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--Clothes of the Martyr King--Is History False or True?
The afternoon sun shines brilliantly as we cross the river Suir and
enter Waterford, one of the most ancient towns of the kingdom, yet one
which well survives the passing centuries, holding still the bustle and
clangour of life in its streets and on its quays, which stretch for a
mile and more along the banks of the river and where you will find a
good steamship which in eight hours will land you in New Milford,--but
we are not to leave Ireland yet, nor have I any desire to do so.
To relate the history of Waterford would be to cover much of that of
Ireland, which is not necessary here. Suffice it to say that this
southeast end of the island appears to have been the first to attract
outside barbarians and we find records of the Danes here back in 853.
Reginald reigned here in the eleventh century, and I find myself
blinking up at his round tower which still keeps watch and ward over
this river.
There are others in the town if one cares to look for them, but like
this of Reginald all have fallen from their high estate. This is but a
police station now. Of King John's palace nothing remains. In fact
relics of the past are not many in Waterford.
We pause a moment at the Franciscan Friary, which Sir Hugh Purcell built
in 1220. It is in ruins, of course, and is quite in the heart of the
city, unnoticed save by some wandering spirit. Grass grows thickly under
its arches and there are many flat tombstones bearing historic names and
those of families well-known to-day.
Not far away stands the cathedral, too entirely renovated, in fact
rebuilt, to be of interest, save for some curious monuments. One
especially, that of a man named Rice, represents his body as they found
it a year after death,--a toad sits on his breast, and we turn away with
anything but pleasant thoughts. It seems he commanded that his tomb be
opened after a year and his monument made, holding a copy in stone of
his body exactly as they should find it,--hence this repulsive statue.
There are but few who would care to attain earthly immortality in that
manner.
Every road in Wexford will lead one to or near some relic of the past.
Seven miles out from Waterford we find Dunbrody Abbey, standing serene
and stately in the midst of a great meadow and near to an arm of the
sea. Dunbrody is called the most beautiful ruin in the county and it has
been a ruin for nearly four hundred years, having been suppressed by
Henry the Eighth. Its abbots and monks have long since gone the way of
all flesh and one must now cultivate the good graces of a little old
woman in a neighbouring house if one would enter the sacred precincts,
for though ancient, if one door in its outer walls be locked, even an
enterprising man of the twentieth century may not enter its courts. We
tried it and the great central tower seemed to smile down upon us in
derision. All the while the little old lady stood afar off, holding the
key, which we did not get until we had paid for it.
The world does not come to Dunbrody very often. The tourist world knows
nothing of it--in fact, all this most interesting section of Ireland is
as yet unexplored by the tide of travel rushing northward from
Queenstown. Certainly to-day nothing comes near us and we spend a
delightful hour in the warm sunshine high up on the great tower, and
then awakening Robert, who in turn starts the motor to life, we roll off
through the shady lanes once more.
The day's work is over and these simple people are resting from their
labours. We have just passed one comfortable old dame seated on a chair
under the bending boughs of the hawthorn. She wore a great frilled
white cap and knitted industriously, while in her lap a white kitten lay
asleep. She greeted us with a pleasant smile as we rolled into and out
of her life and away toward Bannow House, the home of the Boyse family.
I had visited Bannow last year; when leaving the train at New Ross I had
expected to find its entrance gateway not more than a mile or two away,
and fell back aghast when the boy who met me with the dog-cart quietly
remarked that it was a drive of eighteen miles. I must confess that that
is farther than I care to live from the railway, and Boyse has
acknowledged that that distance home has several times deterred his
departure from London--not but what that might have been a mere excuse
for London is just London and means much. However, a new railroad is now
opened only three miles from Bannow, and to-day our car annihilates the
eighteen miles in short order.
Crossing the river at New Ross the road leads towards the sea. There is
a fine highway all the distance, winding but well made, and the car
appreciates that fact, and makes fair time until we turn into the gates
of the home park and roll onward through its avenues of rhododendrons to
the entrance. Then the car vanishes around to its quarters for a few
days.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
The Route to Glengariff]
I know of no more attractive, peaceful spot than Bannow House. It is a
large square stone mansion with some centuries to its credit and stands
in the meadow-lands close to the sea in the southeast corner of the
county of Wexford and in a park of some eight hundred acres. One hears
the murmur of the ocean but the house is secluded by avenues of trees
which cut off the view of the sea and also shelter the place from the
fury of the winds.
