The Cathedral Towns and Intervening Places of England, Ireland and Scotland: / A Description of Cities, Cathedrals, Lakes, Mountains, Ruins, and Watering-places.

by Thomas W. Silloway; Lee L. Powers

CARRICK-ON-SUIR,

where we arrived at 9.45, and took room at Madame Phalan's Hotel. It is a very comfortable place, and thoroughly Irish, but of a good sort,—a little old inn of the first water; and, as usual, a woman sixty years old was the "man of the house." A good night's rest, and, next morning a tramp over the town, and the business for which we had come was attended to. The place was very clean and neat, the buildings being of stone, with slate roofs. Many were plastered on the outside, painted in tints of cream-color or gray, and blocked off to represent stone. They are generally two or three stories high. We have spoken of the slate roofs. Some were new and clean, like the best in Boston. Others were ancient, and made of thick slates, little better than thin stones of small size, and often mortared up so as to give a very clumsy appearance. On many of them were large patches of thick, green, velvety moss, and not unfrequently growing in it, and in the roof-gutters, were specimens of snapdragon in full bloom. The people refrain from removing these excrescences, unless for repairs which compel them to do so.

We were delighted with the old market-place, and with the thoroughly Irish houses, one story high, built of stone, plastered and whitewashed, and situated in narrow lanes, which were paved with round cobble-stones, and kept remarkably clean. The place shows cultivation and a good civilization. It is a market-town, and a parish of Tipperary, and is situated on the pretty River Suir, crossed by a bridge built over five hundred years ago. It has a population of 8,520. It was formerly enclosed by walls, and has a parish church of great antiquity. A fine Roman Catholic Church has lately been built, and a large school is connected with it, having an elegant building of gray limestone. There is a castle of some repute, formerly belonging to the celebrated Ormonde family. The town also has a prison, a hospital, and barracks.

Improvements in the river, made in 1850, rendered it navigable for vessels of considerable capacity, which can now come up to the town, which has quite a trade in cotton, corn, and general produce. Monthly fairs are held in the market-place. There are some shade-trees, and the town in many parts has a rural look. But few very Irish-looking people are seen. While the town is unmistakably Irish, it is of a high grade; and, notwithstanding many of its buildings are quaint and old, for the most part it is modern, though not of course like New England. The place has two banks, and a number of good stores. We had seen no place quite like Carrick, but, as we aftewards found, it anticipated Kilkenny.

The good wine was, however, kept till the last, for we had an exquisite suburban trip. At 1.30 p. m. we took a team, standing in the street for hire, for our journey to Pilltown. We didn't care to inquire where the village got its name, and doubt of success had we made the attempt. A half-mile out, and we were in love with the scenery. There presented itself every kind of view imaginable,—hills, fields, groves, and mountains in the distance. We thought then, and we think now, that little section is the garden of Ireland. How fine the landscapes! how balmy and clear the atmosphere! what good vegetation, and what sleek horses, beautiful healthy cows, and splendid sheep! and how very civil they were, and how confiding, when we strangers came near them! We were so full of satisfaction that we had but little real ability to appreciate what we saw next,—a street as wide and clean as can be desired, some of the neatest possible one-story stone houses, with appropriate front-yards with flowers in them; and nowhere to be found, in either street or yard or house, so far as we could see, a thing to amend or alter. Well, we almost knew there was an especial cause for all this. No lot of mortals, fallen from the assumed high plane of Adam and Eve, ever existed,—at all events that we have heard of,—who would of themselves get into this Eden-like condition. We inquired the cause, and soon the mystery was at an end, for we were told that Lord Bestborough,—we hope that name is given right,—a much beloved landholder, owned all, and gave annual prizes for the best kept houses and grounds. A committee of ladies and gentlemen have the matter in charge; they make two especial visits, and award five prizes in all, the largest being two pounds, or ten dollars.

