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Title: Wanderings in Ireland
Author: Shoemaker, Michael Myers
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Wanderings in Ireland" ***
By M. M. SHOEMAKER
ISLANDS OF THE SOUTHERN SEAS
With 80 Illustrations. Second Edition. Large 8vo. Gilt
top $2.25
QUAINT CORNERS OF ANCIENT EMPIRES
With 47 Illustrations. Large 8vo. Gilt top $2.25
THE GREAT SIBERIAN RAILWAY FROM PETERSBURG
TO PEKING
With 30 Illustrations and a Map. Large 8vo net, $2.00
THE HEART OF THE ORIENT
With 52 Illustrations. Large 8vo net, $2.50
WINGED WHEELS IN FRANCE
With about 60 Illustrations. Large 8vo net, $2.50
WANDERINGS IN IRELAND
With 72 Illustrations. Large 8vo net,
PALACES AND PRISONS OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS
With about 60 Illustrations. Large 8vo net, $5.00
Large Paper Edition. 4o net, $12.00
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
New York London
[Illustration: "The Harp of Erin"
From the original painting by T. Buchanan Read in possession of the
author]
WANDERINGS
IN
IRELAND
BY
MICHAEL MYERS SHOEMAKER
Author of "Islands of the Southern Seas,"
"Winged Wheels in France," etc.
Illustrated
[Illustration]
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1908
COPYRIGHT, 1908
BY
MICHAEL MYERS SHOEMAKER
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
TO MY AUNT
ANNA L. SHOEMAKER
THESE NOTES ARE AFFECTIONATELY
DEDICATED
PREFACE
Are you minded for a jaunt through the island of Erin where tears and
smiles are near related and sobs and laughter go hand in hand? We will
walk, and will take it in donkey-cart and jaunting-car--by train and in
motor-cars--and if you suit yourself you will suit me.
Leaving Dublin we will circle northward, with a visit to Tanderagee
Castle and the tomb of St. Patrick--God bless him,--then on past the
Causeway and down to Derry, and so into the County of Mayo, where in the
midst of a fair you will encounter the wildest "Konfusion" and will be
introduced to the gentleman who pays the rent.
In the silence and solitudes of the island of Achill you will see tears
and hear sobs as you listen to the keening for the dead. Near the island
of Clare, Queen Grace O'Malley will almost order you away, as she did
her husband, and your motor with all its wings out will roll through the
grand scenery of the western coast--now down by the ocean and then far
up amidst the sombre mountains--Kylemore Castle and quaint Galway, Leap
Castle--ghost-haunted--and moated Ffranckfort, Holy Cross and the Rock
of Cashel--will pass in stately array and be succeeded by a glimpse of
army life at Buttevant, and a dinner at Doneraile Court, where you will
hear of the only woman Free Mason. Killarney will follow with its music
and legends, and Cork and Fermoy, and so on and into the County of
Wexford, where you will rush through the lanes and byways and will scare
many old ladies--driving as many donkeys--almost into Kingdom Come. You
will be welcomed at Bannow House and entertained in that quaintest of
all earthly dwellings, "Tintern Abbey," which was a ruin when the family
moved into it more than three centuries ago. You will visit the buried
city of Bannow and pass on to where Moore watched the "Meeting of the
Waters." You will visit in stately mansions, and go with a wild rush to
the races at the Curragh. At Jigginstown House you will be reminded of
the cowardice of a king, and as you bid farewell to Ireland you will lay
a wreath on the grave of Daniel O'Connell,--all this and much more if
you are so minded.
M. M. S.
UNION CLUB, NEW YORK, January 1, 1908.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
PAGE
Welcome to Ireland. Quaint People of Dublin. Packing
the Motors. Departure. Tara Hill. Its History and
Legends. Ruins at Trim. Tombs of the Druids.
Battle-field of the Boyne 1
CHAPTER II
Through Newry to Tanderagee Castle. Life in the Castle.
Excursions to Armagh. Its History. The English in Armagh 15
CHAPTER III
Through Newcastle to Downpatrick. Grave of St. Patrick.
His Life and Work. The Old Grave Digger. Belfast and
Ballygalley Bay. O'Halloran, the Outlaw 25
CHAPTER IV
Ballycastle to the Causeway. Prosperity of Northern
Ireland. Bundoran. Gay Life in County Mayo. Mantua
House. Troubles in Roscommon. Wit of the People. Irish
Girls. Emigration to America. Episode of the Horse.
People of the Hills. Chats by the Wayside. Mallaranny 34
CHAPTER V
The Island of Achill. Picturesque Scenery. Poverty
of the People. "Keening" for the Dead. "The Gintleman
who pays the Rint." Superstitious Legends 53
CHAPTER VI
Monastery of Burrishoole. Queen Grace O'Malley and
her Castle of Carrig-a-Hooly. Her Appearance at
Elizabeth's Court. Dismissal of her Husband. Wild
Scenery of the West Coast. The Ancient Tongue.
Recess. Kylemore Castle. Crazy Biddy 77
CHAPTER VII
The Ancient City of Galway. Quaint People. Curious
Houses. Vile Hotel. Parsonstown. Wingfield House.
Leap Castle, and its Ghosts. Ffranckfort Castle.
Clonmacnoise. Holy Cross Abbey 94
CHAPTER VIII
The Rock of Cashel. Its Cathedral, Palace, and Round
Tower--Its History and Legends. Kilmalloch, its
Ruins and History. The Desmonds. Horse Fair at
Buttevant 119
CHAPTER IX
Buttevant Barracks. Army Life. Mess-room Talk.
Condition of the Barracks. Balleybeg Abbey. Old
Church. Native Wedding. Kilcoman Castle, Spenser's
Home. Doneraile Court. Mrs. Aldworth, the only
Woman Freemason. Irish Wit. Regimental Plate.
Departure from the Barracks 132
CHAPTER X
Route to Killarney. Country Estates. Singular Customs.
Picturesque Squalor. Peace of the Lakes. Innisfallen.
The Legend of "Abbot Augustine." His Grave. "Dennis,"
the "Buttons," and his Family Affairs. Motors in the
Gap of Dunloe 161
CHAPTER XI
Kenmare and Herbert Demesnes. Old Woman at the Gates.
Route to Glengariff. Bantry Bay. Boggeragh Mountains.
Duishane Castle. The Carrig-a-pooka and its Legend.
Macroom Castle and William Penn. Cork. Imperial
Hotel. "Ticklesome" Car Boy. The Races and my Brown
Hat. Route to Fermoy. Breakdown. Clonmel and its
"Royal Irish." Ride to Waterford 170
CHAPTER XII
Ancient Waterford. History. Reginald's Tower.
Franciscan Friary. Dunbrody Abbey. New Ross. Bannow
House. Its "Grey Lady." Legend of the Wood Pigeon.
Ancient Garden. Buried City of Bannow. Dancing on
the Tombs. Donkeys and Old Women. Tintern Abbey and
its Occupants. Quaint Rooms and Quainter Stories.
Its History and Legends. The Dead man on the Dinner
Table. The Secret of the Walls. The Illuminated
Parchment. The Sealed Library. Ruined Chapel. King
Charles's Clothes. Is History False or True? 181
CHAPTER XIII
Return to Ireland. Illness. Conditions on the Great
Liners. The Quay at Cork "of a Saturday Evening."
En route once more. The Old Lady and the Donkey.
Barracks at Fermoy. Killshening House, Abandoned
Seat of the Roche Family. Fethard. Quaint Customs.
The Man in the Coffin. "Curraghmore House" and its
Great Kennels. Its Legends, Ghosts, and History.
Lady Waterford. Oliver Cromwell at the Castle. The
Marquis in the Dungeon 209
CHAPTER XIV
Departure from Fethard. A Dead Horse and a Lawsuit.
Approach to Dublin. Estate of Kilruddery. The
Swan as a Fighter. Glendalough, its Ruins and History.
Tom Moore and his Tree in Ovoca. Advantages of Motor
Travel. Superstition of the Magpie. A Boy, a Cart,
and a Black Sheep. The Goose and the Motor 225
CHAPTER XV
The Lunatic. Insanity and its Causes in Ireland. The
Usual Old Lady and Donkey. Sunshine and Shadow.
Clonmines and its Seven Churches. The Crosses around
the Holy Tree. Baginbun and the Landing of the
English. The Bull of Pope Adrian. Letter of Pope
Alexander. Protest of the Irish Princes. Legends.
Death of Henry II. 243
CHAPTER XVI
Wild Times in Ireland. Landlord and Tenant. Evictions.
Boycott at Bannow House. The Parson and the Legacy.
The Priest and the Whipping. Burial in Cement.
Departure from Bannow House. Kilkenny and her Cats.
The Mountains of Wicklow. Powerscourt and a Week-End.
Run to Dublin and an Encounter by the Way. The Irish
Constabulary. Motor Runs in the Mountains. Lord H----. 260
CHAPTER XVII
Dublin. Derby Day and the Rush to the Curragh. An
Irish Crowd. The Kildare Street Club and Club Life.
Jigginstown House and its History. The Cowardice
of a King. The Old Woman on the Tram Car. Parnell.
The Grave of Daniel O'Connell 276
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
THE HARP OF ERIN _Frontispiece_
From the original painting by T. Buchanan Read,
in the possession of the author
STATUE OF ST. PATRICK ON THE HILL OF TARA 4
CASTLE OF KING JOHN AT TRIM 8
MONUMENT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD OF THE BOYNE 12
TANDERAGEE CASTLE, IRISH SEAT OF THE DUKE
OF MANCHESTER 16
CHAPEL, TANDERAGEE CASTLE 20
DRAWING-ROOM, TANDERAGEE CASTLE 24
TERRACE, TANDERAGEE CASTLE 28
TOMB OF ST. PATRICK AT DOWNPATRICK 32
A CABIN IN THE NORTH 36
A WOMAN OF THE NORTH 40
MANTUA HOUSE, ROSCOMMON 44
BALLINA, A TYPICAL IRISH TOWN 48
A GLIMPSE OF ACHILL 52
SLIEVEMORE MOUNTAIN, AND DUGORT, ACHILL 56
FISHERFOLK OF ACHILL 60
A LONELY ROAD IN CONNEMARA 64
KYLEMORE CASTLE, CONNEMARA 68
CRAZY BIDDY 72
THE LYNCH HOUSE, GALWAY 76
ABBEY OF ST. DOMINICK, LORRHA, ANCIENT
BURIAL-PLACE OF THE CARROLLS 80
LEAP CASTLE, COURT SIDE 84
LEAP CASTLE, PARK SIDE 88
MOAT OF FFRANCKFORT CASTLE 92
FFRANCKFORT CASTLE 96
CLONMACNOISE 100
ABBEY OF THE HOLY CROSS 104
ROCK OF CASHEL 108
CORMAC'S CHAPEL, CASHEL 112
CROSS OF CASHEL, AND THRONE OF THE KINGS
OF MUNSTER 116
ANCIENT GATEWAY, KILMALLOCH 120
DOMINICAN ABBEY, KILMALLOCH 124
BUTTEVANT BARRACKS 128
DINNER, BUTTEVANT BARRACKS 132
BUTTEVANT, COUNTY CORK 136
KILCOMAN CASTLE, SPENSER'S HOME 140
DONERAILE COURT, COUNTY CORK 144
ROOM IN DONERAILE COURT WHERE MRS. ALDWORTH
HID 148
THE HON. MRS. ALDWORTH, THE ONLY WOMAN
FREEMASON 152
THE LAKE, DONERAILE PARK 156
MALLOW CASTLE, COUNTY CORK 160
IRISH COTTAGE, COUNTY KERRY 164
CHAPEL OF ST. FINIAN THE LEPER, INNISFALLEN 168
TREE OVER THE ABBOT'S GRAVE, INNISFALLEN 172
UPPER LAKE, KILLARNEY 176
"DINNIS," HOTEL VICTORIA 180
THE ROUTE TO GLENGARIFF 184
CARRIG-A-POOKA CASTLE 188
MACROOM CASTLE 192
REGINALD'S TOWER, WATERFORD 196
FRANCISCAN FRIARY, WATERFORD 200
DUNBRODY ABBEY, COUNTY WEXFORD 204
BANNOW HOUSE, COUNTY WEXFORD 208
TERRACE, BANNOW HOUSE, COUNTY WEXFORD 212
CORNER OF THE ROSE GARDEN, BANNOW HOUSE,
COUNTY WEXFORD 216
BANNOW CHURCH, COUNTY WEXFORD 220
TOMBS IN BANNOW CHURCH 224
TINTERN ABBEY, COUNTY WEXFORD 228
KILKENNY CASTLE 232
DESERTED KILLSHENING HOUSE, FERMOY 236
CURRAGHMORE HOUSE, MARQUIS OF WATERFORD 240
HALLWAY, CURRAGHMORE HOUSE 244
DINING-ROOM, CURRAGHMORE HOUSE 248
KILRUDDERY HOUSE, EARL OF MEATH 252
GLENDALOUGH 256
TOM MOORE'S TREE, VALE OF OVOCA 260
ONE OF THE SEVEN CHURCHES, CLONMINES 264
FUNERAL CROSSES BY THE WAYSIDE, COUNTY
WEXFORD 268
POWERSCOURT HOUSE 272
GREAT SALON, POWERSCOURT HOUSE 276
RUINS OF JIGGINSTOWN HOUSE, EARL OF STRAFFORD 280
PARNELL'S GRAVE, GLASNEVIN CEMETERY,
DUBLIN 284
DANIEL O'CONNELL'S MONUMENT, GLASNEVIN
CEMETERY, DUBLIN 288
WANDERINGS IN IRELAND
CHAPTER I
Welcome to Ireland--Quaint People of Dublin--Packing the Motor and
Departure--Tara Hill; its History and Legends--Ruins at Trim--Tombs
of the Druids--Battle-field of the Boyne.
"Glory be to God, but yer honour is welcome to Ireland."
An old traveller understands that it is the unexpected which makes the
joy of his days. I had come to Europe with the intention of spending
some conventional weeks in London, followed by an auto tour with the
family through the fair land of France. Fate brings me, upon my first
day in town, to Prince's Restaurant, when out of the chaos of faces
before me rises one whose owner, a son of Erin whom I had last seen
under the cherry blossoms of Japan, advances upon me. Then the
conventional promptly drops off and away, and it is but a short while
before a motor tour is arranged in the Emerald Isle, a month to be
passed amidst its beauties and miseries, its mirth and its sadness, for
all go in one grand company in the land of St. Patrick.
With Boyse of Bannow I shall follow the fancy of the moment, which to my
thinking is the only true mode of travel.
"Du Cros" has agreed to furnish a perfectly new Panhard for and upon the
same terms which I received in France last year, viz., thirty pounds
sterling per week, and everything found except the board and lodging of
the chauffeur. These very necessary details arranged we are impatient to
be off and leave London on a hot day in June. The smells, dirt, and dust
of her wooden streets, driven in clouds over all the grand old city,
follow us far out into the green meadows of England until we ask whether
the hawthorn blossoms have ever held any fragrance, and have we not been
mistaken as to roses. But London is not all of England, and we are
finally well beyond her influence and wondering why we remained within
her limits with the beautiful country so near at hand. The meadows of
England giving way to the mountains of Wales, one catches a glimpse of
the stately towers of Conway Castle, and then sails outward and westward
upon a level sea, which, on its farther side, holds the haven of desire,
Dublin, on the broad waters of the Liffey.
Ireland welcomes us, weeping softly the while, though smiling ever and
anon as the sunlight rifts downward from the west. The gang-plank is
slippery and the pavements mucky, but our welcome is a warm one, at
least one fat, comfortable looking old woman with a shawl over her head,
a gown whose colour I cannot attempt to give, and shoes which have
evidently been discarded by her "auld man," greets me with a "Glory be
to God, but yer honour is welcome to Ireland!" and then catching sight
of my Jap servant, she gives utterance to a very audible aside, "Be the
powers of the divil, phat's that he has wid him!" crossing herself
vehemently the while, firmly convinced, I doubt not, that she has seen a
limb of Satan, which I think he strongly resembles.
The Shelburn Hotel receives us within its walls, unchanged in the thirty
years which have elapsed since I last crossed the threshold, a
comfortable inn, pleasantly situated upon College Green, where a band of
Irish musicians are discoursing American ballads of the early sixties.
One runs into the tide of American tourists here in Dublin, and to-night
this hotel is crowded with them. The clatter of tongues proving too much
for me, I dine and start to bed as soon as possible--a good book and an
easy resting-place are attractive after the long ride from London.
In the hallway I encounter the porter trying to induce an old gentleman
to go to bed. Said gentleman is drunk as a gentleman should be, and
sound asleep in his chair, holding fast to a glass of whiskey and soda,
from which no efforts of the porter can part him.
"What's the number of your room, sir?"
The sleeping eyes half open as the happy man murmurs, "Wasn't you tryin'
to stale my whiskey just now?"
"Well, I thought, sir, ye would be more comfortable in yer room."
"Let slapin' dogs lie, me boy. But 'twas in a good cause ye did it, and
so I'll go," and he staggers off to the lift, sleeps on my shoulders
until I get out, and probably on the bench for the rest of the night, as
that small lift boy could never move that bulk, redolent of whiskey and
good humour.
So far I have heard nothing from Boyse, who was to have rejoined me
here, and, when ten o'clock comes round, give him up for the night, and
putting out the light am shortly in the land of dreams, only to be
awakened by a clatter on the door followed by the entrance of the
missing man. He has put up at the Club, having reached here ahead of me.
Our car he reports ready for us at nine to-morrow morning, and I shortly
drive him out as it has gotten late.
One must be of a sour disposition if one does not laugh in Ireland, and
be assured her people will always laugh with one, though at times there
sounds a catch of a sob running through it all. Seat yourself on any
spot in the island, and something funny is apt, nay almost sure, to
occur before you depart; all of which is apparently arranged for your
especial benefit.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Statue of St. Patrick on Tara Hill]
It is raining this morning and it is Sunday, which in the dominions of
his Majesty does not mean a day of diversion unless you happen to be a
guest in some country house. I am in a secluded seat on the portico of
the hotel, when directly before me, on the only spot of pavement
visible, appears a girl of fourteen dressed in everything which could
never by the widest stretch of the imagination have been intended for
her when purchased. She summons "Katie darlin'" not to be such a
"truble" to her, but to appear and "spake to the gintleman," whereupon
from around the corner of a stone post comes "Katie darlin'," a mite of
a child some two feet tall with a pair of black eyes sparkling all over
her dirty little face. She is robed in what looks like a blue plush
opera-cloak on wrong side in front and festooned over what were once
shoes; her shock of never combed hair is topped by an old woman's
bonnet. "Katie darlin'" is evidently out for her Sunday. She is glad to
see every one, and especially "Your honour" after the reception of a
"ha'penny." Bless her dirty little face, what will be her portion in
this life, I wonder! Yet, after all, being Irish, she is safer than if
born of another race, for the women of her land do not go down to death
and destruction as easily as those of other countries, be it said to
their credit. God grant it may be so with "Katie darlin'," who goes
smilingly away to meet whatever fate the future holds for her, and which
disturbs her not at all as yet.
The morning of our start from Dublin opens windy and with drifting
clouds but is a fair day for hereabouts, and after all these grey skys
are very soothing to one's eyes.
Our motor rolls up at ten A.M. and proves to be a handsome new Panhard
of fifteen horse-power. Packing and stowing take a half-hour the first
day, as economy of space is to be desired, and the proper arrangement of
luggage is a question to be considered. However, all is done and I roll
off to the "Kildare Street Club," where Boyse awaits me.
His traps necessitate a new arrangement of all the luggage, which I am
not allowed to superintend at all, but am carried off to a room well to
the rear where a whiskey and soda is vainly pressed upon me. I should
much prefer to stay outside and boss the job of loading up, but that
would be undignified. So we stay cooped up until all is arranged, and
then sally forth and roll away with the utmost grandeur of demeanour. I
object several times during the day to the arrangement of those traps,
impressing upon Boyse the truth of the old saying, "if you want a thing
done, go,--if not, send--" and pointing out to him that therein lies the
reason for the increasing glory and prosperity of our country and the
evident decadence of the British Empire.
He does not take me as serious,--perhaps I am not,--but daily life must
have its spice and we spend many hours like Pat and "Dinnis" on the quay
at Cork of a Saturday evening, "fighting each other for conciliation and
hating each other for the love of God."
Speeding away through Dublin's busy streets and out into Phoenix Park,
existence becomes life once more. The rushing winds drive the last taint
of the city and its world of men and women off and away. Beyond the
confines of the park we enter at once into the green country; tall
hawthorn hedges toss their branches above us as we speed onward, the car
moving like a bird. These are not French roads but they are far from
bad. Mile after mile glides by us, and a sharp rain forces the top over
our heads, but not for long,--it is soon down again, and we give
ourselves up for an hour to the enjoyment of mere motion. And then
history claims our attention. Dublin is of course rich in its memories
but leave it for the present and speeding westward some thirty miles
pause at the foot of Tara Hill, the most renowned spot in Ireland. There
are few in our Western land who do not remember the sweet old song of
Moore's:
"The harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that soul were fled."
And there are many to whom its melodies will recall those better days
when voices long since sunken into silence sang them off into dreamland
with those words.
Green grow the grasses to-day over this site of Ireland's most ancient
capital. Gone are its garland-hung walls, silent its harps for ever.
Leaving the present behind, one passes into the remotest recess of the
island's past as one mounts the hill. To-day wavering misty shadows
close in around me as I move upward, even as though the spirits of the
ancient kings and minstrels were yet about, and the winds moan as though
driven across the strings of many harps, and there seems melody all
around me.
Tara is not a great hill, but a fair green mound from which the ancient
kings were wont to spy out all the fair land around them. It was the
most sacred spot in the kingdom and none could wear the crown who bore
blemish of any sort. Cormac Mac Art, the great King, was, upon the loss
of his eye, forced to retire to the hill of Skreen near-by. For
twenty-five hundred years, Tara was the palace and burial-place of the
kings of Ireland, who every third year met here in great convention.
To-day as I stand on its summit nothing of that period, save some long
mounds, breaks the green carpet of grass thrown like the covering of our
holy communion over this holy of holies. Tara was mentioned by Ptolemy
and he called it "illustrious." Its name by some is supposed to be taken
from that of the wife of a King, Heremon, the first monarch of Ireland.
"Thea" was her name and the place was called Temora (the house of Thea),
but others call it "the house of music" (Thead, a musical chord, and
mur, a house).
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Castle of King John Trim]
The main hall stood nine hundred feet square and "twenty-seven cubits in
height." It held its thousand guests daily and on great days the monarch
sat on his throne in its centre, his flowing yellow hair bearing the
golden crown, his stately form clothed in a brilliant scarlet robe laden
with rich ornaments of gold. Golden shoes ornamented with red buckles
and bearing stars and animals in gold, were upon his feet; the King of
Leinster sat, facing him, the King of Ulster sat on his right, the King
of Munster on his left, while the King of Connaught sat behind him. On
long rows of seats before him were the druids, bards, philosophers,
antiquaries, genealogists, musicians, and the chiefs of all the towns of
the kingdom. The assembly was opened by the chief bard, followed by the
druidical rites, after which the fire of Saman, or the moon, was
lighted. Not until then was the business of the convention taken up. In
one part of the palace, the youths were instructed in poetry and music
and initiated into the hidden harmony of the universe. Evidently in
those days a city must have surrounded the base of this hill, but of the
houses of the people little seems to be known and nothing is left.
In these long mounds the traveller to-day may trace the outlines of the
hall composed of earth and wood from whence one hundred and forty-two
kings ruled the land, the great King Cormac dating back to A.D. 227, and
he it is who is supposed to have built this hall. Some claim that the
celebrated "Stone of Destiny" now in the coronation chair in London was
taken from here to Scotland. Of this there is no proof, but so runs the
legend.
There is only the music of the wind-swept grasses on Tara Hill to-night,
yet surely the moon rising so grandly yonder still holds her feast and
is summoning her worshippers from the mists of the valley rising in
fantastic forms all around us,--but the only thing bearing semblance of
human form which she illumines is a crazy statue of St. Patrick here on
the spot where he met and, by the power of the Lord, vanquished the
magicians of the king. There could be no fitter heir to inherit and so
we leave him in sole possession and go down to our car, which rolls us
silently away through the green lanes and on towards Trim's ruined
arches and towers. Now the tall "yellow steeple" of the Abbey of St.
Mary's, founded by St. Patrick, and close into the town the great Castle
of King John loom up in the moonlight. Vast in extent, the castle
appears doubly so in this shadowy light, as we glide by it, a huge empty
shell covered with clambering ivy.
Rolling on through the town we pass to Navan, dear to hunters. All this
is a fair green country where the grass is good for the cattle, where
the poultry thrive, and the Boyne is full of fish, hence one notes on
all sides the ruins of many monasteries, for those old monks were always
to be found where their stomachs could be well taken care of; and yet
with all that they were the power in the land, as the priest is still
the power in southern Ireland.
Leaving Navan we turn northeastward towards Drogheda. The road winds all
the way by the banks of the Boyne and while that name recalls to mind
most prominently the famous battle of the kings, James and William,
still the region was celebrated long ages before either was thought of.
The whole valley was a vast necropolis for the ancient kings and druids,
and on both sides one sees the remains of a remote antiquity, especially
at New Grange where one finds a tumulus covering some two acres. At
first glance it resembles an Indian mound in America, but it is far more
satisfactory to explore as one finds in its interior a tomb of
extraordinary size and rich in carving, which is supposed to date as far
back as the earliest bronze age, but who was buried here is a question
which has never been settled.
We enter by a passage on its southern side about fifty feet long,--a
stone corridor formed by upright slabs about seven feet high and roofed
by stones of great size. Our glimmering candles show the centre tomb to
be a lofty domed chamber, circular in form, its roof composed of
horizontally placed stones projecting one beyond the other and capped by
a single slab some twenty feet above the observer. There are three
recesses branching off from the rotunda, probably the tombs of the
lesser mortals, while the body of the monarch evidently occupied the
centre space.
There is another sepulchre of equal size at Dowth, and doubtless every
hill or mound in sight holds others. If the Boyne as it winds and
murmurs past them could speak, it could doubtless tell us tales of kings
and druids, of royal coronations and priestly ceremonies, of life and
death in the long dead past. How was it all, I wonder? Was it
picturesque and beautiful or did the barbaric side crowd all that down
and out, leaving nothing save a shuddering feeling of horror as one
gazed on the rites of the druids?
These tombs were rifled by the Danes a thousand years ago, and
therefore, aside from the carvings on their walls, have yielded but
little of interest to the antiquary. There is nothing of animal or human
life represented, merely coils, lozenges, and spirals, with now and then
a fern leaf, but nothing which tells their story as do the Egyptian
inscriptions. This valley of the Boyne is beautifully wooded and the
roads are fine. Our route lies past the obelisk marking the famous
battlefield where the sun of James II. set for ever. The valley is
lovely and reminds one greatly of that of the Thames near Richmond. It
has taken most of the day to make the chauffeur understand that we are
not out to kill time and distance. At the rate he would like to travel
we should reach Iceland in time for tea even with the ocean to cross,
but, as I have forced him to retrace the route several times, he seems
at last to understand our determination not to rush.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Monument on the Battle-field of the Boyne]
The whole day's ride has been charming. We did not stop at Drogheda, but
passed on to Newry, a twelve-mile ride over a very fine road, and rested
at the Victoria Hotel, having covered one hundred and three miles since
eleven this morning, with long stoppages several times. The auto has
done splendidly and will do better as it gets down to work.
This is the Protestant end of Ireland, prosperous and contented
apparently, but not picturesque. That goes with the state of affairs to
be found in the southern half.
Newry is a clean town with neat shops and houses, and a good hotel,
still there are Irish characteristics which those of us who remember the
Irish maid of long ago in America will recognise at once. Many things
are broken, "jist came that way"; a complete toilet set is unnecessary
where there are windows; and I notice that the salutations sound always
wrong end first,--when people meet they say "Good-night," a form never
used elsewhere except when parting.
Apparently the hotel is the social club of the town, where the men of a
certain class gather in the evenings, and drawing their chairs in a
circle before the bar, spend an hour or so in chaff with the barmaid,
drinking porter the while. To-night the talk is of a more serious nature
and turns on trade.
It is claimed that what kills all chance of Ireland being a profitable
country are the railway rates, that, for instance, it costs more to get
corn from Galway to Dublin than from America to any point on the island.
I asked an Irishman whether Gladstone had benefited Ireland, and he
replied, "he was the cause of all our trouble, he cost Great Britain two
thousand millions sterling and countless lives, and yet they put up
statues to him."
The traveller of to-day sees no sign of the upper classes in Newry,
though there are estates all around it, and in turning the pages of its
history he will discover that it is a place of great antiquity, though
its streets to-day show no signs thereof. Prosperous and commonplace
would best describe it. However, it is just the prosperous and
commonplace which the traveller most welcomes as night comes down upon
him, for there, and not amongst the romantic and picturesque, in Ireland
at least, does he find comfortable quarters and good food. So it is
to-night and so to bed and dreams.
CHAPTER II
Through Newry to Tanderagee Castle--Life in the Castle--Excursions
to Armagh--Its History--The English in Armagh.
Our route lies from Newry north-west through Pointz-pass, beyond which
as we approach Tanderagee, the castle, a stately stone structure, is
seen towering high on a forest-crowned hill with a flag denoting its
owner's presence floating from the main tower.
While the castle is a modern structure of some seventy-five years of
age,--originally built by the Count de Salis,--it stands on the site of
the very ancient stronghold of Redmond O'Hanlon, the most noted outlaw
of Ireland. As we roll through the quaint town clustering around the
hill, where every soul appears to have gone to sleep or gone dead long
since, the sound of the motor brings a few pale faces to the doors of
the houses, but it is very quiet withal.
Looking upward from this street the growth of trees is so dense that no
sign of the castle is visible. We pass through almost a tunnel cut
through the rocks and trees, and emerging in a spacious courtyard, draw
up at the main portal where the _maître d'hôtel_ meets and conducts us
within, our hosts being off somewhere in their motor but will return
shortly.
This gives us time for a quiet inspection. We find ourselves in a long,
wide, and lofty corridor having a row of windows on its right, while on
the left one has entrance first to the main hall and chapel, stately
apartments very richly decorated, and then in order follow several
drawing-rooms, a library, and a spacious dining-hall, and from the walls
of each and all, the painted faces of those who walked these chambers
long ago look down upon us with questioning gaze as though they still
retained some interest in this world of the living, and yonder dame
would, I know, like to hear the latest news from London; but take my
advice, my lady, and let it pass, it is productive of just the same
unrest and discontent now as when you trod the boards of that great
theatre of life,--Dead Sea fruit, the whole of it.
Wondering what part she played in life, my eyes wander to an open window
and straightway all thoughts of Madam vanish as I gaze downward
through the glades of one of those beautiful parks which abound in these
dominions. A stately terrace of stone shrouded in ivy runs below these
windows and from it the land drops away into a gentle valley filled with
great trees and blossoming banks of rhododendrons with here and there a
stretch of grassland and a gleam of water, a vista which must have been
a perpetual delight to the Duke who collected these books in this
library, for a lover of books is generally a lover of nature.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Tanderagee Castle]
Passing onward you will enter the courtyard and at the end of the long
arcades on one side find the billiard and smoking rooms. On the upper
floors, aside from the state and family apartments, one finds long rows
of bachelor apartments, twenty or thirty of them I should say, and in
the middle of the row a cozy octagon chamber where much high revel has
held forth, and which looks very lonely just now. There are small
closets in the walls which certainly did not hold holy water.
But times are changed at Tanderagee, and while there is to-day high
revel within its walls, it comes from the fresh young voices of children
and would in no way appeal to the ghosts which haunt the octagon
chamber.
After luncheon we visit the little ones in their rooms high up in the
sunlight, and very happy, fine children they appear to be. Round-eyed
little Lady Mary did the honours and presented her brother, who at the
time was making vain attempts to stand on his head in a corner, while
the new baby dreamed his days away in a crib by the fire. I am told that
the present Duke dying without an heir the estate would pass to a
Catholic owner, much to the distaste of the tenants here, who are mostly
Protestants, and that when little Lord Mandeville was born the
rejoicings were immense,--every man as he heard it having a pull at the
church bell. Now there are two sons and hence little chance of the
dreaded misfortune,--though it often happened during the Boer war that
many estates in the empire fell to those so distant that no hope had
been entertained for an instant of their so passing. Let us trust it
will not occur here, for these are fine children.
Passing downward, we spend some hours in wandering over the park,
pausing at last by the grave of the late Duke in the little churchyard.
I did not notice the graves of any other members of the family. I
believe former dukes are interred at Kimbolton, the family seat in
England. The church holds some very beautiful windows erected by the
present Duchess to the memory of her mother, Helena Zimmerman. As we
return to the castle the voices of the children have roused all the
echoes of the courtyard into wild replies and now the sunlight streams
downward as though in thorough approval.
Tea-time, that most pleasant hour of the day, finds me in the chapel
listening to the soft tones of the organ. My hand quite haphazard picks
up a volume lying near me whose title at once chains my attention and in
view of the base manner in which the author afterward sold his talents
to her enemies and slandered his Queen it may be well to quote what he
says of that Queen in this preface:
"TO THE MOST ILLUSTRIOUS MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.
[An Epigram of George Buchanan.]
"MADAM:
"Who now happily holdest the sceptre of the Caledonian coast
conveyed from hand to hand through a long line of innumerable
ancestors, whose fortune is exceeded by thy merits, thy years by
thy virtues, thy sex by thy spirit, and thy noble birth by the
nobility of thy manners,
"Receive (but with candour and good nature) these poems upon which
I have bestowed a Latine Dress, etc. etc. I durst not cast away
this ill-born product of mine lest I should reject what thou hast
been pleased to approve. What my poems could not hope for from the
wit and genius of the composer perhaps they will obtain from thy
good-will and approbation."[1]
Deep in thoughts of that most interesting period of Scotch history I do
not even hear the dressing bell until its clangour becomes too insistent
to be disregarded, and I mount to my room to dress for that most
important function of the day--dinner. A bright fire makes the chamber
warm and cozy so that it is difficult to resist the temptation to
further reverie.
Evidently Tanderagee has been greatly improved of late years. In the
building have been placed several modern bathrooms, a Turkish plunge,
and an electric light plant and steam heat, so that the damp,
penetrating cold and musty, mouldy smell usually so ever-present in
these houses, where fortunes are so constantly spent in decorations and
so little done for actual comfort, are absent. From my window I can see
on the lake of the park an ancient swan named Billy, alone in all his
glory and from choice and bad temper, not necessity. He has killed off
all his kind and all other kinds, is in fact a degenerate bird, and when
evening comes on he betakes himself with the rest of the "boys" to the
village street, and loafs around all night, no dog in the place daring
to molest him. I saw him outside of a public house there with a desire
for strong drink expressed in his eyes. He is a rake of the worst
character but you dare not tell him so. He leaves the park every night
before the gates are closed and returns next morning.
There are fine drives in all directions hereabouts, and the roads being
good we have many a rush in the motor-cars,--one to an old ruin where
the devil is supposed to leave the impress of his foot upon a plank in
the floor each night. I doubt if to-day even the devil could reach the
plank through the accumulation of dirt thereon.
[Illustration: Photo by Wm. Lawrence
Chapel, Tanderagee Castle]
As we wait in the quadrangle one morning for our motors, to my
astonishment I am accosted in salutation by a name used only at home,
and by those I have known for years. "How de do, Mr. Mike?" Around me
rise the walls of the castle, but aside from the expressionless faces of
the house servants standing near I can see no one until in a dark corner
of the court a yet blacker spot suddenly shows a white gleam of teeth,
and out into the light comes the speaker. "How de do, sir?--I'se de cook
on de boss's car, and I knowed you all your life. Don't you remember
nigger John and Miss Nancy Ballentine?" Convulsed with laughter, I can
scarcely answer. This explains the hot bread and waffles on the
breakfast table, which surprised me for the moment, but which I had
entirely forgotten. Bowing and scraping came black "Tom" into the
sunshine and it seemed to do his heart good to talk of the old times, of
Black John our own cook, and Miss Nancy Ballentine, who "tended de
ladies' waitin' room in the C. H. & D. station" when she was not
assisting at the marrying or burying of most of us, at the latter
wearing a dress composed of the crêpe from many a doorbell. That it did
not match in degrees of blackness mattered not at all to the good dame.
She arranged it in stripes and she could tell you which particular
funeral each of those stripes came from. She has been dead many years,
and to have her recalled here was strange indeed, but--the cars come
with a rush, and we are off with a rush, speeding through the beautiful
park whose trees certainly equal any I have seen except of course those
of California.
I find that my fifteen horse-power Clements keeps up very fairly with
the Duke's motor of sixty horse-power. Of course on the wide straight
roads of France this could not be, but on these narrow and crooked lanes
of Ireland we are never very far apart, and have had many good runs
together.
Our motoring carries us often to the town of Armagh where one comes
across traces of the hatred of that Catholic Queen, Mary I., for the
Irish. She burned this see and three other churches. The cruelties of
that Queen to the people of Kings and Queens counties equals anything
told in Irish history, but is rarely mentioned by the historians of the
day. In fact, all the territory forming now those counties was stolen
from its ancient owners and the name changed as above, resulting in a
warfare which lasted into the reign of Elizabeth until the people
finally disappeared into the mountains. No torture or cruelty was
spared.
In _Forgotten facts in Irish History_ we read that "it seems very
apparent to the student of Irish history that these people received
their persecutions not because they were _Catholics_, but because they
were _Irish_. The most terrible persecutions took place under the
Catholic sovereigns of England and not until those monarchs became
so-called heretics was the Church of Rome turned against them, so that
at the present time it is the effort of all to show that the persecution
if it exists is because of the religion."
The history of the archbishopric of Dublin is an object-lesson on the
exclusion of the Irish from the Church ever since the Conquest. From
1171 down to the Reformation, in 1549, there were twenty-three
archbishops of Dublin. Of these not one was Irish. For the archbishopric
of Dublin "No Irish need apply!"
The Statute of Kilkenny enacted that no religious house shall receive an
Irishman, under penalty of being attainted and having its temporalities
seized.
One historian of our times asks:
"But would any Irishman have the hardihood to say that if King
Edward VII. were to become a Roman Catholic (which heaven forbid),
and to go hand in hand with the Papacy in the prosecution of their
Imperial and world-wide projects, that the Pope would oppose the
King in any tyrannies he might be disposed to inflict upon Ireland
which did not run counter to the interests of the Roman Catholic
Church? Would the Pope risk the friendship of the ruler of a great
Empire for the sake of what Italians regard as 'a mere eruption on
the chin of the world'?[2]
"The centuries of oppressive treatment which Ireland received while
the whole kingdom was under the 'shelter of the wings of Rome'
amply explains the animosity which rankles in the Irish heart
towards England and everything English. The whole story of that
almost forgotten period is a series of murders, cursings,
tyrannies, betrayals, rapacity, hypocrisy, and poverty, which
scarcely finds a parallel in the range of history."
Armagh has suffered terribly throughout the years since St. Patrick
founded the cathedral, but though abounding in memories, there is little
existing of the past in the town to-day. The site of its cathedral is
very fine, but the building has suffered a complete restoration.
Our days at Tanderagee have passed pleasantly but they are over at last
and bidding our hosts adieu we roll off towards Newry.
[Illustration: Photo by Wm. Lawrence
Drawing-room, Tanderagee Castle]
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The Preface of George Buchanan's Poetical Paraphrase upon
the five books of Psalms.
Translated literally into English by Pat Stobin, A. M. Copied by me from
the MS. copy of Stobin at Tanderagee, owned by the Duke of Manchester.
The whole book is in MS.
M. M. SHOEMAKER.
[2] The late Professor Stokes ventured to say that an English
Peer is a more welcome visitor at the Vatican than an Irish Roman
Catholic Bishop.
CHAPTER III
Through Newcastle to Downpatrick--Grave of St. Patrick--His Life
and Work--The Old Grave-Digger--Belfast and Ballygalley
Bay--O'Halloran the Outlaw.
It is nearly six o'clock when we start from Newry towards Newcastle. Our
road lies down the river, and so on by the sea the entire distance.
The highway is excellent all the way, some thirty-two miles, and the car
speeds onward like a bird. The scenery is lovely, the glimpses of
mountain and meadow, sea and sky enchanting.
About 7.20 brings us to the hotel at Slieve Donard, a very large costly
establishment built by the railway company. It is evidently a
watering-place of some importance, and next month (July) will see it
crowded. The place is pleasantly situated by the sea and presided over
by the Mourne Mountains. There are golf-links and the walks and drives
are fine, but otherwise there is nothing of interest, and we shall move
northward to Dundrum.
The morning is clear and crisp as we leave Newcastle, getting lost at
once in the many byways, but that is rather a pleasure than an
annoyance. All the roadbeds are fine hereabouts and we roll merrily
along over hill and down dale until Downpatrick comes into view, and we
pass up her streets to her ancient cathedral, and there pay our
devotions at the grave of St. Patrick.
The church stands well above its ancient city and is visible from all
the country round about. Several places claim the birthplace of St.
Patrick, but that benign Scotchman was born near Dunbarton. He himself
says that his father was a deacon and his grandfather a _priest_. He was
a nephew of St. Martin of Tours, the sister of that holy man having been
the mother of the Irish patron. His name was Succat, but it is by his
Latin name of Patricius that he is known best to the millions who revere
his memory.
Ireland during its first millennium was called Scotland, and its people
"Scots," and by these St. Patrick was taken prisoner when he was but
sixteen years of age and carried to Antrim, where he was held for six
years and forced to care for the swine of Michu, a chieftain. We are
told that this occurred in the mountain of Llemish near Ballymena.
During this period his thoughts were ever turned towards Christianity
and after having effected his escape he is next heard of at Auxerre with
its Bishop, Germanus, by whom he was admitted to holy orders. His
thoughts always turned towards Ireland and here he landed when he was
sixty years of age near the present church of Saul on Strangford Lough
in 432 A.D. This was but four miles from Downpatrick, and there the
Lord promptly blessed his work by enabling him to convert the chieftain
of the district, Dichu, to Christianity, receiving as a gift the barn of
that same chieftain, which formed the first Christian church of this
island. The present church of Saul stands on the spot and that name is
but a corruption of the ancient one of "Patrick's Sabball," or barn.
From here the faith spread until it covered all the land, and here in
492 he died.
Both Armagh and Dundalethglass--Downpatrick--claimed a right to provide
him with a tomb, and to settle the dispute two untamed oxen were yoked
to his bier, and they stopped on this hill of Downpatrick. As to what
sort of a wild ride they gave his saintship before, out of wind, they
rested on this hill, history is silent, but, being Irish, there is no
doubt but that he thoroughly enjoyed it.
I have always regretted that during an ocean voyage which I once made
with the late Bishop Donnelly, I did not make inquiry concerning this
funeral progress, for I have no doubt but that his reverence--he was not
a Bishop then--knew all about it. I have never met any one who more
thoroughly appreciated the sunshine and sorrow, the laughter and tears
of the land he loved so well, and I greatly regret that that voyage was
so short and that the good Bishop so soon thereafter entered into his
rest. But to return.
As far as the actual grave of St. Patrick is concerned, there is, of
course, no certainty; that he was buried somewhere on this hill appears
beyond doubt, and probably near the spot the church was built on, but
that his body remained long in the grave after he was elevated to the
sainthood is clearly doubtful. Probably every church in Ireland has at
one time contained a relic of his. As for this original church here, it
is spoken of way back in the sixth century and again in the eleventh.
The first claimed to have been erected by the saint himself.
The relics of Columba were brought from Iona here and it is related that
it was that saint who enshrined those of St. Patrick just three-score
years after his death. In his tomb were found his goblet, his Angel's
Gospel, and the Bell of the Testament.
Into St. Patrick's tomb went also the bones of St. Brigid. The Danes
came here, and Strongbow and King John passed by.
