the ground that the man had received a pardon, and could be, therefore, considered a living witness again. It was twenty-four years after the murder of Murty, namely, in the spring of 1830, that a woman was making her way across a stream running through a gentleman's grounds in the county of Sligo, when she was prevented by a caretaker, who obliged her to turn back. "Skirria snivurth," exclaimed the woman with bitter earnestness, "but don't think, durneen sollagh (dirty Cuffe) but I know you well; an,' thank God, any way ye can't murther us, as ye did Murty Lavan long ago.' Her words were heard by a policeman who chanced to be angling along the stream, and who promptly brought her into the presence of a magistrate, where, after the policeman had stated what he heard, she attempted at first to draw in her horns and retract her words. "Well, my good woman," said the magistrate, "what expressions were those you used just now?" "Ou, only some ramask (nonsense), yer honour." "Did you not accuse a man of murder?" "In onough, I dunno what I sed when the spalpeen gev us the round, and the vexation was upon us.' "You must speak to the point, woman." "Wethen sure yer honour wouldn't be after mindin' what an oul' hag sed when she was in the passion." "Policeman, repeat the expressions exactly." The policeman repeated his former statement. "Now swear the hag, and I warn her if she doesn't tell the whole truth, I will myself see her transported." The woman, now thoroughly frightened, admitted that she knew the person who prevented her from crossing the stream to be Cuffe or Durneen, who was charged with having been the principal in the murder of Murty the Shaker. Cuffe was accordingly apprehended, and having been fully identified by Murty's wife, who was still in existence, having continued a pensioner of the Mayo grand jury since her husband's murder, was committed to the Mayo jail, to the astonishment and regret of his employer. The extraordinary part of Cuffe's case seems to us not by any means that he should have been detected after the lapse of twenty-four years, but it does seem a singular fact indeed, that, notwithstanding a description of him in the Hue and Cry as the person who had struck the mortal blow with the hatchet, and the large rewards offered for his apprehension, he should have remained undiscovered for such a protracted period, so immediately adjacent to the scene of his crime. Most of our readers are aware that Sligo adjoins Mayo-nay, the barony of Tirawley, in which the murder was perpetrated, is only separated by the river Moy from the county of Sligo, so that one portion of the town of Ballina is in Mayo, and the other in Sligo; and yet, in all probability, were it not that Providence directed the steps of the woman to that stream for the first and last time in her life, he might have remained there undiscovered to the end of his natural life, which could not then be far distant, his head being completely silvered at the time of his apprehension. While in prison, both before and after conviction, Cuffe's conduct, as it had been all along prior to his detection, was peaceful, obliging, and amenable, comporting much better with a pleasant and rather benevolent countenance, in which there did not seem to be a single line indicative of an evil disposition, than with the terrible crime he had been the principal in committing. On the morning after M'Gennis had committed the extraordinary suicide detailed in a former number, in the same cell with him, Cuffe's gaze continued to be fastened, as if by fascination, on the body while it remained in the cell, and his countenance wore an expression resembling a smile of gratified wonder, as he frequently exclaimed in an under tone, "didn't he do it clever?" He strongly denied, however, as was before stated, having witnessed the suicide, or known anything of its being intended. His own death was calm and easy: in fact he seemed to have died without a struggle; and so little did his punishment after such a lapse of years seem to be considered as a necessary atonement to justice, that we heard, during his execution, Murty's own brother, who was among the spectators, use the expression, that it was a pity so many lives should be lost for such a rascal. We should have remarked that on the morning of his execution he requested of the benevolent and intelligent inspector to allow him a tea breakfast. Indeed, it is a curious consider ation that animal gratification seems to be the predominant object with a large proportion of persons on the eve of execution, when hope becomes as nearly extinct as it can become while life remains. In general, in such cases among the lower class, there is a petition for a meat dinner, or a tea breakfast, or both-a petition which, we need scarcely say, is in Ireland generally granted. We recollect an instance where two persons under sentence were breakfasting together, just previous to their execution, having, among other materials, three eggs between them, when one of them, having swallowed his first egg rapidly, seized upon the other with the utmost greediness, while his companion eyed him with a sickly smile that seemed to say "you have outdone me to the last." On another occasion we remember to have seen two convicts on a cart with the ropes about their necks, who were to be executed about fourteen miles from the prison, one of them bearing with him in his fettered hands the remains of a loaf he had been unable to finish at his breakfast, but still begged permission to take with him, as he purposed to eat it, and did so, on his way to the gallows. A. EVIL INFLUENCE OF FASHION.