We rode on, and were soon at the original Purcell estate, which has for some hundreds of years been occupied by the family of that name, from which one of the writers came in the course of human progress. In talking of our own company, we are not inclined to say descent, and especially in these days of Darwinism; so we draw it mild when we refrain from saying ascent, and are contented with suggesting that we have advanced or progressed.

We may have been prejudiced, but very delightful was the scenery in this region. The river took a grand quarter-circle sweep just back of the old farm, and was here a quarter of a mile wide, with remarkably fine English grass-meadows, half a mile wide, bordering it. The distant hills were irregular and well wooded, and over them was a fine haze, like that of our Blue Hills at Milton. The great ravines had dark places of interest, and made all very picturesque. Not more than two or three scattered farmhouses were in view. No noise was heard save that of the small birds; but conspicuous was the song of the Irish Thrush.

Two coal-vessels were at anchor in the river, and these added a strange element to the scene. We hallooed to one vessel and beckoned, and a boat was put out to ferry us over. In making for Purcell's we had mistaken the road, and so had walked a mile or more out of the way, and were on the wrong side of the river. It wouldn't be Yankeeish to go back, but rather to go ahead, especially when, Davy Crockett-like, we were sure we were right,—for, to use an Irishism, we were right when we were wrong. The boat came, and we, like the two kings of ancient Munster—Strongbow and Raymond le Gros—stepped in and were rowed over. We gave a shilling to the boatman, and landed, and were now all right. It would not be becoming to tell all that we saw, said, and did. We had never seen one of that family, nor they us; nor had they seen any other Yankees; and if any mortals were surprised, they were. Photographs of some kindred were, however, in that very house. The whole matter of relationship was thoroughly talked over, and in the room where the great-grandfather died, we took tea. We stood in front of the large kitchen fireplace, where for almost a century he used to sit, and were delighted with a sight of old New-Englandish pots, kettles, trammels, hooks, and large high andirons, about which the burning furze crackled. Keats has it, "A thing of beauty is a joy forever." This is a joy forever,—that old fireplace; but the beauty is nowhere, not even, thought we, in the "mind's eye Horatio." To leave a cathedral or a fine old ruin, a picture gallery or museum, caused less trouble than our parting with this good old Irish homestead; but the spell must be broken.

As we walked through the long, winding lane, each side well hedged, we were delighted anew. In what profusion were the modest daisies in the pathway; how many, many snails, their houses on their backs, were on the bushes; and then, those exquisite primroses, in such vast numbers,—of the most delicate, refined straw-tint imaginable. The entire vegetation was so clean! And then the stillness—nothing but sweet-singing birds to make a noise. Half a mile off, on a rise of land to our right, was a little village of perhaps twenty houses,—and the church, the mother building of them all. Here, once a Purcell was the priest. He built the house we had visited, and was a brother of the great-grandfather. Advanced as we are, and removed from Romanism, yet there was a charm about that old spot. Though dead a century, that venerable priestly ancestor yet speaketh.

We wended our way to Fiddown Station. How refinedly Irish that name is, and also that of the village Polroon; but alas, the euphony had become exhausted before we went in imagination a half-mile back from Polroon, and over to Purcell's Village, for that has the æsthetic name of Moincoin. Our walk from this place was three miles, but the distance was short enough amidst such air and scenery.

A ride in the steam-cars, of an hour from Fiddown, and at 9 p. m. we were back, not in Carrick-on-Suir, but in Waterford, at the Imperial Hotel, near the old Strongbold Tower before described. Not much of Irish about the hotel! Next morning breakfast was ordered at 6 a. m. Then we went out and copied the tower inscription before given. At 7.15 took cars for Kilkenny, where we arrived at 8.30.

The general look of the landscape between the places, and in fact all the way down from Dublin, was very like that of New England along shore. Trees and woods are in about the same proportion as with us, and, excepting the houses, we saw nothing that we might not have seen in a similar ride at home.