quantities of human bones are found in circular graves or trenches, very shallow, and going all around the island.  There are legends of great battles fought on the little island, and of pestilences, to account for these.  But it is likely enough that the island was simply used as a cemetery by the dwellers on the shore at some early date.  Father Walker when he was last, there had brought away some of these relics.  One he showed us, the beautifully formed jawbone of a young child, apparently ten or twelve years old, with exquisite pearly teeth.  The chin was not in the least prognathous, but very well formed.  In this district of Dungloe, too, the women weave and knit as well as at Gweedore; and Father Walker, before he left us for his home, after a most agreeable evening, promised to send me some specimens of their handiwork.  He is sure that with a proper organisation this industry might be so developed as to materially relieve the people here from the pressure of their debts to the dealers of all kinds, a pressure much more severe than that of the rent.  According to the dealers themselves, no tenant really in debt to them can now expect to work himself free of the burden under four or five years.  It is obvious how much power, political as well as social, is thus lodged in the hands of the dealers, and especially of the “Gombeen men.”

BARON’S COURT, Wednesday, Feb. 8.—­Since last night I have travelled from one extreme to the other of Irish life—­from the desolation of the Rosses of Donegal to the grandly wooded, picturesque, and beautiful demesne of Baron’s Court.  We made an early start from Dungloe on a capital car for Letterkenny, where we were to strike the railway for Strabane and Newtown-Stewart.  The morning was clear, but cold.  On leaving Dungloe we drove directly into a region of reclaimed land, where improvements of various kinds seemed to be going on.  All this our jarvey informed us, with a knowing look, belonged to Mr. Sweeney.

“Was he a squire of this country?” I asked innocently.

“A squire of this country, sorr?  He is just Mr. Sweeney, the Gombeen man; he and his brothers, they all came here from where I don’t know.”

An energetic man, certainly, Mr. Sweeney, and not likely, I should think, to allow the National League, to push matters here to the point of nationalising the land of Donegal, if he can prevent it.  In the highway we met, two or three miles out of Dungloe, a very trim dainty little lady, in a long, well-fitting London waterproof ulster, with a natty little umbrella in her hand, walking merrily towards the town.  How weatherwise she was soon appeared, the rain coming up suddenly, and coming down sharply, in the whirling way it has among the hills everywhere.  The scenery was desolate, but grand.  Countless little lochs give sparkle and life to it.  Everywhere the granite.  About Doocharry, a romantic little spot, where Lord Cloncurry has a fishing-box in the heart of a glorious