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.
As we enter Galway from Recess, the roads become anything but agreeable;
there are many crossings and bridge backs which throw us from our seats,
and without extreme care on the part of the chauffeur would destroy the
car. Fortunately the weather is moist and there is little dust, which in
Galway is most disagreeable, the soil being limestone.
If you would see an ancient Irish city, purely Irish and undefiled by
the progress of this latter day, come to Galway, where she sits close
down by the sea. It is evidently to this section what Paris is to all
France. There may have been in other times those of the upper classes
here, but they do not appear on her streets to-day. Narrow and winding,
they are lined with ancient houses many of which bear pretentious coats
of arms and much carving, but all are now the dwelling-places of the
people.
The streets are jammed as this is Saturday evening and we move
cautiously along. At one point, owing to instructions from Boyse to turn
to the right and from me to go to the left, the motor car almost runs
over the pavement, scaring a buxom dame half to death. "'Twas the mercy
of God the dur was open behint us, or ye'd 'ave smashed mesel' and the
childer entirely." But at the same time she laughs and gives us a "God
bless ye." While we are learning the route from her, a perfect Irish
gentleman, properly drunk, reels up and leaning over the front of the
car gazes at us in a most affectionate fashion. Barefooted, rosy-cheeked
urchins are running in all directions, numerous women stand around doing
up their hair, and there is more of the ancient tongue to be heard than
at any other point except in Achill.
As a child I learned a lot of it, meaninglessly, from the old servants
at home, and recalling many phrases here have at times launched them
forth, generally with dire results.
To-day as we wend our way slowly through these crowded streets, it
greets our ears on all sides.
The quaint figures which one encountered in America thirty years ago
must have come from here. Boarding ship in yonder harbour they landed on
our shores absolutely unchanged and unique. One never sees them
nowadays. Even in Ireland they are to be met with only in the remote
districts; they are here in the good city of Galway but you will look
for them in vain farther east.
The story of the first appearance of my dear old nurse upon the streets
of our city has become a household tale with us. Just in from the "owld
country," she decked herself in her best for her Sunday's outing. A gown
of the most vivid emerald green whose skirt spread over a voluminous
hoop was composed of four huge flounces bound in bright red; a huge
bonnet of green and blue circled around her anything but classic
countenance--certainly her nose could never have been called "Roman";
she carried an orange and green sunshade. Her appearance created a
sensation which almost ended in a riot. She was too much for the
American youth as he was for her, and she fled homeward pursued by a
howling mob of the gamins.
I must pay tribute to the women who have come to us from this
island,--respected and self-respecting, they have proven most excellent
servants, with never a shadow of immorality amongst any of them,
thoroughly honest and upright, and during months of absence, and
sometimes years, left in entire charge of the households of which they
kept as perfect watch and ward as though they were indeed their own,
and, in fact, they soon learned to look upon the dwellings of their
employer as home, with no desire to change unless to marry and set up
their own firesides, and even then they never have forgotten and often
return to the places where they lived so long through days of sorrow and
days of mirth, not only servants but friends in the best acceptation of
that word.
[Illustration: Ffranckfort Castle]
While Galway is a town of but some fourteen thousand people, the crowds
on its streets to-night would convey the impression of a much greater
population. They simply swarm all over the place.
The city dates far enough back to have been mentioned by Ptolemy, and
probably took its name from the Gaels or foreign merchants who once
lived here. Galway appears on the pages of history in 1124 A.D. and from
that date onward it was fought for by every tribe of the island. Just
hereabouts there were thirteen tribes who strictly guarded themselves
against all intercourse with the native Irish. Indeed there was a law
that "none bearing an O or Mac in his name shall struttle one swaggere
through the streets of Galway."
But those days are past and there must certainly be many who bear such
prefixes to their names who are strutting these streets in this year of
grace 1907.
This was one of the most important seaports trading with Spain, and
there may be seen, even at this date, Spanish traits and features
intermingled with the Celtic, and many of its ancient houses hold the
touch of the South in their lines. Galway was loyal to King Charles and
suffered horribly from the forces of Cromwell in consequence.
