Chapter II: Part 2

At the foot of Lough Derg stands ~Killaloe~, an ideal resting place for an angler. The cathedral is of some interest, and in the vicinity the Protestant Bishop's palace stands. The bridge connecting the town with the village of Ballina has thirteen arches, and the huge weir helps as a breakwater. Shortly above the bridge of old time stood Kincora, the fortified palace of Brian Boru; its glory has departed, and all that remains is a mound, crowned with a grove of trees. Here Brian of the Tribes held his sway; and still the peasant in Munster, wishing to express his welcome, says in Gaelic--"Were mine the boire of the Dane or the wine of Kincora, it would be poured for you." Here it was that the Norse King, Magnus, wintered early in the twelfth century, and found a wife for his son, Sigurd, in the house of Brian. M'Laig, the bard of Brian Boru, after the death of his king in 1014, made a lamentation, which Mangan thus translated:--

"Oh! where Kincora is Brian the Great?
And where is the beauty that once was thine?
Oh! where are the princes and nobles that sate
At the feast in thy halls, and drank the red wine?
Where! oh, Kincora.
They are gone, those heroes of royal birth,
Who plundered no church and broke no trust,
It is weary for me to be living on earth,
When they, oh, Kincora, are below in the dust.
Lo, of Kincora."

From Killaloe, northwards for twenty-five miles, Lough Derg at times expands in width over eight miles, where its distant shores form a sky line--hedged in with Tipperary and Clare Mountains. The lough loses none of its picturesque attractiveness to the sportsman, who is informed that the whole of the fishing is free.

From Limerick as centre, as we have said, tours may be made into North Kerry.

To the average tourist North Kerry is a _terra incognita_, and yet from the pleasant pasture lands around "Sweet Adare" in Limerick to where the distant mountain of Caherconree sees his regal head reflected in the sea--there lies a beautiful land. Beyond Patrickswell, on the Maigue, is the little village of Adare, once the camping ground and stronghold of "those very great scorners of death," the Desmond Geraldines. Still the ruins of Desmond Castle, and of three abbeys, tell the tale that here once, beside a citadel of strength, were places of religion and refuge. Now, in the depth of the retreat of sylvan splendour, the Earl of Dunraven has his noble mansion.[1] At Adare, as well as at Ballingrane, six miles away, still are many evidences of the Palatine plantations, which were effected here in the eighteenth century. In 1709 a fleet was sent to Rotterdam by Queen Anne, and brought to England some 7,000 refugees from the German Palatinate. Of these, over 3,000 were settled in this part of the County Limerick. They were allowed eight acres of land for each man, woman, and child, at _5s._ per acre; and the Government engaged to pay their rent for twenty years, and supplied every man with a musket to protect himself. Industrious and frugal, the exiles throve in the land of their adoption; many of them emigrated to America, and only a comparatively small number of families still remain. These, however, preserve, besides the names, many of the characteristics of their predecessors--as Dr. R. T. Mitchell, Inspector of Registration in Ireland, testifies in his survey of this very district:--"Differing originally in language, though even the oldest of the present generation know nothing of the German tongue spoken or written, as well as in race and religion, from the natives amongst whom they were planted, these Palatines still cling together like the members of a clan, and worship together. Most of them have a distinctly foreign type of features, and are strongly built, swarthy in complexion, dark haired, and brown eyed. The comfortable houses built in 1709 are in ruins now. The original square of Court Matrix in the ruined wall can be traced, and also, in the very centre of this square the foundations of the little Meeting House in which John Wesley occasionally preached to them in the interval, 1750-1765. Modern houses stand there now, but not closely grouped together. They are all comfortable in appearance, some thatched, some slated, some with one story, others with two; nearly all have a neat little flower garden in front, and very many have an orchard beside or immediately behind the house. There is all the appearance of thrift and industry among them." From ~Ballingrane~, a branch line passing Askeaton, with its ruined Castle and Abbey ruins, to ~Foynes~, a good harbour, from which passage can be made to Kilrush, and thence per rail to Kilkee. From the junction the main line runs by ~Rathkeale~ and ~Newcastle~, where there is a ruined castle of the Knights Templars, and by Abbeyfeale and Kilmorna, where Mr. Pierce Mahony bred and kept his stud of famous Kerry cattle, to Listowel, an old market town which figured in the Desmond rebellion.

From Listowel the Lartigue railway, unique in the British Isles, runs to ~Ballybunion~, a beautiful watering place, remarkable for its sea-caves and old castle. ~Ardfert~ is remarkable for its ruined Abbey and Cathedral, both dedicated to St. Brendon, the story of whose voyage to the New World was one of the subjects mentioned at the court of Ferdinand and Isabella by Columbus, when inducing them to assist him in his mission of discovery. ~Tralee~ is the largest town in the Kingdom of Kerry. It is one of the most thriving towns in the south of Ireland, and is situated in the vicinity of marine and mountain scenery. Those interested in the revival of industry in Ireland will do well to visit the Kerry Knitting Co.'s Factory, as well as the fine bacon-curing establishment of the Wholesale Co-operative Society which has been erected under the management of the well known Mr. Joseph Prosser. At Spa and Fenit there is good sea-bathing, and on the Dingle Promontory the ascent of Mount Brandon may be made. From Dingle excursions can easily be taken to Slea Head, by Ventry, and under the Eagles' Mountain, and within sight of the Blasket Islands. ~Smerwick~ has in its neighbourhood a coast line of mighty cliffs, the most remarkable of which is called the ~Three Sisters~. Smerwick was the scene of the massacre of seven hundred Spaniards, who had surrendered in the sixteenth century to Lord Deputy Grey's forces. The bloody affair is the blackest stain in the careers of the gallant Raleigh and the gentle Spenser. Between Smerwick and Ballydavid Head the well preserved remains of the ~Oratory of Gallerius~ may be seen.

