DONEGAL CASTLE. -Who of Irish blood, be it man or woman, can look upon the foregoing picture without emotion? It is "the counterfeit presentment" of the storied castle in which, three hundred years ago, Hugh Roe O'Donnell - the boldest Irish chieftain who ever drew a sword - held high carnival, while around him blazed the eyes of the "head-soldiers" of the impetuous Clan-Conal. Among them was his gallant brother, Rory, and his able, but faithless, cousin, Null the Rough, the Benedict Arnold of the North. His base treason lost to Ireland the fruits of nine victories won by Ó Neill and Red Hugh in pitched battle; led to the disaster of Kinsale, and The Donnell's vain and fatal pilgrimage to Spain, where he was poisoned by an English agent named Blake. The poet has sung his song of anguish from the strand of far Corunna, wher he hoped so long in vain:- Blow, blow ye winds and fly ye clouds, let day and night be sped, God speed the hour and haste the help, by Spain long promised; But help who may, God speed the day, and send his strong wind forth, To bear O'Donnell's flag again to combat in the North! Instead, the Spaniard broke his promise and the glorious Irish warrior, who conquered the proud army of Sir Conyers Clifford at Curlew pass, closed his eyes forever on that foreign shore. His dust reposes in the cathedral of Valladolid.

TOWN OF DONEGAL.-The above renowned stronghold of the ancient Irish princes of Tyrconnell - the warlike house of O'Donnell - takes its name from a dun, or fort, supposed to have been built by the Danish invaders, and called the Gaelic Dun-na-n Gall - the Fort of the Strangers. It is situated in the northwestern portion of the picturesque county of the same name, eleven miles north-northeast, of Ballyshannon, on the shallow river Eske, which falls into Donegal Bay. On three sides the town is bounded by lofty hills, and in its front is the ocean. The ruins of a Franciscan monastery, built by Hugh O'Donnell, in 1474, and destroyed during the Ulster wars of a hundred and twenty years later, crown one of the heights, while the remains of the once splendid castle of the O'Donnells-still imposing-looks down upon the river Eske. This castle is now owned by the Earl of Cavan, who has partially restored it. In the abbey were compiled the famous "Annals of the Four Masters," covering a period of 4,500 years! Within the castle, Hugh Roe O'Donnell-the victor of the Battle of the Curlew Mountains, in 1599, and the noblest and bravest of his race-gave many a splendid banquet. Of him, who had won forty battles against the English while still a youth, was written- Many a heart shall quail, under its coat of mail, When on his ear shall ring, borne en the breeze's wing, Deeply the merciless foeman shall rue, Tyrconnell's dread war-cry: "O'Donnell aboo!"

DONEGAL ABBEY, CO. DONEGAL.- The ruins of Donegal Abbey, which crown a height above the lovely bay, recall mainly to the Irish mind the inestimable services to the Irish history of the "Four Masters"-chief of whom was Brother Michael O'Clery, of Kilbarron-who here complied the famous "Annals," familiar to all scholars, and covering a period that reaches from beyond the foundation of the pyramids of the Nile to the yeare of grace 1616. This great work was accomplished under the patronage of the generous and patriotic Feargal O'Gara, Lord of Moy O'Gara and Coolavin.

The abbey was founded late in the fifteenth century by the Prince Tyrconnell. In 1600, the edifice was fortified by the traitor Niall Garbh O'Donnell and his English allies, but, after a siege of three months, it was finally stormed ty the Clan Conal, commanded by the illustrious Hugh Roe O'Donnell, who slew the traitor's brother, Conn, and put most of the garrison to the sword. In this sanguninary operation, the superb abbey was almost totaly destroyed by fire and never restored. Well has it been written of the patient Four Masters- Brighly on the Abbey gable, shines the full moon Tufted isle and splintered headland smile and through the night soften in her ray, While, far to the northward, glances all the bay Yet, within their dusky chamber, the meek Masters in waves of light; toil away, Finding all too short the day.