Wanderings in Ireland

by Michael Myers Shoemaker

Then you have Cashel at its best; but passing outward your eye would have been at once attracted by the stately round tower, as stately to-day as it was then, which would tell you at once that, as some believed, long before the cross came to Cashel the pagans held their barbarous rites and ceremonies on this rock.

Again, we are told that Cashel was first founded in the reign of Coro, son of Loo-ee, and that its name was Sheedrum, also called Drum-feeva; from the woods about. Through the forests and up to the rock at that time came two swineherds, with their pigs, Kellarn, herdsman to the King of Ely, and Doordry, herdsman for the King of Ormond, and there appeared to them here a figure as brilliant as the sun, and whose voice, more melodious than any music of this world, was consecrating the hill and prophesying the coming of St. Patrick. The news soon reached Coro, who came hither without delay and built a palace here called Lis-no-Lachree, or the fort of heroes, and being King of Munster his royal tribute was received on this rock, then called Currick-Patrick,—wherefore it was called Cashel, i.e., Cios-ail, or the rock of tribute.

All that is but a legend and story of the long ago, yet this great round tower bears enduring testimony that Cashel was occupied long before the English invasion. Indeed the chapel of Cormac is undoubtedly of before that period but the cathedral dates from 1169, and the castle from 1260. The whole was originally surrounded by a wall, of which no trace remains to us.

But after all it is the prospect from the outer walls which will longest hold your attention, the beautiful panorama of the golden vale of Tipperary spread out before you, while beyond range the stately Galty Mountains and the Slievenaman and Clonmel hills, the old town clustering around the base of the rock, its twisting narrow streets bordered by quaint houses while the green meadows around are dotted with ruined abbeys and many a tower of far more ancient date.

If Ireland is unhappy, she does not show it here to the passing stranger to-day. All is peace down amongst those meadows and beside those still waters.

Yonder is the Abbey of Horl, the equal of Holy Cross, but to inspect all the abbeys one passes would take a lifetime.

As we return to the car, I notice that there is trouble of some sort. An old Irishman stands near-by and a little girl is trying vainly to draw him away. As we arrive Yama remarks that the old man is insulting, and in as low a tone as I can command I bid him pay no attention as the man is drunk. That may be, but not so drunk as to deaden his hearing for he promptly replies, "Yes, sor, I am drunk, but I am drunk on my own whiskey, and I am not travellin' around wid a monkey man." It was well-nigh impossible to keep grave faces, but for the Jap's sake we succeeded, and the car started, not, however, without another shot from the old man: "Well, good-bye to yez, and I forgive ye if ye did say I am drunk." I am glad to state that that was the only experience of the kind which we encountered. What may have occurred before we reached the car I cannot say,—I certainly did not question the Jap on the subject, judging it better to drop the whole matter, but I have little doubt but that he did or said something to enrage the old man. The only one concerned for whom I felt any pity was the little granddaughter, who vainly endeavoured to lead him away. Poor child, her eyes were full of tears and I felt very sorry for her. In this world of ours it seems always her sex which must suffer.

Our route from Cashel to Buttevant lies through rich meadow-lands where the grass is greener and the buttercups of a deeper golden than anywhere else in the world I think, unless it be in the "blue grass" regions of our own Kentucky. This was certainly the land of promise to all who lived here or could force their way in; almost every turn in the road brings us upon some ruined tower or castle, whilst fragments of ecclesiastical buildings dot the landscape far and near. Indeed, as we roll leisurely along on this bright summer's morning, the prospect is at all times enchanting to the lover of history and antiquity, and the interest increases steadily until Kilmalloch, the Balbec of Ireland, is reached, though at all times the traveller's regret will be intense that the ruin of all is so complete. In fact, the town is but a mass of ruins where the miserable hovels of the poor prop up what is left of the ancient mansions of a vanished nobility. As we pass through what was once its greatest street we note the remains of stately houses every here and there, but they have evidently been partly pulled down and their materials used to build the wretched structures which now shelter these people. Only the property of the church has been spared and in this case, though the ruin is great, it is the result of the sieges during Elizabeth's and Cromwell's time; the people have let the buildings alone, only that great disbeliever in church or state, time, is for ever at work completing their destruction.

One comes here upon the trails of the most powerful family which Ireland has ever possessed, the Desmonds, whose properties, covering four counties, extended over one hundred miles and contained over five hundred and seventy thousand acres. An ancient family, even at that period, they were made earls in 1329. Their power appears to have been at all times dreaded by the crown and we find one of them of the Kildare branch a prisoner in the Tower in Henry VII.'s time. He it was who burned the cathedral at Cashel, hence we may save our sympathies for a better man, especially as his assurance so affected the King that he was appointed governor of Ireland, as we related in the account of Cashel.