By M. M. SHOEMAKER
ISLANDS OF THE SOUTHERN SEAS
With 80 Illustrations. Second Edition. Large 8vo. Gilt
top $2.25
QUAINT CORNERS OF ANCIENT EMPIRES
With 47 Illustrations. Large 8vo. Gilt top $2.25
THE GREAT SIBERIAN RAILWAY FROM PETERSBURG
TO PEKING
With 30 Illustrations and a Map. Large 8vo net, $2.00
THE HEART OF THE ORIENT
With 52 Illustrations. Large 8vo net, $2.50
WINGED WHEELS IN FRANCE
With about 60 Illustrations. Large 8vo net, $2.50
WANDERINGS IN IRELAND
With 72 Illustrations. Large 8vo net,
PALACES AND PRISONS OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS
With about 60 Illustrations. Large 8vo net, $5.00
Large Paper Edition. 4o net, $12.00
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
New York London
[Illustration: "The Harp of Erin"
From the original painting by T. Buchanan Read in possession of the
author]
WANDERINGS
IN
IRELAND
BY
MICHAEL MYERS SHOEMAKER
Author of "Islands of the Southern Seas,"
"Winged Wheels in France," etc.
Illustrated
[Illustration]
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1908
COPYRIGHT, 1908
BY
MICHAEL MYERS SHOEMAKER
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
TO MY AUNT
ANNA L. SHOEMAKER
THESE NOTES ARE AFFECTIONATELY
DEDICATED
PREFACE
Are you minded for a jaunt through the island of Erin where tears and
smiles are near related and sobs and laughter go hand in hand? We will
walk, and will take it in donkey-cart and jaunting-car--by train and in
motor-cars--and if you suit yourself you will suit me.
Leaving Dublin we will circle northward, with a visit to Tanderagee
Castle and the tomb of St. Patrick--God bless him,--then on past the
Causeway and down to Derry, and so into the County of Mayo, where in the
midst of a fair you will encounter the wildest "Konfusion" and will be
introduced to the gentleman who pays the rent.
In the silence and solitudes of the island of Achill you will see tears
and hear sobs as you listen to the keening for the dead. Near the island
of Clare, Queen Grace O'Malley will almost order you away, as she did
her husband, and your motor with all its wings out will roll through the
grand scenery of the western coast--now down by the ocean and then far
up amidst the sombre mountains--Kylemore Castle and quaint Galway, Leap
Castle--ghost-haunted--and moated Ffranckfort, Holy Cross and the Rock
of Cashel--will pass in stately array and be succeeded by a glimpse of
army life at Buttevant, and a dinner at Doneraile Court, where you will
hear of the only woman Free Mason. Killarney will follow with its music
and legends, and Cork and Fermoy, and so on and into the County of
Wexford, where you will rush through the lanes and byways and will scare
many old ladies--driving as many donkeys--almost into Kingdom Come. You
will be welcomed at Bannow House and entertained in that quaintest of
all earthly dwellings, "Tintern Abbey," which was a ruin when the family
moved into it more than three centuries ago. You will visit the buried
city of Bannow and pass on to where Moore watched the "Meeting of the
Waters." You will visit in stately mansions, and go with a wild rush to
the races at the Curragh. At Jigginstown House you will be reminded of
the cowardice of a king, and as you bid farewell to Ireland you will lay
a wreath on the grave of Daniel O'Connell,--all this and much more if
you are so minded.
M. M. S.
UNION CLUB, NEW YORK, January 1, 1908.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
PAGE
Welcome to Ireland. Quaint People of Dublin. Packing
the Motors. Departure. Tara Hill. Its History and
Legends. Ruins at Trim. Tombs of the Druids.
Battle-field of the Boyne 1
CHAPTER II
Through Newry to Tanderagee Castle. Life in the Castle.
Excursions to Armagh. Its History. The English in Armagh 15
CHAPTER III
Through Newcastle to Downpatrick. Grave of St. Patrick.
His Life and Work. The Old Grave Digger. Belfast and
Ballygalley Bay. O'Halloran, the Outlaw 25
CHAPTER IV
Ballycastle to the Causeway. Prosperity of Northern
Ireland. Bundoran. Gay Life in County Mayo. Mantua
House. Troubles in Roscommon. Wit of the People. Irish
Girls. Emigration to America. Episode of the Horse.
