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 south-east 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.
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 south-east 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 tea-time 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.