The present church is supposed to be only the choir of the great
edifice--the second church--built by De Courcey and destroyed by Edward,
Lord Cromwell in 1605; but it is so completely restored that it is of
little interest, though very comfortable withal.
[Illustration: Photo by Wm. Lawrence
Terrace at Tanderagee Castle]
Just outside there stands a venerable gravedigger amongst the tombs,
who might almost have been here fifteen hundred years ago, and certainly
he would resent any insinuation that he was not well informed upon all
which may or may not have occurred since the death of the saint. He is
leaning upon his rake near the church door, and returns our salutation
in an antique manner, nothing about him as it were, belonging to this
latter day or date. "Yes, the cathedral can be visited, but perhaps
'twould be as well to visit the tomb, I will show you that,--who
better?"
It is off amongst a tangle of tombstones and high grasses, a great flat
irregular boulder engraved with a Celtic cross and the saint's
name--evidently the sinful dead have crowded as closely as possible
around the saintly ashes in order perhaps to pass into the heavenly
gates unobserved with such great company to chain the attention of St.
Peter. But some of these around started on their last journey hundreds
of years after St. Patrick,--still, as we are told that "in His sight a
thousand years are but as yesterday," perhaps they all arrived together,
and I doubt not that for his beloved Irish the holy Patrick would delay
his entry as long as possible and even come back again from that farther
shore at the calling of some late comers.
When I ask this gravedigger whether this be indeed the grave of the
holy man, he looks wise, plucks a bit of grass from a near-by grave, and
seizes his opportunity for an oration. It is useless to stop him with
questions, he will answer as and when it pleases him; and so, sitting
upon the tomb with the sunlight falling in a glowing benediction upon
us living and upon the old cathedral and its silent company, he speaks
on and on. "There's many, your honour, phwat has heads but don't use
thim. Is this _the_ grave you ask. Well I have puzzled out the question
for many years. I _don't_ believe it is, as I suggested this spot to the
antiquary society myself. In owlden days the spot prayed upon as his
tomb was under yonder middle window of the church, but whin a bishop
came along who wanted more silf-glory than one driveway would give him,
he made that one there, and in so doing moved the owld tombstone,--not
that I am claiming that even that was the first one laid upon the
blessed corpse, for an owld woman of eighty who lived here until she was
ten and then moved away, came back to bid farewell to her native town on
going to America, and upon being shown the tomb undher the window asked
since whin had the dead taken to moving their graves, for whin she left
here it was below there in the valley. But we know it was around here
some place, and this new spot is as good as any other." "Did St.
Pathrick build that church?--no, sure, yer honour, he was not the kind
of a man who wint around glorifying himself. If he had had as much money
as that cost 't would be the poor who would have got it. Still, the
church yonder is fifteen hundred years old, though it has been so built
over that it is hard to believe it."
The old man would have talked on for ever, but, like most of his age, it
would have been but vain repetition, and so we move off and away,
feeling sure that the spirit of the benign old saint returns now and
then in floods of warm sunlight to his ancient cathedral of Downpatrick.
Like most grave-diggers, the man up there knew more of the past than of
the present, and when he told us that we would find a fine ferry from
Strangford across the outlet of the lough of that name he spoke without
advisement. We found a proposition to place some planks from one boat to
another and so to ferry us and our great machine over one of the
deepest, swiftest currents passing outward to the sea. It is useless to
say that I vetoed this proposition, so we rolled backward almost to
Downpatrick, and then turned north-west towards Belfast, which we
reached for luncheon.
When I pass a city like Belfast without notice, it is not that there is
not much of interest there, but that it has been so often described, and
I would confine these notes to those more unfamiliar spots with which
Ireland abounds, places of which the general run of travellers knows
nothing. Yet Belfast, like its great neighbour Glasgow, possesses much
of interest of which the guide-books make no note.
Leaving the busy city of the north, our route lies towards the sea and
by the sea for some hours, the roads all very good. We pass
Carrickfergus and Larne and on the shores of Ballygalley Bay, coming to
a sudden stoppage, discover on investigation that our stupid chauffeur
has allowed the gasoline to run out. What to do is a problem, as we are
some miles from any town and the road is a lonely one. To assist in a
solution of the question Boyse goes to sleep in the motor and I go out
on a lonely rock at sea where O'Halloran, that most renowned outlaw in
Irish history, built his tower,--all in ruins now. For ten years he kept
all this district in subjection and was killed in 1681.
There is but little left of his stronghold here--an angle of a tower, an
outline of a wall or two,--all on a tiny island around which murmur the
waters of the Irish Sea, while far out, seemingly afloat, in the hazy
distance rise the shadowy shores of Scotland. That is Cantyre and Arran
over yonder. There are no sails in sight and the sea is asleep. The
high-road winds away close down by the shore on either hand, while high
behind it the fantastic cliffs tower some three hundred feet and more,
wild and desolate. To have passed this way in the days of O'Halloran,
without paying heavy tribute, if he allowed you to go at all, would have
been well-nigh impossible, and our further progress, unless that petrol
comes, is as effectively prohibited.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
The Tomb of St. Patrick]
But there is peace about just now, the drifting clouds above, the
lapping waters and silent hills all around, Boyse still sleeping, and
the auto seemingly dead, while Yama occupies a pinnacle of an adjacent
rock, a bronze Buddha on its travels, as it were. But far down the coast
road a white speck shortly evolves into a jaunting-car laden with petrol
cans--we had sent word back by a passing cyclist--whose contents are
promptly transferred into our tank, and then with all paid for we glide
away to the north, with one last glimpse at the ruined tower in its bay
of Ballygalley.
I should make the chauffeur pay for his stupidity about that petrol, but
I don't suppose I shall do so.
The ride to Ballycastle is joyous, the road very fine and smooth,
running now by the glistening sea and then far up a thousand feet amidst
the silence of the hill and moors, over which flocks of sheep are
browsing upon grass rich and thick.
Several towns are holding fairs, and we have met two "Irish gentlemen"
returning home who would not care to-day whether the Emerald Isle got
her freedom or not. One led a huge stallion which pranced and snorted at
our passing, but while unable to stand straight, his keeper held on to
his charge, and I doubt not got him home safely, occupying most all the
roadway in his progress. It will be a very sorry day indeed when an
Irishman, no matter what his condition, cannot hold on to a horse.
Ballycastle is reached at eight o'clock and we find quarters in a very
comfortable inn--the Marine Hotel,--after a run of over one hundred
miles.
CHAPTER IV
Ballycastle to the Causeway--Prosperity of Northern
Ireland--Bundoran--Gay Life in County Mayo--Mantua House--Troubles
in Roscommon--Wit of the People--Irish Girls--Emigration to
America--Episode of the Horse--People of the Hills--Chats by the
Wayside--Mallaranny.
It is nineteen miles from Ballycastle to the Causeway. Immediately upon
leaving the former place, in fact quite within the town's precincts, we
struck one of those steep short hills which seem greatly to try the
temper of motors. While they will later mount much more difficult and
longer slopes, with apparently no difficulty, such a hill so soon after
breakfast always disagrees with them, and so it was just here. In fact,
it looked as though we must get out and walk, but with an additional
spurt and snort it was over the summit, and we tobogganed down the other
slope at a speed which made us hold on tightly.
All this ride to the Causeway is up and down the wildest hills, close
beside yet high above the neighbouring ocean, and at times the route
lies down such steep inclines that I confess I take them in great
trepidation, commanding Robert to go slowly. This he consents to do at
the very summit, but halfway down with what a whiz and a roar do we
finish the descent, rushing far up the next incline!
There is a safer, far safer, route just inland, but the vote was against
that. Yet at times when the wind is roaring past us, as we rush downward
and we realise that a break in any part of our car might hurl us over
the wall and hundreds of feet downward, we almost wish we had selected
the safer route. The road is so close to the cliff's wall that the
prospect along the coast is at all times grandly impressive while from
far beneath arise the vague, delusive voices of the ocean. Pausing for a
space we cross the wall and creep out on to a projecting headland and
drink in the superb panorama. Far below us and far out to sea spreads
the great floor of the Giant's Causeway, while on either hand away into
the hazy distance of this lovely day in June stretch the fantastic
cliffs and headlands of this romantic coast, showing by their jagged
outlines the effects of their ceaseless battle with the sea. On the
headland where we stand green grasses spangled with buttercups roll
inland into broad meadow lands and towards distant purple mountains.
This world may hold more lovely spots than Erin's Isle, but if so, I
have never seen them.
As there are very few signboards in Ireland a motor tour is a constant
study of the map and one must come provided with such. Before leaving
London I purchased a set of Stanford's, seven in all, covering this
island, and very finely gotten up.[3] It is a pleasure to study them and
a child could scarcely go wrong, though we have enjoyed the pleasure of
getting lost several times.
So far my luck of two years back in France, as to weather, has followed
us. Aside from one shower the first day we have had fine weather all the
time, not all sunshine but no rains, and the cool grey skies with rifts
of sunlight breaking through them, illuminating like a searchlight spots
of the land or sea, are beautiful.
The auto has settled down to serious work by now and rushes singing
along, working better and better as the hours fly by. Leaving the
Causeway our route lies inland through Bushmills, Coleraine, and
Limavady.
All this end of Ireland appears prosperous. The highroads and villages
are well kept. The land is strongly Protestant, its men and women fine,
serious specimens of humanity, and there are no heaps of manure and
filth near the tidy houses, while the old mothers go smilingly along
through life.
Even the hens in this island have a degree of understanding denied their
French sisters. Scarce one has attempted to cross our pathway and none
have gotten killed.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
The Interior of a Cabin of the North]
Lunching at Londonderry we made a rapid run to Bundoran on the Atlantic
coast. The ride was pleasant with good roads nearly all the way, part
way over the highlands and part by the shores of Lough Erne. Bundoran is
a desolate, bleak sort of watering-place, lonely and dispiriting, but
with a comfortable hotel of the Great Northern Railway Company.
We depart next morning with every feeling of satisfaction. It is a
dreary place and the life led therein is dreary also. The power of the
ocean is so great here that it has carved the whole coast with caverns
and gulches until the observer wonders whether it will not eventually
carry off Bundoran, town, hotel, and all.
So we roll off into the sunshine and from the moment we enter County
Sligo the fun begins. A spirited sprint with half a dozen young steers
leads us through a group of jaunting-cars from which our passing causes
men and women to descend in anything but a dignified manner. One portly
dame in a white cap slips and sits down upon mother earth with much
emphasis. Her remarks, though few, were to the point. Another gathers
her skirts well around her waist, and regardless of a foot or more of
panties takes a flying leap over a mud wall, and "Glory be to God's"
resound on all sides. A flock of geese in attempting escape through the
bars of a gate get wedged therein, and keep the gate going by the
motion of their wings, and as it swings to and fro rend the air with
their squawking. On the whole the excitement would satisfy the most
exacting and there is more to come.
This being the feast of Sts. Peter and Paul has been seized upon for
fairs, and in all the villages great preparations have been made for
their celebration. Towards each town droves of animals, mostly cattle
but also many pigs, the latter scrubbed to cleanliness, make stately
progress, the pigs in carts bedded with straw--not a mortal in any of
the fairs is as clean as the pigs.
We were approaching one of these fairs, and moving as slowly as could be
if we were to move at all. Cattle and pigs were all around us and
generally paid no attention to our car, but one sportive young heifer
decided otherwise, and with a snort and a whisk of tail she was off in
the opposite direction. Evidently a leader of fashion in her circle, she
created a fashion there and then for there was scarce a pig or cow which
did not follow suit, urged on by many dogs. The noise and confusion was
appalling, and the manner in which old men and women, comfortable Irish
"widdies," young men and maidens, took to trees and stumps gave added
animation to the landscape. By this time we had come to a halt. I did
not want to laugh, and the suppression of that emotion caused the tears
to course down my face. Just then a man advanced towards us, his face
aflame, his raised right arm grasping a bowlder, while as he came onward
he shouted furiously, "I'll larn yez, I'll larn yez." There was nothing
to do save sit silently, and this we did. The nearer he came, the lower
got his arm, until he had passed us as though we were not there. Then
the arm went up again and all the fury returned while the air rang with
his "I'll larn yez," but towards whom directed it was impossible to
determine as he walked steadily away from us all the time. I cannot say
that I altogether blame him as it must have been somewhat difficult for
the owners to separate their new purchases from that concourse of
rushing animals. What a good time they had to be sure!
The man was our first instance of hostility in Ireland. In fact the
people were generally very friendly towards us, assisting whenever
assistance was required, which fortunately was not often. Certainly we
met with none of the jealous hatred which often greets a prosperous
looking man in France, and causes him to think of the guillotine, or the
lowering glances and sometimes violence of the Swiss. Still the Swiss
have some justice on their side. The passing machine covers the meadow
grass with dust and the cattle will not eat it, which to the people
spells ruin.
However, auto cars cannot be kept out of Switzerland, and her government
should take the matter in hand and, by oiling the highways, obviate the
difficulty.
No oil will, however, ever be needed in Ireland. While we had but one
rain during the entire tour of the first summer, the night dews did away
with all dust. As for the highways and lesser avenues and byways, I
expected to find much that was rough and almost impassable, but on the
whole they are all very good indeed. Except in Galway I remember none
that were bad, and I circled the entire island and crossed and recrossed
it many times.
From Sligo we take a run through the county of Roscommon, which seems to
suffer most from these evil days, and to carry on its face a look of
sadness and neglect. Things are not at rest here and the press daily
holds its records of "outrages" in Roscommon, but let us leave that
until to-morrow. Certainly there are no traces of it as our car rolls up
the broad avenue of Mantua House, the estate of Mr. Bowen, where as the
rain comes down a warm welcome and bright fire cause us to forget that
there is storm and darkness outside and perhaps sorrow and trouble all
around.
Mantua House is a spacious, square building, in a large park. It has
some three centuries to its credit but yet it is a cheery, pleasant
abiding-place and smiles at the passer-by like a saintly old lady. It is
said that the fairies abided once under its doorstep and when some few
years ago a vestibule was added an old woman appeared and kneeling down
cursed the workmen for disturbing them. But the little spirits do not
seem to have minded it much and the inhabitants of the "House in the
Bog" live on in peace. My night's slumber under its roof was undisturbed
and dreamless.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
A Woman of the North]
There is much of interest in the house in the shape of portraits, and
those of seven generations, whose owners had passed their lives here,
looked down upon us while at dinner. I fear I appear morose and a bad
guest for I cannot keep my eyes and thoughts from these old portraits,
wondering what the lives of their owners were and how I shall feel if
ever my painted face looks down from some shadowy canvas on a company at
dinner a century or two hence. If such portrait should exist it will
probably be marked "Portrait of a gentleman" as one so often reads in a
catalogue when name and owner are long, long forgotten as of no
importance. How poor a thing is earthly immortality and yet how we all
long for it, how we dread to be amongst those "_forgotten_." But they
are not "forgotten" in Mantua House, as I was told the names and dates
of all of them. Later, in the glow of the turf fire, those around us in
the spacious hall almost quicken into life and gaze into its glowing
depths as we are doing and as they have each in turn done in the old
mansion, until the bell of time sounded for them and they passed away
into shadowland. I think that for glowing warmth and depth of colour a
turf fire surpasses all others. The brown earth burns deeply but glows
to its very heart, and as it burns throws off a pungent smoke which
recalls to your memory the "Princess of Thule," and finally getting
into your brain drives you off to bed and the mantle of sleep falls upon
the "House in the Bog."
It is a misty morning in which we bid our hosts good-bye but not to be
too hard upon us the sun shines now and then as we roll off between the
dripping hedgerows whose boughs, reaching at us as though endeavouring
to stay our progress, scrape the top of our hood as the car glides
onward. As I have stated, the county of Roscommon suffers more than any
other section of Ireland in these days of "cattle driving." Here it is
first impressed upon the traveller that there is trouble abroad. Numbers
of men with lowering glances loaf around doing nothing save smoke their
stumpy pipes and all the rich land hereabouts stands neglected and
deserted.
As to this driving of the cattle which is the cause of most of the
trouble, the landowners generally rent their fields for grazing, but the
people are determined that they shall _sell_ them their lands and at
prices dictated _not_ by the _owners_, but by the _purchaser_. This
being refused, they will not allow the grazing, and drive a man's cattle
back to him, leaving the land of no profit to its owner, and hoping
thereby to force him to their methods. There would appear to be small
justice in all this.
There is much trouble of this description all over the island but it is
only in Roscommon that the fact has impressed itself upon us and we
hear of it constantly. One man told me that he had been out with seven
packs of hounds which had been poisoned and related the story of a
landlord who spent not less than forty thousand pounds a year on his
estate keeping it and his tenantry in the best of conditions. He was
waited upon by a committee from the League, who informed him that if he
allowed certain men, all his friends, to hunt with his hounds, he and
his pack would be boycotted. He replied that he lived in the country
because he considered it his duty to do so, that he spent all his money
here for the same reason, giving employment to hundreds, keeping all in
plenty, but that if such a threat was carried out, he would sell
everything and leave. It was carried out, and he closed his estate, sold
his horses and hounds in England, and left this island, the loss to his
section being enormous, and all for the sake, as in most of our
"strikes," of a few ringleaders who fatten on the poor men they
hoodwink, while their families starve.
At present a man may go into many sections of Ireland and demand land,
placing his own price thereon and the owner has got to accept it.
What an opportunity for dishonesty lies there! It is so common for
all Europe, and I have noticed several very bitter "communications"
in the Irish press lately--to point to the so-called lawlessness of
America, _i.e._, the United States, that it is something to note the
present state of affairs in parts of Ireland. For instance, here in
Roscommon, no man has been convicted of murder for years, yet there
have been many terrible crimes of that sort committed; one where a son
and daughter murdered their old father on his doorstep that they might
get the little place. They were tried and _acquitted_. Again every one
has heard of the case of Mr. and Mrs. Blake which occurred but lately
in Galway. Refusing to sell their lands they were both fired upon and
wounded while returning from mass and almost under the walls of the
church. The people standing round simply roared with laughter. No one
was apprehended for that crime though every one in the country could
tell who were the assailants.
It is scarcely just for an outsider to pass upon the affairs of a
foreign country, but when, as I have stated, one's own land is
constantly held up to the most violent criticism, while at the same time
the daily press of our critics teems with reports of like and worse in
their own country, one cannot be blamed for so doing.
[Illustration: Mantua House
Roscommon]
I was told later that there is much trouble around Cashel, but
personally I saw no signs of it save in Roscommon. Elsewhere it is very
easy to disbelieve the reports, for surely in no part of the world are
the prospects more entrancing to the traveller--on the surface at
least--than in this island with its lovely lakes, its beautiful
mountains and seas, its picturesque people, and above all its luxuriant
vegetation. Every old tower is shrouded in ivy, and the grass is soft as
velvet, showing the richness of the soil, and is beautiful beyond
description. With all their sorrow and tears these people appear full of
sunshine and laughter, and if you smile at them you are always greeted
pleasantly, while you find them at all times full of jests and quaint
humour which keep you in a constant state of laughter. The other day I
gave a man a sixpence as a tip. Being possessed of true politeness, he
would not directly reflect upon my generosity, or the lack thereof, but
gravely regarding the coin a moment, and scratching his head the while
in a meditative fashion, he exclaimed, "Bad luck to the Boer war which
blew the two shillings away and left the sixpence."
It is almost impossible to change the habits and customs inborn in these
peasants, no matter how many years may be passed in foreign lands. It is
a well-known fact that girls that have lived in cleanly, pleasant homes
in America, with all which that means, on returning here, as they often
do, and marrying some Irish lad, soon sink to the level from which they
had raised themselves by emigrating. Their savings all gone to buy the
hut from their husband's brothers and sisters and poor as when they left
Ireland, they are soon seen standing barefooted in the manure and filth,
pitching it into a wretched cart, drawn by a most wretched looking
donkey, all their good clothes and dainty habits a thing of the past and
I doubt if greatly regretted.
Occasionally, however, the reverse holds true. A lady not long since
came over bringing her Irish maid with her, and on reaching Queenstown
told the girl that she could, if she desired, go home for a visit and
rejoin her mistress later in Dublin. The girl went, but before the
mistress reached Dublin the telegraph wires were laden with messages
from the maid, so fearful was she that the mistress would leave her, and
when she rejoined her remarked with a gasp, "but ma'am, I did not know
it was like that; why the pig slept in the room wid us." But there are
not many who mind the pig and a girl returned and married here will cuff
her children, dirty with dirt which would have sickened her while in her
American home, out of the way of the "gentleman who pays the rent."
As for the emigration of these or any other peoples to our country, if
they who come are honest and willing to work, they will find no
difficulty in obtaining plenty of employment, provided they go where it
is and do not expect it to be ready to their hand on landing. Most who
get into trouble and, returning home, tell woful tales about
impositions, etc., are those who insist upon remaining in the congested
districts of the East. The whole South and great West, from St. Louis to
the Pacific, and from Canada to Mexico, is open to them, a vast empire,
where all may live if they will work and where there is room for all who
come. The systems of irrigation in action and proposed by our
government, in the west, are reclaiming a vast empire yet to be
peopled, while in the South labour brings high figures and is difficult
to obtain, especially in our great cotton mills in South Carolina and
Georgia and in the lumber mills of Florida.
But thousands who come to us have no intention of working and insist
upon remaining around and in our crowded cities and districts where the
devil soon finds plenty of employment for their idle hands, and his arch
agents--ward politicians--lend him most efficient assistance. I know
that only last winter one of the owners of a great lumber mill in
Florida, at his own expense, brought from the immigrant bureau in New
York a large number of men who no sooner got to Florida than they ran
off and became tramps, having from the start no intention of working.
That there is much truth in _The Jungle_ and other books of like sort is
beyond doubt, but there is no necessity for any man, woman, or child's
remaining in such places unless he so desires. Most of them having lived
in abject poverty and wretchedness at home, continue, by nature, to do
so abroad, and will never change, and such as these by their very habits
contribute largely to the state of affairs described in that book. The
hope lies in the future, not for them, but for their children, who
certainly _will_ change. Such change is difficult if not impossible
after man's estate is reached, not only with the poor but also with the
well-to-do and rich.
To all proposed emigrants to the United States I would say again, if you
are honest men and will come willing to work, you are welcome and there
is plenty for you to do and space for all. If you expect or insist upon
loafing around the cities, declining work, and expecting to be
supported, you will be disappointed, you will end in the workhouse--stay
away, we don't want you.
The roads through Roscommon from Mantua House are bad. We encountered
but few good stretches for some miles from that house; then they became
better. On one of these we were making rapid progress down grade, when
suddenly some hundred or so yards ahead two men came out from a gateway
leading a huge black mare. She was evidently restive and we slowed up
but as we came to a stop a hundred feet off she reared, broke loose, and
fell over backwards, then rolling over plunged forward towards a gate
and succeeded in fastening the metal pointed horns upon her collar so
securely under the bar of the gate that she was held immovable upon her
knees. Notwithstanding her great power she could not stir an inch. When
the gate was thrown open, she sprang forward in the wildest fright and
her owner stood by and cursed us to the extent of his ability. He
certainly heard us coming and should not have brought her out, but it's
all one-sided with horsemen,--they expect to do exactly as suits them
and if anything happens, the other party, no matter what they are on or
in, are always to blame. In every case we come, as we did there, to a
dead stop at once, and I must say that all of our accidents have arisen
because the men have much less sense than the horses, which I notice in
nearly every case rarely evince fright until their owners jump at them
and drag at their bridles. I have never listened to a more perfect line
of curses than were poured forth in that case; they seemed to linger in
the air long after we had placed hills and dales between ourselves and
the old man, which we did as soon as possible.
[Illustration: A View in Ballina, A typical Irish town]
As we stopped for luncheon later on I questioned a car driver as to a
large building near by.
"Is that a court-house over there?"
"Yis, sir, but we haven't much use for it. Only open it wanst a
fortnight, and shortly we won't open it at all, at all. Thim lawyers've
'ad their own way long enough, it's time the car drivers had a show."
(Wherein lawyers interfered with car drivers was not stated.)
"Are you mostly Catholics around here?"
"Yis, sir."
"Is not that a Methodist chapel yonder?"
"Yis, but not much good at all, and would shut up altogether only some
old man with more money than sinse left it twenty pounds a year."
Passing onward into the highlands, we stopped for water at a little
stone house, from which the children swarmed out like
flies,--seven,--belonging to one man, and his wife ventures the
statement that if we come back in seven years there will be seven more.
She speaks feelingly; evidently there is no race suicide here.
This far western Ireland is much like the highlands of Scotland, but far
wilder. Auto cars are rarely seen here. While the land is still orderly
and apparently prosperous, I think I note the change towards the
shiftlessness so prevalent in the south. There are many roofless and
abandoned cottages and the heaps of manure are becoming more frequent.
We shall shortly reach Newport near Clew Bay and pass on to Mallaranny
and Achill Island, the wildest part of Ireland. Well up into the hills,
we pause for some slight repairs, and the usual group of men and boys, a
girl and a dog, appear as from nowhere and squat on the adjacent bank.
They say they can speak the ancient tongue and that all the old customs
and usages are still in vogue hereabouts. I ask for a wake, but that
puzzles them. "It might be difficult to arrange, sir." However, I shall
probably attend one before I leave the land, hoping that it may not
prove my own. I ask if these boys live near here.
"They all do, sir."
"Well, it's a beautiful spot." His eyes and mine wander off over the
solitary moorland and up to the more solitary mountains.
"It is indade, sir."
"I have a streak of Irish blood in my own veins," I venture to add.
"Have ye, now, sir, and were ye born in Ireland?"
"No, we left here more than two centuries ago."
"Time you war havin' a wake indade, sir." That turns the laugh on me,
and I throw a shilling at the crowd for drinks, which results in a wild
scramble down into a muddy ditch and a wilder waving of legs in the air
as each and all go head first into the mud.
Quiet restored, my former conversationalist, somewhat the worse for mud,
remarks. "And indade, sir, ye seem to have a good time, 'tis wishin' I
am that all the people here had the likes," and with an echo to the wish
and a wave of the hand we glide off and away into the valley.
This ride has indeed been beautiful, but just as we enter the village of
Mallaranny (County Mayo) and are speeding down a steep incline, a little
yellow-headed urchin toddles directly across our track; a catastrophe
seems unavoidable; women shriek and howl, and men stand paralysed, but
one old crone grabs the boy just as Robert brings our car to a halt,
with not six inches to spare. The baby, not at all frightened, howls
with rage because his progress has been cut short. The old crone
proceeds to spank the child until I tell her that if any one deserves
punishment it is herself for her neglect. A few more miles brings us to
the hotel and in a very sleepy state, as the air all day has been
chilly; but we are not so sleepy that we cannot see at once that this
is not such a chamber of discomfort, such a cold storage as that place
at Bundoran. In point of situation and objects of interest there can
also be no comparison. As a centre to explore this beautiful section and
study these people Mallaranny could not be improved upon. The house
stands high and overlooks land and sea for miles, and in whichever
direction the eye roams the prospect is attractive, while Bundoran Hotel
stands on a bleak moor over which the howling winds from all the North
Atlantic sweep with terrible force. The town is dreary and of no
interest, and the mountains too far away, while the climate is raw and
unpleasant, whereas Mallaranny, much to the south, is swept by balmy
winds and well sheltered on the north. Both places have salt water in
the house, but here the bathrooms are large and the tubs are small
swimming-tanks. There is a man at the head of that house and a woman at
the head of this, and there lies the difference so far as the houses are
concerned. Of course I do not mean to state that it is warm here. In
fact the air is cold all over the land, and while there have been no
rains so far, we wear fur coats and use fur robes all the time, and
would be most uncomfortable without them.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
A Glimpse of Achill]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 3: There are also Mecridy's Maps for Cyclists and Tourists,
published at the office of the _Irish Cyclist_, Dame Court, Dublin, at
one shilling each. A very excellent lot of maps. Just what one wants and
no more, and not so expensive as Stanford's.]
CHAPTER V
The Island of Achill--Picturesque Scenery--Poverty of the
People--"Keening" for the Dead--"The Gintleman Who Pays the
Rint"--Superstitious Legends.
The island of Achill lies off the west coast of Ireland. Exposed to the
full fury of the North Atlantic winds it is one of the bleakest spots on
the globe. The manners and customs of its people change but slightly
with the passing years.
Leaving the hotel on a misty morning, we roll off towards the sea. The
way is narrow for a car and we pass uncomfortably near sleeping brown
bogs whose quiet waters would promptly cover us up and suck us down past
all resurrection were our wheels to slip over the brink.
Reaching a hill up which a man is driving cattle, our chauffeur sounds
the horn and pushes gently forward, causing the animals to give way,
whereupon their owner holds up his hand in indignant protest with a
"Would ye dhrive the _cattle_!" To his thinking we should plod slowly up
that miles-long hill behind his herd rather than cause them to move to
one side,--to "dhrive the _cattle_!" being in his eyes little short of
sacrilege. Yet his sort does not hesitate to drive other men's cattle
off of still other men's land, and consider it their right so to do.
The long muddy road runs on the cliffs over the sea and finally turns
down towards the coast, apparently losing itself in the waste. This is
not the highway and we so discover in season to prevent an accident.
Just then a small boy comes racing after us shouting that we should have
turned off higher up. A few half-pennies and our thanks make him
smilingly offer to return and show us the route, and a lift in the car
completes his happiness,--the first time he has ever ridden in an
automobile, I doubt not.
The traveller does not notice anything unusual until, having crossed the
Peninsula of Curraun, he enters upon one of the strangest spots on
earth. In the foreground, deep in a valley is a mysterious pool, black
as night: all around rise the gloomy mountains, while over the peak to
the west the sun is sending long shafts of purple and gold into the
distant hollows, where brown turf fields stretch away, and low-walled,
whitewashed, and thatched cottages spot the landscape, and the scarlet
skirts worn by all the women throw splashes of vivid colour here and
there. The whole is gloomy and sombre to a degree. The winds blow coldly
and we draw our furs closely about us as the car speeds onward over
roads not made for such usage. This indeed is ancient Ireland and one
hears the Celtic tongue on all sides.
Holiday is held here as in Sligo, and the encounters with cattle and
ponies are frequent. Here is a pony drawing a load of heavy timber which
he insists upon running off with on our approach. Of course, we halt
until we can creep by him. Yonder is a man to whom the fair has proven a
not unmixed blessing. He lies upon his face on a bank, blind drunk, and
will not take home with him the drinks consumed at the fair. His wife
and father stand by trying to hold an old horse, but the bridle breaks
and off he goes ahead of us, losing finally both blanket and saddle, and
vanishing up a mountain. Another old gentleman, held on his horse by a
dutiful son, curses us to the King's taste but in Celtic which we do not
understand. Only the women are sober after the day's bout, and many is
the beautiful face set off by the scarlet dress, which greets us
smilingly or hides its sorrow from our glances.
Now the road grows wilder and wilder,--there is absolutely no sound save
the moan of the distant ocean.
As we near the remotest part of the island, where the mountains raise
their heads in solemn grandeur, there are no signs of human habitation
except one lonely cottage. Its door is open, but there is no evidence of
life. Suddenly the air shivers with the weirdest, loneliest cry I have
ever listened to,--a sustained, penetrating wail rising and falling on
the sad air and then shuddering away into silence, silence, silence
rendered all the sadder by the fast approaching shadows of night. It is
the famous "keening" or mourning cry for the dead. There are
professional keeners and when one is informed of a death she starts for
the house of sorrow and commences this melancholy cry as she goes. All
the way over hill and dale, by these dark pools and through the bog
pathways she goes, her cry bringing the women and children to the doors
of all the huts. As she approaches the dead the cry dies away and ceases
as she enters the cottage. Walking round the bier she commences anew and
passing outward and away fills all the silence of the deepening night
with her melancholy plaint. To hear it any place in Ireland is sad
enough, to hear it amidst the desolation of Achill is almost terrifying
and never to be forgotten. To-night it sounds like the voices of lost
souls from the depths of the dark Atlantic.
I have heard a cry like that from the Arab women of a desert town, but
nowhere else on earth, and I doubt if any other people possess one of
such concentrated, desolate sorrow as this,--a sound which almost makes
the heart stand still.
Why should these people mourn the advent of peace? Surely it is better
for them to sleep than to wake; better to die than to live.
Through the open doorway of this hut as we pass we catch but a glimpse
of an old woman bowed in sorrow and a sheeted, silent form on the bed in
the corner.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Slievemore and Dugort, Achill]
Our car glides slowly and silently by and we move onward, more and more
into the island of Achill, into the heart of ancient Ireland, until,
rounding the shoulder of a desolate mountain, we come suddenly upon the
sea. This is no bay or inlet, no capes guard us here, there is no
lighthouse in sight to indicate that man ever sends his ships out there.
That is the heart of the ocean, the deep sea. The waves, black as
midnight and hurled forward with the force of the Gulf Stream, and all
the currents of the North Atlantic, come thundering in with such power
that one instinctively draws backward, while the coast is all cut and
jagged, torn up and thrown pell-mell by the ceaseless onslaught. You
realise that just out there are vast depths, awful forces, and that once
within their grasp nothing save an interposition of God could save you;
even this land scarcely seems a safe abiding-place.
The sky above is black as the waters beneath it and the winds sough
upward from the underworld as though laden with the misery of these
people of Achill.
Are there not scenes and times when the great truth of the existence of
the Deity is impressed upon one? By the deep sea, amidst the solitude of
the mountains and the silence of the desert, from the song of a bird far
overhead, and always from the eyes of a little child does not the
assurance come to man, past all doubting, that verily there is--a God?
Has the atheist ever existed who has not experienced this many times
throughout his wretched life?
The face of Ireland in the far western section seems constantly covered
with tears. The sadness and poverty of the people passes all
comprehension. Surely the love of their home land must be very great to
keep them here at all.
Lady Dudley has established a most excellent charity hereabouts in the
shape of contribution boxes for the establishment of district nurses in
these the poorest sections of Ireland. The girls have a sadly hard time
of it as often they find nothing to rest on in these hovels save a box
or head of a barrel. We are stopping in front of one now that would be
considered unfit for cattle at home, a low stone hut thatched in rotting
straw patched up with turf. There is no window, and the door has no
glass. The interior, plainly visible, is horrible in its sodden
wretchedness. Before the doorstep is a bog of manure and all kinds of
filth in which the pigs and ducks are at work. As our eyes wander away
and up to the hills, white with stone, we wonder why in God's name with
feet to walk upon every soul does not leave this island, which is not
intended for man to live upon; yet here they are and plenty of them, and
many seem cheery and happy. The woman of this wretched hovel before us
is pitching manure into a cart, and as she stands, barefooted, in the
filth above her ankles, sings and talks to me in the liveliest fashion.
Just beyond is a bog whose waters, black as night, and spangled with
water lilies, reflect as in a mirror a flock of geese and a woman in a
brilliant scarlet petticoat. Beyond rise the mountains sombre and gloomy
and over all lowers a sky dark with storms. Then the rain falls, but
only for an instant, when the sunlight descending in long shafts of
intense light turns even this scene of desolation into one of beauty. If
these people were moved into a richer and more fertile section would
they remain there, or would one shortly find these filthy hovels
occupied again by their original owners? If so, their love of home
passes comprehension.
One cannot but feel that many of the countless millions yearly sent to
foreign missions were better spent here, where, by improving the body,
the salvation of the soul would be more easily attempted, for it is
impossible to believe that with such horrible, sordid conditions, there
can be any deep belief in the goodness of God.
When in Teheran, Persia, I could not but observe the extensive
missionary buildings, and when I asked what people the work was amongst,
the reply came "Nestorian Christians." So, all the contributions from
the churches are expended upon those who are already Christians. For (as
is certainly not known at home) a Persian to be converted does not mean
loss of caste as in India but _death_, and hence conversion to
Christianity amongst them is impossible. Persia is the most fanatical
of all nations, where one may not even look into a mosque, much less
enter, yet millions continue to pour into that land yearly. Comment
should be unnecessary, but I cannot help feeling that comment is needed
when looking out over a scene like this before us to-day. There are
plenty of plague spots in our own new land which need close attention;
for instance, in the mountains of Virginia where the people are so
ignorant that they not only cannot read, but do not know what reading
is. It is a disgrace to our land that the ministers from these mountains
are forced to go begging through the churches for money to carry on
their work, but,--it is not half so picturesque and interesting to help
such as to send millions to the land of the Sultan of Ispahan and
perchance be able to rescue some Lalla Rookh or encounter the veiled
prophet of Khorassan.
I find I am very apt--so to speak--to tumble off the island of Achill
into almost any part of the world, so let us return once more.
The population of Achill is steadily decreasing, and now counts but
forty-six hundred. These people have been described as a lot of thieves
and murderers with, I should judge, very little justice in the charge.
They had no such appearance to my eye.
The soil on the island is so thin and poor that her men cannot raise
enough upon it to pay their rent and are forced to seek every year work
in more favoured sections.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Fisherfolk of Achill]
It is claimed these islanders consist of four great families, whose
members can be easily distinguished from each other, the French
Lavelles, the English Scholefields, the creole Caulfields, the Danish
Morans. But there are also pure Irish to be found in the O'Malleys,
Gaughans, and Monahans. The houses are but heaps of rude stones (which
have been moulded by the tide), round of gable, and roofed by fern,
heather, and shingles fastened by straw bands. Often there are no
chimneys.
We stop at the town of Dugort under the shadow of the sombre mountain,
"Slievemore," which rises immediately behind it. The town is an attempt
on the part of one church to upset the authority of another amongst
these people, and judging by the absolute desolation of the place I
should say that the move has not been successful. There are some good
houses and a church, but the people do not appear to be about. In the
dreary hotel, we spent some time in an inspection of the most marvellous
collection of paintings it has ever been our misfortune to examine.
There were several of them and they occupied most of the hallway. We
were unable to discover what one of them was intended to portray. We
asked the barmaid and she seemed equally in doubt. B. suggested the
mountain of Slievemore--I thought, a leg of mutton. The artist is the
hotel proprietor. We left a request that he would "Please not do it
again" which seemed greatly to relieve the young woman in charge.
At the door stands a jaunting-car waiting to take the luggage of a man,
who has been fishing hereabouts, to the station. We offer him a lift in
our motor and I tell the barmaid to give a glass of whiskey to his car
driver. It appears, when it comes, to be a fair sized drink, but the old
chap cocks his eye first on it and then at me, remarking, as he touches
his cap, "And did ye say, sir, it was _twelve_ years old--indade thin
it's _small_ for its _age_." As we roll off he promises to pick us up
when our car breaks down as he knows it _will_. If that is to occur it
is well to start, as we are miles from Mallaranny and well know that
aside from this dreary hotel no hospitality would or could be offered us
in this desolate region, and that the feeling here is not, especially
after the "day off," of the best, as is proven by the curses hurled at
us once more by the old gentleman whom we encountered on our way out.
Later we meet the load of timbers and find that the drunken man has been
deposited face down on the top, while his poor wife and old father
trudge along behind.
How different all here from the Ireland decked out for the tourist! How
sad and stern and strange! As I turn to look back upon it the daylight
departs and the shadows grow blacker and deeper, only the waters of the
lake catching for an instant a fleeting glow which soon dies out into
ashes; and with the coming of night silence and solitude, profound and
unbroken, rest upon the island of Achill.
Yet there we saw some wonderfully beautiful women, women whose type has
made Ireland famous, great blue-grey eyes and jet black hair,--or the
fairest of blondes with pale yellow hair and blue eyes, like the
rain-washed heaven of their native land. Again, as we rolled by some
white-walled, rose embowered cottage, an ancient dame in high frilled
cap would smile us a welcome, or, as once to-day, I saw such a splendid
young fellow, whose eyes beamed down into those of his baby boy held in
his arms. There was happiness there. He must have married "his Nora" and
the boy must have had its mother's eyes. Happiness, yes truly, such as
comes not often to the portals of a palace. The man smiles in my face as
the car rolls by. In fact, nowhere in all the years of my wanderings
have I met such quick response to a smile or greeting as in these wilds
of Ireland--save when drink, the curse of the land, had destroyed the
man; but always with the women one has seemed welcome.
As for the pigs, they are so clean and so pink that one imagines that
they wear silk socks and pumps. Do they walk?--bless you, no,--not on
holidays at least, but ride in state, and here at last you meet and
understand "the gintleman phat pays the rint." I firmly believe they
have all been shaved. B. says not, not till after death. But those were
very lovely and complacent pigs. I was only astonished that they were
not riding in motor cars.
After the desolation of Achill it is pleasant to return to the hotel at
Mallaranny. Owned by the Great Western Railway Company, it is most
comfortable; a cozy fire before which a tabby cat is purring greets us
as we enter the reading-room and we drop rugs and books with a sigh of
contentment. Dinner over, the evening is passed deep in the history,
romance, and poetry of the spot just visited.
Probably in no part of Ireland does superstition persist so strongly as
in Achill. Many of the legends are gruesome and cluster about death and
the grave. Many are beautiful, like that of the swans, and there is one
about the seals, which they believe are the people who were drowned in
the great flood. Not until this world is destroyed by fire will they be
permitted to enter heaven, but once in every hundred years they resume
their human shape upon earth, and it was during one of these periods
that an incident happened which is still talked about in the island of
Achill.
"John of the Glen had fallen asleep. Now the place he had chosen to
repose in was for all the world like a basket; there was the high rock
above him, and a ledge or rock all round, so that where he lay might be
called a sandy cradle.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
A Lonely Road in Connemara]
There he slumbered as snug as an egg in a thrush's nest, and he might
have slept about _two_ hours, when he hears singing--a note of music, he
used to say, would bring the life back to him if he had been dead a
month--so he woke up; and to be sure, of all outlandish tunes, and, to
quote his words again, 'put the one the old cow died of to the back of
it,' he never heard the like before; the words were queerer than the
music--for John was a fine scholar, and had a quarter's Latin, to say
nothing of six months' dancing; so that he could flog the world at
single or double handed reel, and split many a door with the strength of
his hompipe. 'Meuhla machree,' he says, 'who's in it at all?' he says.
'Sure it isn't among haythins I am,' he says, 'smuggled out of my native
country,' he says, 'like a poor keg of Inishowen,' he says, 'by the
murdering English?' and 'blessed father,' he says again, 'to my own
knowledge it's neyther Latin or Hebrew they're at, nor any other livin'
language, barring it's Turky'; for what gave him that thought was the
grand sound of the words. So, 'cute enough, he dragged himself up to the
edge of the ledge of the rock that overlooked the wide ocean, and what
should he see but about twenty as fine well-grown men and women as ever
you looked on, dancing! not a hearty jig or a reel, but a solemn sort of
dance on the sands, while they sung their unnatural song, all as solemn
as they danced; and they had such queer things on their heads as never
were seen before, and the ladies' hair was twisted and twined round and
round their heads.
