You are above the tall firs, and the solemn Torc Mountain
rises far above you. I would have been lost in admiration had I never
seen the upper Ottawa or the River aux Lievres. Feeling no inclination
to commit petty larceny on the ferns, I descended slowly and returned.
The ruined abbey of Muckross is another of the sights of Killarney.
Every visitor pays a shilling to Mr. Herbert for permission to enter
here. I did not go to see it, but some of the party at the hotel did.
They described the cloisters as being in a good state of preservation -
cloisters are a kind of arched piazza running round a court yard, in
this case having in its centre a magnificent yew tree. These ruins are
taken great care of, therefore parts of the abbey are in a pretty good
state of preservation. They tell of a certain man named John Drake, who
took possession of the abbey kitchen about one hundred years ago, lived
there as a hermit for about eleven years in the odor of sanctity.
There was quite a party going through the gap of Dunloe, which reduced
the price of the trip to very little, comparatively speaking, and I was
persuaded to join it. Every available spot about here has a lordly
tower, a lady's bower, an old ruin or a new castle. The Workhouse is
fine enough and extensive enough for a castle, and the Lunatic Asylum
might be a palace for a crowned head. There are the ruins of Aghadon
Castle on one ridge and the shrunk remains of a round tower. A brother
of the great O'Connell lives here in a white house bearing the same name
as the hotel, Lakeview House. We look with some interest at Dunloe
Castle. once the residence of O'Sullivan Mor, and listen to the car-man
who tells us of the glories of the three great families that owned
Kerry, O'Sullivan Mor, O'Sullivan Bear and great O'Donoghoe.
Of course we hear legend after legend of the threadbare tales of the
Lakes. We heard much of the cave of Dunloe which has many records, in
the Ogham character, of Ireland in the days of the Druids. All this time
we were driving along a road with bare mountains, and tree-covered
mountains rising on every hand. It reminded me in some places of the
long glen in Leitrim, in others of Canadian scenes among the mountains.
We began to be beset by mounted men on scrubby ponies. They gathered
round us, riding along as our escort, behind and before and alongside
urging on us the necessity of a pony to cross the road through the gap.
Their pertinacity was something wonderful.
The carman stopped at a miserable cabin said to have been the residence
of the Kate Kearney of Lady Morgan's song.
