Yonder is a cross of wood under discussion at the present moment. It states that "here lies Kate O'Shea and also her sister Mrs. Mary Buckley," and that as "their father died last year, this is the end of the O'Shea family." That thereby hangs a tale is very evident, and yonder fat old lady on whose head a bit of a black bonnet is poised and round whose shoulders a comfortable shawl is wrapped could and would tell me if there were not so many listeners about, who knowing her love of gossip keep sharp watch and ward, so that of those who are gone I learn nothing, but of what is shortly to happen I hear more.
The Room in Doneraile Court where Mrs. Aldworth Hid
A wedding is to take place in the modern church just here and we sit round on the tombstones, awaiting the coming of the bride. There are hints as to this bride which rouse my curiosity, and I decide to await her coming, which shortly happens. She is a comely looking young woman, modestly dressed in a green gown, and a blue hat with red roses thereon. Her blue eyes do not possess a very happy look as they rest on the fat middle-aged bridegroom, and the old lady on the tombstone next to me heaves a sigh which tells unutterable things. Still, all seems going smoothly and we follow into the church. The ceremony begins, and progresses as usual to that point where the bride is asked if she takes this man to be her wedded husband, when upon the amazed and horrified ears of all falls the reply in sharp tones, "Indade, I won't," followed by a swish of a blue skirt and a flash of red roses down the aisle and out the door and the bride is gone. I leave a description of the hubbub which followed to your imagination.
Getting finally outside, I find myself once more near the old lady of ample proportions, and just in time to hear her remark "and him wid nine illegant fat pigs and sivin suits of clothes aich one better than the other." This entirely destroys my dignity and self-control and I double up with laughter upon a neighbouring tombstone, whereupon the old lady, after one look of grand amaze, gives me "the full of her back" and with her "nose trun in the air" passes majestically away. I learn later that of that bride they never again heard. Like the bubble on the river she was gone and for ever.
The neighbourhood of Buttevant is full of interest to those who will turn aside from the usual tour of Ireland. To-day we are off through the green lanes for a visit to Kilcoman Castle, the home for some years of the poet Spenser, and where he wrote his Faerie Queene. We shall later visit the scenes of that poem.