"Well, John crossed himself to be sure like a good Christian, and swore
if he ever saw Newport again to pay greater attention to his duty, and
to take an 'obligation' on himself which he knew he ought to have done
before; and still the people seemed so quiet and so like Christians,
that he grew the less fearful the longer he looked; and at last his
attention was drawn off the strangers by a great heap of skins that were
piled together on the strand close beside him, so that by reaching his
arm over the ledge, he could draw them, or one of them, over. Now John
did a little in skins himself, and he thought he had never seen them so
beautifully dressed before; they were seal skins, shining all of them
like satin, though some were black, and more of them grey; but at the
very top of the pile right under his hand was the most curious of them
all--snowy and silver white. Now John thought there could be no harm in
looking at the skin, for he had always a mighty great taste for natural
curiosities, and it was as easy to put it back as to bring it over; so
he just, quiet and easy, reaches in the skin, and soothering it down
with his hand, he thought no down of the young wild swan was ever half
so smooth, and then he began to think what it was worth, and while he
was thinking and judging, quite innocent like, what it would fetch in
Newport, or maybe Galway, there was a skirl of a screech among the
dancers and singers; and before poor John had time to return the skin,
all of them came hurrying towards where he lay; so believing they were
sea-pirates, or some new-fashioned revenue-officers, he crept into the
sand, dragging the silver-coloured skin with him, thinking it wouldn't
be honest to its _rale_ owner to leave it in their way. Well, for ever
so long, nothing could equal the ullabaloo and 'shindy' kicked up all
about where he lay--such talking and screaming and bellowing; and at
last he hears another awful roar, and then all was as still as a
bridegroom's tongue at the end of the first month, except a sort of
snuffling and snorting in the sand. When that had been over some time he
thought he would begin to look about him again and he drew himself
cautiously up on his elbows, and after securing the skin in his bosom
(for he thought some of them might be skulking about still, and he
wished to find the owner), he moved on and on, until at last he rested
his chin upon the very top of the ledge and casting his eye along the
line of coast, not a sight or a sign of any living thing did he see but
a great fat seal walloping as fast as ever it could into the ocean:
well, he shook himself, and stood up; and he had not done so long, when
just round the corner of the rock, he heard the low wailing voice of a
young girl, soft and low, and full of sorrow, like the bleat of a kid
for its mother, or a dove for its mate, or a maiden crying after her
lover yet ashamed to raise her voice. 'Oh, murder!' thought John
O'Glin, 'this will never do; I'm a gone man! that voice--an' it not
saying a word, only murmuring like a south breeze in a pink shell--will
be the death of me; it has more real, true music in it than all the
bagpipes between this and Londonderry. Oh, I'm kilt entirely through the
ear,' he says, 'which is the high-road to my heart. Oh, there's a moan!
that's natural music! The "Shan Van Do," the "Dark Valley," and the
"Blackbird" itself are fools to that!' To spring over was the work of a
single minute; and, sure enough, sitting there, leaning the sweetest
little head that ever carried two eyes in it upon its dawshy hand, was
as lovely a young lady as ever John looked on. She had a loose sort of
dress, drawn in at her throat with a gold string, and he saw at once
that she was one of the outlandish people who had disappeared all so
quick.
"'Avourneen das! my lady,' says John, making his best bow, 'and what
ails you, darling stranger?' Well, she made no answer, only looked askew
at him, and John O'Glin thought she didn't sigh so bitterly as she had
done at first; and he came a little nearer, and 'Cushla-ma-chree, beauty
of the waters,' he says, 'I'm sorry for your trouble.'
"So she turns round her little face to him, and her eyes were as dark as
the best black turf, and as round as a periwinkle.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Kylemore Castle]
"'Creature,' she says, 'do you speak Hebrew?' 'I'd speak anything,' he
answers, 'to speak with you.' 'Then,' she says again, '_have you seen my
skin_?' 'Yes, darling,' he says in reply, looking at her with every eye
in his head. 'Where, where is it?' she cries, jumping up and clasping
her two little hands together, and dropping on her knees before John.
"'Where is it?' he repeats, raising her gently up; 'why, on yourself, to
be sure, as white and as clear as the foam on a wave in June.'
"'Oh, it's the other skin I want,' she cries, bursting into tears.
'Shall I skin myself and give it you, to please you, my lady?' he
replies; 'sure I will, and welcome, if it will do you any good, sooner
than have you bawling and roaring this way,' he says, 'like an angel,'
he says.
"'What a funny creature you are!' she answers, laughing a lilt of a
laugh up in his face; 'but you're not a seal,' she says, 'and so your
skin would do me no good.'
"'Whew!' thought John O'Glin; 'whew! now all the blossom is out on the
May-bush; now my eyes are opened'; for he knew the sense of what he had
seen, and how the whole was a memory of the old world.
"'I'll tell you what it is,' said the poor fellow, for it never took him
any time at all to fall in love; 'I'll tell you what it is, don't bother
any more about your bit of a skin, but take me instead of it--that is,'
he said, and he changed colour at the bare thought of it, 'that is,
unless you're married in your own country.' And as all their discourse
went on in Hebrew and Latin, which John said he had not a perfect
knowledge of, he found it hard to make her understand at first, though
she was quick enough too; and she said she was not married, but might
have been, only she had no mind to the seal, who was her father's prime
minister, but that she had always made up her mind to marry none but a
prince. 'And are you a king's son?' she says. 'I am,' says John, as
bould as murder, and putting a great stretch on himself. 'More than
that, I'm a king's great-grandson--in these twisting times there's no
knowing who may turn up a king; but I've the blood in my veins of twenty
kings--and what's better than that, Irish kings.'
"'And have you a palace to take me to?' she says, 'and a golden girdle
to give me?'
"Now this, John thought, was mighty mean of her; but he looked in her
eyes and forgot it. 'Our love,' he says, 'pulse of my beating heart,
will build its own palace; and this girdle,' and he falls on his knees
by her side, and throws his arm round her waist, 'is better than a
girdle of gold!' Well, to be sure, there was no boy in Mayo had better
right to know how to make love than John O'Glin, for no one ever had
more practice; and the upshot of it was that (never, you may be sure,
letting on to her about the sealskin) he clapt her behind him on Molche,
and carried her home; and that same night, after he had hid the skin in
the thatch, he went to the priest--and he told him a good part of the
truth; and when he showed his reverence how she had fine gold rings and
chains, and as much cut coral as would make a reef, the priest did not
look to hear any more, but tied them at once. Time passed on gaily with
John O'Glin: he did not get a car for Molche, because no car could go
over the Mayo mountains in those days; but he got two or three stout
little nags, and his wife helped him wonderful at the fishing--there
wasn't a fin could come within half a mile of her that she wouldn't
catch--ay, and bring to shore too; only (and this was the only cross or
trouble John ever had with her, and it brought him a shame-face many a
time) she'd never wait to dress anything for herself, _only eat it raw_;
and this certainly gave him a great deal of uneasiness. She'd eat six
herrings, live enough to go down her throat of themselves, without
hardly drawing her breath, and spoil the market of cod or salmon by
biting off the tails. When John would speak to her about it, why she'd
cry and want to go back to her father, and go poking about after the
skin, which she'd never mention at any other time; so John thought it
would be best to let her have her own way, for when she had, it's
nursing the children, and singing, and fishing she'd be all day long;
they had three little children, and John had full and plenty for them
all, for she never objected to his selling her rings, or chain, or
corals; and he took bit after bit of land, and prospered greatly, and
was a sober, steady man, well-to-do; and if he could have broke her of
that ugly trick she had of eating raw fish, he'd never say no to her
yes; and she taught the young ones Hebrew, and never asked them to touch
a morsel of fish until it was put over the turf; and there were no
prettier children in all the barony than the 'seal-woman's'; with such
lovely hair and round blinking eyes, that set the head swimming in no
time; and they had sweet voices, and kind hearts that would share the
last bit they had in the world with any one, gentle or simple, that knew
what it was to be hungry; and, the Lord he knows, it isn't in Mayo their
hearts would stiffen for want of practice.
"Still John was often uneasy about his wife. More than once, when she
went with him to the shore, he'd see one or two seals walloping nearer
than he liked; and once, when he took up his gun to fire at a great
bottle-nosed one that was asleep on the sandbank, she made him swear
never to do so: 'For who knows,' she says, 'but it's one of my relations
you'd be murdering?' And sometimes she'd sit melancholy-like, watching
the waves, and tears would roll down her little cheeks; but John would
soon kiss them away.
[Illustration: "Biddy"
The Lunatic of Kylemore]
"Poor fellow! much as he loved her, he knew she was a sly little devil;
for when he'd be lamenting bitterly how cute the fish were grown, or
anything that way, she'd come up and sit down by him, and lay her soft
round cheek close to his, and take his hand between hers, and say, 'Ah,
John darlin', if you'd only find my skin for me that I lost when I found
you, see the beautiful fish I'd bring you from the bottom of the sea,
and the fine things. Oh! John, it's you then could drive a carriage
through Newport, if there were but roads to drive it on.'
"But he'd stand out that he knew nothing of the skin; and it's a wonder
he was heart-proof against her soft, deludering, soothering ways; you'd
have thought she'd been a right woman all her life, to hear her working
away at the 'Ah, do,' and 'Ah, don't'; and then, if she didn't exactly
get what she wanted, she'd pout a bit; and if that didn't do, she'd
bring him the youngest baby; and if he was hardened entirely, she'd sit
down in a corner and cry; that never failed, except when she'd talk of
the skin--and out and out, she never got any good of him about it--at
all! But there's no end of female wit; they'll sit putting that and that
together, and looking as soft and as fair-faced all the while as if they
had no more care than a blind piper's dog, that has nothing to do but to
catch the halfpence. 'I may as well give up watching her' said John to
himself; 'for even if she did find it, and that's not likely, she might
leave me (though that's not easy), but she'd never leave the children';
and so he gave her a parting kiss, and set off to the fair of Castlebar.
He was away four days, longer certainly than there was any call to have
been, and his mind reproached him on his way home for leaving her so
long; for he was very tender about her, seeing that though she was only
a seal's daughter, that seal was a king, and he made up his mind he'd
never quit her so long again. And when he came to the door, it did not
fly open, as it used, and show him his pretty wife, his little children,
and a sparkling turf fire--he had to knock at his own door.
"'Push it in, daddy,' cried out the eldest boy; "'mammy shut it after
her, and we're weak with the hunger.' So John did as his child told him,
and his heart fainted, and he staggered into the room, and then up the
ladder to the thatch--_It was gone!_--and John sat down, and his three
children climbed about him, and they all wept bitterly.
"'Oh, daddy, why weren't you back the second day, as you said you'd be?'
said one. 'And mammy bade us kiss you and love you, and that she'd come
back if she'd be let; but she found something in the thatch that took
her away.'
"'She'll never come back, darlings, till we're all in our graves,' said
poor John--'she'll never come back under ninety years; and where will we
all be then? She was ten years my delight and ten years my joy, and ever
since ye came into the world she was the best of mothers to ye all! but
she's gone--she's gone for ever! Oh, how could you leave me, and I so
fond of ye? Maybe I would have burnt the skin, only for the knowledge
that if I did, I would shorten her days on earth, and her soul would
have to begin over again as a babby seal, and I couldn't do what would
be all as one as murder.'
"So poor John lamented, and betook himself and the three children to the
shore, and would wail and cry, but he never saw her after; and the
children, so pretty in their infancy, grew up little withered atomies,
that you'd tell anywhere to be seal's children--little, cute, yellow,
shrivelled, dawshy creatures--only very sharp indeed at the learning,
and crabbed in the languages, beating priest, minister, and
schoolmaster--particularly at the Hebrew. More than once, though John
never saw her, he heard his wife singing the songs they often sung
together, right under the water; and he'd sing in answer, and then
there'd be a sighing and sobbing. Oh! it was very hard upon John, for he
never married again, though he knew he'd never live till her time was up
to come again upon the earth even for twelve hours; but he was a fine
moral man all the latter part of his life--as that showed."
As I close my book and put out my candle for the night the moonlight
streaming in at the window draws me to the casement. The bay is like a
sheet of quivering silver with the mountains of Achill and the island of
Clare towering darkly above it. On the highway winding off white in the
clear light no sign of life is visible and but for the softly sobbing
winds, the silence of the night is intense. The tide is flowing to the
sea and the waters are deserted save for one slowly drifting boat. One
is scarcely conscious at first of any sound other than that of the winds
but, as the boat draws nearer on the air floats upward one of those sad
crooning melodies of these people--at first a low monotone which rises
and rises, wailing all around and far above until the very mountains
seem to throw back the sorrow of it. Then it falters away into silence.
[Illustration: From a steel engraving
The Lynch House, Galway]
CHAPTER VI
Monastery of Burrishoole--Queen Grace O'Malley and Her Castle of
Carrig-a-Hooly--Her Appearance at the Court of Elizabeth--Dismissal
of Her Husband--Wild Scenery of the West Coast--The Ancient
Tongue--Recess--Kylemore Castle--Crazy Biddy.
Leaving Mallaranny we retrace our route towards Newport and pass near
Burrishoole, the ruined monastery of the Dominicans, and then the castle
of Carrig-a-Hooly, from whence that Amazon Queen of this section and of
the island of Clare, Grace O'Malley, dismissed her lord and husband of a
year's standing.
Carrig-a-Hooly is to-day a square pile of very solid construction,
standing upon a rock, and at one time protected by a massive surrounding
wall. The few windows or loopholes are far apart and very narrow. From
which one Queen Grace dismissed her approaching lord is not related but
that the dismissal was short, sharp, and to the point, effective, there
seems no doubt, as she continued to hold sway over all the County of
Mayo and the adjoining islands, to say nothing of as much of the
neighbouring counties as she could cowe into submission.
The monastery of Burrishoole is said to have been her burial-place, and
there her skull was for a long time preserved as a precious relic, but
it is also stated that, together with those of many others buried there,
her bones were stolen and being carted to Scotland were ground up for
manure, enriching the land as those of Cæsar were used to stop the
chinks and keep the wind away.
It was well for the thieves here that they worked and escaped in the
night, for such desecration would have resulted in their quick dispatch
had the superstitious peasantry caught them.
Many of the latter believe that the skull of the Queen was miraculously
restored to its niche in the abbey, but if so it has mouldered into dust
long since.
The skulls still to be seen here are regarded with deep veneration and
are often borrowed by the peasantry to boil milk in, which being served
to the sick one is a sure antidote for all ills.
Queen Grace of Mayo strongly reminds one of another Queen in a far-off
country,--Tamara, whose ruined "Castle of Roses" still keeps watch over
the Caucasus.
This castle of Queen Grace, like so many old towers, is supposed to
cover buried treasures, guarded at night by a mounted horseman.
There is, however, another scene in her life which, whilst not
productive of such results as the one at Carrig-a-Hooly, must have been
picturesque and startling in the extreme.
Imagine the court of the great Elizabeth, with the daughter of Henry
VIII. on the throne in all the heyday of her fuss and feathers, robed
gorgeously and wearing a great farthingale--beneath the hem of her short
skirt one notes the jewelled buckles on her high-heeled shoes,--from her
pallid face flash a pair of reddish eyes and above her pallid brow her
red hair is piled high and adorned with many of the pearls and jewels
which have come into her possession from the robbery of her Scottish
prisoner by the rebel lords. Huge butterfly wings of gauze rise from the
shoulders but give nothing ethereal to the appearance of the
sovereign,--Elizabeth was of the earth earthy. Around her are grouped
all the splendid of that golden age,--the grave prime minister, Cecil
Burleigh, the gallant Leicester, the boy Essex, the splendid Sir Philip
Sidney, together with all the foreign diplomats and beautiful women of
the court.
In the space before her stands an equally imperious figure,--the
sovereign of this island of Clare. What could have been her dress in
those days three hundred years agone? How did they robe the dames of
high estate in Ireland then, I wonder, and must continue to wonder, for
there is no account left us, but I am sure she was a beauty with fair
skin, brown eyes and a glory of red gold hair.
The Queen of England has just offered to make her a countess, and we can
imagine the half amazed and wholly amused expression of her majestic
countenance when the offer is coolly refused with the remark that "I
consider myself just as great a Queen as your Majesty."
Then the Irishwoman went home and did things, short, sharp, and to the
point, effective: secured possession of all the fortified castles of the
island and all the treasures and men at arms, and there occurred that
dismissal already recorded.
It had been agreed on her marriage that either party could terminate the
matrimonial arrangement at a year's end by a simple announcement to the
other. On the day in question the countess observed from one of the
loopholes of Carrig-a-Hooly the approach of her liege lord, and
thereupon, to surely forestall such action on his part, hailed him and
announced that "all was off" between them, making no mention of a return
of any of the castles, men, or treasures be they his or not. She should
have been Queen of Scotland. She would promptly have settled the cases
of each and every rebel lord from Moray down, and John Knox would have
heard a truth or two which would have made his ears tingle,--neither
could her Majesty of England have meddled so easily in the affairs of
the northern kingdom.
As our car rolls onward round the bay towards Louisburgh, her island of
Clare blocks the entrance to the westward. Rearing sharply its cliffs
against a glittering sky, it strongly reminds one of the island of Capri
and occupies about the same relative position here as that island does
in the bay of Naples.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
The Abbey of St. Dominick
Lorrha]
But the blue of these northern waters is to my thinking vastly different
from that in the South. There is a sensuous cast to all the colouring
around Naples, whilst here both heaven and sea are of a bright fair
rain-washed blue. The air is full of health and life, the waters
sparkle, and the strong winds force one to jam a cap down over the eyes
and go for a brisk walk or sail, returning ravenous for one's dinner;
whilst in the south
"With dreamful eyes my spirit lies,
Under the walls of Paradise."
And one's body is very apt to contract a fever during the trance.
Personally in Naples, with all its charm and interest, I always feel
that death stalks wide, the mortal part of me is forever in evidence.
Here, a new lease of life and health comes with every intake of the
glorious air.
The winds blow strongly to-day while over the mountains dense black
clouds gloom, through whose shadows one brilliant shaft of sunlight
strikes a white sail far out at sea.
On the rocks the kelp gatherers are abroad with their long rakes,
gathering a slimy harvest. What a living thing that kelp seems to be.
How quiet its slumbers in the dark pool of the rocks while the waters
are afar out, but watch it when the tide turns. At the first ripple it
startles into life and reaches out its long snake-like feelers towards
the coming sea.
Leaving the ocean for a time and turning inland, we pass some bad roads,
but finally mount upward until in the heart of the mountains and the
wildest section of Connemara their surface becomes smoother and the
wings come out on our hubs and the car skims birdlike onward.
Fortunately the day has become divine and sunlight and shadow chase each
other in fascinating lights and shadows over the mountains. Up in the
higher valleys where the white cottages are few and far between, the
vast black turf fields stretch to where the brown mountains rise to the
blue skies. Here and there the scarlet skirt of a peasant woman at work
in a distant field glows against the brown earth, while donkey carts,
each with a solitary old dame perched on a pile of turf, pass us now and
then, the little beast which draws them paying us no attention, save by
a pointing of the ears. This is not a holy day, so there are no fairs
and fewer cattle on the highroads, hence fewer races, though now and
then we do have a spirited brush, and several old women shake their
fists at us as we pass by. Coasting down the hills which surround the
lovely lake of Doo Lough, we come finally down by the shores of the
harbour of Killary or Killary Bay, where the fleets of the nation may
and do enter far inland in safety.
Lunching at Leenane in a comfortable and clean inn made an already
pleasant day seem all the more enjoyable.
The road, from Leenane on, lay westward by the waters of the Sound, and
then south and up until a superb panorama of sea and land was spread out
before us.
Those who go yearly to some genteel watering place know little of the
outer sea, never comprehend the majesty of the ocean as it rolls in on
Ireland's western coast, a vast wash of wild waters, glorious and
majestic, roaring around jagged cliffs, which appear actually at war
with it, while the winds murmuring over bogs and lowlands one instant
are in the next roaring outward to greet the ocean. All around here
there is no sound of human life, and a strange sad sort of sunlight
falls over the mountains and shimmers downward into the sea.
The desolation of this coast is intense to-day but how far more terribly
desolate it must have appeared to the poor sailors on those hulking
ships of the Armada, hurled to their destruction hereabouts. I doubt not
but that the last thoughts of the poor wretches as they sank in these
thundering surges were of the vine-clad sunny hills of far Andalusia
with the tinkling of guitars and the music of the Danza they were never
again to hear.
As we leave the sea and turn again inward, the scenery becomes wild in
the extreme. Sombre mountains surround lonely valleys with here and
there a lonely lake reflecting the sky. The roads on the whole are good,
save for many ridges formed by the backbone of the old stone bridges. If
the car does not slow down one is thrown out of one's seat, and some of
these ridges would destroy if passed at full speed.
The higher we mount the more joyous the motion until we seem to be
skimming like a swallow. One nasty angle almost causes our undoing, but
it is passed in safety by the quick action of our chauffeur, who
certainly understands well how to handle a motor, though I think he was
thoroughly frightened that time; we came very near shooting down into
the lake.
Orders are strict that no risk of destroying animals is to be run unless
the safety of the car necessitates it, but to-day we did kill a poor
pussy who jumped from a wall directly in our path, and not a yard away.
It was done in a flash, and kitty's joyous days were over. Poor thing!
as with us life was the best she had, and it is gone. The incident quite
clouded the day for some time.
At another time a fine dog, a collie, sprang at us and was thrown down
and the motor passed over him. I looked back, quite expecting to see his
mangled body lying on the highway, but instead of that saw him take a
stone wall in a fashion creditable to the best hunter in Ireland, and
none the worse for his experience. But that does not often occur. [4]
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Leap Castle from the Court]
It does not strike the traveller as singular that--while English is
spoken by all--he hears so much of the ancient tongue in remote
sections; there is the natural home for it: but I confess I was much
astonished during a recent visit to Canada to find that, after one
hundred and fifty years, from Montreal east, French is the language of
the people. While in the larger cities English is of course spoken, it
is not the prevailing tongue, and in all the small towns and rural
districts French is the tongue, and thousands of the people cannot speak
English at all. In one of the greater cities if a man would obtain a
position in the police or fire departments he must be able to read,
write, and speak French, but a Frenchman is _not_ obliged to read,
write, and speak English. All the estimates for public improvements are
in French alone, though the bidders are all English or Americans,
generally the latter. Of course, they must be translated into English by
the bidders, and what an opportunity is here presented for breaking a
contract by a claim of incorrect translation. In fact, it would seem to
an outsider that Canada is much more loyal to France than to England,
even after a century and a half of Saxon rule. Giving due allowance to
the treaty with France and to the power of the Church of Rome, such a
state of affairs at this date is singular to say the least.
As for the attempt in Ireland to revive the ancient Celtic amongst these
people, personally I do not think it will be successful, nor do I
understand the move; while it is well to keep it alive for students and
savants, what possible good can it serve the desperately poor and
ignorant of the land, how can they use it? At least so it appears to a
looker-on. (I have not been able to extract a good reason for the move
from any of its many advocates with whom I have conversed on this tour.)
Surely English is destined to be the language of men, not only in
Ireland but all over the world, and to my thinking this is the greatest
work accomplished by that nation. After all, is it not a case of the
survival of the fittest, and can any one deny that that tongue is
already the most widely spoken and more rapidly spreading than any or
all others?
Go where you will you will find that next to the language of each
country it is the one in use, and I believe that in generations to come
it will wipe out all the trouble caused by the inhabitants of Babylon in
their desire to get above high-water mark.
For professors and students it would be well to maintain these ancient
tongues as long as possible, but surely the poor of Ireland could be
benefited to a greater degree by other means than an attempt to restore
to daily use the ancient, almost forgotten, and fast dying tongue of
their forefathers.
As for the travellers in this land to-day it is confusing and irritating
to be confronted by a sign-post of absolutely no value, intelligible
only to those who know the Celtic tongue. The peasants cannot read them
and do not require them, hence, to all concerned, they mean as much here
as the verst posts do to a stranger in Russia.
As for the milestones, they tell a story hereabouts concerning what
happened between two towns separated some eighteen miles from each
other. The figures on the stones having become almost obliterated by
time and weather an order was given to a workman in one of the towns to
recut the lot. He took them up one by one and placed them in the proper
order in his stoneyard, but when completed it is evident that, before
the work of replacing them began, he must have celebrated the event in
the usual manner. Certainly the fact remains that he began at the wrong
end of the pile, placing the one marked "17" where the first stone
should have been, and so on with the lot, the result being that sundry
gentlemen the worse for wear coming from one town discovered that their
utmost endeavours to reach home only took them farther afield--where
they finally brought up is not related. As for the man from the other
town, when at the end of the first mile "17" stared at him from the
stone he became convinced that the devil was after him and shook his
first at a solitary magpie which had just flown over his head. I must
confess that I doubt these tales. However but for our maps we should
have been completely astray in western Ireland for all the use the
sign-posts were to us.
There is a charming little town at Recess, but unless you are a
sportsman, not much of interest.
Letters from home necessitate B.'s return, and we must call at Kylemore
Castle before we start. Distanced from Recess some thirteen miles, a
journey thither and back would with horses necessitate a whole day's
time, but with a motor it's only just around the block so to speak.
The morning is sunny and fair, and we drink in the rushing sea-breeze as
we roll away over gentle hills and valleys between the higher mountains,
and though the hills are treeless the whole panorama is attractive.
Our driver reports his petrol low, with none to be had at Recess, hence
we must fill the tank at Kylemore sufficiently to get us to Galway if it
can be done.
Kylemore Castle stands in a sheltered valley close by the sea though not
in view of it. It faces a lovely lake and is really built on the side of
the mountain which rises directly behind it to the height of two
thousand feet.
Across the lake the view is blocked by a similar range. While the
shrubbery is fine and the grass very luxuriant and green around the
mansion, all the hills and mountains are absolutely treeless.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Leap Castle]
The place, but lately purchased by the Duke of M., was built by Mr.
Henry at an expense, on the estate, of a million sterling. Reverses
forced its sale, and it was bought by its present owner. There is
nothing ancient, the house having but some fifty years to its credit,
but it is capable of being, and, in the present owner's hands, will be
made a charming dwelling-place, and certainly, swept by the winds of the
North Atlantic, it must be at all seasons very healthy. Filled with a
large company or with a few congenial people it should be an enjoyable
spot.
Its gardens are very extensive and one passes through endless
conservatories full of flowers and fruits. As we round a corner close to
the stable, we encounter the quaint figure of a woman with straggling
grey locks, tumbling down over a pallid face. In a dress of rags and
barefooted, she is dancing a crazy jig all by herself. There are weird
gleams in her eyes as they rove over the sombre mountains, seeking
kindred spirits, I fancy, as she croons in a monotone the notes of some
quaint melody which still drifts across her brain. She shows as she
catches sight of our party that she is no respecter of persons as she
grabs the Duke by the coat and won't let go, imploring him to "lock up
the castle and I'll be round a Monday." When he implores her to put off
her coming for a day or so she declines and sticks to "Monday." I
cannot but doubt in some degree her insanity, at least it has not
destroyed her womanly vanity, for when I tell her I want to take her
picture, she at once attempts to smooth her hair and dress, and striking
what she thinks will be a becoming pose, tells me to "go ahead," and
after the snap remarks, "You had better take another for fear that is a
failure."
Yesterday, having gone to the kitchen of the castle for her "bit of
meat," she found a new cook, who, not knowing about her, ordered her
out, whereupon she seized a knife from the table and there ensued a
handicap, go as you please, all over the place, with the cook in the
lead and Biddy a close second. After that she got her meat in peace.
As we return from an inspection of the grounds she is being conducted
off the terrace by the butler. But Biddy has a mind of her own and no
one save this butler could get her away, if it suited her to remain,
which it generally does. We are told she is deeply in love with him and
that there is a photo extant with Biddy on her knees, clasping his legs
and imploring him to marry her. Now the butler is a most stately
personage; he has the cast of countenance of the great Louis of France,
the same beak-like nose and downward sweep of the face lines running
from it, the same haughty pose of the head, in fact, deck him in a high
wig, court suit, and ruffles, and great red heels and you have Louis le
Grand; take them away and you have the butler, the object of Biddy's
devotion, to whom it makes no difference whether he be king or butler.
But Biddy in her rags is after all the most picturesque thing about
Kylemore; her eyes are bright if she is crazy--but where in all the
world will you find brighter eyes than amongst the beggars of Ireland,
and they seem equally pleased whether one gives or not (Biddy did not
beg, neither did she hesitate to take what we gave her). Like all
beggars, many of them are rogues, but, ah, risk that, for you may by
your half crown relieve for the time real heart-breaking misery, and
such poverty as you cannot conceive of. Go to Achill if you would be
convinced of that.
Yesterday while watching a train pass at Recess a boy approached and
just looked at me, but with a look of such hungry suffering that a
shilling was promptly forthcoming. Then I questioned him, and found that
he had been ill and could at best make but a sixpence a day, that his
brother drove the car for the hotel, getting as wages only the uncertain
tips of the visitors, which, never many, in this remote spot are indeed
few and far between in this bad season. His father had worked in the
neighbouring marble quarries, but pestered and beset by a law-suit over
his little hovel had, as the boy expressed it, "gone dotty," and could
work no more. The mother did what she could and a sister was a cripple.
So that all they had to live upon was what he and his brother could
earn.
Just as he finished a ducal train rolled by. His Grace was transporting
his family and effects from one great castle to another. Surely the
contrasts in life are heartrending, yet I doubt not that this Duke will
and does do all he can to relieve the sufferings of the poor on his
estates--sufferings intensified and made all the more horrible by the
unprincipled leaders of the leagues in this land, and masters of strikes
in ours and others.
But to return to Kylemore, the interior of the castle at present is in a
state of transition, so that it is impossible to describe it. Built
against the side of the mountain, some of its staircases are literally
laid on the solid rock. Many of the rooms are spacious and stately and
in the hands of the present owners will doubtless be made very handsome.
The glimpses of mountains and lake from its windows are entrancing. On
the whole I think one might come to love Kylemore very dearly. It has
cost vast sums of money as it stands and much more will be expended
before the end, if indeed the end ever is reached in these great places
where the expenditure of money is concerned. This one will require a
fortune to maintain.
Of the two Irish seats of the Duke of Manchester I should much prefer
Kylemore to Tanderagee. While the latter is beautiful in its park and
great trees, the former is a place of endless possibilities. Shooting
and fishing are abundant and of the best, whilst to the lovers of the
picturesque the mountains are an eternal joy, and close by is the
jobling and sobbing of the sea. Its quaint people are an endless source
of amusement and study. To enjoy it one must dwell there, and I depart
with regret at our short sojourn or rather call.
[Illustration: Moat at Ffranckfort Castle]
Our petrol has run out and there is none in this locality. However, the
chauffeur manages to buy some from the man at the station and with a
sputter and roar we are off and away through the mountain glens, turning
for a last glimpse of Kylemore, and her little church, both gleaming
white amongst the forests by the lake, and guarded by the brooding
mountains.
FOOTNOTES:
[4] Our route to-day from Mallaranny lay via Newport and
Westport to Louisburgh, then south over the mountains past Doo Lough,
round Killary Harbour to Leenane, west past Lough Fee to Tully Chapel,
south to Letterfrack, west and south to Clifden, south to Ballinaboy
Bridge, southeast to Toombeola Bridge, north to Ballynahinch Station,
and east to Recess.
CHAPTER VII
The Ancient City of Galway--Quaint People, Curious Houses, Vile
Hotel--Parsonstown--Wingfield House--Leap Castle and its
Ghosts--Ffranckfort Castle--Clonmacnoise--Holy Cross Abbey.
As we enter Galway from Recess, the roads become anything but agreeable;
there are many crossings and bridge backs which throw us from our seats,
and without extreme care on the part of the chauffeur would destroy the
car. Fortunately the weather is moist and there is little dust, which in
Galway is most disagreeable, the soil being limestone.
If you would see an ancient Irish city, purely Irish and undefiled by
the progress of this latter day, come to Galway, where she sits close
down by the sea. It is evidently to this section what Paris is to all
France. There may have been in other times those of the upper classes
here, but they do not appear on her streets to-day. Narrow and winding,
they are lined with ancient houses many of which bear pretentious coats
of arms and much carving, but all are now the dwelling-places of the
people.
The streets are jammed as this is Saturday evening and we move
cautiously along. At one point, owing to instructions from Boyse to turn
to the right and from me to go to the left, the motor car almost runs
over the pavement, scaring a buxom dame half to death. "'Twas the mercy
of God the dur was open behint us, or ye'd 'ave smashed mesel' and the
childer entirely." But at the same time she laughs and gives us a "God
bless ye." While we are learning the route from her, a perfect Irish
gentleman, properly drunk, reels up and leaning over the front of the
car gazes at us in a most affectionate fashion. Barefooted, rosy-cheeked
urchins are running in all directions, numerous women stand around doing
up their hair, and there is more of the ancient tongue to be heard than
at any other point except in Achill.
As a child I learned a lot of it, meaninglessly, from the old servants
at home, and recalling many phrases here have at times launched them
forth, generally with dire results.
To-day as we wend our way slowly through these crowded streets, it
greets our ears on all sides.
The quaint figures which one encountered in America thirty years ago
must have come from here. Boarding ship in yonder harbour they landed on
our shores absolutely unchanged and unique. One never sees them
nowadays. Even in Ireland they are to be met with only in the remote
districts; they are here in the good city of Galway but you will look
for them in vain farther east.
The story of the first appearance of my dear old nurse upon the streets
of our city has become a household tale with us. Just in from the "owld
country," she decked herself in her best for her Sunday's outing. A gown
of the most vivid emerald green whose skirt spread over a voluminous
hoop was composed of four huge flounces bound in bright red; a huge
bonnet of green and blue circled around her anything but classic
countenance--certainly her nose could never have been called "Roman";
she carried an orange and green sunshade. Her appearance created a
sensation which almost ended in a riot. She was too much for the
American youth as he was for her, and she fled homeward pursued by a
howling mob of the gamins.
I must pay tribute to the women who have come to us from this
island,--respected and self-respecting, they have proven most excellent
servants, with never a shadow of immorality amongst any of them,
thoroughly honest and upright, and during months of absence, and
sometimes years, left in entire charge of the households of which they
kept as perfect watch and ward as though they were indeed their own,
and, in fact, they soon learned to look upon the dwellings of their
employer as home, with no desire to change unless to marry and set up
their own firesides, and even then they never have forgotten and often
return to the places where they lived so long through days of sorrow and
days of mirth, not only servants but friends in the best acceptation of
that word.
[Illustration: Ffranckfort Castle]
While Galway is a town of but some fourteen thousand people, the crowds
on its streets to-night would convey the impression of a much greater
population. They simply swarm all over the place.
The city dates far enough back to have been mentioned by Ptolemy, and
probably took its name from the Gaels or foreign merchants who once
lived here. Galway appears on the pages of history in 1124 A.D. and from
that date onward it was fought for by every tribe of the island. Just
hereabouts there were thirteen tribes who strictly guarded themselves
against all intercourse with the native Irish. Indeed there was a law
that "none bearing an O or Mac in his name shall struttle one swaggere
through the streets of Galway."
But those days are past and there must certainly be many who bear such
prefixes to their names who are strutting these streets in this year of
grace 1907.
This was one of the most important seaports trading with Spain, and
there may be seen, even at this date, Spanish traits and features
intermingled with the Celtic, and many of its ancient houses hold the
touch of the South in their lines. Galway was loyal to King Charles and
suffered horribly from the forces of Cromwell in consequence.
While there are quaint structures still to be found in the streets they
require looking for and one must be prepared to endure much squalor and
dirt and endless smells which will not recall the perfume bazaars of the
Orient, though it has always struck me that the perfumes of the Orient
were thickly strewed that they might drown out much more horrible smells
than were ever to be found in Ireland.
The most interesting and famous of all the old houses is that of the
Lynch family whose façade holds some curious carvings, notably that of a
monkey carrying off a child, one of the children of the family having
been saved from death by fire by a pet monkey.
From the window of this house in 1493, its owner, James Lynch, hanged
his own son for murder.
Legend and truth are probably greatly mixed in the story told to-day.
The murder was that of a young Spaniard of whom the son was jealous, and
whom he stabbed to death. His mother besought her kinsfolk to save him
and them the disgrace of a public death by hanging, the father being
determined that the law should be obeyed. They met and roused the
populace which collected in a multitude outside the old house, to-day so
full of its noisy poor. The father, finding it would be impossible to
conduct his son to the place of execution, led him to one of the great
windows high up in the mansion and from thence launched him into
eternity at the rope's end. The people, awed into silence by his stern
justice, dispersed in quiet to their homes. To-day the street is called
Dead Man's Lane, and it is claimed that the tablet with skull and
cross-bones and its motto, "Remember deathe--vanite of vanite and all is
but vanite," was placed there to commemorate the dark occurrence, but if
so it was not until more than a century had rolled by.
It is said that this stern, sorrowing father never appeared in public
after his execution of his son.
The family of Lynch appeared here from Austria in 1274 and until 1654
was of great prominence; then it vanished entirely.
The old house rises in state still from its squalid surroundings and the
gloom upon its face seems to come as much from its present degradation
as from its sad history.
With all its dirt and squalor Galway is possessed of greater interest
than any other Irish city, though with the hurried march of time in
these latter days, the antiquary must search more and more each year if
he would discover aught.
One of the most singular and interesting parts is to be found in the
district just outside the walls and on the river. It is called Claddagh,
and consists of a colony of fishermen numbering with their families some
five or six thousand. Their marketplace adjoins one of the city's
ancient gates. They are a well ordered and governed people, having a
king or mayor elected from time to time whose word is law and from whose
decision they never appeal; neither will they acknowledge any other
authority. They are religious and will not sail away nor fish on Sunday
or feast day.
At one period they were sufficient unto themselves and always married in
their own set. That is changed now and neither does one often see the
old and picturesque costume of their women,--a red gown and blue mantle.
However, even to-day their part of Galway is cleaner and more wholesome
than its other sections.
Its people are very superstitious and will not fish nor permit others to
do so unless the day and hour be lucky. Some have tried to break through
this but were forced to give up the attempt, as their lives were in
danger.
An Irishman in the city stated that times were very bad, they "had had
very good crops and hence could not raise the cry of famine and so bring
in the cash from England and America. When they can do that every one is
well off and happy."
But, as I have stated, squalor, dirt, and evil smells so abound that one
is fairly driven off and away from this quaintest of the Irish towns.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Clonmacnoise]
You may spend a time in her old church of St. Nicholas, but if you
enter the adjoining graveyard the terrible neglect will drive you forth
in horror, a horror in no way quieted by a sojourn at the awful railway
hotel, a place so vilely dirty that nothing save acute hunger forces us
to remain an instant within its doors. I ask the waiter for a toothpick.
"Well, really, sor, we have none, but here's one of me own, which I'll
lend yez." In the search for it he pulls from the same pocket a dirty
handkerchief and a stump of a clay pipe. My laughter brings a twinkle to
his eyes and procures us a much better luncheon than we had reason, from
the appearance of the dirty table, to expect.
There is no excuse for this hotel. It is a disgrace to the railroad
which owns and runs it. These railway hotels are generally cleanly and
well kept. Certainly such is the case in England and Scotland and in the
west and north of Ireland. But in Galway the broken-down, dilapidated,
and filthy state of affairs is disgusting in the extreme. One hesitates
to eat anything which comes from the kitchen, and we confine ourselves
to boiled ham and cheese.
From Galway our route lies eastward to Parsonstown and had we followed
the map would have been simple enough, but the advice of sundry
home-going men, all somewhat the worse for liquor, sent us astray
several times, but in a motor that is of little moment.
Parsonstown, or Birr, lies directly east of Galway and en route we pass
by Lorrha, where I stop a moment to inspect its ancient abbey. It is of
interest to some Americans as having been the burial-place for centuries
of a well-known family, the Carrolls. There are no monuments or
tablets, as dead have been buried upon dead within the ruined walls for
years on years, even unto to-day, as a fresh mound with a half-withered
wreath of flowers upon it testifies.
Birr Castle was the original seat of the Carrolls, but they appear to
have owned numerous others in this locality, such as Leap and
Ffranckfort.
The life of the dwellers must have been very crude and rude, but they
were all very tenacious of their right of sepulchre with their
forefathers. Each old will directs, after kindly returning the "soul to
the God who gave it," that their bodies be buried "in the chapel
adjoining the Abbey of St. Dominick in Lorrha," and so it was done; but,
as I have stated, years have gone and other dead have claimed the same
graves in this holy spot, until the place, now a tangle of ivy and wild
brier, is buried deeply and heaped high with the silent sleepers whose
rest is rarely disturbed by a passer from the great outer world of the
living.
In the surrounding graveyard the dead sleep closely together and the
spot is better cared for than is usually the case. Apparently they are
not so soon forgotten, at least, one is not horrified by the appalling
desolation and abandonment usually to be found in such places in rural
Ireland. Of course the people are very poor, but at least they could
lock the doors of the vaults and cut the grass over the graves of their
dead. It may be that they consider that nothing is necessary or can be
done once they pass beneath the sod of "holy ground," that, having been
consecrated by the church, any touch of man's hand would be a
desecration thereof. Be that as it may the effects upon one from another
land is horrible. Such is not the case here in Lorrha, I am pleased to
state.
A quick run of nine miles brings us to the quaint old city of Birr, just
as the night closes in.
Birr is an eminently respectable town. Its streets are wide and its
houses have a delightful seclusion which reminds one of the main square
in Frederick City, Maryland. There are arched doorways shaded by
climbing vines and bearing great brass knockers. There are family cats
every here and there, and ancient dames peer at you from behind lace
curtains. In its main square at the base of the column to the Duke of
Cumberland and his victory of Culloden, one of the present citizens of
Birr is declaiming. He does not declaim long; truth compels me to state
that he is tight, and that even now two servants of the law are
escorting him into the calaboose. Pity 'tis, 'tis true. But this is
Saturday night and a man must have his little enjoyments.
We descend at the door of an hotel whose name sets us whistling, "Mr.
Dooley's Hotel." I think it fairly good--Boyse does not agree with me
but withal we are very comfortable in it.
Birr is the very centre of Ireland, and probably takes airs to herself
in consequence.
We arrive here very weary to-night. There are days when motoring is not
all joy--this has been one. The lime dust and cold winds around Galway
have cut our faces into segments, and I find a bath, an open fire, and
easy chair too attractive to resist, but Boyse has gone off in a
jaunting-car eight miles to see some friends and arrange for a visit
to-morrow to an ancient castle where a real ghost still holds forth. We
shall see what we shall see, but it would take more than a ghost to keep
me awake to-night, much less to make me drive sixteen miles to call, but
it seems nothing to Boyse who does not return until late--too late to
talk--and so good-night.
Morning dawns in mist and rain, which continue off and on all day long.
Birr is as silent as only an Irish or English town knows how to be on a
Sunday,--every shop is closed, the houses show scarce any sign of life,
while Cumberland upon his column seems to offer an apology for being in
gala array on the first day of the week.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Abbey of the Holy Cross]
Boyse's friends near here have bidden us to luncheon after an
inspection of that ancient seat of the O'Carrolls, Leap Castle
(pronounced "Lep"). So rain and mist defying, we roll off at ten A.M.
leaving Yama and our kit behind us. The roads are slippery and the car
skids a little, but the chauffeur is alive to the danger, which is
minimised to the fullest extent by chains on the wheels. Some ten miles
out we turn into a spacious park and are welcomed at the door of the
mansion of "Wingfield" by the daughters of the house, three lovely Irish
women, and I know of no land which can produce more beautiful women than
Ireland; striking forms, faces, and figures are the rule not the
exception in this land of the harp. There is a type of reddish golden
hair, fair clear complexion, and sky-blue eyes which is especially
beautiful to my thinking; it belongs to the upper classes, at least I
have never noted it in a daughter of the people,--there the dark
blue-grey eyes and black hair, or pale straw-coloured hair combined with
palest of blue eyes, prevail.
I have a painting by our poet-painter, T. Buchanan Read, which shows the
type I speak of, yet where did he ever see it? Certainly not amongst
those emigrants who came to America in his time. The painting, called
_The Harp of Erin_,[5] represents a white-clad woman chained to a rock
in the sea, whose waves dash up around her. Reddish golden hair floats
over her shoulders, which are draped in a green scarf. Blue eyes of the
colour of the deepest heaven gaze mournfully upon you and her arms are
raised to play upon a harp. The artist was in his happiest mood when he
painted this picture and for it he refused a large price, expecting at
the period of the Fenian excitement, in the sixties, to have it
lithographed and so realise vast sums, but fate in some form, how I know
not, intervened, and his idea was never carried out, or the Fenian
bubble burst before it could be accomplished.
But to return to Wingfield. We gather in two of the ladies and speed off
over the slippery highway to Leap Castle. Now Leap, I would have you
know, is THE ghost castle of Ireland, owning more spooks to the room
than all the others together. En route thither we pass under the shadow
of "Knockshigowna" or hill of the fairies, and it would seem on this
shadowy morning that the ruin on its summit shows signs of a strange
agitation; perhaps the shades are aware of our approach to their
favourite castle in the valley and trust that we may tarry until night
falls and their dominion maintains,--for until then, they must stay
where they are, high up on yonder hill, which is the centre of all the
fairy romance and legend of the island. The forest is dense here and we
roll under the bending boughs, heavy with the night's dew, and
glittering in the sunlight. At the end of a long green tunnel the tower
of Leap Castle blocks the way.