-Never yet was a woman really improved in attraction by mingling with the motley throng of the fashionable world. She may learn to dress better, to step more gracefully; her head may assume a more elegant turn, her conversation become more polished, her air more distinguished; but in point of attraction she acquires nothing. Her simplicity of mind departs; her generous confiding impulses of character are lost; she is no longer inclined to interpret favourably of men and things; she listens without believing, sees without admiring; has suffered persecution without learning mercy; and been taught to mistrust the candour of others by the forfeiture of her own. The freshness of her disposition has vanished with the freshness of her complexion; hard lines are perceptible in her very soul, and crowsfeet contract her very fancy. No longer pure and fair as the statue of alabaster, her beauty, like that of some painted waxen effigy, is tawdry and meretricious. It is not alone the rouge upon the cheek and the false tresses adorning the forehead which repel the ardour of admiration; it is the artificiality of mind with which such efforts are connected that breaks the spell of beauty.—Mrs Gore. IMPOSSIBILITY OF FORGETTING. In these opium ecstacies, the minutest incidents of childhood, or forgotten scenes of later years, were often revived. I could not be said to recollect them; for if I had been told of them when waking, I should not have been able to acknowledge them as parts of my past experience. But, placed as they were before me, in dreams like intuitions, and clothed in all their evanescent circumstances and accompanying feelings, I recognised them instantaneously. I was once told by a near relative of mine, that having in her childhood fallen into a river, and being on the very verge of death but for the critical assistance which reached her, she saw in a moment her whole life, in its minutest incidents, arrayed before her simultaneously, as in a mirror, and she had a faculty developed as suddenly, for compre hending the whole and every part. This, from some opium experiences of mine, I can believe. I have indeed seen the same thing asserted twice in modern books, and accompanied by a remark which I am convinced is true, viz, that the dread book of account which the Scriptures speak of, is in fact the mind of each individual. Of this at least I feel assured, that there is no such thing as forgetting possible to the mind; a thousand accidents may and will interpose a veil between our present consciousness and the secret inscriptions on the mind; accidents of the same sort will also rend away this veil; but alike, whether veiled or unveiled, the inscription remains for ever; just as the stars seem to withdraw before the com mon light of day, whereas, in fact, we all know that it is the light which is drawn over them as a veil, and that they are waiting to be revealed when the obscuring daylight shall have withdrawn.-Confessions of an Opium Eater. that hides not some sorrow in its secret depths? Printed and published very Saturday by GUNN and CAMERON, at the Office ORMEAU, COUNTY OF DOWN, THE SEAT OF THE MARQUESS OF DONEGAL. IN the selection of subjects for illustration in our Journal, | there are none which we deem more worthy of attention, or which give us greater pleasure to notice, than the mansions of our resident nobility and gentry; and it is from this feeling chiefly that we have made choice of Ormeau, the fine seat of the Marquess of Donegal, as eminently deserving an early place among our topographical notices. Many finer places may indeed be seen in Ireland, belonging to noblemen, of equal or even inferior rank; but there are, unfortunately, few of these in which the presence of their lordly owners is so permanently to be found cementing the various classes of society together by the legitimate bond of a common interest, and attracting the respectful attachment of the occupiers and workers of the soil by the cheering parental encouragement which it is the duty of a proprietor to bestow. Ormeau is situated on the east side of the river Lagan, above a mile south of Belfast. The mansion, which, as our view of it will show, is an extensive pile of buildings in the Tudor style of architecture, was originally built as a cottage residence in the last century, and has since gradually approximated to its present extent and importance, befitting the rank of its noble proprietor, by subsequent additions and improvements. It has now several very noble apartments, and an extensive suite of offices and bed-rooms; but as an architectural composition, it is defective as a whole, from the want of some grand and elevated feature to give variety of form to its general outline, and re lieve the monotonous effect of so extensive a line of buildings of equal or nearly equal height. The original residence of the family was situated in the town of Belfast, which may be said to have grown around it, and was a very magnificent castellated house, erected in the reign of James I. Its site was that now occupied by the fruit and vegetable markets, and it was surrounded by extensive gardens which covered the whole of the ground on which Donegal-place and the Linen Hall now stand. Of this noble mansion, however, there are no vestiges now remaining. It was burnt in the year 1708, by