DUBLIN AND ABOUT THERE
The environment of Dublin, so far as its immediate surroundings are
concerned, is exceedingly attractive to the jaded inhabitant of brick
and mortar cities.
Phoenix Park, belonging anciently to the Knights Templars, is more
beautiful, as a city park, than those possessed by any other city of the
size of Dublin in the British Isles, and is, moreover, of great extent.
It is densely wooded, has lovely glades, and is plentifully stocked with
herds of deer, who seem unconsciously to group themselves picturesquely
at all times.
It is in no sense grand, nor, indeed, are the views of the lovely
country lying immediately to the southward; but the distant views of the
Wicklow peaks are full of quiet, restful beauty, which must help to make
life in a great
[Illustration: NEW GRANGE.]
centre of population, such as Dublin, livable at all seasons of the
year.
The Viceregal Lodge is in Phoenix Park, and near it is the spot where
Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke were walking together on the
night of May 6, 1882, when they were assassinated by the "Invincibles."
The "Fifteen Acres," where now horses are exercised, was a very
favourite duelling-ground in olden times. A local description of this
"bloody ground" states:
"There is not a single one of its acres that has not been stained with
blood over and over again, in those gray mornings of the eighteenth
century, when Dublin beaux, half-sobered after a night's debauch, used
to confront one another in the dew-drenched grass, and startle the
huddled herds of deer with the deadly crack of pistols at twelve paces."
Beyond Phoenix Park is Lucan, four miles up the Liffey, near the
river's celebrated salmon-leap.
Clondalkin, six miles from Dublin, possesses one of the finest and most
perfect round towers in Ireland, eighty feet in height, and forty-five
in circumference at the base.
The Falls of the Liffey, at Poula-Phooka, twenty miles from town, flow
under a graceful viaduct. Here the foam-whitened river casts itself down
a succession of rocky leaps, and through a richly wooded gorge, into the
smoother plain below. This is a scenic gem, such as amateur
photographers love, and its picturings are found in the album of almost
every Irish traveller. Its name enshrines one of the best known of the
many Celtic fairy myths,--that of the Phooka. Certainly, the wild, lofty
defile of splintered rock, through which the fall leaps down, must have
been exactly the sort of place to allure the goblin horse that had such
an unpleasant fancy for breaking people's necks.
The legend of the Phooka is one familiar in many forms to all lovers of
folk-lore. It is claimed to be of Celtic origin, but with equal
assurance it is said to be Norse, and again Indian. The apparition is a
weird ghost-like horse-shape, not unlike the steed which Ichabod Crane
saw mounted by a headless horseman.
Kingstown, seven miles from Dublin, has no great interest for the lover
of artistic or historic shrines, though the view of its harbour, with
its cross-channel shipping, its fishing-boats, and its long, jutting
piers, composes itself gaily enough, on a bright summer's day, into a
pleasing picture.
Originally named Dunleary, the town received its present title in 1821,
after the departure of George IV. An obelisk, surmounted by a crown, and
placed upon four stone balls, stands near the harbour entrance, and
commemorates--what? The king's coming? Not at all. He landed at Howth,
and no one, apparently, thought that incident worthy of a memorial. The
Kingstown obelisk commemorates his _departure_ from his Irish dominions.
This seems significant, but it will not do to condemn Irish hospitality
on this score. Perhaps it is an attempt at humour. If so, it is not
wholly unsuccessful.
Just north of Dublin are two spots famed alike of history and
legend,--at least most of the local story-tellers' tales sound like
legends,--Clontarf and Howth.
As the Hill of Howth is one of the first of Ireland's landmarks which
come to the vision of the majority of visitors from England, it may
perhaps be permissible to include the following lines here. They were
written many years ago by a local poet whose, name is lost in obscurity,
but whose verse is sufficiently apropos to-day to need no qualifying
comment:
"Well might an artist travel from afar,
To view the structure of a low-backed car;
A downy mattress on the car is laid,
The father sits beside his tender maid.
Some back to back, some side to side are placed,
The children in the centre interlaced.
By dozens thus, full many a Sunday morn,
With dangling legs the jovial crowd is borne;
Clontarf they seek, or Howth's aspiring brow,
Or Leixlip smiling on the stream below."
"The Hill" is a bold peninsula at the mouth of Dublin Bay, above whose
waters, and those of the Irish Sea, the rugged promontory rises to the
height of 563 feet. The whole mount abounds in precipitous rocky
formations, blended most artistically with fields of heather and of
greensward in a manner apparently possible only in Ireland. From the
cliffs over-looking the sea, the outlook embraces the counties of
Dublin, Meath, and Louth; the Mourne Mountains and County Down,
Ireland's Eye and Lambay Island; while to the south loom the Wicklow
Hills, Bray Head, Sugar Loaf Mountain, Dalkey Island, Kingstown Harbour,
and Dublin, showing a variety of form which contrasts strangely with the
placid sea, sky, and hills.
Howth itself is a village of one long, rambling street,--or was; of late
it has grown more pretentious, and has thereby lost some of its pristine
charm.
Off Howth Harbour is "Ireland's Eye," which in ancient works is printed
_Irlandsey_. Thus its evolution is easily followed.
The island has some fragmentary remains of the old church of St. Nessan,
showing portions of a still more ancient round tower.
The ancient castle of Howth is the family seat of the St. Lawrences, the
Earls of Howth, who have held it since the time of their ancestor, Sir
Armoric Tristram de Valence, who arrived here in the twelfth century. It
is said that the family name was Tristram, and that even Sir Armoric
never bore the present family title, but that a descendant or relative
assumed it on the occasion of a battle won by him on St. Lawrence's
Day. The castle was in a great measure rebuilt by the twentieth Lord of
Howth in the sixteenth century. It consists of an embattled range,
flanked by towers. The interior of the castle is rich in historical
associations, founded as it was by one of the most chivalrous of the
Anglo-Norman settlers in Ireland.
