Chapter XIII: Part 13

Mr. Croker showed us around the place in his silent, matter-of-fact manner, but could not suppress the pride he feels in his horses and his satisfaction with the record he has already made upon the turf in Ireland and England with his own colts, for he doesn't own or race any but those that are foaled and bred and trained in his own stables. That is what he is here for, and that is his greatest gratification, and he likes it a great deal better than politics. He brought with him to Ireland a famous Kentucky mare named "Rhoda B.," which we did not see because she was down in the pasture, and from her he has been breeding a string of colts that have had remarkable success. Every one of them has been foaled at Glencairn. He has won the English Derby and two Irish Derbys, and the English Newmarket, which is the third in order of the great events on the English turf. Rhodora won the thousand-guinea race in the Newmarket, and Mr. Croker is confident that another colt called "Alabama" will win the Derby just as Orby did.

Back of his mansion and his flower garden and his hothouses is a quadrangle of box stalls. In the center is a statue of Dobbin, the first horse Mr. Croker ever owned and for which he had great affection. There are a dozen stalls, and in the first he showed us Orby, a beautiful creature, as vain and conscious as a prima donna, that seems to realize the supreme importance of a Derby winner. Nailed upon the door is a gold plate properly inscribed and inclosed by one of the shoes worn in that race.

Across the quadrangle were a number of two-year-olds named Lusitania, Fluffy Ruffles, Lady Stepaside, Lotus, Lavalta, and one or two others, all foaled on the place, and six yearlings which Mr. Croker exhibited to us with the pride of possession, and one or two others which he said "were no good." At the stable of Alabama he showed more animation and did more talking than those who know him would suppose him capable of. Mr. Croker has the reputation of being one of the most reticent and unemotional men in the world, as all American politicians know, and I never saw him warm up over anything before. He has a face like a bulldog, perfectly expressionless, and no one can ever tell whether he is pleased or displeased from the lines in his face or the tone of his voice, which is always low and deliberate. But when he showed us Alabama, the son of Americus and Rhoda B., he woke up and actually became animated as he described the fine points of the colt and told us what he had been doing and what he is expected to do.

Mr. Croker has an even dozen horses and colts in training, and he showed us some yearlings of great promise. His two-year-olds and three-year-olds are all entered for races in Ireland, and those that do well will be sent over to England. In 1907 his horses won forty races in both countries, and his stable has altogether about three hundred to its credit since he came to Ireland.

The horse show at Dublin in August is the greatest event in Ireland, and draws from the entire kingdom as well as from the Continent, thousands of horse breeders and horse owners and fashionable people. It is probably the most brilliant and important horse show in the world.

There are three kinds of jaunting cars,--"outside cars," in which the passengers sit back to back with their feet on shelves over the wheels; "inside cars," in which they sit face to face with their feet in the middle, and "single cars," which have one seat accommodating two persons facing the horse. The latter are the most comfortable of all, but give the passengers a good shaking up, which we are told is excellent for the liver.

It is a curious fact that the jaunting car, although it is distinctively Irish, and would not be tolerated in any other country, was invented and introduced by an Italian, Charles Bianconi, a native of Milan, who arrived in Ireland about the year 1800 and set up at Clonmel as an artist and picture dealer. Being struck by the absence of vehicles in the country, for everybody went on horseback in those days, he built a conveyance of his own design which immediately became popular and was imitated by every one who had the means to build or buy a box and a pair of wheels.

Only in Dublin can you hire a covered carriage--four-wheelers or "growlers," as they are called in London; but in Waterford, Cork, and Limerick are "covered cars," which are without doubt the most uncomfortable vehicles that anybody ever rode in, unless it be a Chinese cart. They are "inside cars," with a hood of canvas or leather over them, supported by an iron frame or hickory bows. Imagine a large, square box with one end knocked out of it, and replaced by a step or two for the passengers to enter; two seats, one on either side, upon which the passengers sit _vis-a-vis_, clinging to straps suspended from the roof. There are no windows, no place for ventilation except the open back, which is covered with a curtain that may be raised or not, according to the state of the weather.

Two things which everybody can commend in Ireland are the horses and the donkeys--the style, strength, beauty, and speed of the one and the uncomplaining endurance of the other. An Irish horse never gets tired, is never lazy, and never vicious--at least, that is what his breeders and owners say of him, and, of course, the Irish hunters are the best in the world. But the Irish donkey, who does the humble and insignificant traffic, who hauls the vegetables to market and does the teaming for the small farmers, is an object of universal admiration. Not for his beauty, of course, but for those higher qualities that make up character, for his strength of purpose, his untiring industry, his patient fidelity. They are the mainstay of the Irish poor, and, although the object of ridicule and wit, I think the people appreciate them, because they treat them so much better than the Italians and Spaniards and the peons of the Spanish-American republics of America.

"Go back to your brother!" said a street urchin the other day to a costermonger who left his donkey by the roadside for a few moments. "Go back to your brother!" said the chauffeur of our automobile to a woman who was driving a donkey cart and came across to inspect our machine. "Go back to your brother!" said a policeman to a young boy who was driving a donkey cart and had jumped off his ordinary seat upon the whiffletree to resent the attack of some street urchin. And when I asked the policeman about the use of that phrase, which one hears continually, he explained that it was common all over Ireland for a donkey driver to call his beast "brother," and it deserves that name for its fidelity if for nothing more.