People of the Hills. Chats by the Wayside. Mallaranny 34
CHAPTER V
The Island of Achill. Picturesque Scenery. Poverty
of the People. "Keening" for the Dead. "The Gintleman
who pays the Rint." Superstitious Legends 53
CHAPTER VI
Monastery of Burrishoole. Queen Grace O'Malley and
her Castle of Carrig-a-Hooly. Her Appearance at
Elizabeth's Court. Dismissal of her Husband. Wild
Scenery of the West Coast. The Ancient Tongue.
Recess. Kylemore Castle. Crazy Biddy 77
CHAPTER VII
The Ancient City of Galway. Quaint People. Curious
Houses. Vile Hotel. Parsonstown. Wingfield House.
Leap Castle, and its Ghosts. Ffranckfort Castle.
Clonmacnoise. Holy Cross Abbey 94
CHAPTER VIII
The Rock of Cashel. Its Cathedral, Palace, and Round
Tower--Its History and Legends. Kilmalloch, its
Ruins and History. The Desmonds. Horse Fair at
Buttevant 119
CHAPTER IX
Buttevant Barracks. Army Life. Mess-room Talk.
Condition of the Barracks. Balleybeg Abbey. Old
Church. Native Wedding. Kilcoman Castle, Spenser's
Home. Doneraile Court. Mrs. Aldworth, the only
Woman Freemason. Irish Wit. Regimental Plate.
Departure from the Barracks 132
CHAPTER X
Route to Killarney. Country Estates. Singular Customs.
Picturesque Squalor. Peace of the Lakes. Innisfallen.
The Legend of "Abbot Augustine." His Grave. "Dennis,"
the "Buttons," and his Family Affairs. Motors in the
Gap of Dunloe 161
CHAPTER XI
Kenmare and Herbert Demesnes. Old Woman at the Gates.
Route to Glengariff. Bantry Bay. Boggeragh Mountains.
Duishane Castle. The Carrig-a-pooka and its Legend.
Macroom Castle and William Penn. Cork. Imperial
Hotel. "Ticklesome" Car Boy. The Races and my Brown
Hat. Route to Fermoy. Breakdown. Clonmel and its
"Royal Irish." Ride to Waterford 170
CHAPTER XII
Ancient Waterford. History. Reginald's Tower.
Franciscan Friary. Dunbrody Abbey. New Ross. Bannow
House. Its "Grey Lady." Legend of the Wood Pigeon.
Ancient Garden. Buried City of Bannow. Dancing on
the Tombs. Donkeys and Old Women. Tintern Abbey and
its Occupants. Quaint Rooms and Quainter Stories.
Its History and Legends. The Dead man on the Dinner
Table. The Secret of the Walls. The Illuminated
Parchment. The Sealed Library. Ruined Chapel. King
Charles's Clothes. Is History False or True? 181
CHAPTER XIII
Return to Ireland. Illness. Conditions on the Great
Liners. The Quay at Cork "of a Saturday Evening."
En route once more. The Old Lady and the Donkey.
Barracks at Fermoy. Killshening House, Abandoned
Seat of the Roche Family. Fethard. Quaint Customs.
The Man in the Coffin. "Curraghmore House" and its
Great Kennels. Its Legends, Ghosts, and History.
Lady Waterford. Oliver Cromwell at the Castle. The
Marquis in the Dungeon 209
CHAPTER XIV
Departure from Fethard. A Dead Horse and a Lawsuit.
Approach to Dublin. Estate of Kilruddery. The
Swan as a Fighter. Glendalough, its Ruins and History.
Tom Moore and his Tree in Ovoca. Advantages of Motor
Travel. Superstition of the Magpie. A Boy, a Cart,
and a Black Sheep. The Goose and the Motor 225
CHAPTER XV
The Lunatic. Insanity and its Causes in Ireland. The
Usual Old Lady and Donkey. Sunshine and Shadow.
Clonmines and its Seven Churches. The Crosses around
the Holy Tree. Baginbun and the Landing of the
English. The Bull of Pope Adrian. Letter of Pope
Alexander. Protest of the Irish Princes. Legends.
Death of Henry II. 243
CHAPTER XVI
Wild Times in Ireland. Landlord and Tenant. Evictions.