Leap stands overlooking a fair valley, a great square tower to which
have been added wings on either side. It was one of the most ancient
seats of the O'Carrolls, who seem to have left a most excellent memory
hereabouts as expert sheep-stealers. All of these ancient castles were
composed of simply one great strong tower. Everything else is of much
later date. We have seen a dozen such in the past few days. Leap is no
exception. Fortunately its owner, Mr. D.; is at home and welcomes us to
what has been in his family since the days of the Restoration, a period
when many of the Irish castles passed into the hands of Englishmen.
We enter the lower floor of the great tower, which in the days of the
O'Carrolls was evidently the great hall, where many of those weird,
barbarous feasts one associates with such places must have occurred.
To-day its appearance is peaceful enough. Pictures anything but terrible
surround us and no ghosts can stand this clear light of day.
From its windows you enjoy a superb panorama, and from its terrace one
of its ancient owners leapt his horse when pursued by some enemy--hence
the name. He was a rider superior to any even Ireland can show at the
present time for the drop is quite thirty feet.
The wings of the castle flank the tower on either hand, but aside from
containing cheery rooms with much fine old furniture, are not of
interest, at least when compared to the hall, around which a gallery
circles in the second story, to which stairs in the thickness of the
walls conduct one. In one of the angles there is an oubliette to
anywhere below,--in another a stair mounts to a chapel in the top,
dismantled and disused now save by the ghost of a priest which walks
here with his head under his arm, and it is reported that one of the
chatelaines of the castle fled here from following footsteps which she
could not understand, and flinging the great door to behind her used
her fair arm as a staple, only to have it broken in two by a force no
mortal could withstand. She fainted, but before losing consciousness saw
passing by her the shadow of the headless monk. If you sleep in one of
those chambers below there you will awaken to find your hand drawn over
the bedside and blood slowly dripping from your fingers,--there are
stains on the old oaken flooring even now. Which ghost does that is not
stated.
No direct heir ever inherits "Leap," and when misfortune is following
fast on the footsteps of the family, a ghostly sheep appears and with a
claw of great length (that kind of sheep have "claws") scratches on the
panels of the great oaken portals. Every properly self-respecting house
in Ireland has a ghost, but Leap has more than its share, and no peasant
of the island would venture to pass a night alone in the dungeon under
its great tower. There was nothing ghostly about the very good Irish
whiskey which we had there,--so toasting all ghosts malign or beneficent
and bidding our host a thankful adieu, we depart under the dripping
skies and return to peaceful-looking Wingfield, only to learn that it
too has its ghost, but a friendly one, being a great white goose which
walks around the walls of the home park and so wards off all evil from
the occupants.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Rock of Cashel]
A cheerful luncheon with agreeable people will banish any amount of
spooks. It is so in this case. Wingfield could never be called a lonely
place. Each of its fair chatelaines has a pet dog of her own and there
are half a dozen stray dogs belonging to no one and every one. _They_
are not allowed in any room unless they find the door open and in
Ireland doors are rarely closed. If the dining-room door _is_ open at
meal-time and they about, it's first come first served, with odds on the
dogs,--ditto at teatime,--in fact, any old time or meal, and there are
dogs enough to fill all vacancies and be present upon all occasions.
It is a merry meal we have, but the best of things must end and so we
rise to depart. As I step forward to open the door for the ladies I find
the knob gone and the act impossible; but we troop around by another way
and settle ourselves before a bright fire in the drawing-room.
We are told by our hostess that the parson came to call the other day.
The doorbell was broken but the door open. Upon entering the
drawing-room and closing the door the knob came off in his hand. In the
meantime numbers of dogs had collected in the hall. Remembering that the
family were probably all out, he went to the bell to summon help, when
_that_ handle came off also; going to the window to get out, he could
not keep it up until he had called into service a small table; thus he
managed to tumble out on to the lawn amidst ten or a dozen barking dogs
not at that moment on duty inside. He has not called since.
However to my thinking Irish dogs are good-natured.
Warm-hearted hospitality reigns in that house and may good luck and
happiness for ever abide therewith.
After luncheon we start again with our fair guides on a visit to another
famous house, Ffranckfort Castle, some eleven miles away, a veritable
moated grange owned by Major Rolleston.
Our way lies through the forest. There are few hills hereabouts and no
sign-posts to any of the roads, so that one might well lose the route,
and but for our fair companions we certainly should have done so several
times since we lost sight of the hill of the fairies and entered these
labyrinths of the forest.
Turning at last through an ancient gateway, we see through the vistas of
the trees and on a level stretch of ground a great enclosure some
hundreds of yards each way surrounded by a high stone wall, through
whose pointed gateway there are glimpses of a castellated mansion. As we
draw nearer a moat full of water discloses itself around the outer wall,
and rumbling over a drawbridge which has long since forgotten its
function, we enter the enclosure.
As the car draws towards the house, which stands in the centre of the
place, a saturnine face, with a long, hooked nose, gazes at us through
the dusty diamond-shaped panes of a window.
Here is a mansion of the olden times, and one so secluded that few from
the outer world ever find it.
The house, built at several different periods, stands in the centre of
the enclosure. I should judge that the main portion was of the date of
Elizabeth but the left still holds a large round tower of a much older
period and the main doorway of heavy old oak, very thick, and studded
with nails folded back in several panels. A very curious bit of work.
It would seem to-day that the gentleman behind the window either doubts
our being otherwise than spirituelle, or doubts our characters, and so
declines to admit us, but he does come finally, and we enter an old-time
place which knows nothing of the changes of these latter days and cares
less for them.
In a large square hall we are greeted by our host, a typical Irish
gentleman. He presents us to the ladies of the family, and we are
welcomed as one is always welcomed in Ireland.
The owner, Major Rolleston, will not believe that I am an American as he
cannot "hear the voice." I know just what he means and finally convince
him that America like England has many accents.
They are charmed when they find that I really desire to see the old
house, and we are soon at work, at least the Major and I are,--leaving
the rest to discuss "tea." The Major acts as my guide over the place and
out into a lovely flower-garden; he is greatly interested also in the
cultivation of vegetables, and remarks with regret "you don't care for
farming." Confessing my shortcomings in that respect his interest in me
dies out, and he shortly conducts me back towards the old house, over
another drawbridge, which, like its fellow in front, has long since
forgotten its ancient usage. One might spend hours over such a place and
not exhaust its interest. I understand that it is the only perfectly
_moated_ mansion remaining in Ireland. There are fish in the moat, and
on one side a man can swim in six feet of water for some hundreds of
feet. The portions of the building which we inspected consisted of a
large square hall, dining-and drawing-rooms which stretch across its
front, and a large library in the rear.
The hallway, like most in the land, is decorated with the antlers of
many deer, and in the drawing-room quaint prints and engravings and
portraits of long dead dames and squires adorn the wall, while through
the diamond-shaped panes of the casement the leaf-flecked sunshine
starts many a face into life as it flits across them. One feels that one
should be dressed in the costume of the Golden days.
[Illustration: From a steel engraving
Cormac's Chapel, Rock of Cashel]
Ffranckfort is not a splendid place, but it is homelike and beautiful.
Is it peace or stagnation which broods over a spot like this? Do these
people live or merely vegetate? To a man who has passed his years where
the pulses of life beat the strongest it seems at first like stagnation,
as though these woods must suffocate as they crowd so closely around the
outer enclosure, ever advancing towards the house,--indeed one great
tree in its haste or intentness to get here has fallen, and now projects
over moat and wall and far into the enclosure, where its branches peer
about them. Yet when one has been here a space there is a "peace, be
still" over it all, a sense of brooding, that is very calming to one's
spirit.
Everything belongs to the long ago except our auto, which I order out of
sight, round the corner, with a command to stay there until it is wanted
and not intrude this twentieth century upon the sixteenth. But we cannot
remain for ever, and the car, shortly summoned, glides forth and rolls
us off and away, through the great gateway and over the bridge of the
moat and so off into the aisles of the forest whose trees closing in
around it hide the old hall from view as though by the dropping of a
curtain, and again I ask, is it peace and contentment, or stagnation, to
abide in Ffranckfort Castle?
I think it was Bayard Taylor who, in his early life, desired the
seclusion of an island in some far off southern sea, there to dwell in
close communion with nature, there to look from nature up to nature's
God,--but as his years advanced and his sands of life ran towards a
finish, that desire changed to one which would place him where the
pulses of life beat the strongest, and his last words were, "Oh, for
more of this stuff called Life!"
The shadows of night and the falling rain make it dark as we reach once
more our quarters in Birr where a bright fire in our sitting-room is, to
say the least, attractive, and where the discussion pro and con as to
the merits of "Mr. Dooley's Hotel" are revived. "Beastly" comes from
behind Boyse's book where he sits reading deep down in an arm-chair; but
here is a cosey little room, easy chairs and a bright fire, a
dinner-table attractively spread and an attractive dark-eyed lassie
waiting to serve us. May I never encounter worse than that on my
pilgrimage through life.
To-morrow we go to Clonmacnoise and to-night, as I sit reading about it,
my thoughts become a strange jumble of crosses and round towers, haunted
castles, and ancient Manor-houses towards which I am carried in a wild
rush through the aisles of the forest surrounded and pursued by dogs,
geese, fairies, and ghosts until the top of the hill of the fairies is
reached and I am being tried for high treason because of my doubts
to-day of the powers of each and all of them. The headless monk is my
judge while the sheep with the long claw prosecutes the suit against me.
My fingers are dripping blood, it seems, and I am about to be delivered
to the dogs of Wingfield when I distinctly hear it stated that I am
snoring and had better go to bed. Perhaps such is the case; so good
night.
As Clonmacnoise stands on the banks of the Shannon and is but some
thirty miles north of Birr, and the day yet young, we are off for a run
thither. The morning is moist and the roads slippery, but we make good
progress, most of the way through narrow lanes, and sometimes through
pastures, to the astonishment of the cattle settled for their noonday's
sleep.
Clonmacnoise was once the Oxford of Ireland, where the sons of the
nobles were sent for education, its name "Cluan-mac-noise" meaning "the
secluded recess of the sons of nobles."[6]
It was in addition, one of the favourite burial places of the Irish
kings. Even to-day, to be interred here is considered a blessing, as
those so honoured pass straight to heaven.
The Abbey dates from the days of St. Kieran, 548 A.D.,--he died of the
plague and was buried here,--and at one time was one of the richest,
compressing within its bounds almost the half of Ireland. It flourished
all through the wars with the Danes, and seems to have been finally
plundered by the English, who carried off the wonderful bells and every
other movable object. From that time onward the roofless churches and
buildings fell more and more a prey to advancing time, until the whole
became as we see it to-day, a small ruined church, a fragment of a
castle, a round tower, and a stately cross, crowded upon by the graves
of those who have eagerly
sought this direct route to the realms of the blessed, but, for us, this
world is as yet too full of interest, and we do not envy these dead even
though they have here found the portals of heaven.
At Clonmacnoise is one of the many holy wells dating from pagan days,
and which the traveller finds all over Ireland. These wells would appear
to have formed a prominent feature in the paganism of the ancient
nations. There are traces of them all over Africa, Asia and Europe.
It's a slippery, sliding run back to Birr, which the motor several times
attempts to take backwards, but it ends safely and we reach "Mr.
Dooley's Hotel" for luncheon.
It is a misty morning as we depart from Birr, but mist at this season in
Ireland falls like a benediction upon man and upon all the world of
green around him--and where else in this world will you find such green
as in Ireland?
To-day the woods and meadows stretch away before us and over all bends a
grey sky with patches of vivid blue and white cutting through it every
here and there.
We had arranged to visit with our hosts of yesterday another of the
"most ancient" and still inhabited castles of this section, but fearing
a change to rain in the weather we give that up and roll off to the
south-west, until finally we reach a fair green valley through whose
grasses and beneath whose bending trees lazily rolls the river Suir, a
river just wide enough to suit one's fancy, full of fish and water
lilies, and by whose banks, amidst a thick grove of stately trees, the
ancient Abbey of the Holy Cross rears its grey walls and delicate
traceries.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
The Cross of Cashel and Throne of the Kings of Munster
Rock of Cashel]
Holy Cross is one of the finest ruins in all Ireland, and was evidently
an abbey of great wealth and importance. Truly those monks of old knew
where to build and when they brought the relic of the Cross bestowed by
Pope Pascal II. in 1110 to this spot and erected its shrine, they made
no mistake. It is not difficult to restore in the mind's eye the ancient
structure to what it once was, or to repeople it with the forms and
faces of ancient days. Yonder door in the outer wall must often have
given egress to the fat white-robed abbot and his jolly crowd of monks,
come out to inspect the baskets of fish and other good things brought by
the people who crowded around them. There were also hampers of fruit and
vegetables, and other things which looked strangely like casks of wine.
Back of all rose the stately abbey, while the river flowed onward waving
its lilies and grasses, and the soft air was full of the sound of sacred
bells and murmuring waters.
To-day we face a stately ruin and there is no sound of bells or sight of
abbot, only the river still murmurs amongst its lilies, but Holy Cross
is as beautiful in her ruin as she could ever have been in the days of
her splendour.
A comely dame admits us through the abbot's portal, and for hours we
wander as the fancy dictates, pausing now in the choir with its ancient
tombs, climbing high on the great tower with its prospect of God's
eternal resurrection all around, or resting where the high altar is
draped in trailing ivy and splendid with golden lichen.
The mists have disappeared, the sunlight is warm and strong and one can
almost see the fish in the river, while the air is laden with the
fragrance of lilies, and there is a hush over all as though this ancient
dame were sitting for her portrait.
How completely the rush and trouble of the world drops away in a spot
like this! How the soul is lulled into slumber, and the "Peace, be
still" of God comes down upon one!
FOOTNOTES:
[5] See Frontispiece.
[6] Another authority interprets the name (Cluain-maccu-Nois)
"the meadow of the sons of Nos."
CHAPTER VIII
The Rock of Cashel--Its Cathedral, Palace, and Round Tower--Its
History and Legends--Kilmalloch: its Ruins and History--The
Desmonds--Horse Fair at Buttevant.
The usual dram-shop exists near this one-time shrine of the cross and
outside of it we found a man somewhat half seas over who had insisted
upon showing us the abbey, but we were equally insistent that we would
not submit to such a desecration, and so the good woman in charge of it,
with much pleasure on her part,--"the likes of him, to be sure, to be
troublin' the gintlemen!"--had locked him out. He was on hand when we
came away, determined to get at least a sixpence for a drink, but to all
of his wiles we proved insensible. Just before we entered the car he
moved off a pace, and regarding me from top to toe remarked, "Well, I
must say, sor, that's the handsomest fitting coat I ever saw." As said
coat was a wretched production of a Chinese tailor of Yokohama the
flattery was too fulsome and fell flat, upon obdurate ears, but he
bestowed his benediction upon us for all that as the car rolled off.
This section would seem to be the very heart of Ireland. There are
traces of ecclesiastical ruins everywhere, and one's interest is
intensified each moment until it reaches its climax some nine miles from
Holy Cross, when the land drops gently into a vast valley from the
centre of which, rising some three hundred feet, and crowned with ruins,
towers the Rock of Cashel. At its base clusters the town and in the
spreading meadows round about there are many stately ruins. As we
approach, the town gives scant evidence of life, until one wonders
whether any one exists there. We certainly do not see a half-dozen
living things, men or animals, before we desert the car and climb the
rock.
It is a glorious day as we pass upward to the hill and the old town and
ruins take on a kindly look under the streaming sunshine--for sunshine
"streams" in Ireland; the sky is never cloudless and the sun breaking
through sends its light always in long streaming shafts, as though it
were a great searchlight directed by some giant power; and so it is
to-day, and just now it is turned full upon the Rock until all the ruins
seem quivering with life.
But it passes, and as we enter and the iron gate clangs behind us the
whole place is full of the sadness of decay. This was the Stirling of
Ireland for here is cathedral, castle, and round tower.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Ancient Gateway, Kilmalloch]
The stories of war and bloodshed have passed away and Cashel has fallen
more and more into ruin and decay with the flight of years. An old
guide, whose name does not seem to be given, made it the labour of his
life and love to restore as best he could what was remaining. Here he
lived on the charity of the poor, which never failed him, doing his
best, and it was much, to gather together the crumbling stones and
replace them in their old positions. Finally he died and was buried here
and his work, almost undone by neglect and time, was finally taken up by
one of equal taste and greater power, Archdeacon Cotton, who devoted
time, energy, and private means to preserve this most interesting spot
in Ireland from destruction. His work here started in Ireland the same
movement towards the preservation of these ancient places with which Sir
Walter Scott was so identified in Scotland.
To both, the lover of antiquities owes an eternal debt of gratitude.
Of Cashel it is related that Archbishop Brice in 1744, not being able to
drive his carriage to the top of the rock, procured an act of Parliament
to remove the cathedral down into the town, whereupon the roof was
actually taken off for the value of the lead and the venerable pile
abandoned to ruin.
As we pass the iron gateway which now guards the ruins and the dead who
sleep around and in them (for the whole is now a great necropolis) the
eye is first attracted by a rude cross rising from an equally rude base;
on one side is carved the crucifixion, and on the other a figure of St.
Patrick. Here it is said the kings of Munster were crowned and here also
tribute was paid by those of lesser state, and it is claimed that a
hollow on one side was caused by the throwing down of the tribute gold
through many years.
Passing onward one enters the quaint Cormac's Chapel, one of the most
interesting remains in Ireland. Its original stone roof is still in
place and possesses two very singular square towers on either side, one
of which carries its pyramidal roof, but the other is open to the sky.
The chapel is not large, being but fifty-three feet long and having only
a nave and choir. It is Norman in its character; the very rich
decorations of its arches and niches are all of that style.
The cathedral is, of course, a ruin, but stately and beautiful. Its
interior is crowded with flat tombstones and even to-day interments take
place here, and be assured to have the right of burial in Cashel Church
is a hallmark of nobility which no money can purchase; only blood ties
with those long since laid to rest will gain you a right to sleep there,
and the same holds with Muckross.
There is not much left of the castle. Outward amongst the many graves
which cover the rock, the eye is at once attracted by the stately round
tower, rising a hundred feet above the rock. To my thinking there is
nothing more majestic than these simple towers with their conical caps,
and one weaves around them all manner of romances and stories, which
probably are very far from the truth.
There seems little doubt that they are simply the campaniles of this
northern land and it appears certain that they did not make their
appearance until after the advent of Christianity. They were probably
used also for watch towers and are to be found all down the coast at
points where the Danes were apt to land.
In those days the Danes were the marauders of Europe, and Ireland did
not escape their attention.
The ancient annals of the island call these towers, of which seventy are
still standing, "Cloicoheach" or house of a bell. There are two in the
land which have most impressed me, this one high on the Rock of Cashel
and the one at Glendalough, deep down in a valley. Of that one I shall
speak later on.
Cashel as a place of importance dates from the early kings of Munster
and from the days of St. Patrick--the fifth century--when St. Declan
founded a church here.
Its name probably came from a stone fort or "Caiseal." It was also
called the City of the Kings. Here in 1172 Henry the Second received the
homage of Donald O'Brien, King of Thomond, and the princes of Offaly and
Decies, and England became the ruler of the land. Here he read aloud
that famous papal bull. Edward Bruce passed by Cashel and paused to hold
a parliament. The Butlers and Fitzgeralds warred all over the place and
the great Earl of Kildare in 1495 burned down the cathedral, and when
called by the King of England to accounting, declared that he would not
have thought of committing such a sacrilege but that he was told that
the archbishop was surely in the church; whereupon the King exclaimed,
"If all Ireland cannot govern this man, he is the fittest to govern all
Ireland," and thereupon appointed him viceroy the following year.
The rock and town were given up to plunder and slaughter by Lord
Inchiquin in 1647 when twenty monks and many of the people were slain,
but Cashel shines forth most brilliantly as the seat for centuries of an
archbishop, and as the stranger stands on the rock to-day it is not
difficult to picture the scenes and pageants of that period. Restore in
your minds the church and palace to their former grandeur, rebuild and
repeople the many monasteries which dot the green valley around the
rock, fill the shady lanes with the gorgeous processionals of the Church
of Rome advancing to some great ceremonial in the cathedral already
crowded with a multitude bowed in prayer, place the gorgeously robed
archbishop on his throne before the altar ablaze with gold and lighted
candles, while the sunlight streaming through the painted windows casts
the greater glory of God over all, and the organ sends its deep solemn
tones forth under the stately arches.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Dominican Abbey, Kilmalloch]
Then you have Cashel at its best; but passing outward your eye would
have been at once attracted by the stately round tower, as stately
to-day as it was then, which would tell you at once that, as some
believed, long before the cross came to Cashel the pagans held their
barbarous rites and ceremonies on this rock.
Again, we are told that Cashel was first founded in the reign of Coro,
son of Loo-ee, and that its name was Sheedrum, also called Drum-feeva;
from the woods about. Through the forests and up to the rock at that
time came two swineherds, with their pigs, Kellarn, herdsman to the King
of Ely, and Doordry, herdsman for the King of Ormond, and there appeared
to them here a figure as brilliant as the sun, and whose voice, more
melodious than any music of this world, was consecrating the hill and
prophesying the coming of St. Patrick. The news soon reached Coro, who
came hither without delay and built a palace here called Lis-no-Lachree,
or the fort of heroes, and being King of Munster his royal tribute was
received on this rock, then called Currick-Patrick,--wherefore it was
called Cashel, _i.e._, Cios-ail, or the rock of tribute.
All that is but a legend and story of the long ago, yet this great round
tower bears enduring testimony that Cashel was occupied long before the
English invasion. Indeed the chapel of Cormac is undoubtedly of before
that period but the cathedral dates from 1169, and the castle from
1260. The whole was originally surrounded by a wall, of which no trace
remains to us.
But after all it is the prospect from the outer walls which will longest
hold your attention, the beautiful panorama of the golden vale of
Tipperary spread out before you, while beyond range the stately Galty
Mountains and the Slievenaman and Clonmel hills, the old town clustering
around the base of the rock, its twisting narrow streets bordered by
quaint houses while the green meadows around are dotted with ruined
abbeys and many a tower of far more ancient date.
If Ireland _is_ unhappy, she does not show it here to the passing
stranger to-day. All is peace down amongst those meadows and beside
those still waters.
Yonder is the Abbey of Horl, the equal of Holy Cross, but to inspect all
the abbeys one passes would take a lifetime.
As we return to the car, I notice that there is trouble of some sort. An
old Irishman stands near-by and a little girl is trying vainly to draw
him away. As we arrive Yama remarks that the old man is insulting, and
in as low a tone as I can command I bid him pay no attention as the man
is drunk. That may be, but not so drunk as to deaden his hearing for he
promptly replies, "Yes, sor, I am drunk, but I am drunk on my own
whiskey, and I am not travellin' around wid a monkey man." It was
well-nigh impossible to keep grave faces, but for the Jap's sake we
succeeded, and the car started, not, however, without another shot from
the old man: "Well, good-bye to yez, and I forgive ye if ye did say I am
drunk." I am glad to state that that was the only experience of the kind
which we encountered. What may have occurred before we reached the car I
cannot say,--I certainly did not question the Jap on the subject,
judging it better to drop the whole matter, but I have little doubt but
that he did or said something to enrage the old man. The only one
concerned for whom I felt any pity was the little granddaughter, who
vainly endeavoured to lead him away. Poor child, her eyes were full of
tears and I felt very sorry for her. In this world of ours it seems
always her sex which must suffer.
Our route from Cashel to Buttevant lies through rich meadow-lands where
the grass is greener and the buttercups of a deeper golden than anywhere
else in the world I think, unless it be in the "blue grass" regions of
our own Kentucky. This was certainly the land of promise to all who
lived here or could force their way in; almost every turn in the road
brings us upon some ruined tower or castle, whilst fragments of
ecclesiastical buildings dot the landscape far and near. Indeed, as we
roll leisurely along on this bright summer's morning, the prospect is at
all times enchanting to the lover of history and antiquity, and the
interest increases steadily until Kilmalloch, the Balbec of Ireland, is
reached, though at all times the traveller's regret will be intense
that the ruin of all is so complete. In fact, the town is but a mass of
ruins where the miserable hovels of the poor prop up what is left of the
ancient mansions of a vanished nobility. As we pass through what was
once its greatest street we note the remains of stately houses every
here and there, but they have evidently been partly pulled down and
their materials used to build the wretched structures which now shelter
these people. Only the property of the church has been spared and in
this case, though the ruin is great, it is the result of the sieges
during Elizabeth's and Cromwell's time; the people have let the
buildings alone, only that great disbeliever in church or state, time,
is for ever at work completing their destruction.
One comes here upon the trails of the most powerful family which Ireland
has ever possessed, the Desmonds, whose properties, covering four
counties, extended over one hundred miles and contained over five
hundred and seventy thousand acres. An ancient family, even at that
period, they were made earls in 1329. Their power appears to have been
at all times dreaded by the crown and we find one of them of the Kildare
branch a prisoner in the Tower in Henry VII.'s time. He it was who
burned the cathedral at Cashel, hence we may save our sympathies for a
better man, especially as his assurance so affected the King that he was
appointed governor of Ireland, as we related in the account of Cashel.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Buttevant Barracks]
His son, for rebellion, did not fare so well with Henry VIII., as, with
five of his uncles, he perished on the scaffold and his family was only
saved from extinction by having his youngest brother smuggled over to
France to return to home and restored estates when Edward VI. sat on the
throne.
Do not, however, for a moment imagine that that family "lived happily
for ever after." Certainly not with such blood flowing in their veins
and with Elizabeth Tudor wearing the crown, during whose reign the
sixteenth Earl of Desmond did all he could to prevent his name from
sinking into oblivion. He became conspicuous as an "ingenious rebel" and
the Queen speaks of him in one of her letters as "a nobleman not brought
up where law and justice had been frequent," by which I presume her
Majesty meant that he had forgotten that the words "law" and "justice"
meant the royal "will" and "desire" only. We have had some such
forgetfulness in our own land of late years. Desmond was of such power
that he could raise a company of five hundred men of his own name alone,
all of whom and his own life also he lost in three years' time. There is
little doubt that he was driven to rebellion by wrong and oppression, as
he and his estates were objects of envy to every other chieftain of
Ireland. His greatest enemy, the Earl of Ormond, was finally empowered
by the crown to crush him and in the end succeeded. Desmond, "trusting
no home or castle," was driven to woods and bogs and finally captured
in a ruined hovel where his head was struck off and sent to the Queen
"pickled in a pipkin." His executioner, a soldier named "Daniel Kelly,"
received a pension of twenty pounds from the crown but for some later
act was hanged at Tyburn.
With James, the son of this Desmond, the power of the family terminated.
He became a Protestant and the only one of his name. It is useless to
state that the followers of his ancient house would not tolerate such a
lapse and upon his only visit to Kilmalloch he was spat upon on his
return from church. That drove him to London, where he died.
As I have stated, there is almost nothing to remind the traveller
through Kilmalloch to-day of its ancient splendour, though he may still
trace its walls which once completely surrounded the town. Just outside
stands the ruins of the Dominican friary, a stately empty shell.
Leaving it, we roll away southward and upon entering the town of
Buttevant are rudely shaken from the contemplation of ancient days to
the activity of this twentieth century.
Buttevant is indulging in a horse fair where David Harums congregate
from all the land roundabout. As our car rolls through the streets, we
are regarded as legitimate prey and have horses of all ages, sizes, and
colours,--"Sound? Glory be to God, as sound as yer honour," shoved in
front of us. (That we pass on without pausing stamps us at once as
unworthy of further notice.) One man with absolutely no right has seized
upon an adjoining field and after breaking a hole in the wall as a
ticket window proceeds to collect a shilling from all who enter, of
which there are many. If any refuse to pay he seizes a convenient rock
and threatens them. It is useless to state that most of the community
imagine that all that is worth seeing in the place is in that field, and
as every one crowds in there they are not far wrong. Still, I learn
later, the canny ticket collector takes care to vanish at the proper
moment. They spend some time looking for him, especially as the owner of
the field threatens to have the law on the whole lot for trespass.
Leaving the noise and confusion behind us, we enter the great square of
the barracks, and the motor vanishes for a season.
CHAPTER IX
Buttevant Barracks--Army Life--Mess-room Talk--Condition of the
Barracks--Balleybeg Abbey--Old Church--Native Wedding--Kilcoman
Castle, Spenser's Home--Doneraile Court--Mrs. Aldworth, the only
Woman Free Mason--Irish Wit--Regimental Plate--Departure from the
Barracks.
In the barracks at Buttevant are at present quartered a battalion of the
Dublin Fusiliers, a regiment which dates back to the days of Charles
II., and which has spent most of its years in India. Now this battalion
is back home and I doubt not that both officers and men find the cool
grey skys and green fields a welcome contrast to the blazing heavens and
burnt brown stretches of the Far East. Yet I imagine that there will be
certain moments of longing for the land where they have made their home
for so many years,--a land which never entirely releases her hold upon
those who have dwelt there.
"If a year of life you give her;
If her temples, shrines you enter;
The door is closed, you may not look behind."
But that state has not arrived with these men yet and they are very
contented to be "at home."
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Dinner at Buttevant Barracks]
These barracks at Buttevant are spacious and, as barracks go, very
comfortable. Situated in a good hunting country, one hears horse and
hound talk intermingled with the many bugle calls and the stirring
sounds of the fife. The campus or compound, a great green square
surrounded by the quarters, is constantly a gay spot, often with
lawn-tennis and cricket going on in its centre, and there are always the
officers' wives and children, giving the scene just that touch and charm
which can only come from women's presence.
Orderlies are leading or riding around the drive the hunters recently
purchased at the neighbouring horse fair, and constant are the comments
upon each nag as it passes,--mingled with much badinage at the expense
of the purchasers.
The regimental band of fifty men discourses sweet music. Tea is on in
the mess-room--soldiers in khaki and soldiers in scarlet coats are
everywhere. Snatches of songs come from the different quarters and life
does not seem hard to these soldiers, at least not now, and yet--the
call to arms and the chance of a skirmish is always welcome at first,
until they realise that "War is Hell" and once entered upon cannot be so
easily stopped. There is no thought of war here now and life goes
merrily onward.
At seven-thirty the dressing bugle sounds and we are off to reassemble
in the officers' mess at eight for that most important function,
dinner. I confess I feel slovenly in my black clothes amongst the
scarlet and gold of the officers. The mess dress of the army is very
effective, a scarlet jacket fitting closely and showing a generous shirt
front, dark blue trousers with scarlet stripes, strapped over patent
leather boots bearing spurs,--a dress becoming to any man. Once he knows
you, a British officer is always very cordial and agreeable; there are
few exceptions to that rule. I am certainly given a cordial welcome
amongst them on my first evening.
Dinner announced, we file down to the mess-room where if you imagine
things are crude or camp-like you are mistaken. The spacious apartment
is adorned with the "colours" old and new of the whole regiment (as this
is the headquarters of all its battalions and all such things are here
stored), most of them torn with the strife of battle. The table, of
Bombay oak (which travels with the regiment wherever it goes), is of
great width and as long as the room will permit. For dinner it is decked
with magnificent plate in the form of candelabra, cups and fantastic
salt-cellars, etc. There are flowers and snowy linen of course, and the
room is brilliant with scarlet coats and the mellow light of wax
candles. The dinner goes merrily on, while outside the regimental band
discourses its best. Towards the end we are brought to our feet with
"Gentleman, the King," and so, to the national anthem, drink the health
of his Majesty.
(I must compliment this band. It is excellent, and I believe is
considered the best in south Ireland.)
After dinner, we adjourn to the smoking-room upstairs, and "bridge"
comes in for proper attention.
Not caring for the game, Major Beddoes and I are seated before the fire.
The room is a large one and, I am thankful to say, does not possess
electric lights; a shaded lamp throws a warm glow downward upon the card
tables while the flashes of the firelight bring the scarlet coats and
gold braid of the players, and the tattered battle flags beyond them
into bold relief now and then.
The air is full of tobacco smoke, but aside from our subdued voices and
an occasional remark thrown at me by the players because I neither smoke
nor play, the room is very quiet. Outside, the barracks and the town
seem to have gone to sleep save for an occasional bugle call or sentry
challenge.
There had been some commotion below earlier in the evening because of a
young setter pup, which Capt. D. had shut up in his room, having eaten
one of the Captain's new walking boots, and Major Beddoes had some words
with his man, whom he had discovered wearing one of his, the Major's,
best dress shirts. "Sure, Major, 'twasn't soiled enough to give to old
Mag beyant there to wash, and I jest thought I would give it a wear or
so mesell, knowin' ye wouldn't care."
But those incidents of barracks life have passed on, when I ask the
Major what he thinks are the real feelings of the English for
Americans,--do you like us?--he is enough like a Yankee to throw the
query back at me with the parties reversed; but I came first upon the
field and insist upon that advantage. After some moments of quiet
pulling at his beloved pipe, he answers, "I think individually, yes,--as
a nation, _no_, and you have probably discovered that for yourself, and
the feeling on our part may be based on jealousy. You are also aware
that the same holds in your own land toward our people. As a general
thing we like your women, but not your men, and our opinion of the
latter is probably influenced by those of your citizens who have turned
their backs upon their own land and settled amongst us. Of these I do
not include those who have come amongst us for business reasons,--they
always expect to go 'home,' and are at all periods of their sojourn here
Americans,--but those others who, drawing their entire support from
their own country, settle here and become more anti-American than any
Englishman ever was. We despise them, and no matter how hard they may
work for it, they will never be looked upon otherwise than as
strangers,--their children, reared over here, possibly, but never
themselves, for whether we like you or not, we do think that one born in
America should be proud of that fact and not a cad. Do you agree with
me?"
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Buttevant]
"Assuredly, and personally whatever pride in the past I possess is
centred in those of my ancestors who helped to make and preserve our
great nation,--beyond them, while it is interesting to trace backward
into the countries of the old world, it is simply a pastime."
"You certainly send us funny lots of people during the touring months."
"Yes,--but have you ever tried to talk to them?"
"Just recall that lot at Mallow the other day. Could any party on the
surface be more unattractive?"
"You are quite correct, but if you had spoken to that most aggressive
looking man and his more aggressive looking wife and daughter, you would
have discovered well educated and intelligent people, such as form the
real backbone of a nation. They have consumed six summers travelling in
Norway alone, and thoroughly appreciate that beautiful country. They
believe that the world is a better book than any ever enclosed between
covers, and they intend to read it, and when the years bring old age
upon them, all that world will still be an open volume, its changes and
improvements fully appreciated and understood. Can you not excuse much
that is unpleasant in people like these? And do they not compare
favourably with the masses of English of a certain class found all over
Europe."
As for the sentiments of one nation for another, it is summed up in the
words of a recent author, "Moreover, the fine old dislike which Bretons
bestow upon everything outside Brittany was hers both by inheritance and
careful cultivation." There you have it in a nutshell,--not only as
regards the English but all other nations. England certainly holds that
feeling towards all the continent and I believe towards America; Boston
has it for all the rest of our land. New York has of late years become
more liberal, more cosmopolitan, yet I heard but lately a man make the
remark in her best club that he had "a perfect horror of the middle
West." How does that sound from an educated man in this twentieth
century, and of cities which have long since passed their centennial? To
be sure, far from being a criterion for the citizens of New York, he was
one who had kept his nose down on the books of some counting-house and
had never left the confines of the city.
As for California, I have known the dislike of everything outside of
that State, especially Eastern, to separate husband and wife and destroy
a family; where the wife's hatred of "outsiders" extended from her
husband's parents to and including every friend he had in the East,--an
impersonal sort of hatred because she was stranger to most of them, yet
none the less violent, with the result as stated.
Again, did not such a feeling have something to do with our Civil War?
Does not England even to-day believe that the cultivation was largely
in the South, and yet how unjust such an opinion! I am half Southern, my
mother's family having been slave-owners for generations, and I think I
can speak without prejudice, and I say again "how unjust such an
opinion." The cultivation in the South was sprinkled over a sparsely
settled country and centred in a few thousands of planters and their
families. In the North, it covered all of a densely populated section,
and from ocean to ocean it would have been impossible to find a class
like the mountaineers of Virginia, so ignorant that many of them not
only could not read but did not know what "reading" meant. Furthermore
where were, and still are, all the greater universities and seats of
learning? In the North. Where did our great poets and essayists come
from? The North again. I do not desire to decry the South,--far from
it,--but the old idea was an absurdity; the South in her palmiest
ante-bellum days sent the majority of her sons north to be educated,
but----
Bridge in the meantime is over for to-night and the group before the
fire increased thereby. So the talk drifts on and on. I am not given to
slang and do not like it, but I happened to use a bit just here, "he
monkeyed with a buzz saw." Attracted by the silence which followed I
looked up to find every face gazing upon me in puzzled amazement, until
finally Major ---- felt that some explanation must be forthcoming.
"Monkeyed with a buzz saw? Now let me see, let me see. What exactly _is_
a 'buzz saw,' and what happened to the monkey?"
My laughter forced them all to join in and for the next hour these
defenders of the British flag took a lesson in American slang, until
upon the soft air outside sounded the notes of the "last post" (or
"taps" as we call it), the saddest bit of melody in the world of music,
and so "good night," "good night." One by one the lights went out and
sleep settled upon the living while the moon, turning her attention
elsewhere, went off to light the fairies dancing on the river and the
witches down in old Ballybeg Abbey.
The following day being Sunday the soldiers of the King go to service in
full dress; the grim barracks are brilliant with hundreds of scarlet
coats and to the music of _Stars and Stripes Forever_ our one time foes
move off to pray for peace while prepared for war. I notice that
_Hiawatha_ is the favourite tune for marching men, and am told that it
is not only because it is a most excellent march but because the fife
plays an important part in its rendering and the fife is the only
instrument which can be heard above the din of battle.
[Illustration: Kilcoman Castle
Spenser's Home
Where he wrote _The Faerie Queene_]
There is a drummer in this band whose movements are simply amazing, and
I find myself trying to imitate them with pole and cane to the peril of
life and property. How he does swing those great sticks around his head
and bring them down upon that huge bass-drum! A drummer surely whose
pomposity surpasses anything of its kind within my memory. As the
inspiring music grows fainter and fainter and the scarlet coats pass
away down the streets of the old town I turn for an inspection of the
barracks. On the top of the entrance arch are the offices, on the right
the guard-house, and beyond it a large gymnasium. On either side of the
green and running at right angles to the entrance are the officers'
quarters, while a large barracks for the men forms the fourth side of
the square. Back of this is another square surrounded by large barracks,
while the married men have a separate building beyond these and the
Colonel lives in a retired pleasant house off in one corner. Of that
house and the dwellers therein I have some very pleasant memories.
To a looker-on in this twentieth century the disregard of sanitary
measures in such a barracks as this is surprising and I doubt not the
same holds in all others of the Empire and perhaps in all those of other
countries, including my own. Of that I am unable to speak, but the
outrage is an outrage all the same. One can understand the lack of such
things in far western camps or in war times, but that a great stone
place like this with a hundred years to its credit should have no proper
baths or toilet-rooms for its officers is "an outrage" most certainly,
and one which the nation should insist upon being promptly corrected.
There are a few bathrooms with good tubs and hot and cold water for the
men but the officers have nothing save the inconvenient, nasty little
tin tubs, and it is practically impossible for a big man to keep himself
in proper condition by their use.
These quarters are, as I have stated, massive stone buildings. Each
officer has a sitting-room with two small rooms adjoining and so placed
that either of the latter could be transformed at small cost into an
excellent bathroom with hot and cold water laid on. As it is now, these
gentlemen must use a little tin thing with an inch or two of cold water.
It's a common saying amongst the officers of the army that nothing is
done for _them_. What the government does is all for the rank and file.
That the soldiers should receive everything needful is in all ways
proper, but are not the men who lead them, the brains of this strength
of the nation, entitled to like consideration? They offer their lives
upon the slightest cause, and gladly too, yet their government is so far
forgetful, not to call it by a harsher term, that it neglects their
well-being in this manner. They are willing to put up with _nothing_
when it is necessary, and surely are entitled to a _bare something_, and
this is nothing more, when it can so easily be done and at such small
expense. Cleanliness is certainly more essential to health than many
brilliant coats and much silver plate.
There is often scorn expressed for our bathrooms with their modern
appliances, but I noticed at P---- that one of the scoffers, who might
have had his little "tub" (so constantly extolled) in his bedroom,
waited and almost missed his dinner that he might use the only bathroom
in that vast establishment. I do not desire to accuse the officers of
uncleanliness--very far from it--but they should be better provided for
in this respect.
I am also astounded to note the treatment of the common soldiers--"Tommy
Atkins"--by the public. In time of war he is worshipped, but in time of
peace is scarce considered to be a man, merely a servant to be pushed
and shoved about and treated most discourteously, to say the least. I
saw this done in a theatre the other night, to a soldier who addressed a
simple, civil question to the man next him. The reply he got and the
treatment he received would, in America at least, have resulted in a
row, and justly too. However, that occurred in Ireland where the "red
coats" are not liked.
I understand that the pay per year of the officers in the British army
is about as follows:
A Colonel, £400 Sterling
Lt. Colonel, 300
Major, 240
Captain, 200
Lieutenant, 100
These figures do not seem very large when a man offers his life to his
country, but they are in excess of many nations on the Continent, where
the officers are forced into beastly poverty by the call for outside
gorgeousness. At a late grand review the eye of a beholder was attracted
by an officer quite resplendent in a beautiful white uniform, superb
high black boots with glittering spurs, a silver breastplate, and
glittering helmet, and mounted on a splendid black charger, his
appearance was gorgeousness intensified. After the review the observer,
passing the tent of this same officer, saw the entire gorgeousness as to
uniform hung up to dry and on the wretched camp bed sat the man _with no
socks on_,--"too poor to buy them," all the pay and far more gone in the
useless display,--and yet not altogether useless, for without the
uniforms these great standing armies would melt away like mist before
the sun and many a throne totter to its fall. However, if the splendour
must be maintained, and it is certainly beautiful to look at, then those
forced to wear it and bear its expense should be better paid,
remembering at the same time that the wearers are ready at any moment to
stand up to be shot to death in defence of the home where you sit
comfortably reading your paper--therefore "PAY, PAY, PAY!"
The officers of these Fusiliers are devoted to their cook. I suggested
the other day that his coffee might be improved,--it was wretched, in
fact, not coffee at all, while no fault could be found with the rest of
the menu. They replied that they knew it, but he had been so devoted in
battle, had cooked under a galling Gatling fire, had rushed so many
times over death spots to bring them hot sausages which he was forced to
carry in his hands, that they could not scold him. I drank his coffee
with great pleasure after that. The heroes in this world do not always
wear the most brilliant uniforms and has it not been proven that it is
the commissary which in the end decides the conflict?
[Illustration: Doneraile Court, County Cork]
There is nothing going on in the barracks this morning which interests
me, save perhaps a court-martial, at which I am told that my absence
will be very precious. So I stroll off in the soft sunlight through the
great gateway, where a sentry holds constant ward and watch, just for
appearance sake, I imagine, as it cannot be to keep the boys in or
strangers out, for just at yonder corner is a breach in the wall
unguarded where any one may come and go at pleasure, and I doubt not
many of the boys do go and for pleasure, though there can be little
amusement in the sad town which clusters between the barracks and
castle. Of young men it seems to hold none, and there are not many
children, so that when these few old people pass onward and enter for
eternity yonder churchyard, old Buttevant will wither away altogether.
Many kindly faces come to the doors to watch me, knowing that I am an
American, and their eyes have a questioning look as though to ask for
some dear one in the land beyond the sea.
