convey enough of my meaning to give a bad headache to any one indulgent
enough to follow me.

I set out once more upon my pilgrimage on a fine day of June, my steps
directed to the village of Inistioge, where Father Dyke resided. I was
too weak for much exertion, and it was only after five days of the road
I reached at nightfall the little glen in which the village stood. The
moon was up, streaking the wide market-places with long lines of yellow
light between the rows of tall elm-trees, and tipping with silvery sheen
the bright eddies of the beautiful river that rolled beside it. Over the
granite cliffs that margined the stream, laurel, and arbutus, and wild
holly clustered in wild luxuriance, backed higher up again, by tall
pine-trees, whose leafy summits stood out against the sky; and lastly,
deep within a waving meadow, stood an old ruined abbey, whose traceried
window was now softly touched by the moonlight All was still and silent,
except the rush of the rapid river, as I sat down upon a stone bench
to enjoy the scene and luxuriate in its tranquil serenity. I had not
believed Ireland contained such a spot, for there was all the trim
neatness and careful propriety of an English village, with that
luxuriance of verdure and wild beauty so eminently Irish. How was it
that I had never heard of it before? Were others aware of it, or was
the discovery strictly my own? Or can it possibly be that all this
picturesque loveliness is but the effect of a mellow moon? While I
thus questioned myself, I heard the sound of a quick footstep rapidly
approaching, and soon afterwards the pleasant tone of a rich voice
humming an opera air. I arose, and saw a tall, athletic-looking figure,
with rod and fishing-basket, approaching me.

"May I ask you, sir," said I, addressing him, "if this village contains
an inn?"

"There is, or rather there was, a sort of inn here," said he, removing
his cigar as he spoke; "but the place is so little visited that I fancy
the landlord found it would not answer, and so it is closed at this
moment."

"But do visitors--tourists--never pass this way?"

"Yes, and a few salmon-fishers, like myself, come occasionally in the
season; but then we dispose ourselves in little lodgings, here and
there, some of us with the farmers, one or two of us with the priest."

"Father Dyke?" broke I in.

"Yes; you know him, perhaps?"

"I have heard of him, and met him, indeed," added I, after a pause.
"Where may his