FOOTNOTES:
[8] King's Eccles. Hist. of Ireland, vol. iv., p. 159.
[9] Ib., p. 158.
[10] Eccles. Hist. of Ireland, vol. i., p. 305.
[11] It is interesting to notice that the Bull was issued in the year 1155, that is sixteen years before the invasion took place. This was one of the earliest transactions in the popedom of Adrian and the kingship of Henry, as it was only in December of the previous year, 1154, they were elevated to their respective thrones. In 1155 the proposal to seize Ireland was considered at the Parliament of Winchester. (King's Eccles. Hist. of Ireland, p. 492.)
[12] History of Ireland, p. 71.
[13] Eccles. Hist. of Ireland, vol. iv., p. 160.
[14] Ib., p. 161.
[15] Hodges, Figgis & Co., 1905.
[16] Ireland under English Rule, or a Plea for the Plaintiff, by Thomas Addis Emmet, M.D., LL.D.
[CHAPTER XVI]
Wild Times in Ireland—Landlord and Tenant—Evictions—Boycott at Bannow House—The Parson and the Legacy—The Priest and the Whipping—Burial in Cement—Departure from Bannow House—Kilkenny and her Cats—The Mountains of Wicklow—Powers Court and a Week End—Run to Dublin and an Encounter by the Way—The Irish Constabulary—Motor Runs in the Mountains—Lord H.
Ireland has seen strange wild times, and no section of it more than this remote County Wexford. As I have stated, this estate of Bannow is eighteen miles from a railroad station now, but in another month a new line three miles away opens for traffic, and though a good thing for the property of all in the county, it will sound the knell of probably all the quaint and curious customs still in vogue here. If that railway company is wise it will build a seaside hotel in this neighbourhood. The climate is for most of the year delightful and is rarely subject to the howling tempests which so constantly sweep the west coast for half the year. Wexford abounds in beautiful scenery and almost every valley holds a charming home while quaint towns crowd the river banks and ruined towers crown the hills on either side.
Tom Moore's Tree
Vale of Ovoca
The maintenance of many of these Irish estates becomes each year more and more difficult unless the whole is strictly entailed. This is especially the case with places of small income, say two or three thousand pounds sterling. In the days when rents were good and five per cent. obtained it was well enough, but to-day when three per cent. is all that can be hoped for and yet the old charges for dowers and legacies must be paid, the owner is perforce a poor man. At present the landlord seems to have no rights. His tenants may and do absolutely refuse to pay him rent and he is reduced to poverty. There is a case I know of where the tenants are amply able to pay him, but they simply won't. His only resource is eviction, which is slow, expensive, and brings down wrath upon his head. So he is forced to give up his home and retire to a cottage, while his tenants laugh at him.
In the case of the peasants, eviction is not only expensive but useless. No man will rent the hut of those turned out, no matter how many years drift by, and some landlords are reinstating their evicted tenants. Better them than empty farms.
With the new Land Act the tenants dictate that they will buy or nothing. Of course there have arisen the usual number of scoundrels who get behind these peasants, buy out their rights, and in the end get the land for a song. There are several instances where such men who at one time broke stones on the highway are now landowners of considerable extent. I heard of one the other day who was just adding a billiard-room to his "mansion."
There is much said over here about the corruption of our city governments, especially those of Chicago and New York, but I also hear that that of the city of Dublin is to say the very least nothing to boast of, and that graft has even penetrated London itself.
Home rule for the peasants of Ireland, so it is stated here, would be about as sensible as a rule of the blacks in America. When the leaders in Parliament found they could make no more money by the disturbances, they called them off, and one of the members of that august body was kicked all the way down this peaceful avenue before me here and out yonder gate for abuse of the late Queen.
During the boycott, Bannow House was in a state of siege and its owner forced to start a store on the lawn for his own workmen, who could not purchase anywhere. These provisions were brought from London under guard.
After his death—in 1881—his grave, guarded by policemen for twenty-four hours—until the concrete in which his coffin had been buried had set,—was surrounded all the time by a howling mob who would have promptly "had him out" otherwise.
He hated the parson and so left the church's legacy of two thousand pounds to the "next incumbent," or rather the interest thereof, but the parson was equal to the occasion, and, resigning, got himself re-elected, and so became the "next incumbent" and secured the interest.
There was another instance here where the holy man, this time a priest, did not fare so well. He had attacked a member of his parish from the pulpit, and thereby aroused the ire of the wife. She was about six feet tall, and following the priest into the vestry-room flogged him soundly. It was a foolish thing to do, as it roused the whole country round about and she and her household almost starved from the boycott which promptly followed. On her death it was necessary to bury her also in cement, to prevent desecration, every man at the funeral carrying a gun.
Fortunately those days are gone by, let us hope for all time, but with a people so ignorant and superstitious anything may happen and if that cattle driving does not cease old times will come again.
It is quiet enough here this morning; the peace of the country is intense, yet to me it is never a solitude, never lonely, and it is delicious to awake in the early light and feel the cool, damp air blow in upon one through the open window, while even at this hour of dawn yonder old reprobate of a wood pigeon is earnestly entreating Paddy to follow the way of the transgressor,—"two coos, Paddy," "two coos." One can almost hear the stealthy rustle of the departing beasts and the soft footfall of Paddy. Far beyond the trees where the pigeons hide, the fair blue of heaven has been rain-washed during the night, and white clouds drift lazily off towards the sea murmuring in the distance.
To-day brings my stay at Bannow House to a close, I trust not for all time. After luncheon, bidding our hostess farewell, we roll away through the avenue of rhododendrons, over the meadows, through the forest, where the insistent birds try for the last time to corrupt my honesty, and so out on the highway and off to the north.
Our route takes us past the site of Scullaboyne House, a spot sadly famous.