Boycott at Bannow House. The Parson and the Legacy.
The Priest and the Whipping. Burial in Cement.
Departure from Bannow House. Kilkenny and her Cats.
The Mountains of Wicklow. Powerscourt and a Week-End.
Run to Dublin and an Encounter by the Way. The Irish
Constabulary. Motor Runs in the Mountains. Lord H----. 260
CHAPTER XVII
Dublin. Derby Day and the Rush to the Curragh. An
Irish Crowd. The Kildare Street Club and Club Life.
Jigginstown House and its History. The Cowardice
of a King. The Old Woman on the Tram Car. Parnell.
The Grave of Daniel O'Connell 276
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
THE HARP OF ERIN _Frontispiece_
From the original painting by T. Buchanan Read,
in the possession of the author
STATUE OF ST. PATRICK ON THE HILL OF TARA 4
CASTLE OF KING JOHN AT TRIM 8
MONUMENT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD OF THE BOYNE 12
TANDERAGEE CASTLE, IRISH SEAT OF THE DUKE
OF MANCHESTER 16
CHAPEL, TANDERAGEE CASTLE 20
DRAWING-ROOM, TANDERAGEE CASTLE 24
TERRACE, TANDERAGEE CASTLE 28
TOMB OF ST. PATRICK AT DOWNPATRICK 32
A CABIN IN THE NORTH 36
A WOMAN OF THE NORTH 40
MANTUA HOUSE, ROSCOMMON 44
BALLINA, A TYPICAL IRISH TOWN 48
A GLIMPSE OF ACHILL 52
SLIEVEMORE MOUNTAIN, AND DUGORT, ACHILL 56
FISHERFOLK OF ACHILL 60
A LONELY ROAD IN CONNEMARA 64
KYLEMORE CASTLE, CONNEMARA 68
CRAZY BIDDY 72
THE LYNCH HOUSE, GALWAY 76
ABBEY OF ST. DOMINICK, LORRHA, ANCIENT
BURIAL-PLACE OF THE CARROLLS 80
LEAP CASTLE, COURT SIDE 84
LEAP CASTLE, PARK SIDE 88
MOAT OF FFRANCKFORT CASTLE 92
FFRANCKFORT CASTLE 96
CLONMACNOISE 100
ABBEY OF THE HOLY CROSS 104
ROCK OF CASHEL 108
CORMAC'S CHAPEL, CASHEL 112
CROSS OF CASHEL, AND THRONE OF THE KINGS
OF MUNSTER 116
ANCIENT GATEWAY, KILMALLOCH 120
DOMINICAN ABBEY, KILMALLOCH 124
BUTTEVANT BARRACKS 128
DINNER, BUTTEVANT BARRACKS 132
BUTTEVANT, COUNTY CORK 136
KILCOMAN CASTLE, SPENSER'S HOME 140
DONERAILE COURT, COUNTY CORK 144
ROOM IN DONERAILE COURT WHERE MRS. ALDWORTH
HID 148
THE HON. MRS. ALDWORTH, THE ONLY WOMAN
FREEMASON 152
THE LAKE, DONERAILE PARK 156
MALLOW CASTLE, COUNTY CORK 160
IRISH COTTAGE, COUNTY KERRY 164
CHAPEL OF ST. FINIAN THE LEPER, INNISFALLEN 168
TREE OVER THE ABBOT'S GRAVE, INNISFALLEN 172
UPPER LAKE, KILLARNEY 176
"DINNIS," HOTEL VICTORIA 180
THE ROUTE TO GLENGARIFF 184
CARRIG-A-POOKA CASTLE 188
MACROOM CASTLE 192
REGINALD'S TOWER, WATERFORD 196
FRANCISCAN FRIARY, WATERFORD 200
DUNBRODY ABBEY, COUNTY WEXFORD 204
BANNOW HOUSE, COUNTY WEXFORD 208
TERRACE, BANNOW HOUSE, COUNTY WEXFORD 212
CORNER OF THE ROSE GARDEN, BANNOW HOUSE,
COUNTY WEXFORD 216
BANNOW CHURCH, COUNTY WEXFORD 220
TOMBS IN BANNOW CHURCH 224
TINTERN ABBEY, COUNTY WEXFORD 228
KILKENNY CASTLE 232
DESERTED KILLSHENING HOUSE, FERMOY 236
CURRAGHMORE HOUSE, MARQUIS OF WATERFORD 240
HALLWAY, CURRAGHMORE HOUSE 244
DINING-ROOM, CURRAGHMORE HOUSE 248
KILRUDDERY HOUSE, EARL OF MEATH 252
GLENDALOUGH 256
TOM MOORE'S TREE, VALE OF OVOCA 260
ONE OF THE SEVEN CHURCHES, CLONMINES 264
FUNERAL CROSSES BY THE WAYSIDE, COUNTY
WEXFORD 268
POWERSCOURT HOUSE 272
GREAT SALON, POWERSCOURT HOUSE 276
RUINS OF JIGGINSTOWN HOUSE, EARL OF STRAFFORD 280
PARNELL'S GRAVE, GLASNEVIN CEMETERY,
DUBLIN 284
DANIEL O'CONNELL'S MONUMENT, GLASNEVIN
CEMETERY, DUBLIN 288
WANDERINGS IN IRELAND
CHAPTER I
Welcome to Ireland--Quaint People of Dublin--Packing the Motor and
Departure--Tara Hill; its History and Legends--Ruins at Trim--Tombs
of the Druids--Battle-field of the Boyne.
