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 Free Mason--Irish Wit--Regimental Plate--Departure from the
Barracks.
In the barracks at Buttevant are at present quartered a battalion of the
Dublin Fusiliers, a regiment which dates back to the days of Charles
II., and which has spent most of its years in India. Now this battalion
is back home and I doubt not that both officers and men find the cool
grey skys and green fields a welcome contrast to the blazing heavens and
burnt brown stretches of the Far East. Yet I imagine that there will be
certain moments of longing for the land where they have made their home
for so many years,--a land which never entirely releases her hold upon
those who have dwelt there.
"If a year of life you give her;
If her temples, shrines you enter;
The door is closed, you may not look behind."
But that state has not arrived with these men yet and they are very
contented to be "at home."
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Dinner at Buttevant Barracks]
These barracks at Buttevant are spacious and, as barracks go, very
comfortable. Situated in a good hunting country, one hears horse and
hound talk intermingled with the many bugle calls and the stirring
sounds of the fife. The campus or compound, a great green square
surrounded by the quarters, is constantly a gay spot, often with
lawn-tennis and cricket going on in its centre, and there are always the
officers' wives and children, giving the scene just that touch and charm
which can only come from women's presence.
Orderlies are leading or riding around the drive the hunters recently
purchased at the neighbouring horse fair, and constant are the comments
upon each nag as it passes,--mingled with much badinage at the expense
of the purchasers.
The regimental band of fifty men discourses sweet music. Tea is on in
the mess-room--soldiers in khaki and soldiers in scarlet coats are
everywhere. Snatches of songs come from the different quarters and life
does not seem hard to these soldiers, at least not now, and yet--the
call to arms and the chance of a skirmish is always welcome at first,
until they realise that "War is Hell" and once entered upon cannot be so
easily stopped. There is no thought of war here now and life goes
merrily onward.
At seven-thirty the dressing bugle sounds and we are off to reassemble
in the officers' mess at eight for that most important function,
dinner. I confess I feel slovenly in my black clothes amongst the
scarlet and gold of the officers. The mess dress of the army is very
effective, a scarlet jacket fitting closely and showing a generous shirt
front, dark blue trousers with scarlet stripes, strapped over patent
leather boots bearing spurs,--a dress becoming to any man. Once he knows
you, a British officer is always very cordial and agreeable; there are
few exceptions to that rule. I am certainly given a cordial welcome
amongst them on my first evening.
Dinner announced, we file down to the mess-room where if you imagine
things are crude or camp-like you are mistaken. The spacious apartment
is adorned with the "colours" old and new of the whole regiment (as this
is the headquarters of all its battalions and all such things are here
stored), most of them torn with the strife of battle. The table, of
Bombay oak (which travels with the regiment wherever it goes), is of
great width and as long as the room will permit. For dinner it is decked
with magnificent plate in the form of candelabra, cups and fantastic
salt-cellars, etc. There are flowers and snowy linen of course, and the
room is brilliant with scarlet coats and the mellow light of wax
candles. The dinner goes merrily on, while outside the regimental band
discourses its best. Towards the end we are brought to our feet with
"Gentleman, the King," and so, to the national anthem, drink the health
of his Majesty.
(I must compliment this band. It is excellent, and I believe is
considered the best in south Ireland.)
After dinner, we adjourn to the smoking-room upstairs, and "bridge"
comes in for proper attention.
Not caring for the game, Major Beddoes and I are seated before the fire.
The room is a large one and, I am thankful to say, does not possess
electric lights; a shaded lamp throws a warm glow downward upon the card
tables while the flashes of the firelight bring the scarlet coats and
gold braid of the players, and the tattered battle flags beyond them
into bold relief now and then.
The air is full of tobacco smoke, but aside from our subdued voices and
an occasional remark thrown at me by the players because I neither smoke
nor play, the room is very quiet. Outside, the barracks and the town
seem to have gone to sleep save for an occasional bugle call or sentry
challenge.
