KILKENNY.
"Kilkenny is sure another of the Irish places," says the reader; and it is hardly less so by reputation than Sligo, Dundalk, and Drogheda. It is the shire town of the county of Kilkenny, and a county of itself, situated on the River Nore, 63 miles from Dublin, and 30 miles from Waterford, having a population of 12,664. It is divided by the river into an Irish and an English town, the former in the vicinity of the cathedral, and the latter near the castle. In ancient times the place figured largely as a seat of parliaments, and was often the scene of stirring events. As viewed from the railway, which is one of the best points of observation, Kilkenny is one of the most picturesque rural places that can be imagined. On the left of the centre, and on low ground, is the castle. The original was built by Earl Strongbow in 1172, and, destroyed by Donald O'Brien soon after. The present structure was built in 1195. In 1319 James Butler, third Earl of Ormonde, purchased the estate of the Pembroke (or Strongbold) family, and with his descendants it has since remained. It is in perfect condition, and occupied by the Marquis of Ormonde. It is a very large edifice, of an old granite appearance, is situated on a slight elevation, and the river runs rapidly by its base. The location is at the centre of population, the main avenues adjoining the grounds. The general effect reminds us of Warwick Castle. Richard II. spent two weeks here on a visit to the Earl in 1399. In March, 1650, Cromwell, having invested the place, opened a cannonade on the castle and made a breach in its walls; but the attackers were twice repulsed, and the breach quickly repaired, Cromwell was traitorously admitted by the mayor and a few of his townsmen; and as he was in company with Ireton, Sir Walter Butler, who was in charge of the place, deemed it expedient to capitulate, and did so on honorable terms. He and his officers were highly complimented by Cromwell, who informed them that he had lost more men in storming the town than he did in taking Drogheda, and that but for treachery he should have retired from the siege.
To the right of the centre and on very high ground we see the Cathedral of St. Canice, one of the most interesting ecclesiastical structures of Ireland. It was begun in 1180 by Felix O'Dullany, who transferred the See of Sagir from Aghabo to Kilkenny. So extensive was the design of the building that its projectors, never expecting to see it finished, contentedly covered in the choir and consecrated it, leaving to others the task of consummating the work. It is cruciform in plan, 226 feet long, and 123 feet wide at the transepts. It has a low and long look, and the tower, which is also low, gives the structure a depressed appearance. The interior, however, is grand and imposing. The pillars are of plain black marble, surmounted by high Gothic arches. The arches under the tower, which is at the intersection of nave, choir, and transepts, rest on four massive marble columns. The great western window is triplicated, and a large cross and two Gothic finials crown the centre, angles, and apex of the great gable. The exterior is in tolerable repair, and the interior is in perfect condition, having been fully restored by Dean Vignolles.
The monumental remains are numerous and interesting. Among them is that of Peter Butler, the eighth Earl of Ormonde, and his Amazonian Countess, known by the Irish as Morgyrhead Ghearhodh. Irish enough the name is, and for that reason we quote it. They died in the sixteenth century. The Countess was of the family of Fitzgerald, and did not dishonor her blood, for she was masculine in organization, and as warlike as any of her race. History says of her that "she was always attended by numerous vassals, richly clothed and accoutred, the whole forming a gay pageant and formidable army;" and it was more than whispered, by the gossips of her day, that, like Rob Roy, she levied blackmail on her less powerful neighbors.
Near the cathedral is one of the finest monumental round-towers of Ireland, 108 feet in height and in perfect preservation; though like all these solitary towers, its use is yet enveloped in mystery. No place of Ireland presents a better opportunity of research for the lover of antiquities than the county of Kilkenny, for it is not too much to say that here ruins abound. A writer in "Hall's Hibernia" says:—
So numerous are church ruins in this region, that on our way we were guided through numerous alleys and by-lanes, to examine relics of the olden time. We found wretched hovels propped up by carved pillars; and in several instances discovered Gothic doorways converted into pigstyes.
This was not quite our experience. Our impressions were that the town, in the English part, was business-like and attractive, the streets clean and well paved, and the inhabitants well dressed. In the Irish portion there was the usual quota of one-story houses, and a poor population.
The Roman Catholic Church, recently built, is an elegant structure, with lofty towers and spires above them, and stands, as viewed from the railroad, at about the centre of the place.