The place is indeed very old and every now and then as I pass through
the streets I come across some vestige of its past greatness and a mile
beyond its limits reach the ruins of Ballybeg Abbey, in a smiling meadow
down by the river Awbeg. Something of a stately structure in its palmy
days, there is little of that left now, but on the whole it is all
rather sociable. The river is of that sort, and having loitered downward
under its trees and through its grasses murmurs confidential bits of
gossip about the castle yonder upon its banks. Yellow buttercups push
their heads upward through the turf which climbs to the old grey walls
of the abbey, and in the abbot's doorway the white face of a ruminating
cow is silhouetted against the inner darkness. "They also serve who only
stand and wait," must have been written of Ballybeg and its kind, for it
has left no trace upon the pages of history. Yet withal, as I have
stated, it's a sociable old place and I spend some time in its company,
seated on the parapet of a neighbouring stone bridge where 'tis said the
fairies dance when the moon is full.
I expected much from the name--Ballybeg--why I can scarcely tell but I
cannot say that I am disappointed, though such stately structures as
Fountaine and Tintern in Wales would scarce consider Ballybeg to be
exactly "in their set."
Wandering up the banks of the Awbeg, I pass beyond the castle. We
had tea there last season and a medieval castle which can descend
to having afternoon tea served within its walls is not worthy of
description. It is owned by an irascible old lady who occupies one part
and rents out the other and who generally keeps such a strict eye upon
her tenants that it results in driving them out. When we visited it the
tenants were an officer and his wife, and just that shortly happened,
so that on my second visit to Buttevant, the castle stares at me with
vacant eyes of windows, and I pass onward up the river to the centre of
the town, where the ruins of its Franciscan abbey raise their arches
and columns and guard the dead of long ago, and those who come in this
later day to sleep beneath its shadows.
If you enter its crypt, you will stand amazed at the vast quantity of
human bones piled pell-mell there. Some say that they are but the
natural accumulation of departing humanity and others that they all came
from the neighbouring battlefield of Knockninoss,--others believe that
when in the flesh they all lived yonder in old Ballybeg.
Be that as it may, they are here now, quietly awaiting that day of days,
which shall summon them forth once more, and as I stand in the darkness
with my foot on a skull, which might have enclosed the brains of an
Irish king, downward through a broken casement comes the sound of a
voice and the words "I am the resurrection and the life, he that
believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live," and I roll the
skull gently back into denser shadows, wondering, _wondering_, and
then, as we all must do, ceasing to wonder, and just continuing
to--trust.
Passing upward into the sunshine and forward amidst the long grasses
which cover the humbler dead, I find that one more has but now joined
this silent company, and those who brought her here are slowly leaving
the churchyard. Poor people, all of them,--there does not appear to be
any others in this town of Buttevant,--but death seems to hold no
terrors for any one of these and many sit round on the tombstones and do
not hesitate to discuss the qualities, good and bad, of those asleep
beneath them and to admire the inscriptions. Here is one quaint enough
surely:
"Here lies Pat Steele--that's very true;
Who was he? What was he? What's that to _you_?"
Yonder is a cross of wood under discussion at the present moment. It
states that "here lies Kate O'Shea and also her sister Mrs. Mary
Buckley," and that as "their father died last year, this is the end of
the O'Shea family." That thereby hangs a tale is very evident, and
yonder fat old lady on whose head a bit of a black bonnet is poised and
round whose shoulders a comfortable shawl is wrapped could and would
tell me if there were not so many listeners about, who knowing her love
of gossip keep sharp watch and ward, so that of those who are gone I
learn nothing, but of what is shortly to happen I hear more.
[Illustration: The Room in Doneraile Court where Mrs. Aldworth Hid]
A wedding is to take place in the modern church just here and we sit
round on the tombstones, awaiting the coming of the bride. There are
hints as to this bride which rouse my curiosity, and I decide to await
her coming, which shortly happens. She is a comely looking young woman,
modestly dressed in a green gown, and a blue hat with red roses thereon.
Her blue eyes do not possess a very happy look as they rest on the fat
middle-aged bridegroom, and the old lady on the tombstone next to me
heaves a sigh which tells unutterable things. Still, all seems going
smoothly and we follow into the church. The ceremony begins, and
progresses as usual to that point where the bride is asked if she takes
this man to be her wedded husband, when upon the amazed and horrified
ears of all falls the reply in sharp tones, "Indade, I won't," followed
by a swish of a blue skirt and a flash of red roses down the aisle and
out the door and the bride is gone. I leave a description of the hubbub
which followed to your imagination.
Getting finally outside, I find myself once more near the old lady of
ample proportions, and just in time to hear her remark "and him wid nine
illegant fat pigs and sivin suits of clothes _aich one better than the
other_." This entirely destroys my dignity and self-control and I double
up with laughter upon a neighbouring tombstone, whereupon the old lady,
after one look of grand amaze, gives me "the full of her back" and with
her "nose trun in the air" passes majestically away. I learn later that
of that bride they never again heard. Like the bubble on the river she
was gone and for ever.
The neighbourhood of Buttevant is full of interest to those who will
turn aside from the usual tour of Ireland. To-day we are off through the
green lanes for a visit to Kilcoman Castle, the home for some years of
the poet Spenser, and where he wrote his _Faerie Queene_. We shall later
visit the scenes of that poem.
In 1586 Spenser received some fifteen hundred acres of land from the
crown, and on them stood this ancient stronghold of the Desmonds, which
he made his home for years. Those were troublous times and he saw much
of their misery, and their sadness tinges his great poem.
He received but small acknowledgment for his work from Elizabeth, and
even that was objected to by Burleigh,--"What--so much for a song!"
This castle was sacked whilst he occupied it and he fled to London,
where he died in poverty.
The ruins rise from the midst of a green meadow some seven miles from
Buttevant, and consist of a lonely tower, to the top of which we mounted
by its ancient staircase within the walls. The tower chamber still has
its roof intact, but at its best the castle must have formed a poor
abiding-place even three centuries ago.
The prospect from the top is rather dreary, and we leave the spot
without regret.
Doneraile Court, in whose vast park were laid the scenes of the _Faerie
Queene_, is very different. It is now the property of Lord Castletown.
One more fully appreciates the comfort of a motor-car when forced
suddenly as we were last night to take a jaunting-car for a ride of nine
miles to Doneraile. That distance would be nothing at all in the former
vehicle, but is every inch of nine miles in the latter. It's no easy
matter to hold one's seat in these cars. If you happen to have a
trotting horse it's not so difficult, but if the beast is inclined to
canter, as ours was, the wheels of the car will almost leave the ground
with every canter, and chances are that you will desert the car
altogether. I came near doing so several times last night, and reached
the court in a breathless state, which the horse, with a wicked leer in
his eye, seemed to enjoy to the full. Tom, the driver, secure on his
perch in front, rode most of the way with his back to the horse, which
appeared to know whither we were bound, Tom the while discoursing to me
upon the charms of hunting in Ireland and showing me several of the
favourite jumping places. I did not enthuse; though I have ridden all my
life and hunted some, still a jump composed of a stone wall, a hedge,
and a deep drop on the far side did not commend itself to me, especially
as a man had "broken his neck there but lately." One can scarcely
understand such clumsiness on his part as the drop was quite sufficient
for horse and rider to turn a complete summersault, and still come out
right side up. However, I shall not try the trick, but that I would
hesitate for an instant, for such a reason, to join in the national
sport stamps me as unsportsmanlike--as one who will not buy a horse, and
that settles my position, in Ireland.
We approached Doneraile Court through the village of that name, which
clusters close under its park walls. Doneraile is quite _the_ place in
this section, and we find it a stately mansion presiding over one of the
most beautifully wooded parks in Great Britain.
These houses in Ireland, mostly all dating from the Restoration, are
commodious and ofttimes stately structures, and have a beauty all their
own and very different from anything in England, hence one cannot
compare them. This estate somewhat antedates that period as it was
purchased from Spenser's son by William St. Ledger, President of Munster
in Charles I.'s reign, and the town gives the title to the family.
Doneraile presents a lofty and attractive front to the park and the
attraction abides as one enters the spacious halls filled with the
trophies of the chase and with quaint arms gathered from all over the
world. In the distance a stately staircase mounts to the upper floors
and on the left is a suite of handsome withdrawing-rooms and a library,
while the dining-room holds on its walls many interesting family
portraits, one of which quite diverts my attention from the conversation
during dinner. It is that of Mrs. Aldworth, and shows a very strong,
determined countenance. The finger on that book indicates that you will
believe what she tells you or she will know the reason.
[Illustration: The Hon. Mrs. Aldworth
The only woman Freemason]
I have another picture of the lady from a painting in Doneraile,--never
photographed before,--but it is not so distinct as the one I give, and
is merely that of a beautiful woman, a woman of the world before her
character has been developed. Certainly none would dare claim--in her
presence at least--that the character of the lady in the portrait I do
give has not been developed, nor would it be well to cast any aspersions
upon that character. You may think you know a thing or two, but if wise
you will not dare the owner of that face yonder. Madam, I doubt not but
that you were the very best Mason the sun ever shone upon, so let me
alone, will you?
She was born in 1695, and her history is told us by Lord Castletown in
the room where its great event occurred.
It is the first on your right in front as you enter the mansion, and the
interest of the house centres there, for therein was being held in 1725
the Free-masons' lodge when the Hon. Mary St. Ledger, afterwards Mrs.
Aldworth, hid herself, some say in the great clock, and upon being
discovered was by those present condemned to death, when one man so
plead for her that her life was spared and she was made a full-fledged
Mason, the only one in the world's history. What could follow an
incident so romantic save a wedding, and it did follow shortly. It is
said that she was condemned for ever to wear clocks on her stockings,
hence that name for that bit of embroidery. It is also stated that
Aldworth at first voted for her death and she married him to pay him out
again. Whichever tale is correct it is stated that in later years he
more than regretted that he had not voted for her death, but he was
probably a degenerate man, for the face in yonder portrait was worth
fighting for. In the room where it all occurred are her masonic emblems,
a "square" about three inches long, the stone above an amethyst, the
rising sun above, gold, and the rays diamonds (or old paste), a greyish
stone, and yellow amethyst in alternate rays. A little thing to last
when she who wore it and created all this disturbance has been dust and
ashes since 1775.
The room is a double or alcoved apartment with bookcases ranged around
its walls, and still holds, I believe, the same furniture as upon the
eventful night.
The talk drifted onward about her and many other curious persons and
things, and the smoke from the cigars grew denser and denser until I
dreamed that I saw all sorts of vanished faces in the space around me,
and I fear that I was dreaming actually when aroused by Major Beddoes
and told that "the ladies are retiring" and so we lighted their candles
for them, and chatting a moment at the foot of the staircase, watched
them disappear above.
Burne-Jones must have gotten the idea for his famous picture from such a
scene. There is no place where a group of stately, beautifully gowned
women show to better advantage than upon a staircase. I was strongly
reminded of his painting on this occasion. After all the custom of good
night to the ladies with the lighting of candles and its pleasant chat
is a pretty one though you may object to their early disappearance and
would greatly prefer an hour's more talk with them than with your own
sex.
However, it is late to-night, and bidding our host adieu we move off
through the glades of the park where Spenser wandered and dreamt so long
ago, pausing a moment by the lake where the swans still drift as on a
surface of molten silver. The midsummer air is balmy and delightful and
a full moon lights up the woods until one almost fancies the Faerie
Queene is out in their glades with all her court, or adrift on the lake
with the swans.
My stay in the barracks is drawing to a close, and perhaps it is well.
Major Beddoes threatens me with arrest, fearing a riot if I am allowed
to wander around attending weddings and other functions to which I have
not been bidden.
During my sojourn I have employed a boy named Tom who owns a sprightly
horse and a jaunting-car not more than a century old, the latter
harnessed to the former by means of strings. We have had many a rare
drive between the hawthorn hedges, leaving the motor neglected in a
shed: its day will come.
I have been desirous since leaving Achill to hear again that mournful
cry for the dead,--"keening,"--and had arranged with Tom to bring two
old women into the barracks after dark, to whom I was to give half a
crown each and a bottle of--let us say "cologne"; but they did not
materialise and when I questioned Tom he replied, "Sure, sor, I had 'em
beyant Major Beddoe's rooms, but he druv 'em away."
"Certainly I did," chimed in the Major; "do you want me
court-martialled?"
I would not object if it were in a good cause. I think there is also a
bit of personal malice in his acts, as I laughed at him the other day.
He has lately married a charming wife, and is at present quartered in
Mallow, from whence he runs the nine miles in a motor-car of his new
father-in-law. When he made his first appearance the other day on the
barracks compound, with all the officers and their families assembled to
greet him, said motor-car looked as though it had been through the wars,
and was as pug-nosed as many of the aborigines of the land, caused by
sudden contacts with stone gates and the sides of houses, to say nothing
of unexpected excursions through old ladies' gardens and into gullies
not intended for motors. I laughed, I could not help it, hence the
malice aforesaid, with threats of arrest.
[Illustration: The Lake at Doneraile Park]
One day we are returning from a jaunt to nowhere in particular, having
been out just looking for things to happen,--which they generally
did,--when, as we draw near the barracks, we pass a dilapidated old trap
with some men inspecting it. One hails our boy with the query, "I say,
Tom, is that your family chariot?" Quick as thought comes the reply:
"Yes, and I am in want of a mule; are _you_ widout occupation?"
After that we find it advisable to order the car into the barracks
enclosure when dismissing it--at which time I get a wink from Tom--we
shortly find ourselves ensconced before a bright fire in the
smoking-room.
The quarters are very comfortable. This room is a large double apartment
with easy chairs and lounges, red rugs and carpets, two fire-places for
winter use, and books and cards galore. Downstairs there is a
billiard-room. The quarters of the officers are cleanly and comfortable,
the dwellers therein a healthy, happy looking lot, though they all agree
with what I have said about the bathrooms.
The regiment has collected its plate throughout all the years since its
foundation, nearly two centuries and a half, and it forms a superb
collection, which I examined with great interest.
When in 1661 Charles II. married Catherine of Braganza, Bombay was ceded
to England by Portugal as part of the dower of that princess. This
regiment of the Fusiliers was formed at that time and has been in
existence ever since. As the years have gone by this plate, now
amounting in value to some thousands of pounds, has been collected, and
the designs and taste of two and a half centuries are interestingly
displayed in the various articles, especially in the smaller pieces,
such as salt-cellars, snuff-boxes, etc. There are, of course, the
greater pieces, stately candelabra, drinking-cups, and epergnes. One
piece especially attracted my attention, a train of silver cars, each
holding its crystal decanter for port, sherry, brandy, etc., which after
the cloth was removed was rolled around the ancient table. This plate
and table go with the regiment at all times. It even went to South
Africa.
Captain D. got it all out for my inspection one day and assured me that
it was often in use even in war times.
Therein lies the difference between the English and Americans. They live
and we spend our lives getting ready to live, and rarely reach the goal.
A soldier especially realises that his life is but from day to day, and
therefore uses each day, with all he owns, to the full. An American
regiment would store such plate and it would be absolutely useless,
rarely if ever seeing the light of day,--but throughout its two
centuries and a half of existence this plate has had constant usage and
shows it.
Ah, well, what, I wonder, will be our manners and customs when our
nation, like this, has a thousand years to its credit? What will America
be, what will England be then? Let us trust both better and greater and
grander than they are now.
While I handle these dainty bits of silver that have outlasted the lives
of so many great men, Captain D. pours bits of gossip about army life
and the late war into my ears, and I notice that he does not hear very
well on one side, and ask why. "Oh, nothing much; a Boer bullet hit me
one day and clipped out a bit of my skull under my left eye, coming out
behind my ear, and destroying my sight and hearing on that side,--it was
not much." No! I suppose all soldiers would say it was merely in the
line of their profession, yet life is the best thing given to us, and
those who hold it at a nation's disposal should have the best that
nation can bestow at all times. I have no doubt but that each nation
intends to give all--they are careless, not ungrateful.
After these days of rest in Buttevant barracks, it is pleasant to see
again our green car glide round the corner and draw up at the door--not
that we have not used it while here. My sojourn with these soldiers of
the King has proven a delightful experience which I shall never forget.
As we are loaded up and the car is snorting to be off they crowd around
us and we make all sorts of appointments for future meetings, few of
which in the usual course of life will ever be carried out, but there is
pleasure in the making. With a last handshake, I give the word and the
car glides noiselessly forward, turns out through the great archway, and
Buttevant Barracks are a thing of the past for us,--really so, as this
regiment moves in September to Fermoy.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Mallow Castle]
CHAPTER X
Route to Killarney--Country Estates--Singular Customs--Picturesque
Squalor--Peace of the Lakes--Innisfallen--The Legend of "Abbot
Augustine"--His Grave--"Dinnis" the "Buttons" and his Family
Affairs--Motors in the Gap of Dunloe.
The route to Killarney lies through Mallow, where it is amusing, at the
little hotel, to watch the airs and graces assumed by some dozen
Irish-Americans who have returned to their native land for a visit after
having made a dollar or so in America. My Jap boy last night ventured
the remark that they "treat their own people very nastily," which is
quite true. One is constantly impressed with the changed circumstances
of those returning to the old world. On the inward-bound voyage last
month I stood near two of the ancient faith who were watching the
steerage below us. "Vell," said one, "that's the vay I vent over." "Me,
too," replied his companion, and then complacently caressing heavy gold
watch chains stretched across capacious stomachs, they strutted back to
the smoking-room and proceeded to abuse the steward for not anticipating
their wants. Such is life and progress, I suppose.
But our car has left Mallow far behind and is gliding onward by the side
of the Blackwater, whose course we follow for many miles.
This is a beautiful section of the land. There are many fine estates on
the hillsides and many ruined and ivy-clad towers by the waters. We have
spent pleasant hours at several of the former and rambled over many of
the latter. In one of the houses where we were for the "week end," I was
amused by rather a singular custom. After dinner, the men having settled
to bridge in the smoking-room I found myself, as I do not play cards, in
the hall with the ladies, of whom there were several of the household
and one visitor. We were enjoying some music and dancing when at nine
o'clock in came our host and handing a lighted candle to each dame
literally shooed them all off to bed, much to the indignation of the
visiting lady and my own astonishment. Paying no attention to me, he
returned to his game, and I sat on in the dark hall so convulsed with
laughter that I was glad that the one candle left shrouded my mirth by
casting many shadows. There were but two things for me to do, go and
watch the game, or go to bed, and I did the latter though it was but
nine o'clock. It is the custom at all these country homes for the ladies
to retire long before the men, but I never before or since have seen
them so peremptorily driven off.
I think on the route to the Lakes that the villages and straggling huts
must be kept in the state of squalor in which we found them to the more
thoroughly impress the newly arrived tourists; certainly as we near
Killarney they are worse than any we have seen before,--rows on rows of
squalid, dirty houses through whose open doors pigs or geese wandered,
and beyond which gleamed a bit of a fire; white-capped or tozzle-headed
women leaned chattering over the low half doorway used to keep both
children, pigs, and geese from too freely passing off and away between
the high mud-banks with their towering hedges of hawthorn. Droves of
geese slip from beneath our flying wheels and scoff at us as we pass;
chickens fly, screeching, to the safety of neighbouring dung-heaps, and
some ducks get a gait on them that is most astonishing. It would be
impossible for them to maintain their balance unless they kept up that
furious pace.
As night closes in the clouds lower and finally rain comes down heavily
but fortunately not until we have reached our journey's end, and the
lights from the quaint Hotel Victoria stream out a welcome. They really
act glad to see us and from the proprietor down to "Dinnis" the buttons
each and all appear personally interested in our arrival. How different
from the magnificent insolence of an American hotel clerk. But we are
too tired for further comparisons and are soon off to bed.
To pass from the pomp and splendour of the army and the kaleidoscopic,
unrestful, rushing life of the world to the peaceful shores of
Killarney is a grateful change. It is so beautiful here to-day and the
world seems so far away that one has no desire to do aught save sit
under the waving boughs of the trees and watch the glittering waters of
the lake. Off across its mirror-like surface the mountains rise abruptly
and over them masses of white clouds hang broodingly, peacefully. Lazily
I wander over the grass, and entering one of the many boats drifting in
the water allow the boy to row me away upon the glassy surface.
Boyse is still in bed and so I have the boat to myself and also all the
lake, for there is no sound or sign of life anywhere as we drift
outward. The boy moves the oars lazily, scarcely touching the water with
their tips, and we seem to drift halfway between the white clouds
overhead and those far beneath us. Lily pads bearing their white and
gold chalices wave gently to and fro and a stately white swan with her
brood of little ones keeps us company for a space.
I have not told the boy where to go and he has not demanded to know,
indeed he scarce seems conscious of my presence, but keeps his dreamy
eyes fixed upon his beloved mountains brooding yonder under fleecy
clouds. Ahead of us a fairy island floats waving green boughs in
greeting and as our boat grounds on its gravelly beach, the boy rolls
over and goes to sleep.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Irish Cottage, County Kerry]
This is evidently the haven where we would be, this holy Isle of
Innisfallen, but it is some time before I am willing to break the
brooding silence by any movement. The long drooping boughs of the trees
trail gently to and fro across the boat and parting now and then give
glimpses of the chapel of St. Finian the leper, but it is so in ruins,
and it and its saint belongs so to the very long ago, that to-day it is
like a thought in a dream.
As I wander off through the underwood shaded by giant ash the spirits of
the dead monks seem all around me. The path leads to the grave of the
abbot, so long dead that a huge tree growing from his ashes has
encircled his tombstone with its very roots. He lived--but let this poem
tell his story.
"Augustine, Abbot of Innisfallen, stood
In the abbey gardens at eventide,
And prayed in the hush and solitude
That his spirit might be more sanctified.
He blessed the hills, and fields, and river,
He blessed the shamrock sod;
While he asked the great and glorious giver
For a closer walk with God.
In that twilight hour came tumbling down
The song of a bird, so sweet and clear
That away from the abbey of Innisfallen and town,
The abbot followed, that he might hear;
Followed until, in a dim old wood,
Where the sweetness of song filled all the place
It paused and made glad the solitude,
With its joyous notes of strength and grace,
And the heart of the holy abbot plead
That the world might hear it and understand,
And he turned to the cloister near at hand.
Strange were the voices of prayer and praise,
And the faces were all unknown;
Gone were the monks of the older days,
Augustine, the abbot, stood alone.
'Where is Sacristan Michael, my son?'
In a faltering voice, the abbot asked;
'Is Malachi's _pater noster_ done,
Has his strength been overtasked?'
The monks drew near to the aged man,
And told their beads with trembling hands,
As they heard that the stranger worn and wan
Was Augustine head of their house and lands.
'Two hundred years have gone,' they cried,
'Since rent was his temple's veil
Two hundred years since the good man died
And the Saxon rules over Innisfail;
No harp now of his countrie's weal
Sings loud in the house of O'Conner,
Gone is Tara's hall to the great O'Neill;
There is nothing left but honour.'
'Absolve me,' Augustine softly said,
'For mine hour is close at hand,
To rejoin the brethren who have fled
To the refuge found in a better land.
I soon shall hear the singing
That is clearer and sweeter still
Than the echo of heaven ringing
In the woods beyond the hill.
I shall soon be where a thousand years
Are as a day to the pure and true
To whom life was long with its cares and pains
Though its numbered years were few.'
They tell that legend far and wide
From Clonmines to Loch Neagh,
From Holy Cross to Dundalk Tide
From Antrim to Galway."
It is said that Innisfallen may not be put to profane uses, that early
in the last century its owner commanded that it be cultivated, but when
the work was begun the air at once became filled with millions of white
birds, whose beating wings drove the men forth and away, leaving the
isle sacred and unprofaned, and the abbot and his brethren to their
dreamless slumbers, and so the years glide by.
As I pause to-day by the abbot's grave, its great tree rises above with
arms extended, as though in final benediction, the grasses are spangled
with millions of daisies, and the warm air is again, as in his day, full
of the song of birds, and unless I desire a sleep of centuries it may be
as well to return to the world of to-day.
The boy in the boat awakes with a yawn, and smilingly moves the boat off
and away farther and farther until the Holy Isle seems to detach itself
from the shimmering waters and to float cloudlike slowly heavenward.
How little the casual tourist ever sees of any land, especially of
Ireland,--a day or two at Killarney, an hour at Blarney, some time
waiting to hear Shandon bells, then a rush to Dublin and the Causeway,
and they leave the island with a shrug of the shoulders and a belief
that there is little to see. But wander into the byways, linger in the
lost corners and talk to these people, and every moment will be of some
sort of interest,--the tears and sadness will pull your very
heartstrings one moment and laughter and fun will bubble all around you
in a mad frolic an hour later. You may hear the wild songs of the
mountains, or the wilder wailing for the dead, and the clouds will drift
far overhead, as though in mourning for their sorrows, then the sunlight
will follow after, sparkling, as though in laughter. Some of the inns
will be neat and comfortable, whilst others will turn out like that
horror of a hotel in Galway.
We are welcomed on our return to that at Killarney by "Dinnis." Now
"Dinnis" is the "buttons" of the house and stands up to the magnificent
altitude of four feet. He looks about fifteen and when I ask him if he
goes to school I am about bowled over by his reply,--"I'm a married man,
sor." Great heavens! I am told later that the fair bride is near twice
Dinnis's height and that his wooing was of such an ardent nature that it
nearly created a scandal. Ah, well--we don't live but once and Dinnis
believes that if his life is to be as short as his stature, at least it
shall be a merry one. I am told also that there are great expectations
in his family and as our car glides away I lean out and implore him--if
it's a boy--to name it "Mike." Dinnis's indignation at my intrusion upon
his private life is vast but somewhat drowned out by a half-crown and
the roars of laughter from the car boys around.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Chapel of St. Finian the Leper, Innisfallen]
The poor car boys in Ireland, especially at Killarney, are so many that
there is not work for all and they have to take certain days for each,
that all may have a share. The drivers of jaunting-cars turn gloomy eyes
at our auto as we roll by, well knowing that the advent of such means
loss to them.
I was strongly tempted to essay the Gap of Dunloe in the motor. The
result would probably have been a fight, as one of Cook's waggons was
attacked not long since while trying the same thing. According to my
recollection of that road, its passage would not be at all difficult for
a good car, but once the legend of its impassability save by ponies is
done away with the occupation of many hereabouts would be over for all
time.
CHAPTER XI
Kenmare and Muckross Demesnes--Old Woman at the Gates--Route to
Glengariff--Bantry Bay--Boggeragh Mountains--Duishane Castle--The
Carrig-a-pooka and its Legend--Macroom Castle and William
Penn--Cork--Imperial Hotel--Ticklesome Car Boy--The Races and my
Brown Hat--Route to Fermoy--Breakdown--Clonmel and its "Royal
Irish"--Ride to Waterford.
I have never taken a more beautiful drive than that from Killarney to
Glengariff, and it is especially delightful in a car, as one is spared a
slow and tedious ascent of the mountains. We leave Killarney on a
perfect morning; the motor seems to have rested with our stay there, and
throbs with a healthy sound. The route takes us through the domains of
Kenmare and Muckross. The latter has been sold by its ancient owners,
the Herberts, and now belongs to a prosperous brewer of Dublin.
As we enter the domains we are stopped at the gateway by a buxom dame,
who demands a shilling a head. I try to bargain with her, offering half
price for the Jap, and suggesting that we may meet with a catastrophe
which will prevent our getting our money's worth. "It makes no
difference phat sort of quare heathen you have wid yez, or if yez all
died ten feet inside the gate, yez will pay a shilling a head before yez
come a foot farther," and planting herself directly before the car, she
looked it squarely in the eye--wherever that may be--and would have kept
her word. So I perforce hand over four shillings, only to be detected in
trying to pass off an American quarter. As we roll inward an anathema is
hurled after us: "Ho, ho, ha, ha, bad sess to the likes of yez."
How beautiful it is here--how delicious the day! The sun shines hot and
the air is laden with the odour of the balsam. The superb roadway winds
in and out for miles, now by the lake and here in the deep green of the
forest, with enchanting views of the mountains. Bird-like the car skims
over ancient stone bridges, or close to the water, and we pause a moment
to do homage at the shrine of Muckross, and finally cross the old weir
bridge, declining the bog-oak work for sale by the old man who tried to
sell us such thirty years ago,--same man and same work, I think.
From here on the road mounts higher and higher, twisting and turning
until I am not sure in which direction we are really going, and am
reminded of a remark of a dear aunt of mine, while riding on a
narrow-gauge railroad near Denver, "Really, I very many times saw the
back of my own bonnet."
Here, to-day, while far different from the rugged grandeur of our
western mountains, the vistas are equally charming. There, it is not so
much, to my thinking, in the splendour of the hills as in the prospect
over the limitless plains. Vast and grandly mysterious, they roll up to
the very point where the mountains rise abruptly from their western
limits, and as one gazes outward they resemble the ocean itself suddenly
calmed into eternal sleep by the mandate of God, "Peace, be _still_,"
and those western plains are indeed _still_.
This prospect in the old world shows the traveller the entire panorama
of Ireland's most beautiful mountains, and far below him nestle the
chain of Killarney's enchanted lakes, where the fairies dance nightly
and the daisies bloom for ever. But why attempt description? All the
world knows Killarney, and to-day I seem to hear her wild echoes as they
bear away the love song of Dermot Asthore.
The road from here descends in sweeping curves seaward and our car
scarcely seems to touch the ground, as with all power off and the wings
out it sails downward, until we come to rest at Glengariff, just as the
setting sun tinges her rocks and waters with rose colour.
The Atlantic is at rest far out and sends only whispers inward on the
ripples to-night. The surface of the bay is dotted with many white swans
floating majestically shoreward. I believe they are native here. At
least we are told that these have their nests on the farther rocks and
rear their young in freedom; even in winter the weather is mild enough
to allow of their being out of doors.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Tree over the Abbot's Grave, Innisfallen]
Are these the children of Lir still under enchantment in the shape of
swans? One hears of them at Ballycastle, and on the island of Achill,
but this is the only place where they have appeared and yonder old
gentleman swan has an eye which would indicate knowledge of much that he
has no intention of telling us about.
One does not see the outer ocean at all at Glengariff. The whole
prospect is that of an enclosed lake, where one might drift for ever
without danger from the tempests which howl around this coast at times.
Not until we reach Bantry Bay does the outer ocean show itself. After
all, what is there in a name? That of Bantry Bay had always attracted
me, and I had expected to find such a spot as Glengariff, but it is far
from that in all ways, being tame and unattractive, though evidently a
much better harbour for shipping.
Here our route leaves the coast and turning inland passes beneath the
shadow of the Boggeragh Mountains, where there are so many ancient
towers and castles that to visit or relate the tales of each would be to
rewrite the folklore of Ireland.
One of them, however, cannot be passed in silence, or the spirits which
inhabit it might execute dire vengeance for the slight. The gloomy
castle of the MacCarthys of Duishane, Carrig-a-pooka, rears its dark
towers on a steep rock close to our route, and it is the reputed abode
of that spirit of evil, the Pooka, which in all malice and mischief has
no equal in the fairy lore of Ireland. He has many forms which he may
assume at will,--sometimes a bull, sometimes an eagle, but more often a
horse spouting fire, as he tears through the darkness. He does not show
his demon qualities until he has secured a rider, but on gloomy nights
is met with in the shape of a docile nag, browsing on the highway and
almost inviting you to mount and ride,--but do so and at once he changes
into the wildest and most terrible charger man ever mounted and fairly
flies over castle, lake, and river, into deep valleys and over the
highest mountains and even far out over the ocean. What becomes of the
rider is not told for he does not return, though 'tis said that one
Jerry Deasy did get the best of a Pooka and by the means of spur and
whip reduced even this "divil" into a quiet trot.
Downward from the mountains our road winds once more through the fair
green country in the valley of the Sullane. We pause a moment before
Macroom Castle, the ancient fortress of the O'Flynns, not because of its
beauty, which from its mantle of ivy is great, but because it was the
birthplace of the father of William Penn, who gave peace to all with
whom he came in contact in life and undoubtedly has found peace in
Heaven.
The old castle has seen more of war and its horrors than should fall to
the lot of any one spot. It has been destroyed by fire several times,
and at one execution nine outlaws were hanged within its court for
murder. It is not a place which the superstitious seek, after dark or
when winds wake and the chains clank. From Macroom onward the route lies
through a smiling valley until finally the silver toned bells of Shandon
welcome us to the city of Cork.
The Imperial Hotel in Cork is crowded with people and dirt. I think the
latter will prevail, as it is of the mouldy order. The floors seem
sinking, and en route to the dining-room one walks as upon the deck of a
rolling ship with danger of sharp collision against passing waiters.
True Irish gentlemen, who look not upon the wine when it is red but
drink straight old Irish whiskey in unlimited quantities, are
encountered with the result that between the floors and themselves one
has difficulty in navigating and takes to port several times en route to
dinner.
This is the week of a cattle and horse show--the viceroy is here and
incidentally most of the rest of Ireland, not that the viceroy's
presence has anything to do with their coming, they give you to
distinctly understand _that_, but that wherever a horse is to be shown,
there come the sons of Erin. I think there is something in the
profession or tastes of a man which stamps his face and figure. One
could never mistake any man here for other than horsey,--all clean, yet
the air is fragrant with the smell of the stalls and aroma of much good
whiskey. Where they stow away all the latter is a puzzle to me, for
their bodies most certainly cannot carry such amounts of ballast as I
have seen poured into them all day long. Not to be horsey completely
ostracises a man, but as that gives one an opportunity to escape the
drinks and so watch the crowd, it is not to me objectionable.
While Cork is "a place of advanced ideas" and probably less favourable
to the powers that be than any other section of Ireland, still she does
not approve of change in the city or its manners or customs. This hotel
has not had a thing done to it in more than a quarter of a century. I
believe it makes money all the time, hence improvements are not
necessary, certainly they are not made, as witness those floors. One is
still beset by the importunate boys with their "cars" at its doors and
all over the town, but the driver of a jaunting-car is a jolly beggar
full of laughter and fun and thereby puts many an extra shilling into
his pocket.
Rags and tatters many of them, that is as to themselves, but this does
not extend to their horses,--he is indeed a poor Irishman and not of
pure blood who neglects his horse, and with him it is love me, love my
nag. He will meet your smile with one brighter, and kindness to him
_does_ "butter the parsnips" of the traveller.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Upper Lake, Killarney]
Leaving the hotel the other day Boyse summoned a car, but the driver
thereof was in such a state of tatters that the lady of the party
refused to ride in that car. To the driver of the one chosen she
remarked, "That man must be very poor; you should club together and buy
him new clothes." "Poor,--not at all, me lady; he's rich, but so
ticklesome that not a tailor in town can take his measure."
As we are en route to the fair grounds I discover that Boyse does not
approve of my costume, but it is some time before I find out wherein I
fall short. It turns out to lie in my hat, a _brown_ Derby. At home
black hats vanish with warm weather and brown take their place, but here
I learn that a brown Derby belongs to the "fast lot which one does not
know,"--_hence_ Boyse's disgust, but that does not affect me in the
least and I insist upon wearing my brown hat. I really think it almost
spoiled his pleasure in the horse show, if anything could do that.
The day turns out pleasant and the crowd is large. The viceroy does not
come, which certainly detracts not at all from the pleasure of the
people, as the real viceroy, the horse, is here in full state. Several
of the officers are down from Buttevant and we pass a merry afternoon
clouded only by Boyse's feeling about my hat--he sits afar off and does
not appear to know me when acquaintances pass or if an introduction
occurs is careful to state that I am an American--what a multitude of
sins that covers;--I trust the statement is altogether unnecessary and
that I could never be taken for anything else.
We are held a day at Cork for repairs to the car, but, those finished,
roll rapidly away in the direction of Fermoy. These roads are very good
and the motor glides smoothly and rapidly onward, first by the banks of
the Lee and then northeastward towards Fermoy. The day is misty and
damp, forcing the hood over our heads, though I would almost rather get
wet than have it up. However, one must consider fur robes, etc., so up
it goes.
Shortly thereafter I note a clicking sound underneath and an
unsatisfactory movement of the motor, which causes the chauffeur to slow
down and stop. A lengthy examination mends matters for a time, but the
trouble occurs again and then Robert announces that we must return to
Cork as the water won't circulate. We are twelve miles out with no place
en route for help. We are also about the same distance from Fermoy but
in that direction and but three miles away there is a town where cars
may be had and help obtained, so onward we move, and wisely, as matters
turn out, for we come to a final halt on the confines of the village.
Loading the luggage and ourselves upon two cars we drive to Fermoy
leaving orders to have the motor towed in by a mule, ignoble as that
may sound. As it turns out even the motor rebels at such disgrace and
refuses to move even by the use of two mules. Robert manages, however,
to get it over the eight miles to Fermoy by its own power, in some four
hours, allowing much oil to run into the water tubes,--not the best
thing for the motor but all that could be done. I can see that he is
decidedly disgruntled with the car. This is the third time it has been
in the shop in two weeks, which certainly should not have been the case
with a new car such as I was assured this was. When I state this to the
chauffeur, he laughs and replies, "_New!_ Yes, as to the body, but the
motor is some years old, in fact is the original Panhard motor used by
Mr. Harvey du Gros; it has been lengthened and repaired and a new body
put upon it."[7] Fortunately we have each time been where help was at
hand save on this occasion. But as it turns out Robert can repair it in
this hotel yard as they have a pit to work in. He had thought that the
trouble arose from oil and waste getting into and clogging the water
pipes, but it proves to have been a broken pin in the wheel of the
pump,--"broken through age," he states. If this accident had occurred in
the wilds of Mayo or Sligo far from any assistance our plight would have
been a serious one, and I cannot but feel that to send the car out as
new, knowing the motor, the only important part, to be old was
scarcely fair,--in fact, far from it. Robert is an excellent chauffeur
and thoroughly understands and is able to repair a machine. In this last
case, however, we had to buy a new wheel.
The town is a small garrison town and we are delayed there only one
night. Still I must acknowledge, as has been so often the case, that its
little hotel was far more comfortable than those in most of the large
towns and cities of Ireland. Its rooms are cleanly and the food good.
The roads from Fermoy to Clonmel, the depot of the "Royal Irish," B.'s
old regiment, are hilly but good, and the auto takes on life once more,
though I notice that Robert seems concerned as to the result. However
the machinery warms to its work after an hour and we speed onward,
breathing more freely as the pulsations settle down into a rhythmical
beat, finally rolling into the barracks at Clonmel in good season. There
we spend a pleasant hour, lunching with the officers of the mess and
having no time for the town itself, which is not of interest.
The roads are fine all of the afternoon, most of them well rolled. Our
route is eastward through the valley of the Blackwater, evidently a
stream of importance in ancient days, as its course is guarded by towers
and castles, now all in ruins and given over to clambering ivy. At
Waterford the stream is broad and deep and ocean steamships lie moored
at her quays.
[Illustration: "Dinnis"
Hotel Victoria]
FOOTNOTES:
[7] A statement denied _in toto_ at the garage in Dublin.
CHAPTER XII
Ancient Waterford--History--Reginald's Tower--Franciscan
Friary--Dunbrody Abbey--New Ross--Bannow House--Its "Grey
Lady"--Legend of the Wood Pigeon--Ancient Garden--Buried City of
Bannow--Dancing on the Tombs--Donkeys and Old Women--Tintern Abbey
and its Occupants--Quaint Rooms and Quainter Stories--Its History
and Legends--The Dead Man on the Dinner Table--The Secret of the
Walls--The Illuminated Parchment--The Sealed Library--Ruined
Chapel--Clothes of the Martyr King--Is History False or True?
The afternoon sun shines brilliantly as we cross the river Suir and
enter Waterford, one of the most ancient towns of the kingdom, yet one
which well survives the passing centuries, holding still the bustle and
clangour of life in its streets and on its quays, which stretch for a
mile and more along the banks of the river and where you will find a
good steamship which in eight hours will land you in New Milford,--but
we are not to leave Ireland yet, nor have I any desire to do so.
To relate the history of Waterford would be to cover much of that of
Ireland, which is not necessary here. Suffice it to say that this
southeast end of the island appears to have been the first to attract
outside barbarians and we find records of the Danes here back in 853.
Reginald reigned here in the eleventh century, and I find myself
blinking up at his round tower which still keeps watch and ward over
this river.
There are others in the town if one cares to look for them, but like
this of Reginald all have fallen from their high estate. This is but a
police station now. Of King John's palace nothing remains. In fact
relics of the past are not many in Waterford.
We pause a moment at the Franciscan Friary, which Sir Hugh Purcell built
in 1220. It is in ruins, of course, and is quite in the heart of the
city, unnoticed save by some wandering spirit. Grass grows thickly under
its arches and there are many flat tombstones bearing historic names and
those of families well-known to-day.
Not far away stands the cathedral, too entirely renovated, in fact
rebuilt, to be of interest, save for some curious monuments. One
especially, that of a man named Rice, represents his body as they found
it a year after death,--a toad sits on his breast, and we turn away with
anything but pleasant thoughts. It seems he commanded that his tomb be
opened after a year and his monument made, holding a copy in stone of
his body exactly as they should find it,--hence this repulsive statue.
There are but few who would care to attain earthly immortality in that
manner.
Every road in Wexford will lead one to or near some relic of the past.
Seven miles out from Waterford we find Dunbrody Abbey, standing serene
and stately in the midst of a great meadow and near to an arm of the
sea. Dunbrody is called the most beautiful ruin in the county and it has
been a ruin for nearly four hundred years, having been suppressed by
Henry the Eighth. Its abbots and monks have long since gone the way of
all flesh and one must now cultivate the good graces of a little old
woman in a neighbouring house if one would enter the sacred precincts,
for though ancient, if one door in its outer walls be locked, even an
enterprising man of the twentieth century may not enter its courts. We
tried it and the great central tower seemed to smile down upon us in
derision. All the while the little old lady stood afar off, holding the
key, which we did not get until we had paid for it.
The world does not come to Dunbrody very often. The tourist world knows
nothing of it--in fact, all this most interesting section of Ireland is
as yet unexplored by the tide of travel rushing northward from
Queenstown. Certainly to-day nothing comes near us and we spend a
delightful hour in the warm sunshine high up on the great tower, and
then awakening Robert, who in turn starts the motor to life, we roll off
through the shady lanes once more.
The day's work is over and these simple people are resting from their
labours. We have just passed one comfortable old dame seated on a chair
under the bending boughs of the hawthorn. She wore a great frilled
white cap and knitted industriously, while in her lap a white kitten lay
asleep. She greeted us with a pleasant smile as we rolled into and out
of her life and away toward Bannow House, the home of the Boyse family.
I had visited Bannow last year; when leaving the train at New Ross I had
expected to find its entrance gateway not more than a mile or two away,
and fell back aghast when the boy who met me with the dog-cart quietly
remarked that it was a drive of eighteen miles. I must confess that that
is farther than I care to live from the railway, and Boyse has
acknowledged that that distance home has several times deterred his
departure from London--not but what that might have been a mere excuse
for London is just London and means much. However, a new railroad is now
opened only three miles from Bannow, and to-day our car annihilates the
eighteen miles in short order.
Crossing the river at New Ross the road leads towards the sea. There is
a fine highway all the distance, winding but well made, and the car
appreciates that fact, and makes fair time until we turn into the gates
of the home park and roll onward through its avenues of rhododendrons to
the entrance. Then the car vanishes around to its quarters for a few
days.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
The Route to Glengariff]
I know of no more attractive, peaceful spot than Bannow House. It is a
large square stone mansion with some centuries to its credit and stands
in the meadow-lands close to the sea in the southeast corner of the
county of Wexford and in a park of some eight hundred acres. One hears
the murmur of the ocean but the house is secluded by avenues of trees
which cut off the view of the sea and also shelter the place from the
fury of the winds.
Coming into the possession of the Boyse family with the restoration of
Charles II., it has grown until to-day, with its spreading wings, it is
an extensive establishment, a typical Irish home. You find many such
about the land, all charming places to live in. Springing into existence
as the use and need for castles passed away, they are built of stone and
in the case of Bannow House the stone portico has its monolith
columns,--what they call here "famine work." In the dreary winter of
1847 the people worked out their debt to the landlord, for food, etc.,
in this manner. The fine avenue of trees through which we approached the
house is also the result of "famine work."
