employment and visible means of support. Beggars are bold and used to their calling; and both they and the swarm of would-be guides are annoying if treated with common civility. There is an ancient look about buildings and people, and we get the suggestion that we see things as they were a century ago. Nothing is new and fresh but the foliage. Everything has the old odor of an ancient place.
The town has a population of 5,187, exclusive of 400 inmates of the almshouse—one to every thirteen of the population. Killarney is situated about a mile and a half from the nearest of the three lakes. There are two or three streets of some pretensions, on which are buildings three or four stories high, used as stores and hotels. Our hotel, the Innisfallen House, was kept, as all such small taverns are, by a woman. It was a thoroughly antiquated Irish institution, and for this reason we selected it. Experienced by long years of practice, our hostess was the man of the house, and had an eye to business that would do honor to the manager of the Vendome or the Brunswick at Boston.
There are few public buildings. The newish Roman Catholic Cathedral is a large structure of limestone, of good early English architecture, built from designs by Pugin. It is hardly in keeping with the town as it is, and only the eye of faith can see its harmony with the Killarney of the future.
Here may be related an incident illustrating a custom which is doubtless a relic of other days. After our visit to the cathedral, at about 7 p. m., we were surprised by the sight of a peculiar crowd of people coming up the street we had entered. It was a procession, numbering some hundred or more, carrying a coffin to the cathedral. The coffin was oaken, moulded at the top and bottom edges with black, and having three ornamental, black, iron plates—eight inches square, with rings in them—on each side. Black, round-headed nails ornamented the ends. The coffin was not covered, and rested on the shoulders of six men, three on each side. As by magic, three bearers would occasionally step out, and others take their places. Back of those who headed the procession were two rows of women, from fifty to seventy years old, with black dresses, and shawls over their heads. These were howling, two or more at a time keeping up the noise; and thus, without break or intermission, there was a continued wailing, in syllables of a slow but measured and distinct utterance, sounding like "Ar-ter-ow-ow-ow-er." This was repeated till the perfection of monotony was attained.
When near the cathedral the procession halted and the wailing ceased. The crowd numbered, it may be, a hundred. Arriving at the side door the coffin was carried in, and about twenty persons, probably the near relatives, entered. The remainder, including the Americans—who, now "being in Turkey, were doing as the Turkeys do,"—remained outside, and stood or knelt uncovered. In a few moments all was ended; the friends came out of the cathedral, the crowd dispersed, and "rag, tag, and bobtail" resumed their usual vocations, the dead man having been left in the building, with the approved and requisite number of candles "to light him to glory."
Turning into another street, another and similar crowd was encountered. This time the coffin was covered with black cloth, but decorated like the other, with mouldings, nails, and iron plates. In five minutes more came another. We were told the bodies were to remain in the cathedral till to-morrow, when mass could be held and they would be buried. This is a custom of the place each evening, and has been continued from time immemorial. It results from bad judgment as to what is a good use of the present, or what is a befitting preparation for the hereafter. It is a type of superstition gone to seed, and shows a love for sitting in "the region and shadow of death."
Now we ramble over the town, and through some of the well-kept and stone-walled roads. In spite of the condition of the most populous parts, there is a delight and charm in these suburbs. In that pleasant evening air, within sound of the vesper bells, enveloped in the general stillness of that village atmosphere, there came good and vivid impressions of the antiquity of the place. Without an effort came the remembrance that, through the past centuries, thousands and tens of thousands of sight-seers, poets, historians, and people of great and of small renown, had walked these streets, meditated, used the time as we were doing, and passed on—their feet never to press this historic soil again—
Like the snow-fall in the river,
A moment white, then melts forever.
The next morning we took a jaunting-car, and began our tour of the lakes. A most elegant day it was, like good old George Herbert's Sunday—the "bridal of the earth and sky." Admirable in all respects were the roads and their surroundings—a perpetual reminder of worse kept ones at home. We pass an elegant stone building, the Union Workhouse and County Lunatic Asylum, on the right, leaving the cathedral on our left, and ride on through that lovely scenery. It is not wild or romantic, in the common signification of those words.
On our right, off in the fields and on elevated ground, are the ruins of Aghadoe, overlooking an immense valley, where reposes—out of sight to us at our left, Lough Leane, the lower and largest of the three celebrated lakes.
Next, three miles out, are the ruins of Aghadoe castle and church. All that remains are the fragments of a tower thirty or forty feet in height. Of its history, or the date of its foundation, no records are extant. The church is a fine ruin, and shows the remains of a long low building, consisting of two chapels, joined at their rear ends. The easterly chapel is in the Gothic style, bearing date a. d. 1158, and is dedicated to the Holy Trinity. Full seven hundred years are gone, more than a third of the Christian era, since that stone pile was placed where it is. The other chapel is older yet, of a rude, Romanesque architecture, and was built under the patronage of St. Finian. The two are separated by a solid wall, through which there was once a communication, closed up long before the vacating and destruction of the building. The roof and woodwork being gone, nothing but stone remains. The two chapels, extending to the east and west, are eighty feet long and twenty feet wide.
Continuing our ride a mile farther, we turn to the left, and pass the Aghadoe House—a fine and well-kept estate, the residence of the Dowager Lady Headley. Next, we turn sharp to the right, and are at the estate of James O'Connell, Esq., brother of the late distinguished agitator, Daniel O'Connell. Continuing, we pass the Killalee House, and the ruins of its church. Six and a half miles now from Killarney, we have on our left, the elegant estate of Beaufort House.
We cross the little River Laune, which is filled with surplus water from the small, or upper lake, and here appears to view Dunloe Castle, the seat of Daniel Mahoney, Esq. The building has a modern look, and was originally the residence of the powerful and noted O'Sullivan Mor. We must not fail to notice the Cave of Dunloe. It is situated in a field some distance off, is of great antiquity, and was discovered in 1838. It contains peculiar stones, which are presumed to belong to an ancient Irish library; and, strange to say, the books are the large stones composing the roof. Their angles contain the writings, which are simple, short, vertical lines, arranged, tally-like, above and below a horizontal one. Special numbers or combinations of these lines designate letters. It is the Ogham alphabet.
We are now near the cottage of the celebrated Kate Kearney, whom Moore has immortalized in his "Sweet Innisfallen,"—
"Kate Kearney,
Who lives on the banks of Killarney."
The house is solitary, and stands on the left of the roadside, with high hills about it. It is but one story high, and is some forty feet long, and twenty wide. It is made of stone, plastered and whitewashed, has a thatched roof, and is occupied by the reputed granddaughter of the famous Kate, and of course she bears the same name. On our arrival, she appeared at her door as usual—an old woman of sixty years, of small stature. She wore a short dress, heavy shoes, the inevitable kerchief, or miniature shawl, folded diamond-ways over her shoulders, and a frilled white muslin cap on her head. She held a mug in one hand, and a common wine bottle in the other, with glass tumbler to match. She poured out the goat's milk, and then naïvely, with an almost young-maidenly tone
