We left Dublin for Cork, on a fresh August morning--pleasant but
showery, like nearly all mornings in Ireland. The railway on which we
travelled, passes for the most part through a barren, boggy, desolate
country, with only here and there a tract of well cultivated land--past
low, miserable hovels of bog-working peasants, and wretched,
tumble-down little villages.
It was melancholy to see, all along our way, multitudes of
ruins--churches and castles and towers--battered, dismantled, and
ivy-grown--making it look more like a country of the dead than of the
living. In these crumbling remains, you read, almost as in a book, the
history of the ancient prosperity and power of Ireland, and of its
gradual destruction by wars, sieges, famine, and pestilence, till it
was brought to its present state of poverty and desolation.
We passed through, or in sight of, several famous old places, such as
Kildare, the Rock of Dunamase, Cashel, Kilmallock, and Buttevant.
Kildare, though now a small, dilapidated town, was once a large city,
renowned for its religious institutions. Its principal buildings were
churches, monasteries, and nunneries, and its chief productions
crucifixes, rosaries, and saints. The most celebrated among the
latter, was Saint Bridget, who received the veil from the hands of St
Patrick himself. She founded a nunnery here, which was most remarkable
for "the sacred fire," which the nuns who succeeded her kept burning
for hundreds of years--in remembrance of her, probably. From a little
story related of her, when she was a child, I should say she better
deserved to be called a saint than many of those so honored by the
Church.
The father of Bridget was a warlike Irish chieftain, but a loyal
subject of the King of Leinster, and on one occasion, that monarch
bestowed upon him a rich sword, with the hilt set with costly jewels.
Now the peasants on this chieftain's estates were very poor--indeed,
suffering absolute starvation, and there was no one to help them, for
their lord had enough to do to fight his enemies, without feeding his
humble friends; and his wife, Bridget's stepmother, was a hard, cruel
woman. Poor little Bridget gave all her pocket-money, and sold all her
little keepsakes, for their relief, and still they were starving. At
last, she went to the armory and took down her father's idle, show
sword, and had the rich jewels taken out of the hilt and sold. With
the money she bought food, and saved the lives of several most worthy
but unfortunate families. When her father came home, she told him what
she had done. History does not say, but we can easily guess, what _he_
did. And that was not the last of it; soon after, the King came to her
father's house to dine, and having heard about the theft, called the
child up to him, and asked her how she had dared to do such a wicked
thing as to rob her father and deface the gift of a great monarch.
Now, we republicans can have very little idea of what it was to be
called up and spoken to in this way. Kings, in old times, were far
more terrible than they are now, and Irish kings were the most terrible
of all. But brave little Bridget, though she was only nine years old,
was not frightened by his black frown and thunder-like voice. She
stood up straight, and looked calmly into his angry eyes, as she
replied: "I have but bestowed thy gift upon a greater and a mightier
king than thou art--even Christ, who hath said that whatsoever we give
unto his poor children is given unto him."
In the neighborhood of Kildare, is Inch Castle, about which Mrs. S. C.
Hall tells a touching legend. Inch Castle was once in the possession
of the MacKellys--a proud and powerful family. Ulick, one of the sons
of the old lord, a handsome, gay, daring young man, but wild and
heartless, paid court to a beautiful peasant girl, named Oona More. He
won her love, and then, being very fickle, cruelly forsook her. Oona
was very good and gentle--she forgave her false lover, and would not
allow her brothers to harm him, though he had broken her loving heart.
Suddenly the plague broke out in the neighborhood, and Ulick MacKelly
was one of the first struck. As was the custom, for fear of the
infection, he was removed at once from the castle to the fields, where
a shed was erected over him, and he was left alone with only a loaf of
bread and a pitcher of water by his side. When Oona heard of this, she
forgot his cruel desertion--forgot every thing but his suffering and
her love--and went to him, and tended him, and prayed beside him, day
and night, till he died. Even then, she did not leave him. She had
taken his deadly disease; on her breast came a bright red spot--the
sure sign of the plague. She was not sorry to see it there and the
next day, all her pain and trouble and sorrows were over. Then her
brother came to take her away. She still sat by the dead--her hood
fell over her face, so she seemed to be yet alive. Her brother laid
his hand on her shoulder, and said, gently--
"Oona, come home--the cow is lowing for you--the little lambs have no
one to care for them. Oona, dear, come home with me!"