XXIII

CORK AND BLARNEY CASTLE

Cork is a neat but an ugly town, which had a hundred thousand population twenty years ago and now has only eighty thousand. The missing ones, they tell me, have gone to the United States. It is one of the most prosperous and one of the cleanest cities in Ireland, and, although in former years strangers complained of pestiferous beggars, we have not seen a single one. The common people are much better dressed and the children are much neater in their appearance than those of the similar class in Dublin. They don't buy their clothing at a slopshop. They are more cheerful and happy, and the women show more pride and better taste in their apparel.

The River Lee, which rises over on the west coast, in Lake Gougane-Barra, near Killarney, divides into two streams just as it reaches the city of Cork, and embraces the business section of the town between the two channels. They are walled up with masonry, and wide quays on either side furnish plenty of room for handling the commerce, which seems to be considerable. Large sums of money have been spent to deepen the channel and furnish conveniences for handling the trade, and vessels drawing twenty feet of water can come up to the very center of the city at low tide, where they discharge Welsh coal and English merchandise and receive agricultural produce, bacon, woolen goods, hides, and leather, and various other products of Ireland. The walls of the quay are hung with unconscious artistic taste every morning with fishing nets. The fishermen bring their catch up the river to the very door of the market and spread their nets over the gray stones to dry. The entire distance from these quays to the Atlantic Ocean at Queenstown, about twelve miles, is a panorama of beauty. For the river on both sides is inclosed between high bluffs that are clad with the richest of foliage and flowering plants, among which you can catch glimpses of artistic villas. Tom Moore called it "the noble sea avenue of God."

All tourists like Cork. It is a cheerful city. The atmosphere is brighter and the streets are more attractive than in Dublin. The shops are large and the show windows are well dressed, and on St. Patrick's Street, which, of course, is the principal thoroughfare, there are several windows full of most appetizing buns and cakes and other things to eat. But the tradesmen are remarkably late about getting around in the morning. When I go out for my walk after breakfast, between eight and nine o'clock, most of the shops are still closed, the doors are locked, and the shutters are up. None of the retail merchants expect customers until after nine, and then they open very slowly. The markets do not commence business until nine o'clock and wholesale dealers and their clerks do not get down until ten. A gentleman of whom I inquired about this indolent custom declared that it was as ancient as the ruins of Fin-Barre Abbey. He declared, however, that although they lie abed late in the morning the business men of Cork made things hum when they once got started.

Cork is a city of churches and some of them are modern, which is a novelty. The Roman Catholic Cathedral is an imposing structure and the interior is magnificent.

One of the "Godless colleges" is in Cork--Queen's College--which occupies a beautiful situation upon a bluff on the outskirts of the city, entirely hidden among venerable trees and flowering plants, with a swift flowing brook at its feet. It was the site of a monastery established here by Fin-Barre, the patron saint of Cork, who came here about the year 700, built a chapel, and started a monastic school that became famous and attracted many students from the continent of Europe. The city grew up around that monastery and was first composed of students who lived in huts and cabins of their own construction while they carried on their studies. Then business men and farmers began to come in and Cork became a place of sufficient importance to attract the attention of the Danish sea-rovers who, after plundering it again and again, took a fancy to the place and settled down here themselves. St. Fin-Barre was buried in his own church and his dust was afterward taken out of the tomb and enshrined in a silver reliquary which was carried away by one of the O'Briens when he drove the McCarthys, who happened to be a power in 1089, out of his stronghold and looted the place.

Over the arched entrance to the Queen's College are the significant words:

"Where Fin-Barre Taught, Let Munster Learn."

It is a modern college founded by Queen Victoria in 1849, together with two others of the same sort at Belfast and Galway, and the three are affiliated under the title of "The Royal University of Ireland." That gives the degrees bestowed upon their graduates a higher character and a greater value according to the notions of the people here. The buildings are pretentious and of the Tudor order of architecture. They look very much like those of the Washington University at St. Louis, and are arranged in a similar manner, only the damp atmosphere here gives the stone a maturity of color that no college in the United States is old enough to acquire. There are no dormitories. The students room and board where they like. There are only lecture-rooms, examination halls, a library, and a museum. There is no chapel, no religious services, and no bishops or other clergymen are upon the board of trustees. That is why the institution is under the ban of the Catholic church, and is not patronized by the people of the Church of Ireland. There are departments of art, science, engineering, law, and medicine, but no theology. There is a school, at which the applied sciences and the trades are taught, occupying the old building of the Royal Cork Institute and attended by many ambitious young men and women. It is a sort of Cooper Institute, founded by a brewer named Crawford, who made his money here. There is also an agricultural and dairy school, with an experimental farm of one hundred and eighty acres on the hills about half a mile from the city, where instruction is given in butter and cheese making and in general agricultural science. Cork is the center of the dairy trade of Ireland and exports a great deal of butter to London.

