Wanderings in Ireland

This morning the pony cart is in requisition and, with one of the ladies, I am off for a visit to the buried city of Bannow. It is sometimes pleasant to banish the auto and jaunt slowly along. The pony understands that to-day we have all the time there is and so takes it leisurely with every now and then a grab at the hawthorn blossoms which bend temptingly toward him in the narrow lanes. He seems to know the way and finally wanders close down by the sea to where at the end of a long grassy lane we are halted by a high-barred gate through which some cattle gaze wonderingly outward. Wending our way through the tall grasses we mount to where Bannow church holds its ruined watch over the dead within and around it and over the city buried in the sands and under the sea. Aside from the sanctuary there is no evidence that man ever lived here, yet back in the days of James I. Bannow was a prosperous town paying the crown rents on two hundred and more houses, but a great storm arose in that same reign and so filled up the entrance to its harbour as to destroy it, and from that period onward the sentence of death was carried out against the ancient city. Higher and higher rose the sands until they covered all except this ruined church and the dead which lie around it, but,—here comes in a strange law or custom,—though there was absolutely nothing to represent, the place for generations returned two members to Parliament, and for the loss of this privilege the Earl of Ely received fifteen thousand pounds sterling. Certainly those two members were not annoyed by the wishes or opinions of their constituents deep in their graves here.

As I move through the long grasses to enter the ruins I pause a moment to pay tribute at the tomb of one Walter French, a man who passed one hundred and forty years upon the earth and "died in the prime of life." His last illness was the result of his walking some miles carrying a piece of iron weighing over one hundred weight, and which "somewhat strained the muscles around his heart, and he sickened and died, much to the astonishment of all who knew him." He has been dead but a short time and there are many now here who remember him well. Peace to his ashes, and here on this breezy down beneath the shadow of this ancient church and with yonder murmuring sea close by it should be peaceful enough even for the dead. The church is one of the oldest in Ireland and long antedates the English invasion.

It is not extensive, but it is quaint and interesting and possesses some curious monuments and one pretentious stone sarcophagus. Who slept there, I wonder?—there is no trace of him now. Bishop or layman, he has vanished, leaving no sign or name; and when he does come again will he pass by here? How strange Bannow church will appear to him then—and where will he search for the mortal part of him? It is certainly not here in this tomb which he vainly imagined would hold his body inviolate throughout all time and to the portals of eternity.

This is a Sunday afternoon of midsummer, a warm balmy day when the waters have gone to sleep and the bees hum drowsily. Over the hills and through the lanes come groups of peasantry, in their Sunday best. The usual number of dogs appear and chase imaginary rabbits through the long grasses, and on yonder flat tombstone a lad and lassie are gaily dancing a jig, and I doubt if the mortal or spiritual part of the sleeper beneath them is at all disturbed by the apparent desecration of his resting-place.

Save on Sunday the living rarely come here but to leave one of their number who has passed the far horizon of life, or sometimes to dance by day as we see them, or in the moonlight, on the great flat tombstones of the Boyse family in the chancel, listening while they rest to the constant advice of the wood doves to "take two coos, Paddy."

We are favoured with the same admonition, but though those fine red cows are tempting we pass onward, to the increasing indignation of the inhabitants of yonder trees.

As we turn for a last look at Bannow church on its green hill, the roofless gables are sharply silhouetted against the glow of evening, and the lad and lassie are still gaily dancing their jig, and two others on a neighbouring slab are "sittin' familiar."

So leaving them we wander back, to find the pony, after having her fill of daisies and grasses, has lain down in the shafts and gone to sleep. When we reach home there is still much of the evening left, and, deserting the pony—for which it casts reproachful glances upon us—we enter the motor and roll away again.

It is not however an hour for hurry or speed and our car glides slowly along while we enjoy the delicious air.

As we pass by the door of an humble cabin, the turf fire within illuminates the interior, throwing the bright scarlet dress of a girl into bold relief against a dark wall, and lighting up the bent figure of an old man smoking on a bench by the fireplace. In one corner is a bed while in another a huge pig lies asleep. The dark eyes of the girl meet mine for an instant with a pathetic hopeless expression but the old man pays no sort of attention, and we roll away, only to come suddenly just around a corner on a donkey drawing a cart, upon which is perched a buxom old lady. The beast objects most decidedly to our appearance, and after an instant of inaction, during which he stares in afright with his ears pointed forward, he begins to back, and the old woman to screech, more in indignation than fear, it strikes me, but be that as it may, both keep in action until brought to a standstill under the bending boughs of a gigantic fuchsia, whose purple blossoms are cast downward, and all over the vast white frilled cap of the old lady. Except in plastering the dame against that beautiful tree, no harm was done, and I throw her a kiss as we roll away, while faintly on the air is borne to my ears the anathema, "Ye spalpeen, yez." There is more, but our wings are out by now and it is lost in the distance. However I would not hesitate to apply to that old lady were I in trouble and I know I would not apply in vain, though she might read me a lecture the while and even bestow a clout with her big soft hand which would be more in the nature of a caress than a censure.

