Caesar Otway (1780-1842) born in Tipperary and educated at Trinity College Dublin, published his Sketches in Ireland (1827) and A tour in Connaught (1839). Both books give interesting contemporary accounts of Irish life from the perspective of a Church of Ireland curate and chaplain. The fact that Otway was the first to publish stories by William Carleton will be all the more appreciated when reading Otway's account of Clonmacnoise in late 1837 or 1838. His Clonmacnoise chapter from A tour in Connaught had already appeared in the Dublin Christian Examiner though now much amended.
Unlike other travel writers I have reproduced in this series, Otway is a native and not a foreign visitor. Otway died three years after this book was published - in 1842. Below is his account of Patron Day.

I had long wished to visit the Seven Churches at Clonmacnoise; I had been at almost every other place in Ireland, where, by the erection of seven churches, round towers, and other tokens of Caenobitish holiness, the ancient Irish desire to sanctify a peculiar place, and consecrate it to a patron saint. But to Clonmacnoise, the great central place of superstitious resort, the Mecca, as I may say, of Irish hagiolatry, I had not yet gone; for it is much out of the way, is is surrounded by bogs on all sides, except where that extraordinary chain of gravel hills, the Aisgir Reada [Esker Riada - the chariot ridge], leads to it.

Happening, however, to be in the town of Athlone, and having a day at my disposal, I was nothing loath to accept the proposal of my excellent friend, the vicar of St. Mary's, and proceed down the Shannon by boat to visit Clonmacnoise. "It is," (says he,) "the day after the great station held on the 9th of September, the anniversary of the patron saint, Kieran; but you will see enough to surprise you, more than enough to disgust you."

"I am glad (said I) it is not the great day, for I have seen such scenes already at Glendalough, and other places, partaking, as is usually the case with all false worshippings, of the orgies of a Bacchanalian licentiousness mixed up with the devotions of a religious rite."

The morning sun was gilding the spire of St. Mary's steeple, when we loosed our little cot and committed ourselves to the Shannon, a broad and rapid stream just here, where the town of Athlone (signifying the ford of the moon*) rises on either bank, and strongly fortified on the Connaught side - this town has an interesting appearance: as you glide down the stream, and get away from its narrow streets, and other disagreeable appendages to an Irish town, it has a very fine effect.

*So says Vallancey [the Irish antiquarian], but the good General was fanciful in his etymologies perhaps the ford of Luanus, a respected saint in those parts, would be the right derivation.

"Just here," says my friend, "is the spot where sixty British grenadiers, in 1691, led on by the gallant Captain Sandys, and marching to the sound of my church bell, entered the river, and in the face of a bastion manned with three Irish regiments, passed the water, and so led the way for their fellow-soldiers to win the Irish fortress." Strange it was, that the river never before or since was so low at that season of the year, as to permit even grenadiers to wade across.

The Shannon - ugly and uninteresting

The Shannon, once you clear the rapids which lie on either side of Athlone, until it enters Lough Derg, is perhaps, the ugliest and least interesting stream of any in the three kingdoms. Surrounded with bogs, 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. Oh! how unlike is Father Shannon to Father Severn or Father Thames; here no trade, except that carried on by one stream-barge, no timber, no smiling lawns, no cultivation - the solitary hopelessness of the bog is all around, and nothing interrupts the silence of the waste but the wild pipe of the curlew, as it whistles over the morass, or the shriek of the heron, as it rises lazily from the sedgy bank, and complains aloud against our unwonted interruption of its solitary speculations. If ever there was a picture of grim and hideous repose, it is the flow of the Shannon from Athlone to Clonmacnoise. We met but one specimen of way-faring on this great navigable river - as we rowed down with the slow stream but against the strong south-westerly wind - a large boat met us half way, it bore down on us, urged along by a square sail composed for the "nonce" of blankets and quilts, the coverings of yesterdays tents, and was freighted with drunken publicans, "Cauponibus atque malignis," belonging to the town of Athlone, who had gone on a whiskey venture to the patron of Clonmacnoise, and were now returning drunk with the draining of jars and kegs of spirits, that they had nearly emptied for sale on the preceding Sabbath day, which found horrible and peculiar desecration as falling on the one dedicated to Kieran.

The experienced man who directed our little boat warned us not to say anything to the crew of the boat that was nearing us. "Every man of them," says he, "is drunk; they are all ready for a row; the very appearance of you as gentlemen is enough to excite them to quarrel with you, and little would they think of steering their boat so as to run us down - gentlemen, you cannot but know that the ways of our people are strangely changed, and what some years ago would be taken in good part, would now be laid hold on us as the pretext for a quarrel." It may be supposed that we let the abominable barge glide on unnoticed. 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 [Esker Riada], 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 line as they approach the stream, form an amphitheatre, upon the southern curve of which are erected 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 so strong and steady here up the river, causing the labour of rowing to be almost intolerable, we drew up our little cot into a cove, 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 over hanging 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 church-yard - 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 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 a 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 of all epileptic people; what a contrast did this ancient arch, so exquisitely carved, tottering in all the grey antiquity of 1000 years; present to a new house erected by a half-pay captain, who has turned his sword into a ploughshare, and in this dreary place set himself down on a farming speculation; he could not be more lonesome on the borders of the dismal swamp in Virginia- his ugly tub of a house in all its raw newness had no business at all to plant itself near that fine old time-touched religious edifice. I take the man to have a yankee mind who would bring his geese to gabble and his cocks to crow near what ages had made lonely and consecrated to solitariness. Beyond the building, as I said before, is the patron-green, where, on the day before, even on God's holy Sabbath, thousands had assembled, after doing their stations and performing their vowed penances, to commence a new course of riot, debauchery, and blasphemy; to run up a new score, which St. Kieran was, in the following 9th of September, to wipe out; and so on the year's sins and the day's expiation.

Patron Day

The patron was over, and most of the people had gone to their harvest avocations, and probably so much the better for us; many a tent was still standing, many were still keeping up the deep carouse that had continued all through the Sabbath night; and as we passed along by the unseemly temporary dens that are called tents, we could hear the impious blaspheming, the maudlin song, the squeaking bagpipe, and the heavy-footed dance-yes, and now and then we would meet with some straggler who had spent all his money, or who had come forth from the feverish scene to cool his beating temples, and quaff a draught of the pure waters of the holy well, and he would look on us with a sulky scowl, and so we would on in all prudence, lest the fellow would call forth his FACTION and proceed to maltreat. Times are greatly changed in every part of Ireland. The gentleman must formerly have given no small provocation before any of the lower classes, even in their liquor, would proceed to incivility, but now, under very careful instruction, much of former deference is disused, and it is neither safe nor prudent to interfere with them; we, of course, were studiously cautious in this respect, and without delay proceeded into the immense church-yard.

