the brains of antiquaries. It is invariably pointed out to the curious, as
a fit subject for their contemplation, and may, in fact, be looked upon as
the great local lion of the place. It appears almost inaccessible. But
there is a story extant, and told in very choice Irish, how two small
dare-devil urchins did succeed in reaching its lofty summit; and this is
the way the legend was done into English by one Barney Riley, the
narrator, to whom I am indebted for its knowledge:--

"You see Masther Robert, sir,--though its murduring high, and almost
entirely quite aqual in stapeness to the ould ancient Tower of Babel, yet,
sir, there is them living now as have been at the top of that same; be the
same token I knew both o' the spalpeens myself. It's grown up they are
now; but whin they wint daws'-nesting to the top there, the little
blackguards weren't above knee-high, if so much."

"But how did they arrive at the summit?"

"That's the wonder of it! but sure nobody knows but themselves; but the
scamps managed somehow or other to insart themselves in through one of
them small loopholes--whin little Danny Carroll gave Tom Sheeney a leg up
and a back, and Tom Sheeney hauled little Danny up after him by the scruff
o' the neck; and so they wint squeedging and scrummaging on till, by dad,
they was up at the tip-top in something less than no time; and the trouble
was all they had a chance o' gettin for their pains; for, by the hokey,
the daws' nest they had been bruising their shins, breaking their necks,
and tearing their frieze breeches to tatters to reach, was on the outside
o' the building, and about as hard to get at as truth, or marcy from a
thafe of a tythe proctor.

"'Hubbabboo,' says little Danny; 'we are on the wrong side now, as Pat