For information as to Sport to be had in the Limerick District, see
end of this volume, where particulars are given as to Golf, Fishing,
Shooting, Cycling, &c.

The Shannon Lakes.

DUKE OF YORK ROUTE.

The Shannon Development Company run during the season a service of steamers between Killaloe and Dromod (county Leitrim). The whole of the journey from ~Killaloe~ to Dromod--about one hundred miles--is interesting and full of variety, the shores and lakes of the lordly river presenting an ever-changing panorama of beautiful scenes. About Killaloe the views are very fine. The mountains of Clare and Tipperary shadow the town on either side, and away to the north for twenty-three miles stretches Lough Derg. Going up the lake, the first stopping place is at Scariff, which overlooks the beautiful Inniscattery or Holy Island. The reach from here to Portumna is crowded with islands, and on both shores are ruined castles and finely wooded demesnes. Dromineer, on the opposite bank, four and a quarter miles from Nenagh, is the next station. Nearly opposite Portumna, with its ruined and blackened castle, are the ruins of the monastery of Tirdaglass.

The ancient city of Portumna was once the chief pass and means of communication between Connaught and North Munster. Between Portumna, at the head of Lough Derg and Banagher, are the rich meadow lands of Galway, along which the river winds tranquilly, passing beautifully wooded islands; its banks green with rich, low-lying pastures. A few miles from Shannon Bridge is Clonmacnoise, over which hang many ancient memories of learning, of wars, and of worship. Near Athlone is a point in the river where the Counties of Westmeath, Roscommon, and King's County meet, and the waters of Lough Ree wash the shores of County Roscommon on the one side and of Westmeath and Longford on the other. Lough Ree is but little known to the tourist; and yet this lake, with its rocky shores full of indentations, and its shoals of sparkling islands, is one of the loveliest in Ireland. King John's Castle, on the Roscommon side of the lake, is a magnificent Norman ruin, and the town of Roscommon--which is not far from the brink of the lake--also contains the remains of a fine castle and of a Dominican Friary. The castle, which is flanked by four towers of massive masonry, was built in the thirteenth century by Sir Robert de Ufford, and afterwards suffered many changes of fortune; it is now the property of The O'Conor Don. The abbey is chiefly interesting as containing the sculptured tomb of Phelim Cathal O'Connor.

Circular tourist tickets for one day trips are issued by the Railway Company. Details will be seen on summer time tables.

Cork and District.

CORK.

Enshrined in song and _saga_, set in the beautiful valley of a romantic river, Cork is one of the pleasantest places within the four shores of "the most distressful country." It is the capital of the rich Province of Munster, "the wheat of Ireland," says a Gaelic proverb, and while it preserves the characteristics of an old Irish town, here, too, the traveller, familiar with the quaint cities of the Continent, will meet with much that is suggestive of foreign scenes.

Cork sits snugly at the foot of, and leans her back up against, high hills that shelter her from the north, and the breeze that blows up from the sea is fresh and mildly bracing. From a height to the north overlooking the city a bird's-eye view can be had of the entire surroundings, and of what the poet Spenser called--

"The pleasant Lee, that like an island fayre
Encloseth Cork in his divided flood."

Away to the west the eye can easily trace the river, winding with haste to the sea, through the barony of Muskerry, "the fair country," from its fountain home over the hills and far away.

More than halfway along the Mardyke Walk there is a sidepath leading down to a ferry across the Lee. Here a good view may be had of the river looking towards the city, with Sunday's Well, Blair's Castle, and Shandon standing high on the hill.

The history of the foundation of Cork City, and its progress through the centuries, is well authenticated. Towards the close of the sixth century, the place was founded by Lochan, son of Amirgin, the great smith to Tiernach M'Hugh, the proud chief of the O'Mahonys. Lochan has since come to be called St. Finbarr. His feast day is a retrenched holiday in the diocese of Cork, and his patron day is kept by the peasantry at the shrine of Gougane Barra, by the cradle of the river Lee. The Irish name, Cork, signifies that the locality was a marsh, and in the life of its founder it is described as a "land of many waters."

For less than three hundred years the little city throve, and then came the Sea Rovers, hungry for spoil. In 820 they burned down Cork, carrying away as pillage the silver coffin wherein St. Finbarr was buried. Shortly afterwards they returned, and seized on the marshes lying beneath Gill Abbey Rock, fortified them, and founded another little city--but their own. There they sang their "Mass of the Lances; it began at the rising of the sun," and, as the Four Masters assure us, "wheresoever they marched they were escorted by fire."

But in time the Rovers were absorbed, and race hatreds died out. They paid tribute to the MacCarthys, and were married and given in marriage to the Irish. Merovingian Kings came to buy and sell in Cork, and the Sagas of the North tell of many a hardy Norseman who fell captive to the maidens of Munster. To this day the Danish blood moulds the nature of many in Cork, and among the men especially the passionate affection for the sea is a characteristic. When the Normans invaded Ireland they found Cork a Danish fortress. They broke the power of the Danes in a sea fight, and won over the allegiance of MacCarthy, the old King of Cork, through the wiles of a woman. The strangers had not been long in the city when they, like the Danes before them, were absorbed, and became more Irish than the Irish themselves. As their island city grew in opulence, they began to assert an independence similar to the free cities of the Continent. A historical writer of repute points out that they were practically independent of external authority. Their edicts had nearly the force of laws. They levied taxes, and regulated commerce. They judged, pilloried, and hanged offenders. To suit themselves they modified the English laws of property. They set up a mint of their own, and their money had to be declared by the English Parliament to be "utterly damned."

