ENGLISH ABOMINATIONS.

THE AGAPEMONE.

MONASTRIES AND CONVENTS are disgraceful,

Unnat'ral Institutions,-by honest nature censur'd,

spurn'd,

Repudiated. Fore'd institutions,

Engendering sentiments unworthy

Of mankind, DISGRACEFUL to the Christian.

W. PEACE.

THE RECENT OUTCRY by men of integrity, against convents and other similar establishments, has no doubt been strengthened by the filthy doings that from time to time become known through the public news.. papers. Sly as the "keepers " of these institutions may be and are, still little inklings of their misdoings will, providentially, ooze out occasionally. Hence the alarm among the truly upright.

Beginning at Exeter, and travelling northward, had we a second Asmodeus amongst us he would doubtless show us scenes which would make "each particular hair on our head "to stand on end." However, it seems these matters are from policy to be "hushed up." This is sad indeed; but as we might perhaps, by too close an inquiry, only add to the present secresy observed, and so injure some of the innocent indwellers, we will not assist in multiplying their sorrows. May God protect them! say we.

The Agapemone, or Abode of Love, is at all events fair game. The impieties practised here, are but too well known; and yet nobody interferes with them. We have from time to time read public statements of their practices which even in France, or in any other country but England, would have brought down upon the impious ruler of this infernal den condign punishment. Yet, there must be no inquiry! of course not. Are we living in a state of civilisation? we think not.

The recent account of the Agapemone, or the Abode of Love, as detailed by the Sherborne Journal, must not disfigure our columns. Surely not. We would not dare to print the blasphemous assumptions of Mr. Prince. What is going on within his walls may be readily conceived; nay, it appears to be no secret. Yet do his neighbors become reconciled to his propinquity, and grow "used to his practices! If WE lived near him,-but let him be thankful that we don't.

HARK! 'TIS THE VOICE OF SUMMER,

BY HELEN HETHERINGTON.

HARK! 'tis the voice of Summer
Breathing soft melody,-
Softly its accents murmur,

Far over land and sea;
Merrily carolling through the trees,
Or whispering low to the passing breeze.
Gaily her laugh is ringing

O'er many a rocky pile,
And gentle flow'rets springing,

Glean beauty from her smile.
Swiftly the sounds o'er the waters steal,
And sunbeams dance to the merry peal.
Lightly her foot is tripping

Over the mountain heath;
Or with gay flowers skipping,
She weaves a rosy wreath;
And ever and anon she strays
Where dew-drops glisten on the sprays.

Now on the velvet turf

Her steps at twilight roam;
Then, dashing thro' the surf,

She seeks her ocean home.
But ere the moon rides in the sky,
She sings the sun's sweet lullaby.

E'en when she rose to kiss

The mountain's fiery tip, Fair roses craved the bliss

And from her gentle lip

They claimed their exquisite perfume,
And bore away its lovely bloom.

Hark! 'tis the voice of Summer
Calls thee from toil and care,
To welcome each new comer

That blooms to call her fair.
Go, watch the dawn glide o'er the lea;
There nature holds her revelry!

Go where she smiles to bless,

With love and beauty crown'd;
She wears her bridal dress,

And flowers bestrew the ground.
Oh, many a rare and brilliant gem
Is sparkling from her diadem!
Go bathe thy grief-worn face,

Where dew-drops deck the sod ;
Bow with true Christian grace,
And worship Nature's God.
Earth doth His wondrous works declare,
AND HEAVEN PROCLAIM THAT GOD IS THERE!

HOPES.

"On, boy! why seek'st thou with such care Those bubbles of the sea?

Thy touch but frees the prison'd air."— "I'm gathering Hopes," saith he.

"Old man! why in that shatter'd bark

Dost tempt this troubled sea, Without a compass, rudder, mark?"— "I'm following Hope," saith he.

THE GREAT CEDAR AT HAMMERSMITH.

THIS MAGNIFICENT TREE, says Strutt, has every way a claim to the title of Great, being at this time one of the largest, the stateliest, and the most flourishing in the kingdom. Its stem, at the ground, is sixteen feet six inches in circumference, its height is fifty-nine feet, and its branches cover an area of eighty feet in diameter. When it is in the full prime of its summer foliage, waving its rich green arms to the gentle breezes and hiding the small birds innumerable in its boughs, it forms a fine exemplification of the sublime description of the prophet Ezekiel, in his comparison of the glory of Assyria in her most "high and palmy state." "Behold the Assyrian was as a cedar in Lebanon, with fair branches, and with a shadowing shroud, and of an high stature, and his top was among the thick boughs. The waters made him great. The deep set him up on high, with her rivers running round about his plants, and sent out her

little rivers unto all the trees of the field.

"Therefore his might was exalted above all the trees of the field, and his boughs were multiplied, and his branches became long, because of the multitude of waters, when he shot forth.

