


14 



around, and within the cloister walks; in- 
clining the mind for contemplation, when the 
sun’s rays burned at mid-day. — 
The belfry-tower floor is curious. In it 
are two circular apertures, hewn out of stone 
blocks, which the matin, and vesper bell 
cords chafed many centuries ago. A relic 
similar to this I have not noticed before in 
monastic ruins. From a calm pleasant feel- 
ing, enjoyed during a stroll over these beau- 
tiful remains, a spot inviting the mind to 
ponder over history past, (the thoughts of 
a visit to which, make visitors long to come,) 
we must advance; although again—- 








We long to catch the light of glimm’ring moon 
Amongst the trees, swift running, faintly creep- 
ng 3 
To rest our eye on the sage mullions mantled 
With ivy, as it clings ; that dances, flutters, 
And seems to mock cool breezes, chasing along 
Walls of vaulted chambers, scented flowers, 
Which find their home about the crumbling ruins. 
There, with myriad tips of glowing beauty, 
Luna we gaze on, gently kissing these. 








Would we not saunter oft on such an eve 
Round Mucross Dell? or should our drowsy eyes 
Remain until the morn can blithely speak 
Unto our vision, and an anxious heart, 
With halcyon breath through blue Aurora’s veil ? 
Then let us go—the sun’s above the hills, 
Our guide sweet nature, and our object,—love. 






We must now bid adieu to sentiment and 
verse-making, and be transmitted as it were 
through trains of guides, and mountain 
women, some of whom eall themselves ‘‘ The 
veritable Kate Kearney.’ Boys haunt you 
with the names Tore, Waterfall, Mucross, &e. 
The girls (who by the way are not particu- 
larly prepossessing in appearance) bother 
you with goats’-milk and whiskey; and 
(ladies don’t blush when I say it) become 
volunteers to guide ladies and gentlemen to 
the top of Maugerton mountain. 
Let us now advance to the chapel of Cog- 
hereen. If you turn to the left, a little way 
on the Kenmare road, not far from the Mu- 
cross demesne gate, you will soon come to 
this spot. Coghereen chapel is said to be 
the smallest in Ireland; but it is a ruin, and 
its old small tower is tottering down; with- 
in, it is dark and dismal; one small aperture 
at the east end throws a faint light upon a 
huge altar below. Throughout the whole 
of the interior, is a floor of scattered stones; 
some may have fallen from the decayed walls, 
others have been cast by the mischievous 
lads of the country. This chapel, when I 
saw it, was in good character for a sketch. 
Nature, through the wilful hand of man, sym- 
pathised with its ruined aspect ; and a sym- 
bol of the instability of all things appeared 
in a prostrate larch, which to all appearances 
had been felled only an hour or two pre- 
viously by the woodman. 

























KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 
Shall we sit by this small ruin, once a holy 
temple—near the fallen tree, by the tombs of 
many who are gone; who have seen and 
loved that lonely lake before us, and loved 
it more because near it they were born? On 
a fine May evening, shall we listen to the 
final rich notes of the song-thrush on the 
larch twig, and the piping of many birds 
in distant trees, along projecting rocks? 
Those sylvan carols have died in the breeze; 
are repeated from trees far in the glen. 
Again those life-notes so gentle are finally 
drowned by other tones, which, swelling on 
the ruffled air, usher in the woful sorrow- 
ing cries of the bearers of the dead. We 
listen to the wretched wailing of hired 
mourners practising their avocation at a 
funeral. ‘They are women, around a corpse 
which is to be interred in Mucross Abbey— 
and they are called Keeners. Bewildered by 
their lamentatious, can we resist the desire 
to catch up some words of that sad lament, 
and follow the mourners to the grave ? 
We retrace our steps to Mucross burial- 
ground, which seemed so fresh when the sun 
gladdened the lively May green. But this 
mysterious-looking group went on as a dark 
cloud, bearing the body of some poor man 
who had died many miles away, whose right 
is was to be interred here because his fore- 
fathers were placed here before him. Enter- 
ing the grave-yard gate, I observed men, 
women, and children on bended knees, en- 
gaged in prayer at the tombs of those they 
had loved. Further on was a dark con- 
fused mass (I cannot compare the group 
better than to bees within a hive): this was 
a scene never observable in the composed ser- 
vice of the Protestant church. Astonished 
with this odd-spectacle, I advanced close to 
the performersand the mourners. It did not 
a little shock the sentiments of a Protestant to 
seerude embraces round a cloth-covered coffin. 
But this was the custom of the country, and 
amidst that rude simplicity let us hope that 
a light may yet shine. 
The remains were placed on the green 
sward ; towards the head were the deceased’s 
nearest relatives. Some were fatherless 
children, whose bitter sorrows looked very 
real. Their heart pangs lost a childlike 
erief in tears—refreshing them, poor things, 
for the toils to come, when an earthly guar- 
dian was not near to guide them. Around 
the foot of the coffin in long black-hooded 
cloaks, knelt from six to eight women; hired 
to swell the sorrows, and rend the air again. 
My informant said that these women earned 
from half-a-crown to five shillings for their 
services at every funeral. Their business 
seems to be, to cry as much as they can. 
One very ancient woman rubbed her right 
eye with a very hard pocket-handkerchief. 
The optic was red, very red—too much s0, 