In the dark days of the rebellion of 1798, New Ross and this vicinity of Bannow suffered horribly. Indeed the battle at the former town was the most sanguinary of that period, and an event which followed it here too horrible to be passed over without notice even at this late date. Scullaboyne House, but lately deserted by its owner, Capt. King, and seized by the rebels, was in use as a prison. In the house itself were confined some thirty-seven men and women and in the adjoining barn were over one hundred men, women, and children, chiefly, but not exclusively, Protestants. After their defeat at New Ross the rebels sent word to destroy these prisoners. Those in the house were called one by one to the door and shot down, but a worse fate awaited those in the barn, where firebrands thrown into and upon its roof soon turned the whole into a red hot furnace. Children were tossed out of the windows to save them, but only to be impaled upon the pikes of the outlaws. Some authorities claim that two hundred and thirty persons met their deaths in Scullaboyne. Certainly the French Revolution can show nothing more horrible.
One of the Seven Churches of Clonmines
County Wexford
There is little left here now to recall the event save a few blackened fragments, which the rich grass and creeping vines are daily covering more and more each passing year.
It is claimed by the insurgent party that they had nothing to do with the slaughter—that it was the act of outlaws, such as are always to be found dogging the footsteps of contending forces. However that may be, the result was absolute ruin to the cause of the rebels. Be it recorded to the credit of the intelligent priests of the day that they at all times did what they could to prevent like occurrences and save human life and that amongst the sixty-six persons executed in Wexford, after that period, for murder and rebellion, only one was a priest.
But let us hasten away from all this.
The roadways are superb all over this section of Ireland, and indeed I have so far encountered none which could be called bad the (worst were better than we have around most of our cities), and we are at the extreme south, having circled the island.
To-day we meet but few motors. Others are not so fortunate, as we discover by a disturbed roadbed and some fragments of cars lying around.
The other day, Lord Blank and a friend of his, driving their cars here on roads running at right angles and shaded by tall hedges,—the noise of each motor drowned in that of the other,—came together, "sociable like," at the junction. Result, two cars gone to smash, but bless you that's "all in a lifetime" in this blessed isle.
Bicyclists also appear to meet with trouble now and then, as we have just passed an inn bearing the sign "Broken down cyclists rest free."
The road from Bannow via New Ross to Kilkenny passes through Inistiogey, Thomastown, and Bennett's Bridge, and is fine all the way and through lovely scenery, most of the time by the banks of the Barrow.
We reach Kilkenny about three P. M., two hours and five minutes out, about fifty miles, which is good time on Irish routes, because of their narrowness and the frequent stoppages rendered necessary through stubborn donkeys and young cattle.
The approach to Kilkenny is marked, as is most appropriate, by an increase in the number of cats, sorry looking specimens, most of them. I must congratulate the town upon her very clean and comfortable Club Hotel.
Kilkenny Castle is not of interest save its stately appearance from the bridge. It has been modernised into a comfortable dwelling-place, prosaic in the extreme.
I find in Ireland that the interesting abodes are of two classes only, the very ancient castle or the square manor-house; the latter, while appearing modern, have some centuries to their credit and are characteristic of the country. I certainly have never seen them elsewhere. Castles such as Kilkenny and Lismore (the Duke of Devonshire's), while holding somewhere in their vastness remnants of the ancient strongholds, have, as I have stated, been brought up to date and out of all interest.
The same holds with the cathedral here. Even the round tower looks new. Rolling onward we pass again through the Vale of Ovoca, but have no time now for more than a glance as the day wanes and rain threatens.
Entering amongst the mountains of Wicklow, our car balks once or twice at the grades, but finally makes up its mind to go ahead and so puffs and pulls and stews with less noise than most motors would be guilty of, until finally, with a last effort, the highest point is reached, and the vale beyond is open to our view, with the demesne of Powerscourt nestling on its farther side. There are few more enchanting prospects in the British Isles. It would seem from here to be a great bowl, so completely enclosed in the mountains as to be accessible only by wings. The billowy foliage is broken at one point by a waterfall some three hundred feet high, which plunges down into the celebrated glen, "the Dargle."
Half-way up the mountain stands the huge mansion of Powerscourt House, as though it were the royal box in this vast opera-house of nature. Dublin has many beautiful points in her neighbourhood, more in fact I think than any other city of Europe, but none so beautiful as this before us.
The temptation to linger is strong, but it is late, and there are miles yet to go. The route drops rapidly downward and then upward until barred by the gates of the home park, which we are allowed to enter once it is certain that we are "going to the house" and are not tourists.
When we reach there every one is abroad in motors, and it is too late for tea, but not too late for a whiskey and soda, which, being assured that we are expected,—hosts have been known to forget their invitations,—is accepted and thoroughly enjoyed.
Powerscourt, the seat of Viscount Powerscourt came into possession of the family during the reign of Elizabeth, and is one of the largest estates in Ireland, having some twenty-six thousand acres within its bounds. Probably its scenery is more varied and beautiful than that of any other estate in the kingdom.
Funeral Crosses by the Wayside
County Wexford
One enters a hallway of large dimensions, whose walls and ceilings are laden with trophies of the chase from all over the world. Skins of every description cover walls and floors, while chandeliers formed of antlers hang by the dozens from the ceilings.
Doffing our coats and rugs on its great table and trying to appear like white men after our hundred-mile run through rain and mud, we pass into the morning room and so out on to the terrace beyond, which on this side of the house stretches along the entire front, while below terrace after terrace drops downward to a stone balustrade overlooking the lake, beyond which the land rises tier after tier until the higher mountains outline against the sky.
The rain has ceased and the setting sun is casting long shafts of light into the quivering forests whose leaves are thicker than ever they were in Vallombrosa.
But it is chilly and we hunt out the smoking-room where a bright fire works its will with the winds driven through us all day and we are found half asleep when host and hostess return.
These Irish places are not so gorgeous as many in England but an Irish welcome is something one does not meet with either in England or any other land, and to-day holds no exception to that rule. They are glad to see us and the usual stiffness of an entry in a strange house and amongst strange people is altogether lacking. The time passes so quickly that the dressing gong sounds all too soon.