How time and people have changed in America during the past forty years! Then our land was sprinkled with settlements by these Irish, where one could find all the quaint manners and customs of their homeland; wakes were as strictly carried out there as here, weddings were just the same, and around each humble home clustered a bit of atmosphere of the old world.

Who does not remember the "tin man," generally named John, who made his rounds with a tin-shop of no mean proportions crowding his red waggon? Then there were the tinkers, but I must state that they were of a better order than those of Wexford to-day. We have just passed a dirty cart and forlorn pony, driven by a man more dirty and wretched-looking, if that be possible. I am told he is the head of the tinkers of Wexford, and that a more disreputable lot of tramps does not exist on this earth. As for morality, they have never heard of such a word, and certainly do not know its meaning. In their slovenly villages, they live in the most promiscuous manner and when the men start on their summer's tramp each takes along some woman who pleases him, regardless of what the degree of consanguinity may be. One must see them on their native heath to comprehend fully the force and meaning of the expression, "I don't care a tinker's dam"—but our motor has stopped before a great iron gate beyond which stretch the glades of a magnificent park. On entering I notice a sign on one of the great trees, "Wards in Chancery," and wonder "what have we here."

I doubt not that many of my readers have visited the great estates of Europe, but unless they have seen Tintern Abbey in Wexford—the quaintest of all abodes in this quaint Ireland—they have still an experience before them.

The history of Tintern dates back to 1200, when the Earl of Pembroke—he who married the Lady Isabel de Clare, Strongbow's daughter—founded this abbey to the Virgin after being delivered from the sea on the coast near-by. It was named after and peopled by monks from Tintern in Wales, which was founded by the De Clares, and while the cathedral could not have been so extensive as the one there, the entire monastery was quite as large as the older establishment. It must have been a glorious place and is so even now in its ruins, and is one of the most interesting spots in the island. It lifts its towers amidst groves of stately trees in a valley but a short distance from the sea and is embowered in clambering ivy. Its great tower, still preserved as a ruin, is not habitable save in its lower story, which is used as a kitchen. The chancel of the abbey has been turned into a dwelling-place and one of the most curious I have ever inspected. It is late on a brilliant afternoon when our car, rolling down the broad avenue of the park, comes suddenly upon the ancient structure in its secluded valley. At first all appears to be in ruins until we note that some of the arches have been walled up and hold modern windows. There are bits of ruin everywhere,—moss-grown stairs with shattered heads on the rail lead to shadowy terraces over which ancient yew trees extend sheltering arms; ruined arches and ivied towers dot the meadow, and vine-draped pillars standing far apart show the once great extent of the abbey.

Rolling on we round the corner of the main structure and draw up in the great courtyard, which evidently, in the days of the abbey's grandeur, was the cloister. To our pulling an ancient bell makes loud reply off in the tower above us, but for some moments no sign of life is evidenced. Finally the door is opened by a servant who reminds one of Obaldistone in Scott's Bride of Lammermoor. His manner is as grand as though this were the portals of Windsor Castle.

Yes, Mrs. C—— is at home, and will be glad to see us. We are ushered into one of those quaintly interesting rooms to be found only in the old world, a room impressed by each passing owner with some of his or her own personality, individuality, without which no room has any charm. Yonder is a portrait by Sir Peter Lely of a lady evidently lovesick. Here is a bit of some framed fancy work whose faded colours plainly show that it was done by a hand long since still for ever. Ivy peers into the window and taps on the glass and there is a taint of the buried years in the air,—the very sunlight seems to belong to late October.

