Donald M'Carthy founded an Abbey for
Franciscan friars. The quiet cloisters in the northwest transept, with
their varying pointed and rounded arches, are unique. The recessed
doorway by which we enter is very beautiful. The towers and east window
are in fair preservation. The monuments within the ruined pile tell us
that it

"contains
In death's embrace M'Carthy More's remains,"

and also reminds us that

"If Erin's chiefs deserve a generous tear,
Heir of their worth, O'Donoghue lies here."

In the centre of the cloisters there grows a great yew tree, spreading
its many branches and shade over them, and above the side walls, forming
a dark cowl, which overshadows the old house of the monks. In ancient
Erin the yew tree was regarded as sacred, and in its shade the Druids
performed their mystic rites. With the early Christians, as an
evergreen, it was a symbol of Life Eternal.

The peasants still inherit some of the awe with which the sacred tree
was held in former days, and they are loth to hurt it with the loss of a
single leaf. All impressive is the desolate majesty of Muckross,
whatever time it is visited!

"But the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild but to flout the ruins grey."

At night, when the pale ghost of the moon looks across the lake, when
the mountains are shrouded in shadows, when the waters are lulling the
slumbering land,

"And the owlet hoots o'er the dead man's grave,"

the solemnity of the scene surpasses even that of fair Melrose, by the
distant Tweed, of which Sir Walter Scott tells.

Driving past the modern mansion in the demesne, along ~Torc Lake~, by
the groves of Dinis, and through the arches of the Old Weir Bridge, the
river glistens and sparkles in the sun, while the distant calmer water
lies deep in sleepy shadows. Beyond the peculiar rock known as the
White Deer we pass through the Tunnel cut under the huge slope of the
mountains. Here is a point of view which fascinates all visitors, and
from which an ample picture of the surroundings may be secured. A mile
further we cross the Galway river, rushing down a well-worn channel
through Cournaglown, the valley sides of which are covered with oak
trees. Already the ceaseless chorus of Derrycunnihy Cascade fills our
ears. With tumult and cries of havoc, the water springs from an altitude
on the mountain side, dividing its force into many minor cataracts, as
it forces the passage barricaded by rocks and boulders, to unit