As I mount the stair portraits of the former owners look down upon me, from those long dead to that of the present owner, presented by his tenants upon his coming of age, which by the way must have occurred very lately, as he is the youngest looking man to be the father of two children that I have ever seen.
There is another portrait in yonder corner of a man who looks as though he would like a whiskey and soda on this damp evening, but he must long since have passed to the land where such things are not.
At the head of this main stairway, one enters a vast hall supported by columns. George the Fourth strutted through here in all his gorgeousness in 1821. As far as Royalty is concerned, that monarch and his successor certainly marked its lowest stage—the latter the worse of the two, as he was common. The rebound since then has been so tremendous that one feels as though gazing from the top of a mountain downward upon the marshes by the sea.
One of the late owners of Powerscourt evidently felt great interest in the house as he placed tablets in many of the rooms indicating what they were and had been. I am told to go where I like and examine the whole, but of course I do not penetrate behind closed doors where evidently there is much of interest. But I do get lost actually as far as the body is concerned and mentally in a picture of a lady in the dark corner of a distant gallery, and have to be hunted out when the gong sounds for dinner. In the dining-room my eye is attracted by a portrait on the opposite wall. It proves to be one of Lady Jane Grey when a child of eight or nine years of age, but has a very Dutch appearance and the original could never have developed into the graceful greyhound-like creature so familiar to all in the later portraits.
The living-rooms in these European country houses are so homelike and comfortable that similar rooms in our Newport houses must strike a foreigner as very stiff and new, and generally they are just that, for with few exceptions they are but temporary abiding-places for a few weeks in summer.
The drawing-room in Powerscourt is a wide, sunny apartment; in the daytime its windows, giving on to the terrace, hold a marvellous panorama framed for one's benefit, but to-night the curtains are dropped and a bright fire blazes on the hearth around which runs a rail topped with a broad leather cushion, which forms a most comfortable perch promptly appropriated by the men, while the ladies are on low seats.
The walls are covered by pictures of great value and there is much else of interest around one, yet it is all so homelike and comfortable that one scarcely remembers any of the details but simply a charming picture of the whole; and so the time passes until the ladies having vanished we are again in the smoking-room, where Boyse starts in to talk and would have kept it up until grey dawn, but I for one am sleepy and detect the same symptoms in our host, so we suppress Boyse and go to bed. He may talk to the fire if he likes, but not to us.
The next day being Sunday I wanted to go to church, but it is intimated that my presence is not desired. So Boyse and I roll off to Dublin for letters and en route back break down and nearly miss luncheon in consequence.
On our return we encountered one of the rare cases of hatred, pure and simple, for those of the upper ranks which I have noted in Ireland. The avenues between Bray and the city were crowded with Sunday excursionists, and at one point, a van having stopped, the occupants covered all the roadway and two men stood facing us exactly in the centre of our only course. Moving at a snail's pace, we trumpeted constantly and finally stopped directly in front of these men. I have never noted more malignant snarls on human countenances than these bore as they grudgingly gave way. "Do ye think ye own the whole shop?" The fact that we appeared unconscious of their existence only enraged them the more, and had they dared strike they would have done so, but one is always sure of the presence of some of those splendid specimens of men, the Irish constabulary, than whom the world holds of their kind none better. All over six feet in stature, they are not merely policemen, ignorant or not as the case may be, but men of education and who must keep up that education by further study for higher examinations, which unpassed will cost them their positions. There are three here to-day, hence those lowering brows and clenched hands disappear. However, we have encountered but little of that state of feeling in Ireland, the instances have been few and far between,—a contrast indeed to France, where a well-dressed man is often impressed with the belief that those around him would like to erect a guillotine for his express enjoyment and would do so upon the smallest provocation.
Photo by W. Leonard
Powerscourt House
Seat of Viscount Powerscourt
All the afternoon is spent out of doors. Other guests have arrived, one with three motors and another with one. Lord P. has several and ours has been polished up to look its best, but we finally leave it behind, and stowed away in the others the whole cavalcades spend the afternoon in wild flights over the hills and mountains. In the rushes through the valleys we are well together, but in climbing the ascents which around here are very steep the cars of greater power vanish in the distance and we do not see them again and only know of their passage by the general state of wild confusion reigning amongst dogs, geese, and chickens, which knowing there must be more of us have not as yet returned to the centre of the highways; except the geese—it takes more than a motor to keep those doughty birds off the road.
Those are wonderful fowls. They measure the width of an approaching car to a nicety, and retreat just beyond that. So near in fact that we have been struck by their indignant wings several times.
To-day I am in an enclosed car belonging to Mr. G. Whilst very comfortable, especially for ladies in a city, I do not think that they are pleasant to ride in. The constant rumble and roar becomes very unpleasant, something one never experiences in an open car; also one loses entirely that sensation of flying so delicious in an open car. This one makes my head ache, and it is not a matter of regret when, the ride over, I am out on the lake with Lord H., attempting to tug a duck house out of the mud. I am quite convinced that I did most of the work, but I believe he denies that fact.
I cannot but regret as I look at this young man, certainly not more than twenty-five years of age, that we have not something like a school for the study of diplomacy. We might even have such scholarships, now that we have decided to become a world power in which diplomats are so necessary. I asked what was the future of this man in question and was told, "Oh, he will be an ambassador some day, that is what he is working for," and working for that means the attainment of perfection in all things necessary for an educated man,—perfection in everything, not a mere smattering in a few things. This man speaks all the modern languages of Europe with equal facility. If music is necessary for his career he has it at his fingers' ends. He is wealthy, but his money will be used to further his progress, not to kill it. Nothing will interfere with that.
I cannot but contrast him with one I know of whose prospects appeared equally bright, though his education was not at all the equal of this man's. However, he might have done much with his life, but marrying a rich wife he promptly resigned and "sat down to good dinners," amounting now to absolutely nothing, his career ended.