While there are quaint structures still to be found in the streets they
require looking for and one must be prepared to endure much squalor and
dirt and endless smells which will not recall the perfume bazaars of the
Orient, though it has always struck me that the perfumes of the Orient
were thickly strewed that they might drown out much more horrible smells
than were ever to be found in Ireland.
The most interesting and famous of all the old houses is that of the
Lynch family whose façade holds some curious carvings, notably that of a
monkey carrying off a child, one of the children of the family having
been saved from death by fire by a pet monkey.
From the window of this house in 1493, its owner, James Lynch, hanged
his own son for murder.
Legend and truth are probably greatly mixed in the story told to-day.
The murder was that of a young Spaniard of whom the son was jealous, and
whom he stabbed to death. His mother besought her kinsfolk to save him
and them the disgrace of a public death by hanging, the father being
determined that the law should be obeyed. They met and roused the
populace which collected in a multitude outside the old house, to-day so
full of its noisy poor. The father, finding it would be impossible to
conduct his son to the place of execution, led him to one of the great
windows high up in the mansion and from thence launched him into
eternity at the rope's end. The people, awed into silence by his stern
justice, dispersed in quiet to their homes. To-day the street is called
Dead Man's Lane, and it is claimed that the tablet with skull and
cross-bones and its motto, "Remember deathe--vanite of vanite and all is
but vanite," was placed there to commemorate the dark occurrence, but if
so it was not until more than a century had rolled by.
It is said that this stern, sorrowing father never appeared in public
after his execution of his son.
The family of Lynch appeared here from Austria in 1274 and until 1654
was of great prominence; then it vanished entirely.
The old house rises in state still from its squalid surroundings and the
gloom upon its face seems to come as much from its present degradation
as from its sad history.
With all its dirt and squalor Galway is possessed of greater interest
than any other Irish city, though with the hurried march of time in
these latter days, the antiquary must search more and more each year if
he would discover aught.
One of the most singular and interesting parts is to be found in the
district just outside the walls and on the river. It is called Claddagh,
and consists of a colony of fishermen numbering with their families some
five or six thousand. Their marketplace adjoins one of the city's
ancient gates. They are a well ordered and governed people, having a
king or mayor elected from time to time whose word is law and from whose
decision they never appeal; neither will they acknowledge any other
authority. They are religious and will not sail away nor fish on Sunday
or feast day.
At one period they were sufficient unto themselves and always married in
their own set. That is changed now and neither does one often see the
old and picturesque costume of their women,--a red gown and blue mantle.
However, even to-day their part of Galway is cleaner and more wholesome
than its other sections.
Its people are very superstitious and will not fish nor permit others to
do so unless the day and hour be lucky. Some have tried to break through
this but were forced to give up the attempt, as their lives were in
danger.
An Irishman in the city stated that times were very bad, they "had had
very good crops and hence could not raise the cry of famine and so bring
in the cash from England and America. When they can do that every one is
well off and happy."
But, as I have stated, squalor, dirt, and evil smells so abound that one
is fairly driven off and away from this quaintest of the Irish towns.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Clonmacnoise]
You may spend a time in her old church of St. Nicholas, but if you
enter the adjoining graveyard the terrible neglect will drive you forth
in horror, a horror in no way quieted by a sojourn at the awful railway
hotel, a place so vilely dirty that nothing save acute hunger forces us
to remain an instant within its doors. I ask the waiter for a toothpick.
"Well, really, sor, we have none, but here's one of me own, which I'll
lend yez." In the search for it he pulls from the same pocket a dirty
handkerchief and a stump of a clay pipe. My laughter brings a twinkle to
his eyes and procures us a much better luncheon than we had reason, from
the appearance of the dirty table, to expect.
There is no excuse for this hotel. It is a disgrace to the railroad
which owns and runs it. These railway hotels are generally cleanly and
well kept. Certainly such is the case in England and Scotland and in the
west and north of Ireland. But in Galway the broken-down, dilapidated,
and filthy state of affairs is disgusting in the extreme. One hesitates
to eat anything which comes from the kitchen, and we confine ourselves
to boiled ham and cheese.