Coming into the possession of the Boyse family with the restoration of
Charles II., it has grown until to-day, with its spreading wings, it is
an extensive establishment, a typical Irish home. You find many such
about the land, all charming places to live in. Springing into existence
as the use and need for castles passed away, they are built of stone and
in the case of Bannow House the stone portico has its monolith
columns,--what they call here "famine work." In the dreary winter of
1847 the people worked out their debt to the landlord, for food, etc.,
in this manner. The fine avenue of trees through which we approached the
house is also the result of "famine work."
Entering the house, one finds a large square hall ornamented with spears
and shields from Africa and objects from all over the world, gathered
throughout the years up to date by its former masters and its present
owner.
To one's right is a spacious dining-room, to the left a ball-room, while
behind the hall is another square hall holding a stair which ascends on
two sides into a gallery above. At the left of this, one enters on the
main floor a spacious drawing-room, where I have spent many a pleasant
evening.
Bannow is full of the portraits of those who have lived and died here.
They face me at the table, peer at me on the staircase from unexpected
nooks and corners, and beam down upon me in the mellow lamplight of the
drawing-room, each one with a tale of its own, I fancy, and one can
trace the passing centuries by the different styles of dress. Yonder
damsel with that long neck should have lived in the days of beheading at
the block as she would have been a splendid subject; that quaint old
gentleman in the corner knew a thing or two and could tell a good story,
I doubt not. Yonder lady with the towering wig was a beauty in her day,
but, deserted by her husband, who fled to America, she was taken under
the patronage of Queen Charlotte. I spend many a moment talking to these
old pictures and I think they answer always.
The bedrooms at Bannow range themselves around the gallery,--mine is off
at the end of a long passageway and is haunted, so the story runs, by a
"grey lady." Wheels are heard driving furiously now and then up the
avenue at midnight and pausing at a walled-up door, then the grey lady
flits around the gallery and into this room, where some time since in a
hidden niche in the wall an ancient rosary was discovered. The dame of
the shadows does not appear to be a malign spirit, certainly she has not
disturbed me as I have slept very soundly in her old chamber.
To-night as I lean out the window, the moon is at the full, flooding
the terrace below, and its stone stairs, guarded by vases and stone pine
cones yonder, gleam whitely as they mount under the shadows of an old
yew tree. The fragrance of sweet grasses fills the air and the night is
full of silence save for the brooding calls of some doves in the forest,
and I wait and watch for the grey lady but she does not come.
Do you know the legend of the wood pigeon? If not, then the next time
you hear one, listen and it will almost tell it without further words
from me. Once a man went to steal a cow in the days when cattle-lifting
was the proper thing and, when deep in the forest, declared that the
wood pigeons, or doves, as we call them, insisted that he should "take
two--coos--Paddy," "take two--coos--Paddy," and so he did, and still
these birds of the forest will say to you if you listen, "take
two--coos--Paddy," and for ever after you will hear the same as you
listen to their voices.
Just now there is one on the yew tree by the terrace steps strongly
insisting upon a double depredation on my part of the adjoining pasture,
and his plaint grows louder and more insistent as I close the window,
leaving him to exercise his corrupting influence upon those who may pass
in the night.