"Glory be to God, but yer honour is welcome to Ireland."
An old traveller understands that it is the unexpected which makes the
joy of his days. I had come to Europe with the intention of spending
some conventional weeks in London, followed by an auto tour with the
family through the fair land of France. Fate brings me, upon my first
day in town, to Prince's Restaurant, when out of the chaos of faces
before me rises one whose owner, a son of Erin whom I had last seen
under the cherry blossoms of Japan, advances upon me. Then the
conventional promptly drops off and away, and it is but a short while
before a motor tour is arranged in the Emerald Isle, a month to be
passed amidst its beauties and miseries, its mirth and its sadness, for
all go in one grand company in the land of St. Patrick.
With Boyse of Bannow I shall follow the fancy of the moment, which to my
thinking is the only true mode of travel.
"Du Cros" has agreed to furnish a perfectly new Panhard for and upon the
same terms which I received in France last year, viz., thirty pounds
sterling per week, and everything found except the board and lodging of
the chauffeur. These very necessary details arranged we are impatient to
be off and leave London on a hot day in June. The smells, dirt, and dust
of her wooden streets, driven in clouds over all the grand old city,
follow us far out into the green meadows of England until we ask whether
the hawthorn blossoms have ever held any fragrance, and have we not been
mistaken as to roses. But London is not all of England, and we are
finally well beyond her influence and wondering why we remained within
her limits with the beautiful country so near at hand. The meadows of
England giving way to the mountains of Wales, one catches a glimpse of
the stately towers of Conway Castle, and then sails outward and westward
upon a level sea, which, on its farther side, holds the haven of desire,
Dublin, on the broad waters of the Liffey.
Ireland welcomes us, weeping softly the while, though smiling ever and
anon as the sunlight rifts downward from the west. The gang-plank is
slippery and the pavements mucky, but our welcome is a warm one, at
least one fat, comfortable looking old woman with a shawl over her head,
a gown whose colour I cannot attempt to give, and shoes which have
evidently been discarded by her "auld man," greets me with a "Glory be
to God, but yer honour is welcome to Ireland!" and then catching sight
of my Jap servant, she gives utterance to a very audible aside, "Be the
powers of the divil, phat's that he has wid him!" crossing herself
vehemently the while, firmly convinced, I doubt not, that she has seen a
limb of Satan, which I think he strongly resembles.
The Shelburn Hotel receives us within its walls, unchanged in the thirty
years which have elapsed since I last crossed the threshold, a
comfortable inn, pleasantly situated upon College Green, where a band of
Irish musicians are discoursing American ballads of the early sixties.
One runs into the tide of American tourists here in Dublin, and to-night
this hotel is crowded with them. The clatter of tongues proving too much
for me, I dine and start to bed as soon as possible--a good book and an
easy resting-place are attractive after the long ride from London.
In the hallway I encounter the porter trying to induce an old gentleman
to go to bed. Said gentleman is drunk as a gentleman should be, and
sound asleep in his chair, holding fast to a glass of whiskey and soda,
from which no efforts of the porter can part him.
"What's the number of your room, sir?"