Their audacity can be imagined from the part they played in Perkin Warbeck's rebellion of 1492. They decked him out "with some clothes of silk," and John Walters, the Mayor, insisting that the poor Fleming was son to the Duke of Clarence, demanded that the Lord Deputy should declare him King. Failing in this a number of Cork merchants sent him to France, where they duped the King, and induced the Duchess of Burgundy to give them armament and money. They then sailed for Kent, and having landed there, proclaimed their foundling "Richard the Fourth, King of England and Lord of Ireland." But the sequel of all this bravura behaviour was not so happy, as Warbeck and Walters lost their heads, and Cork lost its charter.

In 1847 the city suffered fearfully from the ravages of famine and famine fever. The failure of the potato crop drove the unfortunate, hunger-stricken peasantry into the city for sustenance; and it has been estimated that upwards of a million of people emigrated in these unhappy years through the port of Cork. During the Fenian movement, 1865-67, Cork was a hotbed of treason, and more prisoners were sentenced from there than from all the other parts of Ireland put together. Thus, in the nineteenth century, the name of "Rebel Cork," which was earned so far back as the time of Perkin Warbeck, was still deserved.

The manners of the people, gentle and simple, rich and poor, are perfect. There is, perhaps, too often a tendency to adopt your view of anything or everything with the most accommodating agreeableness. This is very pleasant, if not always sincere, but in this respect a thing never to be forgotten is that Cork is only a few miles from Blarney, and

"There is a stone there, whoever kisses,
Oh! he never misses to grow eloquent.
'Tis he may clamber to a lady's chamber,
Or become a Member of Parliament.

A clever spouter, he'll sure turn out, or
An 'out-an'-outer' to be let alone;
Don't hope to hinder him, or to bewilder him,
Sure he's a pilgrim from the Blarney Stone."

Thackeray, like many another man before his time and since, has paid tribute to the loveliness of the girls of Cork. There is a graceful charm about them before which the most inveterate bachelor succumbs. The accents of the Siren singers were never so insinuating and caressing as the Munster brogue as it slips off the tongue of a gentlewoman. Blue eyes predominate, but are excelled in lustre by what Froude has been pleased to call "the cold grey eyes of the dark Celt of the south of Ireland." Edmund Spencer, when he was not busy "undertaking" Rapparees, or smoking Raleigh's fragrant weed--"than which there is no more fair herb under the broad canopy of heaven"--wooed and won and wedded a fair woman of Cork; not of the city, though, but of the county. She was a country lass, as he is at pains to point out to the Shandon belles who fain would vie with her:--

"Tell me, ye merchant daughters, did ye see
So fayre a creature in your town before?
Her goodlie eyes, like sapphyres shining bright;
Her forehead, ivory white;
Her lips like cherries charming men to byte."

There is nothing of peculiar interest about the streets of Cork but their number, their narrowness, and the irregularity of the houses. St. Patrick's-street, which is the principal thoroughfare, has many handsome shops, and winds its way in three curves through the city.

From the "Dyke," as it is locally known, through the "Band Field"--the baby park of Cork--we can cross to an entrance to the Queen's College on the Western-road. The College itself is a handsome building of white Cork limestone, in the later Tudor style, forming three sides of a quadrangle, and consisting of lecture-rooms, museum, examination hall, &c. It is built in the centre of well-laid pleasure grounds, which are open to the public, and which formerly were the site of St. Finbarr's old monastery. During the session proper, practically from November to June, visitors will not be admitted through the building without an official order, which may be had at the Registrar's office.

During the vacation the steward or assistant officials are in attendance to conduct visitors. The large palm-house is one of the most successful in Ireland, and the Crawford Observatory will repay a visit. The grounds were laid out under the personal supervision of the late president, Dr. W. K. Sullivan, a distinguished scientist. While at the south side of the city, St. Finbarr's Cathedral[2] (Church of Ireland), eastward from the College, should be seen. It is a very dignified design of the French Early Pointed style. The nave, aisles, and transepts are grouped under three lofty towers with spires.

From the foot of the street a few minutes' walk will bring us under the old bi-coloured steeple, which contains the famous Shandon Bells. The church was built in 1772. The steeple is unique, inasmuch as the southern and western sides are of white limestone, and the northern and eastern red sandstone--

"Parti-coloured, like Cork people,
Red and white, stands Shandon steeple."

But the "Bells" are the chief attraction, and the quaint inscriptions on them amuse the curious. In the stillness of a summer night their sweet chimes sound with peculiar cadence across the waters which encircle the old city of the Lee. The charter song of Cork is:--

THE BELLS OF SHANDON.

With deep affection and recollection
I often think of the Shandon bells--
Whose sounds so wild would, in days of childhood,
Fling round my cradle their magic spells;
On this I ponder, where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee;
With thy bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

I have heard bells chiming full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine;
While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate,
But all their music spoke nought to thine;
For memory dwelling on each proud swelling
Of thy belfry knelling its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

Francis Sylvester Mahony, author of this ballad, known in the world of literature as "Father Prout," was born in Cork in 1804. He was educated for the priesthood, but spent the best years of his life in London, as a magazine writer.

Further north than Shandon is St. Mary's Roman Catholic Cathedral, an ample piece of architecture, not particularly attractive. Coming down the hill towards the city on Pope's-quay, St. Mary's Dominican Church may be seen. It is a very beautiful church, of the composite style of architecture. The Grecian portico is remarkable for the gracefulness and justness of its proportions, and is very much admired. It is, perhaps, the most chaste building of its kind in the kingdom.