Wandering the next morning up the stone steps and nearly in the forest I
find an ancient garden of great extent enclosed by a lofty wall. I have
already seen such at Doneraile Court and I know that they are charming
spots,--something we can never have in America as we have no time for
them, our places change hands so constantly. I enter this one at Bannow
House through a trellis of white roses embowering a door in the wall and
am confronted by a tree fuchsia towering above me and casting its
crimson and purple blossoms down on my cap. The enclosure is five acres
in size, surrounded by a wall of brick some thirty feet high. Golden and
crimson and white roses nod at me from the walls or peer over the top at
the deep, cool woods without. Formal beds bordered in privet line the
straight walks. Glories of white lilies, purple lilies, scarlet poppies,
and nasturtiums throw splotches of colour all around. In the centre
stands an old stone sun-dial and passing through an archway, gnarled,
squat apple trees and gooseberry bushes are found lining the paths,
while to the walls cling plum and pear trees. Flaming hollyhocks light
up shadowy corners, and from a distant tool-house an old cat is sedately
leading a lot of kittens anything but stately and a great care to their
mother. From under a currant bush wanders an old duck, a sad looking
dame, acquainted with grief, I doubt not. She recalls to mind when as a
child sitting at the feet of my mother I watched the approach of a
similar old duck who gravely waddled up and laid close to the hand which
had been good to her a fragment of a shell, striking a note of tragedy
thereby. We had often fed her on her nest by the brook and now she
brought this as a token that some vandal had destroyed her home, and so
we found it. As I am thinking of her in this garden far enough off from
that brook a stray cat wanders out from a hot-house and sits down to
regard me, bottle flies buzz in the sunlight, and I wonder whether there
is an outside world of rushing unrest.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Carrig-a-pooka Castle]
This morning the pony cart is in requisition and, with one of the
ladies, I am off for a visit to the buried city of Bannow. It is
sometimes pleasant to banish the auto and jaunt slowly along. The pony
understands that to-day we have all the time there is and so takes it
leisurely with every now and then a grab at the hawthorn blossoms which
bend temptingly toward him in the narrow lanes. He seems to know the way
and finally wanders close down by the sea to where at the end of a long
grassy lane we are halted by a high-barred gate through which some
cattle gaze wonderingly outward. Wending our way through the tall
grasses we mount to where Bannow church holds its ruined watch over the
dead within and around it and over the city buried in the sands and
under the sea. Aside from the sanctuary there is no evidence that man
ever lived here, yet back in the days of James I. Bannow was a
prosperous town paying the crown rents on two hundred and more houses,
but a great storm arose in that same reign and so filled up the entrance
to its harbour as to destroy it, and from that period onward the
sentence of death was carried out against the ancient city. Higher and
higher rose the sands until they covered all except this ruined church
and the dead which lie around it, but,--here comes in a strange law or
custom,--though there was absolutely nothing to represent, the place for
generations returned two members to Parliament, and for the loss of this
privilege the Earl of Ely received fifteen thousand pounds sterling.
Certainly those two members were not annoyed by the wishes or opinions
of their constituents deep in their graves here.
As I move through the long grasses to enter the ruins I pause a moment
to pay tribute at the tomb of one Walter French, a man who passed one
hundred and forty years upon the earth and "died in the prime of life."
His last illness was the result of his walking some miles carrying a
piece of iron weighing over one hundred weight, and which "somewhat
strained the muscles around his heart, and he sickened and died, much to
the astonishment of all who knew him." He has been dead but a short time
and there are many now here who remember him well. Peace to his ashes,
and here on this breezy down beneath the shadow of this ancient church
and with yonder murmuring sea close by it should be peaceful enough even
for the dead. The church is one of the oldest in Ireland and long
antedates the English invasion.
It is not extensive, but it is quaint and interesting and possesses some
curious monuments and one pretentious stone sarcophagus. Who slept
there, I wonder?--there is no trace of him now. Bishop or layman, he has
vanished, leaving no sign or name; and when he does come again will he
pass by here? How strange Bannow church will appear to him then--and
where will he search for the mortal part of him? It is certainly not
here in this tomb which he vainly imagined would hold his body inviolate
throughout all time and to the portals of eternity.
This is a Sunday afternoon of midsummer, a warm balmy day when the
waters have gone to sleep and the bees hum drowsily. Over the hills and
through the lanes come groups of peasantry, in their Sunday best. The
usual number of dogs appear and chase imaginary rabbits through the long
grasses, and on yonder flat tombstone a lad and lassie are gaily dancing
a jig, and I doubt if the mortal or spiritual part of the sleeper
beneath them is at all disturbed by the apparent desecration of his
resting-place.