Bestowed by Elizabeth upon the ancestor of its present owner, Tintern has suffered the fate of most great Irish houses and now lives in the memory of the past. I am shown a parchment holding the family tree, dating backward to 1299, with all its numberless coats of arms done in colour, but evil times came down upon the race in the last century. Open house was kept for all who passed. Beggars sat by the scores in its great courtyard sure of their dole. In its entrance hall stood a bowl of small silver coins for general usage, and it was dipped into by all. Its sideboards groaned with a feast on all days,—waste and plenty, plenty and waste,—until finally upon the death of one owner a question arose as to the succession and so in came the law and the Court of Chancery. That suit cost the estate one hundred thousand pounds sterling, and was finally settled by a workman who discovered the necessary missing documents in a hidden receptacle in the wall, but too late to save trouble, and so to-day and each day Tintern is going more and more into ruin, and the voracious ivy climbs ever higher and higher, pointing like the handwriting on the wall to the ending of it all.

In the midst of all these reflections our hostess enters, a typical Irish lady, all hospitality and warm welcome, as cordial to me whom she has never seen before, as to her old friends who have brought me thither. Her hearty laugh drives off the shadows and she is much pleased that we are interested in her old home: old,—yes verily—just think of it, her people have lived right here for three hundred years, and but for the secretion of those documents by some stupid ancestor the domain would be a rich one even yet. But that does not keep laughter out of Tintern. Many's the dance which has been given here, and once, with that love of humour which laughs at everything sad or mournful, the cards of invitation bore the phrase, "Supper in the charnel house and dancing in the vaults." Rest assured the feast was lively, leaving nothing for any ghosts which might happen along that night, and I doubt their braving the laughter of that merry throng; and yet with it all there must have been sadness for all which had been so uselessly lost.

There are many legends for the cause of the troubles which have come upon the abbey and its owners.

For holding property belonging to the Church they are for ever under its curse of fire and water; then the neighbouring peasantry have a legend that trouble arose because of the murder by Sir Anthony of all the friars he found in the house when he came to take possession, but they rather incline to the belief that he rested under a curse of the fairies because he destroyed an ancient rath, or hill, which they frequented. He was engaged to the lovely heiress of Redmond. Having gone to England, his lady promised to burn a light in her tower of Hook to guide him on his return, and so she did, but the fairies beguiled her to slumber with their music, and put out the light. So her lover was drowned. The disconsolate maiden converted her father's tower into a lighthouse, and so it remains to this day.

It is also stated that the first Colclough was but secretary to the lord who obtained the grant and was sent by him to England to have it ratified. He so pleased the Virgin Queen that when he returned he found that the deeds conferred the estates upon himself.

I noticed in the drawing-room a framed address or diploma of some sort and asked what it was. It contained the portrait of a handsome man in the prime of life and the emblazonments were many and rich. During the life of the late owner he was master of the hounds, and it was decided to present him with this illuminated address together with a present of one hundred pounds. The event was made the occasion of a great feast, and these old walls rang so loudly with the merriment that the rooks in the ruined tower were startled, and fled shrieking into the forests. The presentation was made with much ceremony, the illuminated parchment greatly admired, also the casket which held the purse with its hundred pounds, but which of course was not opened until the guests had all gone or been carried home. No gentleman would leave such a feast able to walk,—and the flunkies outside knew their duty and did it. Now it seems the recipient of all this owed ninety-eight pounds to the man who had made the presentation speech, and when all had gone and the family had gathered round to examine the purse they found upon opening it two pounds in money and a receipted bill for those ninety-eight pounds. Ah well, 'twas all in a lifetime and life went merrily in those days at Tintern. But it was a shabby trick, for the neighbours each and all owed very much more in hospitality to Tintern than the amount of that bill.

While I am inspecting the framed address the bell of the castle clangs, the butler throws open the doors, and we pass to the dining-room for tea, the most pleasant meal of the day over here.

When the grandfather of our hostess died, he was laid out, as befitted the head of the house, on this dining table around which we are gathered. I know that the thought of it returns to several of us as we sit here.

There is a vast thickness in the walls of the room and a space not accounted for by any room, in which it is thought some monk or nun was immured when the abbey was a house of God—be that as it may, no investigation has ever been made, and it will probably never be known what, if any, grisly horror is immured there, so near to our gay laughter.

We spend some time discussing tea and the usual assortment of cake. I never could digest the English fruit cake and I feel quite sure the slab pressed upon me here would kill a man if it struck him upon a vital spot. Most of it goes into my pocket, and when we depart I drop it deep down in a bed of blooming plants near the door, an action observed by Boyse, who, until I threaten his life in a gloomy whisper, insists upon examining with the hostess that particular spot, professing a great knowledge of botany, of which his ignorance is colossal. Whilst I am guarding my buried cake, our attention is called to what once was the north transept of the abbey and afterwards for centuries the library of those who have lived here. It is still a library and full of books, but for some ungiven reason has been walled up for many, many years,—the books, I am told, mouldering in great heaps on the floor.