Kilkenny is celebrated as the seat of witchcraft trials. One of the most remarkable was that of Lady Alice Kettel in 1325. There were, however, but three executions. It should in justice to Ireland be said that, with all its superstitions, it had comparatively few inhabitants who were barbarous enough to force presumed witches to trial. New England was more than her equal. Aside from these three at Kilkenny, there was but one such execution in all Ireland; and that was at Antrim, in 1699, seven years after the first appearance of the delusion in New England, which occurred at the house of Rev. Mr. Parris, in Salem, in 1692. The Antrim trial was the last, and was told as a story in pamphlet form, entitled, "The Bewitching of a Child in Ireland." It had a large circulation, and was foolishly copied by Professor Sinclair into his work entitled "Satan's Invisible World Discovered;" and is frequently referred to by Sir Walter Scott, in his "Letters on Demonology." While speaking of Sir Walter, we are reminded of the fact that Kilkenny, as well as Melrose had its Sir Walter. His name was John Banim. He wielded a facile pen, had a peculiar temperament, and represented the character of his country and its people with more fidelity and interest, if not romantic effect, than any other Irish novelist.
We are admonished that we must here end our talk about this lovely Kilkenny; and, as we turn once more for a final view as our train moves away from the station, it is not without feelings allied to those which Longfellow describes in his own sweet way:—
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
We are fully aware that we have not often spoken of Roman Catholic churches, cathedrals, nunneries, and schools; and at first sight it would appear that in this Catholic country more attention should have been paid to these things; but recognizing the narrow space that could with propriety be devoted to any one place, we have reluctantly had to forego the pleasure of describing many points of interest. The reader may rest assured that it would have given us unalloyed pleasure to speak of hospitals, charity-schools, asylums, almshouses, and a thousand charitable institutions we saw and heard of. All these abound. That kind-heartedness, so characteristic of the Irish nature; that hospitality which is part of their being, making their houses, large or small, in Ireland or America, hospitals, asylums, or hotels,—these qualities show themselves, in constant and varying forms, in buildings designed as comfortable retreats for the unfortunate.
Descriptions have been given only of such buildings as are of remarkable antiquity, and possessed of more than ordinary interest. At best, these chapters can only be a brief and meagre synopsis of an inexhaustible store; but perhaps they will tempt the reader to consult the more elaborate thought of others, as found in histories and gazetteers. No more comfortable road up the hill of general knowledge exists, than that which one travels while reading such works. In the former, and measurably in the latter, he finds truth stranger than fiction, and romance supported by an obscured reality, at once enchanting and almost incredible.
In passing over the roads from place to place there is one continual panorama of interesting objects, each of which is out of the usual line of observation of such travellers as ourselves,—Americans, Yankees, with New England lineage and descent through a line of more than a hundred years. These scenes are so interesting that hundreds of chapters might be written about them; and when the work ended, description proper would be just begun.
What novel can be more interesting, or what entertainment more enchanting, than to read about Galbally, where a monastery was founded, as early as 1204, for the Grayfriars, by a member of the celebrated family of O'Brien. It justly boasts of its beautiful Glen Aherlow, eight miles long and two wide, which truthful descriptions say, is not surpassed in interest by anything in the country. It has also a Druidical Temple, consisting of three circles of stone, the principal one of which is 150 feet in diameter, consisting of forty stones, of which the largest is 13 feet long, 6 feet wide, and 4 feet thick!
The Rock of Cashel, but twelve miles from Limerick,—a large lone rock, rising boldly out of a plain,—is of world-wide celebrity, by reason of its association with one of the most interesting ruins in the kingdom, which still repose on its summit,—those of a grand castle, held by the chiefs of the family Hy Dunnamoi, now called O'Donohue. They consist chiefly of a round-tower, ninety feet high; a small church in the Norman style, with a stone roof; a cathedral church, in Gothic style; and a castle and monastery; and yet in addition, are the fine ruins of Hore Abbey at the base of the rock. Let the intelligent reader know of these, and he has at hand strange and enchanting romances in no way inferior to "Kenilworth," or "The Lady of the Lake."
