receive but little tribute.” * * Belfast cannot be deemed the metropolis of Ulster, but may almost be said to be the Athens of Ireland. It is at least the cynosure of the province in which it stands; and those beams of genius which are there concentrated, send to the extremest point of the hemisphere in which they shine no faint ray of lumination. “Then, in the name of all that is warm and cordial,” said I, “let us hasten back to the province of Connaught.” “That you may be sure we shall,” returned Father John: “for I know none of these sons of trade; and until we once more find ourselves within the pale of Milesian hospitality, we must put up at a sorry inn, near a tract of the sea-coast, called the Magilligans, and where one _solitary fane_ is raised to the once tutelar deity of Ireland; in plain English, where one of the last of the race of _Irish bards_ shelters his white head beneath the fractured roof of a wretched hut. Although the evening sun was setting on the western wave when we reached the auberge, yet, while our fried eggs and bacon were preparing, I proposed to the priest that we should visit the old bard before we put up our horses. Father John readily consented, and we enquired his address. “What, the _mon wi the twa heads?_” said our host. I confessed my ignorance of this hydra epithet, which I learned was derived from an immense wen on the back of his head. “Oh!” continued our host, “A wull be telling you weel to gang tull the auld Kearn, and one o’ our wains wull show ye the road. Ye need nae fear trusting yoursels to our wee Wully, for he is an uncommon canie chiel.” Such was the dialect of this Hibernian Scot, who assured me he had never been twenty miles from his “aine wee hame.” We, however, dispensed with the guidance of _wee Wully_, and easily found our way to the hut of the man “_wi the twa heads_.” It stood on the right hand by the road side. We entered it without ceremony, and as it is usual for strangers to visit this last of the “Sons of Song,” his family betrayed no signs of surprise at our appearance. His ancient dame announced us to her husband When we entered he was in bed; and when he arose to receive us (for he was dressed, and appeared only to have lain down from debility,) we perceived that his harp had been the companion of his repose, and was actually laid under the bed-clothes with him. We found the venerable bard cheerful * and communicative, and he seemed to enter even with an eager readiness on the circumstances of his past life, while his “soul seemed heightened by the song,” with which at intervals he interrupted his narrative. How strongly did those exquisitely beautiful lines of Ossian rush on my recollection: “But age is now on my tongue, and my mind has failed me; the sons of song are gone to rest; my voice remains like a blast that roars loudly on a sea-surrounded rock after the winds are laid, and the distant mariner sees the waving trees.”