My desire to explore is intense but, it is useless to say, unexpressed in this instance.

From this court started the funeral procession of the gentleman who had been laid out on the dining table. The cortège was so immense that it circled away for three miles, though it is not half a mile to the family vault. Every man was provided with hat band and gloves at the expense of the widow. At the feast which followed that great table in the dining hall was decked in the centre with a huge bow of crêpe, black of course. The roast fowls had crêpe bows tied around their necks and as the old butler served the whiskey he did so with tears streaming down his face. As he carried the bottle, also decked with a crêpe bow, he gave utterance to the mournful words, as the whiskey sobbed gurgling forth, "Ah, sor, 'tis this bottle will miss him indade, indade." But those around were determined that, for the day at least, they would drown its sorrow, and when they went home "there wasn't wan of them knew whether he was going backwards or forwards, and most of them wint sideways."

The chapel on the hill yonder must even then have been roofless and in decay. To-day it is in a choke of brambles and wild roses. Bidding the car to follow, we cross the park and mount to where it stands, an absolute ruin.

We "give Boyse a leg" to a broken casement and he clambers in and down amongst the brambles up to his neck, and making his way towards the high altar reads aloud of Sir Anthony Colclough, who died in 1584, he to whom Queen Elizabeth made the grant.

There are many other tablets embowered in creeping, drooping vines, and almost obliterated by the moss of centuries, while a great tree fuchsia hangs in wildest profusion, shaking its crimson blossoms downward upon the ruined altar. Wandering around, pushing our way through brambles, and stumbling over forgotten graves, we come upon the family vault, underneath and as large as the chapel. The door being open, we wandered in and paused amazed at the spectacle of dead humanity.

Outside the sunlight flickered downward through waving branches, casting long lines of light into the place of the dead, lighting up a sight such as may be seen only in southern Ireland. The entire space was crowded with coffins in all stages of appalling decay and ruin and dating all the way along from the reign of Elizabeth. At our feet lay the ruin of a large coffin, its handles still clinging to its sides. The skeleton within had vanished absolutely except the beautiful teeth, evidently a woman's, which gleamed white in the sunlight. The lid, cast to one side, left all open to the light of day and passing of moonlight or storms. Beyond were two still perfect coffins of later date, and yet farther in where the shadows were thicker rose the ruins of coffin on coffin, all tumbling pell-mell into one wild chaos. Pausing in silent dismay for an instant only, we went forth into the sunshine, leaving the dead to their rest.

Only in Ireland may one come upon like scenes, where the doors are not closed even after death. I had often read of such spots, but scarcely believed the tales until to-day when we stumbled quite by accident upon that open door and entered, and certainly I shall never forget the sight. We closed the portal as best we could. One can only hope that the return of dust to dust may be not delayed, and that all that therein is may vanish utterly.

As we roll away the sunlight streams brilliantly aslant, lighting up the ruined chapel and the old abbey, while the great trees stand all about them like Druids deep in thought.

A rapid rush through the mists of Ireland will so drive the cold air into one's system that after dinner it is difficult to keep awake and one is apt to doze off while sitting upright in the drawing-room and to dream dreams and see visions, especially after our afternoon's experience. Here to-night in the drawing-room my book has fallen upon my knees and I have almost passed to the land of nod when some one suggests that we inspect "King Charles's clothes," and being but half awake I wonder when he arrived and whether he will permit such familiarity, and then the questions "which Charles," and if "the first" of that name, will he bring his head, cause me to come to my full senses just as Boyse is drawing a long wooden case from beneath a sofa. When it is opened all the room is filled with a faint perfume, some fragrance so long forgotten that one cannot give it a name, and yet which calls to mind the frou-frou of silks and the tapping of high-heeled shoes on parquette floors, over which wax lights are shedding a soft radiance while the air resounds to stately music.