The sleeping eyes half open as the happy man murmurs, "Wasn't you tryin'
to stale my whiskey just now?"
"Well, I thought, sir, ye would be more comfortable in yer room."
"Let slapin' dogs lie, me boy. But 'twas in a good cause ye did it, and
so I'll go," and he staggers off to the lift, sleeps on my shoulders
until I get out, and probably on the bench for the rest of the night, as
that small lift boy could never move that bulk, redolent of whiskey and
good humour.
So far I have heard nothing from Boyse, who was to have rejoined me
here, and, when ten o'clock comes round, give him up for the night, and
putting out the light am shortly in the land of dreams, only to be
awakened by a clatter on the door followed by the entrance of the
missing man. He has put up at the Club, having reached here ahead of me.
Our car he reports ready for us at nine to-morrow morning, and I shortly
drive him out as it has gotten late.
One must be of a sour disposition if one does not laugh in Ireland, and
be assured her people will always laugh with one, though at times there
sounds a catch of a sob running through it all. Seat yourself on any
spot in the island, and something funny is apt, nay almost sure, to
occur before you depart; all of which is apparently arranged for your
especial benefit.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Statue of St. Patrick on Tara Hill]
It is raining this morning and it is Sunday, which in the dominions of
his Majesty does not mean a day of diversion unless you happen to be a
guest in some country house. I am in a secluded seat on the portico of
the hotel, when directly before me, on the only spot of pavement
visible, appears a girl of fourteen dressed in everything which could
never by the widest stretch of the imagination have been intended for
her when purchased. She summons "Katie darlin'" not to be such a
"truble" to her, but to appear and "spake to the gintleman," whereupon
from around the corner of a stone post comes "Katie darlin'," a mite of
a child some two feet tall with a pair of black eyes sparkling all over
her dirty little face. She is robed in what looks like a blue plush
opera-cloak on wrong side in front and festooned over what were once
shoes; her shock of never combed hair is topped by an old woman's
bonnet. "Katie darlin'" is evidently out for her Sunday. She is glad to
see every one, and especially "Your honour" after the reception of a
"ha'penny." Bless her dirty little face, what will be her portion in
this life, I wonder! Yet, after all, being Irish, she is safer than if
born of another race, for the women of her land do not go down to death
and destruction as easily as those of other countries, be it said to
their credit. God grant it may be so with "Katie darlin'," who goes
smilingly away to meet whatever fate the future holds for her, and which
disturbs her not at all as yet.
The morning of our start from Dublin opens windy and with drifting
clouds but is a fair day for hereabouts, and after all these grey skys
are very soothing to one's eyes.
Our motor rolls up at ten A.M. and proves to be a handsome new Panhard
of fifteen horse-power. Packing and stowing take a half-hour the first
day, as economy of space is to be desired, and the proper arrangement of
luggage is a question to be considered. However, all is done and I roll
off to the "Kildare Street Club," where Boyse awaits me.
His traps necessitate a new arrangement of all the luggage, which I am
not allowed to superintend at all, but am carried off to a room well to
the rear where a whiskey and soda is vainly pressed upon me. I should
much prefer to stay outside and boss the job of loading up, but that
would be undignified. So we stay cooped up until all is arranged, and
then sally forth and roll away with the utmost grandeur of demeanour. I
object several times during the day to the arrangement of those traps,
impressing upon Boyse the truth of the old saying, "if you want a thing
done, go,--if not, send--" and pointing out to him that therein lies the
reason for the increasing glory and prosperity of our country and the
evident decadence of the British Empire.
He does not take me as serious,--perhaps I am not,--but daily life must
have its spice and we spend many hours like Pat and "Dinnis" on the quay
at Cork of a Saturday evening, "fighting each other for conciliation and
hating each other for the love of God."
Speeding away through Dublin's busy streets and out into Phoenix Park,
existence becomes life once more. The rushing winds drive the last taint
of the city and its world of men and women off and away. Beyond the
confines of the park we enter at once into the green country; tall
hawthorn hedges toss their branches above us as we speed onward, the car
moving like a bird. These are not French roads but they are far from
bad. Mile after mile glides by us, and a sharp rain forces the top over
our heads, but not for long,--it is soon down again, and we give
ourselves up for an hour to the enjoyment of mere motion. And then
history claims our attention. Dublin is of course rich in its memories
but leave it for the present and speeding westward some thirty miles
pause at the foot of Tara Hill, the most renowned spot in Ireland. There
are few in our Western land who do not remember the sweet old song of
Moore's:
"The harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that soul were fled."