Abandoning the rescue of the duck house together with graver questions, we adjourn to the gardens and consume half an hour, and also a lot of the biggest strawberries I have ever eaten.
Time flies. Tea on the terrace, to which more motors have brought other guests, dinner, and the night are over and gone, and we have rolled away, waving thanks to our host and hostess for the pleasant "week end" at Powerscourt House.
[CHAPTER XVII]
Dublin—Derby Day and the Rush to the Curragh—An Irish Crowd—The Kildare Street Club and Club Life—Jigginstown House and its History—The Cowardice of a King—The Old Woman on the Tram Car—Parnell—The Grave of Daniel O'Connell.
Given the capital of Ireland, a bright day in the midsummer of an exposition year, with the King almost here, and above all the Derby at hand, and if you are looking for peace and quiet you should go elsewhere. All Dublin is in an uproar this morning and there is not a jaunting-car which will look at you for less than double the tariff. Stately equipages move slowly along, motors of all descriptions pass like the wind. The beggars are out in full force and if you have a heart in your bosom you will reach the race-track with not a shilling left you. Our motor dashes around the corner and up to the door as though it were new instead of some years of age. The spirit of the races seems to have gotten into its old bones and it shrieks and snorts and rushes off with us at an appalling pace notwithstanding the crowded streets and stone pavements. Out on to the broad highway to the south in company with the whole town we roll onward past the ruins of Jigginstown House.
Photo by W. Leonard
Great Salon, Powerscourt House
Of the thousands who come this way to-day, few give thought to the house or its history. They have little time for the past as just a few miles beyond is the famous Curragh of Kildare, a stretch of the most marvellous grass-lands in the world, where the turf is of greatest richness and elasticity. Not for this, and yet because of this, the people flock four times a year in tens of thousands to worship there at the altar of the noble horse. The Curragh holds Ireland's greatest race-course, and has held it for two thousand years. The winner of the last English Derby is to be on hand and to race to-day and nearly all Ireland is en route to be present.
So there is no time for dead Earls and ruined houses on such a day, and we are swept on and away, for once forgetting our caution and bidding the chauffeur beat every other motor on the road if he can, and to our amazement this old "Clement" comes near to doing it, and there are some very smart cars going down to-day. How the wind does sing around us—if a cap is lost we do not stop to get it—it would not be possible or safe to do so with this onrushing crowd behind us. Dogs and chickens get out of the way in wildest terror, and it seems to me that we take several turns on two wheels only. It is dangerous work and we know that a break means destruction most complete, but we cannot help it. Curragh air had gotten into our heads and go we must.
After all is said, I think the desire for a race is in every man of us, inborn and irresistible. Such is the case to-day and our record is good, though every now and then a sullen rumble and roar and many blasts of a horn warn us that some car of great power is coming to which we must give place, and though going at full speed we seem to stand still as it rushes by us, and here comes in one of the greatest dangers of the road. The clouds of dust in the wake of such a car are appalling and impenetrable to sight, yet through this our own car rushes on, trusting to Providence to keep the way clear. It is a relief to me at least when it mounts in safety to the downy stretches of the Curragh where there is no dust, and I find on calling the roll that none of our party is missing.
What a beautiful sight! The downs of deep grass stretch away on all sides crossed and recrossed by the wide highways. Off to the left lies the great military camp, while in front stretches the race-course, towards which what seems the whole of Dublin is moving and in every imaginable manner, from the foot passenger and funny little donkey to the tally-ho coaches and the gorgeous motor-cars, while over and around it all rings the Irish laughter, as it has rung around this race-course of Curragh for two thousand years,—its very name "Cuir reach" implying "race-course." It must mean that to-day at all events, but I should think that if any sort of a race could disappoint an Irishman that to-day, the Irish Derby, would do so. It was a foregone conclusion that the winner of that race in England would be first here,—but to my thinking it proves no race at all, that horse and another of the same owner simply running round the course with no show for any other, and with apparently no speed exerted on their own parts.
However, it is the changing panorama of the people and not the race which interests me, and that is not in any degree a disappointment.
The return to Dublin and on to Bray was the same wild flight as when going down and a feeling of relief came to me at least when we got safely back to our hotel, or rather to the exposition grounds where we dined. What time we reach the hotel and bed I have no memory. Boyse never got there at all.
The following day being rainy, I am not disposed to go to the races, and also learn that our car is in need of attention. However, another must be forthcoming if desired, and one does come, in which Boyse and a friend of his, "Copper," are most comfortably packed, and evidently bound for the Curragh, being Irish. Now, though that is my car, my absence is evidently very precious to its occupants; still Boyse does ask kindly whether I "would like to go." What a pressing invitation that!—much like a blast from the North Atlantic. For an instant I am tempted to say yes, just to watch their discomfort, but I much prefer not to go and so state, when—whiz—they vanish like smoke around the corner, evidently with no intention of allowing any reconsideration on my part.
Laughing, I summon a jaunting-car and go to buy my ticket homeward. The usual tariff for short distances is a sixpence and I hand it over on descending at the ticket office. The driver evidently has exposition extortions in his head for, regarding me sourly for an instant, he remarks, "Ye could 'ave saved five ov thim if ye'd come in the tram." However, his anger is short lived, and when I laugh he laughs. God bless you, Pat,—may you succeed in "doing" the next man you carry.
Many of our evenings have been passed at the Kildare Street Club, of which Boyse is a member. While they do not give a stranger a week's card as we do, a member seems to be at liberty to take him there as often as that member desires, and so the result is the same, if not better. Certainly at this, the best club in the Irish capital, I was made to feel as much at home as in my own in America. I shall always remember it and the men I met there with pleasure.