We shall be pardoned for seeming egotism when we name Loughmore Castle,—a fine old building in ruins, showing yet a massive castellated front, with strong square towers at each end, the one at the right being of great antiquity, the remainder having been built in the sixteenth century. On the opposite side are the church and chapel of Loughmore. The estate was long the seat of the Purcells, from whom, in a maternal line, has probably descended one of the authors of this volume.
Let our investigator continue his research, and he will be informed of the remarkable ruins of Kildare, thirty miles out from Dublin, among which is the Chapel of St. Brigid, called the Firehouse, it being the locality of the perennial fire which the nuns maintained day and night, during a thousand years, for the benefit of strangers and the poor. A thousand years of never extinguished charity-fire! How incomprehensible the fact and story!
Ireland is indeed a land of romance, which is merged in the obscurities of a time which the records of man do not reach or measure. Superstition and general ignorance long prevailed, but the temperament and organism of the race have made a history peculiar to itself. There's a deal of strength and nationality in the blood. Dilute it, generation after generation, and its idiosyncracies are still there. Where can romance inhere, if not in conditions like these? What, if not legends of fairies, visions, miracles, could result from the operations of this religious turn of mind, and its accompanying superstitious beliefs? Castle, church, monastery, abbey, tower, must come into being; and their convictions were so influential that these people "builded better than they knew."
We arrive at Maryboro at 7.30 p. m., and here we meet with our first and last experience of a tardy train, which is an hour and a half late at a junction. We remained over night at Borland's Hotel, paying for supper, lodging, and breakfast, $1.50 apiece. At 8.40 a. m. next day, May 2, took train for Dublin again, arriving at 11 A. M. This was to be our last day in Erin, and so we went directly to the steamer Longford and engaged "passage out of Ireland," paying for the passage to Liverpool $2.37 each. And now for one more tramp over the Irish metropolis.
We had been informed of the completion of Christ Church Cathedral, and that on this day the great public opening was to take place. We soon discovered that we were unfortunate in not being one of the dignitaries, as they only had tickets of admission. But no Yankee of good blood would be three thousand miles from home, and lose a sight on which a million dollars had been expended; and so, with as much faith that we should gain admission to their building, as most of the prelates perhaps had of one day entering "the house not made with hands," we made our demand, and were of course repulsed. Remembering the daring of Strongbow, whose bones were reposing inside the cathedral, and that we were of Irish extraction, we were emboldened, and bethought ourselves of who we were; for, like one of old, we were citizens "of no mean country," and were ready to fight spiritually with the beasts of Ephesus. We made an effort, and came off conquerors. "Americans," said we. That was the charm which held the attention of the official, robed and consequential, with whom we talked, and who was moved by that talismanic word. Although he had refused, and with righteous indignation declared he could not—and perhaps felt that he would not—let us in; yet, as soon as he knew who we were, he came down from his lofty position and the cathedral door swung open. His whole being was filled with a consciousness of the good of which he was the happy author. We complacently bowed our compliments, as all triumphing Americans should do; then we went in and surveyed everything, and in due time were out and taking our last look of the city.
At 6 p. m. we were on board our steamer; and soon she steamed out of the harbor and into the bay and channel, and we were once more on the briny deep. A pleasant sail, and a comparatively quiet one, landed us at 7 a. m., on Saturday, May 3, on the soil of Old England.
We have with comparative thoroughness—that is, for a tourist's statement—given an account of Old Ireland; and now, before we begin our similar account of Old England, we think it well to add a page or two more, and give a few leading points in regard to Ireland as a whole; for in these chapters, be it anew remembered, we are to try and give such incidental information as will be useful as well as entertaining to the general reader, so that he will know more of the country than he would learn from mere statements about a few things we chanced to see.
As is well known, the Emerald Isle—so called from the luxuriance of vegetation induced by a mild and moist climate—is one of the four divisions of Great Britain, England, Wales, and Scotland being the others. It is separated from England by the Irish Sea and St. George's Channel, and contains an area of 32,531 square miles. This is not far from the size of the State of Maine, which contains 35,000. Ireland is divided into four provinces, Leinster, Munster, Ulster, and Connaught, and these comprise thirty-two counties. Its greatest population was in 1841, when it amounted to 8,199,853. During the next ten years, owing to famine and emigration, it decreased 1,600,000, that is to 6,599,853; and this was about 200,000 less than in 1821, when the first census was taken. The number of inhabited houses in 1861 was 995,156; in ten years they decreased to 960,352. The average number of persons to a house was seven, giving for 1871 a population of 6,722,464. This is not far from the present population, which is more than ten times that of the State of Maine, 626,915, and twice that of all New England, 3,487,924. As New England has 68,460 miles of surface, and Ireland 32,531, it follows that the latter has about four times as many persons to the square mile as the former.