And there are many to whom its melodies will recall those better days
when voices long since sunken into silence sang them off into dreamland
with those words.
Green grow the grasses to-day over this site of Ireland's most ancient
capital. Gone are its garland-hung walls, silent its harps for ever.
Leaving the present behind, one passes into the remotest recess of the
island's past as one mounts the hill. To-day wavering misty shadows
close in around me as I move upward, even as though the spirits of the
ancient kings and minstrels were yet about, and the winds moan as though
driven across the strings of many harps, and there seems melody all
around me.
Tara is not a great hill, but a fair green mound from which the ancient
kings were wont to spy out all the fair land around them. It was the
most sacred spot in the kingdom and none could wear the crown who bore
blemish of any sort. Cormac Mac Art, the great King, was, upon the loss
of his eye, forced to retire to the hill of Skreen near-by. For
twenty-five hundred years, Tara was the palace and burial-place of the
kings of Ireland, who every third year met here in great convention.
To-day as I stand on its summit nothing of that period, save some long
mounds, breaks the green carpet of grass thrown like the covering of our
holy communion over this holy of holies. Tara was mentioned by Ptolemy
and he called it "illustrious." Its name by some is supposed to be taken
from that of the wife of a King, Heremon, the first monarch of Ireland.
"Thea" was her name and the place was called Temora (the house of Thea),
but others call it "the house of music" (Thead, a musical chord, and
mur, a house).
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Castle of King John Trim]
The main hall stood nine hundred feet square and "twenty-seven cubits in
height." It held its thousand guests daily and on great days the monarch
sat on his throne in its centre, his flowing yellow hair bearing the
golden crown, his stately form clothed in a brilliant scarlet robe laden
with rich ornaments of gold. Golden shoes ornamented with red buckles
and bearing stars and animals in gold, were upon his feet; the King of
Leinster sat, facing him, the King of Ulster sat on his right, the King
of Munster on his left, while the King of Connaught sat behind him. On
long rows of seats before him were the druids, bards, philosophers,
antiquaries, genealogists, musicians, and the chiefs of all the towns of
the kingdom. The assembly was opened by the chief bard, followed by the
druidical rites, after which the fire of Saman, or the moon, was
lighted. Not until then was the business of the convention taken up. In
one part of the palace, the youths were instructed in poetry and music
and initiated into the hidden harmony of the universe. Evidently in
those days a city must have surrounded the base of this hill, but of the
houses of the people little seems to be known and nothing is left.
In these long mounds the traveller to-day may trace the outlines of the
hall composed of earth and wood from whence one hundred and forty-two
kings ruled the land, the great King Cormac dating back to A.D. 227, and
he it is who is supposed to have built this hall. Some claim that the
celebrated "Stone of Destiny" now in the coronation chair in London was
taken from here to Scotland. Of this there is no proof, but so runs the
legend.
There is only the music of the wind-swept grasses on Tara Hill to-night,
yet surely the moon rising so grandly yonder still holds her feast and
is summoning her worshippers from the mists of the valley rising in
fantastic forms all around us,--but the only thing bearing semblance of
human form which she illumines is a crazy statue of St. Patrick here on
the spot where he met and, by the power of the Lord, vanquished the
magicians of the king. There could be no fitter heir to inherit and so
we leave him in sole possession and go down to our car, which rolls us
silently away through the green lanes and on towards Trim's ruined
arches and towers. Now the tall "yellow steeple" of the Abbey of St.
Mary's, founded by St. Patrick, and close into the town the great Castle
of King John loom up in the moonlight. Vast in extent, the castle
appears doubly so in this shadowy light, as we glide by it, a huge empty
shell covered with clambering ivy.
Rolling on through the town we pass to Navan, dear to hunters. All this
is a fair green country where the grass is good for the cattle, where
the poultry thrive, and the Boyne is full of fish, hence one notes on
all sides the ruins of many monasteries, for those old monks were always
to be found where their stomachs could be well taken care of; and yet
with all that they were the power in the land, as the priest is still
the power in southern Ireland.