There are several Catholic seminaries and convents and Protestant boarding-schools for boys and girls and preparatory institutions of various grades attended by children from all parts of southern Ireland, which make Cork an educational center. There is a handsome library presented by Mr. Carnegie, adjoining the City Hall, with twelve thousand volumes and about three thousand ticket-holders, who, according to the report of the librarian, borrowed 85,406 books last year, of which 63,902 were works of fiction. There is another library belonging to a chartered association that is available only to its members. There is an opera-house and several theatres, and all the advantages and attractions that one would expect in a city of this size, with a race course of two hundred and forty acres on the banks of the river, just outside the city limits.

There is an attractive promenade, a mile long, called the Mardyke, sheltered by splendid old trees which form a natural arch overhead, which was fashionable for gossip and flirtation as long ago as 1720, but is now given up chiefly to servant girls and their lovers and nurses and children.

The birds sing more sweetly in Cork than any place we have been, or perhaps we have noticed them more readily than we have done elsewhere. Irish birds are as cheerful and happy as Irish people. When we were wandering through the campus of Queen's College, just after a shower, the trees were alive with larks and thrushes. They had come out of their hiding places and were bursting with song.

I met an old woman, bent and gaunt and gray, with bright blue eyes and a canny expression, and asked her the way to the house I was seeking. She answered with politeness, and I gave her a penny.

"God welcome you to Ireland," she said. "An' may yer honor's visit be prosperous. Yer honor is from America. I kin tell that by yer fine looks and yer fine manners, and I've a son over there meself. I'm nothin' but a poor widdy on the edge of the grave, or I'd be follering him there at all, at all."

And it is astonishing how many people we meet here, who have sons and brothers and sisters in the United States. Most of them seem to be in Chicago, Boston, and Brooklyn. Even a rosy-cheeked little newsboy from whom I bought a paper on the street recognized my nationality and remarked, "An' I've a brother in Brooklyn, meself, sor." At least one-fourth of the population of Cork have emigrated to the United States since the census was taken in 1891, and more are going by every steamer.

The Protestant Cathedral is a fine, modern building with a lofty central tower and four smaller towers of the same design surrounding it. It was finished only a few years ago and cost half a million dollars, most of the money being derived from legacies. It stands on the site of an ancient church built by St. Fin-Barre. The grounds are large and beautifully shaded, with here and there a tomb of some distinguished man. The service and the singing are quite impressive, and we heard the best choir we have found in Ireland.

But the church where everybody goes, which every tourist must visit, is St. Anne's, on the other side of the river, on Shandon Street, which was built in 1722, and is remarkable for an extraordinary-looking tower one hundred and twenty feet high, faced on two sides with red stone and on the other sides with white stone. It is exceedingly ugly, but the people of Cork are very much attached to it, and particularly to the chime of eight bells which hang in the tower and have been immortalized in a simple little poem by "Father Prout," who was the Rev. Francis Mahoney, and is buried in the churchyard in the tomb of his ancestors.

"Father Prout" was the _nom de plume_ of this witty and sentimental clergyman, who was most prolific with his productions. He wrote odes to almost everything in Ireland--plain, simple, homely lines, but full of sentiment and the true poetic spirit. The common people admire them above all other literary works except the ballads of Tom Moore, and indeed Father Prout's verses rank with Moore's melodies in popularity. He also published a great deal of prose, stories and satires and anecdotes illustrating the thoughts and the habits of his fellow countrymen, and occasionally a political satire which involved him in a controversy with his bishop or some political leader. Father Prout in his famous lyric described the peculiar appearance of the spire of his church:

"Parti-colored like the people,
Red and white, stands Shandon's steeple."

"With deep affection
And recollection
I often think of
Those Shandon bells,
Whose sounds so wild would
In the days of childhood
Fling round my cradle
Their magic spells.
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."

Most of the streets of Cork are wide and well paved, although they are entirely devoid of architectural features and, with the exception of the cathedral, Queen's College, and the courthouse with a stately Grecian portico, there are no buildings in the city worthy of special mention. On the Parade, as one of the principal streets is called, is a conspicuous pile of carved granite that is intensely admired by everybody. It is designed like a shrine, and under a granite canopy is a rude statue of "Erin," leaning upon a harp. Outside, at each corner of the pedestal, are still ruder figures intended to represent Wolf Tone, Davis, O'Neill, Crowley, and Dwyer, heroes of the continuous struggle against British domination. The faces of the pedestal are closely inscribed with names, with these lines in English and Gaelic:

"Erected through the efforts of the Cork Young Ireland Society to
perpetuate the memory of the gallant men of 1798, 1803, 1848 and
1867, who fought and died in defense of Ireland, and to recover her
sovereign independence. To inspire the youth of our country to
follow in their patriotic footsteps and to imitate their heroic
example.

"And righteous men will make our land
A nation once again."