Here is the largest enclosure of tombs and churches I have any where 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 1000 years ago, laying 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 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 grave-stones-others hurrying across the sacred enclosure, as if hastening to partake of the last dregs of debauchery in the tents of the patron-green. One little boy, rather decently clad, seemed wandering about from tombstone to tombstone, reading their various legends, and at length I observed him accost a beggar-woman by the familiar name of Judy, and ask where was his mother's grave. " Oh then it's I will tell you, alanna - and more than that would I do for your mammy's son, for didn't I folly along with all the neighbours her berrin when you were not larger than a milk pitcher, and its little she thought that your daddy would have put so soon a step-mother over her sweet charge; come, jewel, and I will put your knees down upon the very spot where the bones rest of her who bore you." This woman will do for my business, says I; a beggar is generally an intelligent sort of a creature, male or female, if not too old, or quite blind, such have their wits in exercise, they often are the depositories of the traditions of the country, and but too often the conveyancers of mischief; they endeavour, by being news-carriers and story-tellers, to make themselves acceptable with the people, by reporting not what is true but what is wished for. This woman now before was such a person, and I soon adopted her, nothing loath, as my guide-and poor soul she did her best. I found that she made it part of her occupation to attend here and direct the people where and how to make their stations, here so many turns round an altar or a church on the bare knees, there so many paters and aves-such a cross you were to embrace to avert the pains of child-birth -yonder stone you must sit on to cure the pain in the back-there is the place you must scrape at to gather the holy clay that is around St. Kieran's remains. After looking about vaguely for a time, this church of St. Kieran's 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 old 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 water, and drink; 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. Alas! I would ask my dear countrymen, could I obtain their patience but to hear me -is any superstition of Yogees or Fakeers of India more degrading or grovelling than this? Oh! but say the priests, "we do not encourage it, we do not tell you to go to the tomb of St. Kieran, or St. Brendan-to the grave of holy father Tom, or holy father Pat, to scratch up the clay amidst which their bones and flesh have corrupted and festered, in order to infuse it in water, and drink the abhorrent dose." Yes but gentlemen, ye claim and exercise the power of ARBITRARY excommunication, and ye can and do exert it with fearful effect when your own wishes and interests are concerned, as for instance, when ye desire to put down a school where the word of God is read; say then, why do ye not expose from your altars such as resort to these abominable superstitions -why do ye not curse and ban against holy clay as ye do against Holy Bible-why do ye not exclude from confession such as make Christianity almost as degrading a service as the garlic and onion worship of the Egyptians!*

*That this clay-scrapping round the saint of Clomacnoise, is not new or unsupported by grave Romish writers, we need only revert to the Hagiologists of Ireland-the historian of her Saints, Colgan, Messingham, and the Bollandists. "St. Columbkill hearing of the death of St. Kieran, made a hymn in his praise, which gave such delight to his successor in the see of Clonmacnoise, that in rapture he demanded of the sacred poet how he could or should repay him? "I would rather have two handfuls of clay, " says Columba, "in which Kieran was buried, than shiploads of silver and gold." It may be supposed that worthy Tigernach did not hesitate in giving clay rather than silver and gold; and accordingly with his precious handfuls of earth Columba sailed away for Iona; but who that knows anything of the Hebrides has not heard of the whirlpool of Coryvrekan, for, as it in Irish is spelled, Cari Bricain, that is, the Charibdis of one Bricain - into this eddy, in spite of all their craft, and the sacredness of the freight, the ship of Columba had sucked, and into it they would have been gorged, had not Columba bethought him of the holy clay of St. Kieran when casting in one handful, the water ceased to whirl, the Caledonian sea became as smooth as glass; and, arriving safe at Iona the remaining handfuls were deposited to be adored by all faithful Albanian Scots

Strange, that thought I have visited Iona, and saw this great cemetery of northern kings and chiefs, I heard not a word of St. Kieran's clay; but the people are all turned Presbyterians.

The Maw

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 s 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 McDermots, princes of the northern parts of Roscommon; a tablet on the wall, near the eastern window, records that it was repaired in 1647, by McCoghlan, the lord of the adjoining territories. I remember, in my younger days, when this district of the King's County was called the McCoghlan's country, or for brevity's sake, the Maw's country; and I remember seeing the McCoghlan, or as he was called the Maw, a fine tall old gentleman of the French school, who lived in the profuse extravagance of Irish hospitality, for which, and for keeping up the old Milesian fighting character, and for other qualities palpable and valued by the people, he was looked on with almost kingly respect. In the midst of the rebellion of 1641, when the Rome influenced Papist had nearly succeeded in driving out the English Protestants, it was then that McCoghlan repaired this church, perhaps it was within those very walls that the Synod of Popish Bishops met when, preparatory to their removal to Jamestown, they concerted that excommunication which they afterwards hurled against their king's lord Lieutenant. Whether the northern doorway into this church existed prior to the repairs of McCoghlan, 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 than the seventeenth century [in fact, 15th century]; I do indeed consider it the most beautiful specimen of Gothic ornamental 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 licence is lavished, stands forth as sharp, fresh, and clean as if but yesterday it came from under the chisel. [For a short up to date account, see Manning Clonmacnoise, (1994)].

The curse of the stolen bells

Amongst the other ornaments of this highly finished doorway are figures in alto relievo - 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. [St. Dominic, St. Patrick and St. Francis.] What was the cause of this figure being so much injured?- said I, addressing myself to a woman - "Och then, who could do it but cruel Cromwell's red coats! - a cursed crew that came down in boats from Athlone, and not satisfied with carrying away our beautiful bells that were made of pure silver, and which sung out for mass-gathering amongst those hills, so that there was even grace in living within their sound, the bloody Sassenach hounds came, and not content with the blessed bells, they came up to this church, and after breaking with their pikes that holy image, which they say was the figure of him who was ruler over this place after St. Kieran's death, they then rushed into the church where three priests were at the altar celebrating the mass; those they kilt outright, and after doing other mischief, which myself don't remember, they set out to return to Athlone; but, my dear, the man who had charge of the bells, in lifting them into his boat, fell into the Shannon and went to the bottom; the others, as they were going along, fell out about the division of the booty, and so they fought away until they kilt each other outright, and for many a long year, as the people say, that part of the river where the boat drifted after they were all dead, was red in all its waters as if in memory of the bloodshedding." We entered a small arched building south of M`Dermot`s church, which the woman called St. Kieran`s cellar; from it arose a curious kind of octangular belfry; where, I suppose, the bells that the English soldiers took away were hung, a proof to me, if any were necessary, that the round towers in this enclosure were neither used nor intended for bell-hanging. "Until lately, "said the beggar woman, "Father - used to make this place his chapel, when on station days, he used to come to say mass for the people, but now he celebrates at farmer----`s house." Why does he not come here still?" "Troth and myself can't tell, barring it is, that though he does not say against the patron, he does not think it proper for his riverence to come into the middle, as I may say, of the people when the half of them may be drunk - of late, any how, he has not sung mass here." It was well he did not, for a more filthy, abominable, fetid place I was never in; it seemed as if people on the proceeding night [the patron night] had made it their lair, and still, unlike other beasts, they had not been careful to keep unpolluted the place where they slept.