Let us transport ourselves mentally backwards to the dark days of 1649. Penshurst, the ancient seat of the Sidneys, a gift from Edward VI., when the tragedy of Charles Stuart was over and the axe had fallen at Whitehall, his sister the Queen of Bohemia, bowed with sorrow for the past and undoubtedly with fear for the future, divided as precious relics amongst those who had been faithful, the belongings of the late King. These before me she gave to Mr. Spencer, the ancestor of our hostess here in Bannow House. Mr. Spencer was then acting for Algernon Sidney, who was a prisoner in the Tower. The relics came into the possession of the present owner through her father, the Rev. Thos. Harvey of Cowden Rectory, Kent, and as they are drawn forth one by one from their hiding place, I glance involuntarily over my shoulder and out into the misty night, almost expecting to see the shadowy face of the King questioning our right to these things of his, while the faces on the walls about have awakened to life and express a strong desire to come down and join us in the inspection. Here, in a shagreen case, is a huge silver camp watch which has long since ceased to mark the passage of time and the vanity of princes. Yonder is a silk dove-coloured coat and a waistcoat brocaded in rose colour, black, and silver. Here is a pair of breeches in brown figured silk and another of red and white cut velvet. There are some quaint gold embroidered slippers with great bows and high heels and as I stand them on the floor they seem to have been used but yesterday and are expecting to be used again, and I glance once more into the outer shadows. At the bottom of the chest are two long rolls of illuminated vellum illustrating the marriage of the Queen of Bohemia, called the "Queen of Hearts" by the people who loved her well. As I look at the painted procession, my hand rests on a lace ruffle of King Charles, which he may have worn on that occasion.

It was all so very long ago that I think we have in our unconscious thoughts almost arrived at the conclusion that these and many of the famous personages of history are but the fanciful figures of fiction after all, and it is only when we look upon this frayed doublet which seems but just cast aside by its wearer, or pick up yonder glove which still holds the curve of his palm and shape of his fingers, that the belief is forced upon us that, like ourselves, he once lived and breathed, enjoyed and suffered, was really of flesh and blood.

Yet what was this Charles, warm-hearted and generous, or proud, dictatorial, and utterly unreasonable, holding the divine right of kings so far above the rights of his people that they were forced to lay low his head? Which view is the correct one?—for with him, as with all others of history, there seems a doubt. In fact doubts are being cast upon the pages of history from all sides to-day. Writers make Lucretia and Cæsar Borgia far different from the scribes of a century ago, and possessed of no desire to assist people to a better world. She, for instance, is now held to have been a model wife and loving mother. Also we read that Richard of England was not deformed, either in person or character, but because of the very doubtful legitimacy of the sons of Edward IV. was the real heir to the crown, and so summoned by Parliament,—that he did not murder or have murdered Henry VI., the Duke of Clarence, or the Princes, and that the latter lived at his court many years—in fact that he was no such character as we have been raised to believe; and, more marvellous to relate, that the real villain of that period was Henry VII. of blessed memory,—that he and he alone imported historians from Italy who at the royal bidding wrote history as it has been read for so many centuries, that he was the murderer of both King and Princes and of the Duke of Clarence. Surely we shall shortly have the Jew of Venice made a generous character, possessing deep love for all Christians, whilst the eighth Henry will repose in a glorious effulgency as a model husband as Froude would have us believe. But they are all of the so very long ago that they appear to us like figures in a painted window, brilliant or sombre, as the sunshine or shadows of history illumine or cast them into shade, and it is only when we see such a thing as this glove of Charles or a half-worn shoe of the Scottish Queen that they walk out upon us and take their places as real men and women.

And so one feels near the presence of that unfortunate Stuart King, as these belongings of his lie spread out before us. What a small man he was! These things might be worn by a boy of fifteen,—a delicate boy of slight frame. They are of great value as such things go, which reminds one that the world holds much of great value of its dead kings and queens. It is estimated that the relics of Mary Stuart collected together at the tercentenary in Peterborough in 1887 amounted in value to sixty thousand pounds sterling, three hundred thousand dollars of our money, and yet she was often forced to write imploring letters to her "brother of France" for her revenues from her fair duchy of Touraine, in order that she might keep out the cold in her English prisons, and whilst she was the guest of her "good sister Elizabeth."

Did her grandson wear these silks and velvets during those sad days at St. James's Palace? He would almost require the attendance of a body servant to carry that watch and surely no man who appeared in such ruffles and high-heeled fancy shoes to-day could induce an army to fight for him, be he the anointed of God or not,—but then, that clothes do not make the man was certainly proven in his case, when "a man was a man for a' that," the Puritans to the contrary notwithstanding. I doubt if he thought much of his fuss and feathers or paid as much attention to them as said Puritans did to their sober browns, or some rulers of the Europe of to-day do to their gaudy plumage. If Charles was vain, it was with a vanity we can pardon, and far different from that which floods the world with a string of portraits in different uniforms and poses—but it is late and even the shades of royalty cannot keep us awake longer; still as we take our candles and move upwards through the shadowy hallway I seem to hear the stealthy fall of following footsteps and turn suddenly, wondering—wondering.