From Galway our route lies eastward to Parsonstown and had we followed
the map would have been simple enough, but the advice of sundry
home-going men, all somewhat the worse for liquor, sent us astray
several times, but in a motor that is of little moment.
Parsonstown, or Birr, lies directly east of Galway and en route we pass
by Lorrha, where I stop a moment to inspect its ancient abbey. It is of
interest to some Americans as having been the burial-place for centuries
of a well-known family, the Carrolls. There are no monuments or
tablets, as dead have been buried upon dead within the ruined walls for
years on years, even unto to-day, as a fresh mound with a half-withered
wreath of flowers upon it testifies.
Birr Castle was the original seat of the Carrolls, but they appear to
have owned numerous others in this locality, such as Leap and
Ffranckfort.
The life of the dwellers must have been very crude and rude, but they
were all very tenacious of their right of sepulchre with their
forefathers. Each old will directs, after kindly returning the "soul to
the God who gave it," that their bodies be buried "in the chapel
adjoining the Abbey of St. Dominick in Lorrha," and so it was done; but,
as I have stated, years have gone and other dead have claimed the same
graves in this holy spot, until the place, now a tangle of ivy and wild
brier, is buried deeply and heaped high with the silent sleepers whose
rest is rarely disturbed by a passer from the great outer world of the
living.
In the surrounding graveyard the dead sleep closely together and the
spot is better cared for than is usually the case. Apparently they are
not so soon forgotten, at least, one is not horrified by the appalling
desolation and abandonment usually to be found in such places in rural
Ireland. Of course the people are very poor, but at least they could
lock the doors of the vaults and cut the grass over the graves of their
dead. It may be that they consider that nothing is necessary or can be
done once they pass beneath the sod of "holy ground," that, having been
consecrated by the church, any touch of man's hand would be a
desecration thereof. Be that as it may the effects upon one from another
land is horrible. Such is not the case here in Lorrha, I am pleased to
state.
A quick run of nine miles brings us to the quaint old city of Birr, just
as the night closes in.
Birr is an eminently respectable town. Its streets are wide and its
houses have a delightful seclusion which reminds one of the main square
in Frederick City, Maryland. There are arched doorways shaded by
climbing vines and bearing great brass knockers. There are family cats
every here and there, and ancient dames peer at you from behind lace
curtains. In its main square at the base of the column to the Duke of
Cumberland and his victory of Culloden, one of the present citizens of
Birr is declaiming. He does not declaim long; truth compels me to state
that he is tight, and that even now two servants of the law are
escorting him into the calaboose. Pity 'tis, 'tis true. But this is
Saturday night and a man must have his little enjoyments.
We descend at the door of an hotel whose name sets us whistling, "Mr.
Dooley's Hotel." I think it fairly good--Boyse does not agree with me
but withal we are very comfortable in it.
Birr is the very centre of Ireland, and probably takes airs to herself
in consequence.
We arrive here very weary to-night. There are days when motoring is not
all joy--this has been one. The lime dust and cold winds around Galway
have cut our faces into segments, and I find a bath, an open fire, and
easy chair too attractive to resist, but Boyse has gone off in a
jaunting-car eight miles to see some friends and arrange for a visit
to-morrow to an ancient castle where a real ghost still holds forth. We
shall see what we shall see, but it would take more than a ghost to keep
me awake to-night, much less to make me drive sixteen miles to call, but
it seems nothing to Boyse who does not return until late--too late to
talk--and so good-night.
Morning dawns in mist and rain, which continue off and on all day long.
Birr is as silent as only an Irish or English town knows how to be on a
Sunday,--every shop is closed, the houses show scarce any sign of life,
while Cumberland upon his column seems to offer an apology for being in
gala array on the first day of the week.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Abbey of the Holy Cross]
Boyse's friends near here have bidden us to luncheon after an
inspection of that ancient seat of the O'Carrolls, Leap Castle
(pronounced "Lep"). So rain and mist defying, we roll off at ten A.M.
leaving Yama and our kit behind us. The roads are slippery and the car
skids a little, but the chauffeur is alive to the danger, which is
minimised to the fullest extent by chains on the wheels. Some ten miles
out we turn into a spacious park and are welcomed at the door of the
mansion of "Wingfield" by the daughters of the house, three lovely Irish
women, and I know of no land which can produce more beautiful women than
Ireland; striking forms, faces, and figures are the rule not the
exception in this land of the harp. There is a type of reddish golden
hair, fair clear complexion, and sky-blue eyes which is especially
beautiful to my thinking; it belongs to the upper classes, at least I
have never noted it in a daughter of the people,--there the dark
blue-grey eyes and black hair, or pale straw-coloured hair combined with
palest of blue eyes, prevail.