There had been some commotion below earlier in the evening because of a
young setter pup, which Capt. D. had shut up in his room, having eaten
one of the Captain's new walking boots, and Major Beddoes had some words
with his man, whom he had discovered wearing one of his, the Major's,
best dress shirts. "Sure, Major, 'twasn't soiled enough to give to old
Mag beyant there to wash, and I jest thought I would give it a wear or
so mesell, knowin' ye wouldn't care."
But those incidents of barracks life have passed on, when I ask the
Major what he thinks are the real feelings of the English for
Americans,--do you like us?--he is enough like a Yankee to throw the
query back at me with the parties reversed; but I came first upon the
field and insist upon that advantage. After some moments of quiet
pulling at his beloved pipe, he answers, "I think individually, yes,--as
a nation, _no_, and you have probably discovered that for yourself, and
the feeling on our part may be based on jealousy. You are also aware
that the same holds in your own land toward our people. As a general
thing we like your women, but not your men, and our opinion of the
latter is probably influenced by those of your citizens who have turned
their backs upon their own land and settled amongst us. Of these I do
not include those who have come amongst us for business reasons,--they
always expect to go 'home,' and are at all periods of their sojourn here
Americans,--but those others who, drawing their entire support from
their own country, settle here and become more anti-American than any
Englishman ever was. We despise them, and no matter how hard they may
work for it, they will never be looked upon otherwise than as
strangers,--their children, reared over here, possibly, but never
themselves, for whether we like you or not, we do think that one born in
America should be proud of that fact and not a cad. Do you agree with
me?"
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Buttevant]
"Assuredly, and personally whatever pride in the past I possess is
centred in those of my ancestors who helped to make and preserve our
great nation,--beyond them, while it is interesting to trace backward
into the countries of the old world, it is simply a pastime."
"You certainly send us funny lots of people during the touring months."
"Yes,--but have you ever tried to talk to them?"
"Just recall that lot at Mallow the other day. Could any party on the
surface be more unattractive?"
"You are quite correct, but if you had spoken to that most aggressive
looking man and his more aggressive looking wife and daughter, you would
have discovered well educated and intelligent people, such as form the
real backbone of a nation. They have consumed six summers travelling in
Norway alone, and thoroughly appreciate that beautiful country. They
believe that the world is a better book than any ever enclosed between
covers, and they intend to read it, and when the years bring old age
upon them, all that world will still be an open volume, its changes and
improvements fully appreciated and understood. Can you not excuse much
that is unpleasant in people like these? And do they not compare
favourably with the masses of English of a certain class found all over
Europe."
As for the sentiments of one nation for another, it is summed up in the
words of a recent author, "Moreover, the fine old dislike which Bretons
bestow upon everything outside Brittany was hers both by inheritance and
careful cultivation." There you have it in a nutshell,--not only as
regards the English but all other nations. England certainly holds that
feeling towards all the continent and I believe towards America; Boston
has it for all the rest of our land. New York has of late years become
more liberal, more cosmopolitan, yet I heard but lately a man make the
remark in her best club that he had "a perfect horror of the middle
West." How does that sound from an educated man in this twentieth
century, and of cities which have long since passed their centennial? To
be sure, far from being a criterion for the citizens of New York, he was
one who had kept his nose down on the books of some counting-house and
had never left the confines of the city.
As for California, I have known the dislike of everything outside of
that State, especially Eastern, to separate husband and wife and destroy
a family; where the wife's hatred of "outsiders" extended from her
husband's parents to and including every friend he had in the East,--an
impersonal sort of hatred because she was stranger to most of them, yet
none the less violent, with the result as stated.
Again, did not such a feeling have something to do with our Civil War?
Does not England even to-day believe that the cultivation was largely
in the South, and yet how unjust such an opinion! I am half Southern, my
mother's family having been slave-owners for generations, and I think I
can speak without prejudice, and I say again "how unjust such an
opinion." The cultivation in the South was sprinkled over a sparsely
settled country and centred in a few thousands of planters and their
families. In the North, it covered all of a densely populated section,
and from ocean to ocean it would have been impossible to find a class
like the mountaineers of Virginia, so ignorant that many of them not
only could not read but did not know what "reading" meant. Furthermore
where were, and still are, all the greater universities and seats of
learning? In the North. Where did our great poets and essayists come
from? The North again. I do not desire to decry the South,--far from
it,--but the old idea was an absurdity; the South in her palmiest
ante-bellum days sent the majority of her sons north to be educated,
but----
Bridge in the meantime is over for to-night and the group before the
fire increased thereby. So the talk drifts on and on. I am not given to
slang and do not like it, but I happened to use a bit just here, "he
monkeyed with a buzz saw." Attracted by the silence which followed I
looked up to find every face gazing upon me in puzzled amazement, until
finally Major ---- felt that some explanation must be forthcoming.
