So fayre a creature in your town before?
Her goodlie eyes, like sapphyres shining bright;
Her forehead, ivory white;
Her lips like cherries charming men to byte."
There is nothing of peculiar interest about the streets of Cork but
their number, their narrowness, and the irregularity of the houses. St.
Patrick's-street, which is the principal thoroughfare, has many handsome
shops, and winds its way in three curves through the city.
From the "Dyke," as it is locally known, through the "Band Field"--the
baby park of Cork--we can cross to an entrance to the Queen's College on
the Western-road. The College itself is a handsome building of white
Cork limestone, in the later Tudor style, forming three sides of a
quadrangle, and consisting of lecture-rooms, museum, examination hall,
&c. It is built in the centre of well-laid pleasure grounds, which are
open to the public, and which formerly were the site of St. Finbarr's
old monastery. During the session proper, practically from November to
June, visitors will not be admitted through the building without an
official order, which may be had at the Registrar's office.
[Illustration: _Photo, Roche, Dublin._ Queen's College, Cork.]
During the vacation the steward or assistant officials are in attendance
to conduct visitors. The large palm-house is one of the most successful
in Ireland, and the Crawford Observatory will repay a visit. The grounds
were laid out under the personal supervision of the late president, Dr.
W. K. Sullivan, a distinguished scientist. While at the south side of
the city, St. Finbarr's Cathedral[2] (Church of Ireland), eastward from
the College, should be seen. It is a very dignified design of the French
Early Pointed style. The nave, aisles, and transepts are grouped under
three lofty towers with spires.
[Illustration: _Photo, Roche, Dublin._ St. Finbarr's Cathedral, Cork.]
From the foot of the street a few minutes' walk will bring us under the
old bi-coloured steeple, which contains the famous Shandon Bells. The
church was built in 1772. The steeple is unique, inasmuch as the
southern and western sides are of white limestone, and the northern and
eastern red sandstone--
"Parti-coloured, like Cork people,
Red and white, stands Shandon steeple."
But the "Bells" are the chief attraction, and the quaint inscriptions on
them amuse the curious. In the stillness of a summer night their sweet
chimes sound with peculiar cadence across the waters which encircle the
old city of the Lee. The charter song of Cork is:--
THE BELLS OF SHANDON.
With deep affection and recollection
I often think of the Shandon bells--
Whose sounds so wild would, in days of childhood,
Fling round my cradle their magic spells;
On this I ponder, where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee;
With thy bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.
I have heard bells chiming full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine;
While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate,
But all their music spoke nought to thine;
For memory dwelling on each proud swelling
Of thy belfry knelling its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.
[Illustration: _Photo, Roche, Dublin._ Shandon Church, Cork.]
Francis Sylvester Mahony, author of this ballad, known in the world of
literature as "Father Prout," was born in Cork in 1804. He was educated
for the priesthood, but spent the best years of his life in London, as a
magazine writer.
Further north than Shandon is St. Mary's Roman Catholic Cathedral, an
ample piece of architecture, not particularly attractive. Coming down
the hill towards the city on Pope's-quay, St. Mary's Dominican Church
may be seen. It is a very beautiful church, of the composite style of
architecture. The Grecian portico is remarkable for the gracefulness and
justness of its proportions, and is very much admired. It is, perhaps,
the most chaste building of its kind in the kingdom.
Besides the churches and public buildings already enumerated, the
Courthouse and the Municipal Schools of Science and Art should be seen.
The Courthouse is in Great George-street. In a recent fire there many
valuable records were destroyed. Courthouses seem to be ill-fated in
Cork. The old Courthouse fell during the trial for treason in the Penal
days of the Catholic Bishop of Cork. The present Courthouse was burnt on
Good Friday, 1891.
The punning, duel-fighting, hanging judge, Lord Norbury, of whom the
country people still say, "He'd hang a man as soon as knock the head off
a rush," often dispensed with an escort in the most exciting times, and
rode here on circuit with a brace of pistols at his saddle-bow. But he
was a man of uncommon determination. Once, when his acts were unusually
unjudicial, he was reprimanded from Dublin Castle and threatened with
compulsory retirement. He rode instanter to Dublin, and never stopped
until he drew rein at the Castle gate. He demanded to see the Lord
Lieutenant, but the then Viceroy, Lord Talbot, was in England. He was
ushered into the presence of a courteous official, who was a little
astonished to be authoritatively asked, "Who are you?" "I, sir," said
the Under Secretary, whom he addressed, "am Mr. Gregory." "Then you be
d----d, and don't Sir me," said his Lordship. "Fifty-two years ago I
began life at the Irish Bar with fifty guineas and a case of pistols.