I have a painting by our poet-painter, T. Buchanan Read, which shows the
type I speak of, yet where did he ever see it? Certainly not amongst
those emigrants who came to America in his time. The painting, called
_The Harp of Erin_,[5] represents a white-clad woman chained to a rock
in the sea, whose waves dash up around her. Reddish golden hair floats
over her shoulders, which are draped in a green scarf. Blue eyes of the
colour of the deepest heaven gaze mournfully upon you and her arms are
raised to play upon a harp. The artist was in his happiest mood when he
painted this picture and for it he refused a large price, expecting at
the period of the Fenian excitement, in the sixties, to have it
lithographed and so realise vast sums, but fate in some form, how I know
not, intervened, and his idea was never carried out, or the Fenian
bubble burst before it could be accomplished.
But to return to Wingfield. We gather in two of the ladies and speed off
over the slippery highway to Leap Castle. Now Leap, I would have you
know, is THE ghost castle of Ireland, owning more spooks to the room
than all the others together. En route thither we pass under the shadow
of "Knockshigowna" or hill of the fairies, and it would seem on this
shadowy morning that the ruin on its summit shows signs of a strange
agitation; perhaps the shades are aware of our approach to their
favourite castle in the valley and trust that we may tarry until night
falls and their dominion maintains,--for until then, they must stay
where they are, high up on yonder hill, which is the centre of all the
fairy romance and legend of the island. The forest is dense here and we
roll under the bending boughs, heavy with the night's dew, and
glittering in the sunlight. At the end of a long green tunnel the tower
of Leap Castle blocks the way.
Leap stands overlooking a fair valley, a great square tower to which
have been added wings on either side. It was one of the most ancient
seats of the O'Carrolls, who seem to have left a most excellent memory
hereabouts as expert sheep-stealers. All of these ancient castles were
composed of simply one great strong tower. Everything else is of much
later date. We have seen a dozen such in the past few days. Leap is no
exception. Fortunately its owner, Mr. D.; is at home and welcomes us to
what has been in his family since the days of the Restoration, a period
when many of the Irish castles passed into the hands of Englishmen.
We enter the lower floor of the great tower, which in the days of the
O'Carrolls was evidently the great hall, where many of those weird,
barbarous feasts one associates with such places must have occurred.
To-day its appearance is peaceful enough. Pictures anything but terrible
surround us and no ghosts can stand this clear light of day.
From its windows you enjoy a superb panorama, and from its terrace one
of its ancient owners leapt his horse when pursued by some enemy--hence
the name. He was a rider superior to any even Ireland can show at the
present time for the drop is quite thirty feet.
The wings of the castle flank the tower on either hand, but aside from
containing cheery rooms with much fine old furniture, are not of
interest, at least when compared to the hall, around which a gallery
circles in the second story, to which stairs in the thickness of the
walls conduct one. In one of the angles there is an oubliette to
anywhere below,--in another a stair mounts to a chapel in the top,
dismantled and disused now save by the ghost of a priest which walks
here with his head under his arm, and it is reported that one of the
chatelaines of the castle fled here from following footsteps which she
could not understand, and flinging the great door to behind her used
her fair arm as a staple, only to have it broken in two by a force no
mortal could withstand. She fainted, but before losing consciousness saw
passing by her the shadow of the headless monk. If you sleep in one of
those chambers below there you will awaken to find your hand drawn over
the bedside and blood slowly dripping from your fingers,--there are
stains on the old oaken flooring even now. Which ghost does that is not
stated.