One sad blow was struck at the founder's dignity by the graceless Grace
O'Malley, or Granuaile, or Grana Uile, a western chieftainess, who,
returning from a visit to Queen Elizabeth at London, landed at Howth and
essayed to tax the hospitality of the lordly owner, who refused to give
her any refreshment. Determined to have her revenge, however, and to
teach hospitality to the descendant of the Saxon, she kidnapped the heir
and kept him a close prisoner until a pledge was obtained from his
father that on no pretence whatever were the gates of Howth Castle to be
closed at the hour of dinner. A painting of the incident exists, or did
exist, in the oak-panelled dining-hall of the castle. In the hall also
is the two-handed sword which won that St. Lawrence's Day battle. It
measures, even in its mutilated state, five feet, seven inches, the hilt
alone being twenty-two inches long.
St. Mary's Abbey, Howth, is a great ruined, roofless structure, which,
in spite of its decrepitude, tells a story of great and appealing
interest to the student of architecture. Its foundation by Luke,
Archbishop of Dublin, dates from 1234, and it is one of those
picturesque ruins which, while by no means so grand, will rank in the
memory with Melrose and Muckross. As a well-preserved ruin, it still
exists and shows unmistakable evidences of having been inspired by some
Burgundian or Lombard architect-builder.
Lying between Howth and Dublin is Clontarf, famous as the scene of Brian
Boru's victory over the Danes. Moore has perpetuated its glories in
verse, thus:
"Remember the glories of Brian the brave,
Though the days of the hero are o'er;
Though lost to Mononia, and cold in the grave,
He returns to Kinkora no more.
That star of the field, which so often hath poured
Its beam on the battle, is set;
But enough of its glory remains on each sword
To light us to victory yet."
Many have doubted whether the victory was really in favour of the Irish.
It is generally, however, conceded to have been in their favour.
Scotsmen will be interested to see the name of Lennox mentioned among
the soldiers of the patriot king. An Irish manuscript, translated for
the _Dublin Penny Journal_, after summing up the number of natives slain
on the side of Brian, says:
"The great stewards of Leamhue (Lennox) and Mar, with other brave
Albanian Scots, the descendants of Corc, King of Munster, died in the
same cause."
After the battle, great respect was shown to the body of the deceased
king by his devoted followers, who looked upon him in the light almost
of a saint. Wills, the historian, gives the following account of the
progress of his corpse:
"The body of Brian, according to his will, was conveyed to Armagh.
First, the clergy of Swords in solemn procession brought it to their
abbey, from thence the next morning the clergy of Damliag (Duleck)
conducted it to the church of St. Kiaran. Here the clergy of Lowth
(Lughmach) attended the corpse to their own monastery. The Archbishop of
Armagh, with its suffragans and clergy, received the body at Lowth,
whence it was conveyed to their cathedral. For twelve days and nights it
was watched by the clergy, during which time there was a continual scene
of prayers and devotion."
Few traces remain of this dreadful encounter, and one perforce takes a
good deal on faith, as one does much of history where architectural
remains are practically non-existent.
An ancient preceptory of the Knights Templars, a dependency of that at
Kilmainham, formerly occupied the site of Clontarf Castle, the seat of
the Vernons.
Dublin is the metropolitan county of Ireland, also its chief city. The
city is thought to have derived its name from the "black channel" of the
river Liffey, and to have communicated the name by some expansionist
process to the surrounding county, which comprised the six baronies of
Coolock, Balrothery, Nethercross, Castleknock, Newcastle, and
Uppercross, as well as half that of Rathdown.
Dublin County, unlike most other parts of Ireland, has no silver or
mirror lake. In this respect it has manifestly been cheated by nature.
Neither are there any of those deforming peat-bogs with which many of
Ireland's fairest lakes are surrounded.
There is a great distinction between legendary and monumental remains;
and, since Ireland is so full of both sorts, it behooves one to stop and
think for a moment, when viewing some shrine to which his fancy has led
him, whether it ever had a former, a real existence, or not. This opens
a vast field to research, controversy, and _soi-disant_ opinion.
Near Dublin, on the hill called Tallaght, there are mounds--existing
since time immemorial--referred to by the old historians on
pre-Christian Ireland as "the mortality tombs of the people of
Partholan," who first colonized Ireland. The mounds are there, and we,
perforce, have to imagine the rest, but there is good ground for
believing that these grass-grown mounds, the burial-places of thousands
of people, are as real and tangible memorials of the pre-Christian era
in the British Isles as are anywhere to be found.
The history of Dublin, like that of most capitals, has been momentous.
From the second century onward, it has encountered many battles, sieges,
and rebellions, and has been the centre of political activity in
Ireland.
For the average traveller Dublin is simply a great centre of modern life
and movement; for the student of history, architecture, archæology, and
such subjects it is much more.
The bird of passage, then, will only be visibly affected by that which
lies on the surface, or at least nearest thereto.
He will see that Dublin possesses all the component luxuries of a great
city; is progressive to the extent of having cut up its roadways with
tram-lines, and disfigured its streets with telegraph and electric-light
poles; and, in short, has all those attributes which make even the lover
of life in a large city sooner or later wish to put it all behind him.
The greatest novelties for the visitor are the two splendidly organized
bodies of constabulary,--the Dublin policemen and the Royal Irish
Constabulary.
