Wanderings in Ireland

CHAPTER X

Route to Killarney—Country Estates—Singular Customs—Picturesque Squalor—Peace of the Lakes—Innisfallen—The Legend of "Abbot Augustine"—His Grave—"Dinnis" the "Buttons" and his Family Affairs—Motors in the Gap of Dunloe.

The route to Killarney lies through Mallow, where it is amusing, at the little hotel, to watch the airs and graces assumed by some dozen Irish-Americans who have returned to their native land for a visit after having made a dollar or so in America. My Jap boy last night ventured the remark that they "treat their own people very nastily," which is quite true. One is constantly impressed with the changed circumstances of those returning to the old world. On the inward-bound voyage last month I stood near two of the ancient faith who were watching the steerage below us. "Vell," said one, "that's the vay I vent over." "Me, too," replied his companion, and then complacently caressing heavy gold watch chains stretched across capacious stomachs, they strutted back to the smoking-room and proceeded to abuse the steward for not anticipating their wants. Such is life and progress, I suppose.

But our car has left Mallow far behind and is gliding onward by the side of the Blackwater, whose course we follow for many miles.

This is a beautiful section of the land. There are many fine estates on the hillsides and many ruined and ivy-clad towers by the waters. We have spent pleasant hours at several of the former and rambled over many of the latter. In one of the houses where we were for the "week end," I was amused by rather a singular custom. After dinner, the men having settled to bridge in the smoking-room I found myself, as I do not play cards, in the hall with the ladies, of whom there were several of the household and one visitor. We were enjoying some music and dancing when at nine o'clock in came our host and handing a lighted candle to each dame literally shooed them all off to bed, much to the indignation of the visiting lady and my own astonishment. Paying no attention to me, he returned to his game, and I sat on in the dark hall so convulsed with laughter that I was glad that the one candle left shrouded my mirth by casting many shadows. There were but two things for me to do, go and watch the game, or go to bed, and I did the latter though it was but nine o'clock. It is the custom at all these country homes for the ladies to retire long before the men, but I never before or since have seen them so peremptorily driven off.

I think on the route to the Lakes that the villages and straggling huts must be kept in the state of squalor in which we found them to the more thoroughly impress the newly arrived tourists; certainly as we near Killarney they are worse than any we have seen before,—rows on rows of squalid, dirty houses through whose open doors pigs or geese wandered, and beyond which gleamed a bit of a fire; white-capped or tozzle-headed women leaned chattering over the low half doorway used to keep both children, pigs, and geese from too freely passing off and away between the high mud-banks with their towering hedges of hawthorn. Droves of geese slip from beneath our flying wheels and scoff at us as we pass; chickens fly, screeching, to the safety of neighbouring dung-heaps, and some ducks get a gait on them that is most astonishing. It would be impossible for them to maintain their balance unless they kept up that furious pace.

As night closes in the clouds lower and finally rain comes down heavily but fortunately not until we have reached our journey's end, and the lights from the quaint Hotel Victoria stream out a welcome. They really act glad to see us and from the proprietor down to "Dinnis" the buttons each and all appear personally interested in our arrival. How different from the magnificent insolence of an American hotel clerk. But we are too tired for further comparisons and are soon off to bed.

To pass from the pomp and splendour of the army and the kaleidoscopic, unrestful, rushing life of the world to the peaceful shores of Killarney is a grateful change. It is so beautiful here to-day and the world seems so far away that one has no desire to do aught save sit under the waving boughs of the trees and watch the glittering waters of the lake. Off across its mirror-like surface the mountains rise abruptly and over them masses of white clouds hang broodingly, peacefully. Lazily I wander over the grass, and entering one of the many boats drifting in the water allow the boy to row me away upon the glassy surface.

Boyse is still in bed and so I have the boat to myself and also all the lake, for there is no sound or sign of life anywhere as we drift outward. The boy moves the oars lazily, scarcely touching the water with their tips, and we seem to drift halfway between the white clouds overhead and those far beneath us. Lily pads bearing their white and gold chalices wave gently to and fro and a stately white swan with her brood of little ones keeps us company for a space.

