Romantic Ireland;. Volume 1/2

Dromona Castle, in part a modern structure, which abuts upon a more ancient structure, is the remains of an old castle of the Fitzgeralds. This ancient building was the birthplace of the Countess Catherine Desmond, who died only, at the age of 140 years, by reason of having fallen from a cherry-tree. It is not recorded as to how or why this sprightly old lady came to be in, or up, a cherry-tree on that fatal occasion, but Sir Walter Raleigh is blamed for the whole affair, in that he first domesticated the cherry-tree in Ireland, having brought the first member of that family from Grand Canary and replanted it near by.

At the bend of the river, where it turns sharply to the westward, the steamboat journey of the tourist comes abruptly to an end at the most lovely and interesting of all the kaleidoscopic views which it exhibits, – the little town of Cappoquin. Cappoquin is a quaint townlet of perhaps a thousand souls and a single inn, and high above it rises the long ridge of Mount Melleray, capped, in its turn, by a Trappist convent, which carries on an industrial enterprise of the first rank.

The Abbey of Mount Melleray lies at the foot of the Knockmeledowns, and is an institution traditionally celebrated as being the domicile of the most severe and rigorous monkish discipline; unequalled elsewhere in any land. The monks are, by their rules, vegetarians, and they observe the rule punctiliously. They drink no stimulants, not even tea, – which is probably a good thing, – and five or six hours’ sleep suffices for their resting moments. The rest is work, incessant and laborious, and, greatest hardship of all, – at least it will seem so to many of us, – is that they preserve a “discreet and wholesome silence” at all times, this rule being only relaxed in their necessary intercourse with visitors and the outside world. Of course, this procedure does not differ greatly from the general practice in the monasteries of the Trappists elsewhere, except that it is more punctiliously observed here.

The abbey was originally a foundation of the Cistercian monks, who were driven from France by the Revolution of 1830; but to-day it is peopled by natives of Ireland.

In all this region, no castle, country-seat, abbey, or church is more famous or splendid than Lismore Castle, another foundation of the Earl of Montaigne, afterward King John of England (1185). It is to-day the Irish home of the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire. Lismore Castle is one of the most beautiful seats in all Ireland. It has even been mentioned, among the people here, as a prospective royal residence, though, like enough, this is not to be taken as anything more than irresponsible gossip, based on a wish that is father to the thought. It has been in the possession of the Cavendish family since 1748, and the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire spend some time every year in residence here in the midst of their Irish tenantry. Royalty has frequently visited Lismore Castle. It was an ancient fortress, and dates back to the days of King John. It has been the scene of many a hard-fought fight, especially in the wars of the Commonwealth, when Lord Castlehaven captured it from the Roundheads in 1645. The present Duke of Devonshire and his predecessor have modernized the castle and equipped it with interior luxuries without interfering in any way with its noble and hoary exterior.

Lismore is in the very heart of the Blackwater country, amid some of the most lovely scenery in the south of Ireland. Through Lismore Glen, where the woods are thick on either side and the road is canopied over with the spreading green foliage, one enters the Gap, a famous pass in the Knockmeledown Mountains, where the hills rise on one side to frowning heights, crowned in the gold of the gorse, which gives an additional glory to the land, and, on the other side, fall sheer down in an almost precipitous steep, across which there is a vast and enchanting view over the rolling plains of Tipperary. As one passes through the Gap, either on a car or coach, or on foot, the sun streams down with dazzling brightness, and the little villages and townships, the tapering spires, the tall watch-towers of antiquity, the whitewashed cottages, and gray stone houses, standing solitary on green fields, the ranges of purple hills, and the clumps of woods are all suffused with the yellow mellowing glow of a glorious summer sun.

To all who visit the Blackwater, Lismore should be doubly dear; first, because of its being a fine example of the fortified domestic Gothic architecture of its time, and, secondly, because its present occupant is generous enough to open its interior to view.

A MS. of very ancient date was recently discovered by some workmen repairing the older portion of the castle. It is a most precious work on vellum, recounting contemporary history in a manner which classes it as one of the famous chronicles of English history, worthy, perhaps, to rank with Froissart, Doomsday, and St. Albans. It is known as the “Book of Lismore,” and is now considered one of the chief treasures of the castle.

One leaves Lismore with a certain feeling of sadness, if he is observant and studies the straws and the winds.

