up the narrow, winding, stone stairs, into the dormitory, hospital, lavatory and other apartments—in all but few in number—the solid and venerable walls, the open sky above him, and the green grass (emblematic of human life in its best estate) beneath his feet—under the influence of these, in spite of himself he becomes absorbed in meditation, and holds communion with those who lived and labored here centuries ago, and at length passed on to "the house appointed for all the living."
Reluctantly we left the abbey, and walked through the antique passage-ways and cramped stone stairway down into the church, where, in the midst of singular beauty, were the unwelcome evidences of inevitable decay. Here are the roofless walls of the nave, choir, and transept; here are windows elegant in design, with their stone traceries yet perfect. In places, the friendly, sombre ivy is spread, like a kind mantle of charity, covering defects of broken wall, and disguising the empty place of some fallen stone.
"How old all material is," we instinctively say; and yet how new the results of labor—the vine, the shrub, the tree. How velvety and carpet-like is the grass on parts of this very floor, once pressed by the toil-worn, blistered feet of pious penance-doers, and even now a place of deposit for their mouldering bodies. Instead of desk or altar or font, of kingly stall or peasant's seat, are ancient mural stones. Here are monuments, the outward tokens of reverence and respect for the blue blood of royalty, or the saintship of those who hundreds of years ago—their work done, the checkered scenes of life over—went down to the "silent mansions of the dead."
In the piscina, in the lavatory, in the place for sacred vessels, the swallow unscared builds its nest; and along the altar-steps the lizard crawls, or basks in the sunshine unalarmed. Here sleep in their low, common—and yet uncommon—resting-places, they of the old dispensation, side by side with men of the new. O'Sullivan, O'Donohue, Mc'Carthy—nobles and kings of Munster, before whom the multitude trembled and reverentially bowed—mingle their dust with nineteenth-century leaders.
An incident, showing a notable instance of faithfulness in the performance of an agreement, may be related. At the time of the surrender of these ruins, it was stipulated that, in consideration of the fact of their being the repository of dust so peculiar and sacred, no Protestant should ever be buried within these walls; and while it would otherwise have been the choice of the late owner of the premises—Mr. Herbert the elder, Member of Parliament for Kerry and Chief Secretary of Ireland—to be here buried, this was not done. On elevated grounds outside the abbey precincts, a very large, ornamental, mediæval, granite cross was erected by subscription of both Catholics and Protestants as a mark of love and esteem for him whom they call "One of the best of men."
Muckross Abbey Mansion, not far away, the seat of H. A. Herbert, Esq., the present owner of the grounds, is a fine stone building, of Elizabethan architecture. We knew of the Torc Cascade not far off; but as darkness had imperceptibly come upon us, and we were informed that little water was then passing over the fall, we did not go there, but listened to a description from our guide, who told us that the waters are precipitated in a sheet of splendid foam over a ledge of rocks, breaking into mist and spray; that the volume of water then resumes its hurried course through a deep ravine, narrow and irregular, through groups of fir and pine trees, and at last crosses the beautiful pleasure-grounds, till it falls into Muckross Lake.
At no time shall we probably have a more appropriate place to speak of the mountains of Ireland; and, at the risk of being charged with digression, we make the venture. Ireland is not a prairie-like country; yet, though for the most parts hilly and undulatory, it cannot be called mountainous. In this vicinity are the principal mountains of the Emerald Isle. It was for a long time thought that Mangerton, of the Macgillicuddy's Reeks, was the highest peak in Ireland, but a late survey makes Carrantual, of the same range, the highest. They are respectively 2,756 and 3,414 feet high. For the aid of those who may not be able to judge heights readily, yet are familiar with our New England mountains, we will say that the Grand Monadnock, at Jaffrey, N. H., is 3,186 feet high, and the Wachusett, at Princeton, Mass., 2,018 feet. The distance from Muckross to the summit of Carrantual is not far from five miles. The ascent is easy, and may be made with horses. Four miles from Muckross is what is called the Devil's Punch Bowl, a tarn or mountain lake, 2,206 feet above the level of the sea, and more than two thousand feet above the surface of the lakes, they being not far from two hundred feet above sea-level. It is an ovalish basin containing about twenty-eight acres, being two thirds the size of Boston Common, the latter having within its fence lines an area of a few feet over forty-three and three fourths acres. On all sides of the tarn are shelving cliffs. History has it that C. J. Fox swam entirely around it in 1772. Purple Mountain, opposite Macgillicuddy's Reeks, with the Gap of Dunloe between, is somewhat lower than these, but we have not the figures of its elevation. After our visit to the abbey, we returned to the hotel—in name only, Innisfallen—and remained over night. Having breakfasted, valise in hand we wended our way back through the village streets to the railroad station, and took passage to Limerick.
"And sure," says the reader, "that is another Irish city, and no mistake," and you are right. Our ride was exceedingly pleasant. The country was at its best, so far as vegetation was concerned—especially its grass, for cattle-raising is the general farm occupation of the people. Here and there was a patch of potatoes, but no fruit-trees, and few good vegetable gardens. There were no stone walls or fences; if there were any land divisions they were hedges, and few at that.
The more one travels in foreign countries, the more he is convinced of the folly of so much fence-work as we have on New England farms. It is a waste of labor and material, an abuse of the ground itself, and a loss of the land, usually uncultivated, lying close against the partitions; and, in addition, the shade is objectionable. Of course some divisions are needed; but many of them exist, as a necessity, only in the farmer's imagination. There are but few New England farms where a large amount of labor and time are not worse than wasted in repairs of cross walls, set up by our fathers and grandfathers, which would be used to a much better purpose if employed in their demolition.
LIMERICK.
After a ride of five hours, having on the way passed back through Mallow, we arrived in Limerick, where we took rooms at the Royal George Hotel. Valises deposited, and the usual toilet operations gone through with, we walk out to see this place, so like Cork and Dublin. Limerick is the capital of the county of Limerick. It is on a narrow arm of the sea, or mouth of the River Shannon, with a population of 49,670. It consists of an English town, built on an island of the Shannon, and also an Irish one; and it has a suburb called Newton Perry, on the left bank of the river. These three portions are connected by five bridges, one of which, the Wellesley Bridge, cost $425,000.
We were pleasantly surprised with the appearance of the place, with the cleanness of the streets, and their good pavements, and the general order and substantial condition of all we saw. We speak now of the English portion, which is in fact the larger and principal division of the place. The surface is level, and the buildings are mostly of dark-colored brick. They are generally three or four stories high, without decoration, save simple brick cornices and arched doorways to the houses. There are solid and plainly finished fronts to the stores. The streets are of strikingly uniform appearance, presenting only here and there anything to attract notice. It has its slums like Cork; but of these we need not speak now.
We next begin our walk to the cathedral, for this was the first of the cathedrals we had reached. The greater part of the edifice, as it now stands, was built during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and so is six hundred years old. We readily found it, and came to one of the iron gates leading to the burial-ground in front of it. The dark and antiquated look of the old, massive structure impressed us favorably, and touched the right chord. We had seen castles and abbeys in fine ruin, but they belonged to a dead past. We were hungering for something ancient in which the living present was playing its part, and nothing feeds this hunger so well as a cathedral, especially those that, at the Reformation, passed over from Catholicism to Protestantism, as this has done.
After demonstrations at the iron gate the verger soon appeared, coming from