Who does not remember the "tin man," generally named John, who made his rounds with a tin-shop of no mean proportions crowding his red waggon? Then there were the tinkers, but I must state that they were of a better order than those of Wexford to-day. We have just passed a dirty cart and forlorn pony, driven by a man more dirty and wretched-looking, if that be possible. I am told he is the head of the tinkers of Wexford, and that a more disreputable lot of tramps does not exist on this earth. As for morality, they have never heard of such a word, and certainly do not know its meaning. In their slovenly villages, they live in the most promiscuous manner and when the men start on their summer's tramp each takes along some woman who pleases him, regardless of what the degree of consanguinity may be. One must see them on their native heath to comprehend fully the force and meaning of the expression, "I don't care a tinker's dam"—but our motor has stopped before a great iron gate beyond which stretch the glades of a magnificent park. On entering I notice a sign on one of the great trees, "Wards in Chancery," and wonder "what have we here."
I doubt not that many of my readers have visited the great estates of Europe, but unless they have seen Tintern Abbey in Wexford—the quaintest of all abodes in this quaint Ireland—they have still an experience before them.
The history of Tintern dates back to 1200, when the Earl of Pembroke—he who married the Lady Isabel de Clare, Strongbow's daughter—founded this abbey to the Virgin after being delivered from the sea on the coast near-by. It was named after and peopled by monks from Tintern in Wales, which was founded by the De Clares, and while the cathedral could not have been so extensive as the one there, the entire monastery was quite as large as the older establishment. It must have been a glorious place and is so even now in its ruins, and is one of the most interesting spots in the island. It lifts its towers amidst groves of stately trees in a valley but a short distance from the sea and is embowered in clambering ivy. Its great tower, still preserved as a ruin, is not habitable save in its lower story, which is used as a kitchen. The chancel of the abbey has been turned into a dwelling-place and one of the most curious I have ever inspected. It is late on a brilliant afternoon when our car, rolling down the broad avenue of the park, comes suddenly upon the ancient structure in its secluded valley. At first all appears to be in ruins until we note that some of the arches have been walled up and hold modern windows. There are bits of ruin everywhere,—moss-grown stairs with shattered heads on the rail lead to shadowy terraces over which ancient yew trees extend sheltering arms; ruined arches and ivied towers dot the meadow, and vine-draped pillars standing far apart show the once great extent of the abbey.
Rolling on we round the corner of the main structure and draw up in the great courtyard, which evidently, in the days of the abbey's grandeur, was the cloister. To our pulling an ancient bell makes loud reply off in the tower above us, but for some moments no sign of life is evidenced. Finally the door is opened by a servant who reminds one of Obaldistone in Scott's Bride of Lammermoor. His manner is as grand as though this were the portals of Windsor Castle.
Yes, Mrs. C—— is at home, and will be glad to see us. We are ushered into one of those quaintly interesting rooms to be found only in the old world, a room impressed by each passing owner with some of his or her own personality, individuality, without which no room has any charm. Yonder is a portrait by Sir Peter Lely of a lady evidently lovesick. Here is a bit of some framed fancy work whose faded colours plainly show that it was done by a hand long since still for ever. Ivy peers into the window and taps on the glass and there is a taint of the buried years in the air,—the very sunlight seems to belong to late October.
Photo by W. Leonard