whom James the Second sent to the Tower;
but it was not the danger implied to him
as a prince of the church which his fierce
bold country-men resented, so much as the
outrage committed upon him as the head
of a Cornish house that could boast its
twenty descents of deed-honoured ancestors.
It is a county, as Mr. Macaulay remarks,
in which the provincial feeling was in
those days stronger than in any other
part of the realm; and we are happy to
add that the feeling has remained too strong,
even to our own time, to permit this noble
ballad to sink into a mere fragment of a
couple of lines.

Some thirty-five years ago, Mr. Davies
Gilbert, then member for a Cornish borough
which he had long represented, and also
President of the Royal Society and a zealous
antiquarian, printed some fifty copies of the
Trelawney ballad for distribution among his
friends, expressly that it might not be allowed
to perish. From the accurate recollection of
one of those friends—who lost the copy
entrusted to him, but happily retained every
word of it in his memory—we have the
opportunity of laying it before the reader. The
air is "Le petit tambour." The verses belong
to that order of which Sydney was thinking,
when he spoke of an old ballad stirring his
heart like a trumpet.

THE REASON WHY.

A CORNISH BALLAD.

A GOOD sword and a trusty hand,
A merry heart and true;
King James's men shall understand
What Cornish men can do.
And have they fixed the Where and When?
And shall Trelawney die?
Then twenty thousand Cornish men
Will know the reason why!
And shall they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen,
And shall Trelawney die?
There's twenty thousand underground
Will know the reason why!

Out spake the Captain brave and bold,
A gallant wight was he,—
"Though London's Tower were Michael's hold,
We'll set Trelawney free.
We'll cross the Tamar, hand to hand,
The Exe shall be no stay—
Go, side by side, from strand to strand,
And who shall bid us nay?
And shall they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen,
And shall Trelawney die?
There's twenty thousand Cornish men
Will know the reason why!

"And when we come to London wall,
A pleasant sight to view,—
Come forth, come forth, ye cowards all,
We're better men than you!
Trelawney, he's in keep and hold,
Trelawney, he may die;
But twenty thousand Cornish men
Will know the reason why!
And shall they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen,
And shall Trelawney die?
There's twenty thousand underground
Will know the reason why!"

HOPE WITH A SLATE ANCHOR.

ALMOST everybody knows Killarney—
knows about it, at all events, by book or
newspaper, if not by the actual sight of it—
but scarcely anybody has either seen or heard
of Valencia. "Valencia! why I thought that
was in Spain," some one will cry out. "What
can Valencia and Killarney have to do with
each other?" Why, simply that they are
about forty miles apart, and that everybody
who sees Killarney should go on to Valencia.
It is true, there is a Valencia in Spain; and
it is probable that this island is named after
that city; for there were Spaniards here,
once upon a time, when there was a great
trade between Galway and Spain. There
were, probably, Spaniards living on the island
when the Grand Armada sailed by—fated to
lose the great ship, Our Lady of the Rosary,
close by, and two more presently after near
Kilkee, on the coast of Clare, and more still
near the Giant's Causeway in the north. All
Ireland was supplied with wine from Spain
between two and three centuries ago; and it
is natural to suppose that merchants or
agents from the Spanish Valencia might
give its name to the Irish island and port—
the most westerly port in Europe.

It is a glorious place for scenery; and it
might be a glorious one for trade. Perhaps
it was once; I am confident it will be, some
time or other. There it lies, just within a
great bay, spreading out its arms, as if to
guard the lake-like sea within; and rearing
up mountains, as if to prevent the winds of
heaven from visiting its face too roughly.
The winds do find their way in at times,
however; and they are so very rough with
that smooth sound as to prevent the ferry-
boat passing, and then the people on the
island cannot get their letters and newspapers,
though they are near enough to the mainland
to see the post-bags arrive at the ferry-house.
The English residents say this is a hardship
in winter, for they depend so much more than
English people can suppose on their letters
and newspapers, in a situation so wild as their
island. Last winter, however, there was not
a day in which the sound was impassable.

If those waters could tell what has
happened on them, and if those mountains on the
mainland could echo to our ears the things
that have been said in their recesses, we
should hear some curious stories. There is
one inlet of the sea, which can be overlooked
from the island, flowing in among the
mountains, turning and winding, round many a
promontory, and past many an old dwelling
now in ruins; and among the rest, the ivy-
grown gable, and roofless front of the house
where O'Connell was born. It was up that