THE western highlands of the county of Cork present an aspect of wild magnificence, which, in any land but Our own, would attract countless hosts of visitors. Far away, on the seaward limit, where the Atlantic wave breaks freshly from the shores of the New World, the coast is indented with noble harbours, capacious enough, each one of them, for all the navies of Britain. In a commercial view, these estuaries would suggest to us how fitly might Ireland be made the mart of Europe, as the point of transit for goods between the two hemispheres. But they lie empty and neglected. Instead of the taper spars of Yankee schooners, or the eddying volumes of smoke from steam-packets' chimneys, one sees only the humble masts of a few crazy fishing-hookers here and there drawn up in some solitary cove. To the tourist, who seeks after grand sea-views, or to the valetudinarian who is in quest of health, the tall cliffs of Bere, and Bantry, and Carbery, offer their attraction; where the farthest stretching prospect for the human sight, and the purest air that can brace the frame, may be found. And then, what pleasanter treading than the firm sands of many a retired sea-beach, extending unbroken for miles, skirted on the one side by the ocean, and on the other frowned over by numberless

caves

"Shell-strewn, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love;"

where the world-tired wanderer can find, if the discovery be possible, his bosom-rest again?

Passing upward, in a north-easterly direction, that we may reach the central district of this vast shire, we find a region, in which the spirit of Sal

vator Rosa might revel in delight. Vast mountain ranges extend themselves in every direction, having in general on their summit, or half way up their sides, a tarn, or lough, abounding with fish. At their base, and connecting each range with its neighbour, loom wide moorlands, exhibiting little sign of cultivation, and seldom trodden save by the sportsman, or the peasant when digging out peat for fuel. In these low-lying grounds also lakes are of frequent occurrence, and, with some exceptions, where the pike has attained a mastery, they furnish the delicious charr (salmo alpinus), in Irish dorogawn or bric dearg, the red trout for the amusement of the angler. Solitude-intense, unbroken solitude is the pervading characteristic of these regions-a solitude that lifts the mind above ordinary things, by removing it altogether from their influence, and which creates in their stead solemn imaginings, that in their unworldly origin lack little of sublimity.

No wonder, then, that in olden days a holy man, who deemed he drew nearer his Maker, by shutting from him the sins and the sorrows of his fellow-mortals, fixed his anchorite's dwelling in this lone district. Turning his back on the sea-shore, where the glories of Bantry, or the faëry loveliness of Glengariff, might win from him thoughts haply of overattachment to earth, he chose for himself a small valley in the heart of these mountain solitudes. St. Finbar-for he it is of whom we speak-was a native of Connaught, where, with very doubtful claims to legitimacy, he was born, some time before the close of the sixth century. Like him of the Golden Mouth, he is best known through an appellative derived from

a personal gift in after years, for his baptismal name was Lochan. He was called by admiring multitudes Fionbair, from his white flowing ringlets, whether in youth or old age we cannot determine. After a missionary tour in Scotland, for which he was ordained by Torpercus, he returned to his native country, and obtained from a chief named Edo a gift of lands on the river Lee, the site of the present city of Cork. That we may not anticipate what must follow in the sequel, we shall confine ourselves at present to the mention of the saint's hermitage; and this will doubtless sound like a familiar name on our reader's ear, as soon as we speak it-GOUGANE BARRA.

We had laid down our pen; when, instead of resuming it instantaneously, as we had intended, our attention was arrested by a book of coloured drawings, over which we have been poring a full half hour. Wonderful gift, the painter's! Often the creator of lovely forms, that scarcely need the breath of life to animate them, he at times turns his genius to reproduce what the hand of Omnipotence has already fashioned-the mighty works of Na. ture. Here before us lies a graphic delineation of St. Finbar's Hermitage, so admirably true that at once we can recognise each minutest portion. Central is the islet, with its consecrated ruins, overshadowed by a dense grove of ash-trees; below, isle, and ruins, and trees, are repeated in the dark, still waters of the lake. In marked contrast with the foliage of the island, rise behind the bare, precipitous hills, furrowed by winter torrents, their bold outlines clearly defined against the sky. Noble art is thine, George Petrie and nobly hast thou availed thyself of its capabilities in this picture. We would we had it drawn at large for our own sanctum, where it should hang with names not unworthy thy association, nor thine of theirs, with Stanfield, and Turner, and David Roberts.