Leaving Navan we turn northeastward towards Drogheda. The road winds all
the way by the banks of the Boyne and while that name recalls to mind
most prominently the famous battle of the kings, James and William,
still the region was celebrated long ages before either was thought of.
The whole valley was a vast necropolis for the ancient kings and druids,
and on both sides one sees the remains of a remote antiquity, especially
at New Grange where one finds a tumulus covering some two acres. At
first glance it resembles an Indian mound in America, but it is far more
satisfactory to explore as one finds in its interior a tomb of
extraordinary size and rich in carving, which is supposed to date as far
back as the earliest bronze age, but who was buried here is a question
which has never been settled.
We enter by a passage on its southern side about fifty feet long,--a
stone corridor formed by upright slabs about seven feet high and roofed
by stones of great size. Our glimmering candles show the centre tomb to
be a lofty domed chamber, circular in form, its roof composed of
horizontally placed stones projecting one beyond the other and capped by
a single slab some twenty feet above the observer. There are three
recesses branching off from the rotunda, probably the tombs of the
lesser mortals, while the body of the monarch evidently occupied the
centre space.
There is another sepulchre of equal size at Dowth, and doubtless every
hill or mound in sight holds others. If the Boyne as it winds and
murmurs past them could speak, it could doubtless tell us tales of kings
and druids, of royal coronations and priestly ceremonies, of life and
death in the long dead past. How was it all, I wonder? Was it
picturesque and beautiful or did the barbaric side crowd all that down
and out, leaving nothing save a shuddering feeling of horror as one
gazed on the rites of the druids?
These tombs were rifled by the Danes a thousand years ago, and
therefore, aside from the carvings on their walls, have yielded but
little of interest to the antiquary. There is nothing of animal or human
life represented, merely coils, lozenges, and spirals, with now and then
a fern leaf, but nothing which tells their story as do the Egyptian
inscriptions. This valley of the Boyne is beautifully wooded and the
roads are fine. Our route lies past the obelisk marking the famous
battlefield where the sun of James II. set for ever. The valley is
lovely and reminds one greatly of that of the Thames near Richmond. It
has taken most of the day to make the chauffeur understand that we are
not out to kill time and distance. At the rate he would like to travel
we should reach Iceland in time for tea even with the ocean to cross,
but, as I have forced him to retrace the route several times, he seems
at last to understand our determination not to rush.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Monument on the Battle-field of the Boyne]
The whole day's ride has been charming. We did not stop at Drogheda, but
passed on to Newry, a twelve-mile ride over a very fine road, and rested
at the Victoria Hotel, having covered one hundred and three miles since
eleven this morning, with long stoppages several times. The auto has
done splendidly and will do better as it gets down to work.
This is the Protestant end of Ireland, prosperous and contented
apparently, but not picturesque. That goes with the state of affairs to
be found in the southern half.
Newry is a clean town with neat shops and houses, and a good hotel,
still there are Irish characteristics which those of us who remember the
Irish maid of long ago in America will recognise at once. Many things
are broken, "jist came that way"; a complete toilet set is unnecessary
where there are windows; and I notice that the salutations sound always
wrong end first,--when people meet they say "Good-night," a form never
used elsewhere except when parting.
Apparently the hotel is the social club of the town, where the men of a
certain class gather in the evenings, and drawing their chairs in a
circle before the bar, spend an hour or so in chaff with the barmaid,
drinking porter the while. To-night the talk is of a more serious nature
and turns on trade.
It is claimed that what kills all chance of Ireland being a profitable
country are the railway rates, that, for instance, it costs more to get
corn from Galway to Dublin than from America to any point on the island.
I asked an Irishman whether Gladstone had benefited Ireland, and he
replied, "he was the cause of all our trouble, he cost Great Britain two
thousand millions sterling and countless lives, and yet they put up
statues to him."
The traveller of to-day sees no sign of the upper classes in Newry,
though there are estates all around it, and in turning the pages of its
history he will discover that it is a place of great antiquity, though
its streets to-day show no signs thereof. Prosperous and commonplace
would best describe it. However, it is just the prosperous and
commonplace which the traveller most welcomes as night comes down upon
him, for there, and not amongst the romantic and picturesque, in Ireland
at least, does he find comfortable quarters and good food. So it is
to-night and so to bed and dreams.