No direct heir ever inherits "Leap," and when misfortune is following
fast on the footsteps of the family, a ghostly sheep appears and with a
claw of great length (that kind of sheep have "claws") scratches on the
panels of the great oaken portals. Every properly self-respecting house
in Ireland has a ghost, but Leap has more than its share, and no peasant
of the island would venture to pass a night alone in the dungeon under
its great tower. There was nothing ghostly about the very good Irish
whiskey which we had there,--so toasting all ghosts malign or beneficent
and bidding our host a thankful adieu, we depart under the dripping
skies and return to peaceful-looking Wingfield, only to learn that it
too has its ghost, but a friendly one, being a great white goose which
walks around the walls of the home park and so wards off all evil from
the occupants.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Rock of Cashel]
A cheerful luncheon with agreeable people will banish any amount of
spooks. It is so in this case. Wingfield could never be called a lonely
place. Each of its fair chatelaines has a pet dog of her own and there
are half a dozen stray dogs belonging to no one and every one. _They_
are not allowed in any room unless they find the door open and in
Ireland doors are rarely closed. If the dining-room door _is_ open at
meal-time and they about, it's first come first served, with odds on the
dogs,--ditto at teatime,--in fact, any old time or meal, and there are
dogs enough to fill all vacancies and be present upon all occasions.
It is a merry meal we have, but the best of things must end and so we
rise to depart. As I step forward to open the door for the ladies I find
the knob gone and the act impossible; but we troop around by another way
and settle ourselves before a bright fire in the drawing-room.
We are told by our hostess that the parson came to call the other day.
The doorbell was broken but the door open. Upon entering the
drawing-room and closing the door the knob came off in his hand. In the
meantime numbers of dogs had collected in the hall. Remembering that the
family were probably all out, he went to the bell to summon help, when
_that_ handle came off also; going to the window to get out, he could
not keep it up until he had called into service a small table; thus he
managed to tumble out on to the lawn amidst ten or a dozen barking dogs
not at that moment on duty inside. He has not called since.
However to my thinking Irish dogs are good-natured.
Warm-hearted hospitality reigns in that house and may good luck and
happiness for ever abide therewith.
After luncheon we start again with our fair guides on a visit to another
famous house, Ffranckfort Castle, some eleven miles away, a veritable
moated grange owned by Major Rolleston.
Our way lies through the forest. There are few hills hereabouts and no
sign-posts to any of the roads, so that one might well lose the route,
and but for our fair companions we certainly should have done so several
times since we lost sight of the hill of the fairies and entered these
labyrinths of the forest.
Turning at last through an ancient gateway, we see through the vistas of
the trees and on a level stretch of ground a great enclosure some
hundreds of yards each way surrounded by a high stone wall, through
whose pointed gateway there are glimpses of a castellated mansion. As we
draw nearer a moat full of water discloses itself around the outer wall,
and rumbling over a drawbridge which has long since forgotten its
function, we enter the enclosure.
As the car draws towards the house, which stands in the centre of the
place, a saturnine face, with a long, hooked nose, gazes at us through
the dusty diamond-shaped panes of a window.
Here is a mansion of the olden times, and one so secluded that few from
the outer world ever find it.
The house, built at several different periods, stands in the centre of
the enclosure. I should judge that the main portion was of the date of
Elizabeth but the left still holds a large round tower of a much older
period and the main doorway of heavy old oak, very thick, and studded
with nails folded back in several panels. A very curious bit of work.
It would seem to-day that the gentleman behind the window either doubts
our being otherwise than spirituelle, or doubts our characters, and so
declines to admit us, but he does come finally, and we enter an old-time
place which knows nothing of the changes of these latter days and cares
less for them.
In a large square hall we are greeted by our host, a typical Irish
gentleman. He presents us to the ladies of the family, and we are
welcomed as one is always welcomed in Ireland.
The owner, Major Rolleston, will not believe that I am an American as he
cannot "hear the voice." I know just what he means and finally convince
him that America like England has many accents.