Besides the churches and public buildings already enumerated, the Courthouse and the Municipal Schools of Science and Art should be seen. The Courthouse is in Great George-street. In a recent fire there many valuable records were destroyed. Courthouses seem to be ill-fated in Cork. The old Courthouse fell during the trial for treason in the Penal days of the Catholic Bishop of Cork. The present Courthouse was burnt on Good Friday, 1891.

The punning, duel-fighting, hanging judge, Lord Norbury, of whom the country people still say, "He'd hang a man as soon as knock the head off a rush," often dispensed with an escort in the most exciting times, and rode here on circuit with a brace of pistols at his saddle-bow. But he was a man of uncommon determination. Once, when his acts were unusually unjudicial, he was reprimanded from Dublin Castle and threatened with compulsory retirement. He rode instanter to Dublin, and never stopped until he drew rein at the Castle gate. He demanded to see the Lord Lieutenant, but the then Viceroy, Lord Talbot, was in England. He was ushered into the presence of a courteous official, who was a little astonished to be authoritatively asked, "Who are you?" "I, sir," said the Under Secretary, whom he addressed, "am Mr. Gregory." "Then you be d----d, and don't Sir me," said his Lordship. "Fifty-two years ago I began life at the Irish Bar with fifty guineas and a case of pistols. Here it is! I have fought my way to preferment. Within a few months I expect a letter of an unpleasant character from the Castle. Tell the writer he may take his choice of these, and send me his second." History does not record whether "the letter of an unpleasant character" was ever written.

The Municipal Buildings of Science and Art in Emmet-place can bear comparison with those of any town of the same size in Great Britain or Ireland. The sculpture and picture galleries are open to visitors. The splendid collection of casts from the antiques in the Vatican Gallery were executed under the superintendence of Canova, and sent by Pope Pius VII. to George IV. The ship which carried them by long sea from Italy put into Cork, and was there detained for harbour dues. The King, instead of paying, transferred the Papal gift to the Cork Society of Arts.

A paltry exhibit of coins, antiquities, and fossils forms the Museum. Although Cork County has been one of the richest in Ireland in "finds" of gold and metal work of the ancient Irish, they are absolutely unrepresented.

CORK DISTRICT.

The county of Cork is the largest shire in Ireland. The pleasure seeker, the artist, the antiquary, the sportsman, the invalid, will each find within its broad barriers much to meet his wants. Sir Walter Scott is credited with the statement that the history of this single county contains more romance than the history of the lowlands and highlands of his own dear land of the mountain and the flood.

The surface of the county Cork is as diversified as the people. In some places, such as Kilworth, Mushera, and Ballyhoura, the elevation is considerable, elsewhere it sinks to a low-lying plain, such as at Kilcrea, where the bog is that tradition says saw the last wolf in Ireland killed, and Imokilly, where the sea is yearly eating into the lowlands. The county is watered by no less than twenty rivers of importance.

Making the city the headquarters for a few days, there are many places of interest in the vicinity which may with ease be visited. The excellent tram system may be availed of by visitors to the sights in its immediate vicinity. A drive by Douglas and Vernamount can be recommended. Douglas was an old town, famous for its manufacture of sail cloth, and in recent years a village providence in the person of the late Mr. John Morrogh has resuscitated industry in the district by the establishment of a splendidly equipped tweed factory. With a fine day and a good "outside jaunting-car" to travel the five miles' drive to ~Blarney Castle~ will be found most enjoyable. The famous stone, which no one should miss kissing, is set in the parapet wall. The word "Blarney," meaning pleasant "deluderin' talk," is said to have originated at the Court of Queen Elizabeth. MacCarthy, the then chieftain over the clan of that name, resided at Blarney, and was repeatedly asked to come in from "off his keeping," as the phrase in the State Papers goes, to abjure the system of Tanistry by which the clan elected the chief, and take tenure of his lands direct from the Crown. He was always promising with fair words and soft speech to do what was desired, but never could be got to come to the sticking point. The Queen, it is told, when one of his speeches was brought to her, said, "This is all Blarney; what he says he never means."

By the Great Southern and Western Railway the castle can also be reached. By this route a good stretch of the Upper Lee is seen, with Carrigrohane Castle, which belonged to the M'Sweeneys, beetling high on a rock, and the line runs through the picturesque valley of the Sournagh, which may be likened to a Swiss ravine. All the remains of the former greatness of Blarney consists of the ruins of two mansions, one of the fifteenth century, and the other of the Elizabethan period. In its time the place was one of considerable strength, and was erected by Cormac MacCarthy Laider, or the Strong-handed chief of his name. Most of the outworks and defences are gone. The old square keep, ivy-crowned, rises from a huge limestone rock, around which the Coomaun or crooked river winds. The Castle is over 120 feet high; the great staircase at the right-hand side leads through the entire building, here and there small vaulted chambers being set in the massive walls, which are in places nine feet thick. The arched room, of which the projecting window with three lights overlooks the streamlet below, is known as the Earl's Chamber. The last fight in which Blarney Castle figured, was that in which the Confederates held out for King Charles in 1642. It fell before the superior ordnance of Cromwell's commander, Ireton. It was never afterwards used for a dwelling-house, being almost completely dismantled. From the summit of the Castle a good view of the surrounding country can be had. To the west lies Muskerry, with what Ruskin calls "the would-be hills" rising towards Mushera Mountain. To the north is St. Ann's Hydropathic Establishment, on a gentle slope, surrounded by well-wooded parks. In the village beneath is the well-known Blarney Tweed Factory of Messrs. Martin Mahony Brothers, through which visitors may be shown when convenient to the courteous proprietors. The "Rock Close," which is at the foot of the Castle at the southern side, is one beautiful jungle of foliage, in which myrtle, ivy, and arbutus intertwine with the rowan tree and the silver hazel.