The breakfast-room at the Imperial Hotel one morning was filled with a lively and noisy crowd of gentlemen of all ages wearing red coats, waistcoats of startling pattern, jockey caps, leather leggings, and heavy brogans. I was told that they represented the nobility of County Cork, and had gathered to hunt otter along the River Lee and the creeks that feed it west of the city. There was one woman in the party, who wore a short skirt of gray tweed, a red jacket, a jockey cap, and high boots. In the stableyard was a pack of hounds in leash which had been brought in from the country. The Marquis of Conyngham was master of the hunt. Otter hunting in the summer along the swampy, muddy banks of the creeks of Ireland takes the place of fox hunting in the winter. The elusive otter is tracked to his hole by the hounds and is then stirred out by gallant gentlemen with pikes--long poles shod with iron tips--after they have chased him through the mud. They keep the skins for robes, stuff the heads for ornaments, and mount the tails for brushes. These hunts take place at least twice a week during the summer season and are sometimes attended by forty or fifty noblemen and gentry.

Cork is a very orderly city. The laws are strictly enforced. I noticed by the newspaper reports of the police courts that people are fined for profane swearing and for boisterous behavior. We didn't see a drunken man or woman in Cork, and in Dublin they were common. This is largely due to the work of Bishop O'Callahan and the priests of his diocese and the influence of Father Mathew, the great apostle of temperance, who led a movement that reached every corner of the world about fifty years ago. There are monuments to Father Mathew in many of the cities of Ireland. There is one in Dublin on the principal street, between that of Daniel O'Connell and that now being erected to Parnell, while in Cork the statue of Father Mathew on St. Patrick's Street is the center and focus of all activity. It faces the entrance to the principal bridge over the River Lee and all the street-car lines terminate there. A memorial church has been erected to his memory here, and the Church of the Holy Trinity, of which he was the pastor, has been restored and enlarged. Father Mathew is buried in St. Joseph's Cemetery, on the outskirts of the city, which was formerly the Botanic Gardens, and was obtained by him for a burial place for his congregation in 1830. His precious dust is inclosed in a fine sarcophagus surmounted by the figure of an angel in white marble.

Theobold Mathew was a Capuchin friar, born in Cork, and was attached to the Church of the Holy Trinity in that city. In 1838 he joined a temperance society that had been started by some Protestant gentlemen, chiefly Quakers, for the purpose of offering an example to young mechanics in his parish. He soon became the leading spirit of the organization, was made its president, and finally started upon a mission throughout Ireland to organize similar societies and to promote total abstinence among the people. From that time he devoted his life to the work, and being an orator of remarkable power and possessed of extraordinary energy, zeal, and devotion, he excited the interest of every class of people and of every community on the island. The influence of his agitation was felt in England, Scotland, Australia, America, and in every other part of the world until his name became a universal synonym for temperance. Father Mathew's Total Abstinence societies are still found in almost every city and town in which the English language is spoken. He addressed immense audiences and spoke twice on Tara Hill, which was the throne of the kings of Ireland before Julius Cæsar ruled at Rome. He administered total abstinence pledges to half the people in the country, and intemperance in drink, with its attendant evils and misery, almost disappeared from Ireland. The famine that followed his crusade destroyed much of the good effect, because it demoralized the people and many tried to drown their sorrows in drink. It has been said that Father Mathew died of a broken heart, because so many of his converts violated their pledges, but, since the days of Peter the Hermit, no individual has exercised such a moral influence.

"Now, Terence, me b'y, tell the loidies and gintlemen all ye know, an' kape the rist to yoursilf," was the parting injunction of the porter of the Imperial Hotel to the jarvey of the jaunting car, as he tucked the rugs around our legs and started us off for Blarney Castle, which is five miles from town. It is a delightful drive, for the suburbs of Cork are surrounded by fertile farms and the pastures are illuminated with buttercups in summer, and inclosed in hedges of hawthorn that are bright with blossoms. All nature seems to be in a cheerful mood these days, and the frequent rains, which interfere considerably with motoring, give an appearance of freshness to all the vegetation and a vitality to the trees and plants and flowers and everything growing. That is peculiar to Ireland. It is true that showers come down and cease with surprising suddenness and frequency, and the rain falls as if it was very heavy and had dropped a long distance, but if you carry an umbrella, and that is the universal custom, you are none the worse for it.

A narrow-gauge baby railway starts from outside the campus of Queen's College in Cork and runs to Blarney, a town of about eight hundred inhabitants, mostly farmers, who cultivate the surrounding soil and breed cattle, while their wives and daughters work in a woolen factory belonging to the Mahoney brothers, which is said to produce the best tweed in the kingdom. And you can buy suitings at the shops in Cork. Nothing is sold at the factory.

Blarney Castle, as everybody knows, is one of the best preserved and most beautiful of the many ruins of Ireland, and is probably better known throughout the world than any other because of the marvelous qualities of a famous stone which forms a part of its walls. As Father Prout in one of his verses expresses it:

"There is a stone there
That whoever kisses,
Oh, he never misses
To grow eloquent.
'Tis he that may clamber
To my lady's chamber,
Or become a member
Of parliament."