Photo by W. Leonard
Ruins of Jigginstown House
There are clubs in London, notably the Army and Navy, where one is treated in the same manner. That club has been growing more and more liberal of late years. At one period a short while ago, a stranger could go only to one room and one dining-room. Now in company with a member the whole club is open to him. There are other London clubs where he may not even pass the portals, but this is the twentieth century, an age of reform, and all that will change in time. What homelike and yet what heartless things clubs are! A man may make his home in one for years, may have his own particular corner and be the very life and soul of the house; many would declare that the place could not get on without his jests and merry laugh, and that they would miss him for ever. How many would do so? Coming in some day they would note the flag at half mast and his name on a black bordered card near the door. Most who passed would not be able to recall his features whilst remembering that they had drank with him often, and the majority would forget him promptly. For those who did remember, it would be sad to think that
"Perin has gone; and we who loved him best
Can't think of him as
'entered into rest.'
But he has gone; has left the morning street,
The clubs no longer echo to his feet;
Nor shall we see him lift his yellow wine
To pledge the random host—the purple vine.
At doors of other men his horses wait,
His whining dogs scent false their master's fate;
His chafing yacht at harbour mooring lies;
'Owner ashore' her idle pennant flies.
Perin has gone—
Forsook the jovial ways
Of Winter nights—his well-loved plays,
The dreams and schemes and deeds of busy brain,
And pensive habitations built in Spain.
Gone, with his ruddy hopes! And we who knew him best
Can't think of him as 'entered into rest.'
So when the talk dies out or lights burn dim
We often ponder what is keeping him—
What destiny that all-subduing will,
That golden wit, that love of life, fulfil?
For we who silent smoke, who loved him best,
Can't fancy Perin 'entered into rest.'"
The touring is almost over, and I fancy for ever, in Ireland. Our last day's journey was one of the most pleasant and interesting of the lot. Having gone to Bray Head to escape the heat of the city, we rolled off at nine a.m. and passing through town in a rush fled southwards towards the military camp at Curragh. The day was brilliant and the motor fairly flew over the highway which to-day we have all to ourselves.
Passing again the unfinished palace of the Earl of Stratford we paused to inspect it and to learn its history.
"Jigginstown" was built by Sir Thomas Wentworth, created Earl of Stratford by Charles I., who made him Deputy of Ireland and regarded him at the time as his chief minister and counsellor. In his early years he was certainly a character of doubtful virtue, as before this appointment he was as strongly counter to the King as he was for him after he had received it. The King was subject to a violent outcry for using a Papist to murder his subjects. Wentworth laboured under the severe hatred of the English, Scotch, and Irish. He secured from the Irish Parliament large sums which he used to engage an army against Scotland. His rule here lasted eight years, and while active and prudent he was most unpopular. When his fall occurred the Irish Parliament used every expedient to aggravate the charge against him. Envy and jealousy both here and in England were the prime causes of his ruin.
Knowing the power and deadly hatred of his enemies he implored the King to excuse him from attending Parliament, but Charles promised that not a hair of his head should be injured; but his enemies arose in such might, that no voice was raised in his defence and he was accused of high treason. The whole affair was a gigantic conspiracy of the leaders of the Parliament against one man, of whom they could prove no wrong save that he served the King, and who they were well aware possessed knowledge of their own treason. "Unprotected by power, without counsel, discountenanced by authority, what hope had he? yet such was the capacity, genius, and presence of mind displayed by this magnanimous statesman that while argument, reason, and law held any place he obtained the victory and he perished by the open violence of his enemies."
(There is a strong resemblance between this trial and that of the Queen of Scots in Fotheringay the preceding century.) His government of Ireland was promotive of the King's interests and of the people commended to his charge. He introduced industries and the arts of peace and augmented the shipping of the kingdom a hundred fold. The customs were tripled upon the same rates, the exports doubled in value that of the imports, and he introduced the manufacture of linen;—that stands his monument to-day, but,—he was a friend of the King and so must die.
That is one side of the picture. His enemies claim that whether guilty of the crime named at the trial or not, he deserved death for his treatment of the Irish. They state that his project was to subvert the titles to every estate in Connaught, also that he had sent Lord Ely to prison to force him (Ely) to settle his estates according to the wishes of his daughter-in-law, whom Strafford had seduced. The House, on his condemnation, nobly excluded his children from the legal consequences of his sentence.
It is stated that the King was deeply grieved but he certainly did consent to the deed, though by appointing a commission of four noblemen to give the royal assent in his name, he flattered himself that neither his will consented to the deed nor his hand engaged in it. The exclamation of the doomed man, "Put not your trust in princes," told how he felt, and so he died in his forty-ninth year, one of the most eminent personages that has appeared in English history.
Parnell's Grave
Glasnevin Cemetery, Dublin
His great unfinished palace rears its walls now close by the highway and of all the thousands who rush by here to Curragh Camp or races, how many give it a thought or know who built it? I was told that it was a monastery whose bricks were passed from hand to hand all the way from Dublin; others stated that it was an unfinished cotton factory, and it looks like such.
It is of red brick, two stories in height, and of great length. Its arches and brickwork are of the finest, but the whole stands a melancholy monument to the downfall of human greatness, to the cowardice of a King.
From whom did Charles I. inherit such a streak? Certainly not from his Danish mother, or from his royal grandmother. The worst enemies of the Stuart Queen never could accuse her of the desertion of her friends. She was faithful unto death and should deserve the crown of life for that reason if for none other. But Lord Darnley was never faithful to anything throughout his entire life, and from that source surely came this taint in the Stuart kings of England—the degeneracy of James I., and the cowardice of his son Charles.
Leaving melancholy Jigginstown behind, we moved on to the Curragh, but this time to the camp, which, by the way, is one of the largest in the empire.
En route, we chased through a drove of cattle, one of which, after racing with us for some distance, decided finally to take our right-of-way, and our guard sliding under her hind leg, lifted it high off the ground, causing her to plunge wildly and the air to be filled with distant oaths and curses from her owner. She was not hurt at all, and as the car slid forward and away, clouds of dust hid our number and defeated all chances of a claim for damages.