I have not told the boy where to go and he has not demanded to know, indeed he scarce seems conscious of my presence, but keeps his dreamy eyes fixed upon his beloved mountains brooding yonder under fleecy clouds. Ahead of us a fairy island floats waving green boughs in greeting and as our boat grounds on its gravelly beach, the boy rolls over and goes to sleep.

This is evidently the haven where we would be, this holy Isle of Innisfallen, but it is some time before I am willing to break the brooding silence by any movement. The long drooping boughs of the trees trail gently to and fro across the boat and parting now and then give glimpses of the chapel of St. Finian the leper, but it is so in ruins, and it and its saint belongs so to the very long ago, that to-day it is like a thought in a dream.

As I wander off through the underwood shaded by giant ash the spirits of the dead monks seem all around me. The path leads to the grave of the abbot, so long dead that a huge tree growing from his ashes has encircled his tombstone with its very roots. He lived—but let this poem tell his story.

It is said that Innisfallen may not be put to profane uses, that early in the last century its owner commanded that it be cultivated, but when the work was begun the air at once became filled with millions of white birds, whose beating wings drove the men forth and away, leaving the isle sacred and unprofaned, and the abbot and his brethren to their dreamless slumbers, and so the years glide by.

As I pause to-day by the abbot's grave, its great tree rises above with arms extended, as though in final benediction, the grasses are spangled with millions of daisies, and the warm air is again, as in his day, full of the song of birds, and unless I desire a sleep of centuries it may be as well to return to the world of to-day.

The boy in the boat awakes with a yawn, and smilingly moves the boat off and away farther and farther until the Holy Isle seems to detach itself from the shimmering waters and to float cloudlike slowly heavenward.

How little the casual tourist ever sees of any land, especially of Ireland,—a day or two at Killarney, an hour at Blarney, some time waiting to hear Shandon bells, then a rush to Dublin and the Causeway, and they leave the island with a shrug of the shoulders and a belief that there is little to see. But wander into the byways, linger in the lost corners and talk to these people, and every moment will be of some sort of interest,—the tears and sadness will pull your very heartstrings one moment and laughter and fun will bubble all around you in a mad frolic an hour later. You may hear the wild songs of the mountains, or the wilder wailing for the dead, and the clouds will drift far overhead, as though in mourning for their sorrows, then the sunlight will follow after, sparkling, as though in laughter. Some of the inns will be neat and comfortable, whilst others will turn out like that horror of a hotel in Galway.

We are welcomed on our return to that at Killarney by "Dinnis." Now "Dinnis" is the "buttons" of the house and stands up to the magnificent altitude of four feet. He looks about fifteen and when I ask him if he goes to school I am about bowled over by his reply,—"I'm a married man, sor." Great heavens! I am told later that the fair bride is near twice Dinnis's height and that his wooing was of such an ardent nature that it nearly created a scandal. Ah, well—we don't live but once and Dinnis believes that if his life is to be as short as his stature, at least it shall be a merry one. I am told also that there are great expectations in his family and as our car glides away I lean out and implore him—if it's a boy—to name it "Mike." Dinnis's indignation at my intrusion upon his private life is vast but somewhat drowned out by a half-crown and the roars of laughter from the car boys around.

The poor car boys in Ireland, especially at Killarney, are so many that there is not work for all and they have to take certain days for each, that all may have a share. The drivers of jaunting-cars turn gloomy eyes at our auto as we roll by, well knowing that the advent of such means loss to them.

I was strongly tempted to essay the Gap of Dunloe in the motor. The result would probably have been a fight, as one of Cook's waggons was attacked not long since while trying the same thing. According to my recollection of that road, its passage would not be at all difficult for a good car, but once the legend of its impassability save by ponies is done away with the occupation of many hereabouts would be over for all time.

CHAPTER XI

Kenmare and Muckross Demesnes—Old Woman at the Gates—Route to Glengariff—Bantry Bay—Boggeragh Mountains—Duishane Castle—The Carrig-a-pooka and its Legend—Macroom Castle and William Penn—Cork—Imperial Hotel—Ticklesome Car Boy—The Races and my Brown Hat—Route to Fermoy—Breakdown—Clonmel and its "Royal Irish"—Ride to Waterford.