The castle stands on the banks of a dashing stream called the Comane, full of trout and well protected, and is surrounded by a wonderful forest of cedar, birch, and beech trees that are centuries old. Their trunks are entwined with ivy, and the rocks and ledges upon which the castle stands are cushioned with the same material. I don't know that I have ever seen such luxurious ivy or such sumptuous vegetation out of the tropics, or such fragrant shade. There are natural caves and grottoes in the cliffs, all of which have served a useful purpose in ancient times, and are associated with various fascinating legends. There is a difficult ascent to a natural terrace that is called "The Witch's Stairs." A thoughtful owner of this glorious forest has placed benches at easy intervals, where visitors may sit and read the history, traditions, and legends of the place and imagine that he can see the fairies that dance by moonlight on the carpet of ivy that conceals the earth. Every step is haunted by a goblin or a ghost, and every dark and gloomy corner has been the scene of a tragedy.

The castle is well kept, and Sir George Colthurst, the owner, makes it as pleasant as he can for the thousands of tourists who come here every year from all parts of the world, and of course a large majority of them are Americans. No tourist thinks of visiting Ireland without seeing Blarney Castle, and aside from the legends and the satisfaction of having been here it is well worth the trouble. The tower or "keep," which was the fortified part of the building, is almost intact except the floors, but the residential portions have crumbled and fallen away. The castle was built by Cormack MacCarthy, Prince of Desmond, who ruled all of Ireland south of Cork, in 1173. The Desmond clan fought the Geraldines (the followers of the Earl of Kildare, whose territory adjoined them on the north) until 1537, when a league was formed between the two clans, with other princes, against the English, who were kept pretty busy within the Pale, as the territory immediately around Dublin was called.

Lady Eleanor MacCarthy saved the life of Gerald Fitzgerald, the son of Silken Thomas, Earl of Kildare, who rebelled against English authority. She succeeded in escaping from the country with him and taking him to Rome, where the babe, the only survivor of the vengeance of Henry VIII., was concealed and cared for by a cardinal who happened to be a distant relative. And it was thus, through the devotion of a brave woman, from its hereditary enemies, that the house of Kildare escaped extinction.

In the time of Queen Elizabeth, however, upon the suppression of what is known in history as the Geraldine rebellion, the vast estates of the Earl of Desmond and those of the MacCarthys and one hundred and forty other chiefs and landowners in Munster were confiscated by a parliament that met in Dublin, and were given to English adventurers for two pence and three pence an acre and sometimes for no price at all, upon agreements that they would colonize the lands with Englishmen. The head of the house at that date was imprisoned in the Tower of London with Sir Walter Raleigh, accused of treason, and it was he who outwitted Queen Elizabeth with his "deludering" until she coined the word "blarney" to describe his fluent conversation.

The famous Blarney stone is as well known as the King of England, and the superstition is that whoever kisses it becomes instantly endowed with wonderful persuasion of speech. But very few people and only the most daring athletes have ever tried the experiment. The miraculous stone is the sill of a window, which projects from the main wall near the top of the tower. As it is eight or ten inches below the level of the floor and across an open space of about twenty or twenty-four inches, it is not only difficult, but dangerous to attempt to reach it. A slip would send you head first to the ground, one hundred and twenty feet below. The only way in which it can be done is for the person who tries to support himself over the edge of the wall by straps from the top, and, with his face upward, draw himself across until his lips can reach the stone. Almost everybody that visits Blarney Castle comes home with a tale of the time he had in kissing the Blarney stone, but no one has seen him doing so for years, and it can only be done by carrying tackle to the castle. Mrs. Hanna Ford, a gentle and considerate old lady, who has been custodian of the place for more than thirty-six years, told me that she had never known but half a dozen people to kiss the stone in all that time.

Sir George Colthurst, the owner, charges a sixpence of every visitor and collects scarcely enough to pay the expenses of keeping the place in order. The visitors average about one hundred a day during the summer months, but nobody ever goes out there during the winter.

Kilkenny is one of the prettiest and most interesting little cities of the kingdom, and is simply loaded with historical associations, political, personal, military, and religious. No town has more fascination for a student of the history of Ireland, because here was enacted that extraordinary and outrageous code known as the statute of Kilkenny of 1367, which was intended to exterminate everything Irish from the face of the earth. According to this law intermarriage, trade, and relations of every kind between the English settlers in Ireland and the natives was forbidden as high treason, and the punishment was death. It was intended to separate the two races entirely and forevermore. If any man wore Irish clothing, or used the Celtic language, or rode a horse without a saddle, as the Irish were accustomed to do, his lands and houses were forfeited and he was sent to prison. The Irish were forbidden to follow their ordinary customs and habits, and were commanded to speak only English, a language they did not know. It was forbidden them to speak Celtic, it was forbidden them to sing native songs or to receive or listen to Irish bards or pipers; no native could become a clergyman, a lawyer, or enter any of the professions, and every possible connection with the past was obliterated. All Irish books and manuscripts were ordered to be destroyed, and if the intention of the parliament which passed that law in Kilkenny in 1367 had been obeyed, every event, tradition, and legend concerning the Irish race would have been forgotten. But it soon became a dead letter. It could not be enforced, and the English and the Irish continued to live in a friendly way, and intermarry and enjoy themselves as much as ever before.

