These interesting remains consist of the tall square keep seen in the accompanying view, and the mouldering walls of some outer buildings, the entire enclosed in a considerable area, with round towers at the corners, and entered by a fortified gateway. They seem to be of some antiquity, this having been the site, at all events, of the house of the Mac Coghlans from the earliest periods, until the more peaceful circumstances of the nation permitted them to abandon their narrow and gloomy security for the beautiful residence of Kilcolgan, an erection of the seventeenth century, the naked ruins of which now form the chief feature in the landscape to the traveller by the Grand Canal before he reaches Gillen. I am not aware that any records exist to furnish a clue to the history of Garry Castle, nor have I been able to meet any one able to give me any information about it, beyond the usual tirade about Oliver Cromwell, who seems doomed to bear on his back the weight of all the old walls in Ireland. One very old man, who in his youth had been, I believe, a servant of the Maw, was the only person in fact who seemed to know more about it than that it was “an ould castle, an’ a great place in the ould times.” From him I gathered a good many anecdotes of his former master, of which the following partly bears upon the present subject, and gives rather a good illustration of a class of persons not unfrequently met with, who occasionally support most extraordinary pretensions by methods still more extraordinary, claiming to be proficients in all the forgotten lore of past ages, and even in their rags hinting at powers, the possession of which would be rather enviable. The story is an odd one, but I tell it exactly as I heard it. “I had business into Banagher one day when I was a gossoon, and just as I came to the bill over Garry Castle, I saw a great crowd moving up the road forninst me. ‘Lord rest the sowl that’s gone,’ says I, crossin’ myself, for by course I thought it was a corpse goin’ to All Saints’ churchyard; but when it came nearer, and I saw the Maw in the front with a whole crowd of gentlemen, some that I knew and more that I didn’t, and ne’er a corpse at all with them, I made bould to ax Father Madden what might be the matther. ‘Why, my boy,’ says he, ‘there’s some gentlemen come all the ways from Dublin to consther what’s written on the big stone over the hall chimley in the ould castle beyant, and the rest of us are going to have the laugh at their ignorance.’ ‘’Deed, your riv’rince,’ says I, ‘an’ it’s the fine laugh we’ll have in airnest, for sure the smallest gossoon in the country could tell them ’twas written by the Danes long ago, and that it’s an enchantment.’ ‘Hould your tongue,’ says he in return; ‘whatever it is, I’ll be bound it’ll puzzle them, for by the book I’m not able to read it myself.’ ‘Troth, thin,’ says I, ‘if that be the case, it’s little sense the likes of them will make out of it.’