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.