If we have gone to Blarney on the "outside jaunting-car," the return journey may be made by Bawnafinny, Kerry Pike, and the Sournagh Valley, and Northern Lee road. Beneath Bawnafinny, "the pastures of beauty," we get a glimpse of Blarney Lake, a broad sheet of water bordered with tall trees, above which the old Castle raises its head. It would gladden the heart of Izaak Walton, as it is full of fish, among which is the famous gillaroo trout, which will not rise to the tantalising fly. The peasantry have a legend, that within the lake lies hidden the treasure and plate of the last of the MacCarthys, who hid them there sooner than allow his conquerors to gain possession of it. The secret is said to be known to three of the old family, and before one dies he tells it to the other, so that it may be recovered when the MacCarthy "comes to his own again." The milk girls also on May mornings are said to have frequently seen fairy cows along the banks of the lake, which vanish into thin mists when approached by human footsteps!

~Ballincollig~ is a place of some interest. The powder mill is a long-established factory, and gives considerable employment in the neighbourhood. The large cavalry barracks is amongst the finest in the south of Ireland.

~Blackrock~ is little better than a fishing village; but the suburbs between it and Cork are filled with villa residences, pleasure grounds, and market gardens. Beside the road, between the city and the village, are situated the well-known nursery gardens belong to Hartland. The daffodil farm, when the flowers are full, is a sight very difficult to surpass in the three Kingdoms. Maxwellstown House, on the slope of a southern hill, was the scene of a tragedy, not yet forgotten in Cork. After a marriage _dejeuner_, the bride retired to her dressing-room to don her going-away dress, but the bridegroom waited in vain for her return. She had died suddenly in the arms of those who attended her; and the story goes that the disconsolate lover dismissed the servants, shut up the house with everything just as it was, and went on his way out into the wide world alone. Long years afterwards, when news of his death came from a far-off land, his next-of-kin had the house re-opened, and found everything just as it had been left half a century before, after the wedding breakfast. The dust and cobwebs were cleared away, and all went to the hammer.

Eastward, towards the harbour's mouth, there is much to be enjoyed. Excursionists may take the train direct from the Great Southern and Western Railway terminus, or by Passage from the Albert Station, and then by steamer to Queenstown. Taking the direct line the train runs almost parallel with the promenade called the Marina, which separates from the river side the broad pasture known as Cork Park, which is the local race course. A race meeting at Cork is well worth witnessing. The gay young bucks, described long ago by Arthur Young, still are with us, and they and their lady friends make a fine flutter during race week.

~Passage~ (~West~) was once the busy site of ship-building and dock-yards, but the industry is no longer of anything like its original proportions. The town is an old-fashioned place, and has not escaped the pen of Father Prout, who, in what he calls "manifestly an imitation of that unrivalled dithyramb," The Groves of Blarney--with little of its humours and all its absurdity--signs the attractions of what he styles a fashionable Irish watering-place:--

"The town of Passage
Is both large and spacious,
And situate
Upon the say;
'Tis nate and dacent,
And quite adjacent
To come from Cork
On a summer's day."

Steamers ply between the railway station at Passage and the many little towns around the port. ~Glenbrook~ and ~Monkstown~ are particularly picturesque. Above the latter, nestling in the trees, may be seen Monkstown Castle, the legend attached to which says it was built for one groat. The owner of the site, one of the Archdeckens, an Anglo-Irish family, having gone away to the wars in the Lowlands, his better-half promised him a pleasant surprise on his return. She employed a number of workmen to build the castle, a condition of the contract being that they should buy their food from her while so engaged. Truly, she was a shrewd woman. Her profits were such, that she had enough to pay the entire cost of the work, less one solitary groat.

~Spike Island~ is mentioned in Church History as a present given by a Munster King to St. Cartach, of Lismore. In modern times it was used as a convict prison, the convicts' labour being employed in the construction of the fortifications around the harbour.

~Queenstown~, or, to give it its old Irish name, Cove, is built upon an island. It is the paradise of naval pensioners, and the home of all nationalities, yet Irish is still a spoken tongue not a mile away, behind "Spy Hill." The magnificent Cathedral to St. Colman, the patron Saint of Cloyne, occupies a commanding position over the harbour. It is in the later florid Gothic architecture, and within one of its transepts is buried the celebrated Dr. Coppinger, a learned writer and member of the most famous and enduring of the Danish families to whom Ireland became a native land. In an old graveyard on the island, Charles Wolfe, the writer of the elegy on Sir John Moore, and Tobin, the dramatist, are buried. The panorama from Spy Hill embraces the enchanting river and the wide harbour, which is capable of holding all the ships in the British Navy within the line drawn from the two forts, Camden and Carlisle, which guard the entrance. Of Queenstown, the _Dublin Health Record_ says:--"The climate is remarkably mild and equable, and, at the same time, fairly dry and tonic, and is especially suitable as a winter and spring residence for persons with delicate chests, to sufferers from chronic catarrhal throat affections, and to convalescents from acute diseases. It is particularly appropriate as a seaside resort to persons requiring a soothing and sedative atmosphere. From the position of Queenstown, winds from the colder points are very little felt, and it is completely protected from the north, north-east, and north-west winds. The mean temperatures of the seasons are exactly similar to those at Torquay, the noted winter health resort in the south of England, and higher than those of Bournemouth, Hastings, and Ventnor. As a winter health resort, Queenstown possesses all the best natural and climatic advantages."