an accidental fire, caused by the carelessness of a female servant, on which occasion three daughters of Arthur, the third Earl of Donegal, perished in the flames; and though a portion of the building which escaped destruction was afterwards occupied for some years. the family finally removing to their present residence, its preservation was no longer necessary. The demesne surrounding Ormeau is not of great extent, but the grounds are naturally of great pastoral beauty, commanding the most charming views of Belfast Lough and adjacent mountains, and have received all the improvements that could be effected by art, guided by the refined taste of its accomplished proprietress. We have only to add, that ready access to this beautiful demesne is freely given to all respectable strangers-a privilege of which visitors to the Athens of the North should not fail to avail themselves. P. THE IRISH SHANAHUS, BY WILLIAM CARLETON. THE state of Irish society has changed so rapidly within the last thirty or forty years, that scarcely any one could believe it possible for the present generation to be looked upon in many things as the descendants of that which has immediately gone before them. The old armorial bearings of society which were empanelled upon the ancient manners of our country, now hang like tattered scutcheons over the tombs of customs and usages which sleep beneath them; and unless rescued from the obliterating hand of time, scarcely a vestige of them will be left even to tradition itself. That many gross absurdities have been superseded by a social condition more enlightened and healthy, is a fact which must gratify every one who wishes to see the general masses actuated by those principles which follow in the train of knowledge and civilization. But at the same time it is undeniable that the simplicity which accompanied those old vestiges of harmless ignorance has de-force and buoyancy of his spirits, added to the vehemence of parted along with them; and in spite of education and science, we miss the old familiar individuals who stood forth as the representatives of manners, whose very memory touches the heart and affections more strongly than the hard creations of sterner but more salutary truths. For our own part, we have always loved the rich and ruddy twilight of the rustic hearth, where the capricious tongues of blazing light shoot out from between the kindling turf, and dance in vivid reflection in the well-scoured pewter and delft as they stand neatly arranged on the kitchen-dresser-loved, did we say? ay, and ever preferred it to philosophy, with all her lights and fashion, with all her heartlessness and hypocrisy. For this reason it is, that whilst retracing as it were the steps of our early life, and bringing back to our memory the acquaintances of our youthful days, we feel our hearts touched with melancholy and sorrow, because we know that it is like taking our last farewell of old friends whom we shall never see again, from whom we never experienced any thing but kindness, and whose time-touched faces were never turned upon us but with pleasure, and amusement, and affection. In this paper it is not with the Shanahus whose name and avocations are associated with high and historical dignity, that we have any thing to do. Our sketches do not go very far beyond the manners of our own times; by which we mean that we paint or record nothing that is not remembered and known by those who are now living. The Shanahus we speak of is the dim and diminished reflection of him who filled a distinct calling in a period that has long gone by. The regular Shanahus the herald and historian of individual families, the faithful genealogist of his long-descended patron has not been in existence for at least a century and a half, perhaps two. He with whom we have to do is the humble old man who, feeling himself gifted with a strong memory for genea logical history, old family anecdotes, and legendary lore in general, passes a happy life in going from family to family, comfortably dressed and much respected-dropping in of a Saturday night without any previous notice, bringing eager curiosity and delight to the youngsters of the house he visits, and filling the sedate ears of the old with tales and legends, in which, perhaps, individuals of their own name and blood have in former ages been known to take a remarkable and conspicuous part. Indeed, there is no country in the world where, from the peculiar features of its social and political changes, the chronicles of the Shanahus would be more likely to produce such a powerful effect as in Ireland. When we consider that it was once a country of princes and chiefs, each of whom was followed and looked up to with such a spirit of feudal enthusiasm and devoted attachment as might naturally be expected from a people remarkable for the force of their affection and the power of imagination, it is not surprising that the man who, in a state of society which presented to the minds of so many nothing but the records of fallen greatness or the decay of powerful names, and the downfall of rude barbaric grandeur, together with the ruin of fanes and the prostration of religious institutions, each invested with some local or national interest-it is not surprising, we say, that such a man should be welcomed, and listened to, and honoured, with a feeling far surpassing that which was awakened by the idle jingle of a Provençal Troubadour, or the gorgeous dreams begotten by Arabian