I have never taken a more beautiful drive than that from Killarney to Glengariff, and it is especially delightful in a car, as one is spared a slow and tedious ascent of the mountains. We leave Killarney on a perfect morning; the motor seems to have rested with our stay there, and throbs with a healthy sound. The route takes us through the domains of Kenmare and Muckross. The latter has been sold by its ancient owners, the Herberts, and now belongs to a prosperous brewer of Dublin.

As we enter the domains we are stopped at the gateway by a buxom dame, who demands a shilling a head. I try to bargain with her, offering half price for the Jap, and suggesting that we may meet with a catastrophe which will prevent our getting our money's worth. "It makes no difference phat sort of quare heathen you have wid yez, or if yez all died ten feet inside the gate, yez will pay a shilling a head before yez come a foot farther," and planting herself directly before the car, she looked it squarely in the eye—wherever that may be—and would have kept her word. So I perforce hand over four shillings, only to be detected in trying to pass off an American quarter. As we roll inward an anathema is hurled after us: "Ho, ho, ha, ha, bad sess to the likes of yez."

How beautiful it is here—how delicious the day! The sun shines hot and the air is laden with the odour of the balsam. The superb roadway winds in and out for miles, now by the lake and here in the deep green of the forest, with enchanting views of the mountains. Bird-like the car skims over ancient stone bridges, or close to the water, and we pause a moment to do homage at the shrine of Muckross, and finally cross the old weir bridge, declining the bog-oak work for sale by the old man who tried to sell us such thirty years ago,—same man and same work, I think.

From here on the road mounts higher and higher, twisting and turning until I am not sure in which direction we are really going, and am reminded of a remark of a dear aunt of mine, while riding on a narrow-gauge railroad near Denver, "Really, I very many times saw the back of my own bonnet."

Here, to-day, while far different from the rugged grandeur of our western mountains, the vistas are equally charming. There, it is not so much, to my thinking, in the splendour of the hills as in the prospect over the limitless plains. Vast and grandly mysterious, they roll up to the very point where the mountains rise abruptly from their western limits, and as one gazes outward they resemble the ocean itself suddenly calmed into eternal sleep by the mandate of God, "Peace, be still," and those western plains are indeed still.

This prospect in the old world shows the traveller the entire panorama of Ireland's most beautiful mountains, and far below him nestle the chain of Killarney's enchanted lakes, where the fairies dance nightly and the daisies bloom for ever. But why attempt description? All the world knows Killarney, and to-day I seem to hear her wild echoes as they bear away the love song of Dermot Asthore.

The road from here descends in sweeping curves seaward and our car scarcely seems to touch the ground, as with all power off and the wings out it sails downward, until we come to rest at Glengariff, just as the setting sun tinges her rocks and waters with rose colour.

The Atlantic is at rest far out and sends only whispers inward on the ripples to-night. The surface of the bay is dotted with many white swans floating majestically shoreward. I believe they are native here. At least we are told that these have their nests on the farther rocks and rear their young in freedom; even in winter the weather is mild enough to allow of their being out of doors.

Are these the children of Lir still under enchantment in the shape of swans? One hears of them at Ballycastle, and on the island of Achill, but this is the only place where they have appeared and yonder old gentleman swan has an eye which would indicate knowledge of much that he has no intention of telling us about.

One does not see the outer ocean at all at Glengariff. The whole prospect is that of an enclosed lake, where one might drift for ever without danger from the tempests which howl around this coast at times.

Not until we reach Bantry Bay does the outer ocean show itself. After all, what is there in a name? That of Bantry Bay had always attracted me, and I had expected to find such a spot as Glengariff, but it is far from that in all ways, being tame and unattractive, though evidently a much better harbour for shipping.

Here our route leaves the coast and turning inland passes beneath the shadow of the Boggeragh Mountains, where there are so many ancient towers and castles that to visit or relate the tales of each would be to rewrite the folklore of Ireland.

