“Why,” returned he, “Hecatæus tells us that the Hyperborean Island was dedicated to Apollo, and that most of its inhabitants were either priests or bards, and I suppose you are not ignorant that we claim the honour of being those happy Hyperboreans, which were believed by many to be a fabulous nation. “And if the peculiar favour of the god of Poetry and Song may be esteemed a sufficient proof, it is certain that our claims are not weak. For surely no nation under heaven was ever more enthusiastically attached to poetry and music than the Irish. Formerly every family had its poet or bard, called Filea Crotaire; and, indeed, the very language itself, seems most felicitously adapted to be the vehicle of poetic images; for its energy, strength, expression, and luxuriancy, never leave the bard at a loss for apposite terms to realize ‘the thick coming fancies of his genius.’” * * Mr. O’Halloran informs us, that in a work entitled “Uiraceacht na Neaigios,” or Poetic Tales, above an hundred different species of Irish verse is exhibited. O’Molloy, in his Irish and Latin Grammar, has also given rules and specimens of our modes of versification, which may be seen in Dr. Linud’s Achaeologia. “But,” said Glorvina, “the first of May was not the only festival held sacred by the Irish to their tutelar deity; on the 24th of June they sacrificed to the Sun, to propitiate his influence in bringing the fruit to perfection; and to this day those lingering remains of heathen rites are performed with something of their ancient forms. ‘_Midsummer’s Night_,’ as it is called, is with us a night of universal lumination--the whole country olazes: from the summit of every mountain, every hill, ascends the flame of the bonfire, while the unconscious perpetuators of the heathen ceremony dance round the fire in circles, or holding torches to it made of straw, run with the burning brands wildly through the country with all the gay frenzy of so many Bacchantes. But though I adore our aspiring _Beal_ with all my soul, I worship our popular deity _Samhuin_ with all my heart--he is the god of the heart’s close knitting socialities, for the domesticating month of November is sacred to him.” “And on its eve,” said the priest, “the great fire of _Samhuin_ was illuminated, all the culinary fires in the kingdom being first extinguished, as it was deemed sacrilege to awaken the winter’s social flame, except by a spark snatched from this sacred fire, * and so deep rooted are the customs of our forefathers among us, that the present Irish have no other name for the month of November than _Samhuin_. * To this day, the inferior Irish look upon bonfires as sacred; they say their prayers walking round them; the young dream upon their ashes, and the old steal away the fire to light up their domestic hearths with.