After having travelled about a dozen miles among these wild and absolutely deserted hills, the eye is suddenly gratified by the appearance of a little cultivated valley round the village of Needen. The guide who came with me to take back my horse had never passed this way before, and on the lonely way he seemed sad and troubled. But when his eye caught sight of this little corner of the world, he cried out suddenly, 'Oh, at last, here is a place with a natural look!'

            Lately the name of Kenmare has been given to the village situated in this valley, out of compliment to Lord Kenmare, for in this country, as well as in Great Britain, more than elsewhere do riches attract admiration and respect. One or two miles before arriving at this place there is to be seen in a peat moss, a hundred feet or so from the road, an isolated rock; it may measure about thirty feet in height by fifteen or twenty on each face. It has a circumference of about sixty feet, and it is a stone absolutely different from any found in the country on this side of the river.<14>

            It is an enormous block of limestone which by some natural convulsion must have been thrown about four miles from the place from which it was torn. I went over to see it, and went round it; I even climbed with trouble to the top of it and found that formerly there had been on it a little tower, of which the ruins remained. It is covered with plants of various kinds—little shrubs, hollies, ivies, &c.—while the peat which surrounds it produces nothing but heath.

            The inhabitants of the country pretend that a certain giant, whose name I have forgotten, amused himself by carrying this piece of limestone to a granite country and a smaller block of granite to the other side of the river, where he placed it in limestone territory. There is, really, a similar sized block of granite on the other side. This phenomenon could only be explained by supposing a great convulsion of the earth; but how terrific must have been the explosion which was capable of throwing a stone weighing more than one million pounds a distance of five or six miles!

            The large bay, which is called Kenmare River, looks very imposing from this point. Two peninsulas approach in the middle and form a safe harbour for vessels. There is no country so well provided with deep and safe bays as the south of Ireland.

            Hardly has one quitted the miserable village of Kenmare than he finds himself again in the mountains—a little less wild, perhaps, than those I had just quitted—and just when the traveller is most oppressed by this depressing continuity of wild scenery in the midst of arid mountains, he is greeted on coming out of a narrow passage at the foot of Mangerton with a delightful view of the charming lake of Killarney. The impression which the ravishing view of its numerous islands and cultivated banks made on me can only be compared to the sensation experienced by an unfortunate who quits a prison to see again the glorious light of day. I continued my journey very slowly, not knowing what to admire the most—the high mountains covered with wood, the beautiful piece of water shaded by them, the islands, the peninsula which divides the lake into two, or the beautiful country which borders it on the north.

            I presented myself at the house of Lord Kenmare and passed there eight most agreeable days, during which I enjoyed several excursions on the lake. The soul most indifferent to beauty cannot but be charmed by this delightful spot.

            Generally the visitor is taken about two miles from Killarney to the island of Ross, which is the largest island of the lake, and is only separated from the shore by a narrow stream crossed by a bridge. On this island is the castle of Prince O'Donoghue, to whom this country belonged in old times, and the inhabitants believe that they can still see him, on horseback, crossing the water on a certain day of the year. Following the coast to the east, the peninsula of Muckross is reached, and here is one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen in its singular melange of wood and plain.

            The venerable ruins of the Abbey inspire a sentiment of religious melancholy which is almost agreeable. The yew which is planted in the middle of a cloister covers it entirely with its branches and allows only a few rays of light to fall on the tombs at its feet. The natives here are persuaded that the mortal who would have the temerity to cut its branches, or even to pierce it, would inevitably perish during the year. They have a most extreme feeling of devotion to the saint of the place, and they make long pilgrimages to this spot, and perform here penitences which, as elsewhere in Ireland, consist in making the tour of the buildings a certain number of times while reciting prayers. They bury their dead here also, bringing them often from great distances. Interments are only made on the southern and eastern sides of the church. The north is commonly reputed to be the devil's side, and the west is reserved for children dying without baptism, and for soldiers and strangers. They look upon it as scandalous impiety to carry away any remains of coffins. In the Abbey are two large vaults entirely filled with them, while they allow bones to be scattered here and there where the spade of the gravedigger has placed them; but nothing in the world would induce them to touch one of these. In a corner outside the church they appear in a hideous pile. Although, at the time of the Reformation, the rich divided the Abbey spoils, they have never attempted to displace the burying-place. It is always round the ruins of an old church that the peasants wish to be buried, and nothing can be done to make them accept any other situation. Here attempts have been made often to find another burying-place, but such attempts have never succeeded. Nevertheless, it is a very necessary thing, for, beside the fact that over the rock there is hardly earth enough to cover the dead, the cemetery is so full that it should be closed, at any rate for some time. This crowding does not trouble the peasantry; they are content that the dead of a year or two should give place to those of to-day, and I have seen in this horrible vault more than one skull still covered with hair.