fiction. Neither the transition state of society, however, nor the scanty diffusion of knowledge among the Irish, allowed the Shanahus to produce any permanent im- 66 Tom was also an easy and happy Improviser both in prose and poetry; his invention was indeed remarkably fertile, but his genius knew no medium between encomium and satire. He either lashed his friends, for the deuce an enemy he had, with rude and fearful attacks of the latter, or gave them, as Pope did to Berkley, every virtue under heaven, and indeed a good many more than ever were heard of beyond his own system of philosophy and morals. Tom was a great person for attending wakes and funerals, where he was always a busy man, comforting the afflicted relatives with many learned quotations, repeating ranns, or spiritual songs, together with the Deprofundis or Dies Iræ, over the corpse, directing even the domestic concerns, paying attention to strangers, looking after the pipes and tobacco, and in fact making himself not only generally useful, but essen tially necessary to them, by his happiness of manner, the cordiality of his sympathy, and his unextinguishable humour. At one time you might see him engaged in leading a Rosary for the repose of the soul of the departed, or singing the Hermit of Killarney, a religious song, to edify the company; and this duty being over, he would commence a series of comic tales and humorous anecdotes, which he narrated with an ease and spirit that the best of us all might envy. The Irish heart passes rapidly from the depths of pathos to the extremes of humour; and as a proof of this, we can assure our readers that we have seen the nearest and most afflicted relatives of the deceased carried away by uncontrollable laughter at the broad, grotesque, and ludicrous force of his narratives. It was here also that he shone in a character of which he was very proud, and for the possession of which he was looked up to with great respect by the people; we mean that of a polemic, or, as it is termed," an arguer of Scripture," for when a man in the country parts of Ireland wins local fame as a controversialist, he is seldom mentioned in any other way than as a great arguer of Scripture. To argue scripture well, therefore, means the power of subduing one's antagonist in a religious contest. Many challenges of this kind passed between Tom and his polemical opponents, in most or all of which he was successful. His memory was infallible, his wit prompt and dexterous, and his humour either broad or sarcastic, as he found it convenient to apply it. In these dialectic displays he spared neither logic nor learning where an English quotation failed, he threw in one of Irish; and where that was understood, he posed them with a Latin one, closing the quotation by desiring them to give a translation of it; if this too were accomplished, he rattled out the five or six first verses of John in Greek, which some one had taught him; and as this was generally beyond their reading, it usually closed the discussion in his favour. Without doubt he possessed a mind of great natural versatility and power; and as these polemical exercitations were principally conducted in wake-houses, it is almost needless to say that the wake at which they expected him was uniformly a crowded one. Tom was very punctual in attending fairs and markets, which he did for the purpose of bringing to the neighbouring farmers a correct account of the state of cattle and produce; for such was the honour in which his knowledge and talents were held, that it was expected he should know thoroughly every topic that might happen to be discussed. During the peninsular war he was a perfect oracle, but always maintained that Bonaparte never would prosper, in consequence of his having imprisoned the Pope. He said emphatically, that he could not be shot unless by a consecrated bullet, and that the said bullet would be consecrated by an Irish friar. It was not Bonaparte, he insisted, who was destined to liberate Ireland: that could never be effected until the Mill of Louth should be turned three times with human blood, and that could not happen until a miller with two thumbs on each hand came to be owner of the mill. So it was prophesied by Beal Dearg, or the man with the red mouth, that Ireland would never be free until we first had the Black Militia in our own country, and that no rebellion ever was or could be of any use that did not commence in the Valley of the Black Pig, and move upwards from the tail to the head. These were axioms which he laid down with great and grave authority; but on none of his authentic speculations into futurity did he rely with more implicit confidence than the prophecy he generously ascribed to St Bridget, that George the Fourth would never fill the throne of England. Tom had a good flexible voice, and used to sing the old Irish songs of our country with singular pathos and effect. He sang Peggy Slevin, the Red-haired Man's Wife, and Shula Na Guira, with a feeling that early impressed itself upon my heart. Indeed we think that his sweet but artless voice still rings in our ears; and whilst we remember the tears which the enthusiasm of sorrow brought down his cheeks, and the quivering pause in the fine old melody which marked what he felt, we cannot help acknowledging that the memory of these things is mournful, and that the hearts of many, in spite of new systems of education and incarcerating poor-houses, will yearn after the homely but touching