The Dublin Metropolitan Police is a fine semi-military force distinct
from the Royal Irish Constabulary, only acting within the metropolitan
district, and is reminiscent of foreign _gendarmerie_, with its dark
blue and silver uniform and smart appearance. The minimum height is five
feet, eleven inches, so that Dublin streets seem to be policed by a race
of amiable giants. In America the same type of constable is well known.
It is also well known that the "force" in America is organized on
somewhat different lines from that of its brothers in Dublin. The Royal
Irish Constabulary, who are to be seen in the neighbourhood of Phoenix
Park (and all over the country besides), are, physically, a magnificent
body of men, with as good, if not a considerably better training than
"Tommy Atkins" himself.
It is a curious present-day fact that Dublin, as the capital of a
Catholic country, not only possesses no Catholic cathedral, but has two
Protestant churches known as cathedrals.
Anti-Catholic writers have long found fault with, and traced certain of
Ireland's interior troubles to, the number and power of the Catholic
places of worship. That Dublin has two Protestant cathedrals has
apparently escaped their notice.
It is also true that not all the Protestant churches in Ireland are
overflowing with congregations, but most of the Catholic places of
worship are. This may mean much or little. Just what it does mean is
doubtful, but it is a well-known fact, and because of this it is
recorded here.
Christchurch Cathedral was founded by Sigtryg Silkbeard, a Danish king
who had become Christianized, and Donatus, a Danish bishop, in 1038. It
was dedicated to the Holy Trinity, with the Danish name of Christchurch;
later it was converted into a priory, which in turn was absorbed into an
Anglo-Norman cathedral, erected by Strongbow and others on the former
Danish foundation. The fabric is of much interest, although, owing to
various mishaps, such as the slipping away of the peat-bog on which it
was injudiciously built, the walls have many times fallen and been
renewed. In Christchurch Cathedral Lambert Simnel was crowned in 1486,
and mass was celebrated here during the sojourn of James II. Strongbow's
tomb is the most noted relic of the church. It has an inscription by
Sir Henry Sidney, the father of Philip Sidney, referring to "This
Ancyent Monument of Richard Strangbowe, called Comes Strangulensis, Lord
of Chepsto and Ogny, etc." The crypt is of interest from being mainly
built up from the rude early church of the Danish founder.
St. Patrick's Cathedral, the cathedral without the walls of ancient
Dublin, is larger and more imposing than Christchurch. It is cruciform
in plan, and altogether a beautiful and stately structure, partaking
largely after the style of the Anglo-Norman structures of England, but
not those of Normandy. Founded by Comyn, the Anglo-Norman Archbishop of
Dublin, in 1190, the ancient Celtic church of St. Patrick de Insula,
which stood without the city walls, and was specially held in reverence
from its association with the baptism of the saint, formed the nucleus
of the new establishment, which was self-contained and fortified. Its
exposed position, however, led it to be abandoned to the marauding
natives, and the buildings fell into decay. The present cathedral is of
the twelfth to fourteenth centuries. Cromwell desecrated it, as he did
many others, by using it for a justice court. Great churches have ever
been despoiled by fanatics in all lands.
James II. went one step farther (being James II. this seems inexplicable
to-day), and converted it into a stable.
The restoration of this shockingly desecrated shrine (at the expense of
more than £140,000) is to the credit of the family of Guinness, whose
name and product is a household word throughout the world.
Cromwell was a brewer, too, and supposed to have been a righteous, if
stern man, but his virtues were not as great as those of his latter-day
compeer.
Since the visitor to Ireland is supposed to wander about with a volume
of Swift's "Life and Letters" in his hand, and to recall at appropriate
times the laurelled arbour-retreat near Celbridge, where, two hundred
years ago, the luckless Vanessa waited long, and often in vain, it will
be well for him to contemplate the two monuments in St. Patrick's
Cathedral, the one to Swift (who was Dean of St. Patrick's), and the
other to Miss Johnson, his Stella.
Another curious religious shrine is the church of St. Fichan, founded in
1095 by the pious Dane whose name it bears, though the present structure
dates only so far back as 1676. The square tower, however, is decidedly
venerable, and the vaults possess the peculiar property of preserving
the bodies entrusted to them in a perfect state, resembling in this
respect the Egyptian mummy-pits. Dryness, one great essential to the
preserving of animal matter, is complete here. But at one time, owing,
it is said, to the nightly visits of a rascally sexton, for the purpose
of stealing away the lead coffins from the dead, the damp night air
entered and bade fair to play havoc with the mummies.
There is a story told of his releasing from its coffin the body of a
lady, who, however, looked him fiercely in the face with a pair of
vengeful eyes, and so terrified him that he left his lantern and ran
home half-dead with fright. The lady is said to have taken advantage of
the light, and to have walked quietly to her own home, where for years
afterward she lived a happy life!
To many, Dublin will recall, first of all among its notables of the
past, or at least only second to Dean Swift, the name of Edmund Burke.
He was born in the Irish metropolis in 1729, when that city was at its
flood-tide of prosperity,--when it was a centre of commerce, art, and
oratory.
His parents were of the plain people, and he himself, as he told his
Grace of Bedford, "was opposed at every toll-gate, obliged to show a
passport, and prove his title to the honour of being useful to Ireland."
Through this involved procedure, wherein his reputation as an agitator
loomed quite as large as his powers of oratory, for sixty-seven long
years he laboured at the business of state-craft; but, after all, he is
best known to us for his labours in letters.
Some one has said that "Rulers govern, but it is literature that
enlightens," and, concerning Burke, who shall not say that his writings
and his speeches, which latter have come to be accepted as but another
form of literary expression, were not even more productive of good than
were his political agitations. To Americans Burke should be doubly
endeared. He favoured American independence, though he was against the
revolution in France.