"Monkeyed with a buzz saw? Now let me see, let me see. What exactly _is_
a 'buzz saw,' and what happened to the monkey?"
My laughter forced them all to join in and for the next hour these
defenders of the British flag took a lesson in American slang, until
upon the soft air outside sounded the notes of the "last post" (or
"taps" as we call it), the saddest bit of melody in the world of music,
and so "good night," "good night." One by one the lights went out and
sleep settled upon the living while the moon, turning her attention
elsewhere, went off to light the fairies dancing on the river and the
witches down in old Ballybeg Abbey.
The following day being Sunday the soldiers of the King go to service in
full dress; the grim barracks are brilliant with hundreds of scarlet
coats and to the music of _Stars and Stripes Forever_ our one time foes
move off to pray for peace while prepared for war. I notice that
_Hiawatha_ is the favourite tune for marching men, and am told that it
is not only because it is a most excellent march but because the fife
plays an important part in its rendering and the fife is the only
instrument which can be heard above the din of battle.
[Illustration: Kilcoman Castle
Spenser's Home
Where he wrote _The Faerie Queene_]
There is a drummer in this band whose movements are simply amazing, and
I find myself trying to imitate them with pole and cane to the peril of
life and property. How he does swing those great sticks around his head
and bring them down upon that huge bass-drum! A drummer surely whose
pomposity surpasses anything of its kind within my memory. As the
inspiring music grows fainter and fainter and the scarlet coats pass
away down the streets of the old town I turn for an inspection of the
barracks. On the top of the entrance arch are the offices, on the right
the guard-house, and beyond it a large gymnasium. On either side of the
green and running at right angles to the entrance are the officers'
quarters, while a large barracks for the men forms the fourth side of
the square. Back of this is another square surrounded by large barracks,
while the married men have a separate building beyond these and the
Colonel lives in a retired pleasant house off in one corner. Of that
house and the dwellers therein I have some very pleasant memories.
To a looker-on in this twentieth century the disregard of sanitary
measures in such a barracks as this is surprising and I doubt not the
same holds in all others of the Empire and perhaps in all those of other
countries, including my own. Of that I am unable to speak, but the
outrage is an outrage all the same. One can understand the lack of such
things in far western camps or in war times, but that a great stone
place like this with a hundred years to its credit should have no proper
baths or toilet-rooms for its officers is "an outrage" most certainly,
and one which the nation should insist upon being promptly corrected.
There are a few bathrooms with good tubs and hot and cold water for the
men but the officers have nothing save the inconvenient, nasty little
tin tubs, and it is practically impossible for a big man to keep himself
in proper condition by their use.
These quarters are, as I have stated, massive stone buildings. Each
officer has a sitting-room with two small rooms adjoining and so placed
that either of the latter could be transformed at small cost into an
excellent bathroom with hot and cold water laid on. As it is now, these
gentlemen must use a little tin thing with an inch or two of cold water.
It's a common saying amongst the officers of the army that nothing is
done for _them_. What the government does is all for the rank and file.
That the soldiers should receive everything needful is in all ways
proper, but are not the men who lead them, the brains of this strength
of the nation, entitled to like consideration? They offer their lives
upon the slightest cause, and gladly too, yet their government is so far
forgetful, not to call it by a harsher term, that it neglects their
well-being in this manner. They are willing to put up with _nothing_
when it is necessary, and surely are entitled to a _bare something_, and
this is nothing more, when it can so easily be done and at such small
expense. Cleanliness is certainly more essential to health than many
brilliant coats and much silver plate.