Save on Sunday the living rarely come here but to leave one of their
number who has passed the far horizon of life, or sometimes to dance by
day as we see them, or in the moonlight, on the great flat tombstones of
the Boyse family in the chancel, listening while they rest to the
constant advice of the wood doves to "take two coos, Paddy."
We are favoured with the same admonition, but though those fine red cows
are tempting we pass onward, to the increasing indignation of the
inhabitants of yonder trees.
As we turn for a last look at Bannow church on its green hill, the
roofless gables are sharply silhouetted against the glow of evening, and
the lad and lassie are still gaily dancing their jig, and two others on
a neighbouring slab are "sittin' familiar."
So leaving them we wander back, to find the pony, after having her fill
of daisies and grasses, has lain down in the shafts and gone to sleep.
When we reach home there is still much of the evening left, and,
deserting the pony--for which it casts reproachful glances upon us--we
enter the motor and roll away again.
It is not however an hour for hurry or speed and our car glides slowly
along while we enjoy the delicious air.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Macroom Castle]
As we pass by the door of an humble cabin, the turf fire within
illuminates the interior, throwing the bright scarlet dress of a girl
into bold relief against a dark wall, and lighting up the bent figure of
an old man smoking on a bench by the fireplace. In one corner is a bed
while in another a huge pig lies asleep. The dark eyes of the girl meet
mine for an instant with a pathetic hopeless expression but the old man
pays no sort of attention, and we roll away, only to come suddenly just
around a corner on a donkey drawing a cart, upon which is perched a
buxom old lady. The beast objects most decidedly to our appearance, and
after an instant of inaction, during which he stares in afright with his
ears pointed forward, he begins to back, and the old woman to screech,
more in indignation than fear, it strikes me, but be that as it may,
both keep in action until brought to a standstill under the bending
boughs of a gigantic fuchsia, whose purple blossoms are cast downward,
and all over the vast white frilled cap of the old lady. Except in
plastering the dame against that beautiful tree, no harm was done, and I
throw her a kiss as we roll away, while faintly on the air is borne to
my ears the anathema, "Ye spalpeen, yez." There is more, but our wings
are out by now and it is lost in the distance. However I would not
hesitate to apply to that old lady were I in trouble and I know I would
not apply in vain, though she might read me a lecture the while and even
bestow a clout with her big soft hand which would be more in the nature
of a caress than a censure.
How time and people have changed in America during the past forty years!
Then our land was sprinkled with settlements by these Irish, where one
could find all the quaint manners and customs of their homeland; wakes
were as strictly carried out there as here, weddings were just the same,
and around each humble home clustered a bit of atmosphere of the old
world.
Who does not remember the "tin man," generally named John, who made
his rounds with a tin-shop of no mean proportions crowding his red
waggon? Then there were the tinkers, but I must state that they were of
a better order than those of Wexford to-day. We have just passed a dirty
cart and forlorn pony, driven by a man more dirty and wretched-looking,
if that be possible. I am told he is the head of the tinkers of Wexford,
and that a more disreputable lot of tramps does not exist on this earth.
As for morality, they have never heard of such a word, and certainly do
not know its meaning. In their slovenly villages, they live in the most
promiscuous manner and when the men start on their summer's tramp each
takes along some woman who pleases him, regardless of what the degree of
consanguinity may be. One must see them on their native heath to
comprehend fully the force and meaning of the expression, "I don't care
a tinker's dam"--but our motor has stopped before a great iron gate
beyond which stretch the glades of a magnificent park. On entering I
notice a sign on one of the great trees, "Wards in Chancery," and wonder
"what have we here."
I doubt not that many of my readers have visited the great estates of
Europe, but unless they have seen Tintern Abbey in Wexford--the
quaintest of all abodes in this quaint Ireland--they have still an
experience before them.
