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XIV.

THE Shannon from Athlone to Clonmacnoise is a dull and uninteresting river. "Surrounded by bogs," to use the language of Cæsar Otway, to whose sparkling and flowing pen I am indebted for this and other admirable descriptions, "it creeps through dismal flats and swamps; and the narrow tracts of meadow and small patches of cultivation along its banks, only tend, like green fringes to a mourning drapery, to mark off, as by contrast, the extreme dreariness of the picture. A tedious row of about ten miles down the most dreary of navigations, brought us in sight of Clonmacnoise. As I said before, a line of gravel-hills, forming the Aisgir Reada, comes from the east, and cuts the line of the Shannon at right-angles, causing the great river to form a reach or bend; and the hills breaking their direct lines as they approach the stream, form an amphitheatre, upon the southern curve of which are erected the Seven Churches: the northern terminates in a beautiful green hill, like the inverted hull of a ship, round which the river flows at some distance, leaving an extensive flat of swampy meadow between it and the water. As the wind was strong and steady here up the river, causing the labour of rowing to be almost intolerable, we drew up our little cot into a cave, and ascending the green hill, had at once from its summit a view of the sacred spot before us, and of the extraordinary country all around. The Irish saints of olden time, in imitation of their brethren of the Thebaic desert, chose places wherein to honour God and discipline themselves, which marked the austerities of that superstition, which deceivingly told them that they must not stand up to make use of the liberty wherewith Christ had made them free. What a dreary vale is Glendalough !—what a lonely isle is Inniscaltra !—what a hideous place is Patrick's Purgatory!—what a desolate spot is Clonmacnoise! From this hill of Bentullagh, on which we now stood, the numerous churches, the two round towers, the curiously overhanging bastions of O'Melaghlin's Castle, all before us to the south, and rising in relief from the dreary sameness of the surrounding red bogs, presented such a picture of tottering ruins and encompassing desolation, as I am sure few places in Europe could parallel.

"We had neither time nor patience to remain long on a remote hill, while the ruins of CLONMACNOISE were within ten minutes' walk of us, so we proceeded to the first ruin, which lies separate from all the rest, on the northern side of the churchyard, the large field or common on which the patron is held intervening. Little remains of this church but a beautiful arch of the most florid and ornate Gothic workmanship, forming the opening from the body of the church into the chancel : it now totters to its fall-it is even surprising that it does not tumble; and I suspect

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that it would long ago have fallen a victim to the elements or to the barbarous violence of the people, were it not that it is considered as part of an expiating penance for the pilgrim to creep on his bare knees under this arch while approaching the altar-stone of this chapel, where sundry paters and aves must be repeated as essential to keeping the station. Adjoining this is a holy stone on which St. Kieran sat, and the sitting on it now, under the affiance of faith, proves a sovereign cure for all epileptic people.

"Here is the largest enclosure of tombs and churches I have anywhere seen in Ireland. What a mixture of old and new graves! Modern inscriptions recording the death and virtues of the sons of little men, the rude forefathers of the surrounding hamlets;―ancient inscriptions in the oldest forms of Irish letters, recording the deeds and the hopes of kings, bishops, and abbots, buried a thousand years ago, lying about broken, neglected, and dishonoured, what would I give could I have deciphered! I should have been glad had time allowed, to be permitted to transcribe them. And what shall I do with all those ancient towers, and crosses, and churches, without a guide? I looked around: there were many people in the sacred enclosure; some kneeling in the deepest abstraction of devotion at the graves of their departed friends,—the streaming eye, the tremulous hand, the bowed-down body, the whole soul of sorrowful reminiscence and of trust in the goodness of the God of spirits, threw a sacred solemnity about them that few indeed, though counting their act superstitious, would presume to interrupt; he who would venture so to do, must be one indeed of little feeling. I saw others straggling through the place-some half intoxicated, sauntering or stumbling over the gravestones-others hurrying across the sacred enclosure, as if hastening to partake of the last dregs of debauchery in the tents of the patron-green.

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"After looking about vaguely for some time, this church of St. Kieran was what caught my particular attention. It was extremely small, more an insignificant oratory than what could be called a church ;—a tall man could scarcely lie at length in it; a mason would have contracted to build its walls for a week's wages; yet this, my mendicant guide said, was the old church of St. Kieran. The walls had all gone awry from their foundations; they had collapsed together, and presented a picture of desolation without grandeur. Beside it was a sort of cavity or hollow in the ground, as if some persons had lately been rooting to extract a badger or a fox; but here it was that the people, supposing St. Kieran to be deposited, have rooted diligently for any particle of clay that could be found, in order to carry home that holy earth, steep it in the water, and drink it; and happy is the votary who is now able amongst the bones and stones to pick up what has the semblance of soil, in order to commit it to his stomach as a means of grace, or as a sovereign remedy against diseases of all sorts.

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"From the little oratory of St. Kieran, the woman led us on to the largest of the ruined churches, which, after all, is of no great size; but still it is the most remarkable of any, not only for its greater size, but for the beauty of its western entrance, and the exquisite and elaborate workmanship of its northern doorway. This church is said to have been originally erected by the M'Dermots, princes of the northern parts of Roscommon; a tablet on the wall, near the eastern window, records that it was repaired in 1647, by M'Coghlan, the lord of the adjoining ter

ritories.

"Whether the northern doorway into this church existed prior to the repairs of M'Coghlan, or whether executed by his direction, I am not competent to decide; but I am induced to believe that it was constructed in a more auspicious day of taste in Gothic architecture in Ireland. It is executed in blue limestone, marble it may well be called, and the elaborate tracery, on which the whole fancy and vagary of Gothic license is lavished, stands forth as sharp, fresh, and clean as if but yesterday from under the chisel.

"Amongst the other ornaments of this highly-finished doorway are figures in alto rilievo-one evidently of a bishop giving his blessing, the other of an abbot; the third figure is much mutilated, and that apparently done on purpose.

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"Proceeding from M'Dermot's church, our attention was directed to a very fine stone cross, the largest in the place, formed of one piece, and covered with carvings in basso rilievo and inscriptions, which had I the ability, my time would not allow me to decipher. Come, my good woman,' said I, ' tell what may be the stories told of these figures.' Why, then, myself cannot tell you anything about them, they are all out ancient; may be Darby Claffy yonder, the ouldest man about the churches, could tell you somewhat.' Now Darby Claffy was standing idle, leaning not far off against the wall of Dowling's church, looking up at O'Rourke's tower, and a finer studio for a sketcher than the head, face, and form of the venerablelooking man could not be seen: eighty winters had dropped their flakes as light as snow-feathers on his head; and there he stood, with his hat off, his fine Guido countenance and expressive face, a living accompaniment to all the grey venerability that was around. Come over here, Darby Claffy, honest man, and tell the strange gintlemen all you know about them crosses and things-musha, myself forgets; at any rate I must run and show Judy Delancy, the simple crathur, where to find her father's grave. Heaven be wid yees, gintlemen, and don't forget poor Judy.' A shilling given to her seemed the source of unutterable joy; her little son that was beside her, appearing as if he never saw so large a coin, snatched it in raptures from his mammy, and danced about the gravestones in triumph. I was pleased to buy human joy so cheaply. The old man did not belie his fine countenance; his mind was stored with traditionary recollections concerning Clonmacnoise, which, if not

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