In the War of the Protectorate, Cork maintained its condition as a loyal city till 1649, when it was surprised and taken by Cromwell, whose acts and cruelties are well known the civilized world over.
CHAPTER II.
BLARNEY—KILLARNEY—THE LAKES.
At 9 a. m. Tuesday, April 23, we took a jaunting-car for famed Blarney Castle. Before proceeding with our story we must speak of our team, for it is the mode of conveyance for tourists over the Emerald Isle, and Ireland would hardly seem like Ireland without the jaunting-car. It is a vehicle with two wheels and a single horse. The driver is mounted up, sulky-style, in front. There are two seats, lengthwise and back-to-back, for a couple of adult persons, facing outwards, and most of the time holding on, though a little practice convinces one that the danger of falling is less than anticipated. Large numbers of these teams are in the main streets of all the principal Irish towns, waiting for employment. The usual price for a jaunt is eight shillings, or about $2.00 of American money. The one selected, whose driver was over anxious to carry the two Amirikins, as he called us, offered to do the job for 7s. 6d. Yankee-like, having made a good bargain,—and the driver, unyankee-like, having as at an auction bid against himself,—we mounted, and were soon on our way to the place so renowned in history. First, we will consider the roads.
The ride is exceedingly pleasant, and over one of the smooth and hard roads which are everywhere to be found in Ireland. We go out of Cork southwardly, and pass through a small and not over-nice settlement called Black Pool, by no means inaptly named. The scenery is very pleasing, and so is the road we travel. The view on the north side of the river, though not wild or romantic, has beautiful landscapes, made up of fine hills and valleys, streams and groves, with, now and then, unlooked-for ruins of a monastery or small castle, or of distant round-towers.
There are no long straight roads, but there is an ever varying aspect, and the ways are clean to a fault. It is a characteristic of Ireland, England, and nearly all European countries, to have well-built faced-stone walls along the roadside, and an entire absence of the random weeds and bushes which so commonly grow along the walls and sides of the roads in America. It is a disgrace to our Young American civilization that it should be an exception, where the sides of our roads, and especially in the vicinity of farmhouses, are clean, and in lawn-like condition, as is always the case abroad. We have much to learn from Ireland,—a deal of our practice to unlearn, and considerable to do,—before we can compare favorably with Europe in this respect. A waste of acres exists in consequence of this neglect on nearly all New England farms. In the aggregate there are hundreds of thousands of acres which, if kept clean and cultivated for grass, would be profitable. Even if done at the town's expense, the income would go far towards paying the cost of keeping in repair the adjoining highway. The State should pass a law making this neglect a finable offence; and the sooner all States do this the better our civilization will be.
We continue on our way enjoying inexpressibly the exhilarating air and sunny, May-like day, and entertained somewhat by the clack of the driver, who, as best he can, tries to make his old story appear to us as new as possible, but, in spite of our or his efforts, we get the impression that he has told that story before.
We next get a good but distant view of Carrigrohan Castle, belonging to one Mr. McSwiney—the name of both castle and owner Irish enough. It is situated on a precipitous limestone-rock formation on the opposite bank of the river. At length—one hour passed, and about four miles traversed—we arrive at the old, dirty, low, dilapidated, Irish town of Blarney, which, for situation and surroundings, is as beautiful as every place in Ireland can't help being. Blarney has been immortalized in song by Millikin, Croker, and old, peculiar Father Prout.