The history of Tintern dates back to 1200, when the Earl of Pembroke--he
who married the Lady Isabel de Clare, Strongbow's daughter--founded
this abbey to the Virgin after being delivered from the sea on the coast
near-by. It was named after and peopled by monks from Tintern in Wales,
which was founded by the De Clares, and while the cathedral could not
have been so extensive as the one there, the entire monastery was quite
as large as the older establishment. It must have been a glorious place
and is so even now in its ruins, and is one of the most interesting
spots in the island. It lifts its towers amidst groves of stately trees
in a valley but a short distance from the sea and is embowered in
clambering ivy. Its great tower, still preserved as a ruin, is not
habitable save in its lower story, which is used as a kitchen. The
chancel of the abbey has been turned into a dwelling-place and one of
the most curious I have ever inspected. It is late on a brilliant
afternoon when our car, rolling down the broad avenue of the park, comes
suddenly upon the ancient structure in its secluded valley. At first all
appears to be in ruins until we note that some of the arches have been
walled up and hold modern windows. There are bits of ruin
everywhere,--moss-grown stairs with shattered heads on the rail lead to
shadowy terraces over which ancient yew trees extend sheltering arms;
ruined arches and ivied towers dot the meadow, and vine-draped pillars
standing far apart show the once great extent of the abbey.
Rolling on we round the corner of the main structure and draw up in the
great courtyard, which evidently, in the days of the abbey's grandeur,
was the cloister. To our pulling an ancient bell makes loud reply off in
the tower above us, but for some moments no sign of life is evidenced.
Finally the door is opened by a servant who reminds one of Obaldistone
in Scott's _Bride of Lammermoor_. His manner is as grand as though this
were the portals of Windsor Castle.
Yes, Mrs. C---- is at home, and will be glad to see us. We are ushered
into one of those quaintly interesting rooms to be found only in the old
world, a room impressed by each passing owner with some of his or her
own personality, individuality, without which no room has any charm.
Yonder is a portrait by Sir Peter Lely of a lady evidently lovesick.
Here is a bit of some framed fancy work whose faded colours plainly show
that it was done by a hand long since still for ever. Ivy peers into the
window and taps on the glass and there is a taint of the buried years in
the air,--the very sunlight seems to belong to late October.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Reginald's Tower, Waterford]
Bestowed by Elizabeth upon the ancestor of its present owner, Tintern
has suffered the fate of most great Irish houses and now lives in the
memory of the past. I am shown a parchment holding the family tree,
dating backward to 1299, with all its numberless coats of arms done in
colour, but evil times came down upon the race in the last century. Open
house was kept for all who passed. Beggars sat by the scores in its
great courtyard sure of their dole. In its entrance hall stood a bowl of
small silver coins for general usage, and it was dipped into by all. Its
sideboards groaned with a feast on all days,--waste and plenty, plenty
and waste,--until finally upon the death of one owner a question arose
as to the succession and so in came the law and the Court of Chancery.
That suit cost the estate one hundred thousand pounds sterling, and was
finally settled by a workman who discovered the necessary missing
documents in a hidden receptacle in the wall, but too late to save
trouble, and so to-day and each day Tintern is going more and more into
ruin, and the voracious ivy climbs ever higher and higher, pointing like
the handwriting on the wall to the ending of it all.
In the midst of all these reflections our hostess enters, a typical
Irish lady, all hospitality and warm welcome, as cordial to me whom she
has never seen before, as to her old friends who have brought me
thither. Her hearty laugh drives off the shadows and she is much pleased
that we are interested in her old home: old,--yes verily--just think of
it, her people have lived right here for three hundred years, and but
for the secretion of those documents by some stupid ancestor the domain
would be a rich one even yet. But that does not keep laughter out of
Tintern. Many's the dance which has been given here, and once, with
that love of humour which laughs at everything sad or mournful, the
cards of invitation bore the phrase, "Supper in the charnel house and
dancing in the vaults." Rest assured the feast was lively, leaving
nothing for any ghosts which might happen along that night, and I doubt
their braving the laughter of that merry throng; and yet with it all
there must have been sadness for all which had been so uselessly lost.
There are many legends for the cause of the troubles which have come
upon the abbey and its owners.
For holding property belonging to the Church they are for ever under its
curse of fire and water; then the neighbouring peasantry have a legend
that trouble arose because of the murder by Sir Anthony of all the
friars he found in the house when he came to take possession, but they
rather incline to the belief that he rested under a curse of the fairies
because he destroyed an ancient rath, or hill, which they frequented. He
was engaged to the lovely heiress of Redmond. Having gone to England,
his lady promised to burn a light in her tower of Hook to guide him on
his return, and so she did, but the fairies beguiled her to slumber with
their music, and put out the light. So her lover was drowned. The
disconsolate maiden converted her father's tower into a lighthouse, and
so it remains to this day.
