for their own private use—a very sensible determination it must be conceded. When the ship was finished, Bith together with his wife, Beatha, his two daughters, Sesar and Barran, with their respective husbands, Ladhra and Fionton, and fifty of the most beautiful women—inordinate rascals—that could be induced to venture along with them, took passage therein; but unfortunately, not knowing the exact period when the rain would begin to descend—a diluvian 'Merriam' would have been of great value—they put to sea forty days too soon, and these raw sailors, for want of skill in navigation, were tossed and driven from sea to sea for the space of seven years and a quarter—how they victualled their independent ark the historian deems a matter of no import—at last, however, they landed upon the western coast of Ireland at a place called Dunnamberk, in the barony of Corchadie Ibhne, near about sundown. When they found themselves safely ashore, the three men agreed to divide the fifty women between them. Bith, besides his wife, had seventeen for his share, Fionton had his wife and seventeen more, and Ladhra was satisfied with the sixteen that remained—good easy man." 

 In justice to our historian it must be admitted that he expresses strong doubts as to the truth of the legend. "It is thought," says he, "to be an unaccountable relation, for, from whence intelligence could be had of what passed in this island before the flood, is out of my power to conceive. We have, indeed, some ancient manuscripts that give a legendary account of four persons who, they say, lived before and after the deluge, and afterwards divided and possessed themselves of the four parts of the world; but our antiquaries that are best acquainted with the history of Ireland, reject such fables with just indignation. As for such of them who say that Fionton was drowned in the flood, and afterwards came to life and lived long enough to publish the antediluvian history of the island—probably with some enterprising patriarchal "Bunce Brothers"—what can they mean, except to corrupt and perplex the original annals of the country?"—What, indeed, Mr. Leland? 

 But this, you'll say, has nothing to do with Irish Echoes. Well, to be candid, I don't think it has. The fact is, my thoughts took an erratic flight in that direction, and this obedient servant between my thumb and fingers had to accompany them, nolens volens. 

 With regard to the pages which follow, I have endeavored to imbue them more with a Hibernian spirit, than with any attempt at orthographic peculiarity, inasmuch as I consider it but a factitious species of wit which hinges upon an amount of bad 

 Prev. P 3/194 next