Luncheon with the officers in the mess-tent being over, we started again citywards, as my days in the land were growing few indeed, to my regret, and there were some shrines which must be visited or my journey would be incomplete.
En route to the tomb of a great statesman we paused to pay our homage at that of a great divine, Dean Swift, who sleeps in the Cathedral of St. Patrick under a simple tablet. There, upon an important occasion, when the cathedral was crowded, he delivered himself of those famous words, "The Lord loves them that give to the poor, and if you believe in the security, dump down the dust,"—the shortest sermon ever delivered in St. Patrick's, and the most effective, for "the dust" came in clouds.
St. Patrick's blessing must be passing from Ireland at last, as the papers describe the capture of a brown snake three feet long in a garden at Ranelagh.
As we approach the stately cathedral I ask our boy:
"Is that a Catholic church, Dennis?"
"No, sor."
"A Protestant?"
"No, sor."
"What then?"
"A Church of England, sor."
While these people will generally enter whole-souled into jest or gibe they will not, it is said, do so with the English, and some of the encounters with the latter people are amusing in the extreme.
The other day on the top of a tram car, some Englishwomen were enlarging upon the not at all times cleanly inhabitants surrounding them. One remarked that they were all horrid and she should go to Wales where she would not meet any of "these dirty Irish." An old woman across the tram could no longer restrain herself, but rising in her wrath, confronted the Englishwoman with flashing eyes, and "I would not go to Wales ma'am wur I yez, for yez will find plinty of Irish there; but take my advice and go to Hell, ye'll find no Irish there."
A man, killed near Dublin not long since, had been shot through the forehead, death resulting instantly. The usual crowd gathered, amongst them an old woman, who for a moment intently regarded the poor fellow, dead as Pharoah, then, raising her hands and eyes, she ejaculated "Wusn't it a blessin' of God he wusn't shot in the eye!" What difference that could have made to him she disdained to explain.
The last resting place of Daniel O'Connell is in Prospect Cemetery, some four miles from Dublin. There Parnell also sleeps under the shadow of a simple iron cross.
The passing years have called a halt on both of those men. How little we are conscious of the flight of time until suddenly we find our thoughts, which before have all been towards the future, have unconsciously to us turned towards the past, and we are looking backward and not forward. Then we realize with a sinking heart that for us youth is over and done with, that for us there is no future save beyond the far horizon.
The memorial to O'Connell, appropriate in every respect, rears itself in the stately form of an ancient round tower. Simple and dignified, one cannot imagine a more appropriate monument to the man who sleeps beneath it. The tower is of grey stone smoothly polished and rises from a circle under which is the vault of O'Connell. Around this runs a broad, stone walk which in its turn is encircled by a rampart, holding many vaults whose doors open upon the walk, and being all unlocked you may enter where you will once you pass the outer gate of the circle, generally locked. To-day, however, the workmen are redecorating the O'Connell vault and we are allowed to enter.
Photo by W. Leonard
Daniel O'Connell's Monument
Glasnevin Cemetery, Dublin
Passing down a broad flight of steps and through an iron grill we find confronting us, across the circular stone pathway, another grill closing the centre vault, over whose door is the name "O'Connell." The great Irishman sleeps alone in the centre of this vault in an altar-like tomb, through the stone quarterfoils of which you may see and touch his oaken coffin. The inscription is on a brass frieze around the top. In an adjoining catacomb are the coffins of several members of his family. I think such mausoleums are always more impressive when the stone walls and ceilings are unadorned, but such is not the taste here and the ceilings and walls were being painted in gorgeous colours.
It is a useless expense, as with the arches and walls covered with moisture, the work will be undone very shortly. The plain stone would be infinitely more impressive and dignified, surely, like the tower above, more in keeping with the character of the illustrious dead.
As we leave the cemetery I turned for a last look at the shrine of Ireland. I have seen, I think, the final resting places of all the illustrious dead of the earth, and I know of none which has more profoundly impressed me than this stately tomb of Daniel O'Connell, with whose name let us close these sketches of the land he loved so well—Ireland.