The word Gougane is variously interpreted; but that which commends itself most to ourselves is the supposition that it may stand for Geig-avain,

that is, the river's gorge," being referable to the head of the Lee, in this lake. Imagine a deep recess, of a circular shape, in the midst of tall mountains that are clothed with heather, or thickly strewn over with rocks. On every side, save one, the hills rise steeply from this valley, which, for the greater part, is occupied by a lake supposed to cover 800 acres. Towards the centre of the lake is a small island-ir "island" we may call what has been for many years united to the mainland by a rude causeway-and this isle, through its greater part, is occupied by monastic ruins. These ruins are environed with luxuriant trees. The scene is an impressive one, and its memory haunts the mind for long years after it has been visited. The utter stillness-the lone retirement -the majesty of its alpine solitudethe recollection of the recluse who fixed here his home-the sight of the graves of the dead even in this placestir the depths of the soul within, and stir them not in vain. And there are accessories that may even heighten such impressions. Gougane Barra, to to be seen effectively, needs the war o the elements to proclaim its grandeur. Then, when the transverse gleams or lightning pierce its murky recesses, and peal after peal of hoarse thunder is reverberated from the hill-sides, and streams suddenly break out from the summits, you have before you a scene fit for the diablerie of the Hartz mountains. Or it shows well, even as we ourselves first beheld it, in the changeful light of the uncertain weather that stands on the confines of autumn and winter, partaking of each season, yet belonging rightly to neither. You can mark then, with eager gaze, the continual play of light and shadow on the precipitous crags. Clouds are careering to and fro in the heavens, and, with fitful change, they conquer or they flee from the enfeebled sun. Anon they spread their gloom over the mountain peaks, and the darkness swiftly rolls down to the lake's margin; and then, yet a little while, and the sunbeams break out anew, and warm light-God's first, best gift to the world-o'erfloods the

picture. Such wild contention goes on for whole hours together, until gloaming succeeds; but with the coming of night, arise chilly winds, bring ing with them boding drops of rain, and reminding you that the harvest is past, and the summer ended, and that nought now remains but for pale concluding winter to shut the scene.

The monastic remains on the island of Gougane Barra are of the simplest character. In their proudest day they displayed no architectural pretension; and Time, no less than man, has laid a heavy hand upon them, for they are now little better than "heaps." We do not say but that in part destruction seems to have been wilfully dealt to them, and we have gathered the traditionary rumour, that the Cromwellian soldiery of the neighbouring castle of Carrignacurra amused themselves in this dilapidation; yet are we sure that in the main they have perished in the lapse of years, from the imperfect nature of their construction-the cement and stone-work being most rudely put together. The ruins consist of a square court, on which you enter by the causeway leading from the mainland, a small chapel, and an equally humble monastery. The quadrangle, which is first reached, has in each of its walls two cells, ten feet deep and eight high, by four in breadth. They are arched overhead, and bear signs of great antiquity. In the centre of the court is a small eminence, ascended by four stone steps; and designed, with

out doubt, for the planting of a "rood,” or cross; but none was to be found at the time of the writer's visit. Around the enclosure, the tall, graceful trees stand like faithful warders, and remove not a little of the sense of desolation that otherwise would oppress one. From this we pass, on the east side, by a kind of terrace, to the chapel, into which we descend by a few broken steps. The interior is twelve yards long by five across, and was lighted by a door in the eastern wall, and two small windows in the gables. The monastery was about twice the size of the chapel, and contained four small chambers, and a few cells. Both these buildings are exceedingly dilapi dated. On emerging from their precincts we find ourselves on the further side of the island from that by which we entered, and a few steps bring us to the water's edge again. Look up now on the tall heights around you; and say did the anchorite fruitlessly seek for seclusion? On the south is Dereen, once clad with indigenous oakforests, as its name implies; near it, stands Maolagh; farther on, to the west, Coom ruadh, the Brown Valley; then comes the Eagle's Nest, Nad-anullar; and the steep cliffs of Faoilte, close the view. There is no exit visible, nor means of entrance from the world. And words, musical, wild, and touching, start unconsciously from the lips, as you look around the words of poor Callanan, the poet. They would do honour to Sir Walter Scott:

Enough! we have known them by heart for many a day, and, doubtless, they are no less familiar to others than to ourselves.

