauty, sheer from the ocean. To see them in their romantic situation, and to hear the cries of the sea birds which in myriads make them their homes, are enough to cause a longing for a closer acquaintance; so that as we land, if the wild waves permit the liberty, we are scarcely surprised to find that for centuries colonies of monks dwelt on the larger of the two. The antiquarian, as he stud

ies the ecclesiastical remains, accounts for the presence of the monks by pointing to the many similar settlements which for the sake of retirement were made on islands whether in sea or lake. Whatever of truth there may be in. this, it is impossible to resist feeling that the glamor of the place had a powerful influence too; and certainly there would seem to be no other way of accounting for the domination which the monks of the Skellig and their abbot gradually came to exercise. Never to all appearances numerous, with nothing in their rocks to give them wealth, they found their sway spreading far and wide. They served as models for neighboring communities; they sent out branches, which estab lished flourishing foundations on the mainland; they acquired rights and dignities, traces of which remained long after they had been suppressed; finally, they so impressed the popular imagination that crowds of pilgrims. were drawn year after year to essay the difficult and uncertain passage from the mainland, and to undergo penances the most dangerous as they traversed the rocks. In fact it seemed as though the Skellig combination of beauty and inaccessibility had so won upon the fervor of Celtic devotion, that there was no admiration too great, no sacrifice too costly to be offered on their shrine.

But it will be asked what possible connection, beyond a coincidence in the name, can these sea-girt isles of the monks have had with the hymeneal' celebrations of Skellig night. No doubt many of those who reluctantly "went to Skellig" on Shrove-Tuesday had never heard of the Skelligs; and many more who knew of the rocks could not have explained the connection. Yet there seems little reason to doubt that we have in the custom, and in its prevalence, evidence not only of the Skellig influence, but also of one of the