Seeing that she did not stir, he lifted the hood, looked in her dead
face, and gave a bitter cry. He had no sister any more.
We passed through a portion of the "Bog of Allen," the largest of all
Irish bogs--said to be full 300,000 acres in extent. Some of my
readers may not know that the bog is not the primitive soil, but masses
of partly decomposed vegetable matter, which have accumulated during
many, many ages. In nearly all of the bogs, trees of various kinds
have been found imbedded--sometimes small buildings, arms, ornaments,
strange implements, and the bones of enormous animals, now extinct.
From oak dug up from bogs, many pretty black ornaments are now made.
This bog takes its name from the hill of Allen, or "Dun Almhain," on
which was the residence of the famous old Irish chief, Fin MacCual, or
Fingal, as he is called in Ossian's Poems. He was the king of the
Fians, the name of the ancient Irish tribes who lived by hunting. He
must have been handsome as well as heroic, for he was, it seems, a
wonderful favorite with the ladies. It is related that when he
concluded that it was time for him to take a wife, he was sadly puzzled
who to choose among his many fair admirers. Finally, he settled upon a
plan odd and funny enough, certainly. He sent out a proclamation to
all the beautiful young women of Ireland, calling upon them to assemble
on a certain day, at the foot of a mountain in Tipperary, now called
Slieve-na-man. When they had all come together, a host of rival
beauties in their best array, the great chief coolly announced to them
that he was about to ascend the mountain, and that from the summit, he
would make a signal to them, when they should all start fair, and
whoever should first reach the summit, should have the honor and
felicity of being Mrs. Fin MacCual. He then proceeded leisurely up the
mountain, seated himself on an old Druidical altar, at the very topmost
point, and graciously waved his hand to the expectant ladies below.
Off they started like eager young race-horses,--nothing daunted by the
hard course they had to run. Up, up, over rocks and streams, and
patches of black bog--up, up, through woods and briars and furze, they
leaped and climbed and scrambled--laughing and panting and scolding and
screaming! Ah, what sport it must have been for Fin, watching them
from above! Yet, though they all ran well, only one came in winner.
But that was the highest princess of the country--Graine, daughter of
Cormac, monarch of all Ireland. I hope she found her husband worth the
chase.
The great rock of Dunarnase stands alone in the midst of a plain, and
is crowned with the ruins of a castle--once a very strong fortress.
The rock of Cashel is seen from a great distance, and upon its summit
are the finest ruins in all Ireland. This noble height was a
stronghold of the ancient kings of the province of Munster. The first
Christian kings built churches, chapels, towers, and cathedrals here,
and the present ruins are mostly of religious edifices. This imposing
site is much venerated still, and a favorite oath among the Irish
peasantry is--"By the Rock of Cashel!"
Kilmallock, now all in ruins, was once a city of great beauty and
consideration. It was destroyed by the troops of Cromwell, the
desolater of Ireland. Kilmallock was the seat of the ancient and
powerful race of the Desmonds.
Buttevant is a poor little place, but containing the ruins of a fine
old abbey. Near Buttevant are the ruins of Kilcoleman Castle, at which
the great poet Spenser lived, and which was burned by the Irish in a
rebellion. The youngest child of the poet perished in the flames.
Cork is usually ranked as the second city of Ireland, and is a
handsome, pleasant, prosperous looking place. It has not many
interesting antiquities, but some of its modern buildings are very
fine. The country around Cork is exceedingly picturesque, and its
harbor is very beautiful. The city itself is about twelve miles from
the mouth of the harbor, upon the River Lee.
We had letters of introduction to a gentleman living at Monkstown,
about six miles below the city, and on the day after our arrival, we
took the steamboat and went down to his residence. We were received
with warm Irish hospitality, and throughout that day and the next,
every thing that our friend and his family could do for our enjoyment
was done in the pleasantest and heartiest way. They took us boating up
and down the noble bay--driving along the shores, and walking over
their estate. There was always a large, lively party, and we had the
merriest times imaginable. They made a pic-nic for us, on Cove Island,
but a rain coming on, we took refuge in an old, old castle, where we
feasted, and jested, and laughed, and sung songs, and even danced, in
the rough and gloomy halls in which, hundreds and hundreds of years
ago, were gathered barbaric Irish chieftains--grim, terrible
fellows--parading the spoils of the chase, or the plunder of war.