There is often scorn expressed for our bathrooms with their modern
appliances, but I noticed at P---- that one of the scoffers, who might
have had his little "tub" (so constantly extolled) in his bedroom,
waited and almost missed his dinner that he might use the only bathroom
in that vast establishment. I do not desire to accuse the officers of
uncleanliness--very far from it--but they should be better provided for
in this respect.
I am also astounded to note the treatment of the common soldiers--"Tommy
Atkins"--by the public. In time of war he is worshipped, but in time of
peace is scarce considered to be a man, merely a servant to be pushed
and shoved about and treated most discourteously, to say the least. I
saw this done in a theatre the other night, to a soldier who addressed a
simple, civil question to the man next him. The reply he got and the
treatment he received would, in America at least, have resulted in a
row, and justly too. However, that occurred in Ireland where the "red
coats" are not liked.
I understand that the pay per year of the officers in the British army
is about as follows:
A Colonel, £400 Sterling
Lt. Colonel, 300
Major, 240
Captain, 200
Lieutenant, 100
These figures do not seem very large when a man offers his life to his
country, but they are in excess of many nations on the Continent, where
the officers are forced into beastly poverty by the call for outside
gorgeousness. At a late grand review the eye of a beholder was attracted
by an officer quite resplendent in a beautiful white uniform, superb
high black boots with glittering spurs, a silver breastplate, and
glittering helmet, and mounted on a splendid black charger, his
appearance was gorgeousness intensified. After the review the observer,
passing the tent of this same officer, saw the entire gorgeousness as to
uniform hung up to dry and on the wretched camp bed sat the man _with no
socks on_,--"too poor to buy them," all the pay and far more gone in the
useless display,--and yet not altogether useless, for without the
uniforms these great standing armies would melt away like mist before
the sun and many a throne totter to its fall. However, if the splendour
must be maintained, and it is certainly beautiful to look at, then those
forced to wear it and bear its expense should be better paid,
remembering at the same time that the wearers are ready at any moment to
stand up to be shot to death in defence of the home where you sit
comfortably reading your paper--therefore "PAY, PAY, PAY!"
The officers of these Fusiliers are devoted to their cook. I suggested
the other day that his coffee might be improved,--it was wretched, in
fact, not coffee at all, while no fault could be found with the rest of
the menu. They replied that they knew it, but he had been so devoted in
battle, had cooked under a galling Gatling fire, had rushed so many
times over death spots to bring them hot sausages which he was forced to
carry in his hands, that they could not scold him. I drank his coffee
with great pleasure after that. The heroes in this world do not always
wear the most brilliant uniforms and has it not been proven that it is
the commissary which in the end decides the conflict?
[Illustration: Doneraile Court, County Cork]
There is nothing going on in the barracks this morning which interests
me, save perhaps a court-martial, at which I am told that my absence
will be very precious. So I stroll off in the soft sunlight through the
great gateway, where a sentry holds constant ward and watch, just for
appearance sake, I imagine, as it cannot be to keep the boys in or
strangers out, for just at yonder corner is a breach in the wall
unguarded where any one may come and go at pleasure, and I doubt not
many of the boys do go and for pleasure, though there can be little
amusement in the sad town which clusters between the barracks and
castle. Of young men it seems to hold none, and there are not many
children, so that when these few old people pass onward and enter for
eternity yonder churchyard, old Buttevant will wither away altogether.
Many kindly faces come to the doors to watch me, knowing that I am an
American, and their eyes have a questioning look as though to ask for
some dear one in the land beyond the sea.
The place is indeed very old and every now and then as I pass through
the streets I come across some vestige of its past greatness and a mile
beyond its limits reach the ruins of Ballybeg Abbey, in a smiling meadow
down by the river Awbeg. Something of a stately structure in its palmy
days, there is little of that left now, but on the whole it is all
rather sociable. The river is of that sort, and having loitered downward
under its trees and through its grasses murmurs confidential bits of
gossip about the castle yonder upon its banks. Yellow buttercups push
their heads upward through the turf which climbs to the old grey walls
of the abbey, and in the abbot's doorway the white face of a ruminating
cow is silhouetted against the inner darkness. "They also serve who only
stand and wait," must have been written of Ballybeg and its kind, for it
has left no trace upon the pages of history. Yet withal, as I have
stated, it's a sociable old place and I spend some time in its company,
seated on the parapet of a neighbouring stone bridge where 'tis said the
fairies dance when the moon is full.
