"Hugh Rufus laid the foundation of a noble edifice," say the old writers, "and Bishop Mapilton, in 1233, and St. Leger, who succeeded him, completed the fabric." In describing the church of St. Canice, I cannot refrain from alluding to the extreme politeness of Father Kavanagh, a Roman Catholic priest, who devoted his time to my party and myself in pointing out the beauties of this venerable pile.
The Black Abbey was founded by William, Earl Marshal, about 1225, for Dominican friars. The founder was interred here in 1231, and three years after his brother Richard, who was slain in a battle with the O'Mores and O'Conors on the Curragh of Kildare. Henry VIII. granted this monastery to the burgesses and commonalty of the city of Kilkenny. In the time of the elder James it served for a shire-house, and in 1643 it was repaired, and a chapter of the order held in it. Its towers are light and elegant, and some of the windows are most artistically executed.
St. Mary's church contains some very interesting monuments, among them one in memory of Sir Richard Shee, dated 1608, with its ten sculptured figures at the base. There is one also to his brother, Elias Shee, of whom Holinshed wrote that he was "a pleasant-conceited companion, full of mirth without gall." On an unpretending tablet of black and white marble appears the following inscription:
"FREDERICK GEORGE HOWARD,
SECOND SON OF THE EARL OF CARLISLE
CAPTAIN OF THE 90TH REGIMENT
DIED A.D. 1833, AET. 28.
"Within this hallowed aisle, mid grief sincere,
Friends, comrades, brothers late young Howard's bier;
Gentle and brave, his country's arms he bore
To Ganges' stream and Ava's hostile shore:
His God through war and shipwreck was his shield,
But stretched him lifeless on the peaceful field.
Thine are the times and ways, all-ruling Lord!
Thy will be done, acknowledged, and adored!"
The above lines are from the pen of the late Earl of Carlisle, who never went near Kilkenny without paying a visit to the tomb of his brother. Poor Howard was killed by leaping out of a curricle, which was run away with between the barracks at Kilkenny and Newtownbarry, where his regiment was quartered. Another monument attracted my attention; it bore an inscription to the memory of Major-General Sir Denis Pack, recording the military career of this distinguished soldier. I knew the deceased officer well during the Belgian [{304}] campaign, and a thousand recollections sprang up in my mind when I saw the bust, by Chantrey, of as brave a man as ever served in the British army. But to return.
Although the salmon fishing in Ireland has in many rivers sadly degenerated within a few years, there is still excellent sport to be had in many of the rivers and lakes. The Nore, which flows through the county of Kilkenny, would be a first-rate river for salmon and trout were it not for the number of weirs and the illegal destruction of the fish by cross-lines and nets. At Mount Juliet, the romantic seat of Lord Carrick, and Narlands, the river is partially preserved; and here, as at Dunmore, the property of Lord Ormonde, the angling is excellent. The general run of salmon flies suits the Nore; they should be tied with dobbing of pig's wool, and a good deal of peacock in the wing. For trout, the ordinary run of flies will be found to answer well.
Among other fishing localities in Ireland may be mentioned Lough Ree, a fine sheet of water about twenty miles in extent, studded with numerous islands, around the shores of which, and on the shoals, trout abound. The lake of Allua, about ten miles above Macroom, in the county of Cork, was once famous for trout and salmon, which have of late years diminished considerably, in consequence of the introduction of pike, the tyrant of the waters. The lakes of Carvagh, in Kerry, of Inchiquin, of Currana (near Derrynane), Lough Kittane (four miles from Killarney), Lough Brin (in Kerry), Lough Atedaun, Lough Gill (in Sligo), and Lough Erne, are well supplied with trout and salmon; while the far-famed lakes of Killarney will furnish sport to those who seek pastime, in addition to the enjoyment of witnessing the most beautiful and romantic scenery that is to be found in the Emerald Isle. The rivers, too, abound in fish. Among the best are the Liffey, Laune, Tolka, Bann, Blackwater (in Cork), Suir, Annar, Nire (a mountain stream rising in the Waterford mountains), Shannon, Lee, and Killaloe (remarkable for its eels, as also for the gastronomic skill of the inhabitants in dressing them).
I must now turn from the "gentle crafte" to otter-hunting, a sport still carried on with spirit in Ould Ireland. The mephitic nature of the otter renders him an easy prey to his pursuers, and his scent is so strong that a good hound will at once challenge it. The lodging of this subtle plunderer is called his kennel, or couch, and his occasional lodgments and passages to and fro are called his halts. So clever is he as an architect that he constructs his couches at different heights, so that, let the water rise or fall, he has a dry tenement. Spring is the best season for otter-hunting, but it is carried on during the summer in the Emerald Isle; and a day with the amphibious tyrant of the finny tribe in the river Nore, which I enjoyed last September, may not be uninteresting.
At about eleven o'clock on a bright sunny day, with a refreshing breeze blowing on us from the south-east, we met at Coolmore, the seat of Mr. P. Connellan. The harriers--belonging to my host, and consisting of about six couple of handsome, well-sized hounds, about seventeen inches high--met in a field close to the house, attended by a whipper-in, admirably mounted. The pack seemed to possess all the qualifications of good harriers--fine heads, ear-flaps thin, nostrils open, chests deep, embraced by shoulders broad but light, and wen thrown back; the fore-legs straight, clean, bony, terminated by round, ball-like feet, the hind-legs being angular, and the thighs powerful. The beauty of the day had attracted a large party of both sexes from the neighborhood, some of whom, and one young lady in particular, managed a cot so ably, that she drew forth the following complement [{305}] from one of the bold peasantry: "Bedad, miss, you'd do honor to Cleopatra's galley." The principal part of the sportsmen and sports-women were on foot, although a few were mounted, and among the fair equestrians was a young lady whose seat and hand were perfect, and who evidently wished to emulate the prowess of the Thracian huntress. This modern Harpalyce, combining courage with feminine deportment, was prepared to fly like the wind across the country, had an occasion presented itself by the accidental discovery of a fleet hare. Arrived at the river's side, two Saxons with loaded guns kept a good lookout for the lurking prey, while the hounds swam across to a small island, where an otter had been tracked by his seal Shortly a hound was heard to challenge, but on the approach of the pack the "goose-footed prowler," having been hunted before, left his couch, and diving under the water made head up the stream. Now every eye on shore is intent on watching his ventings; his muzzle appears above the surface for a second; again it disappears; and he can be tracked alone by the bubbles of air he throws out. The sport is now exciting. One of the police, armed with a primitive spear, which he had taken from a river poacher, consisting of a three-pronged fork fixed into the end of a long pole, is ready to hurl the weapon which has proved so fatal to many a salmon, should the otter appear in view, while the staunch hounds are close on the scent. "Have a care there," cries a keen sportsman to the preserver of the peace. "Don't strike too quickly, or bedad you may transfix a hound instead of the marauding animal." But he is not doomed to die so inglorious a death as that caused by a rusty fork, for before the crude spear is hurled the hounds have seized him, and, after a desperate struggle, in which many of the gallant pack were bitten, shake the life out of the captured prey. While enjoying the sport of the morning, my attention was attracted to a young lady on the opposite bank of the river, who, wising to join our party, entered a small cot, and gallantly paddled herself across the fast-flowing stream. So admirably did this "guardian Naiad of the strand" guide her fragile bark, that I could not fail to congratulate her upon her prowess. My compliments, however, fell very short of one uttered by a ragged boatman, who exclaimed:
"Ay, and sure, miss, you must be one of the queen's company. Bedad, miss, you are worthy of taking a cot into the Meditherranean."