A little way back from their house, our friends have another
ruin--Monkstown Castle. This was built in 1636--tradition says at only
the cost of a groat. Of course, the statement was a puzzle to me, when
I first heard it, but it was soon explained. The estate belonged, at
that time, to John Archdeken, who, while serving with the army abroad,
left his wife in charge of his property. She was a thrifty woman, and
determined to surprise him on his return by a noble residence, which
should cost very little. So she hired workmen, with the privilege of
supplying them with all their provisions and articles of clothing.
These she purchased by wholesale, and though she sold them at the
ordinary retail price, found in the end, that the profits had only
fallen short of paying the expenses of building, one groat.
It came very hard for us to part from our kind friends at
Monkstown--but it has by no means been hard to keep them in loving
remembrance.
Just a pleasant drive from Cork is Blarney Castle--a noble ruin,
towering above a beautiful little lake, all surrounded by delightful,
though neglected grounds--made famous by an old comic song, called "The
Groves of Blarney."
This stronghold was built in the fifteenth century, by the great chief,
Cormac MacCarty, and retained by his descendants, the lords of
Clancarty and Musterry, until 1689, when it was confiscated. It has
since belonged to a family of Jeffries. The sad work of decay and
demolition has been going on for several centuries, and yet some of the
walls look as though they would stand centuries longer.
The chief object of curiosity here is the famous "Blarney Stone," about
which there is a foolish tradition that whoever kisses it shall be
gifted with such shrewdness and eloquence that nobody will be able to
resist his persuasions. From this comes the expression of "_blarney_"
for cunning and flattering talk. I did not perceive that the people in
this neighborhood had any more of this peculiar gift than those of
other provinces;--indeed, I should suppose that there was a Blarney
stone in every town in Ireland, and that no Irishman, woman, or child
had failed to kiss it.
This stone is now on the inside of the highest battlement of the great
tower. It was formerly on the outside, some feet from the top, and
those who wished to kiss it, were obliged to be let down by their
heels--which being a rather disagreeable and dangerous process, Mr.
Jeffries had it removed to its present place. Some learned men say
that this is nothing but a spurious stone, after all; and that the real
magical stone is yet imbedded in the outer wall, about twenty feet from
the top, and bears the name of the great MacCarty. Perhaps it is
so--but I don't believe it.
In the grounds about the Castle, or "The Groves," there is many a
sweet, dewy, flowery spot, where the grass, moss, and ivy, are green as
green can be, and no sound is heard in the deep shade but the gurgle of
water and the warble of birds. Here are some rude steps made in the
rock, called "The Witches' Staircase," and a cave, in which it was said
a fair Princess remained enchanted for many years. Legends say that
the last Earl of Clancarty sunk all his valuable plate in the lake,
where it will remain until one of the old race regains possession of
the estate. Our guide told us that Lady Jeffries tried to drain the
lake, but that though she made a deep opening in the bank, not a drop
would run out--"for fear of exposing the plate of the rale lord!" He
said, too, that enchanted cows in the MacCarty interest came often at
night, and drove the Jeffries cows out of their pastures; and that no
earthly cattle had any chance at all against them--for they were
furious animals, with "mighty sharp horns." Of course, all this is
very absurd, and not half so pretty as the legends we heard everywhere
in Ireland of the fairies, or "good people." I will tell you more of
these another time. Now I have only room for a little anecdote of the
last Lord Clancarty, which I find set down as a great lesson to people
to read their Bibles.
When this unfortunate nobleman was going into exile, he told his
relative, the beautiful Duchess of Marlborough, that he was certain he
could recover his property, if he only had money enough to carry on a
lawsuit for it. She did not offer to help him, but she placed in his
hands a Bible, saying that he would find in it comfort and support in
all his troubles. The young lord thanked her with such a pious face
that one would have thought he meant to do little else than study the
good book for the next six months. But the rogue never once looked
into it, and when, long after, he returned to England, the Duchess
asked him for it, and opening it before his eyes, showed him that she
had placed between the leaves, bank notes enough to have recovered his
estates, now hopelessly lost.
I must say that this account of Lord Clancarty's poverty, and that of
his treasure hid in Blarney Lake, do not hang together very well; but,
as the Bible story has the best moral, perhaps we had better hold on to
that, and let the other go, with the legends of enchanted cows and
princesses.