"All the fowls of Heaven made their nests in his boughs, and under his branches did all the beasts of the field bring forth their young, and under his shadow dwelt all great nations.

"Thus was he fair in his greatness, in the length of his branches, for his root was by great waters. The cedars in the garden of God could not hide him. The fir trees were not like his boughs, and the chesnut trees were not like his branches, nor any tree in the garden of God was like unto him in his beauty.

"I have made him fair by the multitude of his branches, so that all the trees of Eden, that were in the garden of God envied him."-Chapter 31.

A fertile imagination might be led to suppose that this noble tree had witnessed its princes, its heroes, its statesmen, holding their councils, and forming their lofty projects, under the shadow of its branches.

The house with which it may probably be coeval, and which appears to belong to the Elizabethan order of architecture, was in later times the resi

dence of Oliver Cromwell, during the period of the Protectorate; and some who, dazzled by the glare of false greatness, confound striking incidents with grand ones, have been anxious to inspire additional respect for the venerable walls, by assigning to them the unenviable distinction of having had the death-warrant of Charles the First signed within them. Very different at this time are the pursuits carried on,-the consultations held,-in the once stately council-chamber. The house has been the last half-century devoted to the purposes of educa tion. Fair and youthful forms supply the place of sour-visaged Puritans and lank-haired Roundheads; mandates and treaties are turned into exercises and themes; and though the cedar may still be made occasionally the confidant of whispered greatness, or visionary happiness, it is to be hoped it will never again listen to the schemes of guilty ambition, or the signs of fruitless remorse.

Puss.

ANOTHER REMARKABLE YEW TREE

GROWING IN DARLEY DALE.

I HAVE PERUSED, in the last number of OUR JOURNAL, Mr. Editor, a very interestAs I love ing account of the Yew Tree. these trees, and feel sure that all other lovers of nature must unite in the feeling, let me direct attention to another very beautiful specimen, growing in that picturesque spot-Darley Dale.

Darley Dale is distant from Matlock some four miles; and from Chatsworth the distance is five miles. The tree I allude to, graces the south side of the churchyard.

My admiration of this very beautiful object, has induced me to ascertain its dimensions, and I have had it accurately measured. At four feet from the ground, its girth is forty-two feet and four inches. From its vast trunk issue radiating branches Nor is it in any way a deformed tree. of proportional size and length-the whole of fine form, and well-grown.

I hardly need tell you, that this king of trees is lovingly cherished by the parishioners. Nor is its fame unknown to strangers, of whom a vast number come to pay it a visit. A lithographic print of it has been executed, one of which is in the possession of a friend of mine, residing in Norfolk. I may mention, that there are some gems of younger growth in this same spot, all giving lively promise of robust and lofty stature as time develops their latent powers.

Is it air or soil, or both combined, that produces such remarkable specimens of so slow-growing a tree as the Yew? Kingston Lisle, July 6.

E. F. P.

[The cause of the rapid growth and healthy state of these noble trees, no doubt originates in their love for the soil, air, and climate; all which evidently conduce to their good looks and colossal proportions. If we mortals were to study more closely than we do what suits our constitution, and to live in a more "healthy atmosphere"-we use the expression quantum valeat, we too should flourish like these trees. Ere long, we purpose taking a trip to see what is here so kindly brought under our notice. We love the yew tree dearly.]

Oh, happy creatures! scarce they pass
A daisy, pink, or flowering grass,
Without a burst of joy.
A smooth grey pebble is a prize;
The glancing of the butterflies

Enchants them, girl and boy.

What deep delight to stand and hear
The linnet, tremulously clear,

The droning of the bee;
That sound of waves, so soft in swell,
As loud might issue from a shell
That whispers of the sea!

To gather in the deep green lane
The hawthorn blossoms that remain,
Last month's delicious boon;
And feel it as the perfumed breath,
The shade of May that lingereth
Upon the skirts of June!

See the wild rosebuds crimsoning;
It is the blushing of the Spring

'Neath Summer's earliest kiss; The children's voice seems wildly fit, The thrill of life is exquisite

On such a day as this.

At last we reach a still retreat,
Cushioned with moss, and scented sweet,
A forest parlor, fair;
Soft jets of sunshine pouring through
Its emerald roof, and Heaven's pale blue
Just glimpsing here and there.
While each a wild-wood garland weaves
Beneath the flickering of the leaves,—
How fair they seem and still!
A moment more, both laughing stand,
And shake, for sport, from hand to hand,
The silver of the rill.

And now a fairy measure tread;
Anon the tiny feast is spread,

And while the day goes by,-
The echoed voice of each gay elf
Returns, as though e'en Silence' self
Laughed back for sympathy!
Say'st thou this day was idly spent ;
Its beauty not ineloquent,

Good lessons to impart ?— That, looking at the unfathomed sky, No holy sense of mystery

Would settle round the heart?