Richard Steele, though schooled at the Charterhouse in London, where he
first met that other master of delicately phrased English, Addison, was
born in Dublin in 1672 (d. 1729).
Steele has been reviled as a "fashionable tippler, an awful spendthrift,
and a creature of broken promises;" but it has remained for an American,
Donald G. Mitchell, to glorify him as "An Irish dragoon, not a grand man
or one of great influence, but so kindly by nature, and so gracious in
speech and writing, that the world has not yet done pardoning and
pitying." It is in the latter aspect that Dublin is wont to think of Sir
Richard Steele,--as the "Irish dragoon" of as many virtues as faults.
It would be impossible to mention, even, the many celebrities whose
names are identified with Dublin. Statecraft and letters alone number
them in hundreds, and that great institution of learning, Trinity
College, stands high among its kind.
The site of Trinity College was previously occupied by an important
monastery, suppressed by Henry VIII. The university was founded by Queen
Elizabeth, and endowed with the monastic property and many very valuable
private bequests. The college is Alma Mater to a long line of famous
men,--Ussher, Congreve, Swift, Goldsmith, Burke, to mention but a very
few.
In the centre of the imposing front is the main gateway, flanked by the
statues of Edmund Burke and Oliver Goldsmith.
In days gone by, Donogh O'Brien, when driven from his titular
sovereignty by his nephew Tarlagh, journeyed to Rome, taking with him
his illustrious father's crown and harp as gifts to the Pope.
By some means or other, the harp--the once famous harp which had sounded
through Tara's halls--found its way back to Ireland, and is now, with
the "Book of Kells," the chief treasure of the library of Trinity
College.
The architectural splendour of Dublin is not very great, although
certain of the chief buildings, other than the churches, are in many
ways remarkable.
Dublin Castle is a group of buildings covering ten acres of ground and
dating from 1205, when a castle was erected for the defence of the city.
Since the time of Queen Elizabeth it has been the official residence of
the viceroy. The buildings are grouped around two courts, with a chief
gateway on Cork Hill. The presence-chamber, ballroom (Hall of St.
Patrick), portrait-chamber, and private drawing-room are handsome and
historic apartments. The lower court contains the Bermingham Tower
(formerly the state prison and now used as a depository for state
records), the chapel royal, and the armory.
The Bank of Ireland, formerly the Irish Parliament House, has a finely
designed Ionic façade, with various adorning statues and escutcheons.
The National Gallery of Ireland ranks among the world's great
collections of pictures, and is exceedingly rich in portraiture. Some
one has said that there are but three truly great--in just what way the
reader may judge for himself--business streets in the world. The
[Illustration: DUBLIN CASTLE.]
first is the Rue de la Paix in Paris; the second, Princes Street in
Edinburgh; and the Third, Sackville Street in Dublin. All will at once
notice and admire its great width, its splendid dimensions, and its
singularly attractive disposition of public and commercial buildings.
The chief is the general post-office, with a fine portico and pediment
bearing figures of Hibernia, Mercury, and Fidelity.
The little parish of Laracor, north of Dublin, came to Swift shortly
after his return to Ireland as chaplain to Lord Berkeley. "Here he had a
glebe and a horse, and became domesticated," so far as it was possible
for the man to be domesticated anywhere.
Swift's fluctuations between Ireland and London have been the subject of
much comment and criticism. He had by no means settled down to the
"jog-trot duties" of a small Irish vicar. Swift, the churchman, the
litterateur, and the politician were much one and the same thing; and,
in spite of his indiscretions, he did good service, though, to be sure,
his sincerity was doubted. A story is told, of the occasion when he was
urged for Bishop of Hereford, that the Archbishop of York stated to his
queen "that inquiries should first be made as to whether the man is
really a Christian." He did not achieve the office, but was reconciled
with the less influential deanery of St. Patrick's at Dublin.
Swift was born in Dublin at a house in Hoey's Court, now (?)
disappeared, in 1667. He died in 1745, and is buried, not among the
literary giants at Westminster, but in St. Patrick's at Dublin, the
venue of his deanship.
Swift as a satirist was unassailable in his time, and his literary
reputation in general is without doubt--by reason of its
versatility--greater than many a more prolific writer.
The first announcement of this master, at once comic and caustic, was
the "Tale of a Tub" and "The Battle of the Books," when followed in
rapid review various political and social tracts, the inimitable
"Gulliver" (1727) and the "Polite Conversation." "Cadenus and Vanessa"
appeared without the author's consent soon after the death of its
heroine, Miss Hester Vanhomrigh, in 1723; but the "Diary to Stella," the
lady whom he afterward married, did not appear until long after the
author's death.
Swift's literary reputation--"at the head of the English
prose-writers"--has been best summed up by his friend Pope in six short
lines:
"...Whatever title please thine ear,
Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff or Gulliver!
Whether you choose Cervantes' serious air,
Or laugh and shake in Rabelais' easy chair,
Or praise the court, or magnify mankind,
Or thy grieved country's copper chains unbind."
As the river Liffey, which flows through Dublin, joins the Irish Sea, it
expands into a noble bay, which is guarded on the one side by the Hill
of Howth, and on the other by Killiney Hill, near Kingstown.
Dublin has long been famous for the manufacture of poplin, dear to the
hearts of the ladies. For many years the manufacture had declined, but a
recent stimulus appears to have been given it. It was about the year
1780 that the trade first assumed a degree of importance in Dublin,
though it had been introduced by the French Huguenots in the reign of
William III. From that period till the Union in 1800, it had been
gradually increasing in extent; but suddenly declined after the
transference of the Irish Parliament to London; and Irishmen are fain to
link the two events together as cause and effect.