Here it is! I have fought my way to preferment. Within a few months I
expect a letter of an unpleasant character from the Castle. Tell the
writer he may take his choice of these, and send me his second." History
does not record whether "the letter of an unpleasant character" was ever
written.
[Illustration: _Photo, Guy and Co., Cork._ Cork Exhibition.]
The Municipal Buildings of Science and Art in Emmet-place can bear
comparison with those of any town of the same size in Great Britain or
Ireland. The sculpture and picture galleries are open to visitors. The
splendid collection of casts from the antiques in the Vatican Gallery
were executed under the superintendence of Canova, and sent by Pope Pius
VII. to George IV. The ship which carried them by long sea from Italy
put into Cork, and was there detained for harbour dues. The King,
instead of paying, transferred the Papal gift to the Cork Society of
Arts.
A paltry exhibit of coins, antiquities, and fossils forms the Museum.
Although Cork County has been one of the richest in Ireland in "finds"
of gold and metal work of the ancient Irish, they are absolutely
unrepresented.
CORK DISTRICT.
The county of Cork is the largest shire in Ireland. The pleasure seeker,
the artist, the antiquary, the sportsman, the invalid, will each find
within its broad barriers much to meet his wants. Sir Walter Scott is
credited with the statement that the history of this single county
contains more romance than the history of the lowlands and highlands of
his own dear land of the mountain and the flood.
The surface of the county Cork is as diversified as the people. In some
places, such as Kilworth, Mushera, and Ballyhoura, the elevation is
considerable, elsewhere it sinks to a low-lying plain, such as at
Kilcrea, where the bog is that tradition says saw the last wolf in
Ireland killed, and Imokilly, where the sea is yearly eating into the
lowlands. The county is watered by no less than twenty rivers of
importance.
Making the city the headquarters for a few days, there are many places
of interest in the vicinity which may with ease be visited. The
excellent tram system may be availed of by visitors to the sights in its
immediate vicinity. A drive by Douglas and Vernamount can be
recommended. Douglas was an old town, famous for its manufacture of sail
cloth, and in recent years a village providence in the person of the
late Mr. John Morrogh has resuscitated industry in the district by the
establishment of a splendidly equipped tweed factory. With a fine day
and a good "outside jaunting-car" to travel the five miles' drive to
~Blarney Castle~ will be found most enjoyable. The famous stone, which
no one should miss kissing, is set in the parapet wall. The word
"Blarney," meaning pleasant "deluderin' talk," is said to have
originated at the Court of Queen Elizabeth. MacCarthy, the then
chieftain over the clan of that name, resided at Blarney, and was
repeatedly asked to come in from "off his keeping," as the phrase in the
State Papers goes, to abjure the system of Tanistry by which the clan
elected the chief, and take tenure of his lands direct from the Crown.
He was always promising with fair words and soft speech to do what was
desired, but never could be got to come to the sticking point. The
Queen, it is told, when one of his speeches was brought to her, said,
"This is all Blarney; what he says he never means."
By the Great Southern and Western Railway the castle can also be
reached. By this route a good stretch of the Upper Lee is seen, with
Carrigrohane Castle, which belonged to the M'Sweeneys, beetling high on
a rock, and the line runs through the picturesque valley of the
Sournagh, which may be likened to a Swiss ravine. All the remains of the
former greatness of Blarney consists of the ruins of two mansions, one
of the fifteenth century, and the other of the Elizabethan period. In
its time the place was one of considerable strength, and was erected by
Cormac MacCarthy Laider, or the Strong-handed chief of his name. Most of
the outworks and defences are gone. The old square keep, ivy-crowned,
rises from a huge limestone rock, around which the Coomaun or crooked
river winds. The Castle is over 120 feet high; the great staircase at
the right-hand side leads through the entire building, here and there
small vaulted chambers being set in the massive walls, which are in
places nine feet thick. The arched room, of which the projecting window
with three lights overlooks the streamlet below, is known as the Earl's
Chamber. The last fight in which Blarney Castle figured, was that in
which the Confederates held out for King Charles in 1642. It fell before
the superior ordnance of Cromwell's commander, Ireton. It was never
afterwards used for a dwelling-house, being almost completely
dismantled. From the summit of the Castle a good view of the surrounding
country can be had. To the west lies Muskerry, with what Ruskin calls
"the would-be hills" rising towards Mushera Mountain. To the north is
St. Ann's Hydropathic Establishment, on a gentle slope, surrounded by
well-wooded parks. In the village beneath is the well-known Blarney
Tweed Factory of Messrs. Martin Mahony Brothers, through which visitors
may be shown when convenient to the courteous proprietors. The "Rock
Close," which is at the foot of the Castle at the southern side, is one
beautiful jungle of foliage, in which myrtle, ivy, and arbutus
intertwine with the rowan tree and the silver hazel.