            A few years ago a man of rather good appearance made his home in one of the ruined chambers of this Abbey. He made his bed out of boards which had formed part of coffins, and placed them in the embrasure of the window, which was the only covered part of the chamber. Soon he acquired a reputation for singular holiness, and the peasants carried food to him, while the rich invited him sometimes to their table, where he comported himself with the manner of a man accustomed to the best society. When he was asked for a reason for his penitence, he replied that he could never do enough to expiate his crimes. He was a fine-looking man, and it is reported that when a lady regarded him with some attention he said, 'Take care of those eyes, they have done a great deal of harm.' He lived about two years in this melancholy solitude, and then disappeared. Many conjectures had been formed as to who this singular personage could be, and many stories have been made to account for his conduct during his stay at Muckross, but they were only stories and doubtless with little foundation.

            The peninsula of Muckross divides the lake of Killarney into two parts. The smaller one is very beautiful in its disposition and diversity. There is a spot on the mountain called the Eagle's Nest, where in reality eagles are to be found, and where the curious are amused by the extraordinary repercussion of an echo which does not repeat itself as others, but pauses for some time, and afterwards repeats the sound of a cannon shot like a roll of thunder. The banks of the little river which is followed for four or five miles on the way to the larger lake are very interesting, and this lake contrasts, by the wild and savage mountains which surround it, with the smaller lake, of which the banks are well cultivated.

            The visitor is carried down the river to the lower lake, and brought to the O'Sullivan waterfall in the middle of the wood, afterwards being taken to Innisfallen, a charming island, on which at one time was an abbey. This island belongs to Lord Kenmare, and when one is fortunate enough to be numbered in the parties which he and My Lady arrange for visitors, after having admired the beauties of nature, homage should be rendered here to the hosts' politeness and their friendly hospitality.

            There are some deer in the woods, and sometimes one of them is hunted in the mountains, and after many winds and turns, finishes by jumping into the lake, where the boats and dogs follow it and force it to land on one of the islands.

            Numerous companies of people come here from all parts of Ireland, drawn by the beauty of the spot, but they only stay as long as is necessary to see this beauty. An effort ought to be made to keep them in the country by arranging some amusements, or finding mineral waters; these last established would greatly increase the wealth of the country, and I do not know of any place more agreeable and more fit for re-establishing broken health. There is a fountain of excellent mineral water in Lord Kenmare's park. Unfortunately, it has not yet attracted the fancy or attention of the disciples of Hippocrates, but that will come with time. The town is agreeable enough—it seems to be new, and is built nearly in the formation of the letter T.

            Walking early one morning I heard dreadful cries, the sound coming from a house. Led by natural instinct and by curiosity I entered, and found myself immediately in a room among a crowd of fifty or more women, who cried and wept over an uncovered bier, on which lay the pale figure of an old man, dead two days earlier. Four of these women, in particular, cried louder than others, tearing their hair and often embracing the corpse. I remarked that at the end of a quarter of an hour, as they became fatigued, they passed into a neighbouring chamber, and were replaced by four others, who immediately commenced to cry and weep in desperate fashion, and this they continued until the first four, restored by a good glass of whiskey, were able to return and take up their wailing.