Entering the house, one finds a large square hall ornamented with spears
and shields from Africa and objects from all over the world, gathered
throughout the years up to date by its former masters and its present
owner.
To one's right is a spacious dining-room, to the left a ball-room, while
behind the hall is another square hall holding a stair which ascends on
two sides into a gallery above. At the left of this, one enters on the
main floor a spacious drawing-room, where I have spent many a pleasant
evening.
Bannow is full of the portraits of those who have lived and died here.
They face me at the table, peer at me on the staircase from unexpected
nooks and corners, and beam down upon me in the mellow lamplight of the
drawing-room, each one with a tale of its own, I fancy, and one can
trace the passing centuries by the different styles of dress. Yonder
damsel with that long neck should have lived in the days of beheading at
the block as she would have been a splendid subject; that quaint old
gentleman in the corner knew a thing or two and could tell a good story,
I doubt not. Yonder lady with the towering wig was a beauty in her day,
but, deserted by her husband, who fled to America, she was taken under
the patronage of Queen Charlotte. I spend many a moment talking to these
old pictures and I think they answer always.
The bedrooms at Bannow range themselves around the gallery,--mine is off
at the end of a long passageway and is haunted, so the story runs, by a
"grey lady." Wheels are heard driving furiously now and then up the
avenue at midnight and pausing at a walled-up door, then the grey lady
flits around the gallery and into this room, where some time since in a
hidden niche in the wall an ancient rosary was discovered. The dame of
the shadows does not appear to be a malign spirit, certainly she has not
disturbed me as I have slept very soundly in her old chamber.
To-night as I lean out the window, the moon is at the full, flooding
the terrace below, and its stone stairs, guarded by vases and stone pine
cones yonder, gleam whitely as they mount under the shadows of an old
yew tree. The fragrance of sweet grasses fills the air and the night is
full of silence save for the brooding calls of some doves in the forest,
and I wait and watch for the grey lady but she does not come.
Do you know the legend of the wood pigeon? If not, then the next time
you hear one, listen and it will almost tell it without further words
from me. Once a man went to steal a cow in the days when cattle-lifting
was the proper thing and, when deep in the forest, declared that the
wood pigeons, or doves, as we call them, insisted that he should "take
two--coos--Paddy," "take two--coos--Paddy," and so he did, and still
these birds of the forest will say to you if you listen, "take
two--coos--Paddy," and for ever after you will hear the same as you
listen to their voices.
Just now there is one on the yew tree by the terrace steps strongly
insisting upon a double depredation on my part of the adjoining pasture,
and his plaint grows louder and more insistent as I close the window,
leaving him to exercise his corrupting influence upon those who may pass
in the night.
Wandering the next morning up the stone steps and nearly in the forest I
find an ancient garden of great extent enclosed by a lofty wall. I have
already seen such at Doneraile Court and I know that they are charming
spots,--something we can never have in America as we have no time for
them, our places change hands so constantly. I enter this one at Bannow
House through a trellis of white roses embowering a door in the wall and
am confronted by a tree fuchsia towering above me and casting its
crimson and purple blossoms down on my cap. The enclosure is five acres
in size, surrounded by a wall of brick some thirty feet high. Golden and
crimson and white roses nod at me from the walls or peer over the top at
the deep, cool woods without. Formal beds bordered in privet line the
straight walks. Glories of white lilies, purple lilies, scarlet poppies,
and nasturtiums throw splotches of colour all around. In the centre
stands an old stone sun-dial and passing through an archway, gnarled,
squat apple trees and gooseberry bushes are found lining the paths,
while to the walls cling plum and pear trees. Flaming hollyhocks light
up shadowy corners, and from a distant tool-house an old cat is sedately
leading a lot of kittens anything but stately and a great care to their
mother. From under a currant bush wanders an old duck, a sad looking
dame, acquainted with grief, I doubt not. She recalls to mind when as a
child sitting at the feet of my mother I watched the approach of a
similar old duck who gravely waddled up and laid close to the hand which
had been good to her a fragment of a shell, striking a note of tragedy
thereby. We had often fed her on her nest by the brook and now she
brought this as a token that some vandal had destroyed her home, and so
we found it. As I am thinking of her in this garden far enough off from
that brook a stray cat wanders out from a hot-house and sits down to
regard me, bottle flies buzz in the sunlight, and I wonder whether there
is an outside world of rushing unrest.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Carrig-a-pooka Castle]
This morning the pony cart is in requisition and, with one of the
ladies, I am off for a visit to the buried city of Bannow. It is
sometimes pleasant to banish the auto and jaunt slowly along. The pony
understands that to-day we have all the time there is and so takes it
leisurely with every now and then a grab at the hawthorn blossoms which
bend temptingly toward him in the narrow lanes. He seems to know the way
and finally wanders close down by the sea to where at the end of a long
grassy lane we are halted by a high-barred gate through which some
cattle gaze wonderingly outward. Wending our way through the tall
grasses we mount to where Bannow church holds its ruined watch over the
dead within and around it and over the city buried in the sands and
under the sea. Aside from the sanctuary there is no evidence that man
ever lived here, yet back in the days of James I. Bannow was a
prosperous town paying the crown rents on two hundred and more houses,
but a great storm arose in that same reign and so filled up the entrance
to its harbour as to destroy it, and from that period onward the
sentence of death was carried out against the ancient city. Higher and
higher rose the sands until they covered all except this ruined church
and the dead which lie around it, but,--here comes in a strange law or
custom,--though there was absolutely nothing to represent, the place for
generations returned two members to Parliament, and for the loss of this
privilege the Earl of Ely received fifteen thousand pounds sterling.
Certainly those two members were not annoyed by the wishes or opinions
of their constituents deep in their graves here.
As I move through the long grasses to enter the ruins I pause a moment
to pay tribute at the tomb of one Walter French, a man who passed one
hundred and forty years upon the earth and "died in the prime of life."
His last illness was the result of his walking some miles carrying a
piece of iron weighing over one hundred weight, and which "somewhat
strained the muscles around his heart, and he sickened and died, much to
the astonishment of all who knew him." He has been dead but a short time
and there are many now here who remember him well. Peace to his ashes,
and here on this breezy down beneath the shadow of this ancient church
and with yonder murmuring sea close by it should be peaceful enough even
for the dead. The church is one of the oldest in Ireland and long
antedates the English invasion.
It is not extensive, but it is quaint and interesting and possesses some
curious monuments and one pretentious stone sarcophagus. Who slept
there, I wonder?--there is no trace of him now. Bishop or layman, he has
vanished, leaving no sign or name; and when he does come again will he
pass by here? How strange Bannow church will appear to him then--and
where will he search for the mortal part of him? It is certainly not
here in this tomb which he vainly imagined would hold his body inviolate
throughout all time and to the portals of eternity.
This is a Sunday afternoon of midsummer, a warm balmy day when the
waters have gone to sleep and the bees hum drowsily. Over the hills and
through the lanes come groups of peasantry, in their Sunday best. The
usual number of dogs appear and chase imaginary rabbits through the long
grasses, and on yonder flat tombstone a lad and lassie are gaily dancing
a jig, and I doubt if the mortal or spiritual part of the sleeper
beneath them is at all disturbed by the apparent desecration of his
resting-place.
Save on Sunday the living rarely come here but to leave one of their
number who has passed the far horizon of life, or sometimes to dance by
day as we see them, or in the moonlight, on the great flat tombstones of
the Boyse family in the chancel, listening while they rest to the
constant advice of the wood doves to "take two coos, Paddy."
We are favoured with the same admonition, but though those fine red cows
are tempting we pass onward, to the increasing indignation of the
inhabitants of yonder trees.
As we turn for a last look at Bannow church on its green hill, the
roofless gables are sharply silhouetted against the glow of evening, and
the lad and lassie are still gaily dancing their jig, and two others on
a neighbouring slab are "sittin' familiar."
So leaving them we wander back, to find the pony, after having her fill
of daisies and grasses, has lain down in the shafts and gone to sleep.
When we reach home there is still much of the evening left, and,
deserting the pony--for which it casts reproachful glances upon us--we
enter the motor and roll away again.
It is not however an hour for hurry or speed and our car glides slowly
along while we enjoy the delicious air.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Macroom Castle]
As we pass by the door of an humble cabin, the turf fire within
illuminates the interior, throwing the bright scarlet dress of a girl
into bold relief against a dark wall, and lighting up the bent figure of
an old man smoking on a bench by the fireplace. In one corner is a bed
while in another a huge pig lies asleep. The dark eyes of the girl meet
mine for an instant with a pathetic hopeless expression but the old man
pays no sort of attention, and we roll away, only to come suddenly just
around a corner on a donkey drawing a cart, upon which is perched a
buxom old lady. The beast objects most decidedly to our appearance, and
after an instant of inaction, during which he stares in afright with his
ears pointed forward, he begins to back, and the old woman to screech,
more in indignation than fear, it strikes me, but be that as it may,
both keep in action until brought to a standstill under the bending
boughs of a gigantic fuchsia, whose purple blossoms are cast downward,
and all over the vast white frilled cap of the old lady. Except in
plastering the dame against that beautiful tree, no harm was done, and I
throw her a kiss as we roll away, while faintly on the air is borne to
my ears the anathema, "Ye spalpeen, yez." There is more, but our wings
are out by now and it is lost in the distance. However I would not
hesitate to apply to that old lady were I in trouble and I know I would
not apply in vain, though she might read me a lecture the while and even
bestow a clout with her big soft hand which would be more in the nature
of a caress than a censure.
How time and people have changed in America during the past forty years!
Then our land was sprinkled with settlements by these Irish, where one
could find all the quaint manners and customs of their homeland; wakes
were as strictly carried out there as here, weddings were just the same,
and around each humble home clustered a bit of atmosphere of the old
world.
Who does not remember the "tin man," generally named John, who made
his rounds with a tin-shop of no mean proportions crowding his red
waggon? Then there were the tinkers, but I must state that they were of
a better order than those of Wexford to-day. We have just passed a dirty
cart and forlorn pony, driven by a man more dirty and wretched-looking,
if that be possible. I am told he is the head of the tinkers of Wexford,
and that a more disreputable lot of tramps does not exist on this earth.
As for morality, they have never heard of such a word, and certainly do
not know its meaning. In their slovenly villages, they live in the most
promiscuous manner and when the men start on their summer's tramp each
takes along some woman who pleases him, regardless of what the degree of
consanguinity may be. One must see them on their native heath to
comprehend fully the force and meaning of the expression, "I don't care
a tinker's dam"--but our motor has stopped before a great iron gate
beyond which stretch the glades of a magnificent park. On entering I
notice a sign on one of the great trees, "Wards in Chancery," and wonder
"what have we here."
I doubt not that many of my readers have visited the great estates of
Europe, but unless they have seen Tintern Abbey in Wexford--the
quaintest of all abodes in this quaint Ireland--they have still an
experience before them.
The history of Tintern dates back to 1200, when the Earl of Pembroke--he
who married the Lady Isabel de Clare, Strongbow's daughter--founded
this abbey to the Virgin after being delivered from the sea on the coast
near-by. It was named after and peopled by monks from Tintern in Wales,
which was founded by the De Clares, and while the cathedral could not
have been so extensive as the one there, the entire monastery was quite
as large as the older establishment. It must have been a glorious place
and is so even now in its ruins, and is one of the most interesting
spots in the island. It lifts its towers amidst groves of stately trees
in a valley but a short distance from the sea and is embowered in
clambering ivy. Its great tower, still preserved as a ruin, is not
habitable save in its lower story, which is used as a kitchen. The
chancel of the abbey has been turned into a dwelling-place and one of
the most curious I have ever inspected. It is late on a brilliant
afternoon when our car, rolling down the broad avenue of the park, comes
suddenly upon the ancient structure in its secluded valley. At first all
appears to be in ruins until we note that some of the arches have been
walled up and hold modern windows. There are bits of ruin
everywhere,--moss-grown stairs with shattered heads on the rail lead to
shadowy terraces over which ancient yew trees extend sheltering arms;
ruined arches and ivied towers dot the meadow, and vine-draped pillars
standing far apart show the once great extent of the abbey.
Rolling on we round the corner of the main structure and draw up in the
great courtyard, which evidently, in the days of the abbey's grandeur,
was the cloister. To our pulling an ancient bell makes loud reply off in
the tower above us, but for some moments no sign of life is evidenced.
Finally the door is opened by a servant who reminds one of Obaldistone
in Scott's _Bride of Lammermoor_. His manner is as grand as though this
were the portals of Windsor Castle.
Yes, Mrs. C---- is at home, and will be glad to see us. We are ushered
into one of those quaintly interesting rooms to be found only in the old
world, a room impressed by each passing owner with some of his or her
own personality, individuality, without which no room has any charm.
Yonder is a portrait by Sir Peter Lely of a lady evidently lovesick.
Here is a bit of some framed fancy work whose faded colours plainly show
that it was done by a hand long since still for ever. Ivy peers into the
window and taps on the glass and there is a taint of the buried years in
the air,--the very sunlight seems to belong to late October.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Reginald's Tower, Waterford]
Bestowed by Elizabeth upon the ancestor of its present owner, Tintern
has suffered the fate of most great Irish houses and now lives in the
memory of the past. I am shown a parchment holding the family tree,
dating backward to 1299, with all its numberless coats of arms done in
colour, but evil times came down upon the race in the last century. Open
house was kept for all who passed. Beggars sat by the scores in its
great courtyard sure of their dole. In its entrance hall stood a bowl of
small silver coins for general usage, and it was dipped into by all. Its
sideboards groaned with a feast on all days,--waste and plenty, plenty
and waste,--until finally upon the death of one owner a question arose
as to the succession and so in came the law and the Court of Chancery.
That suit cost the estate one hundred thousand pounds sterling, and was
finally settled by a workman who discovered the necessary missing
documents in a hidden receptacle in the wall, but too late to save
trouble, and so to-day and each day Tintern is going more and more into
ruin, and the voracious ivy climbs ever higher and higher, pointing like
the handwriting on the wall to the ending of it all.
In the midst of all these reflections our hostess enters, a typical
Irish lady, all hospitality and warm welcome, as cordial to me whom she
has never seen before, as to her old friends who have brought me
thither. Her hearty laugh drives off the shadows and she is much pleased
that we are interested in her old home: old,--yes verily--just think of
it, her people have lived right here for three hundred years, and but
for the secretion of those documents by some stupid ancestor the domain
would be a rich one even yet. But that does not keep laughter out of
Tintern. Many's the dance which has been given here, and once, with
that love of humour which laughs at everything sad or mournful, the
cards of invitation bore the phrase, "Supper in the charnel house and
dancing in the vaults." Rest assured the feast was lively, leaving
nothing for any ghosts which might happen along that night, and I doubt
their braving the laughter of that merry throng; and yet with it all
there must have been sadness for all which had been so uselessly lost.
There are many legends for the cause of the troubles which have come
upon the abbey and its owners.
For holding property belonging to the Church they are for ever under its
curse of fire and water; then the neighbouring peasantry have a legend
that trouble arose because of the murder by Sir Anthony of all the
friars he found in the house when he came to take possession, but they
rather incline to the belief that he rested under a curse of the fairies
because he destroyed an ancient rath, or hill, which they frequented. He
was engaged to the lovely heiress of Redmond. Having gone to England,
his lady promised to burn a light in her tower of Hook to guide him on
his return, and so she did, but the fairies beguiled her to slumber with
their music, and put out the light. So her lover was drowned. The
disconsolate maiden converted her father's tower into a lighthouse, and
so it remains to this day.
It is also stated that the first Colclough was but secretary to the lord
who obtained the grant and was sent by him to England to have it
ratified. He so pleased the Virgin Queen that when he returned he found
that the deeds conferred the estates upon himself.
I noticed in the drawing-room a framed address or diploma of some sort
and asked what it was. It contained the portrait of a handsome man in
the prime of life and the emblazonments were many and rich. During the
life of the late owner he was master of the hounds, and it was decided
to present him with this illuminated address together with a present of
one hundred pounds. The event was made the occasion of a great feast,
and these old walls rang so loudly with the merriment that the rooks in
the ruined tower were startled, and fled shrieking into the forests. The
presentation was made with much ceremony, the illuminated parchment
greatly admired, also the casket which held the purse with its hundred
pounds, but which of course was not opened until the guests had all gone
or been carried home. No gentleman would leave such a feast able to
walk,--and the flunkies outside knew their duty and did it. Now it seems
the recipient of all this owed ninety-eight pounds to the man who had
made the presentation speech, and when all had gone and the family had
gathered round to examine the purse they found upon opening it two
pounds in money and a receipted bill for those ninety-eight pounds. Ah
well, 'twas all in a lifetime and life went merrily in those days at
Tintern. But it was a shabby trick, for the neighbours each and all owed
very much more in hospitality to Tintern than the amount of that bill.
While I am inspecting the framed address the bell of the castle clangs,
the butler throws open the doors, and we pass to the dining-room for
tea, the most pleasant meal of the day over here.
When the grandfather of our hostess died, he was laid out, as befitted
the head of the house, on this dining table around which we are
gathered. I know that the thought of it returns to several of us as we
sit here.
There is a vast thickness in the walls of the room and a space not
accounted for by any room, in which it is thought some monk or nun was
immured when the abbey was a house of God--be that as it may, no
investigation has ever been made, and it will probably never be known
what, if any, grisly horror is immured there, so near to our gay
laughter.
We spend some time discussing tea and the usual assortment of cake. I
never could digest the English fruit cake and I feel quite sure the slab
pressed upon me here would kill a man if it struck him upon a vital
spot. Most of it goes into my pocket, and when we depart I drop it deep
down in a bed of blooming plants near the door, an action observed by
Boyse, who, until I threaten his life in a gloomy whisper, insists upon
examining with the hostess that particular spot, professing a great
knowledge of botany, of which his ignorance is colossal. Whilst I am
guarding my buried cake, our attention is called to what once was the
north transept of the abbey and afterwards for centuries the library of
those who have lived here. It is still a library and full of books, but
for some ungiven reason has been walled up for many, many years,--the
books, I am told, mouldering in great heaps on the floor.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Franciscan Friary
Waterford]
My desire to explore is intense but, it is useless to say, unexpressed
in this instance.
From this court started the funeral procession of the gentleman who had
been laid out on the dining table. The cortège was so immense that it
circled away for three miles, though it is not half a mile to the family
vault. Every man was provided with hat band and gloves at the expense of
the widow. At the feast which followed that great table in the dining
hall was decked in the centre with a huge bow of crêpe, black of course.
The roast fowls had crêpe bows tied around their necks and as the old
butler served the whiskey he did so with tears streaming down his face.
As he carried the bottle, also decked with a crêpe bow, he gave
utterance to the mournful words, as the whiskey sobbed gurgling forth,
"Ah, sor, 'tis this bottle will miss him indade, indade." But those
around were determined that, for the day at least, they would drown its
sorrow, and when they went home "there wasn't wan of them knew whether
he was going backwards or forwards, and most of them wint sideways."
The chapel on the hill yonder must even then have been roofless and in
decay. To-day it is in a choke of brambles and wild roses. Bidding the
car to follow, we cross the park and mount to where it stands, an
absolute ruin.
We "give Boyse a leg" to a broken casement and he clambers in and down
amongst the brambles up to his neck, and making his way towards the high
altar reads aloud of Sir Anthony Colclough, who died in 1584, he to whom
Queen Elizabeth made the grant.
There are many other tablets embowered in creeping, drooping vines, and
almost obliterated by the moss of centuries, while a great tree fuchsia
hangs in wildest profusion, shaking its crimson blossoms downward upon
the ruined altar. Wandering around, pushing our way through brambles,
and stumbling over forgotten graves, we come upon the family vault,
underneath and as large as the chapel. The door being open, we wandered
in and paused amazed at the spectacle of dead humanity.
Outside the sunlight flickered downward through waving branches, casting
long lines of light into the place of the dead, lighting up a sight such
as may be seen only in southern Ireland. The entire space was crowded
with coffins in all stages of appalling decay and ruin and dating all
the way along from the reign of Elizabeth. At our feet lay the ruin of a
large coffin, its handles still clinging to its sides. The skeleton
within had vanished absolutely except the beautiful teeth,
evidently a woman's, which gleamed white in the sunlight. The lid, cast
to one side, left all open to the light of day and passing of moonlight
or storms. Beyond were two still perfect coffins of later date, and yet
farther in where the shadows were thicker rose the ruins of coffin on
coffin, all tumbling pell-mell into one wild chaos. Pausing in silent
dismay for an instant only, we went forth into the sunshine, leaving the
dead to their rest.
Only in Ireland may one come upon like scenes, where the doors are not
closed even after death. I had often read of such spots, but scarcely
believed the tales until to-day when we stumbled quite by accident upon
that open door and entered, and certainly I shall never forget the
sight. We closed the portal as best we could. One can only hope that the
return of dust to dust may be not delayed, and that all that therein is
may vanish utterly.
As we roll away the sunlight streams brilliantly aslant, lighting up the
ruined chapel and the old abbey, while the great trees stand all about
them like Druids deep in thought.
* * * * *
A rapid rush through the mists of Ireland will so drive the cold air
into one's system that after dinner it is difficult to keep awake and
one is apt to doze off while sitting upright in the drawing-room and to
dream dreams and see visions, especially after our afternoon's
experience. Here to-night in the drawing-room my book has fallen upon
my knees and I have almost passed to the land of nod when some one
suggests that we inspect "King Charles's clothes," and being but half
awake I wonder when he arrived and whether he will permit such
familiarity, and then the questions "which Charles," and if "the first"
of that name, will he bring his head, cause me to come to my full senses
just as Boyse is drawing a long wooden case from beneath a sofa. When it
is opened all the room is filled with a faint perfume, some fragrance so
long forgotten that one cannot give it a name, and yet which calls to
mind the frou-frou of silks and the tapping of high-heeled shoes on
parquette floors, over which wax lights are shedding a soft radiance
while the air resounds to stately music.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Dunbrody Abbey, County Wexford]
Let us transport ourselves mentally backwards to the dark days of 1649.
Penshurst, the ancient seat of the Sidneys, a gift from Edward VI., when
the tragedy of Charles Stuart was over and the axe had fallen at
Whitehall, his sister the Queen of Bohemia, bowed with sorrow for the
past and undoubtedly with fear for the future, divided as precious
relics amongst those who had been faithful, the belongings of the late
King. These before me she gave to Mr. Spencer, the ancestor of our
hostess here in Bannow House. Mr. Spencer was then acting for Algernon
Sidney, who was a prisoner in the Tower. The relics came into the
possession of the present owner through her father, the Rev. Thos.
Harvey of Cowden Rectory, Kent, and as they are drawn forth one by one
from their hiding place, I glance involuntarily over my shoulder and out
into the misty night, almost expecting to see the shadowy face of the
King questioning our right to these things of his, while the faces on
the walls about have awakened to life and express a strong desire to
come down and join us in the inspection. Here, in a shagreen case, is a
huge silver camp watch which has long since ceased to mark the passage
of time and the vanity of princes. Yonder is a silk dove-coloured coat
and a waistcoat brocaded in rose colour, black, and silver. Here is a
pair of breeches in brown figured silk and another of red and white cut
velvet. There are some quaint gold embroidered slippers with great bows
and high heels and as I stand them on the floor they seem to have been
used but yesterday and are expecting to be used again, and I glance once
more into the outer shadows. At the bottom of the chest are two long
rolls of illuminated vellum illustrating the marriage of the Queen of
Bohemia, called the "Queen of Hearts" by the people who loved her well.
As I look at the painted procession, my hand rests on a lace ruffle of
King Charles, which he may have worn on that occasion.
It was all so very long ago that I think we have in our unconscious
thoughts almost arrived at the conclusion that these and many of the
famous personages of history are but the fanciful figures of fiction
after all, and it is only when we look upon this frayed doublet which
seems but just cast aside by its wearer, or pick up yonder glove which
still holds the curve of his palm and shape of his fingers, that the
belief is forced upon us that, like ourselves, he once lived and
breathed, enjoyed and suffered, was really of flesh and blood.
Yet what was this Charles, warm-hearted and generous, or proud,
dictatorial, and utterly unreasonable, holding the divine right of kings
so far above the rights of his people that they were forced to lay low
his head? Which view is the correct one?--for with him, as with all
others of history, there seems a doubt. In fact doubts are being cast
upon the pages of history from all sides to-day. Writers make Lucretia
and Cæsar Borgia far different from the scribes of a century ago, and
possessed of no desire to assist people to a better world. She, for
instance, is now held to have been a model wife and loving mother. Also
we read that Richard of England was not deformed, either in person or
character, but because of the very doubtful legitimacy of the sons of
Edward IV. was the real heir to the crown, and so summoned by
Parliament,--that he did not murder or have murdered Henry VI., the Duke
of Clarence, or the Princes, and that the latter lived at his court many
years--in fact that he was no such character as we have been raised to
believe; and, more marvellous to relate, that the real villain of that
period was Henry VII. of blessed memory,--that he and he alone imported
historians from Italy who at the royal bidding wrote history as it has
been read for so many centuries, that he was the murderer of both King
and Princes and of the Duke of Clarence. Surely we shall shortly have
the Jew of Venice made a generous character, possessing deep love for
all Christians, whilst the eighth Henry will repose in a glorious
effulgency as a model husband as Froude would have us believe. But they
are all of the so very long ago that they appear to us like figures in a
painted window, brilliant or sombre, as the sunshine or shadows of
history illumine or cast them into shade, and it is only when we see
such a thing as this glove of Charles or a half-worn shoe of the
Scottish Queen that they walk out upon us and take their places as real
men and women.
And so one feels near the presence of that unfortunate Stuart King, as
these belongings of his lie spread out before us. What a small man he
was! These things might be worn by a boy of fifteen,--a delicate boy of
slight frame. They are of great value as such things go, which reminds
one that the world holds much of great value of its dead kings and
queens. It is estimated that the relics of Mary Stuart collected
together at the tercentenary in Peterborough in 1887 amounted in value
to sixty thousand pounds sterling, three hundred thousand dollars of our
money, and yet she was often forced to write imploring letters to her
"brother of France" for her revenues from her fair duchy of Touraine, in
order that she might keep out the cold in her English prisons, and
whilst she was the guest of her "good sister Elizabeth."
Did her grandson wear these silks and velvets during those sad days at
St. James's Palace? He would almost require the attendance of a body
servant to carry that watch and surely no man who appeared in such
ruffles and high-heeled fancy shoes to-day could induce an army to fight
for him, be he the anointed of God or not,--but then, that clothes do
not make the man was certainly proven in his case, when "a man was a man
for a' that," the Puritans to the contrary notwithstanding. I doubt if
he thought much of his fuss and feathers or paid as much attention to
them as said Puritans did to their sober browns, or some rulers of the
Europe of to-day do to their gaudy plumage. If Charles was vain, it was
with a vanity we can pardon, and far different from that which floods
the world with a string of portraits in different uniforms and
poses--but it is late and even the shades of royalty cannot keep us
awake longer; still as we take our candles and move upwards through the
shadowy hallway I seem to hear the stealthy fall of following footsteps
and turn suddenly, wondering--wondering.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Bannow House]
CHAPTER XIII
Return to Ireland--Illness--Conditions on the Great Liners--The
Quay at Cork "of a Saturday Evening"--En Route Once more--The Old
Lady and the Donkey--Barracks at Fermoy--Killshening House,
Abandoned Seat of the Roche Family--Fethard--Quaint Customs--The
Man in the Coffin--"Curraghmore House"--Its great Kennels--Its
Legends and Ghosts and History--Lady Waterford--Oliver Cromwell at
the Castle--The Marquis in the Dungeon.
A year has rolled away since I wrote my last line about this Emerald
Isle,--a year of sickness and suffering, brought about, most seem to
think, by the bubbling springs and cool wells of this same island; at
least B., who drank whiskey and soda, passed scathless, while typhoid
for the second time seized upon my system and worked its will for months
and months. But that is over and gone, and for another year at least I
am immune. Still I think that during this visit I shall hold to soda and
some whiskey, at least I am so advised by a last telegram as my ship
moves out to sea.
If the Board of Trade knew of the state of affairs on the great liners
they would scarcely permit it. Think of one hundred and sometimes one
hundred and fifty stewards crowded into a confined space below the
saloon with _one_ bathroom only. They are only allowed on deck way
back amongst the emigrants, and from there they come to the main saloon
to wait on the first-class passengers, running the risk of carrying all
sorts of contagious diseases; no air, no ventilation to speak of. The
deck stewards are somewhat better off, being only six in a room, but no
better ventilated than the pen referred to. If things are so on an
English ship, what must they not be upon an Italian!
It blew great guns, and rained in torrents as we landed at Queenstown.
The _Campania_ came in just behind the _Baltic_ and between the two
nearly two thousand passengers were landed. The accommodations both in
tenders and at the custom house are in every way inadequate, and the
confusion was appalling.
However, all was passed and done at last, and ten P. M. finds me at the
Imperial in Cork, which is in this rainy weather even more mouldy than
last year, but where B. and a whiskey and soda make matters assume a
more cheerful tone. However as the house is crowded to suffocation an
excursion into the outer darkness has its attractions. On our way out we
remark to the barmaid that it is rather stupid here to-night, and she
suggests that this being Saturday evening if we will go down to the quay
we may find some diversion. Knowing that she would be correct in her
surmise as to other towns on that night and at such places we conclude
to try it in Cork and sally forth, only to fall into the clutches of a
car boy, who absolutely refuses either to be left behind or to allow us
to walk. Hence we are shortly mounted on that characteristic Irish
vehicle, a jaunting-car, and en route for wherever its owner may see fit
to take us.
Our suggestion of "the quay" evidently meets with his approbation, and
with a twinkle in his eye and a blow for his horse, we set forth. The
pace is one which causes us to clutch the swinging car for safety. That
the streets are crowded matters not at all to our jehu, and many is the
anathema hurled at our heads from the scattering populace--until finally
the crowd becomes so dense that our pace is reduced perforce to a walk,
and at last we stop altogether. Just before us is a half-grown boy
celebrating the approach of the day of rest to the best of his ability,
and an odder figure I have never seen. His tattered trousers are rolled
up above a pair of brogans which would fit the Cardiff giant, the tails
of what once was a black coat of great size trail on the ground behind
him, while his dirty mug of a face has the stump of a pipe fixed
somewhere in the middle--I can see no mouth--and is crowned by what was
once a silk hat, now by numerous blows and whacks more resembling an
opera hat semi-collapsed. In his hand he twirls a shillalah, and as he
croons a ditty he wheels ever and anon to attack any one who treads on
the tails of his coat. Before we have fully appreciated all of his good
points our attention is attracted by increased shouts and the rush of
the crowd down the quay, where evidently Pat and Dinnis are at it hard
and fast.
How the hats fly! You can hear the whacks of the shillalahs even from
here. The dancing, jeering, hooting, and howling crowd takes first one
side and then the other, "fightin aich uther fur konciliation and hatin
aich uther fur the love o' God." Just about this time we think best to
retire, as good hats are too attractive in free fights.
It has turned stormy again and the wind blows in great gusts up the
river from the sea. Shortly after we start homeward a fishwife carrying
her loaded basket comes out from a doorway and up a few steps onto the
pavement, when the wind taking her broadside blows her over backwards,
her legs sticking up in the air like two great lighthouses. Of course
the contents of her basket are attacked by every gamin in sight, but the
old woman gets all the fish but one and she has a firm hold on one end
of that, while a sturdy boy holds tight on to the tail. Then begins a
tug of war, resulting in an upset for the boy with half the fish
clutched in his fist. Quick as lightning she seizes him and thoroughly
washes his face with the other half. The last glimpse I have of them as
we roll away she has turned him over her knees and there is no
indication of "konciliation" on her face.
[Illustration: The Terrace, Bannow House
County Wexford]
Verily--there is "something doing on the quay at Cork of a Saturday
evening."
Nine o'clock next morning brings our motor to the hotel door. It is soon
packed and, the word given, is rolling away through the streets of the
city, which one moment laugh with sunshine and the next weep with
downpouring rain,--but bless you, no one minds the rain in Ireland,
certainly not in Cork.
The music of the Bells of Shandon follows us far out into the green
lanes and winding highways and the motor hums and sings in response as
we roll under the grand old trees with their curtains of quivering ivy.
Almost at once, things begin to happen, and, as usual, an ancient dame
is the cause of war.
At the end of a long lane, over which the ivy draped trees form a
perfect archway, a donkey cart driven by an old lady approaches us, and
as usual we produce consternation. With each leg pointed towards one of
the points of the compass and with great ears slanting towards us, the
little beast is prepared against all attacks, and to run in any
direction, but he reckons without his mistress. She does not propose
that there shall be any run at all, and quickly slides to the ground
from her perch in the cart--and in her progress shows us that aside from
her waist and woollen skirt she is not encumbered with clothing. The
situation requires prompt action, and seizing her skirt in both hands
she rushes at the donkey and claps it over his head. His surprise is
intense and deprives him of action. What he thinks I know not, but as we
roll by we distinctly hear a suppressed "he-haw."
The distance to Fermoy is quickly covered, and we pass in triumph the
spot where last year we broke down and were forced to take to
jaunting-cars.
The Fusiliers who then were at Buttevant are in Fermoy now, and we dine
in the Mess.
The barracks are much alike in the two places, but while this has no
"green" for cricket and croquet, Fermoy is quite a contrast to the
wretched town of Buttevant. Still all that sinks into nothingness when
it is stated that _that_ is "a better hunting country."
As of old, the officers endeavour to induce me to spend a winter in that
sport. Twenty years ago I might have done so, but it's too late now,
though I have no doubt that if I lived here I should try it regardless
of the flight of years. I have no doubt but that I could if necessary
buy hunters from each and all of them,--and I have also no doubt but
that they would loan me all they have or may have if I would accept,
which I would not do.
This is Sunday morning, and his Majesty's soldiers are going to church.
The Church of Rome claims the larger number and there are some hundreds
of scarlet coats marching past the hotel now to the ever favourite and
inspiring tune of _Hiawatha_. How the fifes do seize upon and rip out
those notes and what joy there is in every whack given by that great
bass drummer! My admiration of last year is intensified.
The officer in charge is a man I know very well and I try my best to
attract his attention, but without success; discipline must be
maintained, and not a glance comes in my direction from under his
towering "bear skin," though I know that he sees me. He owes me a grudge
because, his mother being an American, I tell him his coat should be
blue.
The streets have ceased to glitter with crimson and gold, and the air
has lost the tones of martial music as we roll away,--only the murmur of
the river and the solemn music of the organ from an ivy-clad church
yonder breaks the stillness of this sunny Sunday morning.
Not far from Fermoy stands a mansion which is of interest to many in
America, Killshening House, one of the seats of Lord Fermoy. That title
will in time pass to an American boy, or man as he will be then, though
I doubt his ever assuming it--certainly he will never occupy this house.
The present owner lives in a place belonging to his wife, and as we
enter the gates of Killshening, we see at once that it is and has been
long deserted.
These abandoned houses greet the traveller all over Ireland. This one
has not been lived in for some generations by the family. It does not
pay to keep up the house, and renting the land out as pasturage brings
more income than in any other way. Still it is sad to find a stately
mansion in such a reduced state. The rusty gates have long ceased to
perform their function and stand deeply imbedded in the grass-grown
drive which stretches inward toward the house. The trees have grown wild
at will and stretch their branches almost across the drive. The grass is
rank but still thick and velvety and some sheep stare at our intrusion
and then scuttle away to a safe distance where they stop huddled
together and stare again. Hawthorn hedges white with bloom enclose the
place almost like the palace of the sleeping beauty and one wonders
whether man has entered yonder silent house for the last hundred years.
It certainly has not that appearance. Its windows have a sightless,
unoccupied look and its doors swing open to the summer breezes. Except
for the sheep there is no sign of life anywhere and we enter and roam at
will through the deserted rooms. In its exterior it is of the usual type
of such houses in Ireland, a stately rectangular structure, probably of
some two centuries of age. Its portals are never closed, and passing
inward, one enters a large square hallway, whose fine ceiling is
supported by four stately columns. Surrounding this are numerous
living-rooms, reception-and dining-rooms, and in several the ceilings
show much beauty even through the mould and dirt of years of neglect.
[Illustration: Corner of the Rose Garden, Bannow House
County Wexford]
Of those who made this place a home all have long since passed beneath
the "low green tent whose curtains never outward swing" and those who
own it now have other houses more to their taste, so this stands
tenantless, the silence both without and within broken only by the sound
of our footfalls as we explore the empty, echoing spaces.
The park around is fine, but as we pass away we note that nearly all the
great timber has been cut down.
It's a sad place, and even our motor seems anxious to leave it.
Our car this year is a 16-20 Clement and on its top speed runs as
noiselessly as an electric. It is not an especially good hill climber,
though that may be but a temporary fault, as sometimes it sails up an
incline with ease, while at others balks at much lesser grades. On the
whole I like the car very much, and though two years old and having had
hard usage, with but small expense it could be made as good as new. It
is certainly to be preferred to the Panhard of last year and is more
agreeable to ride in than the sixty horse-power Mercedes of the Duke of
M. In those high power cars, unless at full speed, which is impossible
on most Irish roads, one is disagreeably conscious of the power beneath
one, and rather dreads a breaking away with its ensuing destruction.
Certainly but few of these Irish roads are suited to a speed of sixty
miles per hour. This car comes from Wayte Bros., of Dublin, and costs
twenty pounds per month less than that of last season.
Our onward route lies over the hills to Fethard through Clonmel and
across the river Moyle. As we enter, we encounter a funeral, and I
notice that they are carrying the corpse round and round what is
certainly the town pump. Later I learn that a cross once stood there,
also that through the gate by which Cromwell entered the town the dead
are never carried.
Boyse has a sister living here, and we pass the night in her home.
Fethard is one of those quaint Irish places which the world, unless it
hunts the fox, never comes near,--but the Irish world does hunt the fox
and hence everybody that is anybody comes to Fethard.
As I wandered out into the meadows behind the mews, I came upon a pile
of coffins under a shed,--new and awaiting occupants. Evidently they are
bought by the wholesale here and of assorted sizes against emergencies.
Near-by stood the village hearse, and backed up against a hayrick the
remains of the worn-out one which had ceased from its labors. My remark
that the "coffins were cheap and thin" brought out the rejoinder, "Ah,
they're good enough, give the worms a chance." So wears the world away.
The reply came from an old man smoking a stump of a pipe, and calmly
reposing the while in a pine box, the future use of which could not be a
matter of doubt.
Leaving him to his repose I enter the motor and with my host and hostess
and B. roll off through Clonmel to the superb estate of the Marquis of
W., "Curraghmore House," the location of which at once strikes the
beholder as very superb. Lofty hills, rich dales, and almost
impenetrable woods surround him in all directions. The home park alone
holds some twenty-seven hundred acres, entirely enclosed by a high stone
wall.
As we approach the gates we see on a distant hill a lofty tower erected
in memory of one of the heirs, who as a boy broke his neck while
attempting to jump his horse over the gate just before us, and which is
to-day opened to our sounding horn by a smiling old lady, who curtsies
deeply as we pass her.
Three gates are encountered before we enter the court of Curraghmore
House, where we hear that "His Lordship is down at the kennels," and so
roll away again through the aisles of such trees as only these ancestral
places can show, save in California or a primeval forest where the
vandal, man, has not had his way. How beautiful it is! The wide white
avenues roll and twist away over the deep rich grass. Yonder valley is a
mass of blossoming rhododendrons,--tree fuchsias bloom on the other
hand,--and across the river the green hills mount away, dotted with
sheep, to a fair blue sky.
We cross an ancient bridge of stone with the water gurgling deliciously
beneath as it flows off down a lane brilliant with the lilac of the
rhododendrons.
The kennels are probably the most extensive in Ireland and resemble a
large carnivora house in some zoölogical garden,--even to the iron cages
for summer use.
Here, amidst more than a hundred hounds, we find our host. Of an ancient
Irish family, tall, very fair, with close cropped yellow hair and blue
eyes, and clad in a long white linen coat, his appearance is very
English, which remark would not please him at all I am told. He is
making a register of his hounds for the dog show at Peterborough next
month.
Each hound is presented, passed upon, and has her name duly entered on
the list. I am told that the dog does not make a good hunter in Ireland,
and hence all of the one hundred and twelve animals here are bitches.
[Perhaps that is always the case, if so you will discover that I am not
a sportsman.] If you were to stumble and fall while near them they would
promptly tear you to pieces, though they are friendly enough and almost
every one, as she passes through the cage, pokes her nose into our
hands.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Bannow Church
County Wexford]
These dogs actually seem to know what is being said about them. When
they passed muster they jumped away like a boy through with his
examinations,--but there were two or three which did not pass, and the
look of reproach cast upon their keeper as he told of their failings was
almost human.
The registering done with, they are let out in two lots on the hillside,
and crowd around us, still friendly apparently, but as we turn to
leave--the hounds having been caged again--I drop my stick, and when I
stoop to pick it up the whole pack spring at the bars in a wild attempt
to get at me. I do not regret the protecting iron.
These kennels are beautifully kept, and the oatmeal cakes on the shelves
of the feed house would taste very good, I fancy. In fact I am bidden to
try one.
We motor back through the domain to the grounds back of the house and
walk across them to enter the mansion. They are beautifully laid off,
but I think the huge bronze fountain in the centre is a mistake,--a
simple stone basin with a majestic geyser of water would be more in
keeping with the age of the place and the simple and severe outlines of
the house. Like most of the great fountains there is too much bronze and
too little water.
Curraghmore House was built about 1700, around the remains of a very
ancient castle. From this side the building somewhat resembles
Chatsworth, but on the other one sees the great square tower which dates
from the twelfth century. It has been, of course, much changed and
is now outwardly made to conform to the rest of the mansion,--but upon
entering you at once notice the great thickness of the walls which prove
its age. They are adorned with trophies of the chase of much interest.
Mounting a staircase of gradual ascent one enters another square hall
around which are the living-rooms, some very rich in ornamentation,
especially in the painted ceilings. Many portraits gaze questioningly at
me from the walls, some so dark with age that only the eyes are visible,
eyes in a pallid face and all else lost in the shadow,--faces whose
owners have come and gone like the shadows of a dream, and whose very
names are now forgotten;--living, I fancy, their lives out in these old
halls, with as little thought for the inevitable forgetfulness of time,
as we have to-day, and we have none at all, but pass the time in a happy
fashion over tea in the Library.
Some of us wander off to the billiard hall up in the great tower, and
descending stop a moment in a room which it is claimed is visited by
such a ghostly caller as Scott tells of in his "Tapestried
chamber,"--one which will wake you and jibe at you. Here is a portrait
of a lady, with a band on her wrist. She and a brother lived long ago
and were both atheists. The brother became converted to a belief in God
but not this sister, and he promised that when he died if there was a
God and a hereafter, he would return, which he did, and seizing his
sister by the wrist left a mark which necessitated the wearing of this
band. There it is in that portrait over the mantel in the ghost's room.
There are other phantoms which haunt this mansion of Curraghmore, but
let this suffice. I should like to have slept in that room, and after we
departed I was told that we had all been asked to "stay the night," but
the ladies of the party objected as Lady W. was absent.
Many years ago en route from Calcutta to Ceylon we had on board a poor
sick man en route to colder climes in the hope of prolonging his life--a
vain one as it proved. He was brought out daily and laid on the deck and
naturally became an object of interest and sympathy to all of the
passengers. One elderly lady was especially kind to him and I held many
long conversations with her. She told me that he had been in the employ
of the government in the Indian Islands, and, stricken with fever, had
been ordered home, leaving a wife and a newly born child behind him. As
I left the ship at Colombo I saw her standing by his side fanning him.