CHAPTER XIII

Return to Ireland—Illness—Conditions on the Great Liners—The Quay at Cork "of a Saturday Evening"—En Route Once more—The Old Lady and the Donkey—Barracks at Fermoy—Killshening House, Abandoned Seat of the Roche Family—Fethard—Quaint Customs—The Man in the Coffin—"Curraghmore House"—Its great Kennels—Its Legends and Ghosts and History—Lady Waterford—Oliver Cromwell at the Castle—The Marquis in the Dungeon.

A year has rolled away since I wrote my last line about this Emerald Isle,—a year of sickness and suffering, brought about, most seem to think, by the bubbling springs and cool wells of this same island; at least B., who drank whiskey and soda, passed scathless, while typhoid for the second time seized upon my system and worked its will for months and months. But that is over and gone, and for another year at least I am immune. Still I think that during this visit I shall hold to soda and some whiskey, at least I am so advised by a last telegram as my ship moves out to sea.

If the Board of Trade knew of the state of affairs on the great liners they would scarcely permit it. Think of one hundred and sometimes one hundred and fifty stewards crowded into a confined space below the saloon with one bathroom only. They are only allowed on deck way back amongst the emigrants, and from there they come to the main saloon to wait on the first-class passengers, running the risk of carrying all sorts of contagious diseases; no air, no ventilation to speak of. The deck stewards are somewhat better off, being only six in a room, but no better ventilated than the pen referred to. If things are so on an English ship, what must they not be upon an Italian!

It blew great guns, and rained in torrents as we landed at Queenstown. The Campania came in just behind the Baltic and between the two nearly two thousand passengers were landed. The accommodations both in tenders and at the custom house are in every way inadequate, and the confusion was appalling.

However, all was passed and done at last, and ten P. M. finds me at the Imperial in Cork, which is in this rainy weather even more mouldy than last year, but where B. and a whiskey and soda make matters assume a more cheerful tone. However as the house is crowded to suffocation an excursion into the outer darkness has its attractions. On our way out we remark to the barmaid that it is rather stupid here to-night, and she suggests that this being Saturday evening if we will go down to the quay we may find some diversion. Knowing that she would be correct in her surmise as to other towns on that night and at such places we conclude to try it in Cork and sally forth, only to fall into the clutches of a car boy, who absolutely refuses either to be left behind or to allow us to walk. Hence we are shortly mounted on that characteristic Irish vehicle, a jaunting-car, and en route for wherever its owner may see fit to take us.

Our suggestion of "the quay" evidently meets with his approbation, and with a twinkle in his eye and a blow for his horse, we set forth. The pace is one which causes us to clutch the swinging car for safety. That the streets are crowded matters not at all to our jehu, and many is the anathema hurled at our heads from the scattering populace—until finally the crowd becomes so dense that our pace is reduced perforce to a walk, and at last we stop altogether. Just before us is a half-grown boy celebrating the approach of the day of rest to the best of his ability, and an odder figure I have never seen. His tattered trousers are rolled up above a pair of brogans which would fit the Cardiff giant, the tails of what once was a black coat of great size trail on the ground behind him, while his dirty mug of a face has the stump of a pipe fixed somewhere in the middle—I can see no mouth—and is crowned by what was once a silk hat, now by numerous blows and whacks more resembling an opera hat semi-collapsed. In his hand he twirls a shillalah, and as he croons a ditty he wheels ever and anon to attack any one who treads on the tails of his coat. Before we have fully appreciated all of his good points our attention is attracted by increased shouts and the rush of the crowd down the quay, where evidently Pat and Dinnis are at it hard and fast.

How the hats fly! You can hear the whacks of the shillalahs even from here. The dancing, jeering, hooting, and howling crowd takes first one side and then the other, "fightin aich uther fur konciliation and hatin aich uther fur the love o' God." Just about this time we think best to retire, as good hats are too attractive in free fights.

It has turned stormy again and the wind blows in great gusts up the river from the sea. Shortly after we start homeward a fishwife carrying her loaded basket comes out from a doorway and up a few steps onto the pavement, when the wind taking her broadside blows her over backwards, her legs sticking up in the air like two great lighthouses. Of course the contents of her basket are attacked by every gamin in sight, but the old woman gets all the fish but one and she has a firm hold on one end of that, while a sturdy boy holds tight on to the tail. Then begins a tug of war, resulting in an upset for the boy with half the fish clutched in his fist. Quick as lightning she seizes him and thoroughly washes his face with the other half. The last glimpse I have of them as we roll away she has turned him over her knees and there is no indication of "konciliation" on her face.