[INDEX]
Quick Links to Index Letters
[[A]] [[B]] [[C]] [[D]] [[E]] [[F]] [[G]] [[H]] [[I]]
[[J]] [[K]] [[L]] [[M]] [[N]] [[O]] [[P]] [[Q]] [[R]]
[[S]] [[T]] [[U]] [[V]] [[W]]
[A]
Achill, island of, [50], [53], [57], [60], [62], [64], [95], [156], [173]
Adrian IV., Pope, [248], [252], [253], [255]
Aldworth, Mrs., [153]
Alexander III., Pope, [251]
Antrim, [26]
Ardill, John Roche, [256]
Armagh, [22], [27]
Arran, [32]
Augustine, Abbot, [165]
Auxerre, [26]
Awbeg, [146]
[B]
Baginbun, [248]
Ballentine, Nancy, [21]
Ballinaboy Bridge, [85]
Ballybeg Abbey, [140], [146]
Ballycastle, [33], [34], [173]
Ballygalley Bay, [32]
Ballymena, [26]
Ballynahinch, [85]
Bannow, [184], [189], [231], [234], [246], [247], [260], [264]
Bannow church, [191], [192]
Bannow House, [184], [186], [188], [242], [262], [264]
Bantry Bay, [173]
Beddoes, Major, [135], [154], [156]
Belfast, [31]
Bennett's Bridge, [266]
Biddy, [90], [91]
Birr, [101], [104], [115]
Birr Castle, [102], [103]
Blackwater, [162], [180]
Blake, Mr. and Mrs., [44]
Blarney, [167]
Boggeragh Mountains, [173]
Bohemia, Queen of, [205]
Bombay, [157]
Bowen, Mr., [40]
Boyne, the, [12]
Boyse family, the, [185], [191]
Braganza, Catherine of, [157]
Bray, [234], [299]
Bray Head, [282]
Brenan, Rev. M. J., [254]
Bretons, [138]
Brice, Archbishop, [121]
Brigid, St., [28]
Brittany, [138]
Bruce, Edward, [123]
Buchanan, George, [19]
Bundoran, [37], [52]
Burne-Jones, [155]
Burrishoole, [77], [78]
Bushmills, [36]
Butlers, [124]
Buttevant, [127], [130], [132], [134], [148], [150], [160], [214]
Buttevant Castle, [147]
[C]
"Caiseal," [123]
Campion, Edmund, [255], [256]
Cantyre, [32]
Carrickfergus, [31]
Carrig-a-Hooly, [77], [78], [80]
Carrig-a-pooka, [174]
Carrolls, the, [101], [102]
Cashel, [44], [127], [129]
Cashel, Rock of, [120], [121], [123]-[125]
"Castle of Roses," [78]
Castlebar, [73]
Castletown, Lord, [151]
Caucasus, [78]
Caulfields, the, [61]
Celtic tongue, the, [86], [87]
Charles I., King, [97], [205], [206]
Charles II., King, [132], [157], [185]
Charlotte, Queen, [186]
Chinon Castle, [259]
"Cios-ail," [125]
Claddagh, [99]
Clare, island of, [75], [79], [80]
Clare, Lady Isabel de, [195]
Clarence, Duke of, [206], [207]
Clares, the de, [195]
Clew Bay, [50]
Clifden, [85]
"Cloicoheach," [123]
Clonmacnoise, [114]-[116]
Clonmel, [126], [218], [219]
Clonmines, [167], [246], [247]
"Cluain-maccu-Nois," [115]
"Cluan-mac-noise," [115]
Colclough, Sir Anthony, [198], [202]
Coleraine, [36]
Columba, St., [28]
Connemara, [82]
Constantine, Emperor, [255], [256]
"Copper," [279]
Cork, [175], [176], [178], [210], [211], [213]
Cormac, King, [10]
Cormac's Chapel, [122], [125], [282], [283], [288]
Coro, [125]
Cotton, Archdeacon, [121]
Cromwell, Edward, Lord, [28]
Cromwell, Oliver, [97], [218], [224]
Culloden, battle of, [103]
Cumberland, Duke of, [103]
Curragh, the, [277]-[279], [282], [285]
Curragh Camp, [288]
Curraghmore House, [219], [221], [223], [224]
Curraun, Peninsula of, [54]
Currick-Patrick, [125]
[D]
D——, Captain, [158], [159]
Dame Court, Dublin, [36]
Danes, the, [12], [28], [123], [181]
Dargle, the, [268]
Dark Valley, [68]
Darnley, Lord, [285]
Deasy, Jerry, [174]
Decies, [123]
Declan, St., [123]
De Courcey, [28]
Derby, [227]
Desmond, Earl of, [129], [130]
Desmonds, the, [128], [150]
Dichu, [27]
Dickens, Charles, [230]
"Dinnis," [163], [168]
Doneraile Court, [150], [152], [153], [187]
Donnelly, Bishop, [27]
Dooley's Hotel, Birr, [103]
Doo Lough, [82], [85]
Doordry, [125]
Downpatrick, [26], [27], [31]
Dowth, [12]
Drogheda, [13]
Drum-feeva, [125]
Dublin, [6], [14], [23], [227], [228], [279], [282]
Dublin Fusiliers, [132], [158]
Dudley, Lady, [58]
Dugort, [61]
Dunbrody Abbey, [183]
Dundalethglass, [27]
Dundrum, [25]
Dunloe, Gap of, [169]
[E]
Edison, Mr., [237]
Edward IV., King, [206]
Edward VI., King, [204]
Edward VII., King, [23]
Elizabeth, Queen, [22], [79], [202], [246]
Ely, Earl of, [190]
Ely, King of, [125]
Emmet, Thomas Addis, [257]
Erne, Lough, [37]
[F]
Fee Lough, [85]
Fermoy, [160], [178], [179], [214], [215]
Fermoy, Lord, [215]
Ferns Castle, [258]
Fethard, [218]
Ffranckfort Castle, [102], [110], [112], [113]
Fitzgeralds, [124]
Fitzstephens, Robert, [248], [258]
Fontevrault, [259]
Forgotten Facts of Irish History, [256]
Franciscan Friary, [182]
French, Walter, [190]
[G]
Galty Mountains, [126]
Galway, [14], [40], [44], [66], [88], [94], [95], [97], [99]-[101], [168]
Gaughans, [61]
Germanus, Bishop, [26]
Giant's Causeway, [34], [35], [167]
Gladstone, [14]
Glasgow, [31]
Glendalough, [123], [231]-[233]
Glengariff, [170], [172]
Grace, Queen, [77], [78]
Gurguntius, [255]
[H]
H——, Lord, [274]
"Harp of Erin," [105]
Henry II., King, [123], [248], [251]-[255], [257], [259]
Henry VI., King, [206], [246]
Henry VII., King, [206]
Henry VIII., King, [79], [129], [183]
Henry, Mr., [89]
