oils;
in truth, a superficial observer might even be tempted to utter an
exclamation of surprise on being told that with a territory one
thousand square miles less than that of the state of Maine, and six
thousand less than that of Pennsylvania, ten millions of human beings
should be supported; but then consider, kind reader, when our beef,
and our butter, and our eggs, and even the little cabbages from our
gardens, must fly on the wings of steam to pay the rent, and that rent
flies away again, you know, to pay _whom_; (a slight glance at a
certain map will tell you that;) consider, I say, that we cannot
always be light-hearted, that a little sadness will sometimes creep
over us. Think how our poor countrymen must sometimes suffer, and let
ever our warmest sympathies be exerted when we hear of their
distresses.

But, "stop!" you say, "these are twists you're getting into, indeed.
What has this to do with your legend?" Well, then, reader, jump over
with me into a snug cabin, which is not so very unlike a log-cabin,
only built of stone or mud, (excuse me,) and sit down with me and a
collection of choice spirits, round a blazing turf fire, keeping it
warm, as we say, with the pipe and the "darlin' tibacky" taking their
accustomed rounds. I may as well introduce Jimmy Carmody to you--my
"Micky Free"--Tom Dillon, and a few others. So, now we are all
settled.

"What's this you're all discussing so learnedly, boys?"

"O, nothing very partic'lar, your honor, only we're just saying what
mighty quare owld ruins them is--them round towers. Did your honor
never see any of them? Sure there's one on Scattery Island, in the
Shannon, and one at Kilmacduagh, I believe, in this county."

"O, yes, Tom, I've seen those you mention, and a great many more, too;
and if any of you have ever been to Dublin by the canal, I'm sure you
must have seen the one at Clondalkin. There's one, too, you know, in
the county Wicklow, at the lake that Tommy Moore made the beautiful
song about:

'By that lake, whose gloomy shore
Skylark never warbled o'er.'"

"Why, now, yer honor's perfectially right!" said Jimmy, who just then
remembered some incidents in his former travels to Dublin about his
"little spot of a pratee garden, that was near being sowld at the Four
Courts for _non payment_. Quite right your honor is. Sure I wint down
to see where the blessed Saint Kevin done all his miracles--where he
turned the loaves into stones, and whe