Not many years ago the long mountain road, which runs from Lismore to the Knockmeledown Mountains, had four or five little hamlets dotted along it; to-day scarcely one house remains, and hardly a sign of life, except a few sheep snatching at the precarious grazing. Of the 42,000 acres belonging to the Duke of Devonshire, only half are under cultivation, and this is a very large proportion compared to the rest of the surrounding estates.

Lismore, the town, has itself shrunk considerably during the past few years. The aching desolation of it all gets on one’s nerves after a time, and, during a sojourn in this beautiful region, admiration of the scenery is mingled with wonder as to whether nothing can or ever will be done to brighten the mournful economic aspect of the agrarian situation.

Irish names have often a knack of being frankly pugnacious, so that even a peaceful lord chief justice has had to bear the inciting-to-murder sobriquet of Killowen. But the mountains, which form the background to Lismore and Clogheen, the Knockmeledowns, are capable of an entirely pacific interpretation. Commonly one says, “We are knocked down all in a heap” by this or that which takes us by surprise, and these mountains surprise all by their beauty. There is no lovelier sight in Ireland, and, if an air of melancholy prevails, it is because the scene is “somehow sad by excess of serenity,” to quote a recent phrase of Mr. Henry James, concerning a similar aspect elsewhere.

Between Lismore and Cork, via Mallow, is Mitchelstown, which presents an unusual series of attractions of the purely sentimental order. Mitchelstown’s Castle, Skereenarint (a “place for dancing in the wood”), and the Caves of Coolagarranroe are the chief points of interest. It is also the seat of an ancient bishopric, founded by St. Carthage in the seventh century.

Health-giving and time-honoured Mallow, famed of Tacitus (Hist., lib. i., c. 67) as the locus amoens salubrium aquarium frequens, is hardly of great moment for the traveller of to-day, except as the gateway from the north to Killarney.

Just north of Mallow, in the County Cork, is the rushing river Awbeg, the “Mulla bright and fair,” “Mulla mine,” of Spenser. The poet himself lived at Kilcoman Castle, some six miles off.

Near by is Buttevant, the Boutez-en-Avant, derived from the war-cry of David de Barry. Significantly and strongly French, it reminds one of the “Push forward” manœuvre of Barry’s men against the followers of MacCarthy. The old name of this place was Kilnamullach, i. e., Church of the Curse. The abbey in ruins reminds one that it was —

“Once the seatOf monkish ease and dark religious pomp:There many an antique monument is foundIllegible and faithless to its charge.”“That, deep insculped, once held in measured phraseThe mighty deeds of those who sleep below,Of hero, sage or saint, whose pious hands – ”

Cashel, known as “Cashel of the Kings,” was the residence of the ancient Kings of Ulster. The famous rock of Cashel is an eminence which rises abruptly above the surrounding plain, and holds upon its summit a grand assemblage of windowless and roofless ruins. These include various ecclesiastical buildings and monuments of a great age, – a cathedral, Cormac’s Chapel, an episcopal palace, and various other edifices. Cormac’s Chapel and its round tower, commemorating the virtues of Cormac MacCullinan, “at once King and Archbishop of Cashel,” are justly reckoned as among the best preserved and most curious erections in the country. In that they were supposed to have been erected in Cormac’s time (he was born in 831), they certainly must be considered as in a remarkable state of preservation, and, in every way, chronicles in stone of the first importance.

Cormac has ascribed to his credit, too, the celebrated “Psalter of Cashel” and “Cormac’s Glossary,” though there appears to be some doubt as to whether he was the author or patron who inspired the production of these works.

The “pointed” cathedral is of later date, and was, in part, destroyed by fire in 1495. To-day it is a ruin, but a magnificent one, and its outlines and proportions mark it as an important landmark for miles around the great plain which surrounds “the rock.”

The round tower’s exact history is obscure; but, like most of its fellows, it is of undoubted Christian significance. Twenty feet from the ground, it is connected with the cathedral itself, while its completed height rises ninety feet or more. Curiously enough, it is constructed from quite a different stone from that used in the other buildings on the rock, and the supposition is that it stood for centuries, silent and solitary, before the cathedral itself took form, and perhaps before even Cormac’s Chapel. The Cross of Cashel is another celebrated feature of artistic and historical worth.

The “rock” was originally surrounded by a wall, which, though now gone nearly to ruin, gives indications of great strength. In 1647 it was stormed by Lord Inchquin, who took it and put to death the clergy who had taken refuge thereon.

END OF VOLUME I