It is also stated that the first Colclough was but secretary to the lord
who obtained the grant and was sent by him to England to have it
ratified. He so pleased the Virgin Queen that when he returned he found
that the deeds conferred the estates upon himself.
I noticed in the drawing-room a framed address or diploma of some sort
and asked what it was. It contained the portrait of a handsome man in
the prime of life and the emblazonments were many and rich. During the
life of the late owner he was master of the hounds, and it was decided
to present him with this illuminated address together with a present of
one hundred pounds. The event was made the occasion of a great feast,
and these old walls rang so loudly with the merriment that the rooks in
the ruined tower were startled, and fled shrieking into the forests. The
presentation was made with much ceremony, the illuminated parchment
greatly admired, also the casket which held the purse with its hundred
pounds, but which of course was not opened until the guests had all gone
or been carried home. No gentleman would leave such a feast able to
walk,--and the flunkies outside knew their duty and did it. Now it seems
the recipient of all this owed ninety-eight pounds to the man who had
made the presentation speech, and when all had gone and the family had
gathered round to examine the purse they found upon opening it two
pounds in money and a receipted bill for those ninety-eight pounds. Ah
well, 'twas all in a lifetime and life went merrily in those days at
Tintern. But it was a shabby trick, for the neighbours each and all owed
very much more in hospitality to Tintern than the amount of that bill.
While I am inspecting the framed address the bell of the castle clangs,
the butler throws open the doors, and we pass to the dining-room for
tea, the most pleasant meal of the day over here.
When the grandfather of our hostess died, he was laid out, as befitted
the head of the house, on this dining table around which we are
gathered. I know that the thought of it returns to several of us as we
sit here.
There is a vast thickness in the walls of the room and a space not
accounted for by any room, in which it is thought some monk or nun was
immured when the abbey was a house of God--be that as it may, no
investigation has ever been made, and it will probably never be known
what, if any, grisly horror is immured there, so near to our gay
laughter.
We spend some time discussing tea and the usual assortment of cake. I
never could digest the English fruit cake and I feel quite sure the slab
pressed upon me here would kill a man if it struck him upon a vital
spot. Most of it goes into my pocket, and when we depart I drop it deep
down in a bed of blooming plants near the door, an action observed by
Boyse, who, until I threaten his life in a gloomy whisper, insists upon
examining with the hostess that particular spot, professing a great
knowledge of botany, of which his ignorance is colossal. Whilst I am
guarding my buried cake, our attention is called to what once was the
north transept of the abbey and afterwards for centuries the library of
those who have lived here. It is still a library and full of books, but
for some ungiven reason has been walled up for many, many years,--the
books, I am told, mouldering in great heaps on the floor.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Franciscan Friary
Waterford]
My desire to explore is intense but, it is useless to say, unexpressed
in this instance.
From this court started the funeral procession of the gentleman who had
been laid out on the dining table. The cortège was so immense that it
circled away for three miles, though it is not half a mile to the family
vault. Every man was provided with hat band and gloves at the expense of
the widow. At the feast which followed that great table in the dining
hall was decked in the centre with a huge bow of crêpe, black of course.
The roast fowls had crêpe bows tied around their necks and as the old
butler served the whiskey he did so with tears streaming down his face.
As he carried the bottle, also decked with a crêpe bow, he gave
utterance to the mournful words, as the whiskey sobbed gurgling forth,
"Ah, sor, 'tis this bottle will miss him indade, indade." But those
around were determined that, for the day at least, they would drown its
sorrow, and when they went home "there wasn't wan of them knew whether
he was going backwards or forwards, and most of them wint sideways."
The chapel on the hill yonder must even then have been roofless and in
decay. To-day it is in a choke of brambles and wild roses. Bidding the
car to follow, we cross the park and mount to where it stands, an
absolute ruin.