I expected much from the name--Ballybeg--why I can scarcely tell but I
cannot say that I am disappointed, though such stately structures as
Fountaine and Tintern in Wales would scarce consider Ballybeg to be
exactly "in their set."
Wandering up the banks of the Awbeg, I pass beyond the castle. We
had tea there last season and a medieval castle which can descend
to having afternoon tea served within its walls is not worthy of
description. It is owned by an irascible old lady who occupies one part
and rents out the other and who generally keeps such a strict eye upon
her tenants that it results in driving them out. When we visited it the
tenants were an officer and his wife, and just that shortly happened,
so that on my second visit to Buttevant, the castle stares at me with
vacant eyes of windows, and I pass onward up the river to the centre of
the town, where the ruins of its Franciscan abbey raise their arches
and columns and guard the dead of long ago, and those who come in this
later day to sleep beneath its shadows.
If you enter its crypt, you will stand amazed at the vast quantity of
human bones piled pell-mell there. Some say that they are but the
natural accumulation of departing humanity and others that they all came
from the neighbouring battlefield of Knockninoss,--others believe that
when in the flesh they all lived yonder in old Ballybeg.
Be that as it may, they are here now, quietly awaiting that day of days,
which shall summon them forth once more, and as I stand in the darkness
with my foot on a skull, which might have enclosed the brains of an
Irish king, downward through a broken casement comes the sound of a
voice and the words "I am the resurrection and the life, he that
believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live," and I roll the
skull gently back into denser shadows, wondering, _wondering_, and
then, as we all must do, ceasing to wonder, and just continuing
to--trust.
Passing upward into the sunshine and forward amidst the long grasses
which cover the humbler dead, I find that one more has but now joined
this silent company, and those who brought her here are slowly leaving
the churchyard. Poor people, all of them,--there does not appear to be
any others in this town of Buttevant,--but death seems to hold no
terrors for any one of these and many sit round on the tombstones and do
not hesitate to discuss the qualities, good and bad, of those asleep
beneath them and to admire the inscriptions. Here is one quaint enough
surely:
"Here lies Pat Steele--that's very true;
Who was he? What was he? What's that to _you_?"
Yonder is a cross of wood under discussion at the present moment. It
states that "here lies Kate O'Shea and also her sister Mrs. Mary
Buckley," and that as "their father died last year, this is the end of
the O'Shea family." That thereby hangs a tale is very evident, and
yonder fat old lady on whose head a bit of a black bonnet is poised and
round whose shoulders a comfortable shawl is wrapped could and would
tell me if there were not so many listeners about, who knowing her love
of gossip keep sharp watch and ward, so that of those who are gone I
learn nothing, but of what is shortly to happen I hear more.
[Illustration: The Room in Doneraile Court where Mrs. Aldworth Hid]
A wedding is to take place in the modern church just here and we sit
round on the tombstones, awaiting the coming of the bride. There are
hints as to this bride which rouse my curiosity, and I decide to await
her coming, which shortly happens. She is a comely looking young woman,
modestly dressed in a green gown, and a blue hat with red roses thereon.
Her blue eyes do not possess a very happy look as they rest on the fat
middle-aged bridegroom, and the old lady on the tombstone next to me
heaves a sigh which tells unutterable things. Still, all seems going
smoothly and we follow into the church. The ceremony begins, and
progresses as usual to that point where the bride is asked if she takes
this man to be her wedded husband, when upon the amazed and horrified
ears of all falls the reply in sharp tones, "Indade, I won't," followed
by a swish of a blue skirt and a flash of red roses down the aisle and
out the door and the bride is gone. I leave a description of the hubbub
which followed to your imagination.