Verily—there is "something doing on the quay at Cork of a Saturday evening."

Nine o'clock next morning brings our motor to the hotel door. It is soon packed and, the word given, is rolling away through the streets of the city, which one moment laugh with sunshine and the next weep with downpouring rain,—but bless you, no one minds the rain in Ireland, certainly not in Cork.

The music of the Bells of Shandon follows us far out into the green lanes and winding highways and the motor hums and sings in response as we roll under the grand old trees with their curtains of quivering ivy. Almost at once, things begin to happen, and, as usual, an ancient dame is the cause of war.

At the end of a long lane, over which the ivy draped trees form a perfect archway, a donkey cart driven by an old lady approaches us, and as usual we produce consternation. With each leg pointed towards one of the points of the compass and with great ears slanting towards us, the little beast is prepared against all attacks, and to run in any direction, but he reckons without his mistress. She does not propose that there shall be any run at all, and quickly slides to the ground from her perch in the cart—and in her progress shows us that aside from her waist and woollen skirt she is not encumbered with clothing. The situation requires prompt action, and seizing her skirt in both hands she rushes at the donkey and claps it over his head. His surprise is intense and deprives him of action. What he thinks I know not, but as we roll by we distinctly hear a suppressed "he-haw."

The distance to Fermoy is quickly covered, and we pass in triumph the spot where last year we broke down and were forced to take to jaunting-cars.

The Fusiliers who then were at Buttevant are in Fermoy now, and we dine in the Mess.

The barracks are much alike in the two places, but while this has no "green" for cricket and croquet, Fermoy is quite a contrast to the wretched town of Buttevant. Still all that sinks into nothingness when it is stated that that is "a better hunting country."

As of old, the officers endeavour to induce me to spend a winter in that sport. Twenty years ago I might have done so, but it's too late now, though I have no doubt that if I lived here I should try it regardless of the flight of years. I have no doubt but that I could if necessary buy hunters from each and all of them,—and I have also no doubt but that they would loan me all they have or may have if I would accept, which I would not do.

This is Sunday morning, and his Majesty's soldiers are going to church. The Church of Rome claims the larger number and there are some hundreds of scarlet coats marching past the hotel now to the ever favourite and inspiring tune of Hiawatha. How the fifes do seize upon and rip out those notes and what joy there is in every whack given by that great bass drummer! My admiration of last year is intensified.

The officer in charge is a man I know very well and I try my best to attract his attention, but without success; discipline must be maintained, and not a glance comes in my direction from under his towering "bear skin," though I know that he sees me. He owes me a grudge because, his mother being an American, I tell him his coat should be blue.

The streets have ceased to glitter with crimson and gold, and the air has lost the tones of martial music as we roll away,—only the murmur of the river and the solemn music of the organ from an ivy-clad church yonder breaks the stillness of this sunny Sunday morning.

Not far from Fermoy stands a mansion which is of interest to many in America, Killshening House, one of the seats of Lord Fermoy. That title will in time pass to an American boy, or man as he will be then, though I doubt his ever assuming it—certainly he will never occupy this house. The present owner lives in a place belonging to his wife, and as we enter the gates of Killshening, we see at once that it is and has been long deserted.

These abandoned houses greet the traveller all over Ireland. This one has not been lived in for some generations by the family. It does not pay to keep up the house, and renting the land out as pasturage brings more income than in any other way. Still it is sad to find a stately mansion in such a reduced state. The rusty gates have long ceased to perform their function and stand deeply imbedded in the grass-grown drive which stretches inward toward the house. The trees have grown wild at will and stretch their branches almost across the drive. The grass is rank but still thick and velvety and some sheep stare at our intrusion and then scuttle away to a safe distance where they stop huddled together and stare again. Hawthorn hedges white with bloom enclose the place almost like the palace of the sleeping beauty and one wonders whether man has entered yonder silent house for the last hundred years. It certainly has not that appearance. Its windows have a sightless, unoccupied look and its doors swing open to the summer breezes. Except for the sheep there is no sign of life anywhere and we enter and roam at will through the deserted rooms. In its exterior it is of the usual type of such houses in Ireland, a stately rectangular structure, probably of some two centuries of age. Its portals are never closed, and passing inward, one enters a large square hallway, whose fine ceiling is supported by four stately columns. Surrounding this are numerous living-rooms, reception-and dining-rooms, and in several the ceilings show much beauty even through the mould and dirt of years of neglect.