            This sort of an assembly is called 'a wake,' and every peasant who dies is sure of having it every night up to the moment of his interment—all his friends and his acquaintances round him, crying, weeping, singing his praises in impromptu Irish verse, and drinking to his health. It is a rather costly custom, but the poor do not feel that they can, with decency, dispense with it. It was different formerly, for, according to the ancient Brehon laws, the quantity of drink and meat consumed were regulated according to the rank of the dead person, in order to prevent families from ruining themselves in trying to surpass the doings of others. This explains perfectly the answer of a good woman who had just lost her husband, and who was reproached with having allowed him to die without sending for the doctor. 'Oh,' said she, 'I thought 'twas plenty for a poor woman like me to pay the cost of the burying.'

            I think, perhaps, the poor woman was right. The doctor is for the rich, a sort of moralist who urges his patient to moderate his pangs, and repair by attention to diet the effects of his excess; but for the poor peasant who has never in his life done anything to excess, and whose best remedy would be, perhaps, nourishing food, of what use could the doctor's advice be to him? If he cure him of his malady, he would kill him with hunger through the charges he would make for his services. His wife then would have double expense.

            I was witness here, a few days after, of a somewhat strange scene. Hearing the funeral bell, I went out to observe the procedure. It was the funeral of a poor woman who was being carried to her last resting-place, the coffin surrounded by a prodigious number of females who wept and chanted their 'hu lu lu' in chorus, the men looking on rather indifferently. When the funeral arrived at the head of the 'T,' that is at the end of the principal street of the town, a singular dispute occurred between the husband and the brother of the deceased. One of the parting ways led to the Abbey of Muckross, where it was the custom for the family of the husband to bury their dead; the other led to Aghadoe, where were buried the family of the brother. The latter assumed the right to direct the funeral towards Aghadoe, while the husband wished to go in the other direction to Muckross. The friends of the two parties took hold in turn of the remains of the poor woman, each wishing them to be carried to the side they favoured; but each finding themselves unable to succeed, by common accord they deposited the bier on the street and commenced a vigorous fight to determine by blows of sticks to which side the remains should be carried. I was at the time with the minister of the parish, Mr. Herbert, who was also a Justice of the Peace, With great courage he threw himself into the middle of the fight, seized the collars of the two principal combatants, and, after some explanation, he decided that the husband had the right to decide where his wife should be buried. He allowed the husband then to go without letting go hold of the brother-in-law, and the funeral moved in the direction of Muckross. I remarked that neither fight nor controversy which followed arrested the cries of the wailing women, who continued to beat their breasts, tear their hair, and cry 'hu lu lu'as if neither fight nor controversy proceeded. When I saw the Justice of the Peace throw himself into the middle of the crowd, I must say I imagined that the combatants would unite to tear him to pieces, as a stranger meddling with things which did not belong to him. I mounted on a little wall more conveniently to see the punishment, but I was soon disabused; the peasants showed the greatest respect to the magistrate, and submitted promptly to his decision. This was no doubt the best thing that could happen, and the magistrate did his duty, but it was so amusing to me to find the people fighting over a dead woman, that I rather regretted that the business was so soon terminated.

            I went one day to the summit of Mangcrton, from which there is a view over a great extent of country, although that is far from being a sight of all the kingdoms of the earth. The eye wanders over arid mountains and parts of little lakes. That of Killarney appeared beautiful, with the serpentine peninsula of Muckross cutting it in two. Nearly at the summit of the mountain was a little round pool called 'The Devil's Punch-Bowl,' where I drank to the health of the patron, and to the health of his children; that is to say the bulk of humanity, pretty girls particularly.

            As this town is much frequented in summer, beggars come from all parts. They build miserable huts along the road and importune the passers-by. I have often thought that this annoyance could easily be abolished by the establishment of a small House of Industry, in which the beggars should be forced to work.

            It would not be very difficult to join the lake with the sea by a canal which could be brought to the Bay of Kenmare, or by taking the bed of the river to that of Dingle. If it were taken to Kenmare this would be better, as the bay is much safer and deeper than that of Dingle, which is sandy. To one or other there would be not more than seven or eight miles of cutting to do, and the connection would add much to the importance of the town and neighbouring country by encouraging commerce.

