essential point — it did not pay— and the rusty fragments of the 

 last blast remain to stimulate some future more successful enter- 

 prise in the same direction. 



The grand cliff scenery begins at the western side of Teelin Bay 

 or harbour, where the rocks, some 500 feet high, overhang the sea, 

 and are cut into and indented by bays and fissures that unite to form 

 a succession of picturesque groups of rocks and crags and heath- 

 clad peaks ; wild as the storm that rages round them, and varied as 

 the sea that boils below. From Teelin the ascent of the highlands 

 really commences, and, dispensing with the cars, the journey was 

 undertaken on foot or on ponies. The latter proved of great 

 advantage to the ladies, and their services were no less acceptable 

 to the gentlemen. We soon reached Carrigan Head, where the 

 cliffs are really grand. The high wind and angry boiling sea 

 added not a little to the interest of the scene which poet or painter 

 would delight to picture ; but the shrill whistle of the conductor, 

 almost lost in the noise of the storm, called us to our feet again, 

 and a regular climb over the steep sides of the sloping hills brought 

 us to a terrace overlooking one of the grandest views perhaps in 

 Britain. Standing on Bunglass Point, hundreds of feet above the 

 sea below, there is the sweep of Bunglass Bay, bounded by mural 

 precipices rising to the height of nearly 2,000 feet, one brilliant 

 surface of quartose rock, variegated by the changes of strata and 

 the stains of metallic oxides, that give the whole an effective play 

 of colours, like the iridescent tints of Labrador spar. The rolling 

 waves of the sea beneath, dwarfed by distance, boil and seethe ; 

 above, the majestic eagle soars with his mate to their eyrie, while 

 flocks of sea-fowl fly shrieking past ; and the storm now hangs a 

 pall on the brow of Slieve League, and again drives back the cloud 

 and mist and rain, for the bright sunshine to light up the whole 

 crest from Carrigan Head to Mallin Beg, forming a scene ot 

 marvellous grandeur and awful sublimity. Would that some poet 

 worthy of the theme — some Irish Scott — would weave into im- 

 mortal verse the sublime beauty of this scene, the legendary lore 

 with which it is surrounded, and the deeds of heroic valour that 

 may be gathered from the scattered history of Tirconnell. 