They are charmed when they find that I really desire to see the old
house, and we are soon at work, at least the Major and I are,--leaving
the rest to discuss "tea." The Major acts as my guide over the place and
out into a lovely flower-garden; he is greatly interested also in the
cultivation of vegetables, and remarks with regret "you don't care for
farming." Confessing my shortcomings in that respect his interest in me
dies out, and he shortly conducts me back towards the old house, over
another drawbridge, which, like its fellow in front, has long since
forgotten its ancient usage. One might spend hours over such a place and
not exhaust its interest. I understand that it is the only perfectly
_moated_ mansion remaining in Ireland. There are fish in the moat, and
on one side a man can swim in six feet of water for some hundreds of
feet. The portions of the building which we inspected consisted of a
large square hall, dining-and drawing-rooms which stretch across its
front, and a large library in the rear.
The hallway, like most in the land, is decorated with the antlers of
many deer, and in the drawing-room quaint prints and engravings and
portraits of long dead dames and squires adorn the wall, while through
the diamond-shaped panes of the casement the leaf-flecked sunshine
starts many a face into life as it flits across them. One feels that one
should be dressed in the costume of the Golden days.
[Illustration: From a steel engraving
Cormac's Chapel, Rock of Cashel]
Ffranckfort is not a splendid place, but it is homelike and beautiful.
Is it peace or stagnation which broods over a spot like this? Do these
people live or merely vegetate? To a man who has passed his years where
the pulses of life beat the strongest it seems at first like stagnation,
as though these woods must suffocate as they crowd so closely around the
outer enclosure, ever advancing towards the house,--indeed one great
tree in its haste or intentness to get here has fallen, and now projects
over moat and wall and far into the enclosure, where its branches peer
about them. Yet when one has been here a space there is a "peace, be
still" over it all, a sense of brooding, that is very calming to one's
spirit.
Everything belongs to the long ago except our auto, which I order out of
sight, round the corner, with a command to stay there until it is wanted
and not intrude this twentieth century upon the sixteenth. But we cannot
remain for ever, and the car, shortly summoned, glides forth and rolls
us off and away, through the great gateway and over the bridge of the
moat and so off into the aisles of the forest whose trees closing in
around it hide the old hall from view as though by the dropping of a
curtain, and again I ask, is it peace and contentment, or stagnation, to
abide in Ffranckfort Castle?
I think it was Bayard Taylor who, in his early life, desired the
seclusion of an island in some far off southern sea, there to dwell in
close communion with nature, there to look from nature up to nature's
God,--but as his years advanced and his sands of life ran towards a
finish, that desire changed to one which would place him where the
pulses of life beat the strongest, and his last words were, "Oh, for
more of this stuff called Life!"
The shadows of night and the falling rain make it dark as we reach once
more our quarters in Birr where a bright fire in our sitting-room is, to
say the least, attractive, and where the discussion pro and con as to
the merits of "Mr. Dooley's Hotel" are revived. "Beastly" comes from
behind Boyse's book where he sits reading deep down in an arm-chair; but
here is a cosey little room, easy chairs and a bright fire, a
dinner-table attractively spread and an attractive dark-eyed lassie
waiting to serve us. May I never encounter worse than that on my
pilgrimage through life.
To-morrow we go to Clonmacnoise and to-night, as I sit reading about it,
my thoughts become a strange jumble of crosses and round towers, haunted
castles, and ancient Manor-houses towards which I am carried in a wild
rush through the aisles of the forest surrounded and pursued by dogs,
geese, fairies, and ghosts until the top of the hill of the fairies is
reached and I am being tried for high treason because of my doubts
to-day of the powers of each and all of them. The headless monk is my
judge while the sheep with the long claw prosecutes the suit against me.
My fingers are dripping blood, it seems, and I am about to be delivered
to the dogs of Wingfield when I distinctly hear it stated that I am
snoring and had better go to bed. Perhaps such is the case; so good
night.
As Clonmacnoise stands on the banks of the Shannon and is but some
thirty miles north of Birr, and the day yet young, we are off for a run
thither. The morning is moist and the roads slippery, but we make good
progress, most of the way through narrow lanes, and sometimes through
pastures, to the astonishment of the cattle settled for their noonday's
sleep.