Or will they love each other less
For seeing Nature's lovingness;
Or more ungrateful prove
For having joined a childish lay
With her thanksgiving psalm to-day,
To her great King above?
Nay; but whate'er their future lot,
The memory of that verdant spot,
The coolness and the calm,
Upon worn spirits tired of life,
Or through the fever of the strife,
Will fall as soft as balm.

Oh! we should steep our senses dull
In all the pure and beautiful

That God for them hath given; Creep into Nature's heart, and thence Look out with gratitude intense

ON LIFE, AND UP TO HEAVEN.
From Household Words.

PEOPLE WHO DO NOT LIKE POETRY.

WE have "said our say " about the poetry of life, and shown how " poor those are whose minds cannot rise superior to the common jog-trot of the world's vulgar feeling. At this season of the year, it is sad to listen to the remarks of the million, whose whole pleasure seems concentrated in eating, drinking, smoking, and rioting. They talk about fresh air, and poison it. They ramble in the country, only to give loose to excess of gluttony.

"Oh! these people who do not like poetry," says Eliza Cook; "they are sad thorns in the side of refined humanity! They may be useful, but we honestly confess, if we have one prejudice stronger than another, it exists against such animated fossils." How heartily do we join in this sentiment! We fear we shall not live to see much improvement in this matter. At all events, we progress very slowly. Sensuality and excess seem, particularly in the summer, to banish all feelings of refinement amongst "the people."

A VISIT TO MUCROSS ABBEY, KILLARNEY: ROAMING OVER THAT beautiful mountain district, situated in the south-west of Ireland, famed throughout the world for its glorious and ever varying scenes, I was frequently an observer of those charming views, and saw a little of the manners and customs of that ancient and superstitious peasantry-bordering the Lakes of Killarney.

Every person who has visited the three lakes, will remember the promontory of Mucross in the Upper Lake, with its Abbey ruins mantled by that offspring of nature which at this early season throws out its million decorations from countless branches and stems-all capped by rich green leaves of many hues, casting a cheerful pall over those memorable ruins, over the ashes of friars resting in the tomb.

The demesne of Mucross and its promontory are pleasingly described by Mrs. S. C. Hall in a very elaborate book called "A Week at Killarney." Tourists, who come hither, admire the avenue with its tall elms, where more than thirty herons hover at a stone's throw; also the first peep through the nave archway, looking up the chancel, is a favorite one. This forms a sweet picture in shade and color, when the bright sun shines. The sky and trees appear to be receding from you, through a mullioned window, which is perfect in appearance-almost as though the builder had placed it there yesterday. A small and singularly-formed tower divides the nave from the chancel. My guide informed me, that architects delighted in the four plain supporters of the tower. These are merely stone posts, forming a door-shaped opening into the east and west portions of the church.

The order of friars who settled here, seem well to have understood a provident arrangement for temporal comforts in their habita. tions. They had their library, refectory, and kitchen on the same floor, with doors from one into the other. The good men of those days after matin services, could pleasantly beguile their time in a spacious library; but what vestiges remain to us of the dark wood book-cases, arranged in rows along the room; or of the scriptorium which I infer was incorporated with the library? What relics of the many thousand hours spent in illuminating and compiling missals? There seems only one trophy to catch the eye; and that is a recess in the north wall, where perchance, books have been placed; the stone edges of which are now rounded, and are fast crumbling away.

Let us picture the friars (they belonged to the Franciscan order) in calm debate over a flagon of Burgundy, taken from their extensive wine stores, in incomparably large cel

lars below (for the monastery is small otherwise in proportion). We can fancy them all sitting cosily around an arbutus-wood table. The material might then be prized as it is now, for ladies' work-boxes, tables, and cardcases; for egg-cups, and gentlemen's tobacco boxes. The friars might be talking over the studies of the day; their advancement in doctrinal learning; their fresh visitors at church; the giving of alms to the poor from the hospitium-all passing a cordial hour after the mid-day meal in the solemn area of their refectory.

We can view this dining-hall in a more exuberant scene; when an ever continued hospitality within the pious roof never thought cheerful, heartfelt, innocent mirth, a sin. Graced as the festive board might be by a courtly and lordly guest,-with generous sympathy was the worldly man greeted, entertained, and followed on his way by the blessing of the brotherhood. This country abounds with legends and tales. The most ridiculous perhaps are those told of the O'Donoghue; who, in days when fairies governed ignorant noddles, lived on a lovely island in the Lower Lake, named Ross Island. He was noted for his wizard acts, and we may conclude that he and his descendants were men of warm Irish bloodglorying in freaks of every kind; delighted with making dupes of the ignorant credulous tribes about them. Possibly, these good men in their way were attracted by the intelligence of the recluse men, who lived a pleasant boat's pull from the old grim castle; and that on call days, they helped to consume savory edibles sent piping-hot from a wide kitchen fire-place in the apartment adjoining. The O'Donoghue passed a merry hour or two, discoursing upon popular topics of that day