Herberts, the, [170]
Heremon, King, [9]
Holy Cross Abbey, [117], [120]
Hook, tower, [198]
Hore family, [246]
Horl, Abbey of, [126]
"House in the Bog," [41], [42]
[I]
Imperial Hotel, Cork, [175]
Inchiquin, Lord, [124]
Inistioge, [266]
Innisfallen, [165]-[167]
Irish Cyclist, [36]
[J]
James II., King, [11], [12]
Jigginstown House, [277], [282], [285]
John XXII., Pope, [251], [253]
John, King, [10], [28], [182]
"John of the Glen," [64], [67]-[71]
John of Salisbury, [254]
[K]
Keatinge, Rev. Geoffrey, [255], [256]
"Keening," [56]
Kellarn, [125]
Kelly, Daniel, [130]
Kenmare, domain, [170]
Kevin, St., [232]
Kieran, St., [115]
Kilcoman Castle, [150]
Kildare, Earl of, [124]
Kildare Street Club, [6], [280]
Kilkenny, [23], [266], [267]
Killarney, [161], [163], [167]-[170]
Killary Bay, [82]
Killary Harbour, [85]
Killshening House, [215]
Kilmalloch, [127]-[130]
Kilruddery House, [228]-[230]
Kimbolton Castle, [18]
King, Captain, [264]
Knockninoss, [147]
"Knockshigowna," [106]
Kylemore Castle, [88]-[93]
[L]
Lanigan, Dr., [253]-[256]
Larne, [32]
Lavelles, the, [61]
Leap Castle, [102], [104], [106], [108]
Lee, the, [178]
Leenane, [82], [83], [85]
Lely, Sir Peter, [196]
Letterfrack, [85]
Limavady, [36]
Lis-no-Lachree, [125]
Llemish Mountain, [26]
Londonderry, [37]
Loo-ee, [125]
Lorrha, [101]-[103]
Louis le Grand, [90]
Louisburgh, [80], [85]
Lynch, family of, [98]
Lynch, James, [98]
[M]
Mac Art, Cormac, [8]
MacCarthys, the, [174]
MacMurrogh, Dermot, [255], [257], [258]
Macroom Castle, [174], [175]
Mallaranny, [50]-[52], [62], [64], [77], [84]
Mallow, [161], [162]
Manchester, Duke of, [92], [217]
Mantua House, [40], [41], [48]
Marianus, [254]
Marine Hotel, Ballycastle, [33]
Martin, St., of Tours, [26]
Mary Queen of Scots, [19]
Matilda, Empress, [255]
Mayo, [72], [78], [179]
Mayo Mountains, [71]
Meath, Earl of, [228]
Mecridy's Maps, [36]
Michael, Sacristan, [166]
Michu, [26]
Milesius, [252]
Monahans, [61]
Moore, Tom, [233], [234]
Mourne Mountains, [25]
Moyle, the, [218]
Muckross, [170], [171]
Munster, kings of, [122]
[N]
Navan, [10], [11]
Neagh, Loch, [167]
Nestorian Christians, [59]
Neville, John, [246]
Newcastle, [25]
New Grange, [11]
New Port, [50], [66], [84]
New Ross, [184]
Newry, [13]-[15], [25]
[O]
O'Brien, Donald, [123]
O'Carrolls, [107]
O'Connell, Daniel, [288], [289]
O'Conner, [166]
Offaly, [123]
O'Flynns, the, [174]
O'Hallon, Redmond, [15]
O'Halloran, [32]
O'Malleys, [61]
O'Neill, Donald, King of Ulster, [252]
O'Rourke, Prince, [257]
Ormond, [125]
Ormond, Earl of, [129]
Ovoca, Vale of, [233], [267]
[P]
P——, Mrs., [225]
Parnell, [288]
Parsonstown, [101]
Patrick, St., [10], [24], [26], [28], [122], [125], [252]
"Patrick's Sabball," [27]
Penshurst, [204]
Peterborough, [207]
Phœnix Park, [7]
Pointz-pass, [15]
Pole, Cardinal, [254]
Pope, the, [23]
Portugal, [158]
Powerscourt, [267], [270], [271]
Powerscourt House, [231], [275]
Powerscourt, Viscount, [267], [273]
Prospect Cemetery, [288]
Ptolemy, [8]
Purcell, Sir Hugh, [182]
[Q]
"Queen of Hearts," [205]
[R]
Read, T. Buchanan, [105]
Recess, [85], [88], [91]
Redmond, [198]
Reginald, [181], [182]
Richard, Earl of Chepstow, [258]
Richard, King, [206]
Rolleston, Major, [110], [111]
Roscommon, [40], [42], [48]
"Royal Irish," the, [188]
[S]
St. Dominick, Abbey of, Lorrha, [102]
St. James's Palace, [208]
St. Ledger, Hon. Mary, [153]
St. Ledger, William, [152]
St. Mary's, Abbey of, Trim, [10]
St. Nicholas, Church of, Claddagh, [100]
St. Patrick's Cathedral, [286]
Salis, Count de, [15]
Saul, Church of, Strangford Lough, [26]
Scullaboyne House, [264], [265]
Shandon bells, [167], [175], [213]
Shannon, the, [115]
"Shan Van Do," the, [68]
Shelburn Hotel, Dublin, [3]
Sidneys, the, [204]
Skreen, Hill of, [8]
Slieve Donard, [25]
Slievemore, [61]
Slievenaman Hills, [126]
Sligo, county of, [37], [40], [55], [179]
Spenser, [150], [152]
Stanford's, [36]
"Stone of Destiny," [10]
Strafford, Earl of, [282]
Strangford, [26], [31]
Strongbow, [28], [195], [258]
Stuart, Mary, [207]
Succat, [26]
Suir River, [116], [181]
Sutton, Sir Roger de, [246]
Swift, Dean, [286]
[T]
Tamara, Queen, [78]
Tanderagee, [15], [17], [19], [24], [92]
Tara Hill, [7]-[10]
Taylor, Bayard, [113]
Teheran, [59]
Temora, [9]
Thea, [9]
Thomas, St., [252]
Thomastown, [266]
Thomond, King of, [123]
Tintern Abbey, [194], [196], [197], [200]
Tipperary Vale, [126]
Toombeola Bridge, [85]
Trim, [10]
Tully Chapel, [85]
Tyburn, [130]
[U]
Urban II., Pope, [255], [256]
[V]
Victoria Hotel, Killarney, [163]
Virgil, Polydore, [256]
[W]
W——, Marquis of, [219]
Waterford, [180]-[183]
Waterford, Lady, [223]
Wayte Bros., [218]
Wentworth, Sir Thomas, [282]
Westport, [85]
Wexford, [182], [185], [194], [246], [260], [265]
Whitehall, [204]
Wicklow, [231], [267]
William III., King, [11]
"Wingfield," [104]-[106], [108]
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