[Illustration: Blarney Castle.]
If we have gone to Blarney on the "outside jaunting-car," the return
journey may be made by Bawnafinny, Kerry Pike, and the Sournagh Valley,
and Northern Lee road. Beneath Bawnafinny, "the pastures of beauty," we
get a glimpse of Blarney Lake, a broad sheet of water bordered with tall
trees, above which the old Castle raises its head. It would gladden the
heart of Izaak Walton, as it is full of fish, among which is the famous
gillaroo trout, which will not rise to the tantalising fly. The
peasantry have a legend, that within the lake lies hidden the treasure
and plate of the last of the MacCarthys, who hid them there sooner than
allow his conquerors to gain possession of it. The secret is said to be
known to three of the old family, and before one dies he tells it to
the other, so that it may be recovered when the MacCarthy "comes to his
own again." The milk girls also on May mornings are said to have
frequently seen fairy cows along the banks of the lake, which vanish
into thin mists when approached by human footsteps!
[Illustration: _Photo, Roche, Dublin._ Blackrock Castle, Cork.]
~Ballincollig~ is a place of some interest. The powder mill is a
long-established factory, and gives considerable employment in the
neighbourhood. The large cavalry barracks is amongst the finest in the
south of Ireland.
~Blackrock~ is little better than a fishing village; but the suburbs
between it and Cork are filled with villa residences, pleasure grounds,
and market gardens. Beside the road, between the city and the village,
are situated the well-known nursery gardens belong to Hartland. The
daffodil farm, when the flowers are full, is a sight very difficult to
surpass in the three Kingdoms. Maxwellstown House, on the slope of a
southern hill, was the scene of a tragedy, not yet forgotten in Cork.
After a marriage _dejeuner_, the bride retired to her dressing-room to
don her going-away dress, but the bridegroom waited in vain for her
return. She had died suddenly in the arms of those who attended her; and
the story goes that the disconsolate lover dismissed the servants, shut
up the house with everything just as it was, and went on his way out
into the wide world alone. Long years afterwards, when news of his death
came from a far-off land, his next-of-kin had the house re-opened, and
found everything just as it had been left half a century before, after
the wedding breakfast. The dust and cobwebs were cleared away, and all
went to the hammer.
Eastward, towards the harbour's mouth, there is much to be enjoyed.
Excursionists may take the train direct from the Great Southern and
Western Railway terminus, or by Passage from the Albert Station, and
then by steamer to Queenstown. Taking the direct line the train runs
almost parallel with the promenade called the Marina, which separates
from the river side the broad pasture known as Cork Park, which is the
local race course. A race meeting at Cork is well worth witnessing. The
gay young bucks, described long ago by Arthur Young, still are with us,
and they and their lady friends make a fine flutter during race week.
[Illustration: _Photo, Lawrence, Dublin._ Queenstown Harbour.]
~Passage~ (~West~) was once the busy site of ship-building and
dock-yards, but the industry is no longer of anything like its original
proportions. The town is an old-fashioned place, and has not escaped the
pen of Father Prout, who, in what he calls "manifestly an imitation of
that unrivalled dithyramb," The Groves of Blarney--with little of its
humours and all its absurdity--signs the attractions of what he styles a
fashionable Irish watering-place:--
"The town of Passage
Is both large and spacious,
And situate
Upon the say;
'Tis nate and dacent,
And quite adjacent
To come from Cork
On a summer's day."