As the author has had occasion to say before, Ireland is not the
saddened, sodden, blighted land that the calamity howlers and pessimists
in general would have us believe.
Certainly, in that beauteous country which lies immediately to the
southward of Dublin, from Kingstown to Queenstown, there is no great
evidence of sorrowing poverty; though, to be sure, there are in many
parts no indications of great prosperity. There is a sort of happy mean
in the lives of the Irish people; and, since the inhabitants of this
particular region are domiciled in so lovely a spot, apparently they
concern themselves little with regard to material wealth.
From Dublin, south, is a veritable fairy-land of splendid hills and
groves, the famous garden of the county of Wicklow. Bray is admittedly
the best situated watering-place in the kingdom. But, more than all
else, its chief importance lies in its position as the gateway to all
the beauties of County Wicklow, whose residents go farther, and call it
the Garden of Ireland. One may truthfully say of Wicklow, as of the
other mountainous counties of Ireland, "the more one sees of it, the
more one wants to see." Its roads for the cyclist or the automobilist
are, like the Irish character, a blend of the seducing and the bold,
corrugated and rough in places, but withal fascinating and appealing, if
only for their variety. Powerscourt, the Dargle, the Glen of the Downs,
and the Devil's Glen are the chief points of interest upon which one
first comes from Dublin. The Dargle is a wooded glen of extreme beauty,
three miles from Bray, from which a little mountain stream runs at the
bottom of the gorge, quite hidden at times in a depth of wooded bank
which must approximate three hundred feet.
Powerscourt is beautiful enough, but it is more or less of the suburban
order of attractiveness, lying as it does so near to Dublin.
The waterfall at Powerscourt is the finest in Ireland. It pours down in
a long, diagonal slope over a rocky precipice three hundred feet high.
When George IV. came to Powerscourt, the whole fall had been dammed up
on the cliff above, with the object of letting it loose when the royal
party approached, so that a fine effect might be ensured. All this
trouble and expense, however, was thrown away, as the "_First Gentleman
in Europe_" lunched so liberally at Powerscourt House that he found
himself unequal to the exertion of seeing anything of the demesne.
The Dargle is rather of the conventional order of rivulet. It is not
much of a stream at its fullest, but charmingly set in the woods, with
mountain-tops rising over the trees, and some dainty waterfalls rather
difficult to find. The four miles of road eastward to Bray are quite
worth covering to see what the Dargle develops into near the coast; and,
also, for the sake of the trim, rose-clad cottages, which here suggest
none of that state of poverty we associate so recklessly with Ireland.
One may see on the roadside notice-boards the intimation "These lands
are poisoned," and dogs, could they read, would be informed of danger to
their persons. In Ireland they advertise in the papers that they are
poisoning their lands "from this date," and no dog has any remedy
against the proprietors if he suffers in consequence
[Illustration: ENNISKERRY.]
of his illiteracy, or perhaps his meanness in not subscribing to that
particular paper.
The metropolis of the Dargle valley is Enniskerry, which sounds
interesting, and proves upon acquaintance to be so, though there is
nothing of great moment connected with its past or present.
A few miles farther inland is Naas, the latter-day importance of which
is based almost wholly upon its proximity to the race-track of the plain
of Curragh and Punchestown. Naas is a delightfully quaint old town, its
broad High Street being lined with little whitewashed houses, many of
them tumbling down after long centuries of service. It has been narrated
dolefully how Naas had once been the residence of the Kings of Leinster,
but had now fallen from its high estate.
From Naas to the Punchestown race-course is down a long and winding road
through typical Irish scenery. The land along the roadside is dotted
with little Irish cabins, with thatched roofs and whitewashed walls, and
in the low doorways are gathered old grannies and swarms of little
barelegged children. On race-days it is pretty to see these little
dwellings, each with its piece of bunting tied to the chimney-stack.
One may see also such sights as a chubby bareheaded boy with his arm
affectionately around the neck of a fine fat pig; boy and animal equally
interested in passers-by.
It does not strike one as a genuine emotion, however; but, rather, as if
it were got up for the occasion and for the delectation of the throngs
who attend this most famous of all Irish race-meets. It is quite on a
par with the flags and festoons which decorate Naas itself on these
occasions, and the legends in old Celtic and English, which the
cottagers _en route_ display. "The top of the morning to ye," "Come back
to Erin," "A hundred thousand blessings on ye," and "A real Irish
greeting" are, after all, too forced to pass current with visitors from
across channel as genuine spontaneous emotion.
On the occasion of the spring race-meeting at Punchestown, the little
town of Naas is very animated. Inside the station-yard all the morning
there is a mass of cabs and cars, which are taken by storm every time a
train arrives from Dublin, and then with their load of passengers bump,
smash, or blarney their way out. Music resounds everywhere. Even the
local police have a band. This of course greatly facilitates the
departure of the cars, for the horses of scores of them run away every
time the band strikes up.
The three miles of narrow country lanes between Naas and Punchestown are
a flying procession of cars from eight o'clock till midday, most of them
moving at a cheerful stretching gallop, while children and
race-card-sellers run gaily in and out, and English or transatlantic
visitors hold on for dear life, wondering when and where all this
recklessness will end.