Clonmacnoise was once the Oxford of Ireland, where the sons of the
nobles were sent for education, its name "Cluan-mac-noise" meaning "the
secluded recess of the sons of nobles."[6]
It was in addition, one of the favourite burial places of the Irish
kings. Even to-day, to be interred here is considered a blessing, as
those so honoured pass straight to heaven.
The Abbey dates from the days of St. Kieran, 548 A.D.,--he died of the
plague and was buried here,--and at one time was one of the richest,
compressing within its bounds almost the half of Ireland. It flourished
all through the wars with the Danes, and seems to have been finally
plundered by the English, who carried off the wonderful bells and every
other movable object. From that time onward the roofless churches and
buildings fell more and more a prey to advancing time, until the whole
became as we see it to-day, a small ruined church, a fragment of a
castle, a round tower, and a stately cross, crowded upon by the graves
of those who have eagerly
sought this direct route to the realms of the blessed, but, for us, this
world is as yet too full of interest, and we do not envy these dead even
though they have here found the portals of heaven.
At Clonmacnoise is one of the many holy wells dating from pagan days,
and which the traveller finds all over Ireland. These wells would appear
to have formed a prominent feature in the paganism of the ancient
nations. There are traces of them all over Africa, Asia and Europe.
It's a slippery, sliding run back to Birr, which the motor several times
attempts to take backwards, but it ends safely and we reach "Mr.
Dooley's Hotel" for luncheon.
It is a misty morning as we depart from Birr, but mist at this season in
Ireland falls like a benediction upon man and upon all the world of
green around him--and where else in this world will you find such green
as in Ireland?
To-day the woods and meadows stretch away before us and over all bends a
grey sky with patches of vivid blue and white cutting through it every
here and there.
We had arranged to visit with our hosts of yesterday another of the
"most ancient" and still inhabited castles of this section, but fearing
a change to rain in the weather we give that up and roll off to the
south-west, until finally we reach a fair green valley through whose
grasses and beneath whose bending trees lazily rolls the river Suir, a
river just wide enough to suit one's fancy, full of fish and water
lilies, and by whose banks, amidst a thick grove of stately trees, the
ancient Abbey of the Holy Cross rears its grey walls and delicate
traceries.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
The Cross of Cashel and Throne of the Kings of Munster
Rock of Cashel]
Holy Cross is one of the finest ruins in all Ireland, and was evidently
an abbey of great wealth and importance. Truly those monks of old knew
where to build and when they brought the relic of the Cross bestowed by
Pope Pascal II. in 1110 to this spot and erected its shrine, they made
no mistake. It is not difficult to restore in the mind's eye the ancient
structure to what it once was, or to repeople it with the forms and
faces of ancient days. Yonder door in the outer wall must often have
given egress to the fat white-robed abbot and his jolly crowd of monks,
come out to inspect the baskets of fish and other good things brought by
the people who crowded around them. There were also hampers of fruit and
vegetables, and other things which looked strangely like casks of wine.
Back of all rose the stately abbey, while the river flowed onward waving
its lilies and grasses, and the soft air was full of the sound of sacred
bells and murmuring waters.
To-day we face a stately ruin and there is no sound of bells or sight of
abbot, only the river still murmurs amongst its lilies, but Holy Cross
is as beautiful in her ruin as she could ever have been in the days of
her splendour.
A comely dame admits us through the abbot's portal, and for hours we
wander as the fancy dictates, pausing now in the choir with its ancient
tombs, climbing high on the great tower with its prospect of God's
eternal resurrection all around, or resting where the high altar is
draped in trailing ivy and splendid with golden lichen.
The mists have disappeared, the sunlight is warm and strong and one can
almost see the fish in the river, while the air is laden with the
fragrance of lilies, and there is a hush over all as though this ancient
dame were sitting for her portrait.
How completely the rush and trouble of the world drops away in a spot
like this! How the soul is lulled into slumber, and the "Peace, be
still" of God comes down upon one!
FOOTNOTES:
[5] See Frontispiece.
[6] Another authority interprets the name (Cluain-maccu-Nois)
"the meadow of the sons of Nos."