Getting finally outside, I find myself once more near the old lady of
ample proportions, and just in time to hear her remark "and him wid nine
illegant fat pigs and sivin suits of clothes _aich one better than the
other_." This entirely destroys my dignity and self-control and I double
up with laughter upon a neighbouring tombstone, whereupon the old lady,
after one look of grand amaze, gives me "the full of her back" and with
her "nose trun in the air" passes majestically away. I learn later that
of that bride they never again heard. Like the bubble on the river she
was gone and for ever.
The neighbourhood of Buttevant is full of interest to those who will
turn aside from the usual tour of Ireland. To-day we are off through the
green lanes for a visit to Kilcoman Castle, the home for some years of
the poet Spenser, and where he wrote his _Faerie Queene_. We shall later
visit the scenes of that poem.
In 1586 Spenser received some fifteen hundred acres of land from the
crown, and on them stood this ancient stronghold of the Desmonds, which
he made his home for years. Those were troublous times and he saw much
of their misery, and their sadness tinges his great poem.
He received but small acknowledgment for his work from Elizabeth, and
even that was objected to by Burleigh,--"What--so much for a song!"
This castle was sacked whilst he occupied it and he fled to London,
where he died in poverty.
The ruins rise from the midst of a green meadow some seven miles from
Buttevant, and consist of a lonely tower, to the top of which we mounted
by its ancient staircase within the walls. The tower chamber still has
its roof intact, but at its best the castle must have formed a poor
abiding-place even three centuries ago.
The prospect from the top is rather dreary, and we leave the spot
without regret.
Doneraile Court, in whose vast park were laid the scenes of the _Faerie
Queene_, is very different. It is now the property of Lord Castletown.
One more fully appreciates the comfort of a motor-car when forced
suddenly as we were last night to take a jaunting-car for a ride of nine
miles to Doneraile. That distance would be nothing at all in the former
vehicle, but is every inch of nine miles in the latter. It's no easy
matter to hold one's seat in these cars. If you happen to have a
trotting horse it's not so difficult, but if the beast is inclined to
canter, as ours was, the wheels of the car will almost leave the ground
with every canter, and chances are that you will desert the car
altogether. I came near doing so several times last night, and reached
the court in a breathless state, which the horse, with a wicked leer in
his eye, seemed to enjoy to the full. Tom, the driver, secure on his
perch in front, rode most of the way with his back to the horse, which
appeared to know whither we were bound, Tom the while discoursing to me
upon the charms of hunting in Ireland and showing me several of the
favourite jumping places. I did not enthuse; though I have ridden all my
life and hunted some, still a jump composed of a stone wall, a hedge,
and a deep drop on the far side did not commend itself to me, especially
as a man had "broken his neck there but lately." One can scarcely
understand such clumsiness on his part as the drop was quite sufficient
for horse and rider to turn a complete summersault, and still come out
right side up. However, I shall not try the trick, but that I would
hesitate for an instant, for such a reason, to join in the national
sport stamps me as unsportsmanlike--as one who will not buy a horse, and
that settles my position, in Ireland.
We approached Doneraile Court through the village of that name, which
clusters close under its park walls. Doneraile is quite _the_ place in
this section, and we find it a stately mansion presiding over one of the
most beautifully wooded parks in Great Britain.
These houses in Ireland, mostly all dating from the Restoration, are
commodious and ofttimes stately structures, and have a beauty all their
own and very different from anything in England, hence one cannot
compare them. This estate somewhat antedates that period as it was
purchased from Spenser's son by William St. Ledger, President of Munster
in Charles I.'s reign, and the town gives the title to the family.
Doneraile presents a lofty and attractive front to the park and the
attraction abides as one enters the spacious halls filled with the
trophies of the chase and with quaint arms gathered from all over the
world. In the distance a stately staircase mounts to the upper floors
and on the left is a suite of handsome withdrawing-rooms and a library,
while the dining-room holds on its walls many interesting family
portraits, one of which quite diverts my attention from the conversation
during dinner. It is that of Mrs. Aldworth, and shows a very strong,
determined countenance. The finger on that book indicates that you will
believe what she tells you or she will know the reason.