Then Kilkenny was the scene of the famous "Irish confederation," which met here in 1642 with the intention of reconciling all the conflicting interests in Ireland and doing exactly the reverse of what was proposed by the statute of 1367. It was desirable to unite the Irish with the English to sustain King Charles I., and to defend the Roman Catholic religion against Cromwell and the parliament. Therefore Kilkenny became the object of resentment and vindictiveness to the parliamentary army when it invaded Ireland. The destruction committed by that army may be seen all through this part of the country. Kilkenny is in the midst of a land of ruins, and this county has been fought over for ages--one of the most frequent scenes of conflict in all the universe ever since history began.

There is an Irish town and an English town, as in Limerick, and the two are engaged in an eternal controversy, the racial prejudice being intense. This controversy, which at one time had nearly impoverished both communities, was illustrated by a writer two centuries ago by the famous story of the "Kilkenny Cats," which, by the way, is said to be true. In the sixteenth century, during the time of Queen Elizabeth, some soldiers of the English garrison at Kilkenny Castle amused themselves one day by catching two vagrant cats, tying their tails together and hanging them over a line. An indignant officer coming up in the midst of their hilarity endeavored to separate the animals, and, being unable to do so, released them by slashing off the tails of both with his sword; and as their paws touched the ground, they fled into oblivion. The waggish soldiers preserved the remnants of the tails and showed them as evidence of the combative abilities of the cats of Kilkenny, which fought until nothing was left but their tails.

Kilkenny claims the most beautiful church in Ireland--the Cathedral of St. Canice, formerly Roman Catholic, but since the Reformation belonging to the Church of Ireland. It dates back to 1251, but was thoroughly restored in 1865, and is now in almost perfect condition. It is particularly rich in medieval monuments, and no other church in the country can compare with this for number, variety, artistic beauty, and historic interest. The Roman Catholic cathedral is also a gem and entirely modern, having been completed and consecrated in 1857. It is greatly admired for the symmetry and chasteness of its details.

Kilkenny is also famous as an educational center, having several noted schools. One of them, known as The College, has had Dean Swift, Bishop Berkeley (who went to America in 1728, and established schools and missionary stations), Congreve, and other famous Irishmen as pupils.

The Castle of Kilkenny, which was erected by William Le Mareschal, son-in-law of Strongbow, in 1191, is still in excellent condition, but has been added to and repaired from time to time during the centuries. It was thoroughly altered and restored about fifty years ago by the father of the present Duke of Ormonde, and has since been occupied the greater part of the year by the family. Fortunately, in the extensions and restorations, the original character of the structure has been preserved and its individuality has not been impaired. It forms three sides of a large quadrangle with three round towers, castellated in the style of the twelfth century. The dining-hall is one of the finest rooms in Europe and contains many pieces of gold plate, antique ivory, and china that have been in the family for centuries. The picture gallery is a splendid apartment, one hundred and twenty feet long and thirty feet wide, and contains more than one hundred and eighty pictures, including family portraits by Van Dyck, Holbein, Lely, Kellner, Reynolds, and others, and gems of Murillo, Correggio, Salvatore Rosa, Claude Lorrain, Tintoretto, and other great masters. In the drawing-room is a picture of the Virgin and Child, by Correggio, which was presented to the second Duke of Ormonde by the Dutch government in recognition of his services in the Low Countries during the reign of Queen Anne. The garden and the park are superb and the family are generous enough to permit the public to share in their enjoyment of them.

The Ormonde family stands next to the Geraldines at the head of the nobility, and the two have always been rivals in power and equals in renown. Their history has been the history of Ireland and fills many interesting pages from the time of the Anglo-Norman invasion. The surname of the family, Butler, originated in the appointment of Theobold Fitzwalter, who accompanied Henry II. as chief butler to the king and was granted the prisage of the wines of Ireland--a very valuable monopoly. He returned to England with his sovereign but afterward accompanied Prince John into Ireland in 1185, and was granted large tracts of land for his services. The family grew in numbers and in power and wealth and the rivalry with the Kildares began in 1300, although they were intermarried in several generations. James Butler was created the first Earl of Ormonde by Edward I. in 1321, and married a daughter of the king. He was granted the regalities, libraries, etc., of County Tipperary and built his castle there. James, the second Earl of Ormonde, was also a man of great importance. He was called the noble earl, because he was a grandson of King Edward I. and was Lord Justice of Ireland from 1359 to 1376.

The Castle of Kilkenny was built by James, third Earl of Ormonde, in 1391. His daughter married the Earl of Desmond. James, the fifth Earl of Ormonde, was created Earl of Wiltshire in the peerage of England by Henry VI., and was lord high treasurer of England for many years, but was beheaded at Newcastle by the Yorkists. His titles and estates were confiscated, but were restored to John, sixth Earl of Ormonde, who was ranked the first gentleman of his age. He was a complete master of all the languages of Europe, was sent as ambassador to all of the principal courts, paid a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and King Edward IV. once said that if good breeding and liberal qualities were lost to the world, they might all be found in the Earl of Ormonde.

Thomas, the tenth in line and called from his complexion "The Black Earl," was lord treasurer for Queen Elizabeth, with whom he was a great favorite. James, the twelfth earl, was made Duke of Ormonde in 1610 and was for many years lord lieutenant of Ireland, administering that high office with consummate ability during the civil war. He was known as the Great Duke of Ormonde and is buried in Westminster Abbey.