St. Kieran refused wine

"But why call this place St. Kieran`s cellar - was he fond of wine?" " To be sure he was at proper times, and small blame to him or any other holy man when his fasts, and prayers, and duties, and stations are all done, and God above is satisfied - if he should take a drop to comfort his poor heart; but, gentlemen, talking of wine, did yees never hear what happened betwixt him and O`Melaghlin, king of Meath, who lived yonder (pointing to the west) in that castle? St. Kieran, ( the heavens are his bed,) wanted some wine, whether as a cordial for himself, or to give the sacrament to his clergy; any how, not having any in his cellar, he sends, and why should'nt he, to king Melaghlin, and he the churl refused - only think of an Irish king doing the like, bad manners to him, for being such a negur. But blessed Kieran was even with him, for down on his two knees he went, and prayed that O'Melaghlin might never know the pleasure of a drink again, and my dear sowl so it turned out, for in the middle of that night he awoke in strong thirst, and says he to his butler, 'go down to my cellar and bring me a bowl of wine;' so down the man went, when the wine was brought to the king and put to his lips, it fled away entirely out of the cup; he then called to the dairy maid, and said, ' go bring me a noggin of butter-milk;' so away went the maid, but when she came back with the noggin full, lo, before it touched his mouth, it went away somewhere, as did the wine. "Heigh-ho" says my king 'since wine and milk fail me, sure the Shannon won't- go, fetch me a pail full of that, I was never fond of cowld water, but you know the saying of 'needs must;' so they fetched him the water, but when it came before the king, it also made away with itself, nobody could tell how: so, gentlemen, to make my story short, the king died of thirst; and may no Irish king ever after refused a saint wine or whiskey, for, sure enough, refusals of the sort are not nathural.'

Darby Claffy - the venerable guide

Proceeding from McDerrmott'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 bas relievo 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 venerable looking-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 Delaney, 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 a 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 around the grave stones in triumph. I was pleased to buy human joy so cheap. The old man did not belie his fine countenance; his mind was stored with traditionary recollections concerning Clonmacnoise, which if not according to recorded facts, were founded on them; and he spoke with perfect assurance in the truth of what he said, and of the sanctity of all around. "Can you my honest fellow, tell us anything about the figures carved on this cross?" "A little, plase your honour; but sartain I'm no scholar: come here now, Mister, do you see that the figure with the keys, that is St. Pether; and that there beside him is St. Kieran, do you see a book in his hand? - that is the gospel of St. Matthew which Kieran learned so well from holy Finnian, of Clonard, in the county Meath, where in ould times there was a great school, somewhere the same as Maynooth now is, whence young Father Finnerty has just come home, edicated; well, plase your honours, Kieran was called Kieran of St. Mattew,* because he knew that Gospel so well; and do now look below Peter and Kieran, and don't you notice young men smiling, and one playing the bagpipes?

Darby Claffy, the venerable guide

Claffy had said Kieran was called Kieran of St. Mathew and Otway noted: That there was some foundation for the old man's legend about St. Kieran we find in the Bollandists, who relate, when the saint was studying Scripture under the guidance of St.. Finnian, at Clonard, when he came to the middle of the Gospel of St. Matthew, where it is said -"Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do you even so to them, for this is the law and the prophets;"- Kieran cried out in reading this passage-" Father Finnian, enough for me go reduce what I have learned to practice, and do likewise; this one sentence is enough for me." Then one in the school cried out-"from henceforth, Kieran, let this name belong to you. Kieran Leath Math - Kieran of the half of Matthew." "No," said the blessed Finnian, "not Leath Math, but Kieran Leath N'Erien-Kieran of the half of Ireland; for he shall be bishop of a diocese whose territories shall include the half of Ireland." And so it was, for so immense were the endowments of Clonmacnoise, that half Ireland was said to belong to it. What an awful ignorance of the gospel! What an utter forgetfulness there existed in these story tellers of the work done by Christ for believers, when a Christian Saint is by them represented to be contented with a part of a Gospel that had not reached to the work finished on the cross, which rested merely in the moral precept of doing as one should be done by. A follower of Zoroaster, Confucius, or Mahomet would have said as much. But more of this by and by.

Reading the Symbols on the High Cross

---well, this represents the young priests that Kieran brought with him to Clonmacnoise; and as well becomes the divil, he must needs envy their devotions, and he used to come by night and play his bagpipes to divart them there, and draw them off from their vesper duties-and up they'd get from their knees when the ould boy, in the shape of a piper, would play a planxty, and set about (they couldn't for the life help it) jigging it away; now, St. Pether, in heaven, saw to be sure, all this -and so he comes down to tell Kieran of it; and, moreover, he falls upon Satan in a thrice; don't you see him there how he has tumbled the enemy of man?-and, as you see there, is sending him headlong to hell." There was certainly something like a man playing the pipes cut on the cross, and a representation of two persons contending, and one getting the better of the other; but whether the old Claffy was right in his reading I cannot say. This cross is certainly one of the finest I have seen in Ireland; I question whether it is even inferior to those immense ones that are at Monaster Boice, in the county of Louth.

Temple Finghin

From thence we proceeded, the old man following us to the church and round tower which stands in the north-western extremity of the cemetery, and which is usually called M'Carthy's church and tower. The round tower though small, is one of the most perfect in Ireland: it is conically capped, and the ranges of stone, forming the cover, are of the most beautiful and singular arrangement. The tower stand on the south side of the chancel of the church; and the doorway of the tower, instead of being elevated ten or fifteen feet from the ground, is on a level with the floor of the chancel from which it leads: it is within a few feet of the altar; moreover, the archway leading from the nave of the church into the chancel, which is of the most finished and at the same time chaste order of Gothic construction, is wrought into the body of the round tower - part of whose rotundity is sacrificed to give room and form to the display of its light and elegant span; now these two circumstances convince me that, in the first place, the church and tower were built as the same time; moreover, that as the church was placed more remote than other churches, and nearer invaders coming across the Shannon, the tower was provided as a look-out station and place of ready retreat for the priests to retire to with their sacred vessels and books.

M'Carthy's church, in the north-west corner of the cemetery, built by the M'Carthy More of Munster, the greatest sept in Cork -he who held under his sway the O'Learys, and the O'Sullivans, and the I don't how many more Milesian O's and Macs. It is a curious and peculiarly interesting ruin, because, as I said before, there is here evident proof that the round tower and church were built at the same time; for, besides that they both are formed of the same kind of stone, and are constructed with the same range and character of masonry, there is part of the rotundity of the tower sacrificed, to give play to the full span of the chancel-arch, and exhibit one of the most chaste specimen in the world of what is called the Saxon arch. This tower is not large or lofty; it but seven feet in diameter within, and but fifty-five feet high; it has a conical cap, which is essential, according to anti-quarians, to make a round tower prefect; and a free-mason, suppose he was master of his craft, would say " well done," to the artist who constructed the beautiful courses of cut stone by which the conical cap was brought to a point. As I already said, the door of the tower is level with the ground; and I think I could discern the marks of stairs the rose spirally to the top; unlike all other round towers which, though there are marks of floors, story over story, in no other instances present marks of spiral stairs. On the right side of the altar, connected with the tower, there is, as usual, a niche in the wall, forming a receptacle for holy water. It is a prettily carved shallow stone basin, with a small aperture in the bottom, introduced, no doubt, to let off, after a term, the water that had been used, in order to substitute fresh. This receptacle was now covered, and almost filled with as curious a melange of articles as ever I saw collected together: - a bent nail, a shankless button, a bit of unripe apple, a tobacco stopper, a broken comb, a decayed human tooth. I might have supposed that such a thievish animal as a pet magpie, in its indiscriminate larceny, had made this hole its hiding place, and here was its treasure. " What can be the meaning of this? " said I to my ciceone, Mr. Claffy. " Och, plase your honour, this is the greatest place in the varsal world for curing the tooth-ache. Any one that comes here on the pathern day, if a tooth or sound or rotten pained them, so that they could not eat a boiled pratie, always, by course, saying the proper aves and paters, and leaving something as you see behind them, as their offering to the saint, why, as you may say, in no time the pain would pass off, and they might, as a body may say, go crack nuts. But troth, sir, If I must tell the truth, the vartue is very much gone out of this same place ever since a polisman came here, and that not along ago; for before he came, do you see me, there never was wanting a drop of water here, no, not in the driest of seasons, that a body might take up in their fingers, and put it, hoping in the merits of St. Keeran, to his tooth. But that polisman, may bad luck and fortune ever attend him, drove the point of his walking stick into the hole, and from that day to this never a drop of water came up out of the same, so that it is as dry as any other part of the wall, as your honour now sees."