Leaving the island, we repass the narrow causeway, and, contiguous to its termination on the mainland, find the humble burying-ground of the neighbouring district. These lowly resting-places are mostly without stone or memorial, and need a close inspection ere their character is recognised by the visitor. Among them, close to the pathway, is the grave of Father O'Mahony, the modern hermit of Gougane Barra. He resided among these solitudes for the long period of twentyeight years, from 1700 to 1728. A walled enclosure marks his tomb, which bears the inscription following, cut on a friable red flag:

:

This grave is a holy spot to the pilgrims of The Lake, and at the time of our last visit was occupied by an aged crone, who was so absorbed in her devotions that she heeded not our passing close beside her. The pilgrims visit Gougane Barra, annually, on the 12th of June (St. John's day), when a" Patron" is held, which brings together great crowds. A rough, rocky footpath, of a mile and a-half in length, now succeeds, leading out to the high road between Macroom and Bantry. By its side, for a great part of the distance, leaping down tiny cascades, wanders THE LEE. The fountain-head of a great river is necessarily a thing of difficult determination. Where several streamlets combine at the very source, it is hard to say to which of them the honour should be assigned. The principal one may not be the longest; and the longest, from tortuous windings, may not necessarily be the most remote. As regards the Lee, its source is somewhat peculiar. It issues from the eastern side of Gougane Barra; and on the southern, a

Of

few mountain rivulets discharge themselves into the lake, which, as adding to the total length of the river, have been counted by many as though they formed a portion of its tideway. these, the stream flowing from the midst of the Eagle's Nest, at a place called by the peasantry Tourtaneannig, has popular acceptance; while a minority, headed by Mr. Windele, would prefer a rivulet that issues from the lake on the summit of Coom-ruadh. We have a third opinion, differing from both, that Gougane itself is the legitimate fountain of the Lee. It is, surely, but a confusion of ideas to claim for streamlets that empty themselves into a receiving basin, the honour of originating a new river at a considerable distance from themtheir course is concluded by their junction with the larger mass of waters. The river that leaves the lake, instead of flowing into it, as they did, may be fairly considered a different stream; and, being such, must derive its birth from the lake itself. Gougane we therefore look upon as the true parent of our beautiful river; and, as we issue from the confines of the valley, we feel that we move forth from it in conjunction with a new gush of waters into the tideway of the Leethere to wander, like ourselves, through how many a scene of peace and of trouble, until they mingle themselves far away with the all-receiving ocean.

The defile of Ceim-an-eich, i. e., The Path of the Deer, stands frowning before us, on our reaching the Macroom and Bantry high road. This remark. able pass is two miles in length, lying nearly north and south. Its breadth is barely sufficient for the roadway, which is conducted through it with no little engineering skill. The author of "Sketches in Ireland" justly pronounces it "one of the most picturesque things in Ireland," and he quotes Southey's sublime description of the vale of Covadonga, as applicable to the pass of Céim-an-eich. A gigantic mountain has been cleft in twain, down to its very base-not cleanly cut, as with an archangel's brand, but torn asunder, through

sheer strength, as by the earthquake's strong hands. Adown the jagged edges of this deep wound in mother earth, are scattered about, in quaintest confusion, huge heaps of rock, covered with lichens and mosses of many kinds, or with fern, and ivy, and other creeping plants. In the interstices flowers the arbutus; or an occasional yew springs up from a covert of London-pride, gemmed with drooping lusmore or foxglove. Looking upward from the narrow strip of road at the bottom of the pass, your eye follows the ragged outline of broken cliffs, that stand almost straight above you in the zenith, until it turns from them, abashed by their awful majesty. You behold, you think, the measured pattern of the roadway you stand on, cut out from the clear, bright heavens ; for so much only of the etherial ca. nopy is visible to you. A parallel thought in the Roman poet we need not repeat. The sudden windings of the defile conceal your way of approach to it. You look back,"

writes C. O., "and you cannot find how you got in—before you, and you cannot imagine how you are to get forward. You might imagine that the spirit of the mountains had got you into his stronghold, and that you were impounded here by everlasting enchantment." The Gougane entrance is more striking than that on the Bantry side, for the cleft is less widely drawn and the rocks stand up steeper and more precipitous. On the other hand, the latter possesses the most striking single object at Céim-aneich a great square, castellated rock, like a barbican reared by Nature herself; and, henceforth, that cliff is for ever steeped in the golden light of poesy. Art acquainted, good friend, with the graceful tale of "Alice and Una," written by one whom we gladly reckon among our Own contribu tors the author of "The Camponaro," and of "The Voyage of St. Brendan," in recent numbers? It opens very sweetly :-