Ireland has ninety-two harbors and sixty-two lighthouses. There are in all 2,830,000 acres of bog land that is available for fuel, or about one seventh of all the island. At Dublin the mean temperature for the year is fifty degrees, which is seven degrees warmer than the average of Boston; and there is an average of but three degrees of difference between the extreme northern and southern parts. There is a perpetual moisture, which induces vegetation and maintains unfailing pasturage. This is due to the prevalence of westerly winds, which bring with them the warm moist atmosphere of the Gulf Stream. The average rainfall is thirty-six inches, or about six inches less than at Boston.
Ireland boasts of great antiquity. We will, however, speak of it only from the time of St. Patrick, who was sent here by Germanus of Rome, to convert the people to Christianity. He arrived about the middle of the fifth century, and died in 493, leaving the island nominally Christian. Schools and monasteries were established; and so noted did the country become for the learning and piety of its ecclesiastics, that it was called Insula Sanctorum, Isle of Saints. In the year 646 many Anglo Saxons settled on the island, and in 684 it had become of sufficient importance to be invaded by Egfrid, king of Northumberland, who destroyed churches and monasteries. From this time invasions were common. In 1002 Brian Boru, who was king of the province of Munster, was powerful enough to expel the Danes who had come in, and was crowned at Tara, "King of all Ireland." Hence Moore's poem, "The Harp that once through Tara's Halls."
Brian Boru wrought great reforms, for he founded churches and schools, opened roads, built bridges, and fitted out fleets. He introduced surnames, heretofore not in use, and made the marriage contract permanent. The Danes again invaded Ireland in 1014; and on Good Friday—April 23, of that year—Brian, an old man of eighty years, was killed in his tent, although his party had triumphed.
Internal dissensions and civil wars followed. The island soon fell into a state of degeneracy, and lost its good character as the Isle of Saints. St. Bernard called the attention of the Church authorities of Rome to its condition, and Pope Eugenius III. sent Cardinal Papiron to restore discipline. In March, 1152, a synod was held at Kells, when the supremacy of Rome was acknowledged, and the archbishoprics of Dublin and of Tuam were established. In 1155 a bull is said to have been issued by Pope Adrian IV. conferring the sovereignty of Ireland on Henry II. of England. Next came invasions by two bands of Normans, one under Robert Fitzstephen in 1169, and another under Earl Pembroke (Strongbow) in the same year. Henry II. issued a proclamation recalling Strongbow, and all Englishmen, under pain of outlawry. Then there was a series of interesting battles, sometimes one party being successful, and sometimes the other.
In 1341 Edward III. ordered that all offices held by Irishmen, or by Englishmen who had estates or wives in Ireland, should be vacated, and filled by Englishmen who had no personal interest whatever in the Green Isle. Great resistance and trouble followed, and the English triumphed.
A parliament was held in Dublin in 1537, when the Act of Supremacy was passed, declaring Henry VIII. supreme head of the Church, prohibiting intercourse with the court of Rome, and making it treason to refuse the oath of supremacy. Then began a new series of wars and troubles. Each subsequent page of history is stained with blood. Insurrections and resistance were oft repeated. Finally, in 1798, new battles were fought, the English being in the end victorious. The next year a bill of amnesty was passed, and the country settled down into comparative quiet. Jan. 1, 1801, Articles of Union were agreed upon, and from then till now, with occasional outbreaks and riots, England has maintained her hold. Much of the work done by Henry VIII. has been good in its results; but much has proved to be wrong in the extreme. The principle of entailing landed estates tends to impoverish the people, drive them to emigration, and so depopulate the country. These are the seeds of decay for not only Ireland, but for England herself. It is a wrong "so rank it smells to heaven," and deliverance is sure to come. And now, we bid adieu to Ireland, where we have enjoyed so much, and for whose good time coming we watch and wait in sympathy with her sons.
ENGLAND.