Removing from this, we proceeded to a higher part of the enclosure, where a slated building appeared, which our attendant informed us was the English church. In any other place it would have been considered a venerable, though a small structure; and there was a chaste and solemn simplicity in the door-way at its western end that well deserved attention; but the windows were closed up with jealous care by wooden shutters, and altogether it looked out of place in this scene of ruins; and my admiration was, how in this wild, superstitious spot, where crowds of prejudiced and ferocious beings assemble, it has been permitted to stand unscathed. My friend who had accompanied me to Clonmacnoise, and to whom I owe the pleasure of seeing it, was not only anxious to show me the interior of the only entire church amidst this crowd of ruins, but also, as rural dean of the district, was desirous to take this occasion of inspecting the interior, so as to make in due time his report to his diocesan. Accordingly he despatched a messenger to the house of a man who was reported to have the care of the church, and to keep the key. It was a long time before he returned during which period we had leisure to observe the many inscriptions in the oldest form of the Irish letter scattered about, and had reason to lament that there is no one here to prevent the destruction of old monuments, or put a stop to the barbarous breaking, defacing, and utter destruction of inscriptions of kings, chieftains, bishops, abbots, and learned men: inscriptions that might serve to verify existing history, or supply the lacunae and correct the errors in our annals. The place belongs to the bishop of Meath; all the lands around are his; doubtless the parson has a property in the churchyard. Surely his lordship has, either directly in himself, or indirectly by his vicar, a conservative power over this burial place of all that was both saint like and learned in Ireland; and if these could not, or would not, exert themselves, why does not the parish priest?

But, as Dr. Doyle [of Kildare and Leighlin] has well said, "Gentlemen, you are very much mistaken if you suppose that the Catholic clergy of Ireland have any power over the people when their passions or prejudices are in operation." Well, if priest or parson cannot preserve the monumental and ecclesiastical antiquities of Ireland from the rapid ruin which they are undergoing from the hands of a barbarous people, I wish some society, such as are, I believe, in France and Germany, would undertake the task.

Darby and the key of the Protestant Church

In about a quarter of an hour our messenger returned, but without the key of the church. He was accompanied by a woman, fat, inquisitive, and rather impertinent, who desired to know, in the first instance, who we were; and who, after endeavouring by any evasions to put us off from the desire of seeing the inside, at length told us that we could not get in, for the man who was in charge of it was unwell and would give the key to no one out of his own hand. "Go back, my good woman," said my friend, "to your husband or master, whichever he is, and tell him that I charge him at his peril to let me see the interior of the church." Accordingly, the woman went and brought back, as soon as might be, a stout, short, broad-backed, broad-faced man, half farmer, half publican in his appearance, who, with the maudlin countenance, codled eye, and brutified expression of face and form that denoted one who had been tippling for two whole days, asked us stammeringly and yet sturdily, what business we had to take him away from his customers, "when the woman (as he called his wife) had already told yes that by no manner of means would we let busy-bodies and lurking strangers into the church." "Yes," answered my friend very civilly, "you, my good man, are quite right in keeping out strangers, but I am not one. I come here once a year to inspect the church, pursuant to my duties, and if you have charge of the key, you are bound to give me admittance." " And how am I to know that you have any claim or right to get into the decent man's church in his absence. I was taken in once by a man with as smooth a face as any of yees, and when I let him into the church to satisfy, as he said, his curiosity, what did he do, but set about defacing an ould tombstone of the Malones. Yes, in troth, a man calling himself Counsellor M- [almost certainly Counsellor Maloney of Clonony Castle] did this upon me, in order that he might carry a lawsuit his own way; and ever since I have been in dread concerning strangers getting in there." "Pray, my friend," said I, "are you the clerk or sexton, that you are so vigilant." "No, Mr. Nobody-knows-who, from Athlone; I am not clerk or sexton. I wouldn't take all the land the Shannon flows by, and have anything to do with this English place, barring it was to keep the key for the minister, who, in his way, is a decent man enough, and a good neighbour. Sextin, forsooth! I'd have the likes of yes to know, that all of my ould name stick to the ould religion." "No offence, Mr. M-, but are you aware, that by your refusal to admit the clergyman, who has a right to enter, you subject yourself to be brought before the bishop's court." No Roman Catholic likes the name of a bishop's court, and I perceived that the threat had its effect on him, when a respectable gentleman-farmer sort of a man, with a Petersham great coat, covered with broad wooden buttons, and wielding a huge whip in his hand, came up, and having listened for a time to the altercation, interposed and said, " Oh, Mr. M-, you need not dread that these persons will do any injury to the church. I know that this gentleman, "pointing to the vicar of St. Mary's, "is the person he represents himself to be, and I'll be answerable that all is right." This had its effect on the Clonmacnoise publican, and he proceeded, growlingly enough towards the church door.

The Boycotted Farmer

While approaching it, I was bold enough to ask the new-comer in the Petersham whether he had arrived to perform a station: and if I had offended the publican by asking if he was the Protestant clerk, I still more provoked my present companion by asking was he a Papist devotee. "No, sir; I wonder you'd ask the like of me such a question.. I'd have you to know that I'm as good a Protestant as yourself. I abhor all that is going on here, as much as any man can do, and I have more reason, for I suffer more." "Excuse, sir, my impertinence," said I soothingly; "I meant no offence. I altogether beg your pardon, but allow me to ask how it is you are a sufferer." "In this way, sir: I have a considerable tract of land in this vicinity, and, as perhaps you may have remarked in every other part of Ireland, the more superstitious the people are, the more also are they lawless and ferocious. It is fully exemplified here. My farm latterly has become totally unprofitable - it lies waste, because I ejected the old tenants who would pay me no rent whatsoever. the people will neither allow me to cultivate it myself, nor any other person to take it. If I run cattle on it, they are in danger of being houghed; if I build a house on it, it is likely to be burned; if I make fences on it, they are sure to be thrown down, and I came here today, not, as you supposed, to go the rounds of the churches, and keep a station, but to go the rounds of my farm, and see what state it is left in after yesterday's doings." By this time the Protestant church was opened by the Roman Catholic keeper, Mr. M-. It was in pretty fair repair within; very small, and without any ancient ornaments or tombs. It was in former times called Dowling's church. For the last two centuries it has been the burying-place of the Malone family. Here lies buried the once famous Anthony Malone, who filled the highest law stations in Ireland, in the early part of the reign of George the Third, and who, (as an elegant writer described him,) "to a benign and dignified aspect, an address both conciliatory and authoritative, joined the clearest head that ever conceived, and the sweetest tongue that ever uttered the suggestions of wisdom, and who executed the highest law offices with such ability as stands unparalleled in the records of justice." This may be overstrained praise, but it is not conceived in the bad taste of an epitaph upon another Malone, whose marble does not blush while telling that he had every virtue under heaven. While some of the party read aloud this panegyric, the gentleman-farmer, with a significant and sad look, exclaimed, "I deny the truth of that eulogium, seeing as how he did not exactly possess one important virtue-namely, that of paying his just debts; for the worthy gentleman died in my debt, to the tune of 1200L." "Perhaps, sir," says I, "debt paying is not an Irish virtue." "May be not," says he, "especially within the bounds of Clonmacnoise."