Of those who made this place a home all have long since passed beneath the "low green tent whose curtains never outward swing" and those who own it now have other houses more to their taste, so this stands tenantless, the silence both without and within broken only by the sound of our footfalls as we explore the empty, echoing spaces.

The park around is fine, but as we pass away we note that nearly all the great timber has been cut down.

It's a sad place, and even our motor seems anxious to leave it.

Our car this year is a 16-20 Clement and on its top speed runs as noiselessly as an electric. It is not an especially good hill climber, though that may be but a temporary fault, as sometimes it sails up an incline with ease, while at others balks at much lesser grades. On the whole I like the car very much, and though two years old and having had hard usage, with but small expense it could be made as good as new. It is certainly to be preferred to the Panhard of last year and is more agreeable to ride in than the sixty horse-power Mercedes of the Duke of M. In those high power cars, unless at full speed, which is impossible on most Irish roads, one is disagreeably conscious of the power beneath one, and rather dreads a breaking away with its ensuing destruction. Certainly but few of these Irish roads are suited to a speed of sixty miles per hour. This car comes from Wayte Bros., of Dublin, and costs twenty pounds per month less than that of last season.

Our onward route lies over the hills to Fethard through Clonmel and across the river Moyle. As we enter, we encounter a funeral, and I notice that they are carrying the corpse round and round what is certainly the town pump. Later I learn that a cross once stood there, also that through the gate by which Cromwell entered the town the dead are never carried.

Boyse has a sister living here, and we pass the night in her home.

Fethard is one of those quaint Irish places which the world, unless it hunts the fox, never comes near,—but the Irish world does hunt the fox and hence everybody that is anybody comes to Fethard.

As I wandered out into the meadows behind the mews, I came upon a pile of coffins under a shed,—new and awaiting occupants. Evidently they are bought by the wholesale here and of assorted sizes against emergencies. Near-by stood the village hearse, and backed up against a hayrick the remains of the worn-out one which had ceased from its labors. My remark that the "coffins were cheap and thin" brought out the rejoinder, "Ah, they're good enough, give the worms a chance." So wears the world away. The reply came from an old man smoking a stump of a pipe, and calmly reposing the while in a pine box, the future use of which could not be a matter of doubt.

Leaving him to his repose I enter the motor and with my host and hostess and B. roll off through Clonmel to the superb estate of the Marquis of W., "Curraghmore House," the location of which at once strikes the beholder as very superb. Lofty hills, rich dales, and almost impenetrable woods surround him in all directions. The home park alone holds some twenty-seven hundred acres, entirely enclosed by a high stone wall.

As we approach the gates we see on a distant hill a lofty tower erected in memory of one of the heirs, who as a boy broke his neck while attempting to jump his horse over the gate just before us, and which is to-day opened to our sounding horn by a smiling old lady, who curtsies deeply as we pass her.

Three gates are encountered before we enter the court of Curraghmore House, where we hear that "His Lordship is down at the kennels," and so roll away again through the aisles of such trees as only these ancestral places can show, save in California or a primeval forest where the vandal, man, has not had his way. How beautiful it is! The wide white avenues roll and twist away over the deep rich grass. Yonder valley is a mass of blossoming rhododendrons,—tree fuchsias bloom on the other hand,—and across the river the green hills mount away, dotted with sheep, to a fair blue sky.

We cross an ancient bridge of stone with the water gurgling deliciously beneath as it flows off down a lane brilliant with the lilac of the rhododendrons.

The kennels are probably the most extensive in Ireland and resemble a large carnivora house in some zoölogical garden,—even to the iron cages for summer use.

Here, amidst more than a hundred hounds, we find our host. Of an ancient Irish family, tall, very fair, with close cropped yellow hair and blue eyes, and clad in a long white linen coat, his appearance is very English, which remark would not please him at all I am told. He is making a register of his hounds for the dog show at Peterborough next month.

Each hound is presented, passed upon, and has her name duly entered on the list. I am told that the dog does not make a good hunter in Ireland, and hence all of the one hundred and twelve animals here are bitches. [Perhaps that is always the case, if so you will discover that I am not a sportsman.] If you were to stumble and fall while near them they would promptly tear you to pieces, though they are friendly enough and almost every one, as she passes through the cage, pokes her nose into our hands.