            On the road to Tralee I was accosted by a man who pointed out to me three old castles which had belonged to three brothers who were the masters of this country, and had been chased from it by the English. I asked why they had been chased, and his answer was 'It was because they were not the stronger.' This is what may be called the argument ad hominem.

            Tralee is rather a nice place, and is not wanting in trade. These coasts, as far as Limerick, were formerly the principal residence of the Danes, who seemed to have scattered, nearly at every step, their round forts, which the inhabitants call by the name of rath or lis. There are four of them, not more than two hundred feet from each other, near the mouth of the river in the Bay of Tralee. This town is well frequented by bathers, and the people who come to drink the mineral waters found a mile or two away.

            I came to Ardfert, where I presented myself to the Dean, Mr. Grave, and was received as usual with that charming hospitality which always makes me forget, immediately, the fatigues of the road. Ardfert was formerly a bishopric; at present it is united to that of Limerick. In old times there were here many ecclesiastical establishments; the ruins of the old cathedral are the most remarkable remains, although nothing very great. The air of the place is said to be extraordinarily healthy. This has induced a celebrated surgeon to choose it for his place of burying; his tomb is constructed, and his epitaph engraved on it while he is still alive.

            In ancient times there stood, in the cemetery of this cathedral, a high round tower with not more than the ordinary appearance of wear. It crushed itself, if the expression may be used, some twelve or fifteen years ago. I say 'crushed 'because one would expect that such a building would naturally fall to one side or other, but in this case the stones appeared to tumble straight down, forming a large mass on the spot where the tower had stood. I went a little distance to see the venerable ruins of a Franciscan abbey, and, passing through the scattered debris of remains, I found myself in the presence of the two most beautiful and amiable ladies of Ireland, Lady Glandore and Mrs. Woodcock, who had resolved to be cruel enough to society to absent themselves from it for more than a year. I do not know whether it was their good example which affected me so much at the moment. Certain it is that never in my life did I feel such a desire to become a hermit.

            At a little distance there is to be found one of those holy wells round which the inhabitants perform their devotions. This well is very famous, and the people come from afar. They pretend or assert that it can cure all evils, and the devotion consists in going round the well, bare-footed, seven times while reciting prayers, kneeling for a moment at each turn before a black stone, which seems to have been a tombstone, and, while kneeling, they rub the hand over three heads which are cut in the stone, and which are much worn by reason of this hand-rubbing and kissing. Afterwards they pass the hand which has touched the stone over the part of the body which is afflicted, drink a large glass of the water, and wash their feet in the current. Children are sometimes plunged seven times into the cold water, and I have seen people, well clad and having the appearance of being in comfortable circumstances, perform these ceremonies just like the others. I have also seen a very pretty young girl kissing these ugly stones, and I could not help thinking that I would have been a much better restorer if she had paid the reverence to me.

            This well is widely renowned in the country, and even the Protestants, who are not very numerous here, when they have tried other remedies in vain, will make up their minds to try the well and go through the usual performances like their Catholic friends. The greater part of these peasants, however, come in a rather careless spirit, seemingly more with a desire to meet their friends than to perform penitences. Speaking to one of the visitors I asked him what was the benefit to be derived from this water. His reply was that he could not tell, and when I asked him why he went through the usual performances, all he could say was 'to do what the others do and to see the women.' In effect, it is at these wells that a great number of marriages are arranged. It is in vain that the priest of the parish has often forbidden his people to go to such places; they have followed this custom so long before the establishment of Christianity that they cannot be broken of it.

            In reality, there can hardly be anything more innocent than to go round one of these wells a number of times reciting prayers, and afterwards drinking a glass of water. I will go so far to say that it must be very good for the health of the poor women, since it forces them to take some exercise and to clean themselves. The only thing left to the priest is to see that order is observed in these gatherings, and by his exhortations to warn his people against any impropriety or indecency, and in this the priest of this parish has perfectly succeeded. The good folk come here on Saturday morning and finish their devotions by two o'clock. Then the young fellows make up to their girls and see them safe home to their mothers, chatting the while.