The High Crosses

While standing in his little Protestant place of worship, surrounded as it is with all the grey memorials of ancient superstition, I cannot well imagine any stronger contrast than that of a few Church of England Christians performing their quiet devotions, amidst this scene of superstition debauchery and riot. It was, I say, a day not of superstition and debauchery, but of riot; for the protestant gentleman who had accompanied us in the viewing the church, asked old Claffy, "Well, Darby, how did you g et on yesterday?" "Oh, very well, plase your honour; all was regular until after the priest came down to say mass, things went mighty cordially, indeed, until his reverence was gone, but then the boys turned out, and there was as purty a fight as ever myself saw at the Seven Churches. Many this day are sore enough with broken heads and shins. They say it will go hard with Jem Dunne, who got his scull laid open with a cloholpeen." On returning from the Protestant church, we repassed the fine cross opposite the west end of M'Dermot's church; a number of persons were attempting to span the shaft with their arms-few succeeded. It required a tall and thin man so to do. Such being my case I succeeded; and my guide in praising me for my success, assured me that I merited for my wife that no evil should happen her in next accouchment. This would satisfy me, as, no doubt, it would every affectionate husband. "Do you know any thing, Mr. Claffy, about the erection of these two crosses?" "But a little, sir, and it is this:- There was one of our ould saints, called Colman, that once took a great fancy to gadding away from his church, and his excuse was that he must needs go and kiss the foot of his Holiness the Pope, and nothing would satisfy him but off he would; so a brother saint, of the name of Berachy, came to him, and very dacently and wisely gave it as his advise, that it would be much better for his own sowl, and that of others, to stay at home and keep minding his devotions and offices- but to brother Berachy he gave no heed. Well, says his friend, come off to St. Kieran, and maybe he will say what will satisfy you. So off they came here to Clonmacnoise, and be sure our saint did his best, but if he was arguing with the wilful man until the cows came home it would avail not, for go he would, to bless his own two eyes with the sight of the holy father of the Christhen world. Well, as wilful will do it, to be sure St. Berachy and St. Kieran gave him their blessing; and St. Kieran, more over, lifting up his hand, made the sign of the cross over his head; whereupon my dear sowl - for wonderful is God's power in the hands of his saints- St. Colman saw all Rome, and his Holiness the Pope sitting in his easy chair, as plain as I, Darby Claffy, see O'Rourkes tower that is there fornint me. This, by course, satisfied my curious gentleman and he gave up his gadding; and more than that, in memory of all the time and money that was saved him, he set up these two crosses; the little one in memory of the miracle, the larger in honour of St. Peter, St. Patrick, and St. Kieran."

O'Rourke's Tower

Mr. Claffy's allusions to O'Rourke's tower directed my particular attention to it - particular, I say, for it the great prominent eye - attracting object of the whole scene; without any exception it is the most beautiful round tower in existence; it stands on a elevation at the western side of the churchyard, and in a line with the principal buildings; the ground sinks from it abruptly towards the Shannon; and just under it, to the north, is the holy well. Nothing can equal the beautiful effect of this simple pillar tower, cutting, as it does, on the horizon, and relieved by the sombre background of the bog on the other side of the Shannon, that spreads for miles, cold, flat, and desolate; and the tower itself is so beautifully time- tinted, I think I never saw anything erected by human hands so painted by fortuitous vegetation. I might conceit that time, proud of his secret, so well kept by these Irish towers, had called on nature to deck out this master-piece in its kind, with all it's lichens and mosses, producing every colour that could or ought to harmonize, in order to present what art could not imitate, and what the painter would despair of picturing, or the narrator of describing. Other round towers that I have seen, and few have seen more of them than I have, are excellent specimens of masonry; some of them more, some less, exhibit indubitable proofs that in early times the line, plummet, and hammer were used with considerable handicraft in Ireland; but here, instead of the asler or the stone chisel work of other towers, a marble pillar has been erected almost as smooth as Pompey's in Egypt, or, if a more familiar comparison will better, suit, almost as smooth as the chimney-piece in your drawing room. It is composed of that secondary limestone that covers, with little interruption, the central plains of Ireland- which in many place assumes the compactness, the ringing sound, and the capability of Polish, which constitute what in commerce is called marble. The stone of the tower is of ash grey colour, full of madreporic concretions; and as a proof how much more permanent such a marble is, when polished, than granite or any other material, these stones, though exposed to the elements for a thousand years at least, are as untouched by the tooth of time, as if they came yesterday from under the polisher's hands; for, I repeat it, that every stone in the courses of this building must have been polished and fitted as you would set up your chimney -piece; and there it stand, not encumbered with rude bush of enveloping ivy, or with the rough garnishment of wall-flowers, sedums, and maidenhairs-no, but with the softest harmonizing tints of lichens and close-creeping mosses. The doorway into the tower (as is usual in all prefect specimens, and where there are not occasions which require it be otherwise, as is the case with M'Carthy's tower in the cemetery, and with that on the rock of Cashel), is fourteen or fifteen feet from the ground; it is of beautiful and yet simple construction. I could not get into this tower to ascertain the interior arrangement of its lofts. In almost every other tower interstices between the ranges of stone are sufficient to put in your toe at least, and with the help of others, you can get up; but here, instead of a resting place for your toe, you could scarcely find a place for the introduction of your toenail. Commend me to O' Rourke, prince of Brefney, for his spirit, taste, and devotedness, in the erection of this tower.

"And the same O'Ruairk, of his devotion towards the church, undertook to repair these churches, and to keep them in reparation during his life, upon his own charges, and to make a causeway or togher from the place called Cruan na feadh to Pibhac Conaire, and from Pibhac to the Lough; and the said Fergal should be perform it, together with all other promises he had made to Cluin, and the repairing of that number of chapels or cells, and the making of that causeway or togher; and hath for a monument built a small steep castle, or steeple, commonly called in Irish, Clairtheagh ( quere Cloghtheagh,) in Cluin, as a memorial of his own part of that cemetery; and the said Fergal hath made all these cells, before specified, in mortmaine, for him and his heirs to claim; and thus was the sepulture of the O'Ruairk's bought." Mr Crofton Croker, from whose work on the south of Ireland, I make this extract, says, that he took it from a Ms. in the British Museum, which appears to have belonged to Sir James Ware; and he applies this donation and erection of Fergal O' Ruairk to Cloyne. But I think there is every reason to refer it to Clonmacnoise. At Clonmacnoise the largest round tower is called, to this day, O' Rourke's tower. The cemetery of the Rourkes, princes of Brefney, is at Clonmacnoise, a much more probable place of sepulture for a prince, whose territories were not far distant, than at Cloyne, One hundred miles off. Besides, I have an old map in my possession, of lands in the vicinity of Clonmacnoise, in which a togher, or causeway leading to the churches, across a great red bog, is laid down as the Pilgrim's Pass. For further particulars respecting the above passage, see Appendix. [i.e. pp 429-30 of Tour in Connaught.]

