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.
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.
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.
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."
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?"
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"Dinnis"
Hotel Victoria