I rode to Rathcormuck. There being a great burying in the afternoon to which people came from all parts, Mr. Lloyd read part of the burial service in the church; after which I preached on "The end of all things is at hand." I was exceedingly shocked at (what I had only heard of before) the Irish howl which followed. It was not a song, as I supposed, but a dismal, inarticulate yell, set up at the grave by four shrill-voiced women who (we understood) were hired for that purpose. But I saw not one that shed a tear; for that, it seems, was not in their bargain.