Did he die before his admirable work was finished?- did the wars which have, from the beginning of time, wasted and neutralized nature's blessings in this island, extend there ravages to his fair domains?- was he forced to stop before he brought to a finish his beautiful work? But so it is; the tower that rises, as one fair polished shaft, to about 55 feet, then presents a quite different aspect; some " 'prentice hand" has added about ten feet of additional structure, which, though perhaps as well built as most other round towers, presents such a contrast to the remainder, that it seems strange how anyone could have the hardihood to make such an unseemingly finish to so exquisite a work.

The imperfect construction of the upper part of this tower may be accounted for in this way. The first and most perfect part may have been erected by means of an exterior scaffolding, and when arrived at a certain height, it became inconvenient, or impossible, to scaffold higher, and, accordingly, the masons had to finish from the inside, over- hand, as it is, I believe, called, just in the way that the tall factory chimneys are now constructed. Centuries, one might suppose, must have intervened before this additional work, with its eight windows, was added; and it only confirms me in my opinion, that these towers were erected as places of retreat and watch-towers [the upper storey with its eight openings was added in later medieval times]. For both purposes, O'Rourke's is admirably circumstanced; even at the elevation originally given, it was high enough to take cognizance of the coming enemy, let him come from what point he might; it commanded the ancient causeway that was laid down, at a considerable expense, across the great bog on the Connaught side of the Shannon; it looked up and down the river, and commanded the tortuous and sweeping reaches of the stream, as it unfolded itself like an uncoiling serpent along the surrounding bogs and marshes; it commanded the line of the Aisgir [Esker] Riada- could hold communication with the holy places of Clonfert, and from the top of its pillared height, send its beacon light towards the sacred isles and anchorite retreats in Lough Ree; then it was large and roomy enough to contain all the officiating priests of Clonmacnoise, with their pixes, vestments, and books; and though the Pagan Dane or the wild Munsterman might rush on in rapid inroad, yet the solitary watcher on the tower was ready to give warning, and collect within the protecting pillar all holy men and things, until "the tyranny was overpast."

The Holy Well

Underneath this tower, and in the low ground to the north, at the bottom of the limestone rock on which the tower is built, is the holy well, round which it is necessary to go as part of the station. A few women were still about this pool, whose clear, bubbling, and erratic waters had scarcely cast off the muddiness and abuse which those who trampled in it and around it yesterday had inflicted on it. For the present it only answered the purpose of affording a cooling medium into which the tent revellers might cast the fiery whiskey with which they were brutalizing themselves. A well of clear water is at all times, and in all places, a scene of interest- beautiful in itself, beautiful by association- the bubbling issue of its pellucid waters- the irridescent play of the pebbles and minute shells, as they rise and fall in the clear depths from whence it rises; these make a spring lovely in every clime, from Iceland to Borneo. Leaders of a peoples religious hopes have turned to their own advantage this natural feeling; and the Pagan priest, Mahometan Santon, the Hindoo Brahmin, the Budhist, the Parsee, as well as the Romish Saint, have identified themselves with the refreshment of clear flowing waters, and left their names there. And yet in Ireland, after all, these wells are but ugly things; no watchful guardianship is observed to keep the fountain clear; the mud caused by the peoples tramping is allowed to accumulate; the rank weed permitted to choke up the fountain's flow, and create a swamp all around; and the hideous garniture of old rags hanging on some neighbouring bush gives a sort of beggarly accompaniment to the place, and you turn with disgust from a spot that superstition has deformed rather than consecrated- where the deformity of superstition, and not the beauty of holiness is personified.

Caesar Otway visits Clonmacnoise - Holy Well.

Such was the well of Clonmacnoise. It is the only spring of good water in the neighbourhood; the Shannon water is unwholesome and unpalatable; and while taking a draught from this fine spring, as it welled forth clear as crystal from the limestone rock, I pondered on the vast varieties of people that for twelve centuries had made use of the stream. Kieran, who first settled here, little thought of the many superstitions that have been enacted, as it were, under the sanction of his name. He, instructed by the holy Finnian of Clonard, the mighty master of the Scriptures in the sixth century, perhaps like his successor, St. Eangus, in the eight century, cried aloud to his followers, "ASPICE CHRISTUM" - " LOOK UNTO JESUS;" and though he fell, as one of his earliest errors, into Cenobitish superstition, yet it is more likely, with all faithful, he held to the tenacity, he held to the Head, and would have been grieved to the heart had he but foreseen how, taking advantage of the practices that he had weakly given birth to, others had beguiled the people "by a voluntary humility, and a worshipping of angels - intruding into those things which they had not seen - vainly puffed up by their fleshy minds." "Pray, Mr. Claffy, can you give me any information as to how or when this well was made holy?" " Ah, then, don't your honour know better than I can tell yees. I am but an unlarned man, and how could the likes of me give you right and square knowledge about them holy things? How could I know anything but by remimbrance of what those that have gone before me had to say? This holy well was not blessed either by St Patrick, or St Keiran, but by a poor afflicted man, that sacred Patrick took pity on because he was covered in sores from top to toe, and who, though humble in body, was beautiful in soul. The man who gave the word of life to Ireland, where ever he journeyed, took him always about with him. But soon, dacent man as he was, he began to find that the sight and smell of his sores were too much for Christhens; and so he searches him out for a secret place; and, sure enough, if he had his pick and choice, of all Ireland, he could not get a more lonesome one than this. Here, then, he lay down and made his bed in the hollow of an ould oak tree. And it came to pass, that he had not lain there long until he saw a comely -looking young man pass by, with a black bag thrown over his shoulders. "Where are you going, my dearest lad?", said the leper.

"I'm coming from Rome," answered he, "and I'm on my way to Croagh Patrick, to find the convarter of all Ireland, and its I that am bringing what the holy St Patrick, will value more than a silver mine- a present of precious relics from the Pope." "Stop a bit," says the leper, "my purty young man, and for the love of our sweet Saviour, just go down to that hollow place under the hill, and pluck me a bundle of rushes, upon which I may rest my poor bones." "With all the veins in my heart, I will, " said the young pilgrim. So down he went, and, my dear life, the moment he made a pull at the rushes, up they come, and with them the finest flow of spring water, clear as the very air, and on it flowed over the meadow. You may be sure my man was not long until he ran back with the rushes, and tould the poor leper about the new-found spring. "The very thing I want- blessed be he that sent it, " says he; "I'm about to die, and it is for you young man, when my soul has given itself into the hands of angels, to wash my poor remains in that wonderful spring". Immediately on saying this, he gave up the ghost; and though it was anything but a pleasant job, the poor youth brought the body on his back down to the spring; and, oh, the wonder!- the moment the messenger of Patrick applied the water to the corpse, it, that was all foul with sores, became as clean, and clear, and sweet as the bosom of a sucking child. This was enough to tell the son of piety that the poor afflicted beggar was a friend of God, and that his sowl was in the company of saints. So, my dear, he straightway buried him in high ground just above the well. This was the first body that was ever buried in Clonmacnoise. But, will you, howsomdever, listen to me a little longer, for my story is not yet all tould. The pilgrim, after all his dutiful labour and charity, with regard to the evil-touched man, began now to bethink him of the bag of relics, and, wonder! what should be seen but the ould oak tree sucking into the hollow, where the poor leper laid lay, the holy bag; and though he ran with all his might, yet the tree had closed, and the bark had covered it so, that you might as well draw the marrow out of a man's bones without breaking the limb, as take the relics out of the tree without cutting it down. Then it was all to no purpose that the honest man went to the next carpenter's shop for the loan of the axe -in vain, when he got it, did he hack away; I might as well attempt to cut yon limestone rock with my tabaccy knife. Well, as it was better for him, away he went to St.Patrick, an' he up and tould his story, and, in his anger, all as one as accused the poor leper as being an agent of the wicked one, for being the occasion of his losing relics. "No, by no manner of means," says holy Patrick; "those relics were not intended for me; they are reserved for one that is come after me, the holy St. Kieran, who will come to that very place-stand beside that very tree, which will open its bark, and from its sanctified hollow let fall into the hands of happy Kieran these blessed relics."