Steamers ply between the railway station at Passage and the many little
towns around the port. ~Glenbrook~ and ~Monkstown~ are particularly
picturesque. Above the latter, nestling in the trees, may be seen
Monkstown Castle, the legend attached to which says it was built for one
groat. The owner of the site, one of the Archdeckens, an Anglo-Irish
family, having gone away to the wars in the Lowlands, his better-half
promised him a pleasant surprise on his return. She employed a number of
workmen to build the castle, a condition of the contract being that they
should buy their food from her while so engaged. Truly, she was a shrewd
woman. Her profits were such, that she had enough to pay the entire cost
of the work, less one solitary groat.
~Spike Island~ is mentioned in Church History as a present given by a
Munster King to St. Cartach, of Lismore. In modern times it was used as
a convict prison, the convicts' labour being employed in the
construction of the fortifications around the harbour.
~Queenstown~, or, to give it its old Irish name, Cove, is built upon an
island. It is the paradise of naval pensioners, and the home of all
nationalities, yet Irish is still a spoken tongue not a mile away,
behind "Spy Hill." The magnificent Cathedral to St. Colman, the patron
Saint of Cloyne, occupies a commanding position over the harbour. It is
in the later florid Gothic architecture, and within one of its
transepts is buried the celebrated Dr. Coppinger, a learned writer and
member of the most famous and enduring of the Danish families to whom
Ireland became a native land. In an old graveyard on the island, Charles
Wolfe, the writer of the elegy on Sir John Moore, and Tobin, the
dramatist, are buried. The panorama from Spy Hill embraces the
enchanting river and the wide harbour, which is capable of holding all
the ships in the British Navy within the line drawn from the two forts,
Camden and Carlisle, which guard the entrance. Of Queenstown, the
_Dublin Health Record_ says:--"The climate is remarkably mild and
equable, and, at the same time, fairly dry and tonic, and is especially
suitable as a winter and spring residence for persons with delicate
chests, to sufferers from chronic catarrhal throat affections, and to
convalescents from acute diseases. It is particularly appropriate as a
seaside resort to persons requiring a soothing and sedative atmosphere.
From the position of Queenstown, winds from the colder points are very
little felt, and it is completely protected from the north, north-east,
and north-west winds. The mean temperatures of the seasons are exactly
similar to those at Torquay, the noted winter health resort in the south
of England, and higher than those of Bournemouth, Hastings, and Ventnor.
As a winter health resort, Queenstown possesses all the best natural and
climatic advantages."
The beach presents the most varied and motley sights to be seen anywhere
in northern Europe. Merchant seamen from every port of the world
congregate here; military and man-of-war sailors are ever present,
pleasure-seeking yachtsmen, pilots and fishers mix with the melancholy
groups of emigrants, or the irrepressible vendors of impossible wares.
Beyond in the blue waters, His Majesty's flagship rides at anchor, one
or more of the "ocean greyhounds," with dead slow engines, are steaming
out between the forts; tenders, whale-boats, small steamers, tugs, and
every craft that sails the sea, down to the familiar Munster "hooker,"
are hurrying to ports far and near, or lying "idle as painted ships upon
a painted ocean." Most of the Atlantic liners have offices here. Tenders
convey the mails from the deep-water quays at the Great Southern and
Western terminus out to the steamers, which usually ride in the fair way
by the harbour's mouth. Queenstown is the principal port through which
the emigrants leave Ireland. Young and old, when the "emigration fever"
is rife, the tides of people may be seen flowing oceanwards. Sometimes
they have a little money, and are going to better themselves; but most
usually they are going out penniless to relatives abroad, or "just
trusting in God." Not an unfrequent sight is to see bare-footed peasant
children waiting for their turn to cross the gangway which leads to the
New World. Perhaps they have nothing with them but "a pot of shamrock,"
or a little mountain thrush or orange-billed blackbird, in a wicker
cage, to make friends with "beyant the herring-pond." It is very
curious, but very Irish, that they do not at all seem to want the
sympathy that is lavished upon them by the onlookers. When they are
leaving their native place, the "neighbours" hold an "American wake,"
and in the morning, with heartrending embraces and wild caioning, give
them the last "Bannact Dea Leat"--"God's blessing be on your way"; but
when they come to Cove, the sorrow is smothered; they are buoyed up by
that trusting faith in the future which is the first fibre in the Irish
nature. They may look melancholy to us, but they themselves make merry,
and before the "big ship" is but on the "Old Sea," as the Atlantic is
called, the girls and young men are slipping through rollicking reels to
improvised music "to show their heart's deep sorrow they are scorning."