Poor man--he was buried at sea near Aden and to-day I find _her_
portrait looking down upon me from these walls. She was Lady Waterford,
the grandmother of our host, a woman who believed in seeing the world
and, as I know, doing good as she passed along. I believe she was
considered rather eccentric--interesting people generally are so,--and
it is stated that she discarded all the family jewels in favour of one
made of foxes' teeth. Although eighteen years had elapsed since that sea
trip hers was not a face to be forgotten, and I knew it at once. I
believe she has long since passed away.
There is a story told of the castle in Cromwell's day which, while it
proves that there is a woman at the bottom of most incidents in this
world, shows that here her wits were the salvation of the house. Knowing
that her father would die rather than surrender to the king-killer, she
seduced the lord of the manor into one of his own dungeons and promptly
locked him up. Into Cromwell's hands she then delivered the keys of the
castle, assuring him that though forced to be absent on this auspicious
occasion her father was nevertheless well disposed to the cause of
Parliament and willing to give such proof as the Protector might demand.
In consequence Curraghmore remained unimpaired in the possession of its
owner, securely locked up the while in his own dungeon.
Taking it all in all it is a most interesting place, yet when all is
said, to my thinking, the greatest beauty lies in the superb trees of
the park, and its wonderful stretches of grassland.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Tombs in Bannow Church
County Wexford]
CHAPTER XIV
Departure from Fethard--The Dead Horse and a Lawsuit--Approach to
Dublin--Estate of Kilruddery--The Swan as a Fighter--Glendalough,
its Ruins and History--Tom Moore and his Tree in Avoca--Advantages
of Motor Travel--Superstition of the Magpie--A Boy, a Cart, and a
Black Sheep--The Goose and the Motor.
The next day opens nasty and wet. Leaving our benediction and thanks
with Mr. and Mrs. P. we roll off through the drops of rain over the
muddy roadways. It is not especially pleasant and conversation lags, but
it must be a bad day indeed to suppress all chances for excitement in
Ireland, as we shortly discover.
Turning a bend of the road we see, coming towards us, a jaunting-car,
hauled by a bay horse and driven by an old man. The nag gives evidence
of fright and our motor is stopped instantly at some three hundred feet
from her. The old man succeeds in turning her around and at our
suggestion unwinds himself from his lap-robe and gets down to hold her.
All the time our car is at a standstill and making no sound. Whether the
old chap got tangled in the reins or stumbles, I know not, but the nag
plunges, knocking him down, then plunges again and falls against a
stone wall, breaking a shaft. B. gets out of our car and suggests that I
go back to the town just behind and bring a policeman as there will
surely be claims for damages. I cannot see how, as we have not been in
motion for the past fifteen minutes and certainly have an equal right
upon the highroads. However, I roll away, and en route I notice a
travelling circus with a nigger in charge who grins at me. The policeman
secured and brought back in the car, we find to our amazement that the
horse is dead, and the nigger and owner are already haggling over the
sale of its carcass. The latter wants a sovereign and the former offers
half a crown.
What killed the beast is unknown to us to this day; it certainly did not
break its neck as it kicked and plunged a lot after it was down.
However, it is dead, and there is trouble in consequence. Of course we
are "entirely to blame" though the accident did not occur until we had
been stationary for some fifteen minutes, and until the old man had had
ample time to argue with the horse and then to turn her around and move
away from us before he got down, at which time she was perfectly quiet.
It's my opinion that he became tangled in the reins and fell against
her. Fact remains that she neither scared nor plunged until he got down
from the car and made for her head, and as I have stated before, I have
often noticed that horses are more frightened by their owner's sudden
grabs at the bridle than by the motor car.
I had once a saddle horse which could never be induced to pass a piece
of paper be it ever so small without violent shying, and I could at any
instant, by pressing my knee suddenly into the saddle, cause him to look
round for such objects and shy violently in advance.
So it is with most car horses,--let alone they would stand quietly;
grabbed at by the driver they plunge and shy. As far as our car is
concerned it always comes at once to a dead halt if there is the
smallest evidence of trouble. We did so, as I have stated, in this case,
yet I have no doubt damage or blackmail will have to be paid. If this
were not done and B. ever wanted to hunt over this country he would come
to dire disaster, as our names and addresses were taken down by the
policeman, and will never be forgotten but stored away to be remembered
either in blessing or malediction according as we pay or not.
This being a rented car the owners assume all such risks, and on
reaching Dublin we learn that a claim for twenty-five pounds has already
been presented, the value of the beast having increased by leaps and
bounds, and I doubt not before the year is out will have passed that of
the winner of the Derby.
I should like to have been at the trial if it came to that, if only to
count the witnesses that would have sprung up by the dozens, undoubtedly
proving in the end that the old man was driving two horses to that
jaunting-car and that our appearance killed them both.
The day after that occurrence the driver of a cow deliberately placed
her in our pathway in hopes that we would kill her, but he reckoned
without our brakes, which stopped the car not a foot from the cow. Her
owner laughed in a stupid, leering fashion as we rolled away.
After the death of the poor old horse, which no one could have regretted
more than we did, nothing occurred during the ride to Dublin.
As we approach the city, the highways are of greater width and in better
condition, though most of the Irish roads are good. There are motor-cars
flying in all directions now and ours catching the disease skims along
like a bird, and quite as noiselessly, until the pavements and narrower
streets of the city force a reduction of speed, and even then the rate
is more rapid than I like.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Tintern Abbey]
Dublin is in the throes of an exposition, and there is "no room in the
inn." Not to be forced to sleep in a manger we direct our course to Bray
Head, and in her very comfortable hotel of that name are at rest for a
few days. While there are no real mountains in this section of Ireland
the hills and headlands are very bold and beautifully outlined. The
roads are fine and there are many points of interest hereabouts. To-day
we have been rambling over Kilruddery, the fine estate of the Earl of
Meath. The house, while modern, has not that appearance, and at first I
thought it must date at least from the days of the good Queen Bess
during whose reign the property passed into the hands of this family. It
is of that period in its architecture, but the great glory lies all
around it. These grounds are justly famous. I have never seen more
beautiful, stately hedges even at Versailles, and one rather feels that
one should be dressed in the fashion of the Grand Monarque to pace these
grassy lanes. At one point the hedges, thirty feet high, spread off like
the spokes of a wheel, and the legend runs that in ancient days the
abbot had his cell in that centre from where the brethren living down
the aisles could be easily watched, and being human, even if saintly, I
doubt not that they needed watching now and then.
In front of the mansion two oblong lakes nestle in the velvety grass
like great mirrors and on their waters numerous swans are floating. One
old general mounts the bank and with arched neck and spreading wings
advances to attack us, but we do not risk the battle. Those male birds
can strike hard, and while it might be possible to seize and stretch
their necks, the Lord of the Manor does not like that to be done. So we
take refuge in the flower garden, a perfect glory of bloom and colour.
Later on, as we are at tea in the "long drawing-room before my lady's
picture," the old swan raises his head just outside in watchful ward
lest we dare to come out.
I think Dickens must have visited Kilruddery about the time he wrote
_Bleak House_, though he placed the scene of his great work in
Lincolnshire. Here are the long drawing-rooms with my lady's picture
over the mantle before which Sir Leicester sat in such grandeur; yonder
is the window through which the moonlight streamed upon my lady seated
at the open casement, and just here between my lord and my lady Mr.
Tulkinghorn must have paced as he "told my story to so many people."
Just outside runs the Ghost Walk where upon that fatal night the step
grew louder and louder, and above one can doubtless find Mr.
Tulkinghorn's chamber opening out upon the leads, and where he met and
cowed my lady. This may not be the place which the great writer had in
mind, but it might well have been.
I confess to an intense envy when I visit these superb estates, not so
much as to the houses, unless they are very ancient, but certainly as to
the parks. It is perhaps well that our country cannot know such,--it
certainly never will unless the law of primogeniture is established,
which God forbid. And yet here the younger members of a family seem to
think it but right and just that everything should pass to but one of
them, that they, who may love and appreciate their lifelong home as
perhaps the heir never will, should be turned out, often with nothing,
while, as often, he proceeds to pile debt on debt until the old home
goes by the board and passes to strangers or the great trees are cut
down to pay gambling debts. All this may be gall and wormwood to some of
them but if so they are loyal to the rules of their order and murmur not
at all.
It is necessary for B. to return to Bannow for a day as he is a
magistrate there and has some business in consequence. So we are off in
the forenoon and shall run the hundred miles by teatime with several
stops thrown in. We enter amongst the hills on starting and are amongst
them all day save for sudden dips into some valley or down to the sea.
As we speed up the mountains the prospects behind are enchanting. The
valleys are deep and very green while on the other side of one
amphitheatre the vast mansion of "Powers Court House," where we shall
spend the week-end, stands half way up the hillside in a most beautiful
location. From here it appears to be a stone structure of several
stories, with long wings on either hand, and even at this distance one
can see that the garden and park are very extensive.
Our route southward to Bannow lies through the mountains of Wicklow,
which here resemble Arthur's Seat and other hills around Edinburgh.
Fortunately the day is fine and the roads dry without dust, but one
never suffers from the dust of one's own car and we do not meet any
others, hence the ride is exhilarating and beautiful, especially as we
approach Glendalough, where the scenery is almost Alpine.
That ancient place lies in a deep valley with mountains towering all
around it. Its ruined churches are presided over by one of the tallest
and most perfect round towers in Ireland.
Wherever one sees those strange structures they are objects of interest
and this one, rising in stately watch and ward over the dead who sleep
all around it, is unusually so. It stands in an enclosure so choked with
graves that one must walk over the dead to reach it. Two, lately buried
I should say, seem to have used the old tower as their especial
monument, so closely are their heads placed against its ancient base. A
little wooden cross between the graves protests that those who sleep
beneath are of the faith of the Nazarene and not of that of the
long-dead heathens who, some claim, erected this and all other similar
towers in this land, a false idea of course.
Glendalough is very ancient, and dates its foundation back in 618 A.D.
St. Kevin of the royal house of Leinster died here at a great age,
having lived for years in a hollow tree near the lake and in a cave, to
which there was no access save by a boat. His memory has been honored
for centuries, and in the peculiar manner of much drinking and many free
fights here on the spot where he died, a custom stopped by the parish
priest who emptied the whiskey into the stream and burned the
shillalahs, after which he forced these people who had been enemies for
centuries to embrace over Kevin's grave. He lived to the age of one
hundred and twenty years, founding here what became a crowded city, with
schools, colleges, sanctuaries for the saintly, and asylums for the poor
and sick.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Kilkenny Castle]
Glendalough began to decline more than six centuries ago, and to-day
holds nothing save a few ruined churches, the stately round tower, and
many graves deep down in its vale, guarded by the brooding mountains.
Its silence is rarely broken except when one more is added to the quiet
company which lies around, or when some wanderer from the outer world
remembers that Glendalough has been and pauses a moment to offer
devotions at her crumbling shrines.
How completely one's thoughts shift from the ancient heathen history of
this island to gentler times and songs, waving trees, sunlight, and the
music of waters as the car rolls through the Vale of Ovoca, where gentle
Tom Moore's spirit still seems to be singing of its bubbling streams.
Stop at the old stone bridge and lean a while upon its parapets and you
will be just over the tree, now a gaunt dead skeleton with all its glory
gone, where he wrote the poems so dear to all of us. Beneath you murmurs
one of the streams, and, just beyond, it rushes joyously to its meeting
with the other, and the old tree stands on a point at the meeting place.
The waters plash and sing and dance away and away, the years have rolled
by, and the poet is gone, but his verses live on for ever, and pilgrims
from all over the world come to this spot which he found beautiful.
To-day as we roll up there are a party of women all from my own land, I
should judge, and each takes her seat for a moment under the great
skeleton where Moore sat and wrote his songs for mankind.
The east and west sides of Ireland are very different. On the latter
lies all the grandeur and ruggedness, as though nature had been carved
and hewn by the tremendous blows of the North Atlantic's winds and
waves, and all the music is wild and weird; while on the eastern side
all is like a beautiful park, pastoral and full of sunshine and flowers.
Moore's melodies sound all around one and if a lad or lassie sings in
passing it will be of Robin Adair or Aileen Aroon. The former lived just
back there in Hollybrook House and the latter dwells all over the
mountains and down in every vale.
The entire ride from Bray to Bannow is over fine roads and affords
constant panoramas of sunlight, seas, and stretches of woodlands and
grass-lands, with here and there a stately mansion keeping ward over a
beautiful park and with many gushing, bubbling rivers and brooks. The
air is laden with the perfume of the sweet grasses, and the way is
bordered by blossoming hawthorns and wild roses. Quaint villages and
ancient cities nestle by the sea, whose waters murmur peacefully,
forgetful that storms have ever been.
With the rapid flight of the motor, new life rushes through one's veins,
and surely some years must drop away.
It is an error to imagine that an automobile tour means merely a rapid
flight through the country. It may be made just that, and no doubt often
is, but on the other hand it will be found that those who love to
travel, love antiquities, are students of history, will see far more by
the use of a car than would have been possible with stage-coach or by
rail. By the former, progress was slow, and so tedious often that many
points of great interest were given up because of the bodily weariness
necessary in reaching them. With rail I know, from personal experience,
that I allowed years to pass without visiting points which I greatly
longed to see, because it necessitated change of trains and weary
waiting in dirty stations. With a motor one is possessed almost of
Aladdin's lamp. Make your wish, turn a crank, glide over the earth
almost as rapidly as the owner of the lamp did through the air, and
behold you have your heart's desire, and so you have many desires of the
heart and spy out the land as you never would have done in days gone
by,--days which seem so long gone by, though but a few years have passed
since those old modes of transit were the only ones known. You may go as
slowly as you desire in a motor, you cannot in a train. You are able
also to glide rapidly over long, tedious roads of no interest, where
with horses hours of wearisome journey would be necessary.
So, my dear critic, don't condemn a book of notes written from a motor
until you have tried that method of locomotion and found it wanting,
which, to my thinking, will never occur. This journey to Bannow, but
better still my inspection of the island of Achill is a case in point.
Not satisfied with my first visit, I determined to return. I was then in
Wexford, quite on the other side of the island, but that was, with a
motor, no barrier. I simply crossed the island in a day's run, spent
another day in Achill, and returned to Wexford.
Had the time been twenty years or ten years ago, the trouble of a second
visit would have destroyed all chances of making it.
It is very dreamy and poetic to sigh over the old dead days, but it's
all bosh. The modern appliances of the twentieth century enable the
traveller to see more and at his leisure in one summer than he would
ever have dreamed of seeing in those "dear old dead days."
The time will come when these machines will be made for the people and
general utility. I venture to quote here an article from _Harper's
Weekly_ as to the future of this great invention.
[Illustration: Deserted Killshening House
Fermoy]
"When a man takes hold of the knob of his office door he knows
that, year in and year out, the knob will perform its proper
function. When the housewife sits down to her sewing-machine she
knows that hardly once in a thousand times will it fail to do its
work, and do it well. Unreliable is an indictment to which our cars
must too often plead guilty. In America we have done a lot of
foolish things in motor-car building, but we are approaching saner
methods and more correct lines. The car of the future, either for
business or pleasure, has not yet been laid down. He would be a
bold, perhaps a rash, prophet who would undertake any detailed
description of this car. Nevertheless, reasoning _a priori_, there
are some features we may prognosticate. In the first place, it will
be built of better steel than we have been accustomed to use. In
the next place, the cars will become standardized, and when
standardized they will be built by machinery in enormous quantities
at an exceedingly low cost. The wheels will be large, built of wood
and of the artillery type. Hard rubber or some enduring substance
will take the place of the present high-priced unsatisfactory
pneumatic tires. The car will be light, simple, strong, and easily
kept in repair. Mr. Edison once said the automobile will never be
wholly practical until it is fool-proof and the ordinary repairs
can be made on the highway by a darky with a monkey-wrench. The
present highly unsatisfactory system of change-speed gears will be
supplanted by a variable speed device. There are not wanting good
judges who believe that the problem will be solved by a system of
hydraulic transmission. The fuel of the future will be kerosene or
grain alcohol. Thirty-five per cent, of the population of America
are farmers. The farmer will be the chief automobile owner and
user. The maximum speed of his car may be only twenty miles per
hour, but that is twice as fast as his present mode of travel. The
car will be an invaluable adjunct to his work on the farm. The
adjustment of a belt, the turn of a crank, and the automobile
engine furnishes power to thresh his grain, cut his wood, chop his
feed, and pump his water. After being in constant use all the day,
the car is ready to take the entire family to the social gathering
in the village at night, or to church services on Sunday morning.
The farmer will use the automobile as will the butcher, the baker,
and the storekeeper--when he can in no other way get the same
amount of work done at so low a cost; and when the business man can
deliver his goods more quickly and more economically than he can by
using the horse he will do so.
"There will always be motor-cars de luxe for the rich, but they
will be merely the fringe of the garment of a great industry. The
countless millions of tons of freight now slowly and painfully
drawn over country roads and through city streets by poor dumb
brutes will go spinning along, the motors of the heavily laden
trucks humming a tune of rich content, and all the thousand
tongues of commerce will sing the praises of the motor-car.
"Let me suggest a few practical things that the tireless horse of
the future will accomplish:
"1. It will solve the problem of the over congestion of traffic in
our city streets.
"2. It will free the horse from his burdens. A few years ago, in
the city of New Orleans, an old darky came in from the country and
for the first time saw the electric street cars, which had taken
the place of the mule-drawn car. The old darky threw up his hands,
and looking up to heaven said, 'Bless de Lord, de white man freed
de nigger, now he done freed the mule.'
"3. The automobile will furnish relief to the tenement house
districts.
"4. It will stimulate the good roads movement throughout the
United States.
"5. It will save time and space and become invaluable to many
classes of citizens.
"6. It will tend to break down class distinction, because one
touch of automobilism makes the whole world kin."
The motor has come to stay-rest assured of that. It has an equal right
upon the highway under the law of the land, with all other vehicles or
animals, so spare yourselves your curses and your ill temper, which only
injure yourselves.--A stoppage for luncheon allowed me time to bring in
all that, but we are miles onward by now.
In addition to song and story, superstition, perhaps of a harmless sort,
certainly reigns in Ireland, at least in the southern parts. Even B.
never sees a magpie that he does not cast his eyes and hands aloft in
supplication, to exorcise the evil results of the encounter. I have
always understood that the legends of that famous bird ran "one for
luck, two for joy, three for a wedding, and four for a boy." But B.
insists that the appearance of one means misfortune; however "maggies"
are eminently domestic and travel in pairs. Marriage is not a failure
with them.
While B. is stoutly maintaining his belief in the ill luck sure to
follow the appearance of a bird just now flirting his tail at us from a
tree near-by, the car comes to a sudden halt and Robert's face plainly
indicates something wrong. With an "I told you so" B. gets out to
inspect. Knowing nothing and caring less about machinery I stay where I
am; the seat is comfortable and paid for, whether in motion or not; if
they want to get down on their backs in that mud they can do so, I
won't. While the work is in progress I question B. on the matter of
superstition and am told that no real Irishman would, in case of death
in his house, go after the coffin _alone_,--that "must never be done."
Many even in these days will place a lighted candle in the hands of the
dying to light them to Heaven, and at a wake there is always a plate of
snuff on the corpse.
Not long since, a stranger desiring to attend one of these weird affairs
was conducted to the house of a man who--it was stated--had just died.
The deceased was laid out in the little cabin with candles at his head
and feet, and the usual number of mourners around him. Now every one
smokes at a wake, and the visitor, lighted cigar in his mouth, stood
solemnly regarding the placid dead, when some motion caused his cigar
ash to fall upon the placid face, whereupon the dead sneezed and the
wake broke up in "Konfusion." So at least runs the tale.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Curraghmore House
Marquis of Waterford]
An incident of the later afternoon is also attributed to "a beast of a
bird" which flew over our heads shortly before its occurrence. It
certainly was a most amazing escape from a serious smash-up, and only
the steering ability of the chauffeur saved us and the car. About to
take a side road running at right angles to the one we were on, and
hidden by a tall hedge, we came suddenly upon a boy asleep in a cart
drawn by an old white horse, also apparently asleep. They were not
twenty feet off; to pass was impossible, and our man shot his car
forward, turned it almost on its axis and under the nose of the old
horse so closely that I thought the shaft would strike me and dodged
down into the car; then another sharp turn down into a ditch,
fortunately grassy and not dangerously deep, and up on to the road, and
away as though nothing had happened and all so quickly done that the
horse and boy stood stock still in dumb amazement. It was a very close
shave, and proved that these cars can be turned completely around in a
much smaller space than one would believe possible. We are not courting
such experiences, especially as news of the dreadful deaths of the
Trevor brothers in Cincinnati has just been published. Our man is a
superb driver and thoroughly understands his machine; also he does not
lose his head for an instant, or on this occasion it would have meant
destruction all round.
Shortly afterwards a black sheep--"horror of horrors," I heard B.
exclaim--crossed our pathway at tremendous speed, and having great faith
in the strength of its skull and in its butting powers tried conclusions
with a closed iron gateway,--the result being intense astonishment
and dire destruction to itself, the gate holding fast. Earlier in the
day we ran over for the first time a goose, apparently without injury
thereto, as the last I saw it was chasing us down the road with
outstretched neck squawking loudly.
Our orders are strict as to avoiding all living things if by so doing we
do not endanger our own safety and several times we have done so by
sudden swerves to save an old hen or chicken.
Taking it all together to-day's ride has not been without excitement,
and we almost decline to get out when the car stops at Bannow House; but
I think the driver has had his fill of work for one day, so it is ended,
fortunately with no injury to any one.
CHAPTER XV
The Lunatic--Insanity and its Causes in Ireland--The Usual Old Lady
and Donkey--Sunshine and Shadow--Clonmines and its Seven
Churches--The Crosses around the Holy Tree--Baginbun and the
Landing of the English--The Bull of Pope Adrian--Letter of Pope
Alexander--Protest of the Irish Princes--Legends--Death of Henry
II.
"To some men God hath given laughter, and tears to some men he hath
given."
To-day it is tears and sadness for one poor woman.
B. is a magistrate here and last night at dinner a warrant for his
signature was brought to the house. It was for the commitment of a poor
woman to an asylum for the insane and this morning we roll away to the
village to conclude the matter. The "Court" awaits our arrival, but I
have no mind for such scenes; indeed I do not think it right that mere
lookers-on should be permitted, any more than curiosity seekers should
be allowed to stare at men in prison. So I stay out in the car while B.,
followed by the "Court," which has been sunning itself outside, passes
within.
However, I am not to escape in all ways, as, turning my eyes towards a
window to the left, I see the poor woman staring out at me, the sadness
and misery of her expression passing description,--life is so absolutely
over for her, with nothing save the horror of increasing insanity to
look forward to throughout all the years which may remain of existence.
Her mother died in an asylum and her fate is certain. The curse of
intermarriage has pronounced her doom as it does for so many in Ireland.
It is also claimed that much of the insanity so prevalent here is caused
by excessive use of tea, and _such_ tea. Placed on the stove and allowed
to simmer and stew all day, it acquires a strength that would destroy in
time the strongest of nerves.
This poor woman goes to the asylum by her own wish, and is glad to go,
knowing the hopelessness of it all for her. Ah, the pity of it, and one
is so absolutely powerless to do aught to help! The law is soon complied
with and leaving her sad face still at the window we roll away.
The day is especially brilliant and the air like wine, laden with the
fragrance of the hawthorn and wild grasses; while the hedgerows
bordering the lanes are a mass of blossoms, and the world is
beautiful,--all the more beautiful by contrast with that glimpse of
sadness we have just left.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Hallway, Curraghmore House]
Our car goes rushing and singing along until we round a bend of the
road and are immediately involved in wild confusion. An old lady--as
usual--seated on the smallest of carts, drawn by a most diminutive
donkey,--Ireland is full of old ladies in carts, in fact one rarely sees
any others in them,--is vainly trying to stop the wild circles it is
describing, cart and all, in fright at our appearance. It whirls her
around at least a half-dozen times before a passing postman seizing the
bridle leads it by us, while the ancient dame, the flowers on her much
awry bonnet trembling with her indignation, hurls curses at us. "Blarst
yer sowls" comes back at us as she is borne away.
Truly sunshine and shadow, laughter and sadness chase each other closely
in this Isle of Erin. Don't for a moment imagine, though you may seem to
be in the densest solitude of the country, that there is nobody about;
any instant a sudden turn may find you in the midst of shrieking women,
flying chicks, quacking ducks, and scoffing geese, where clatter and
confusion and curses reign supreme, but again those curses imply nothing
generally here, they are only a form of salutation, and rarely mean what
is said.
We pass down long stretches of road with the sparkling sea spread out
before us until we draw up near the ruins of the seven churches of
Clonmines, close down by the placid waters of the river.
Of the churches there is little left, save a few ruined towers. In the
centre of one where the sunshine falls warmest and many flowers grow,
the late priest of the parish has found his resting-place.
After all there seems to have been close connection between the far
east and this Emerald Isle. At these seven churches of Clonmines, there
was once held a Moorish slave market, and one cannot but think that
that keening for the dead must have come from the chant which one may
still hear amongst the followers of the prophet.
Clonmines, which is named from the silver mines near-by, was "a very
ancient corporation but quite ruinated" even in 1684 when we find it so
described in an old manuscript of Wexford. In the time of the Danes it
possessed a mint for silver coining and was surrounded by a fosse. On
the shores of its river or tide inlet, called the Pill, the descendants
of the first English conquerors still lived in the days of Elizabeth, in
fact we find yet living in one of these ancient towers, the descendant
of the man, Sir Roger de Sutton, who built it _seven centuries ago_--a
love of home which passes understanding, for that abode to-day could not
be considered as agreeable under any circumstances.
This little river was considered of such importance in the days of Henry
VI. that an act of Parliament was passed for the building of towers upon
its banks "that none shall break the fortifications or strength of the
waters of Bannow."
Even in Henry IV.'s time one John Neville was appointed keeper of this
water, and the feudal tenure by which the Hore family held their manor
of Pole was for the keeping of a passage over the Pill when the Sessions
were held at Wexford. But King and noble reckoned without the storms of
winter, which year after year drove the sands of the sea inward, filling
the harbour and finally destroying all the towns on its banks. One of
them, Old Bannow, we have already visited, and we leave this of
Clonmines, to-day a ruin past all redemption, inhabited by that one
family whose members have watched the years go by just here for seven
centuries.
As we glide off through the winding lanes, the birds are talking to
themselves in the hedgerows, and could tell us much about it all I doubt
not, while far away on the soft air sounds the throbbing and the sobbing
of the sea.
Close by the roadside we come upon an evidence of one of the quaint
customs still to be met with in this section. There is a certain
tree--why so selected does not appear--which is regarded as holy, and
every funeral which passes leaves a small cross at its base, so that
to-day the pile of rude wooden emblems of our faith reaches half way up
its trunk. There are no shrines around the place or any other evidence
that it is regarded as sacred or used as a point for devotion, simply
that mass of plain wooden crosses mounting high around its trunk, and
numbering many thousands, each one representing the passing of some poor
soul out of this earthly sunshine and into the shadow of the grave.
Our day is not over yet. This section of Ireland so abounds in points of
interest that fearing we may pass any of them the speed of the car is
reduced to that of a donkey-cart, in fact, several of the latter pass us
with great show of speed and scornful glances cast by ancient dames at
our crawling monster, while the donkey kicks dust in our faces--whether
from contempt of us or a desire to get home to supper he takes no time
to state, but the fact remains.
Our way leads down by the sea, and leaving the car to puff itself to
sleep, we pass through the downs on the cliffs and out on to the point
of Baginbun. If you are not versed in Irish history, you will wonder why
you are brought here--it is pretty, yes, certainly, but you have seen
other places far more so. There is a little cove just under you where
the waters murmur and whisper, but what of that? Well, that is Baginbun
and just there, though time and tide have long since obliterated the
marks of their ships' prows, landed the English for the first time in
Ireland. Fitzstephens and his band of adventurers in May, 1169, landed
there and doubtless climbed this hill where we stand knee deep in the
grass to day. What that meant to Ireland is told in the history of all
the ensuing years down to this latter day. How many readers are aware of
the Bull of Pope Adrian IV. handing Ireland body and soul over to Henry
II. of England,--let us quote a bit of it just here.
"Adrian, Bishop, servant of the servants of God, to our well
beloved son in Christ, the illustrious King of the English, health
and apostolical benediction.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Dining-room, Curraghmore House
Seat of the Marquis of Waterford]
"Your highness is contemplating the laudable and profitable work of
gaining a glorious fame on earth, and augmenting the recompense of
bliss that awaits you in heaven, by turning your thoughts, in the
proper spirit of a Catholic Prince, to the object of widening the
boundaries of the Church, explaining the true Christian faith to
those ignorant and uncivilised tribes, and exterminating the
nurseries of vices from the Lord's inheritance. In which matter,
observing as we do the maturity of deliberation and the soundness
of judgment exhibited in your mode of proceeding, we cannot but
hope that proportionate success will, with the Divine permission,
attend your exertions.
"Certainly there is no doubt but that Ireland and all the Islands
upon which Christ, the Sun of Righteousness, hath shined, and
which have received instruction in the Christian faith, do belong
of right to St. Peter and the Holy Roman Church, as your grace
also admits. For which reason we are the more disposed to
introduce into them a faithful plantation and to engraft among
them a stock acceptable in the sight of God, in proportion as we
are convinced from conscientious motives that such efforts are
made incumbent on us by the urgent claims of duty.
"You have signified to us, son, well-beloved in Christ, your
desire to enter the island of Ireland in order to bring that
people into subjection to laws, and to exterminate the nurseries
of vices from the country; and that you are willing to pay to St.
Peter an annual tribute of one penny for every house there, and to
preserve the ecclesiastical rights of that land uninjured and
inviolate. We, therefore, meeting your pious and laudable desire
with the favour which it deserves, and graciously according to
your petition, express our will and pleasure that, in order to
widen the bounds of the Church, to check the spread of vice, to
reform the state of morals and promote the inculcation of virtuous
dispositions, you shall enter that island and execute therein what
shall be for the honour of God and the welfare of the country. And
let the people of that land receive you in honourable style and
respect you as their Lord. Provided always that ecclesiastical
rights be uninjured and inviolate, and the annual payment of one
penny for every house be secured for St. Peter and the Holy Roman
Church.
"If then, you shall be minded to carry into execution the plan
which you have devised in your mind, use your endeavour diligently
to improve that nation by the inculcation of good morals; and
exert yourself, both personally and by means of such agents as you
employ (whose faith, life, and conversation you shall have found
suitable for such an undertaking), that the Church may be adorned
there, that the religious influence of the Christian faith may be
planted and grow there; and that all that pertains to the honour
of God and the salvation of souls may, by you, be ordered in such
a way as that you may be counted worthy to obtain from God a
higher degree of recompense in eternity, and at the same time
succeed in gaining upon earth a name of glory throughout all
generations."
In such words this island, which had been faithful to the Church of Rome
for centuries, was handed over by its head to bloodshed and murder.
That the progress of the King was watched and approved of is amply set
forth in the letter of Pope Alexander III.:
"Alexander, Bishop, servant of the servants of God, to our well
beloved son in Christ, Henry, the illustrious King of the English,
greeting and apostolical benediction.
"It is not without very lively sensations of satisfaction that we
have learned, from the loud voice of public report, as well as
from the authentic statements of particular individuals, of the
expedition which you have made in the true spirit of a pious King
and magnificent prince against that nation of the Irish (who, in
utter disregard of the fear of God, are wandering with unbridled
licentiousness into every downward course of crime, and who have
cast away the restraints of the Christian religion and of
morality, and are destroying one another with mutual slaughter),
and of the magnificent and astonishing triumph which you have
gained over a realm into which, as we are given to understand, the
Princes of Rome, the triumphant conquerors of the world, never, in
the days of their glory, pushed their arms, a success to be
attributed to the ordering of the Lord, by whose guidance, as we
undoubtedly do believe, your serene highness was led to direct the
power of your arms against that uncivilised and lawless people."
There exists to-day the complaint of the Irish Princes to Pope John
XXII. in answer to a letter from him to the Irish prelates empowering
them to launch the thunders of the Church against all, whether lay or
ecclesiastical, who were guilty of disaffection to the ruling powers.
This from their holy head in favour of the English was felt very keenly
all over the land and called forth the document referred to above.
"In the name of Donald O'Neill, King of Ulster, and rightful
hereditary successor to the throne of all Ireland, as well as
Princes and Nobles of the same realm with the Irish people in
general present their humble salutations approaching with kisses of
devout homage to his sacred feet."
They lay before him, "with loud and imploring cry," the treatment they
have received, and also an account of their descent from Milesius, the
_Spaniard_, through a line of one hundred and thirty-six kings unto the
time of St. Patrick, A.D. 435. From that saint's day until 1170
sixty-one kings had ruled who acknowledged no superior, in things
temporal, and by whom the Irish Church was endowed.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Kilruddery House
Earl of Meath]
"'At length,' say the Princes, 'your predecessor, Pope Adrian, an
Englishman--although not so completely in his origin as in his
feelings and connections,--in the year of our Lord 1155, upon the
representation, false and full of iniquity, which was made to him
by Henry, King of England--the monarch under whom, and perhaps at
whose instigation, St. Thomas, of Canterbury, in the same year,
suffered death, as you are aware, in defence of Justice and of the
Church,--made over the dominion of this realm of ours in a certain
set form of words to that Prince, whom, for the crime here
mentioned, he ought rather to have been deprived of his own
kingdom; presenting him _de facto_ with what he had no right to
bestow, while the question touching the justice of the proceeding
was utterly disregarded, Anglican prejudices, lamentable to say,
blinding the vision of that eminent Pontiff. And thus despoiling us
of our royal honour, without any offence of ours, he handed us over
to be lacerated by teeth more cruel than those of any wild beasts.
For, ever since the time when the English, upon occasion of the
grant aforesaid, and under the mask of a sort of outward sanctity
and religion, made their unprincipled aggression upon the
territories of our realm, they have been endeavouring, with all
their might, and with every art which perfidy could employ,
completely to exterminate, and utterly to eradicate our people from
the country ... and have compelled us to repair, in the hope of
saving our lives, to mountainous, woody and swampy and barren
spots, and to the caves of the rocks also, and in these, like
beasts, to take up our dwelling for a length of time.'
"The Princes enclosed a copy of Pope Adrian's Bull, along with
their Complaint, to Pope John, which Bull the latter Pope
forwarded to King Edward....
"The part which the _Church of Rome_ has taken, not only in the
bringing of _Ireland_ under _English rule_ in the first instance,
but in the _maintenance_ of that rule, has _never been understood
by the Irish people in general_.
"Dr. Lanigan, whose history of Ireland is expensive and scarce,
says of Pope Adrian that 'love of his country, his wish to gratify
Henry, and some other not very becoming reasons, prevailed over
every other consideration, and the condescending Pope, with
great cheerfulness and alacrity, took upon himself to make over to
Henry all Ireland, and got a letter, or Bull, drawn up to that
effect and directed to him, in which, among other queer things, he
wishes him success in his undertaking, and expresses the hope that
it will conduce, not only to his glory in this world, but likewise
to his eternal happiness in the next.'[8]
"Adrian's old master was one Marianus, an Irishman, for whom he
had great regard, yet, says Dr. Lanigan, 'he was concerned in
hatching a plot against that good man's country, and in laying the
foundation of the destruction of the independence of Ireland.'[9]
"This is strong language from an Irish Roman Catholic clergyman,
who enjoys the fullest confidence of his country, with regard to a
former Pope, and it must be remembered that the statement was not
made in a platform speech, when momentary excitement might impel a
speaker into the use of words which he would afterwards regret,
but that it was calmly and deliberately penned in the quietness of
the study, and, probably, read and re-read, and finally corrected,
before it was committed to print.
"The Rev. M.J. Brennan, O. S. F., who is not at all so
unprejudiced as Dr. Lanigan, states that 'Adrian, anxious for the
aggrandisement of his country,' or, as Cardinal Pole expresses it,
'induced by the love of his country, lost no time in complying
with the agent's request.'[10] The agent referred to was John of
Salisbury, who had been sent by King Henry in 1155 to ask for the
Pope's sanction for the invasion of Ireland, and who states that
the invasion was delayed until 1171 by the restraining influence
of the King's mother, the Empress Matilda. With this statement Dr.
Lanigan agrees.[11]
"It is a mistake to suppose that the Conquest of Ireland is due to
the appeal made in 1168 by Dermot MacMurrogh for King Henry's aid.
That event merely afforded to the King and the Pope a convenient
excuse for carrying out a long-determined plan.
"Attempts have been made on various grounds to justify Pope
Adrian's action. Edmund Campion, the famous English Jesuit,
alleges that the Spanish ancestors of the Irish were subject '376
years ere Christ was born' to one Gurguntius, from whom King Henry
was descended, and that, consequently, the Pope only helped to
restore to Henry his rightful authority.[12] But this notion is
too far-fetched to deserve consideration.
"A more plausible excuse is that about a century previous to the
Conquest the Irish handed over to the Pope of that time--Urban
II.--the sovereignty of this country. This theory was advocated by
the Rev. Geoffrey Keatinge, D.D.
"But a still more popular excuse is, that all the Christian
Islands of the Ocean were conferred on the Popes by the first
Christian Emperor, Constantine.
"Dr. Lanigan brushes aside all these fanciful ideas with one
sweep. 'This nonsense' he says, 'of the Pope's being the head
owner of all Christian Islands had been partially announced to the
world in a Bull of Urban II., dated 1091, in which, on disposing
of the Island of Corsica, he said that the Emperor Constantine had
given the Islands to St. Peter and his vicars. But Constantine
could not give what did not belong to him, and accordingly, as
Keatinge argues, could not have transferred the sovereignty of
Ireland to any Pope.'[13]
"As to Keatinge's own idea, namely, that the Irish had transferred
their crown to the Pope, Dr. Lanigan writes: 'Neither in any of
the Irish annals, nor in the ecclesiastical documents of those
times, whether Roman or Irish, is there a trace to be found of a
transfer of Ireland to Urban II., or to any Pope, by either the
Irish Kings or Irish nobility, although the sly Italian, Polydore
Virgil, who has been followed by two Englishmen, Campion and
Sanders (both Jesuits), and also by some Irish writers, has told
some big lies on this subject. These stories were patched up in
spite of Chronology, or of any authority whatsoever, and Keatinge
swallowed them as he did many others.'"[14]
There is much more to be read on the subject and those who are
interested in the question cannot do better than examine that very
excellent little work of John Roche Ardill, _Forgotten Facts of Irish
History_,[15] from which the foregoing pages are a quotation.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Glendalough]
A very recent writer (Thomas Addis Emmet) states that
"It would be inconsistent with the truth were we to attribute the
piteous condition of Ireland to any other cause than that the great
majority of the Irish people belong to the Catholic faith. Had the
Irish been willing to cast aside, for temporal benefit, the faith
which they have unflinchingly maintained for over twelve centuries,
their country would have received every aid to advance prosperity,
which would, with their greater advantages of soil and climate,
have been far greater than that attained by Scotland."[16]
What has Mr. Emmet to say of the treatment of the Irish people by the
English _Romanists_ from Henry II. down to and including the reign of
Mary the First? He will scarcely find that the students of Irish history
will agree with his statement.
There is another tale, legend or fact, in which, of course, a woman
and her abduction from her husband, O'Roirke, Prince of Breffin, by
Dermot MacMurrogh, King of Leinster, with her own consent many think,
was the cause of the interposition of the English, and she is called
the Irish Helen. Dermot fled to England and laid his case before the
King, craving protection and swearing allegiance. Henry was too busily
engaged in France to attend, but he did issue an edict offering his
protection to all who might aid his trusted _subject_, Dermot, King of
Leinster.
This aroused Richard, Earl of Chepstow, called "Strongbow," who for his
assistance was to receive the hand of Dermot's daughter in marriage, and
a settlement of all of that Irish King's property upon them and their
children (a contract which was fulfilled), but Strongbow being tardy was
anticipated by Robert Fitzstephens, who agreed to assist Dermot, and was
to receive in payment the town of Wexford and adjoining lands, and he it
was whose boats landed on this little beach, where the water murmurs so
quietly to-night.
Dermot in his castle yonder at Ferns awaited the coming of these
invaders, and promptly sent his natural son Donald with five hundred
horse to join them, and so the game was played, and his throne restored
to him.
Then came Strongbow, then Henry II. with his armies, and the English
were here to stay.
Whatever the facts of the case are, it is certain that just here landed
the first of the English, and from here spread their rule,--whether for
good or ill is the great question of to-day in this island. There are no
relics of the event, though there appear to be some earthworks which are
thought of Celtic origin.
The leagues are not many which separate this cliff from Cardiganshire in
Wales, and a friendly intercourse was kept up until Pope and King came
together in solemn conclave.
One of that King's first acts was the bestowal of Dublin upon the "good
citizens of my town of Bristol." The capital of a kingdom bestowed upon
the _traders_ of Bristol! The original of this gift is in the Record
Office of Dublin castle.
Would it have been any satisfaction to those of the land which he had so
oppressed to have known of the ending of this "Great King"? Dying at
Chinon in a rage so terrible that even death could not smooth out the
traces from his face, Henry II.'s body was plundered like the
Conqueror's, and, like his, left stark naked. Shrouded at last in some
cast-off garments, it was placed in its coffin, a rust-broken sceptre
stuck in its hand, an old and meaningless ring of no value on its
finger, while the crown on its brow was composed of a piece of gold
fringe torn from a discarded robe of some court dame, who doubtless had
curtsied to the ground many times before the living monarch. In such
state, Henry II. was buried in the stately abbey of Fontevrault and
promptly forgotten, though the wrongs he did Ireland lived on and on.
FOOTNOTES:
[8] King's _Eccles. Hist. of Ireland_, vol. iv., p. 159.
[9] _Ib._, p. 158.
[10] _Eccles. Hist. of Ireland_, vol. i., p. 305.
[11] It is interesting to notice that the Bull was issued in
the year 1155, that is sixteen years before the invasion took place.
This was one of the earliest transactions in the popedom of Adrian and
the kingship of Henry, as it was only in December of the previous year,
1154, they were elevated to their respective thrones. In 1155 the
proposal to seize Ireland was considered at the Parliament of
Winchester. (King's _Eccles. Hist. of Ireland_, p. 492.)
[12] _History of Ireland_, p. 71.
[13] _Eccles. Hist. of Ireland_, vol. iv., p. 160.
[14] _Ib._, p. 161.
[15] Hodges, Figgis & Co., 1905.
[16] _Ireland under English Rule, or a Plea for the Plaintiff_,
by Thomas Addis Emmet, M.D., LL.D.
CHAPTER XVI
Wild Times in Ireland--Landlord and Tenant--Evictions--Boycott at
Bannow House--The Parson and the Legacy--The Priest and the
Whipping--Burial in Cement--Departure from Bannow House--Kilkenny
and her Cats--The Mountains of Wicklow--Powers Court and a Week
End--Run to Dublin and an Encounter by the Way--The Irish
Constabulary--Motor Runs in the Mountains--Lord H.
Ireland has seen strange wild times, and no section of it more than this
remote County Wexford. As I have stated, this estate of Bannow is
eighteen miles from a railroad station now, but in another month a new
line three miles away opens for traffic, and though a good thing for the
property of all in the county, it will sound the knell of probably all
the quaint and curious customs still in vogue here. If that railway
company is wise it will build a seaside hotel in this neighbourhood. The
climate is for most of the year delightful and is rarely subject to the
howling tempests which so constantly sweep the west coast for half the
year. Wexford abounds in beautiful scenery and almost every valley holds
a charming home while quaint towns crowd the river banks and ruined
towers crown the hills on either side.