"Well, Mr. Claffy, you have really told this story most fully. Can you tell us, further, what these relics were?" "Why then musha, myself cannot tell, seeing as how long ago, they were carried away by the Danes; but, as the saying is handed down, there was a skirt of the little coteen our blessed Redeemer wore, when he disputed with the doctors; and a feather which St. Mary Magdalene carried in her bonnet when she was a wicked woman."

Clonmacnoise castle

Having now seen the most remarkable things in the churchyard, we proceeded south-westward towards those picturesque ruins which writers concerning Clonmacnoise call the bishop's residence, but which, according to the people's tradition, was the palace of O'Melaghlin, king of Meath. It stands out, in singular loneliness, on the last spur of the the southern limb of the amphitheatre of gravel hills that formed the Aisgir [Esker] Riada. The slowflowing Shannon forms a bend round it. If I wanted to call forth a draughtsman to exhibit with his creative pencil a building that time had ruined in the most grotesque and singular manner, I could not expect he would venture on such a vagary as this. It stands on a moat, where art has added to natural elevation of the ground, and is surrounded with a dry but deep fosse. I have just said that time had ruined it- that could not be; some mine, some explosive shock, must have rent the massive works, and thrown them into the various positions and shapes they now exhibit; some parts lie in masses, larger than human habitations in the fosse; other lie rolled in immense heaps in the ballium, or courtyard; an immense curtain wall at least ten feet thick, undermined, lies at an angle of forty-five degrees, reclining upon about half a foot of its thickness, and presents at a distance one of the most singular and picturesque hanging ruins I ever looked on. It is surprising, how coarse are the materials of this building- what a large proportion the mortar bears to the stones, which consist of rounded pebble-stones taken from the adjoining hills; and it would appear to me, such is the predominating proportion of mortar to stones, that the building was erected by forming a sort of case-work of boards or hurdles, within which these stones were thrown at random; and that then a grouting mortar was poured in, which was left to settle and solidify; and then the exterior case-work was removed. I cannot in any other way account for the extraordinary proportion of mortar in this building. I am quite sure, that, if any mason at present were to attempt to rear up a wall, twenty or thirty feet high, of rounded stones, cemented with so large a quantity of lime and sand, the whole concern would tumble at once about his ears. But the works of Clonmacnoise castle are now anything but crumbling-no breccia, no pudding-stone can be harder than the composition; time has made the mass so compact, that I am sure it would be just as easy to break the limestone pebbles of which the walls are composed, as to separate the mortar. The view from the staircase is very fine; the tortuous Shannon sweeps calmly underneath; southward are the high grounds about Shannon bridge; and more to the west, the wooded elevation on which the ancient episcopal church of Clonfert stands, where St. Brendan erected his seven altars, and which, amidst surrounding bogs, like Clonmacnoise, seems to challenge equally of desert seclusion. Mr. Darby Claffy, whose age approached to eighty, was nothing loth to follow me up the broken and tortuous staircase, which I had ascended to view the surrounding country, What a fine vegetable is the potato that can give to extreme old age such an elasticity of step, such a lightness of limb, which many of the beef-eating, turbot-gorging, calipash-swilling citizens of London or Bristol, of half his years, could not imitate! Potatoes are fine food for man, woman, or child, provided there is little hard work required. Darby, I believe, was all his life a herd, and had little to do with spade, shove; or pickaxe.

Stolen Child

"There are pretty green hills, my good friend, here all around," I observed to my companion; "all quiet and lonesome, except on station days-a likely spot; as one may suppose, for a meeting of the good people." "Och, then, it is yourself may well say that. The stars on the sky that covers us, or the merry dancers around the plough-star are not so plenty of a frosty night as the good people are on these hills and lonely meadows in the middle of the moonlight." "Well, now, Claffy, do tell me, did you ever see them?" "See them! ah, then it's I that did, and hear them too." "On what occasion?" "Why, then, your honour, if you must know, 'twas about ten years ago, when there was great want and sickness hereabouts, and the praitie crop failed, and the corn was not mush better; and as there was a great price for wheat in Athlone, I was employed by one farmer Dooly, to watch his wheat that he had laid down on the river-brink, ready to send up the river in boats, at the break of day to the market. The night was bright almost as day, for the moon was nearly at full, and all was silent as the dead in yonder graves, except now and then the plash of the otter might be heard in the river, or the owl would hoot as it fluttered round church and tower. So I bethought me that I might as well go and do a DHURUS for a friend faraway in England, and say for him a few paters, and go on my two knees round the holy well; when what should I hear " whiz,whiz!" over my head. Master, did you ever hear the whirr and the whiz that a flock of wild ducks makes of snowy winter's evening, as they come to settle down upon the river?- just, then, such a noise did I hear, and troth myself though it might be a flock of frightened peewits of widgeon; but I looked up, and what should my two eyes behold, be a fine child carried through the air, and, oh! mother of mercy, how it did cry! I thought as how it said, "O'Darby, save me!" But what could I do? Away it and those who bore it went, and on I saw them go over the callow meadow as straight as a sparrow-hawk, until I saw them strike upon Bentullagh hill, which opened as easy as the chapel door, to let them enter, and then I saw no more, and there, for aught I know, they remain until this day. Well, to be sure, my mind was full of this and after my charge of the corn was over, away I went misgivingly home, when, what should I hear, but the whole village in a pullaloo! little Paddy, my wife's sister's grand-child, was fairy stuck, and nothing was in the place of the finest child that ever took breast-milk, but a little crutheen of a thing, as crooked and as crawling as a dhowlduff.*(A dhowlduff* is a black insect about an inch long, which all lower classes consider the representative of Satan, and as such, kill it whenever they can.) But this is not all. The Cross of Christ cover us from harm! don't I recollect, as well as yesterday, when farmer Mulloy's daughter was carried off, and a dead child put in the cradle, and after its being buried it came, in a night dream, on the father's mind, that all was not all nathral; so out he goes to the grave, and he digs away, and opens it, and, as sure as I stand here, to tell it, there was nothing in the coffin but a wisp of straw".

