Photo by W. Leonard
Abbey of the Holy Cross
Boyse's friends near here have bidden us to luncheon after an inspection of that ancient seat of the O'Carrolls, Leap Castle (pronounced "Lep"). So rain and mist defying, we roll off at ten A.M. leaving Yama and our kit behind us. The roads are slippery and the car skids a little, but the chauffeur is alive to the danger, which is minimised to the fullest extent by chains on the wheels. Some ten miles out we turn into a spacious park and are welcomed at the door of the mansion of "Wingfield" by the daughters of the house, three lovely Irish women, and I know of no land which can produce more beautiful women than Ireland; striking forms, faces, and figures are the rule not the exception in this land of the harp. There is a type of reddish golden hair, fair clear complexion, and sky-blue eyes which is especially beautiful to my thinking; it belongs to the upper classes, at least I have never noted it in a daughter of the people,—there the dark blue-grey eyes and black hair, or pale straw-coloured hair combined with palest of blue eyes, prevail.
I have a painting by our poet-painter, T. Buchanan Read, which shows the type I speak of, yet where did he ever see it? Certainly not amongst those emigrants who came to America in his time. The painting, called The Harp of Erin,[5] represents a white-clad woman chained to a rock in the sea, whose waves dash up around her. Reddish golden hair floats over her shoulders, which are draped in a green scarf. Blue eyes of the colour of the deepest heaven gaze mournfully upon you and her arms are raised to play upon a harp. The artist was in his happiest mood when he painted this picture and for it he refused a large price, expecting at the period of the Fenian excitement, in the sixties, to have it lithographed and so realise vast sums, but fate in some form, how I know not, intervened, and his idea was never carried out, or the Fenian bubble burst before it could be accomplished.
But to return to Wingfield. We gather in two of the ladies and speed off over the slippery highway to Leap Castle. Now Leap, I would have you know, is THE ghost castle of Ireland, owning more spooks to the room than all the others together. En route thither we pass under the shadow of "Knockshigowna" or hill of the fairies, and it would seem on this shadowy morning that the ruin on its summit shows signs of a strange agitation; perhaps the shades are aware of our approach to their favourite castle in the valley and trust that we may tarry until night falls and their dominion maintains,—for until then, they must stay where they are, high up on yonder hill, which is the centre of all the fairy romance and legend of the island. The forest is dense here and we roll under the bending boughs, heavy with the night's dew, and glittering in the sunlight. At the end of a long green tunnel the tower of Leap Castle blocks the way.
Leap stands overlooking a fair valley, a great square tower to which have been added wings on either side. It was one of the most ancient seats of the O'Carrolls, who seem to have left a most excellent memory hereabouts as expert sheep-stealers. All of these ancient castles were composed of simply one great strong tower. Everything else is of much later date. We have seen a dozen such in the past few days. Leap is no exception. Fortunately its owner, Mr. D.; is at home and welcomes us to what has been in his family since the days of the Restoration, a period when many of the Irish castles passed into the hands of Englishmen.