            Nearly all the people in this part of the country are Catholics, but Catholic and Protestant agree here very well. The priest performs mass, and the minister preaches, and the two flocks seem not to trouble themselves about each other's religion for the rest of the week. I went on Sunday to the Catholic chapel. The women are always separated from the men here. I suppose this to be to avoid distraction. In the middle of the service the priest made a long discourse in Irish, afterwards translating the principal part into English. He consigned to all the devils (although in highly proper terms) all those infamous enough not to pay his dues.

            The priests have great power over their people. They are, in fact, the judges of the country and settle everything connected with morals and manners. They excommunicate a peasant and oblige him to leave a parish. Great care, then, must be taken not to displease them, and especially care must be taken that they get their dues. The Government knows perfectly well that the priests have their people in the hollow of their hand, and, nevertheless, they make enemies of them and treat them badly. Can they make the peasants go whatever way they wish? Well, make them your friends and you have gained the people. I am convinced that a dozen benefices in favour of Catholic priests, at the disposition of the Viceroy, would make them all as flexible and courteous and as desirous to please as their dear brethren in God, the ministers and bishops of the Protestant Church.

            The churches are all placed east and west—when the priest is at the altar he always looks towards the east. It is singular that this should be such a common practice over the whole of Europe, even in the case of the Lutheran churches, and perhaps there is not one person in a thousand who has noticed it. I remember perfectly that, in France, all the old churches are built in this manner, and I had not noticed it. It is true that the new were often placed indifferently, but even in the new the great number will have the door at the west and the altar at the east. It is a custom introduced into the world long before the establishment of Christianity, and which is yet followed by nearly all the people of the earth. The usual reason given is that the Christian religion took birth to the east of Europe, and that it is a mark of respect for the holy places where were manifested the first mysteries of religion. If that is so. Christians in Persia should look to the west, but I believe that this reason has been used simply to sanctify ancient custom, as Mohammedans look also to the east out of respect for the town of Mecca. Although I am not in a position to give the real reason, I cannot take the one mentioned as the true one. I would rather believe that the custom is simply a universal homage which men in old time rendered to the rising sun as the symbol of divinity.

            The neighbourhood of the flat and sandy bay of Ballyheigh brings some visitors to Ardfert for sea-bathing. Following the line of the coast, and crossing a tongue of land infrequently visited, I arrived at last at Kerry Head, at the mouth of the Shannon. This river is the largest in Ireland; the inhabitants have for it a singular veneration of which it seems to be worthy. He is not truly an Irishman who has not yet plunged into it, and as I desired to do always in Rome as the Romans do, a plunge into the Shannon was my first operation here. The river is seven or eight miles wide at its mouth. Its shores are lined with high rocks, in which are deep caves, the waves breaking at their mouths with astonishing fury. At a little distance, on an isolated rock, are to be seen the remains of fortifications, and at another place the traces of a little town, among which can be distinguished lines of streets and the foundations of houses. These seem to have been no larger than ordinary cabins, although the fortified enclosure is very considerable.

            Following the coast I passed the Cushin,<15> which throws itself into the Shannon. It takes its source at the foot of some rising ground from the other side of which the Blackwater flows. There is no country in the world better situated than this for commerce, and there is none where with so little trouble communications with the interior could be made easy.

            Whenever the Royal Canal is finished and the Liffey and the Shannon joined, I believe it will be found to be a matter of great public usefulness to deepen the bed of these two rivers, the Cushin and the Blackwater, and to join them by means of canals. After that it will not be difficult to find means to join the Blackwater to the Suir and even to the Lee. Ireland would then have interior and circular navigation of more than five hundred miles in length, which would pass by the four principal cities of the south—Dublin, Limerick, Cork, and Waterford. Drogheda might even be joined, since it would be possible to make the Boyne navigable as far as the end of the canal.

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