The beach presents the most varied and motley sights to be seen anywhere in northern Europe. Merchant seamen from every port of the world congregate here; military and man-of-war sailors are ever present, pleasure-seeking yachtsmen, pilots and fishers mix with the melancholy groups of emigrants, or the irrepressible vendors of impossible wares. Beyond in the blue waters, His Majesty's flagship rides at anchor, one or more of the "ocean greyhounds," with dead slow engines, are steaming out between the forts; tenders, whale-boats, small steamers, tugs, and every craft that sails the sea, down to the familiar Munster "hooker," are hurrying to ports far and near, or lying "idle as painted ships upon a painted ocean." Most of the Atlantic liners have offices here. Tenders convey the mails from the deep-water quays at the Great Southern and Western terminus out to the steamers, which usually ride in the fair way by the harbour's mouth. Queenstown is the principal port through which the emigrants leave Ireland. Young and old, when the "emigration fever" is rife, the tides of people may be seen flowing oceanwards. Sometimes they have a little money, and are going to better themselves; but most usually they are going out penniless to relatives abroad, or "just trusting in God." Not an unfrequent sight is to see bare-footed peasant children waiting for their turn to cross the gangway which leads to the New World. Perhaps they have nothing with them but "a pot of shamrock," or a little mountain thrush or orange-billed blackbird, in a wicker cage, to make friends with "beyant the herring-pond." It is very curious, but very Irish, that they do not at all seem to want the sympathy that is lavished upon them by the onlookers. When they are leaving their native place, the "neighbours" hold an "American wake," and in the morning, with heartrending embraces and wild caioning, give them the last "Bannact Dea Leat"--"God's blessing be on your way"; but when they come to Cove, the sorrow is smothered; they are buoyed up by that trusting faith in the future which is the first fibre in the Irish nature. They may look melancholy to us, but they themselves make merry, and before the "big ship" is but on the "Old Sea," as the Atlantic is called, the girls and young men are slipping through rollicking reels to improvised music "to show their heart's deep sorrow they are scorning." Perhaps, as the Gaelic proverb expresses it, "'Tis the heavy heart that has the lightest foot." But a truce to trouble. They tell a story of an emigrant and a grand trunk merchant at Queenstown which shows alike the hapless condition and happy-go-lucky heart of the Irishman. "Pat," said the merchant, "you're going to travel; will you buy a trunk?" "A trunk," answered Pat, "an' for what, yerra?" "To put your clothes in, of course." "And meself go naked, is it? Och! lave off your gladiatoring; sure it's took up I'd be if I did that!"

~Crosshaven~ and ~Aghada~, two watering places inside the harbour, are within easy reach of Cove by steamer, which calls at Currabinny Pier. The Owenabwee[3] river runs between Currabinny and Crosshaven; it is a beautiful, well-wooded stream which has been celebrated in a plaintive-aired Jacobite ballad, the "Lament of the Irish Maiden."

"On Carrigdhoun the heath is brown,
The clouds are dark on Ardnalee,
And many a stream comes rushing down
To swell the angry Owenabwee.
The moaning blast is whistling fast
Through many a leafless tree,
But I'm alone, for he is gone,
My hawk is flown, ochone machree."

A few hundred yards from Crosshaven river there is a fiord of the Owenabwee, known as Drake's Pool. Here the great soldier-sailor, Sir Francis Drake, with his five little sloops, hid in 1587 from a formidable Spanish fleet. The Spaniards entered the harbour, but failing to find their quarry, put to sea again in high dudgeon.

Near ~Aghada~, at the other side of the harbour, is Rostellan Castle, formerly the residence of the Lords of Thomond. ~Cloyne~ is only four miles' drive "on the long car" through a rich countryside, and on the way may be seen a Druidical cromlech, at Castlemartyr, in a very fair state of preservation. Cloyne Round Tower "points its long fingers to the sky" above the ancient church wherein there is a fine alabaster statue of the metaphysician, Dr. Berkeley, who was Bishop of Cloyne. ~Ballycotton~ is seven miles from Cloyne. The cliffs here are high and wild, and Youghal, shining white in the sun in summer weather, can be easily seen at the mouth of the far-famed Blackwater. There are modern hotels and moderate lodgings at Ballycotton. In the season splendid deep-sea fishing can be had in the vicinity, and the opportunities of sea-bathing are enticing.

For information as to Sport to be had in the Cork District, see end
of this volume, where particulars are given as to Golf, Fishing,
Shooting, Cycling, &c.

The River Blackwater, Youghal, Etc.

Edmund Spenser spent most of his time in Cork County, at Kilcoleman Castle in the vicinity of Buttevant. The place was well chosen as the house of a poet. The surrounding country is very beautiful, and every mountain and glen has its story.

The town of ~Buttevant~ took its name from the battle-cry of the Barrymores--"Boutez-en-avant," "push forward." The ruins of the beautiful Abbey remain. At the time of the supervision of monasteries it was described as "a nest of abbots." Buttevant is the railway station for Doneraile, and hard by is Cahirmee, where the greatest horse fair in the British Isles is annually held. The fair lasts for two days. It is held about midsummer, and attracts buyers not only from all parts of these countries, but from as far away as Vienna and Stockholm. Spenser pays tribute to the beautiful Blackwater which flows through Mallow to Youghal--

"Swift Annsduff, which of the English is called Blackwater."

Far away in the highland country between Cork and Kerry the stream rises, and comes floating and pushing down from the haunt of the fairies and the outlaw, through the wild country of Meelin. Here is a remarkable cave, the hiding place of Donald O'Keeffe, last of the old chiefs of the land of Duhallow, who was outlawed after the fall of the Jacobites.