The Returning Stone

"Is there anything here that is worth seeing here besides these old walls?" " Oh yes,sir, " says Claffy; "Maybe, it would be as well to show you the returning stone." "What is that?" said I. "Why is it a stone that the holy St. Kieran stood on, when he parted with his friend St. Shannon; and it is our opinion, that no-one who, in the right face, implores St, Kieran's blessing, and says the regular rounds of paters and aves, if he leaves this place, but will return in safety to it again." We soon arrived at this spot, which was a mere hollow in the rock, such as a man's heel might make in any clayey substance. Of course it was the identical mark of the saint's heel. "I wonder, Mr.Darby Claffy, " says the protestant farmer whom I have before alluded to, " did your nephew, who is now in jail for the murder of Mr.-------, take his turn round on the stone before he got into the trouble in which he now is: report says it will go hard with him at the assizes-maybe he won't come back, except with his heels foremost." Old Darby looked at the man who made this observation with a sinister cast of his eyes, which denoted though aged, all the savage passions belonged to unchristianized human nature were still dwelling in his bosom.

The Founding of Clonmacnoise

The day was now beginning to turn- the sun was westering, on the impatience of my friends began to evince, by many outward acts, that their curiosity was slaked, though mine was still unabated. Our way back lay through the burial-ground, and Darby Claffy, as not having received his shilling was still in attendance. "Can you tell me any thing, Darby, about, the beginning of these. buildings, and about the consecration of the place." "By course, I can, sir," said he; "I recollect, at any rate, what all the people before me have said about it: - Kieran, the carpenter's son, came directed by God's finger, to this place, which was then called Drum Tipraid, or, as one would say in English, the brow of the hill that is in the centre of the land. It was a green sheep - walk in those days, and belonged to Dermot O'Melaghlin, king of Meath. "Give me, says the saint to the king, "a spot of ground where I may build a house in honour of God, and enclose a place where the dead may receive Christhen berrin." " I cannot afford to give my best land for that purpose," said the churlish king. "Go," said he, "to some mountain, or some good - for - nothing place amongst the rocks of Connaught, and make the best you can of it; but, as for me," says the proud king, "never, until this staff in my hand fastens in the ground, and growing there, throws out roots and leaves, will I give away the purtiest sheep - park in Ireland. O! blessed day; no sooner said than done. The staff that he had used as a walking stick for many a long year, suddenly fastened itself in the ground; branches began to sprout; green leaves began to appear, and before the saint had time to say credo, it had grown into a big tree that covered with its shade many a perch of ground. "Father Kieran, says the king, "I see it's God's will that you should have this field: take it, with my blessing, and all I ask is, that when I die you may put me in a place that your reverence will particularly bless, where I and all my seed, breed, and generation may be buried." " I thank you, king," says St. Kieran, "and though you refused me at first, I now grant for yourself, and all that die belonging to the Catholic church, who are buried here, that none, though they may go - as surely you and all will go - to purgathory, shall ever be plunged into the deeps of hell." How many bodies have been buried here since, sure of the privilege that Kieran granted to King O'Melaghlin, heaven only knows. It was now time for us to hasten away to our boat, so making old Darby happy with his well earned shilling, we wished him good bye. Poor old man! with what tenacity his memory adhered to these legendary lies. With what perfect assurance his naturally comprehensive mind retained a belief in ghosts, fairies, and lying miracles; and yet there are thousands in this island, christianized thirteen centuries ago, that are just as deluded and as ignorant as he.

Hatred of Protestantism

"I dare say," says one of my companions, (as we were retracing our steps across the burying ground, and in our way passed by M'Dermot's church,) "this Darby Claffy, knowing well you were a Protestant did not tell you how the people annually visit the grave of the first M'Coghlan buried here, who turned Protestant." Here he related a practice of the people on every station day, which I must not commit to paper, but which singularly characterised not only the brutality, but the deep malignant hatred that has been engendered in their minds against Protestantism. "I wonder much, " says I, "that with those feelings, thus annually revived by such a revolting practice, they have not long ago rushed on, maddened by their superstition, and hot with the fiery orgies of the patron debauch, to pull down the Protestant church that stands in the centre of all this bigotry." "Wait a while," was his reply; "let us see what a year may bring forth, coming events cast their shadows before them; other churches, as well as yonder humble building, may yet find that it is little the existing laws can protect them in the great hour when fanaticism runs rampant through the land." We still, as returning through the cemetery, observed many persons performing rounds and offering up prayers. One woman who had risen from such an exercise, called out after a gentleman of our party, who had come with us from Athlone, and had, as a medical practitioner sent down from Dublin during the prevalence of cholera, with singular success, ability, and humanity, fulfilled his arduous functions there. The female penance-doer, addressed herself to the doctor, and wished that God might bless him. "Alas!" said he, "is it such characters as this that come to Clonmacnoise. This wretched woman - the vilest of her sex, in a garrison town - for the sake of getting the clothes that are usually given out to those leaving our hospital, actually feigned herself in cholera. I was obliged to turn her out; and now I see her performing a religious duty, such as it is. I hope she has noted down in her long score the scene at the cholera hospital." "Oh! indeed, sir,"says another companion, "It is surprising how they get on here with their rounds and duties. I remember, not long ago, being here in company with two gentlemen, who came down from Dublin to make drawings of these ruins. Both were occupied with their pencils, sketching the old nunnery arch that we are now drawing near to: they were intent on their work, and so was a middle aged woman, who, on her bear knees, was creeping along under the arch; and on she urged her painful way over the sharp stones, while she counted with intense carefulness her beads, fearful that one pater, ave, or credo should be omitted. Just at this time one of the sketchers took some instrument out of his pocket, which the woman's two children, that were playing near at hand, took for some murderous weapon, and immediately they both set up a shout and ran towards their mammy; whereupon the woman broke off from her devotion, and in an instant poured forth such a volley of curses on the children, and imprecations on those who occasioned them to interrupt her, that I was as much shocked at her blasphemy as surprised at the versatility of her inclination, that could dispose her to pray and curse almost in the same breath."

Passing the old exquisite arch that, in the beginning of this description, I had represented as near to the half-pay officer's new house, my attention was directed to a rounded ridge of moderate elevation, which, I was informed, was the covered secret way which led from the building - a nunnery built by Devorgilla, daughter of Murrough O'Melaghlin, king of Meath - to the churches. I had no time to explore this curious passage. Tradition records many such between monasteries and nunneries in Ireland. I suppose they were intended for useful and sanctified purposes. It may not be too uncharitable to suppose that they were sometimes applied to the furtherance of pious frauds, or to what as worse. The hagiologists of Ireland describe how St. Ita, one of the early female saints, was desirous to receive the eucharist from the holy hands of the monks of Clonmacnoise; and that, pursuant to her desire, she did receive it without anyone seeing her going to the place or returning from it. Might not the beatified dame have made use of this covered passage, and unseen by vulgar eyes, have been at the eucharistical altar?

It is now time for me to close this too long chapter. I am fully aware that the few hours I spent at Clonmacnoise were not sufficient to give me an adequate picture or intelligence of the place. I should feel the deeper regret at the cursoriness of my inspection, were I not sure that in the forthcoming work of Mr. Petrie [George Petrie], all that I have overlooked will be supplied. In fact, I only, in this case, look upon myself as the brief indicator of what will be amply supplied by a more practised hand. Like an insignificant bird in the American forest, my only use may be, by my garrulous noise, to call the attention of the traveller to where the honey tree is to be found.