traits which marked the harmless Shanahus, and the times in which he lived. Many a tear has he beguiled us of in our youth when we knew not why we shed them. One of these sacred old airs, especially, we could never resist," the Trougha," or " the Green Woods of Trough;" and to this day we remember with a true and melancholy recollection that whenever Tom happened to be asked for it, we used to slink over to his side and whisper, "Tom, don't sing that; it makes me sorrowful;" and Tom, who had great goodness of heart, had consideration for the feelings of the boy, and sang some other. But now all these innocent fireside enjoyments are gone, and we will never more have our hearts made glad by the sprightly mirth and rich good humour of the Shanahus, nor ever again pay the artless tribute of our tears to his old pathetic songs of sorrow, nor feel our hearts softened at the ideal miseries of tale or legend as they proceeded in mournful recitative from his lips. Alas! alas! knowledge may be power, but it is not happiness. Such is, we fear, an imperfect outline of Tom's life. It was one of ease and comfort, without a care to disturb him, or a passion that was not calmed by the simple but virtuous integrity of his life. His wishes were few, and innocently and easily gratified. The great delight of his soul was not that he should experience kindness at the hands of others, but that he should communicate to them, in the simple vanity of his heart, that degree of amusement and instruction and knowledge which made them look upon him as a wonderful man, gifted with rare endowments; for in what light was not that man to be looked upon who could trace the old names up to times when they were great, who could climb a genealogical tree to the top branch, who could repeat the Seven Penitential Psalms in Latin, tell all the old Irish tales and legends of the country, and beat Paddy Crudden the methodist horse-jockey, who had the whole Bible by heart, at arguing Scripture? Harmless ambition! humble as it was, and limited in compass, to thee it was all in all; and yet thou wert happy in feeling that it was gratified. This little boon was all thou didst ask of life, and it was kindly granted thee. The last night we ever had the pleasure of being amused by Tom was at a wake in the neighbourhood; for it somehow happened that there was seldom either a wake or a dance within two or three miles of us that we did not attend; and God forgive us, when old Poll Doolin was on her death-bed, the only care that troubled us was an apprehension that she might recover, and thus defraud us of a right merry wake! Upon the occasion we allude to, it being known that Tom Grassiey would be present, of course the house was crowded. And when he did come, and his loud good-humoured voice was heard at the door, heavens! how every young heart bounded with glee and delight! The first thing he did on entering was to go where the corpse was laid out, and in a loud rapid voice repeat the Deprofundis for the repose of her soul, after which he sat down and smoked a pipe. Oh, well do I remember how the whole house was hushed, for all was expectation and interest as to what he would do or say. At length he spoke—“ Is Frank Magaveen there ?" 66 All's that left o' me's here, Tom." "An' if the sweep-chimly-general had his due, Frank, that wouldn't be much; and so the longer you can keep him out of that same, the betther for yourself." 66 It's not so when you're beside a purty girl, Frank. But sure that's not surprisin'; you were born wid butther in your mouth, an' that's what makes your orations to the fair sect be so soft an' meltin', ha, ha, ha! Well, Frank, never mind; there's worse where you'll go to: keep your own counsel fast : let's salt your gums, an' you'll do yet. Whisht, boys; I'm goin' to sing a rann, an' afther that Frank an' I will pick a couple o' dozen out o' yez to box the Connaughtman.'' Boxing the Connaughtman is a play or diversion peculiar to wakes; it is grotesquely athletic in its character, but full, besides, of comic sentiment and farcical humour. He then commenced an Irish rann or song, the substance of which was as follows, according to his own translation :"St Patrick, it seems, was one Sunday morning crossing a mountain on his way to a chapel to say mass, and as he was an humble man (coaches wern't then invented, at any rate) an' a great pedestrium (pedestrian), he took the shortest cut across the mountain. In one of the lonely glens he met a herd-caudy, who spent his time in eulogizin' his masther's cattle, according to the precepts of them times, which was not by any means so farned an' primogenitive as now. The countenance of the dog was clear an extremely sabbathical; every thing was at rest barring the little river before him, an'indeed one would think that it flowed on with more decency an' betther behaviour than upon other sympathising occasions. The birds, to be sure, were singin', but 380 it was aisy to see that they chirped out their best notes in ho- 'Poor bouchal,'it isn't your fault. An how do you pass your time here?' Why, my mate (food) 's brought to me, an' I do be makin' kings' crowns out of my rushes, whin I'm not watching the cows an' sheep.' St Patrick sleeked down his head wid great dereliction, an' said, Well, acushla, you do be operatin' kings' crowns, but I tell you you're born to wear a greater one than a king's, an' that is a crown of glory. Come along wid me.' 'I can't lave my cattle,' said the other, 'for fraid they might go astray.' 