The river flows through Newmarket, the birthplace of Curran, and Kanturk, the birthplace of Barry Yelverton, to ~Mallow~ which is the centre of the lines of railway radiating into Kerry, Fermoy, and Lismore, as well as to Cork city. The town is very beautifully situated. In the distance are the Kilworth mountains, which seem afar off to join the ample deer-park at Mallow Castle. It was once one of the liveliest and most fashionable resorts in Ireland, but its famous spas, to which gentlewomen and gallants came in the last century, are now unfrequented and almost forgotten. When abductions, duelling, and such pastimes were in vogue, "The Rakes of Mallow" were in their heyday. As Lysaght sang:--

"Beauing, belleing, dancing, drinking,
Breaking windows, damning, sinking,
Ever raking, never thinking,
Live the rakes of Mallow.

Spending faster than it comes,
Beating waiters, bailiffs, duns,
Bacchus' true-begotten sons,
Live the rakes of Mallow.

Living short, but merry lives.
Going where the devil drives:
Having sweethearts, but no wives,
Live the rakes of Mallow."

~The Blackwater~ flows past Mallow through a rich country surrounded by soft-breasted hills and well-planted lawns, to Fermoy, a garrison town of importance, from which Mitchelstown, eleven miles away, may be reached by a light railway. The caves at Mitchelstown are described elsewhere (Waterford section). We will part the branch line here and return, _via_ Cork, to Youghal, the point from which to become familiar with the Blackwater at its best.

~Youghal~, except in summer-time, when the visitors to its splendid strand enliven its appearance, is a sombre old place with an air of retired respectability. It is full of memories of other days, for here the Dane and the Christian came together; the Norman made it a walled town, and the Spaniards came into its harbour.

From here Sir Walter Raleigh, its Mayor, went forth to found Virginia--and to the scaffold. It was a chartered city, and grew in wealth and importance from 1183 to 1579, when it was sacked by Gerald, sixteenth Earl of Desmond, then out "upon his keeping." Ormonde drove the Geraldines out of the town, and hanged the then Mayor outside his own door for aiding them. He rebuilt its walls, and placed here a strong garrison. In 1641 it was again besieged, but held out for six weeks until relieved. In 1645, Castlehaven attacked it, but was repulsed by Broghill, fifth son of the Earl of Cork. Here, during the war with the Confederates, money was struck. On the execution of Charles I., Ormonde proclaimed his son King, but the Puritans in the town revolted to Cromwell, who wintered here in 1649. In 1660, the Cavaliers and broken followers of the Geraldines captured the town, and ten days before his actual succession proclaimed Charles II. King. With varying fortunes of war, the town passed into the hands of the Jacobites and Williamites. The objects of interest, besides the picturesque attractions of the strand and beautiful bay, are very many. The Clock Tower remains where the old South Gate to the town stood. Tynte's Castle was built by Norman settlers in the fifteenth century. St. Mary's Cathedral is cruciform, consisting of nave, aisle, transepts, choir, and massive tower. In the chantry of Our Blessed Saviour, or south transept, besides the memorial to the founder and his countess, is the grotesque mausoleum, in florid, glaring Italian style, to the Earl of Cork and his family. At Boyle's feet is the kneeling figure of his first wife, Joan; at his head is that of his second, Catherine. Over the arch is his mother, Joan, and along the margin of the plinth are nine diminutive effigies--his children. The tower was evidently constructed rather as a defence than simply for a belfry. The churchyard, where there are many ancient gravestones, is the chief centre of local superstition, and here all local ghostly visitations are alleged to take place. ~Myrtle Grove~, whilom the residence of the ill-fated Elizabethan soldier, Raleigh, is an unpretentious, ancient gabled dwelling. The interior is remarkable for its beautiful oak wainscoting.

During his sojourn in Munster, "Captain Sir Walter Raleigh" performed many deeds of dering-do, albeit some of them were far from being like Bayard's, without reproach. He was Mayor of Youghal, 1588-9; and, with Spenser, was granted the greater part of the forfeited estates of the Earl of Desmond. Raleigh's grant comprised property at Youghal and along the Blackwater to Affane, already mentioned. In the garden attached to Myrtle Grove he is supposed to have planted the potato, the first planted in Ireland.

The strand at Youghal is very fine, and sea-bathers are afforded every opportunity of enjoying themselves. In summer time the watering-place is much patronized, and every year is becoming more attractive. There are good hotels, and plenty of residences and lodgings to accommodate visitors during the season. In the morning the whole fore-shore is given over to the bathers, and in the evenings it is mostly "Oh, listen to the band" along the Promenade and in the Green Park. The inroads of the sea at Claycastle are at length being successfully encountered by the Case groining system, which has been found so efficient elsewhere.

The coast-line from Youghal to Cork is indented with splendid sea cliffs, fiords, and strands. Garryvoe lies between Youghal and Ballycotton. The sea for miles along this district has been eating into the clay cliffs, and threatens to fulfil a Gaelic prophecy that it will yet reach Killeagh, a town six miles inland. Near Killeagh is a very beautiful scene of sylvan splendour, Glenbower.

The railway line runs direct from Youghal to Cork, passing the thriving market town of Midleton, the granary of Cork County, and Carrigtwohill, where there are the ruins of a Norman Castle.

A ferry from Youghal brings the passenger into Waterford County. The road above Whiting Bay leads to the fishing village of ~Ardmore~. It was perhaps, the first place in Ireland where the light of Christianity shone, as St. Declan is generally agreed to have been a precursor of the National apostle. In the country districts surrounding, as in the fishing village itself, the language most in use is Gaelic. The round tower, said to be of later date than any other in Ireland, is unique in many respects. The Cathedral, with its exquisite chancel arch and elaborate exterior arcading, will delight the antiquary and architect. Other interesting objects are the Ogham stones in its chancel, and the narrow lintelled "Bed" of St. Declan.