The Wicklow mountains stand out in bold relief toward the east, and the
clearness of the atmosphere ensures a magnificent view of a course which
is situated in one of the finest bits of natural hunting country in the
kingdom. The enclosures of Punchestown are very "select," although a
good deal of the riffraff is wont to assemble outside. The Irish police
are extremely tolerant, and a thriving business is done in games of
hazard, which have lately been ruthlessly extinguished at Epsom and
Newmarket, in England. The roulette-table, the man with three cards,
and his comrade with the thimble and the pea are among the recognized
adjuncts of Punchestown. The country folk on the whole appear to enjoy
the "sport," and if, as is usually the case, the odds happen to be
against them, they grin and bear it with naïve good humour. The
bookmakers are a noisy, but, on the whole, an honest and withal
humourous crowd, some offering to lay a starting price at "Newmarket,
Stewmarket, or any old market,--starting price anywhere and everywhere,"
while a rival will go so far as to declare: "We pay you whether you win
or not."
On a recent occasion, when King Edward visited the Punchestown races in
state, it was even a more brilliant event than usual. Here a great
concourse of people awaited the arrival of the king and queen, and the
grand stand was closely packed with a representative assembly of Irish
aristocracy. The racing provided some very excellent sport. There were
very full fields; and, when the horses got away, there was a splendid
splash of colour, as the jockeys in all the tints of the rainbow
streamed along the emerald course.
The return from Punchestown on this occasion, as the writer has reason
to remember, was far and away a wilder nightmare than any "Derby-day
drive back to town" which could possibly be recalled. Imagine a solid,
motionless block of cars nearly a mile long, with drivers, passengers,
and police storming, threatening, and entreating, till at last a passage
is slowly forced to the little wayside station at Naas. Here the railway
officials had long ago given up the traffic problem in despair, and
every train apparently got back to Dublin, or did not get back, by the
unaided wit of the engine-driver. Yet one arrived at last, and a request
to the officials for a full return of the killed and wounded was met
with derision.
From the newspaper accounts the next morning we learned that:
"At a quarter to six, nearly half an hour late, the king and queen
arrived in Dublin, and were met by all that was left of the population.
They drove rapidly to the Viceregal Lodge, along roads crowded with
cheering humanity, and looked very much pleased with their reception."
For ourselves, after this informal procedure, we had retired to our
hotel to remove somewhat the stains of pleasure-making,--which are often
as ineradicable as those of battle,--and, after the inevitable "meat
tea" of the smaller hostelries throughout the British Isles, followed
Mr. Pepys's practice, "_and so to bed_."
Near Curragh is Monasterevan, with its ruined refuge-sanctuary, and Lea
Castle. A prominent woody eminence is Spire Hill, beyond which are the
picturesque ruins of Strongbow's Castle on the isolated rock of
Dunamase. Beyond is Maryborough and the plantations of Ballyfin, which
clothe the feet of the Slievebloom mountains, and frame the flat bogland
district. At Aghaboe, _i. e._, Ox-field House, stands the ancient abbey
founded by St. Canice in the sixth century.
Near the river Suir is a plain-fronted, square-towered edifice, known as
Loughmore Castle, and a near-by ridge with a curious notched appearance
has for its name Sliav Ailduin,--the Devil's Bit Mountain. Here is
Thurles, the scene of William Smith O'Brien's capture. Here, also,
Doctor Cullen summoned a Romish council in the mid-nineteenth century.
Within three miles of Thurles is Holy Cross, where "_the wearied O'Brien
laid down at the feet of Death's angel his cares and his crown_."
"There sculpture her miracles lavished around,
Until stone spoke a worship diviner than sound;
There from matins to midnight the censers were swaying,
And from matins to midnight the people were praying;
As a thousand Cistercians incessantly raised
Hosannas round shrines that with jewelry blazed.
While the palmer from Syria--the pilgrim from Spain--
Brought their offerings alike to the far-honoured fane;
And in time, when the wearied O'Brien laid down
At the feet of Death's angel his cares and his crown,
Beside the high altar, a canopied tomb
Shed above his remains its magnificent gloom;
And in Holy Cross Abbey high masses were said,
Through the lapse of long ages, for Donald the Red.
O'er the porphyry shrine of the founder, all-riven,
No lamps glimmer now but the cressets of heaven!"
--_Simmons._
Across the plain of Curragh is Kildare, _i. e._, Wood of Oaks, where St.
Bridget founded a nunnery, in which the vestal sisterhood guarded the
ever-burning fire, so beautifully and picturesquely alluded to by Moore:
"Like the bright lamp that shone in Kildare's holy fane,
And burnt through long ages of darkness and storm,
Is the heart that deep sorrows have frowned on in vain,
Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm."
This convent of St. Bridget's was founded in the fifth century, and its
perpetual fire was kept burning until the Reformation. The house where
it originally burned is still in evidence, and the cathedral castle and
round tower (130 feet in height) form a triumvirate of venerable
attractions for all.
To the northward is the Hill of Allen, once crowned, it is said, with
three royal residences belonging to the Kings of Leinster.
Wicklow Gap, Glendalough, and the Seven Churches next command attention,
as one journeys toward Wicklow town.
Glendalough is thirty miles from Dublin, locally known--and perhaps more
widely--as "The Valley of the Seven Churches." It is the _locale_ of the
legend of St. Kevin and Kathleen. The antiquarians have evolved an
elaborate thread of legend and tradition concerning
[Illustration: GLENDALOUGH.]
the founder of an ancient seat of learning here, but most of them
ultimately lost themselves in the intricacies of the web which they
wove. Moore, with all his popular and sentimental methods, gave the
story--though in this case he has tuned his lute with sadness--much more
pleasantly and lucidly, when he told of St. Kevin, who, like St.
Anthony, was tempted by the lovely Kathleen, herself so enamoured of him
that she was willing even to "lie like a dog at his feet."
These must have been trying times for St. Kevin, for, to continue
Moore's words, we learn that:
"'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew,
Eyes of most unholy blue!
She had loved him well and long,
Wished him hers, nor thought it wrong.