One of them, however, cannot be passed in silence, or the spirits which inhabit it might execute dire vengeance for the slight. The gloomy castle of the MacCarthys of Duishane, Carrig-a-pooka, rears its dark towers on a steep rock close to our route, and it is the reputed abode of that spirit of evil, the Pooka, which in all malice and mischief has no equal in the fairy lore of Ireland. He has many forms which he may assume at will,—sometimes a bull, sometimes an eagle, but more often a horse spouting fire, as he tears through the darkness. He does not show his demon qualities until he has secured a rider, but on gloomy nights is met with in the shape of a docile nag, browsing on the highway and almost inviting you to mount and ride,—but do so and at once he changes into the wildest and most terrible charger man ever mounted and fairly flies over castle, lake, and river, into deep valleys and over the highest mountains and even far out over the ocean. What becomes of the rider is not told for he does not return, though 'tis said that one Jerry Deasy did get the best of a Pooka and by the means of spur and whip reduced even this "divil" into a quiet trot.

Downward from the mountains our road winds once more through the fair green country in the valley of the Sullane. We pause a moment before Macroom Castle, the ancient fortress of the O'Flynns, not because of its beauty, which from its mantle of ivy is great, but because it was the birthplace of the father of William Penn, who gave peace to all with whom he came in contact in life and undoubtedly has found peace in Heaven.

The old castle has seen more of war and its horrors than should fall to the lot of any one spot. It has been destroyed by fire several times, and at one execution nine outlaws were hanged within its court for murder. It is not a place which the superstitious seek, after dark or when winds wake and the chains clank. From Macroom onward the route lies through a smiling valley until finally the silver toned bells of Shandon welcome us to the city of Cork.

The Imperial Hotel in Cork is crowded with people and dirt. I think the latter will prevail, as it is of the mouldy order. The floors seem sinking, and en route to the dining-room one walks as upon the deck of a rolling ship with danger of sharp collision against passing waiters. True Irish gentlemen, who look not upon the wine when it is red but drink straight old Irish whiskey in unlimited quantities, are encountered with the result that between the floors and themselves one has difficulty in navigating and takes to port several times en route to dinner.

This is the week of a cattle and horse show—the viceroy is here and incidentally most of the rest of Ireland, not that the viceroy's presence has anything to do with their coming, they give you to distinctly understand that, but that wherever a horse is to be shown, there come the sons of Erin. I think there is something in the profession or tastes of a man which stamps his face and figure. One could never mistake any man here for other than horsey,—all clean, yet the air is fragrant with the smell of the stalls and aroma of much good whiskey. Where they stow away all the latter is a puzzle to me, for their bodies most certainly cannot carry such amounts of ballast as I have seen poured into them all day long. Not to be horsey completely ostracises a man, but as that gives one an opportunity to escape the drinks and so watch the crowd, it is not to me objectionable.

While Cork is "a place of advanced ideas" and probably less favourable to the powers that be than any other section of Ireland, still she does not approve of change in the city or its manners or customs. This hotel has not had a thing done to it in more than a quarter of a century. I believe it makes money all the time, hence improvements are not necessary, certainly they are not made, as witness those floors. One is still beset by the importunate boys with their "cars" at its doors and all over the town, but the driver of a jaunting-car is a jolly beggar full of laughter and fun and thereby puts many an extra shilling into his pocket.

Rags and tatters many of them, that is as to themselves, but this does not extend to their horses,—he is indeed a poor Irishman and not of pure blood who neglects his horse, and with him it is love me, love my nag. He will meet your smile with one brighter, and kindness to him does "butter the parsnips" of the traveller.

Leaving the hotel the other day Boyse summoned a car, but the driver thereof was in such a state of tatters that the lady of the party refused to ride in that car. To the driver of the one chosen she remarked, "That man must be very poor; you should club together and buy him new clothes." "Poor,—not at all, me lady; he's rich, but so ticklesome that not a tailor in town can take his measure."