The service of steamers from Youghal to Cappoquin up the ~River Blackwater~ depends at present mainly on the state of the tide. But despite this and other things, the scenery on the river side will well repay inconvenience. Having left the ferry behind, the first place of interest is Rhincrew (The Bloody Point), and on the wooded hill the ruins of a preceptory of the Knights Templars still remain. Higher up on the western bank of the Glendine tributary stands Temple Michael, an old fortalice of the Geraldines, which Cromwell battered down for "dire insolence."

There is a legend which tells that the last of the Geraldines was buried at Ardmore, far from his young bride, who lost her life during the siege by the regicides. The story says, after his burial, at night his voice could be heard clearly, calling across the river, to bring him back and bury him by his own. For seven years the awe-struck peasants heard the plaintive voice calling, in the tender tongue of the Gael, "Garault, come to me,"--"Gerald, a ferry!" At last, some young men of his clan went to Ardmore and brought his dead body to Temple Michael, where his wife was buried, and henceforth his spirit no longer troubled the silent vigils of the fishermen at night.

The bend in the waterway brings one into sight of rich pastures and fine demesnes. Ballintray, "The Town of the Strand" has in its vicinity Molana Abbey, where the warrior, Raymond Le Gros, lies buried. At the broads of Clashmore, the highest water-mark to which the inflowing tide comes, one can easily imagine themselves upon an inland lake. Beyond is Strancally Castle, beetling over the river, set firmly in a foundation of crags. The local tradition carriers will gladly point out "The Murdering Hole," a natural fissure in the rocks, and here they will tell you that the departed Desmonds destroyed their guests after robbing them! Above the confluence of the Bride with the Blackwater, Villierstown and Camphire villages are passed, then the Awbeg joins its little flood, and beyond the island Dromana Ford is reached. Near is Dromana Castle, where "the old Countess of Desmond" was born. In the table-book of Robert Sydney, second Earl of Leyicester, written when Ambassador at Paris, about 1640, there is the following reference to her:--

"The old Countess of Desmond was a marryed woman in Edward IV. time
of England, and lived till towards the end of Queen Elizabeth, so
as she must needes be neare one hundred and forty years 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 kind of violent death,
for she would needes climbe a nut-tree to gather nuts, so falling
down she hurt her thigh, which brought a fever, and that fever
brought death. This my cousin, Walter Fitzwilliam, told me. This
old lady, Mr. Haniot told me, came to petition the Queen, and,
landing at Bristoll, she came on foot to London, being then so old
that her daughter was decrepit, and not able to come with her."

Dromana House, on the eastern branch of the river, is situated on a beautiful height, which commands the reaches of the river from Cappoquin to Youghal. At more than one point on the river there were opportunities of seeing in the distance the cloisters of ~Mount Melleray~--"the little town of God," lonely above the mists and shadows of the hills. As we walk or drive, the hillside behind the river winds its way through cliffs and well-wooded lands in front, the mountains unfold themselves range behind range. No one who has ever visited Mount Melleray will forget it or the generous Brothers. The Trappists, expelled from France in 1830, first settled on the borders of Kerry, but subsequently colonised this barren hillside, and already they have transformed it into a fine farm, containing rich pastures and thriving plantations. The monastery may be visited by gentlemen visitors, and cannot fail to prove of extraordinary interest. There are two guest houses, one for gentlemen and the other for ladies. No charge is made for their bed or board, and all creeds, classes, and nationalities are received with a _caed mille failté_. Every week a sermon in Irish is preached to the mountaineers.

Either from Melleray or Cappoquin, ~Lismore~ may be reached by car or train. It was the home of learning of old, and to-day, not only its beautiful position but historic Castle command attention. It is the birthplace of Boyle, the philosopher. Ptolemy is asserted very confidently by some authorities to have mentioned this place and its river. It is certain, however, that the place was long in existence in 631, when St. Carthage, of Rahan, fled thither. Nothing could be prettier than the appearance of the town, and it is a comfortable, well-to-do place, monopolising the trade of a large countryside. St. Machuda's Cathedral will repay inspection. The Castle is the Irish seat of the Duke of Devonshire. It was an ancient fortress, dating back to the reign of King John. It stands in a pre-eminently commanding position, over the Blackwater, and was the scene of many a hard-fought fight, especially in the wars of the Commonwealth, when Castlehaven captured it from the Roundheads. A magnificent view of the surrounding country may be had from its higher-storied windows. The public are freely admitted. From one of the high windows, it is said, when James II. was asked to look, he accused the maker of the suggestion of desiring to throw him from the dizzy height.

From the Railway Station at Lismore, the most interesting object in view is the new Roman Catholic Cathedral, dedicated to St. Carthage, the founder of the See, and believed to occupy the site of his cell. Thickly surrounded by beautiful lime trees, the warm red sandstones of the walling, with the limestone dressing of the windows and doorways, forms a brilliant picture. The interior is richly furnished, and altogether the church is well worthy of a visit.

Waterford and District.

Waterford is the port of call for most of the shipping from the West and South of England and Wales. The projected system by which steamers will run direct from Fishguard to Rosslare Harbour, whatever effect it may have upon Waterford as a port, will bring it by many hours nearer to the English markets. It is only a question of a few years until this route will be at the disposal of tourists and travellers from across the Channel. Under the Amalgamation of Railways Act of 1900, Waterford has the additional advantage of becoming a terminus of the system. With it as centre, railway services are supplied to Cork County and Lismore, to Limerick _via_ Carrick-on-Suir and Clonmel, and to Kilkenny _via_ Kilmacow and Thomastown.