SHAVAUN RALE, A LEGEND OF KILLARNEY, AMONG the many beauties that consecrate the vicinity of Killarney, the lofty Mangerton peculiarly usurps the first title to attention, from the abrupt boldness of its outline and the wild sublimity of its magnificence. No stranger visits Killarney-and many are they whom curiosity conducts to this place of enchantment-without accomplishing the ascent of its craggy sides. The hotels furnish shelties particularly suited for clambering its almost impervious steeps; sure-footed and patient as a Spanish jennet, they tread along the dangerous road with astonishing instinct; and, when seated on their back, with equal security the rider may entrust his safety and his road to their sagacity. Guides there are in abundance, from the regularly practised retinue of the ‘Kenmare Arms,' ready to assent to every remark your honour' makes, and always prepared to discharge the unsparing artillery of abuse on any who may attempt to supply their place at your honour's' bridle; down to the simple inhabitant of the mountain, glad to earn one solitary sixpence, by acting cicerone along a perilous and fatiguing path. God help the unhappy creatures!' should be the prayer that would spring to our lips, on beholding their squalid wretchedness and ragged misery contending for an office that may produce a shilling, while it relieves them from the unwholesome monotony of sleeping through the day in their smoky hovels. 'God help them, for man never will.'

The prospect from the summit is grand and extensive when arrived at the top, a scene of wondrous beauty flashes upon the view, as if to repay, with one single glance, the length of toil which was required to procure it: hills and mountains, whose magnitude astonished, as we gazed on them from the lowlands, dwindle into comparative insignificance: the far lake slumbers in its loveliness below, shining and glittering in the sun that scatters its fairest radiance over its isles and its waves; while, on the other side, a new world, of new lakes and of new wildness, offers fresh subjects to

enkindle admiration, or to excite the highest warmth of poetic rapture. And then there is the deep, dark lake at its summit, which mortal plumb hath never fathomed, sunk between the pinnacles of the mountain, surrounded by the vast sublimity of rock, sprinkled rudely over the surface, and resting in its cold, cold basin. With all these recommendations it would be impossible to leave Killarney, without having visited the Devil's Punchbowl and little extra inducement was necessary to prevail on me to spend a day on its cloud-capped summit.

It was in the middle of July, hot and fervid: I was accompanied by a party to whom I owe many blissful hours, such as the poet ne'er shall see again,' and to whose acquaintance I shall always look back with more than common pleasure: my heart was young, hopeful, and enthusiastic to overflowing; and if I then intimated that I was so happy,' I verily might have done so, even at the danger of repetition, without incurring the charge of insincerity. The majority of the group had gained a considerable advantage, and I remained behind to escort one of them, whose pony, being of a happily contemplative nature, seemed by no means disposed to disturb the calmness of its meditations by the rapidity of its pace. Some of the inhabitants of the mountain joined us, and what with our own ignorance and the path we had to follow, their local knowledge was of the utmost importance. Determined on turning my opportunities to the best advantage, I quickly fell into conversation with the guides, and found them as communicative and loquacious as the generality of the Irish peasantry. They were, however, particularly forlorn in their appearance: they wore flannel jackets, which only half protected them from the intensity of the sun; corduroy breeches, open at the knees and variegated with patches of every contradictory hue; no cravats, no shoes nor stockings, and their hats in their hands; while their dishevelled hair profusely sported in every blast that rushed from the glens. I am fond of any thing national, and aught connected with popuVOL. 1. May, 1829.

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lar superstition has a magic for me, almost equally entrancing as the sun-bright creations of modern poetry or of ancient romance. Accordingly I interrogated the peasants on a multiplicity of subjects; the fairies, the gentlemen, the forts, all had their turn. Every one who pretends to any acquaintance with Ireland, is aware how much a belief in the existence of such beings, like the ghowls or ogres of the east, or the mazakin of the Jews, is incorporated in the very essence of their feelings; and, conscious of this, after having asked one of them Where he lived?' and having received the characteristic answer,'

Is it I, masther? Mavrone then, dear knows, I lives no where at all!' I began to inquire if they were acquainted with any stories of this description.

'Wisha no, masther; ding the one I knows, good or bad,' was the reply of him, whom I more immediately addressed, as he scratched his head, and looked as if he scarcely knew what answer he should hazard.