namely, how Coleman, of the Upper Lake, had his eye kicked, and was obliged to bathe it in a narrow inlet bordering the lake, beyond which Coleman must not again venture. How the last hart was gallantly slain on that foeman's ground (Coleman's), and victoriously carried off to the Ross Island larder. Fancies like these may strike us, and we can imagine them to be truths-almost; when man walked over the floors of Mucross; when they were not green, and O'Donoghue of the glens and Ross reigned supreme. The kitchen chimney is a striking object; the whole being perfect, nearly to the top stones. The cellar and store-rooms are very extensive-skirting, on two sides, the cloisters which form a true gem in the architecture of the building. Four rows of arches present a square around the area, and in the centre of the court has grown up a gigantic yew, said to be the tallest in Ireland; and to have been planted by the friars branches throw a sombre and cool shade all

Its many

around, and within the cloister walks; inclining the mind for contemplation, when the sun's rays burned at mid-day.

The belfry-tower floor is curious. In it are two circular apertures, hewn out of stone blocks, which the matin, and vesper bell cords chafed many centuries ago. A relic similar to this I have not noticed before in monastic ruins. From a calm pleasant feeling, enjoyed during a stroll over these beautiful remains, a spot inviting the mind to ponder over history past, (the thoughts of a visit to which, make visitors long to come,) we must advance; although again-

We long to catch the light of glimm'ring moon Amongst the trees, swift running, faintly creeping;

To rest our eye on the sage mullions mantled With ivy, as it clings; that dances, flutters, And seems to mock cool breezes, chasing along Walls of vaulted chambers, scented flowers, Which find their home about the crumbling ruins. There, with myriad tips of glowing beauty, Luna we gaze on, gently kissing these. Would we not saunter oft on such an eve Round Mucross Dell? or should our drowsy eyes Remain until the morn can blithely speak Unto our vision, and an anxious heart, With halcyon breath through blue Aurora's veil? Then let us go-the sun's above the hills, Our guide sweet nature, and our object,-love. We must now bid adieu to sentiment and verse-making, and be transmitted as it were through trains of guides, and mountain women, some of whom call themselves " "The veritable Kate Kearney." Boys haunt you with the names Torc, Waterfall, Mucross, &c. The girls (who by the way are not particularly prepossessing in appearance) bother you with goats'-milk and whiskey; and (ladies don't blush when I say it) become volunteers to guide ladies and gentlemen to the top of Maugerton mountain.

Shall we sit by this small ruin, once a holy temple-near the fallen tree, by the tombs of many who are gone; who have seen and loved that lonely lake before us, and loved it more because near it they were born? On a fine May evening, shall we listen to the final rich notes of the song-thrush on the larch twig, and the piping of many birds in distant trees, along projecting rocks? Those sylvan carols have died in the breeze; are repeated from trees far in the glen. Again those life-notes so gentle are finally drowned by other tones, which, swelling on the ruffled air, usher in the woful sorrowing cries of the bearers of the dead. We listen to the wretched wailing of hired mourners practising their avocation at a funeral.

They are women, around a corpse which is to be interred in Mucross Abbeyand they are called Keeners. Bewildered by their lamentations, can we resist the desire to catch up some words of that sad lament, and follow the mourners to the grave?

We retrace our steps to Mucross burialground, which seemed so fresh when the sun gladdened the lively May green. But this mysterious-looking group went on as a dark cloud, bearing the body of some poor man who had died many miles away, whose right is was to be interred here because his forefathers were placed here before him. Entering the grave-yard gate, I observed men, women, and children on bended knees, engaged in prayer at the tombs of those they had loved. Further on was a dark confused mass (I cannot compare the group better than to bees within a hive): this was vice of the Protestant church. Astonished a scene never observable in the composed serwith this odd spectacle, I advanced close to the performers and the mourners. It did not

a little shock the sentiments of a Protestant to seerude embraces round a cloth-covered coffin.

But this was the custom of the country, and amidst that rude simplicity let us hope that a light may yet shine.

The remains were placed on the green sward; towards the head were the deceased's nearest relatives. Some were fatherless children, whose bitter sorrows looked very real. Their heart pangs lost a childlike grief in tears-refreshing them, poor things, for the toils to come, when an earthly guardian was not near to guide them. Around the foot of the coffin in long black-hooded cloaks, knelt from six to eight women; hired to swell the sorrows, and rend the air again. My informant said that these women earned from half-a-crown to five shillings for their

seems to be, to cry as much as they can. One very ancient woman rubbed her right eye with a very hard pocket-handkerchief. The optic was red, very red-too much so,