As we are en route to the fair grounds I discover that Boyse does not approve of my costume, but it is some time before I find out wherein I fall short. It turns out to lie in my hat, a brown Derby. At home black hats vanish with warm weather and brown take their place, but here I learn that a brown Derby belongs to the "fast lot which one does not know,"—hence Boyse's disgust, but that does not affect me in the least and I insist upon wearing my brown hat. I really think it almost spoiled his pleasure in the horse show, if anything could do that.

The day turns out pleasant and the crowd is large. The viceroy does not come, which certainly detracts not at all from the pleasure of the people, as the real viceroy, the horse, is here in full state. Several of the officers are down from Buttevant and we pass a merry afternoon clouded only by Boyse's feeling about my hat—he sits afar off and does not appear to know me when acquaintances pass or if an introduction occurs is careful to state that I am an American—what a multitude of sins that covers;—I trust the statement is altogether unnecessary and that I could never be taken for anything else.

We are held a day at Cork for repairs to the car, but, those finished, roll rapidly away in the direction of Fermoy. These roads are very good and the motor glides smoothly and rapidly onward, first by the banks of the Lee and then northeastward towards Fermoy. The day is misty and damp, forcing the hood over our heads, though I would almost rather get wet than have it up. However, one must consider fur robes, etc., so up it goes.

Shortly thereafter I note a clicking sound underneath and an unsatisfactory movement of the motor, which causes the chauffeur to slow down and stop. A lengthy examination mends matters for a time, but the trouble occurs again and then Robert announces that we must return to Cork as the water won't circulate. We are twelve miles out with no place en route for help. We are also about the same distance from Fermoy but in that direction and but three miles away there is a town where cars may be had and help obtained, so onward we move, and wisely, as matters turn out, for we come to a final halt on the confines of the village. Loading the luggage and ourselves upon two cars we drive to Fermoy leaving orders to have the motor towed in by a mule, ignoble as that may sound. As it turns out even the motor rebels at such disgrace and refuses to move even by the use of two mules. Robert manages, however, to get it over the eight miles to Fermoy by its own power, in some four hours, allowing much oil to run into the water tubes,—not the best thing for the motor but all that could be done. I can see that he is decidedly disgruntled with the car. This is the third time it has been in the shop in two weeks, which certainly should not have been the case with a new car such as I was assured this was. When I state this to the chauffeur, he laughs and replies, "New! Yes, as to the body, but the motor is some years old, in fact is the original Panhard motor used by Mr. Harvey du Gros; it has been lengthened and repaired and a new body put upon it."[7] Fortunately we have each time been where help was at hand save on this occasion. But as it turns out Robert can repair it in this hotel yard as they have a pit to work in. He had thought that the trouble arose from oil and waste getting into and clogging the water pipes, but it proves to have been a broken pin in the wheel of the pump,—"broken through age," he states. If this accident had occurred in the wilds of Mayo or Sligo far from any assistance our plight would have been a serious one, and I cannot but feel that to send the car out as new, knowing the motor, the only important part, to be old was scarcely fair,—in fact, far from it. Robert is an excellent chauffeur and thoroughly understands and is able to repair a machine. In this last case, however, we had to buy a new wheel.

The town is a small garrison town and we are delayed there only one night. Still I must acknowledge, as has been so often the case, that its little hotel was far more comfortable than those in most of the large towns and cities of Ireland. Its rooms are cleanly and the food good.

The roads from Fermoy to Clonmel, the depot of the "Royal Irish," B.'s old regiment, are hilly but good, and the auto takes on life once more, though I notice that Robert seems concerned as to the result. However the machinery warms to its work after an hour and we speed onward, breathing more freely as the pulsations settle down into a rhythmical beat, finally rolling into the barracks at Clonmel in good season. There we spend a pleasant hour, lunching with the officers of the mess and having no time for the town itself, which is not of interest.

The roads are fine all of the afternoon, most of them well rolled. Our route is eastward through the valley of the Blackwater, evidently a stream of importance in ancient days, as its course is guarded by towers and castles, now all in ruins and given over to clambering ivy. At Waterford the stream is broad and deep and ocean steamships lie moored at her quays.

CHAPTER XII

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 south-east 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.

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 south-east 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.