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Romantic Ireland; volume 2/2

Romantic Ireland; volume 2/2

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Chapter 1 QUEENSTOWN, CORK, AND BLARNEY

Word Count: 4166    |    Released on: 06/12/2017

dents of Cork will tell you it is Cork Harbour, anyway, and Queenstown is nothing but a town that was made by the American War of

lf up on the overhanging cliffs, pink houses, yellow houses, white houses, like a veritable piece of Italy. It is always warm here, or almost a

not a beach at all, but a fenced street full of shop

f being the link which was, by the emigrant chain, to bind the

ds of miles behind across the seas; of friend clasping the hand of friend perhaps for the last time; of brothers and sisters parting from brothers and sisters, and all

TOWN H

tless be the darkest

ngs. Thousands have left Ireland every year from these quays, "the torn artery through which the country's best blood drains away year by year." To see an emigrant-sh

Queen Victoria here at that time, her first visit to Irish soil,

which are less known, only comparable to the fiords of Norway. They have not the majesty or expansiveness of many of the latter; but they have most of their attributes more subtly expressed. Indeed, Cork Harbour and

ircles the city, it well i

Lee that like a

k with his di

of the river Lee from the heights of Queenstown is one of

ostellan Castle at once attract notice; and the eye roams with pleasure over a charming scene, enlivened with shipping of all kinds and from all ports,

iards spent several days in fruitless search for him, and the spot is still known as Drake's Pool. About four miles away is the fort-defended entrance to this spacious harbour. Old Oce

so that there is a good excuse for introducing the subject once again. Some are here with such a rosy gladness; such an eglantine beauty-bloom; such dark hair and flashing eyes, soul-stirring and beaming with goodness; such a graceful mien and frankness of manner, blended with a quiet reserve; and, altogether, such a

minence, first of all, to Shandon's square c

handon, that so

waters of t

be called a beautiful structure. Up a long hill and up two flights of stone steps, one climbs to the qui

CHURCH

and fifty is the date c

orld-famous lyric, "The Bells of Shandon." If "in the mood," the listener will experience much the same emotions as are set forth in those pleasing stanzas. If not, as with most

n the decretal epistles of Pope Innocent III., it is mentioned as the Church of St. Mary in the Mountain. In 1536, the rector of St. Mary's, one Dominick Tyrrey, was elevated to the see of Cork, of

t consists of a tower and lantern (170 feet high) of three stories each. Two sides of th

since it is not very excellent either in voice or power. Still, given cert

deep a

ecoll

en th

Shando

und so w

ays of c

ound my

magic

eard bell

ny a cl

g subl

dral

at a g

O

gues woul

l thei

ught lik

an Brothers, near by, rest the remains of Gerald Griff

t lies rather with the more or less fragmentary recollections, whi

e English invasion it was the capital of Desmond, King of Munster, who did homage to Henry II., and resigned the city to him. For receiving Perkin Warbeck, the p

for King Charles, but its garrison

Cork, though a Catholic community, opened her friendly arms to welcome the

connection with Southern Ireland that it is perhaps allowable to extract and re

eater part of the city of Cork now sits. From this monastery and its immediate surroundings grew up the present city of Cork. St. Finbarr's disciple, St. Colman, founded the see of Cloyne, of

He was Bishop of Cork seventeen years, and died at Cloyne, fifteen miles distant. His body was buried in his own cathedral at

an owes its name, and Waterford its Christianity, to Brother Garvan of th

o had no prejudices in favour of Ireland have endorsed its virtues

eland became famous. "Hither fled the timid for safety, and the leisured fo

magne drew his teachers from this "school of th

nd Pavia, if not actually of Irish inception, were greatly indebted to the learning which spread forth from the Green Isle. There is scarcely a Contine

with the city of two whose names will never be forgotten-William P

stance of drunkenness came under his observation during a sojourn of some weeks in Southern Ireland. It

Style I

isted. Father Mathew is buried here, in St. Joseph's Cemetery

e mostly modern; but St. Finbarr's Cathedral stands on the site

ly women are great full-length wraps of a black or dark-blue cloth, with a wide hood. Rumour has it that they cost from five to ten pounds apiece, and last, literally, from generation to generation, being sometimes passed down as an heirloom from mother to daughter for half a century.

Irish life than the shillalah or the shamrock. In Wicklow one finds the cars more numerous than elsewhere; in the west they are

l, comfortable, or magnificent, and their drivers, like the "jarvies," "cabbie

e tailboard of every car. This led to the story which Punch, if it did not invent, at least promulgated, that an inspe

rn Iri

omnibuses in which visitors are whirled between the beauty-spots of Erin's leafy glades. The characteristic

verse with the affable driver through a small hatchway, open in fine weather and closed in wet, and flanked on each side by a glas

imple, yer honour. Sure, the outside cyar has the whee

is situated, as the native says, "a long mile from the railway station"-is of interest more because it is an exceedingly good specim

nnected with the "Blarney Stone" are harmless enough; but far more import

ce in the eyes of those who contemplate the setting which has been given to the all-powerful block of stone. The glib tongue of the native has done much to perpetuate the tradition that whoever kisse

projecting buttress at the top of the castle, several feet below the level of the wall, so that, to perform the kissing feat in ancient times, it was necessary to hold on by the bars, and project the

r Prout" contain this

s a ston

hoever

never

ow el

e may

ady's

ome a

arli

ever

ure tur

t and

let

pe to hi

bewild

e's a

Blarney

ned with statues, grottoes, alcoves, bridges, and every description o

ses she

cruel a

n his hand, to sw

ed, and the fine old trees have been felle

eathen

mphs s

ptune,

Nico

anding

e ope

rout furthe

avel wal

pecul

nversa

ood order, and

oves of

. . .

y the

silent

amon

owers th

t fragra

occupation for a

enough to warrant the conjecture that, before the introduction of firearms, it must have been impregnable. It is almost as marvellous as the power attributed to the Blarney Stone that a few lines of rather cheap

rpetuated in the horse-play of holding one another head downwards over the battlements to "kiss the stone," though this is no longer really necessary, since another more conveniently placed stone has been provided for the purpose. It is a procedure which creates much excitement among a certain cl

Killarney, was once the home and gathering-place o

considerable impress upon Ir

EY CA

tion concerning the druidical race, if their strains of melody actually did pale the

1641. The huge square keep, now covered with ivy, is all that remains of the original structure. Admiral Sir William Penn, father of the founder of Pennsylvania, was born here. Macroom, the centre of the sporting gentry of

ans to shak

pair to sw

s cares he

no more

yield to g

know not car

wears perp

dispels ou

land and lake of Gougane Barra, the retreat of St. Finbarr, who had truly an eye

and rude masonry indicate, at a glance, the centuries that have passed since here dwelt the "Island Saint" and anchorite, the founder of Cork. Of the many venerable anchorite

ey of Desmond," enclosed by towering mountains, from the

ANE

o the sea. Here one fully appreciates the appellation, "Lone Goug

en island in Lo

songs rushes fo

Desmond a thous

lake from their ho

ild ash, and a ti

down on the mirt

child, that sad

back to the laug

k hills-oh! to see

lings out its red

down, 'mid the thu

eir hills at the v

fire-crested bill

Mullagh the eagl

e dwelling in v

ard as this lon

. . . .

e hills, were it

harp, and the wi

h like thee to our c

f song fling its

hose wilds may yo

ng shout over mou

west may yet r

was darkest be b

gone, but my na

ns, and her fet

l come in the sum

ung light on his

y grave with a

Buee seeks the

reath from the ba

the harp that are

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