[Illustration: Tom Moore's Tree
Vale of Ovoca]
The maintenance of many of these Irish estates becomes each year more
and more difficult unless the whole is strictly entailed. This is
especially the case with places of small income, say two or three
thousand pounds sterling. In the days when rents were good and five per
cent. obtained it was well enough, but to-day when three per cent. is
all that can be hoped for and yet the old charges for dowers and
legacies must be paid, the owner is perforce a poor man. At present the
landlord seems to have no rights. His tenants may and do absolutely
refuse to pay him rent and he is reduced to poverty. There is a case I
know of where the tenants are amply able to pay him, but they simply
_won't_. His only resource is eviction, which is slow, expensive, and
brings down wrath upon his head. So he is forced to give up his home and
retire to a cottage, while his tenants laugh at him.
In the case of the peasants, eviction is not only expensive but useless.
No man will rent the hut of those turned out, no matter how many years
drift by, and some landlords are reinstating their evicted tenants.
Better them than empty farms.
With the new Land Act the tenants dictate that they will buy or nothing.
Of course there have arisen the usual number of scoundrels who get
behind these peasants, buy out their rights, and in the end get the land
for a song. There are several instances where such men who at one time
broke stones on the highway are now landowners of considerable extent. I
heard of one the other day who was just adding a billiard-room to his
"mansion."
There is much said over here about the corruption of our city
governments, especially those of Chicago and New York, but I also hear
that that of the city of Dublin is to say the very least nothing to
boast of, and that graft has even penetrated London itself.
Home rule for the peasants of Ireland, so it is stated here, would be
about as sensible as a rule of the blacks in America. When the leaders
in Parliament found they could make no more money by the disturbances,
they called them off, and one of the members of that august body was
kicked all the way down this peaceful avenue before me here and out
yonder gate for abuse of the late Queen.
During the boycott, Bannow House was in a state of siege and its owner
forced to start a store on the lawn for his own workmen, who could not
purchase anywhere. These provisions were brought from London under
guard.
After his death--in 1881--his grave, guarded by policemen for
twenty-four hours--until the concrete in which his coffin had been
buried had set,--was surrounded all the time by a howling mob who would
have promptly "had him out" otherwise.
He hated the parson and so left the church's legacy of two thousand
pounds to the "next incumbent," or rather the interest thereof, but the
parson was equal to the occasion, and, resigning, got himself
re-elected, and so became the "next incumbent" and secured the interest.
There was another instance here where the holy man, this time a priest,
did not fare so well. He had attacked a member of his parish from the
pulpit, and thereby aroused the ire of the wife. She was about six feet
tall, and following the priest into the vestry-room flogged him soundly.
It was a foolish thing to do, as it roused the whole country round about
and she and her household almost starved from the boycott which promptly
followed. On her death it was necessary to bury her also in cement, to
prevent desecration, every man at the funeral carrying a gun.
Fortunately those days are gone by, let us hope for all time, but with a
people so ignorant and superstitious anything may happen and if that
cattle driving does not cease old times will come again.
It is quiet enough here this morning; the peace of the country is
intense, yet to me it is never a solitude, never lonely, and it is
delicious to awake in the early light and feel the cool, damp air blow
in upon one through the open window, while even at this hour of dawn
yonder old reprobate of a wood pigeon is earnestly entreating Paddy to
follow the way of the transgressor,--"_two_ coos, Paddy," "two coos."
One can almost hear the stealthy rustle of the departing beasts and the
soft footfall of Paddy. Far beyond the trees where the pigeons hide, the
fair blue of heaven has been rain-washed during the night, and white
clouds drift lazily off towards the sea murmuring in the distance.
To-day brings my stay at Bannow House to a close, I trust not for all
time. After luncheon, bidding our hostess farewell, we roll away through
the avenue of rhododendrons, over the meadows, through the forest, where
the insistent birds try for the last time to corrupt my honesty, and so
out on the highway and off to the north.
Our route takes us past the site of Scullaboyne House, a spot sadly
famous.
In the dark days of the rebellion of 1798, New Ross and this vicinity of
Bannow suffered horribly. Indeed the battle at the former town was the
most sanguinary of that period, and an event which followed it here too
horrible to be passed over without notice even at this late date.
Scullaboyne House, but lately deserted by its owner, Capt. King, and
seized by the rebels, was in use as a prison. In the house itself were
confined some thirty-seven men and women and in the adjoining barn were
over one hundred men, women, and children, chiefly, but not exclusively,
Protestants. After their defeat at New Ross the rebels sent word to
destroy these prisoners. Those in the house were called one by one to
the door and shot down, but a worse fate awaited those in the barn,
where firebrands thrown into and upon its roof soon turned the whole
into a red hot furnace. Children were tossed out of the windows to save
them, but only to be impaled upon the pikes of the outlaws. Some
authorities claim that two hundred and thirty persons met their deaths
in Scullaboyne. Certainly the French Revolution can show nothing more
horrible.
[Illustration: One of the Seven Churches of Clonmines
County Wexford]
There is little left here now to recall the event save a few blackened
fragments, which the rich grass and creeping vines are daily covering
more and more each passing year.
It is claimed by the insurgent party that they had nothing to do with
the slaughter--that it was the act of outlaws, such as are always to be
found dogging the footsteps of contending forces. However that may be,
the result was absolute ruin to the cause of the rebels. Be it recorded
to the credit of the intelligent priests of the day that they at all
times did what they could to prevent like occurrences and save human
life and that amongst the sixty-six persons executed in Wexford, after
that period, for murder and rebellion, only one was a priest.
But let us hasten away from all this.
The roadways are superb all over this section of Ireland, and indeed I
have so far encountered none which could be called bad the (worst were
better than we have around most of our cities), and we are at the
extreme south, having circled the island.
To-day we meet but few motors. Others are not so fortunate, as we
discover by a disturbed roadbed and some fragments of cars lying around.
The other day, Lord Blank and a friend of his, driving their cars here
on roads running at right angles and shaded by tall hedges,--the noise
of each motor drowned in that of the other,--came together, "sociable
like," at the junction. Result, two cars gone to smash, but bless you
that's "all in a lifetime" in this blessed isle.
Bicyclists also appear to meet with trouble now and then, as we have
just passed an inn bearing the sign "Broken down cyclists rest free."
The road from Bannow via New Ross to Kilkenny passes through Inistiogey,
Thomastown, and Bennett's Bridge, and is fine all the way and through
lovely scenery, most of the time by the banks of the Barrow.
We reach Kilkenny about three P. M., two hours and five minutes out,
about fifty miles, which is good time on Irish routes, because of their
narrowness and the frequent stoppages rendered necessary through
stubborn donkeys and young cattle.
The approach to Kilkenny is marked, as is most appropriate, by an
increase in the number of cats, sorry looking specimens, most of them. I
must congratulate the town upon her very clean and comfortable Club
Hotel.
Kilkenny Castle is not of interest save its stately appearance from the
bridge. It has been modernised into a comfortable dwelling-place,
prosaic in the extreme.
I find in Ireland that the interesting abodes are of two classes only,
the very ancient castle or the square manor-house; the latter, while
appearing modern, have some centuries to their credit and are
characteristic of the country. I certainly have never seen them
elsewhere. Castles such as Kilkenny and Lismore (the Duke of
Devonshire's), while holding somewhere in their vastness remnants of the
ancient strongholds, have, as I have stated, been brought up to date and
out of all interest.
The same holds with the cathedral here. Even the round tower looks new.
Rolling onward we pass again through the Vale of Ovoca, but have no time
now for more than a glance as the day wanes and rain threatens.
Entering amongst the mountains of Wicklow, our car balks once or twice
at the grades, but finally makes up its mind to go ahead and so puffs
and pulls and stews with less noise than most motors would be guilty of,
until finally, with a last effort, the highest point is reached, and the
vale beyond is open to our view, with the demesne of Powerscourt
nestling on its farther side. There are few more enchanting prospects in
the British Isles. It would seem from here to be a great bowl, so
completely enclosed in the mountains as to be accessible only by wings.
The billowy foliage is broken at one point by a waterfall some three
hundred feet high, which plunges down into the celebrated glen, "the
Dargle."
Half-way up the mountain stands the huge mansion of Powerscourt House,
as though it were the royal box in this vast opera-house of nature.
Dublin has many beautiful points in her neighbourhood, more in fact I
think than any other city of Europe, but none so beautiful as this
before us.
The temptation to linger is strong, but it is late, and there are miles
yet to go. The route drops rapidly downward and then upward until barred
by the gates of the home park, which we are allowed to enter once it is
certain that we are "going to the house" and are not tourists.
When we reach there every one is abroad in motors, and it is too late
for tea, but not too late for a whiskey and soda, which, being assured
that we are expected,--hosts have been known to forget their
invitations,--is accepted and thoroughly enjoyed.
Powerscourt, the seat of Viscount Powerscourt came into possession of
the family during the reign of Elizabeth, and is one of the largest
estates in Ireland, having some twenty-six thousand acres within its
bounds. Probably its scenery is more varied and beautiful than that of
any other estate in the kingdom.
[Illustration: Funeral Crosses by the Wayside
County Wexford]
One enters a hallway of large dimensions, whose walls and ceilings are
laden with trophies of the chase from all over the world. Skins of every
description cover walls and floors, while chandeliers formed of antlers
hang by the dozens from the ceilings.
Doffing our coats and rugs on its great table and trying to appear like
white men after our hundred-mile run through rain and mud, we pass into
the morning room and so out on to the terrace beyond, which on this side
of the house stretches along the entire front, while below terrace after
terrace drops downward to a stone balustrade overlooking the lake,
beyond which the land rises tier after tier until the higher mountains
outline against the sky.
The rain has ceased and the setting sun is casting long shafts of light
into the quivering forests whose leaves are thicker than ever they were
in Vallombrosa.
But it is chilly and we hunt out the smoking-room where a bright fire
works its will with the winds driven through us all day and we are found
half asleep when host and hostess return.
These Irish places are not so gorgeous as many in England but an Irish
welcome is something one does not meet with either in England or any
other land, and to-day holds no exception to that rule. They are glad to
see us and the usual stiffness of an entry in a strange house and
amongst strange people is altogether lacking. The time passes so quickly
that the dressing gong sounds all too soon.
As I mount the stair portraits of the former owners look down upon me,
from those long dead to that of the present owner, presented by his
tenants upon his coming of age, which by the way must have occurred very
lately, as he is the youngest looking man to be the father of two
children that I have ever seen.
There is another portrait in yonder corner of a man who looks as though
_he_ would like a whiskey and soda on this damp evening, but he must
long since have passed to the land where such things are not.
At the head of this main stairway, one enters a vast hall supported by
columns. George the Fourth strutted through here in all his gorgeousness
in 1821. As far as Royalty is concerned, that monarch and his successor
certainly marked its lowest stage--the latter the worse of the two, as
he was common. The rebound since then has been so tremendous that one
feels as though gazing from the top of a mountain downward upon the
marshes by the sea.
One of the late owners of Powerscourt evidently felt great interest in
the house as he placed tablets in many of the rooms indicating what they
were and had been. I am told to go where I like and examine the whole,
but of course I do not penetrate behind closed doors where evidently
there is much of interest. But I do get lost actually as far as the body
is concerned and mentally in a picture of a lady in the dark corner of a
distant gallery, and have to be hunted out when the gong sounds for
dinner. In the dining-room my eye is attracted by a portrait on the
opposite wall. It proves to be one of Lady Jane Grey when a child of
eight or nine years of age, but has a very Dutch appearance and the
original could never have developed into the graceful greyhound-like
creature so familiar to all in the later portraits.
The living-rooms in these European country houses are so homelike and
comfortable that similar rooms in our Newport houses must strike a
foreigner as very stiff and new, and generally they are just that, for
with few exceptions they are but temporary abiding-places for a few
weeks in summer.
The drawing-room in Powerscourt is a wide, sunny apartment; in the
daytime its windows, giving on to the terrace, hold a marvellous
panorama framed for one's benefit, but to-night the curtains are dropped
and a bright fire blazes on the hearth around which runs a rail topped
with a broad leather cushion, which forms a most comfortable perch
promptly appropriated by the men, while the ladies are on low seats.
The walls are covered by pictures of great value and there is much else
of interest around one, yet it is all so homelike and comfortable that
one scarcely remembers any of the details but simply a charming picture
of the whole; and so the time passes until the ladies having vanished we
are again in the smoking-room, where Boyse starts in to talk and would
have kept it up until grey dawn, but I for one am sleepy and detect the
same symptoms in our host, so we suppress Boyse and go to bed. He may
talk to the fire if he likes, but not to us.
The next day being Sunday I wanted to go to church, but it is intimated
that my presence is not desired. So Boyse and I roll off to Dublin for
letters and en route back break down and nearly miss luncheon in
consequence.
On our return we encountered one of the rare cases of hatred, pure and
simple, for those of the upper ranks which I have noted in Ireland. The
avenues between Bray and the city were crowded with Sunday
excursionists, and at one point, a van having stopped, the occupants
covered all the roadway and two men stood facing us exactly in the
centre of our only course. Moving at a snail's pace, we trumpeted
constantly and finally stopped directly in front of these men. I have
never noted more malignant snarls on human countenances than these bore
as they grudgingly gave way. "Do ye think ye own the whole shop?" The
fact that we appeared unconscious of their existence only enraged them
the more, and had they dared strike they would have done so, but one is
always sure of the presence of some of those splendid specimens of men,
the Irish constabulary, than whom the world holds of their kind none
better. All over six feet in stature, they are not merely policemen,
ignorant or not as the case may be, but men of education and who must
keep up that education by further study for higher examinations, which
unpassed will cost them their positions. There are three here to-day,
hence those lowering brows and clenched hands disappear. However, we
have encountered but little of that state of feeling in Ireland, the
instances have been few and far between,--a contrast indeed to France,
where a well-dressed man is often impressed with the belief that those
around him would like to erect a guillotine for his express enjoyment
and would do so upon the smallest provocation.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Powerscourt House
Seat of Viscount Powerscourt]
All the afternoon is spent out of doors. Other guests have arrived, one
with three motors and another with one. Lord P. has several and ours has
been polished up to look its best, but we finally leave it behind, and
stowed away in the others the whole cavalcades spend the afternoon in
wild flights over the hills and mountains. In the rushes through the
valleys we are well together, but in climbing the ascents which around
here are very steep the cars of greater power vanish in the distance and
we do not see them again and only know of their passage by the general
state of wild confusion reigning amongst dogs, geese, and chickens,
which knowing there must be more of us have not as yet returned to the
centre of the highways; except the geese--it takes more than a motor to
keep those doughty birds off the road.
Those are wonderful fowls. They measure the width of an approaching car
to a nicety, and retreat just beyond that. So near in fact that we have
been struck by their indignant wings several times.
To-day I am in an enclosed car belonging to Mr. G. Whilst very
comfortable, especially for ladies in a city, I do not think that they
are pleasant to ride in. The constant rumble and roar becomes very
unpleasant, something one never experiences in an open car; also one
loses entirely that sensation of flying so delicious in an open car.
This one makes my head ache, and it is not a matter of regret when, the
ride over, I am out on the lake with Lord H., attempting to tug a duck
house out of the mud. I am quite convinced that I did most of the work,
but I believe he denies that fact.
I cannot but regret as I look at this young man, certainly not more than
twenty-five years of age, that we have not something like a school for
the study of diplomacy. We might even have such scholarships, now that
we have decided to become a world power in which diplomats are so
necessary. I asked what was the future of this man in question and was
told, "Oh, he will be an ambassador some day, that is what he is working
for," and working for that means the attainment of perfection in all
things necessary for an educated man,--perfection in everything, not a
mere smattering in a few things. This man speaks all the modern
languages of Europe with equal facility. If music is necessary for his
career he has it at his fingers' ends. He is wealthy, but his money will
be used to further his progress, not to kill it. Nothing will interfere
with that.
I cannot but contrast him with one I know of whose prospects appeared
equally bright, though his education was not at all the equal of this
man's. However, he might have done much with his life, but marrying a
rich wife he promptly resigned and "sat down to good dinners," amounting
now to absolutely nothing, his career ended.
Abandoning the rescue of the duck house together with graver questions,
we adjourn to the gardens and consume half an hour, and also a lot of
the biggest strawberries I have ever eaten.
Time flies. Tea on the terrace, to which more motors have brought other
guests, dinner, and the night are over and gone, and we have rolled
away, waving thanks to our host and hostess for the pleasant "week end"
at Powerscourt House.
CHAPTER XVII
Dublin--Derby Day and the Rush to the Curragh--An Irish Crowd--The
Kildare Street Club and Club Life--Jigginstown House and its
History--The Cowardice of a King--The Old Woman on the Tram
Car--Parnell--The Grave of Daniel O'Connell.
Given the capital of Ireland, a bright day in the midsummer of an
exposition year, with the King almost here, and above all the Derby at
hand, and if you are looking for peace and quiet you should go
elsewhere. All Dublin is in an uproar this morning and there is not a
jaunting-car which will look at you for less than double the tariff.
Stately equipages move slowly along, motors of all descriptions pass
like the wind. The beggars are out in full force and if you have a heart
in your bosom you will reach the race-track with not a shilling left
you. Our motor dashes around the corner and up to the door as though it
were new instead of some years of age. The spirit of the races seems to
have gotten into its old bones and it shrieks and snorts and rushes off
with us at an appalling pace notwithstanding the crowded streets and
stone pavements. Out on to the broad highway to the south in company
with the whole town we roll onward past the ruins of Jigginstown House.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Great Salon, Powerscourt House]
Of the thousands who come this way to-day, few give thought to the house
or its history. They have little time for the past as just a few miles
beyond is the famous Curragh of Kildare, a stretch of the most
marvellous grass-lands in the world, where the turf is of greatest
richness and elasticity. Not for this, and yet because of this, the
people flock four times a year in tens of thousands to worship there at
the altar of the noble horse. The Curragh holds Ireland's greatest
race-course, and has held it for two thousand years. The winner of the
last English Derby is to be on hand and to race to-day and nearly all
Ireland is en route to be present.
So there is no time for dead Earls and ruined houses on such a day, and
we are swept on and away, for once forgetting our caution and bidding
the chauffeur beat every other motor on the road if he can, and to our
amazement this old "Clement" comes near to doing it, and there are some
very smart cars going down to-day. How the wind does sing around us--if
a cap is lost we do not stop to get it--it would not be possible or safe
to do so with this onrushing crowd behind us. Dogs and chickens get out
of the way in wildest terror, and it seems to me that we take several
turns on two wheels only. It is dangerous work and we know that a break
means destruction most complete, but we cannot help it. Curragh air had
gotten into our heads and go we must.
After all is said, I think the desire for a race is in every man of us,
inborn and irresistible. Such is the case to-day and our record is good,
though every now and then a sullen rumble and roar and many blasts of a
horn warn us that some car of great power is coming to which we must
give place, and though going at full speed we seem to stand still as it
rushes by us, and here comes in one of the greatest dangers of the road.
The clouds of dust in the wake of such a car are appalling and
impenetrable to sight, yet through this our own car rushes on, trusting
to Providence to keep the way clear. It is a relief to me at least when
it mounts in safety to the downy stretches of the Curragh where there is
no dust, and I find on calling the roll that none of our party is
missing.
What a beautiful sight! The downs of deep grass stretch away on all
sides crossed and recrossed by the wide highways. Off to the left lies
the great military camp, while in front stretches the race-course,
towards which what seems the whole of Dublin is moving and in every
imaginable manner, from the foot passenger and funny little donkey to
the tally-ho coaches and the gorgeous motor-cars, while over and around
it all rings the Irish laughter, as it has rung around this race-course
of Curragh for two thousand years,--its very name "_Cuir reach_"
implying "race-course." It must mean that to-day at all events, but I
should think that if any sort of a race could disappoint an Irishman
that to-day, the Irish Derby, would do so. It was a foregone conclusion
that the winner of that race in England would be first here,--but to my
thinking it proves no race at all, that horse and another of the same
owner simply running round the course with no show for any other, and
with apparently no speed exerted on their own parts.
However, it is the changing panorama of the people and not the race
which interests me, and that is not in any degree a disappointment.
The return to Dublin and on to Bray was the same wild flight as when
going down and a feeling of relief came to me at least when we got
safely back to our hotel, or rather to the exposition grounds where we
dined. What time we reach the hotel and bed I have no memory. Boyse
never got there at all.
The following day being rainy, I am not disposed to go to the races, and
also learn that our car is in need of attention. However, another must
be forthcoming if desired, and one does come, in which Boyse and a
friend of his, "Copper," are most comfortably packed, and evidently
bound for the Curragh, being Irish. Now, though that is my car, my
absence is evidently very precious to its occupants; still Boyse _does_
ask kindly whether I "would like to go." What a pressing invitation
that!--much like a blast from the North Atlantic. For an instant I am
tempted to say yes, just to watch their discomfort, but I much prefer
not to go and so state, when--whiz--they vanish like smoke around the
corner, evidently with no intention of allowing any reconsideration on
my part.
Laughing, I summon a jaunting-car and go to buy my ticket homeward. The
usual tariff for short distances is a sixpence and I hand it over on
descending at the ticket office. The driver evidently has exposition
extortions in his head for, regarding me sourly for an instant, he
remarks, "Ye could 'ave saved five ov thim if ye'd come in the tram."
However, his anger is short lived, and when I laugh he laughs. God bless
you, Pat,--may you succeed in "doing" the next man you carry.
Many of our evenings have been passed at the Kildare Street Club, of
which Boyse is a member. While they do not give a stranger a week's card
as we do, a member seems to be at liberty to take him there as often as
that member desires, and so the result is the same, if not better.
Certainly at this, the best club in the Irish capital, I was made to
feel as much at home as in my own in America. I shall always remember it
and the men I met there with pleasure.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Ruins of Jigginstown House]
There are clubs in London, notably the Army and Navy, where one is
treated in the same manner. That club has been growing more and more
liberal of late years. At one period a short while ago, a stranger could
go only to one room and one dining-room. Now in company with a member
the whole club is open to him. There are other London clubs where he may
not even pass the portals, but this is the twentieth century, an age of
reform, and all that will change in time. What homelike and yet what
heartless things clubs are! A man may make his home in one for years,
may have his own particular corner and be the very life and soul of the
house; many would declare that the place could not get on without his
jests and merry laugh, and that they would miss him for ever. How many
would do so? Coming in some day they would note the flag at half mast
and his name on a black bordered card near the door. Most who passed
would not be able to recall his features whilst remembering that they
had drank with him often, and the majority would forget him promptly.
For those who did remember, it would be sad to think that
"PERIN has gone; and we who loved him best
Can't think of him as
'entered into rest.'
But he has gone; has left the morning street,
The clubs no longer echo to his feet;
Nor shall we see him lift his yellow wine
To pledge the random host--the purple vine.
At doors of other men his horses wait,
His whining dogs scent false their master's fate;
His chafing yacht at harbour mooring lies;
'Owner ashore' her idle pennant flies.
Perin has gone--
Forsook the jovial ways
Of Winter nights--his well-loved plays,
The dreams and schemes and deeds of busy brain,
And pensive habitations built in Spain.
Gone, with his ruddy hopes! And we who knew him best
Can't think of him as 'entered into rest.'
So when the talk dies out or lights burn dim
We often ponder what is keeping him--
What destiny that all-subduing will,
That golden wit, that love of life, fulfil?
For we who silent smoke, who loved him best,
Can't fancy Perin 'entered into rest.'"
The touring is almost over, and I fancy for ever, in Ireland. Our last
day's journey was one of the most pleasant and interesting of the lot.
Having gone to Bray Head to escape the heat of the city, we rolled off
at nine a.m. and passing through town in a rush fled southwards towards
the military camp at Curragh. The day was brilliant and the motor fairly
flew over the highway which to-day we have all to ourselves.
Passing again the unfinished palace of the Earl of Stratford we paused
to inspect it and to learn its history.
"Jigginstown" was built by Sir Thomas Wentworth, created Earl of
Stratford by Charles I., who made him Deputy of Ireland and regarded
him at the time as his chief minister and counsellor. In his early
years he was certainly a character of doubtful virtue, as before
this appointment he was as strongly counter to the King as he was
for him after he had received it. The King was subject to a violent
outcry for using a Papist to murder his subjects. Wentworth laboured
under the severe hatred of the English, Scotch, and Irish. He secured
from the Irish Parliament large sums which he used to engage an army
against Scotland. His rule here lasted eight years, and while active
and prudent he was most unpopular. When his fall occurred the Irish
Parliament used every expedient to aggravate the charge against him.
Envy and jealousy both here and in England were the prime causes of his
ruin.
Knowing the power and deadly hatred of his enemies he implored the King
to excuse him from attending Parliament, but Charles promised that not a
hair of his head should be injured; but his enemies arose in such might,
that no voice was raised in his defence and he was accused of high
treason. The whole affair was a gigantic conspiracy of the leaders of
the Parliament against one man, of whom they could prove no wrong save
that he served the King, and who they were well aware possessed
knowledge of their own treason. "Unprotected by power, without counsel,
discountenanced by authority, what hope had he? yet such was the
capacity, genius, and presence of mind displayed by this magnanimous
statesman that while argument, reason, and law held any place he
obtained the victory and he perished by the open violence of his
enemies."
(There is a strong resemblance between this trial and that of the Queen
of Scots in Fotheringay the preceding century.) His government of
Ireland was promotive of the King's interests and of the people
commended to his charge. He introduced industries and the arts of peace
and augmented the shipping of the kingdom a hundred fold. The customs
were tripled upon the same rates, the exports doubled in value that of
the imports, and he introduced the manufacture of linen;--that stands
his monument to-day, but,--he was a friend of the King and so must die.
That is one side of the picture. His enemies claim that whether guilty
of the crime named at the trial or not, he deserved death for his
treatment of the Irish. They state that his project was to subvert the
titles to every estate in Connaught, also that he had sent Lord Ely to
prison to force him (Ely) to settle his estates according to the wishes
of his daughter-in-law, whom Strafford had seduced. The House, on his
condemnation, nobly excluded his children from the legal consequences of
his sentence.
It is stated that the King was deeply grieved but he certainly did
consent to the deed, though by appointing a commission of four noblemen
to give the royal assent in his name, he flattered himself that neither
his will consented to the deed nor his hand engaged in it. The
exclamation of the doomed man, "Put not your trust in princes," told how
he felt, and so he died in his forty-ninth year, one of the most eminent
personages that has appeared in English history.
[Illustration: Parnell's Grave
Glasnevin Cemetery, Dublin]
His great unfinished palace rears its walls now close by the highway and
of all the thousands who rush by here to Curragh Camp or races, how many
give it a thought or know who built it? I was told that it was a
monastery whose bricks were passed from hand to hand all the way from
Dublin; others stated that it was an unfinished cotton factory, and it
looks like such.
It is of red brick, two stories in height, and of great length. Its
arches and brickwork are of the finest, but the whole stands a
melancholy monument to the downfall of human greatness, to the cowardice
of a King.
From whom did Charles I. inherit such a streak? Certainly not from his
Danish mother, or from his royal grandmother. The worst enemies of the
Stuart Queen never could accuse her of the desertion of her friends. She
was faithful unto death and should deserve the crown of life for that
reason if for none other. But Lord Darnley was never faithful to
anything throughout his entire life, and from that source surely came
this taint in the Stuart kings of England--the degeneracy of James I.,
and the cowardice of his son Charles.
Leaving melancholy Jigginstown behind, we moved on to the Curragh, but
this time to the camp, which, by the way, is one of the largest in the
empire.
En route, we chased through a drove of cattle, one of which, after
racing with us for some distance, decided finally to take our
right-of-way, and our guard sliding under her hind leg, lifted it high
off the ground, causing her to plunge wildly and the air to be filled
with distant oaths and curses from her owner. She was not hurt at all,
and as the car slid forward and away, clouds of dust hid our number and
defeated all chances of a claim for damages.
Luncheon with the officers in the mess-tent being over, we started again
citywards, as my days in the land were growing few indeed, to my regret,
and there were some shrines which must be visited or my journey would be
incomplete.
En route to the tomb of a great statesman we paused to pay our homage at
that of a great divine, Dean Swift, who sleeps in the Cathedral of St.
Patrick under a simple tablet. There, upon an important occasion, when
the cathedral was crowded, he delivered himself of those famous words,
"The Lord loves them that give to the poor, and if you believe in the
security, dump down the dust,"--the shortest sermon ever delivered in
St. Patrick's, and the most effective, for "the dust" came in clouds.
St. Patrick's blessing must be passing from Ireland at last, as the
papers describe the capture of a brown snake three feet long in a garden
at Ranelagh.
As we approach the stately cathedral I ask our boy:
"Is that a Catholic church, Dennis?"
"No, sor."
"A Protestant?"
"No, sor."
"What then?"
"A Church of England, sor."
While these people will generally enter whole-souled into jest or gibe
they will not, it is said, do so with the English, and some of the
encounters with the latter people are amusing in the extreme.
The other day on the top of a tram car, some Englishwomen were enlarging
upon the not at all times cleanly inhabitants surrounding them. One
remarked that they were all horrid and she should go to Wales where she
would not meet any of "these dirty Irish." An old woman across the tram
could no longer restrain herself, but rising in her wrath, confronted
the Englishwoman with flashing eyes, and "I would not go to Wales ma'am
wur I yez, for yez will find plinty of Irish there; but take my advice
and go to Hell, ye'll find no Irish there."
A man, killed near Dublin not long since, had been shot through the
forehead, death resulting instantly. The usual crowd gathered, amongst
them an old woman, who for a moment intently regarded the poor fellow,
dead as Pharoah, then, raising her hands and eyes, she ejaculated
"Wusn't it a blessin' of God he wusn't shot in the eye!" What
difference that could have made to him she disdained to explain.
The last resting place of Daniel O'Connell is in Prospect Cemetery, some
four miles from Dublin. There Parnell also sleeps under the shadow of a
simple iron cross.
The passing years have called a halt on both of those men. How little we
are conscious of the flight of time until suddenly we find our thoughts,
which before have all been towards the future, have unconsciously to us
turned towards the past, and we are looking backward and not forward.
Then we realize with a sinking heart that for us youth is over and done
with, that for us there is no future save beyond the far horizon.
The memorial to O'Connell, appropriate in every respect, rears itself in
the stately form of an ancient round tower. Simple and dignified, one
cannot imagine a more appropriate monument to the man who sleeps beneath
it. The tower is of grey stone smoothly polished and rises from a circle
under which is the vault of O'Connell. Around this runs a broad, stone
walk which in its turn is encircled by a rampart, holding many vaults
whose doors open upon the walk, and being all unlocked you may enter
where you will once you pass the outer gate of the circle, generally
locked. To-day, however, the workmen are redecorating the O'Connell
vault and we are allowed to enter.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Daniel O'Connell's Monument
Glasnevin Cemetery, Dublin]
Passing down a broad flight of steps and through an iron grill we find
confronting us, across the circular stone pathway, another grill closing
the centre vault, over whose door is the name "O'Connell." The great
Irishman sleeps alone in the centre of this vault in an altar-like tomb,
through the stone quarterfoils of which you may see and touch his oaken
coffin. The inscription is on a brass frieze around the top. In an
adjoining catacomb are the coffins of several members of his family. I
think such mausoleums are always more impressive when the stone walls
and ceilings are unadorned, but such is not the taste here and the
ceilings and walls were being painted in gorgeous colours.
It is a useless expense, as with the arches and walls covered with
moisture, the work will be undone very shortly. The plain stone would be
infinitely more impressive and dignified, surely, like the tower above,
more in keeping with the character of the illustrious dead.
As we leave the cemetery I turned for a last look at the shrine of
Ireland. I have seen, I think, the final resting places of all the
illustrious dead of the earth, and I know of none which has more
profoundly impressed me than this stately tomb of Daniel O'Connell, with
whose name let us close these sketches of the land he loved so
well--Ireland.
INDEX
A
Achill, island of, 50, 53, 57, 60, 62, 64, 95, 156, 173
Adrian IV., Pope, 248, 252, 253, 255
Aldworth, Mrs., 153
Alexander III., Pope, 251
Antrim, 26
Ardill, John Roche, 256
Armagh, 22, 27
Arran, 32
Augustine, Abbot, 165
Auxerre, 26
Awbeg, 146
B
Baginbun, 248
Ballentine, Nancy, 21
Ballinaboy Bridge, 85
Ballybeg Abbey, 140, 146
Ballycastle, 33, 34, 173
Ballygalley Bay, 32
Ballymena, 26
Ballynahinch, 85
Bannow, 184, 189, 231, 234, 246, 247, 260, 264
Bannow church, 191, 192
Bannow House, 184, 186, 188, 242, 262, 264
Bantry Bay, 173
Beddoes, Major, 135, 154, 156
Belfast, 31
Bennett's Bridge, 266
Biddy, 90, 91
Birr, 101, 104, 115
Birr Castle, 102, 103
Blackwater, 162, 180
Blake, Mr. and Mrs., 44
Blarney, 167
Boggeragh Mountains, 173
Bohemia, Queen of, 205
Bombay, 157
Bowen, Mr., 40
Boyne, the, 12
Boyse family, the, 185, 191
Braganza, Catherine of, 157
Bray, 234, 299
Bray Head, 282
Brenan, Rev. M. J., 254
Bretons, 138
Brice, Archbishop, 121
Brigid, St., 28
Brittany, 138
Bruce, Edward, 123
Buchanan, George, 19
Bundoran, 37, 52
Burne-Jones, 155
Burrishoole, 77, 78
Bushmills, 36
Butlers, 124
Buttevant, 127, 130, 132, 134, 148, 150, 160, 214
Buttevant Castle, 147
C
"Caiseal," 123
Campion, Edmund, 255, 256
Cantyre, 32
Carrickfergus, 31
Carrig-a-Hooly, 77, 78, 80
Carrig-a-pooka, 174
Carrolls, the, 101, 102
Cashel, 44, 127, 129
Cashel, Rock of, 120, 121, 123-125
"Castle of Roses," 78
Castlebar, 73
Castletown, Lord, 151
Caucasus, 78
Caulfields, the, 61
Celtic tongue, the, 86, 87
Charles I., King, 97, 205, 206
Charles II., King, 132, 157, 185
Charlotte, Queen, 186
Chinon Castle, 259
"Cios-ail," 125
Claddagh, 99
Clare, island of, 75, 79, 80
Clare, Lady Isabel de, 195
Clarence, Duke of, 206, 207
Clares, the de, 195
Clew Bay, 50
Clifden, 85
"Cloicoheach," 123
Clonmacnoise, 114-116
Clonmel, 126, 218, 219
Clonmines, 167, 246, 247
"Cluain-maccu-Nois," 115
"Cluan-mac-noise," 115
Colclough, Sir Anthony, 198, 202
Coleraine, 36
Columba, St., 28
Connemara, 82
Constantine, Emperor, 255, 256
"Copper," 279
Cork, 175, 176, 178, 210, 211, 213
Cormac, King, 10
Cormac's Chapel, 122, 125, 282, 283, 288
Coro, 125
Cotton, Archdeacon, 121
Cromwell, Edward, Lord, 28
Cromwell, Oliver, 97, 218, 224
Culloden, battle of, 103
Cumberland, Duke of, 103
Curragh, the, 277-279, 282, 285
Curragh Camp, 288
Curraghmore House, 219, 221, 223, 224
Curraun, Peninsula of, 54
Currick-Patrick, 125
D
D----, Captain, 158, 159
Dame Court, Dublin, 36
Danes, the, 12, 28, 123, 181
Dargle, the, 268
Dark Valley, 68
Darnley, Lord, 285
Deasy, Jerry, 174
Decies, 123
Declan, St., 123
De Courcey, 28
Derby, 227
Desmond, Earl of, 129, 130
Desmonds, the, 128, 150
Dichu, 27
Dickens, Charles, 230
"Dinnis," 163, 168
Doneraile Court, 150, 152, 153, 187
Donnelly, Bishop, 27
Dooley's Hotel, Birr, 103
Doo Lough, 82, 85
Doordry, 125
Downpatrick, 26, 27, 31
Dowth, 12
Drogheda, 13
Drum-feeva, 125
Dublin, 6, 14, 23, 227, 228, 279, 282
Dublin Fusiliers, 132, 158
Dudley, Lady, 58
Dugort, 61
Dunbrody Abbey, 183
Dundalethglass, 27
Dundrum, 25
Dunloe, Gap of, 169
E
Edison, Mr., 237
Edward IV., King, 206
Edward VI., King, 204
Edward VII., King, 23
Elizabeth, Queen, 22, 79, 202, 246
Ely, Earl of, 190
Ely, King of, 125
Emmet, Thomas Addis, 257
Erne, Lough, 37
F
Fee Lough, 85
Fermoy, 160, 178, 179, 214, 215
Fermoy, Lord, 215
Ferns Castle, 258
Fethard, 218
Ffranckfort Castle, 102, 110, 112, 113
Fitzgeralds, 124
Fitzstephens, Robert, 248, 258
Fontevrault, 259
_Forgotten Facts of Irish History_, 256
Franciscan Friary, 182
French, Walter, 190
G
Galty Mountains, 126
Galway, 14, 40, 44, 66, 88, 94, 95, 97, 99-101, 168
Gaughans, 61
Germanus, Bishop, 26
Giant's Causeway, 34, 35, 167
Gladstone, 14
Glasgow, 31
Glendalough, 123, 231-233
Glengariff, 170, 172
Grace, Queen, 77, 78
Gurguntius, 255
H
H----, Lord, 274
"Harp of Erin," 105
Henry II., King, 123, 248, 251-255, 257, 259
Henry VI., King, 206, 246
Henry VII., King, 206
Henry VIII., King, 79, 129, 183
Henry, Mr., 89
Herberts, the, 170
Heremon, King, 9
Holy Cross Abbey, 117, 120
Hook, tower, 198
Hore family, 246
Horl, Abbey of, 126
"House in the Bog," 41, 42
I
Imperial Hotel, Cork, 175
Inchiquin, Lord, 124
Inistioge, 266
Innisfallen, 165-167
_Irish Cyclist_, 36
J
James II., King, 11, 12
Jigginstown House, 277, 282, 285
John XXII., Pope, 251, 253
John, King, 10, 28, 182
"John of the Glen," 64, 67-71
John of Salisbury, 254
K
Keatinge, Rev. Geoffrey, 255, 256
"Keening," 56
Kellarn, 125
Kelly, Daniel, 130
Kenmare, domain, 170
Kevin, St., 232
Kieran, St., 115
Kilcoman Castle, 150
Kildare, Earl of, 124
Kildare Street Club, 6, 280
Kilkenny, 23, 266, 267
Killarney, 161, 163, 167-170
Killary Bay, 82
Killary Harbour, 85
Killshening House, 215
Kilmalloch, 127-130
Kilruddery House, 228-230
Kimbolton Castle, 18
King, Captain, 264
Knockninoss, 147
"Knockshigowna," 106
Kylemore Castle, 88-93
L
Lanigan, Dr., 253-256
Larne, 32
Lavelles, the, 61
Leap Castle, 102, 104, 106, 108
Lee, the, 178
Leenane, 82, 83, 85
Lely, Sir Peter, 196
Letterfrack, 85
Limavady, 36
Lis-no-Lachree, 125
Llemish Mountain, 26
Londonderry, 37
Loo-ee, 125
Lorrha, 101-103
Louis le Grand, 90
Louisburgh, 80, 85
Lynch, family of, 98
Lynch, James, 98
M
Mac Art, Cormac, 8
MacCarthys, the, 174
MacMurrogh, Dermot, 255, 257, 258
Macroom Castle, 174, 175
Mallaranny, 50-52, 62, 64, 77, 84
Mallow, 161, 162
Manchester, Duke of, 92, 217
Mantua House, 40, 41, 48
Marianus, 254
Marine Hotel, Ballycastle, 33
Martin, St., of Tours, 26
Mary Queen of Scots, 19
Matilda, Empress, 255
Mayo, 72, 78, 179
Mayo Mountains, 71
Meath, Earl of, 228
Mecridy's Maps, 36
Michael, Sacristan, 166
Michu, 26
Milesius, 252
Monahans, 61
Moore, Tom, 233, 234
Mourne Mountains, 25
Moyle, the, 218
Muckross, 170, 171
Munster, kings of, 122
N
Navan, 10, 11
Neagh, Loch, 167
Nestorian Christians, 59
Neville, John, 246
Newcastle, 25
New Grange, 11
New Port, 50, 66, 84
New Ross, 184
Newry, 13-15, 25
O
O'Brien, Donald, 123
O'Carrolls, 107
O'Connell, Daniel, 288, 289
O'Conner, 166
Offaly, 123
O'Flynns, the, 174
O'Hallon, Redmond, 15
O'Halloran, 32
O'Malleys, 61
O'Neill, Donald, King of Ulster, 252
O'Rourke, Prince, 257
Ormond, 125
Ormond, Earl of, 129
Ovoca, Vale of, 233, 267
P
P----, Mrs., 225
Parnell, 288
Parsonstown, 101
Patrick, St., 10, 24, 26, 28, 122, 125, 252
"Patrick's Sabball," 27
Penshurst, 204
Peterborough, 207
Phoenix Park, 7
Pointz-pass, 15
Pole, Cardinal, 254
Pope, the, 23
Portugal, 158
Powerscourt, 267, 270, 271
Powerscourt House, 231, 275
Powerscourt, Viscount, 267, 273
Prospect Cemetery, 288
Ptolemy, 8
Purcell, Sir Hugh, 182
Q
"Queen of Hearts," 205
R
Read, T. Buchanan, 105
Recess, 85, 88, 91
Redmond, 198
Reginald, 181, 182
Richard, Earl of Chepstow, 258
Richard, King, 206
Rolleston, Major, 110, 111
Roscommon, 40, 42, 48
"Royal Irish," the, 188
S
St. Dominick, Abbey of, Lorrha, 102
St. James's Palace, 208
St. Ledger, Hon. Mary, 153
St. Ledger, William, 152
St. Mary's, Abbey of, Trim, 10
St. Nicholas, Church of, Claddagh, 100
St. Patrick's Cathedral, 286
Salis, Count de, 15
Saul, Church of, Strangford Lough, 26
Scullaboyne House, 264, 265
Shandon bells, 167, 175, 213
Shannon, the, 115
"Shan Van Do," the, 68
Shelburn Hotel, Dublin, 3
Sidneys, the, 204
Skreen, Hill of, 8
Slieve Donard, 25
Slievemore, 61
Slievenaman Hills, 126
Sligo, county of, 37, 40, 55, 179
Spenser, 150, 152
Stanford's, 36
"Stone of Destiny," 10
Strafford, Earl of, 282
Strangford, 26, 31
Strongbow, 28, 195, 258
Stuart, Mary, 207
Succat, 26
Suir River, 116, 181
Sutton, Sir Roger de, 246
Swift, Dean, 286
T
Tamara, Queen, 78
Tanderagee, 15, 17, 19, 24, 92
Tara Hill, 7-10
Taylor, Bayard, 113
Teheran, 59
Temora, 9
Thea, 9
Thomas, St., 252
Thomastown, 266
Thomond, King of, 123
Tintern Abbey, 194, 196, 197, 200
Tipperary Vale, 126
Toombeola Bridge, 85
Trim, 10
Tully Chapel, 85
Tyburn, 130
U
Urban II., Pope, 255, 256
V
Victoria Hotel, Killarney, 163
Virgil, Polydore, 256
W
W----, Marquis of, 219
Waterford, 180-183
Waterford, Lady, 223
Wayte Bros., 218
Wentworth, Sir Thomas, 282
Westport, 85
Wexford, 182, 185, 194, 246, 260, 265
Whitehall, 204
Wicklow, 231, 267
William III., King, 11
"Wingfield," 104-106, 108
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journey through Central Asia.
"Mr. Shoemaker's descriptive powers are of the best. He writes
entertainingly, he is never tiresome, and is always enjoyable; his
observation and statements of fact are unusually accurate, his
style is pleasant. For big and for little, with all that makes up
the intermediate, 'The Heart of the Orient,' with its excellent
illustrations and its cultured letterpress, is one of the best
books of travel that we have read in a long time."--_Times._
"One of the best travel stories of the year."--_Literary World._
_Send for descriptive circular._
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK LONDON
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Wanderings in Ireland" ***
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