Wheresoe'er the saint would fly,
Still he heard her light foot nigh;
East or west, where'er he turn'd,
Still her eyes before him burned."
Thirteen hundred years ago, when England was still in a state of
modified barbarism, Glendalough was of great importance. It was then
that the famous churches, whose ruins still stand to-day, were built.
Nearly a thousand years ago, Glendalough had her mansions; her
treasure-houses, where the chieftains kept their stores of gold and
silver, precious stones, and armour; her famous colleges, to which came
students of high lineage from all Western Europe. It became known the
world over as a place of sacred associations, great learning, and
immense wealth. In the Dark Ages, there could be but one end to a city
possessing the last advantage, especially as it was small and easy to
besiege. After endless trouble from both Danes and English, the latter
nation finally sacked and burned the place in 1398. Glendalough never
really lifted up her head again, and is to-day but a hamlet of a few
score of cottages. "Dracolatria"--the serpent worship of the Irish
pagans--is supposed to have flourished here for ages before the founding
of the Seven Churches by St. Kevin; and various legends and traditions,
written and oral, are still current with reference to the practice.
Glendalough will endear itself to all who have not hearts of stone. St.
Kevin's ruins
[Illustration: ST. KEVIN'S KITCHEN.]
are up and down the glen, and his hermit bed still stands in the dug out
of the cliffs. That old, old cemetery of Reefert Church, with the
thorn-bushes around it, is reckoned among the unique things in Ireland
for its tomb of King O'Toole. The present cemetery, all about and within
the ruins of the "cathedral," is also characteristically Irish and
charming. There is a monument here which bears the inscription: "We
append a record, as far as obtainable, of clergymen buried in this
church," but has not a single name on it. Is this Irish humour, or is it
an indication of Irish poverty? The "oldest inhabitant" could not tell
the writer.
Hosts of other dead are commemorated in stone, and, moss-covered, the
headstones loll here at all angles, as do they elsewhere in Ireland.
Just below is St. Kevin's "kitchen," with a tower like that of the
broken, but still striking, round tower not far beyond. Formerly, it was
one of the hermit's churches (it was never a kitchen, in fact, and no
one seems to be able to explain the nomenclature); but it has now been
turned into a little museum of decidedly commonplace attractions.
In the church, the "lady-church" of this group of churches, is the
reputed burial-place of St. Kevin.
As might be expected, no memorial exists of the holy man but the walls
of this tiny church, if even they have genuinely survived his
epoch,--the sixth and seventh centuries. No indications point to the
exact resting-place of his bones, and the most that is known is that he
died at Glendalough in 618 A. D. at the advanced age of 102. "And that
is a doubtful fact," says the local cicerone.
Wicklow itself is a picturesque crescent-shaped coast town. Its name is
borne by the Gap at Glendalough, the county, and that famous headland
which juts out into St. George's Channel, as only a few promontories do
outside the school geographies.
The ancient Irish called it Gill-Mantain; but, when it fell before the
onrush of the Danes, its name was changed to Wykinlo. The chief
architectural remains are those of a Franciscan friary of the reign of
Henry III., and an Anglo-Norman castle completed in the fourteenth
century. Between Wicklow and
[Illustration: THE VALE OF AVOCA.]
Arklow lies the celebrated Vale of Avoca. It has been made immortal by
the poet Moore; but, though its fame is well deserved, and it is a spot
beloved by all who have ever seen it, it is in reality no more beautiful
than other similar spots elsewhere.
The Vale of Avoca shares with Killarney, Blarney Castle, and the Giant's
Causeway a popularity which is not equalled by any other of the beauties
of Ireland. Here "in this most pleasant vale," where the Avonbeg joins
the Avonmore, is the "Meeting of the Waters." Moore lavished his
choicest phraseology upon its charms; and tourists--since there have
been tourists--have devotedly stood by, book in hand, and attempted to
fit in the poet's words with each tree and stone and rivulet. For the
most part they have not been successful; and the words the poet sung--
"There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
* * * * *
"Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best,
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease
And our hearts, like the waters, be mingled in peace "--
might quite as readily have applied to any other spot as fair.
It will never do to disparage Moore's poetry, and least of all in a
chronicle of Irish experiences; but, once and again, an idol does really
shatter itself, or at least totters unsteadily on its base; and when one
has made the round of all Ireland's fairest beauties, and heard Moore's
melodies dinned into his ears by importunate touts and mendicants
without number, the sentiment is apt to grow thin, and sooner or later
the soul rebels. At this point, then, the author's patience gave out,
and so he records his mood, however unseemly it may otherwise appear.
It is indeed a pretty valley, strangely pretty, if you like; and one can
hardly remain unmoved and unemotional before its expanse of green, its
oaks and beeches, its rocks and rills, its ivies, and more than all else
its sunsets. But when one has said with Prince Puckler Muskau--that
much-quoted royal German so
[Illustration: THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.]
useful to makers of guide-books--that it is all "exquisitely beautiful,"
one has said the first and the last word on the subject. It should be
visited and seen in all its beauties; but the experience will not awaken
in the hearts of many the emotions which we may presume Moore felt.
Near by is Avondale, the former home of Charles Stewart Parnell. Where
the Avonbeg unites with the Avonmore is formed "The Meeting of the
Waters." Many painters have limned its beauties; and, like Killarney,
Loch Katrine, and Richmond Vale, on the Thames, replicas of its charms
used years ago to find their way in the "table books of art" and
"Treasuries," with which our parents and grandparents used to decorate a
small table set before the front window of the parlour.
The part played by the Norman invasion of Ireland has been neglected and
overlooked by many in favour of that more portentous invasion of
England.