'Arrah! Pawdreen man, what would you be afther sayen?' interrupted a grey-eyed, red-haired youth, 'Where do you lave the history of Shavaun Rale? Sure the gintleman would be thankful to hear it.'

Pawdreen man, or little Paddy, as it may be literally translated, when reminded of a story which he fain would have forgotten, finding himself constrained to comply with my demand, commenced the following fairy legend:

Tis good forty years an more now, since my granfather was a young, hearty boughil, when there was not one of um at a patthern that could equal him at all, aither at hurly, when he thought well of taken a fist at it, or at a country-dance. Plaise your honour, it happened once upon a time that he was goen to Cork, an Jack Cournane, one of the neighbours was wid him, as I often hard say. They were goen their ways, quiet an aisy, not thinking of nothen, when the night overtook 'em, nor a mud cabin, nor a mother's sowl, widin miles of 'em. "God help us, says Shavaun, “but we're lost now or never," says he,

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"" an what will we

do, stayen here the live-long night? Mille-a-murder ! says he, bad look to the day that we thought of pullen the dure afther us, an laven the childer-the crathurs?""

With this exclamation, Shavaun Rale and his companion composed themselves to sleep, sheltered by a furze ditch-bank, an Englishman would denominate it-which kept them completely a l'abri from the sharpness of the night-wind. They had not long been thus situated, when Shavaun heard a great troop of men coming along the road, and he did not know from Adam who or what they were.

'As soon as he hard them trampoosen along,' continued the narrator of the story, he crept closer to the ditch, fully detarmined on seein the matther out; howsomever he didn't feel that is to say any ways pleasant; but as he was a bould man, au one that wouldn't allow another say "black is your eye," he thought he'd see what they were about. When he was this way for some time, the noise came nearer an nearer, till at last he saw a parcel of the finest jintlemen he ever beheld in his whole born days, lep over the hedge, an come into the very field where he was. When he seed em all comen, like so many lamplighters, he didn't a bit of him know what to make of 'em. But says he to himself, "I'll see an high hangen to ye, what ye're afther my lads, that I will," says he ; an wid that, he began to watch 'em like any thing. The jintlemen were walken about, sporten an laughen there, that twould do one's heart good to look at 'em, when an ould buccough of a fellow came with a parcel of iligant new hurlies in his arms, an laid 'em, as look would have it, just near where Shavaun Rale was lyen.

'When Shavaun saw him put 'em down, he felt his heart comen out of his mouth wid the joy of him, for he was always a great hand at goal; and so when he sees the ould codger walk away wid himself, up he gets, bones one of the hurlies, and takes it off wid him into the dyke. When he had done his job, the jintlemen began choosen among themselves, when after a time, one of them bawled out to the ould boy to bring hether

the hurlies. As soon as ever he brought them, they began counten them, and they soon found the one missen. Wid that, sir, they fell blackguarden Shamus, as they called him, at no rate; an swore if he didn't find it immediately, they'd make smithereens of every bone in his body, that they would!

That you may live to be gray, for a set of you," says Shamus, as he went feelen about, to know would he meet wid it at all, at all. Shavaun, Sir, was thremblen for the very life of him, not knowen what would happen if they catched it wid him, when all on a sodden, ould Shamus says,

"Arrah then, Shavaun Rale, an is this yourself, you scoundhrel of the world?" says he; "pretty work tis, disturben dacent people's sport wid your fagaries," says he; "but never heed a bit of it Shavaun," says he, give us the hurley an we won't say much about it," says he.

None of your gab, if you plaise," says the other, "but give us the hurly, an no more of your pronoken." Wid that Shavaun was obliged to give up the hurly,. an vexed enough you may be sure he was at it. When Shamus tould the jintlemen how it was, they all came along to the dyke, cryen out

"Is this you, Shavaun Rale? Welcome here, Shavaun Rale! Long life to you, Shavaun Rale!" an poor Shavaun not knowen no more nor a fool, how in the world they made out his name. They axed him would he take a turn wid 'em, an as Shavaun was glad enough of the offer, he up an sthripped in a jiffy. In a short time, Sir, they fell to; an the side on which Rale was always had the best of it. Afther they had been playen this way for a good space, they gave over, an all began praisen Shavaun, an they invited him to dinner wid 'em.

'One of 'em took Shavaun along wid him, till he brought him to a most beautiful palace, an Shavaun was wondheren how in the world it got there, for before he could not see any thing but the bogs an the stones. There were sarvants in plenty runnen up and down the