We "give Boyse a leg" to a broken casement and he clambers in and down
amongst the brambles up to his neck, and making his way towards the high
altar reads aloud of Sir Anthony Colclough, who died in 1584, he to whom
Queen Elizabeth made the grant.
There are many other tablets embowered in creeping, drooping vines, and
almost obliterated by the moss of centuries, while a great tree fuchsia
hangs in wildest profusion, shaking its crimson blossoms downward upon
the ruined altar. Wandering around, pushing our way through brambles,
and stumbling over forgotten graves, we come upon the family vault,
underneath and as large as the chapel. The door being open, we wandered
in and paused amazed at the spectacle of dead humanity.
Outside the sunlight flickered downward through waving branches, casting
long lines of light into the place of the dead, lighting up a sight such
as may be seen only in southern Ireland. The entire space was crowded
with coffins in all stages of appalling decay and ruin and dating all
the way along from the reign of Elizabeth. At our feet lay the ruin of a
large coffin, its handles still clinging to its sides. The skeleton
within had vanished absolutely except the beautiful teeth,
evidently a woman's, which gleamed white in the sunlight. The lid, cast
to one side, left all open to the light of day and passing of moonlight
or storms. Beyond were two still perfect coffins of later date, and yet
farther in where the shadows were thicker rose the ruins of coffin on
coffin, all tumbling pell-mell into one wild chaos. Pausing in silent
dismay for an instant only, we went forth into the sunshine, leaving the
dead to their rest.
Only in Ireland may one come upon like scenes, where the doors are not
closed even after death. I had often read of such spots, but scarcely
believed the tales until to-day when we stumbled quite by accident upon
that open door and entered, and certainly I shall never forget the
sight. We closed the portal as best we could. One can only hope that the
return of dust to dust may be not delayed, and that all that therein is
may vanish utterly.
As we roll away the sunlight streams brilliantly aslant, lighting up the
ruined chapel and the old abbey, while the great trees stand all about
them like Druids deep in thought.
* * * * *
A rapid rush through the mists of Ireland will so drive the cold air
into one's system that after dinner it is difficult to keep awake and
one is apt to doze off while sitting upright in the drawing-room and to
dream dreams and see visions, especially after our afternoon's
experience. Here to-night in the drawing-room my book has fallen upon
my knees and I have almost passed to the land of nod when some one
suggests that we inspect "King Charles's clothes," and being but half
awake I wonder when he arrived and whether he will permit such
familiarity, and then the questions "which Charles," and if "the first"
of that name, will he bring his head, cause me to come to my full senses
just as Boyse is drawing a long wooden case from beneath a sofa. When it
is opened all the room is filled with a faint perfume, some fragrance so
long forgotten that one cannot give it a name, and yet which calls to
mind the frou-frou of silks and the tapping of high-heeled shoes on
parquette floors, over which wax lights are shedding a soft radiance
while the air resounds to stately music.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Dunbrody Abbey, County Wexford]
Let us transport ourselves mentally backwards to the dark days of 1649.
Penshurst, the ancient seat of the Sidneys, a gift from Edward VI., when
the tragedy of Charles Stuart was over and the axe had fallen at
Whitehall, his sister the Queen of Bohemia, bowed with sorrow for the
past and undoubtedly with fear for the future, divided as precious
relics amongst those who had been faithful, the belongings of the late
King. These before me she gave to Mr. Spencer, the ancestor of our
hostess here in Bannow House. Mr. Spencer was then acting for Algernon
Sidney, who was a prisoner in the Tower. The relics came into the
possession of the present owner through her father, the Rev. Thos.
Harvey of Cowden Rectory, Kent, and as they are drawn forth one by one
from their hiding place, I glance involuntarily over my shoulder and out
into the misty night, almost expecting to see the shadowy face of the
King questioning our right to these things of his, while the faces on
the walls about have awakened to life and express a strong desire to
come down and join us in the inspection. Here, in a shagreen case, is a
huge silver camp watch which has long since ceased to mark the passage
of time and the vanity of princes. Yonder is a silk dove-coloured coat
and a waistcoat brocaded in rose colour, black, and silver. Here is a
pair of breeches in brown figured silk and another of red and white cut
velvet. There are some quaint gold embroidered slippers with great bows
and high heels and as I stand them on the floor they seem to have been
used but yesterday and are expecting to be used again, and I glance once
more into the outer shadows. At the bottom of the chest are two long
rolls of illuminated vellum illustrating the marriage of the Queen of
Bohemia, called the "Queen of Hearts" by the people who loved her well.