In Ireland the Normans first landed in a little creek on Bannon Bay on
the Wexford coast. The advance-guard was composed of thirty knights,
sixty men in armour, and three hundred foot-soldiery, under Robert
Fitzstephen. This brought on the siege of Wexford, of which the annals,
as well as the many remains of ruined castles and churches founded by
the invaders, tell.
All this ancient history pales, in the minds of the native bar-parlour
frequenters one meets in these parts, before the more vivid, or at least
more readily recollected "_little affair_" of Vinegar Hill and "the Men
of '98," the site of which, with Enniscorthy, lies just to the
northward. A half-century ago historians wrote of this as a "matter yet
fresh in the memory of living men," and the great rebellion--so great at
least to Ireland--has been dealt with by writers of all shades of
opinion _ad infinitum_. Even the music-hall songs have perpetuated the
belligerent aspect of the inhabitants of Enniscorthy, to say nothing of
Killaloe. Nevertheless, the incident of the Norman invasion of Ireland,
and the parts played therein by Fitzgerald, Diarmid, the traitorous
M'Murrogh, Roderick, Strongbow the Dane, and Prendergast,--named in
Irish history as "the faithful Norman,"--presents an inextricable tangle
of creeds and races which requires a singularly astute historian to
place in line.
It is now seven hundred years since the name of Prendergast was linked
with honour and chivalry in Ireland; but something of his earnestness
and spirit still lives amongst those who bear his name, if we may judge
from the tenor of a modern work by one Prendergast, entitled "The
Cromwellian Settlement of Ireland."
Aubrey de Vere, in his "Lyrical Chronicle of Ireland," has emblazoned
Prendergast's valour in verse:
THE FAITHFUL NORMAN
"Praise to the valiant and faithful foe!
Give us noble foes, not the friend who lies!
We dread the drugged cup, not the open blow:
We dread the old hate in the new disguise.
"To Ossory's king they had pledged their word.
He stood in their camp, and their pledge they broke;
Then Maurice the Norman upraised his sword;
The cross on its hilt he kiss'd, and spoke:
"'So long as this sword or this arm hath might,
I swear by the cross which is lord of all,
By the faith and honour of noble and knight,
Who touches you, prince, by this hand shall fall!'
"So side by side through the throng they pass'd;
And Eire gave praise to the just and true.
Brave foe! the past truth heals at last:
There is room in the great heart of Eire for you!"
Round the coast from Wexford to Waterford one passes the famous Tuskar
lighthouse, which, with the Saltee light-vessel, thirty miles to the
southward, and Carnsore Point, which lies between, forms the
turning-point--or the corner which must be rounded--of the vast
sea-borne traffic bound up the St. George's Channel from the Atlantic.
The chief historical monument of Waterford, with the exception of the
reconstructed castle and Ballinakil House, the last halting-place of the
fleeing Stuart king, is a squat circular building known as "Reginald's
Tower." It sits close to the quayside, and is by far the most notable
landmark, viewed from either sea or land, which the city possesses. Its
erection is credited to Reginald, the Dane, some nine hundred and odd
years ago. Kingsley, in "Hereward the Wake," weaves much of romance
around its sturdy walls.
In 1171, when Strongbow and Raymond le Gros took Waterford, it was
inhabited by
[Illustration: _Reginald's Tower: Waterford_]
[Illustration]
Danes, who, with the exception of the prince of the Danes and a few
others, were put to death. It was here that Earl Strongbow was married
to Eva, daughter of the King of Leinster; and here, too, that Henry II.
first landed in Ireland to take possession of the country which had been
granted to him by the bull of Pope Adrian.
Near Waterford is Dungarvan, once a fishing-town of considerable
importance. Its fishermen were bold, and went far out to sea, for it was
a Dungarvan man who was captured and made to act as pilot by the
corsairs of Algiers, who sacked the town of Baltimore, close to Cape
Clear, in 1631, when all the inhabitants were killed or carried off into
slavery. A curious page of the Irish history, and one which reads more
like romantic legend than fact. This man's name was Hackett, and the
story tells that his service to the Algerians was repaid, by his
outraged countrymen, with the halter.
Between Cork--with its poetic associations of the Shandon Bells, the
river Lee, and of Blarney Castle--and the glens and vales of Wicklow,
there is no spot to equal in picturesqueness and romantic environment
the celebrated valley of the Blackwater, which, forming a broad estuary,
mingles with the waters of the Atlantic at Youghal Harbour. The great
beauties of the Blackwater only unfold themselves as one ascends the
stream some twenty miles above Youghal, but the whole lower river has a
placid charm which is quite inexplicable.
For what is Youghal famous, say the untravelled? In matters Irish, for
many things, but the most lively interest is awakened by the
recollection of Myrtle Grove, the one-time residence of Sir Walter
Raleigh, Governor of the Virginia Colony in the New World, who, though
he had never been there, is popularly supposed to have introduced its
tobacco into Great Britain. As a matter of fact, he did not, but some
one of his understudies did; and it was at Myrtle Grove that his servant
sought to save him from incineration by deluging him with water while he
was smoking his favourite pipe. There is doubtless somewhat of legend
about this; and the incident has been worn threadbare in its use by an
enterprising firm of tobacco manufacturers; but, since Myrtle
[Illustration: SIR WALTER RALEIGH'S COTTAGE, YOUGHAL.]
Grove really exists, and Raleigh really lived there, there is some
excuse for it.
It was here, too that the potato, since become a too staple article of
diet, was first introduced to Irish soil.
Truly Raleigh is entitled to a reputation as a true benefactor of the
race exceeding that due to his reputed chivalry to Queen Elizabeth.
Without potatoes and tobacco, what might not have happened to the
British race long before now?