[Illustration: The Hon. Mrs. Aldworth
The only woman Freemason]
I have another picture of the lady from a painting in Doneraile,--never
photographed before,--but it is not so distinct as the one I give, and
is merely that of a beautiful woman, a woman of the world before her
character has been developed. Certainly none would dare claim--in her
presence at least--that the character of the lady in the portrait I do
give has not been developed, nor would it be well to cast any aspersions
upon that character. You may think you know a thing or two, but if wise
you will not dare the owner of that face yonder. Madam, I doubt not but
that you were the very best Mason the sun ever shone upon, so let me
alone, will you?
She was born in 1695, and her history is told us by Lord Castletown in
the room where its great event occurred.
It is the first on your right in front as you enter the mansion, and the
interest of the house centres there, for therein was being held in 1725
the Free-masons' lodge when the Hon. Mary St. Ledger, afterwards Mrs.
Aldworth, hid herself, some say in the great clock, and upon being
discovered was by those present condemned to death, when one man so
plead for her that her life was spared and she was made a full-fledged
Mason, the only one in the world's history. What could follow an
incident so romantic save a wedding, and it did follow shortly. It is
said that she was condemned for ever to wear clocks on her stockings,
hence that name for that bit of embroidery. It is also stated that
Aldworth at first voted for her death and she married him to pay him out
again. Whichever tale is correct it is stated that in later years he
more than regretted that he had not voted for her death, but he was
probably a degenerate man, for the face in yonder portrait was worth
fighting for. In the room where it all occurred are her masonic emblems,
a "square" about three inches long, the stone above an amethyst, the
rising sun above, gold, and the rays diamonds (or old paste), a greyish
stone, and yellow amethyst in alternate rays. A little thing to last
when she who wore it and created all this disturbance has been dust and
ashes since 1775.
The room is a double or alcoved apartment with bookcases ranged around
its walls, and still holds, I believe, the same furniture as upon the
eventful night.
The talk drifted onward about her and many other curious persons and
things, and the smoke from the cigars grew denser and denser until I
dreamed that I saw all sorts of vanished faces in the space around me,
and I fear that I was dreaming actually when aroused by Major Beddoes
and told that "the ladies are retiring" and so we lighted their candles
for them, and chatting a moment at the foot of the staircase, watched
them disappear above.
Burne-Jones must have gotten the idea for his famous picture from such a
scene. There is no place where a group of stately, beautifully gowned
women show to better advantage than upon a staircase. I was strongly
reminded of his painting on this occasion. After all the custom of good
night to the ladies with the lighting of candles and its pleasant chat
is a pretty one though you may object to their early disappearance and
would greatly prefer an hour's more talk with them than with your own
sex.
However, it is late to-night, and bidding our host adieu we move off
through the glades of the park where Spenser wandered and dreamt so long
ago, pausing a moment by the lake where the swans still drift as on a
surface of molten silver. The midsummer air is balmy and delightful and
a full moon lights up the woods until one almost fancies the Faerie
Queene is out in their glades with all her court, or adrift on the lake
with the swans.
My stay in the barracks is drawing to a close, and perhaps it is well.
Major Beddoes threatens me with arrest, fearing a riot if I am allowed
to wander around attending weddings and other functions to which I have
not been bidden.
During my sojourn I have employed a boy named Tom who owns a sprightly
horse and a jaunting-car not more than a century old, the latter
harnessed to the former by means of strings. We have had many a rare
drive between the hawthorn hedges, leaving the motor neglected in a
shed: its day will come.
I have been desirous since leaving Achill to hear again that mournful
cry for the dead,--"keening,"--and had arranged with Tom to bring two
old women into the barracks after dark, to whom I was to give half a
crown each and a bottle of--let us say "cologne"; but they did not
materialise and when I questioned Tom he replied, "Sure, sor, I had 'em
beyant Major Beddoe's rooms, but he druv 'em away."
"Certainly I did," chimed in the Major; "do you want me
court-martialled?"
I would not object if it were in a good cause. I think there is also a
bit of personal malice in his acts, as I laughed at him the other day.
