CHAPTER III. "OH! if yet in your bosom one last spark ye treasure, THE morning sun had not quite cleared away the mists that rested on the mountain tops, as we entered on the narrow and rugged road leading to the celebrated valley of the seven churches. The first view is striking and singular, with more of the sublime in it than we had hitherto seen in Wicklow; taking in the desolate looking ruins, surrounded by memorials of the dead; the lofty round tower, and the peculiar gloom of the lake, with its black, rugged, and over-hanging barriers. From a mud cabin, where we left the carriage, a most intelligent guide issued. Probably, every one who, about the same time, visited Glendalough, well remembers George Winder. There was something rather fine in his countenance and brown curling hair and beard. He hardly ceased talking the whole way; to me, a great annoyance, for I think that any conversation breaking in on the religious sadness and superstitious awe to which such scenes give birth, must be of a very congenial character, and uttered by a voice one loves to hear, to be endured without impatience. We passed through the gateway leading to the once famous city of Glendalough, celebrated as a seat of learning. The cathedral is the most striking object. Every spot pointed out to us, brought with it some wild legendary tale from our loquacious guide. I will repeat one for the sake of the Irish melody attached to it. "The masons and labourers who were employed in the pious task of erecting this venerable structure were observed by St. Kevin, the founder, to be gradually losing that health which they appeared to have possessed at the commencement of their labours. Upon inquiry, it was found that their hours of labour were regulated by this maxim, 'to rise with the lark, and lie down with the lamb.' Now the lark in the valley used to rise so unconscionably early that the labourers were insensibly led into insupportable hardships. To remove this evil, the Saint prayed that the lark might never be permitted to sing in the valley of Glendalough, which petition was accordingly granted." It is said, no lark is ever heard to sing there; and this legend is alluded to by Moore, in one of his melodies : "By that lake, whose gloomy shore, Many superstitious ceremonies are urged upon the attention of travellers by the guide, such as embracing the large granite cross in a particular way; also putting the arm into a circular aperture, and turning it round three times, &c., who at the same time relates the benefits likely to result from the due performance of them. It would be in vain to attempt repeating all St. Kevin's miraculous doings, it was quite enough to listen. There is a group of large thorn bushes near the principal ruin said to have been planted by the hand of the saint, and of course greatly revered. I have been told that thorn bushes are often subjects of superstition in Ireland; they fancy the destinies of some particular persons are interwoven with them, and therefore, it is deemed impious to injure them. Be In the church, called Rhefeart, covered with wild shrubs and ivy, is the resting-place of the O'Tooles, kings of Imaly. It is supposed, seven of them lie buried there. neath Lugduff, in a spot almost inaccessible, are the ruins of a church, where St. Kevin used to seclude himself during Lent, and spend his whole time in penitence and prayer. The round tower is 110 feet in height, and is the most perfect in Ireland of those singular structures. The ruins of the seven churches seem to stand as sentinels at the entrance of the lake, which is about two miles and a half in extent; having black and precipitous mountains hanging over it on every side. The guide D said, that the gloomy hue of this lake never varied. The dark and frightful cliff of Lugduff, imparts its own dismal colouring to the water below. In the front of the rock, hanging perpendicularly over the water, at the height of thirty yards, is the small cave called "St. Kevin's Bed," which is approached by a narrow path along the verge of the precipice, from which one false step would be fatal to the venturous explorer. The wind came roughly down the glen, and rather unpleasantly agitated the lake, as we crossed its gloomy surface in a small boat. I could have fancied old Charon at the helm, and that I saw "The vagrant dead around the dark abode, Waiting to cross th' irremeable flood." As we crossed the water, a woman, who was in the habit of performing such feats, ran along the narrow ledges of the whole opposite line of cliff without shoes and stockings, until she was at length seen clapping her hands in the wonderful cave. She was called Cathleen, from the fair Saint, who so cruelly persecuted St. Kevin with her professions of affection till he freed himself from |