The peculiar character of the landscape in question may best be conveyed in the words of a friend whom we once, in an hour of juvenile arrogance and self-exaltation, induced to accompany us thither in order to astonish him with what we conceived to be the boundless impressiveness and glory of the scene. It happened to be rather a breezy day towards the fall of the leaf, and after a pretty sharp and tedious journey, enlivened, however, by our friend's various and interesting converse--for he had been a marvellous traveller, and had crossed the globe from Spitzbergen to Caffraria in one direction, and circled it from Pekin to Peru, _via_ Paris, in another--we arrived at our _point d'appui_. Having allowed him time to recover from what we felt must be his stupendous wonder and delight, we ventured to enquire "what he thought of _that_?" Whereupon, sinking his arms to the elbows in the pockets of his Petersham, and doubling himself in two, as if seized with a cramp in the stomach, he, after a short altercation with himself, replied in a tone that made our very teeth to chatter--"No, I never--yes--now I think on't--there is--there is one slip of wilderness in Crim Tartary as _bad_, as to _howl_ at least, but this beats it out in the _whinstone_." Over this howling desert, then, we beg to present to our readers Mr Curly Cahill travelling slowly, about dusk, a month or two after the occurrence which took place in the preceding chapter. He was warmly muffled in his great-coat or _loody_, and mounted on a very high-boned horse, whose hoofs, with many interjections of stumble, made the only noise that broke the dismal stillness around. The summit of the mountain passed, the traveller began to descend the southern side, when, after proceeding a few hundred yards, his steed _toed_, and tumbled the rider over its head as softly as if it were his favourite mode of alighting. Mr Cahill, having taken a few minutes' time for reflection, on his face and hands, quietly arose, threw the bridle over his arm, and proceeded to walk the very short remnant of the journey. Turning aside to a miserable hovel on the road, he unbolted the half-door, fastened his rein to the latch, and with a _Dhieu-a-uth_, or "God save you," entered the hut. It was in darkness, save where around a large fire that was flickering half-smothered in its own ashes, sat three men, at a little table, sharing between them a mug of poteen whisky, the only vessel on the table, or probably in the house. "How long you wor entirely!" said one of the men (who did not move) knocking the ashes out of his pipe, as the traveller entered. "The baste thravelled badly," replied Curly; "besides, I waited for the fall of the evenin,' as I was loth to be seen comin' the road." "Well, an' what's on?" asked another. "Be quick--we're not easy here so close to the road, and it'll be pitch-dark with us across the bog."