His son James was one of the first to join the standard of the Prince of Orange and, when the latter ascended the throne, was appointed high constable of England. He attended William to Ireland, fought by his side at the battle of the Boyne, and entertained his sovereign most sumptuously at the family castle at Kilkenny. He was made commander-in-chief of the army sent against France and Spain by Queen Anne in 1702; he destroyed the French fleet, sank the Spanish galleons in the harbor of Vigo, and remained as captain-general of the British forces until the treaty of Utrecht in 1713. Two years later, after George I. succeeded to the throne, Ormonde was impeached of high treason, his estates were declared forfeited, all his titles and honors were extinguished, and a reward of fifty thousand dollars was offered by the British parliament for his apprehension if he should attempt to return from France, where he had fled for refuge. His wife was the daughter of the Earl of Rochester, and, unfortunately, he had no sons, but one of his daughters married the Duke of Somerset and the other the Duke of Beaufort, two of the most eminent men in England. Ormonde resided in seclusion at Avignon until his death, in November, 1745, when his remains were brought to London and deposited in Henry VII.'s chapel at Westminster Abbey. His brother, the Earl of Arran, claimed the estate and the title, but it was decided that no proceedings of the English parliament could affect Irish dignities, and he never enjoyed them, but lived in Scotland.

In 1791 the House of Lords restored the ancient rights and estates to the eldest son of the eldest daughter. Walter, the eighteenth earl, in 1810 disposed of the prisage of the wines of Ireland granted to the fourth earl by Edward I., to the crown for £216,000, and the contract was approved by parliament. It was not until the coronation of George IV. that the family was entirely reinstated. James, the nineteenth earl, was then installed a knight of St. Patrick, was advanced to the dignity of a marquis of the United Kingdom, and was made lord lieutenant of Ireland. He had a large family and his sons and daughters married well. His son John, born in 1818, married the daughter of the Marquis of Annesley, and died Sept. 25, 1854, leaving two sons--James Edward William Theobold, the present marquis, and James Arthur Wellington Foley of the Life Guards, who in 1887 married Ellen Stager of Chicago, daughter of the late General Anson Stager, formerly president of the Western Union Telegraph Company. As the present duke has no direct heir, Nellie Stager's son will inherit the titles and estates of one of the oldest and most famous families of Ireland.

At Clonmel, which claims to be the cleanest town in Ireland, is another fine castle over which an American girl presides--the wife of Lord Doughnamore. She was a Miss Grace of New York, a niece of the late William R. Grace and a daughter of Michael P. Grace, who owns and lives in that famous castle known as "Battle Abbey" in Kent County, England, near the city of Canterbury. Mr. Grace and Lord Doughnamore were partners for many years in what was known as the Peruvian Corporation--a company which assumed all of the foreign indebtedness of that republic and took over all of its railroads as compensation.

XXIV

REMINISCENCES OF SIR WALTER RALEIGH

In the year of Queen Elizabeth's accession to the throne a terrible rebellion broke out in Ireland, led by the Earl of Desmond, chief of the Geraldines, the most powerful of all the clans, which was put down by Lord Grey of Wilton, who came over from England and laid the Kingdom of Munster in ashes. The great Earl of Desmond who had been master of almost half of Ireland and the owner of numerous castles, was defeated in many battles, his forces were scattered, his stronghold destroyed, and he was proclaimed an outlaw and hunted from one hiding place to another. In order to repopulate the country the vast estates belonging to him and one hundred and forty of his adherents were confiscated, and proclamation was made throughout all England inviting gentlemen to "undertake the colonization of this rich territory at the rate of two or three pence an acre." None but English settlers were allowed, and tracts of land of four thousand acres and upward were granted to favorites of the throne, to enterprising English noblemen, and to worthless adventurers, very few of whom ever saw the property, but some of them organized colonies and sent them over to Ireland in charge of agents.

Edmund Spenser, the poet, author of that famous poem, "The Faerie Queene," was private secretary to Lord Grey, and received twelve thousand acres in County Cork, including Kilcolman Castle, the ruins of which, near the town of Buttevant, are visited by tourists still. Sir Walter Raleigh got forty-one thousand acres, also from the Desmond estate, in the counties of Cork and Waterford, and made his home in what is now known as Myrtle Lodge in the ancient town of Youghal. His house still stands very much as it was when he left it, and is owned and occupied by Sir Henry Blake, recently retired from the governorship of the British Colony of Hong-Kong. Lady Blake is a relative of the Duchess of St. Albans, whose husband is descended from the illegitimate son of Charles II. and Nell Gwynne. He is one of the most influential peers in the United Kingdom and kindly looks after his kin. The previous owner of the property, curiously enough, was Sir John Pope Hennessy, the predecessor of Sir Henry Blake as governor of Jamaica, of Ceylon, and of Hong-Kong.