'Right enough,' replied St Patrick, but I'll let you see that they won't. Now, any how St Patrick undherstood cattle irresistibly himself, havin' been a herd-caudy (boy) in his youth; so he clapped his thumb to his thrapple, an' gave the Soy-a-loa to the sheep, an' behould you they came about him wid great relaxation an' respect. Keep yourselves sober an' fictitious,' says he, addressin' them, 'till this boy comes back, an' don't go beyant your owner's property; or if you do, it'll be worse for yez. If you regard your health durin' the approximatin' season, mind an' attend to my words.' Now, you see, every sheep, while he was spakin', lifted the right fore leg, an' raised the head a little, an' behould when he finished, they kissed their foot, an' made him a low bow as a mark of their estimation an' superfluity. He thin clapped his finger an' thumb in his mouth, gave a loud whistle, an' in a periodical time he had all the other cattle on the hill about him, to which he addressed the same ondeniable oration, an' they bowed to him wid the same polite gentility. as they made He then brought the lad along wid him, an' progress in the journey, the little fellow says, You seem frustrated by the walk, an' if you'll let me carry your bundle, I'll feel obliged to you.' 'Do so,' said the saint; an' as it's rather long, throw the bag that the things are in over your shoulder; you'll find it the aisiest way to carry it.' Well, the boy adopted this insinivation, an' they went ambiguously along till they reached the chapel. Do you see that house?' said St Patrick. I do,' said the other; it has no chimley on it. No,' said the saint; it has not; but in that house, Christ, he that saved you, will be present to-day.' An' the boy thin shed tears, when he thought of the goodness of Christ in saving one that was a stranger to him. So they entered the chapel, an' the first thing the lad was struck with was the beams of the sun that came in through the windy shinin' beside the altar. Now, he had never seen the like of it in a house before, an' thinkin' it was put there for some use or other in the intarior, he threw the wallet, which was like a saddlebag, across the sunbeams, an' lo an' behould you the sunbeams supported them, an' at the same time a loud sweet voice was heard, sayin', 'This is my servant St Kieran, an' he's welcome to the house o' God!' St Patrick then tuck him an' instructed him in the various edifications of the larned languages until he became one of the greatest saints that ever Ireland saw, with the exception an' liquidation of St Patrick himself." Such is a faint outline of the style and manner peculiar to the narratives of Tom Grassiey. Indeed, it has frequently surprised not only us, but all who knew him, to think how and where and when he got together such an incredible number of hard and difficult words. Be this as it may, one thing was perfectly clear, that they cost him little trouble and no study in their application. His pride was to speak as learnedly as possible, and of course he imagined that the most successful method of doing this was to use as many sesquipidalian expressions as he could crowd into his language, without any regard whatsoever as to their propriety. Immediately after the relation of this legend, he passed at 44 And | Brogue," two other sports practised only at wakes. "Indeed no, Tom, I cannot say I do." "Well, boys, if you derogate your noise a little, I'll tell you the origin of the name of Gordon; it's a story about ould of wather ever since he went to the lower story. "This legend, Oliver Crummle, whose tongue is on the look-out for a drop however, is too long and interesting to be related here: we are therefore forced to defer it until another opportunity. SEALS OF IRISH CHIEFS. By George Petrie, R.H.A., M.R.I.A. THE next seal which I have to exhibit, belongs to a chief of સાથે In the genealogies of this illustrious family, which are remarkable for their minuteness and historical truth, two or three chiefs bearing the Christi an name of Brian occur. But from the character of the letters on this seal, I have little hesitation in assigning it to Brian O'Brian, who, according to the Annals of the Four Masters, succeeded to the lordship of Thomond in 1343, and was killed in 1350. The next seal which I have to exhibit is also from the Dean's collection, and, though of later date, is on many accounts of still higher interest than perhaps either of the preceding. It is the seal of a chief of the O'Neills, whose family were for seven hundred years the hereditary monarchs of Ireland. This seal was found about ten years since in the vicinity of Magherafelt, in the county of Derry, and was purchased by the Dean from a shopkeeper in that town some years after. The arms of O'Neill, the bloody hand, appear on a shield, and the legend reads, Sigillum Maurisius [Maurisii] ui Neill. The name Mauritius, which occurs in this inscription, does not occur in the genealogies of the O'Neill family, and is obviously but a latinised form of the name Murtogh or Muircheartach, which was that of two or three chiefs of the family; and of these I am inclined to ascribe this seal to Murtogh Roe, or the Red O'Neill, lord of Clanaboy, who, according to the Annals of the Four Masters, died in 1471. These are all the seals of Irish princes which have fallen under my observation. But there remain two of equal antiquity, but which belonged to persons of inferior rank, which |