He has lately married a charming wife, and is at present quartered in
Mallow, from whence he runs the nine miles in a motor-car of his new
father-in-law. When he made his first appearance the other day on the
barracks compound, with all the officers and their families assembled to
greet him, said motor-car looked as though it had been through the wars,
and was as pug-nosed as many of the aborigines of the land, caused by
sudden contacts with stone gates and the sides of houses, to say nothing
of unexpected excursions through old ladies' gardens and into gullies
not intended for motors. I laughed, I could not help it, hence the
malice aforesaid, with threats of arrest.
[Illustration: The Lake at Doneraile Park]
One day we are returning from a jaunt to nowhere in particular, having
been out just looking for things to happen,--which they generally
did,--when, as we draw near the barracks, we pass a dilapidated old trap
with some men inspecting it. One hails our boy with the query, "I say,
Tom, is that your family chariot?" Quick as thought comes the reply:
"Yes, and I am in want of a mule; are _you_ widout occupation?"
After that we find it advisable to order the car into the barracks
enclosure when dismissing it--at which time I get a wink from Tom--we
shortly find ourselves ensconced before a bright fire in the
smoking-room.
The quarters are very comfortable. This room is a large double apartment
with easy chairs and lounges, red rugs and carpets, two fire-places for
winter use, and books and cards galore. Downstairs there is a
billiard-room. The quarters of the officers are cleanly and comfortable,
the dwellers therein a healthy, happy looking lot, though they all agree
with what I have said about the bathrooms.
The regiment has collected its plate throughout all the years since its
foundation, nearly two centuries and a half, and it forms a superb
collection, which I examined with great interest.
When in 1661 Charles II. married Catherine of Braganza, Bombay was ceded
to England by Portugal as part of the dower of that princess. This
regiment of the Fusiliers was formed at that time and has been in
existence ever since. As the years have gone by this plate, now
amounting in value to some thousands of pounds, has been collected, and
the designs and taste of two and a half centuries are interestingly
displayed in the various articles, especially in the smaller pieces,
such as salt-cellars, snuff-boxes, etc. There are, of course, the
greater pieces, stately candelabra, drinking-cups, and epergnes. One
piece especially attracted my attention, a train of silver cars, each
holding its crystal decanter for port, sherry, brandy, etc., which after
the cloth was removed was rolled around the ancient table. This plate
and table go with the regiment at all times. It even went to South
Africa.
Captain D. got it all out for my inspection one day and assured me that
it was often in use even in war times.
Therein lies the difference between the English and Americans. They live
and we spend our lives getting ready to live, and rarely reach the goal.
A soldier especially realises that his life is but from day to day, and
therefore uses each day, with all he owns, to the full. An American
regiment would store such plate and it would be absolutely useless,
rarely if ever seeing the light of day,--but throughout its two
centuries and a half of existence this plate has had constant usage and
shows it.
Ah, well, what, I wonder, will be our manners and customs when our
nation, like this, has a thousand years to its credit? What will America
be, what will England be then? Let us trust both better and greater and
grander than they are now.
While I handle these dainty bits of silver that have outlasted the lives
of so many great men, Captain D. pours bits of gossip about army life
and the late war into my ears, and I notice that he does not hear very
well on one side, and ask why. "Oh, nothing much; a Boer bullet hit me
one day and clipped out a bit of my skull under my left eye, coming out
behind my ear, and destroying my sight and hearing on that side,--it was
not much." No! I suppose all soldiers would say it was merely in the
line of their profession, yet life is the best thing given to us, and
those who hold it at a nation's disposal should have the best that
nation can bestow at all times. I have no doubt but that each nation
intends to give all--they are careless, not ungrateful.
After these days of rest in Buttevant barracks, it is pleasant to see
again our green car glide round the corner and draw up at the door--not
that we have not used it while here. My sojourn with these soldiers of
the King has proven a delightful experience which I shall never forget.
As we are loaded up and the car is snorting to be off they crowd around
us and we make all sorts of appointments for future meetings, few of
which in the usual course of life will ever be carried out, but there is
pleasure in the making. With a last handshake, I give the word and the
car glides noiselessly forward, turns out through the great archway, and
Buttevant Barracks are a thing of the past for us,--really so, as this
regiment moves in September to Fermoy.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Mallow Castle]