Sir Walter Raleigh called Youghal his home from the time he first came to Ireland, twenty-eight years old, as a captain in the command of Lord Grey, and, according to the records, received a salary of four shillings a day for himself, two shillings a day for his lieutenant, fourteen pence a day each for four non-commissioned officers, and eight pence a day for every common soldier, all of whom were also provided with "good furniture," that is, suitable armor and trappings, at the expense of the government. They were mostly Devonshire men, like their captain, full of reckless courage and energy, like their captain, and the amount of damage they committed under Sir Walter's leadership was entirely out of proportion to their numbers and their pay. Sir Walter lived at Myrtle Lodge where he studied the chronicles of the Spanish and Portuguese explorers of South America, and started from there upon his ill-fated expedition to Virginia. He returned to this home whenever he could escape from the presence of his affectionate but fickle queen, and it was there that he wrote most of his poems and his letters and commenced his "History of the World." After he lost his power and influence and was committed to the Tower as a traitor, his property was confiscated. Lady Raleigh was deprived of everything he left her, including an estate called "Tivoli," in the neighborhood of Cork, and was actually in want of bread when James I., in response to a touching petition, gave her a pension of £400 per annum and a home for life. She was granted another special favor which she valued very highly. After Sir Walter's execution his head was sent to her. She had it embalmed and carried it about with her wherever she traveled. At her death the ghastly relic was left to Carew Raleigh, who treasured it as highly as his mother had done, but, fortunately for subsequent generations, stipulated that it should be buried in his coffin with him when he died. Raleigh's confiscated estates fell into the hands of Sir Richard Boyle, the second Earl of Cork, and were retained by that family after his death.

Lady Desmond, the widow of the great earl, who until his treason, was the richest man in Ireland, and was known as "Queen Elizabeth's wealthiest subject," was also compelled by her poverty to apply for a pension. Upon the recommendation of Sir Walter Raleigh Queen Elizabeth allowed twenty-two pounds a year to "this lady of princely castles and fair gardens," whose gowns of cloth of gold are referred to in one of Raleigh's letters. The royal warrant granting the pension, above the bold autograph of Elizabeth, is now among many other interesting relics in the old house at Youghal. Lady Desmond is buried in the ancient Church of St. Mary's, which occupies the adjoining ground. She lies in a recess in the south wall with her effigy carved upon her sarcophagus. Her liege lord, the great Earl of Desmond, lies in a similar tomb in a similar recess in the opposite wall, although he lost his head in the Tower of London. Why the husband should rest on one side of the church and the wife on the other has never been explained. She must have been a very remarkable old lady, for, according to the records, she lived more than one hundred and forty years. She was born in 1502, married Thomas Fitzgerald, eighth Earl of Desmond, in 1520. His estates were confiscated in 1585; Raleigh first met her in 1589, and her pension was granted in 1598. Robert Sydney, second Earl of Leicester, refers to her about 1640, when he was ambassador at Paris, as follows: "The old Countess of Desmond was a marryed woman in Edward IV.'s time in England, and lived till toward the end of Queen Elizabeth, so she must needes be neare 140 yeares old. She had a new sett of teeth, not long afore her death, and might have lived much longer had she not mett with a kinde of violent death; for she would needes climbe a nut tree to gather nuts; so, falling down, she hurte her thigh, which brought a fever and that fever brought death. This, my cousin, Walter Fitzwilliam, tolde me."

The wealth of the Earl of Desmond at the time of his rebellion may be judged from the fact that eight hundred thousand acres of his property were confiscated in County Cork, five hundred and seventy thousand acres in County Limerick, and over a million acres in Tipperary. All of this area, by virtue of a proclamation, reverted to the crown and was divided by Queen Elizabeth among her favorites and among the "undertakers" who agreed to settle the lands exclusively with Englishmen and to drive out the Irish from them entirely. There were other conditions, also. They were to encourage the English and discourage the Irish in every way possible and no natives of Ireland were to be allowed upon their possessions.

The Earl of Desmond is said to have owned thirty castles and fled from one to another, accompanied by his faithful wife, who never left him except occasionally when she went to intercede for him with his enemies. His grandson, William Fielding, was made Earl of Denbigh, in the English peerage, by Charles I., as a reward for his loyalty, and the family have been known since by the latter title. He was mortally wounded in a sharp skirmish at the head of the king's forces against Cromwell in a battle near Birmingham and died soon after. His son attended Charles I. to the scaffold and received from his sovereign a few moments before his execution a ring in which his majesty's miniature was set. That ring is now in possession of the family.

The present earl is Rudolph Robert Basil Aloysius Augustine Fielding, who was born in 1859 and married in 1884 to the daughter of Lord Clifford. He was a lord-in-waiting to Queen Victoria for several years, until her death, and is now a lord-in-waiting to his majesty, King Edward. He served as aid-de-camp to the Marquis of Londonderry when the latter was lord lieutenant of Ireland.

Canon Hayman, who was curate of St. Mary's Church at Youghal for many years and made a thorough investigation of the history of the town and the church and all the remarkable incidents that have occurred here from the beginning of time, tells us that the Countess of Desmond was one hundred and thirty years old when she went to see Queen Elizabeth about her pension, and that she walked all the way from Bristol to London because she was too poor to hire a conveyance. And the young man who showed us about St. Mary's Church added another interesting item to the already interesting story,--that her daughter, who was ninety years of age, made the trip with her, but became so weak and weary that the countess had to carry her on her back--which seems to be spreading it on a little thick.