Perhaps, as the Gaelic proverb expresses it, "'Tis the heavy heart that
has the lightest foot." But a truce to trouble. They tell a story of an
emigrant and a grand trunk merchant at Queenstown which shows alike the
hapless condition and happy-go-lucky heart of the Irishman. "Pat," said
the merchant, "you're going to travel; will you buy a trunk?" "A trunk,"
answered Pat, "an' for what, yerra?" "To put your clothes in, of
course." "And meself go naked, is it? Och! lave off your gladiatoring;
sure it's took up I'd be if I did that!"
~Crosshaven~ and ~Aghada~, two watering places inside the harbour, are
within easy reach of Cove by steamer, which calls at Currabinny Pier.
The Owenabwee[3] river runs between Currabinny and Crosshaven; it is a
beautiful, well-wooded stream which has been celebrated in a
plaintive-aired Jacobite ballad, the "Lament of the Irish Maiden."
"On Carrigdhoun the heath is brown,
The clouds are dark on Ardnalee,
And many a stream comes rushing down
To swell the angry Owenabwee.
The moaning blast is whistling fast
Through many a leafless tree,
But I'm alone, for he is gone,
My hawk is flown, ochone machree."
A few hundred yards from Crosshaven river there is a fiord of the
Owenabwee, known as Drake's Pool. Here the great soldier-sailor, Sir
Francis Drake, with his five little sloops, hid in 1587 from a
formidable Spanish fleet. The Spaniards entered the harbour, but failing
to find their quarry, put to sea again in high dudgeon.
Near ~Aghada~, at the other side of the harbour, is Rostellan Castle,
formerly the residence of the Lords of Thomond. ~Cloyne~ is only four
miles' drive "on the long car" through a rich countryside, and on the
way may be seen a Druidical cromlech, at Castlemartyr, in a very fair
state of preservation. Cloyne Round Tower "points its long fingers to
the sky" above the ancient church wherein there is a fine alabaster
statue of the metaphysician, Dr. Berkeley, who was Bishop of Cloyne.
~Ballycotton~ is seven miles from Cloyne. The cliffs here are high and
wild, and Youghal, shining white in the sun in summer weather, can be
easily seen at the mouth of the far-famed Blackwater. There are modern
hotels and moderate lodgings at Ballycotton. In the season splendid
deep-sea fishing can be had in the vicinity, and the opportunities of
sea-bathing are enticing.
[Illustration: Ballycotton Harbour]
[Illustration: _Photo, Lawrence, Dublin._ Ballycotton.]
For information as to Sport to be had in the Cork District, see end
of this volume, where particulars are given as to Golf, Fishing,
Shooting, Cycling, &c.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The River Blackwater, Youghal, Etc.
Edmund Spenser spent most of his time in Cork County, at Kilcoleman
Castle in the vicinity of Buttevant. The place was well chosen as the
house of a poet. The surrounding country is very beautiful, and every
mountain and glen has its story.
The town of ~Buttevant~ took its name from the battle-cry of the
Barrymores--"Boutez-en-avant," "push forward." The ruins of the
beautiful Abbey remain. At the time of the supervision of monasteries it
was described as "a nest of abbots." Buttevant is the railway station
for Doneraile, and hard by is Cahirmee, where the greatest horse fair in
the British Isles is annually held. The fair lasts for two days. It is
held about midsummer, and attracts buyers not only from all parts of
these countries, but from as far away as Vienna and Stockholm. Spenser
pays tribute to the beautiful Blackwater which flows through Mallow to
Youghal--
"Swift Annsduff, which of the English is called Blackwater."
Far away in the highland country between Cork and Kerry the stream
rises, and comes floating and pushing down from the haunt of the
fairies and the outlaw, through the wild country of Meelin. Here is a
remarkable cave, the hiding place of Donald O'Keeffe, last of the old
chiefs of the land of Duhallow, who was outlawed after the fall of the
Jacobites.
[Illustration: _Photo, Roche, Dublin._ In the Woods at Buttevant.]