As I look at the painted procession, my hand rests on a lace ruffle of
King Charles, which he may have worn on that occasion.
It was all so very long ago that I think we have in our unconscious
thoughts almost arrived at the conclusion that these and many of the
famous personages of history are but the fanciful figures of fiction
after all, and it is only when we look upon this frayed doublet which
seems but just cast aside by its wearer, or pick up yonder glove which
still holds the curve of his palm and shape of his fingers, that the
belief is forced upon us that, like ourselves, he once lived and
breathed, enjoyed and suffered, was really of flesh and blood.
Yet what was this Charles, warm-hearted and generous, or proud,
dictatorial, and utterly unreasonable, holding the divine right of kings
so far above the rights of his people that they were forced to lay low
his head? Which view is the correct one?--for with him, as with all
others of history, there seems a doubt. In fact doubts are being cast
upon the pages of history from all sides to-day. Writers make Lucretia
and Cæsar Borgia far different from the scribes of a century ago, and
possessed of no desire to assist people to a better world. She, for
instance, is now held to have been a model wife and loving mother. Also
we read that Richard of England was not deformed, either in person or
character, but because of the very doubtful legitimacy of the sons of
Edward IV. was the real heir to the crown, and so summoned by
Parliament,--that he did not murder or have murdered Henry VI., the Duke
of Clarence, or the Princes, and that the latter lived at his court many
years--in fact that he was no such character as we have been raised to
believe; and, more marvellous to relate, that the real villain of that
period was Henry VII. of blessed memory,--that he and he alone imported
historians from Italy who at the royal bidding wrote history as it has
been read for so many centuries, that he was the murderer of both King
and Princes and of the Duke of Clarence. Surely we shall shortly have
the Jew of Venice made a generous character, possessing deep love for
all Christians, whilst the eighth Henry will repose in a glorious
effulgency as a model husband as Froude would have us believe. But they
are all of the so very long ago that they appear to us like figures in a
painted window, brilliant or sombre, as the sunshine or shadows of
history illumine or cast them into shade, and it is only when we see
such a thing as this glove of Charles or a half-worn shoe of the
Scottish Queen that they walk out upon us and take their places as real
men and women.
And so one feels near the presence of that unfortunate Stuart King, as
these belongings of his lie spread out before us. What a small man he
was! These things might be worn by a boy of fifteen,--a delicate boy of
slight frame. They are of great value as such things go, which reminds
one that the world holds much of great value of its dead kings and
queens. It is estimated that the relics of Mary Stuart collected
together at the tercentenary in Peterborough in 1887 amounted in value
to sixty thousand pounds sterling, three hundred thousand dollars of our
money, and yet she was often forced to write imploring letters to her
"brother of France" for her revenues from her fair duchy of Touraine, in
order that she might keep out the cold in her English prisons, and
whilst she was the guest of her "good sister Elizabeth."
Did her grandson wear these silks and velvets during those sad days at
St. James's Palace? He would almost require the attendance of a body
servant to carry that watch and surely no man who appeared in such
ruffles and high-heeled fancy shoes to-day could induce an army to fight
for him, be he the anointed of God or not,--but then, that clothes do
not make the man was certainly proven in his case, when "a man was a man
for a' that," the Puritans to the contrary notwithstanding. I doubt if
he thought much of his fuss and feathers or paid as much attention to
them as said Puritans did to their sober browns, or some rulers of the
Europe of to-day do to their gaudy plumage. If Charles was vain, it was
with a vanity we can pardon, and far different from that which floods
the world with a string of portraits in different uniforms and
poses--but it is late and even the shades of royalty cannot keep us
awake longer; still as we take our candles and move upwards through the
shadowy hallway I seem to hear the stealthy fall of following footsteps
and turn suddenly, wondering--wondering.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Bannow House]