NEW YORK TO QUEENSTOWN—CORK.

On Saturday the 12th day of April, 1878, at half-past 3 p. m., the good Inman steamer City of Richmond, with us on board, loosed her cables, and the floating palace moved out into North River majestically,—as only such vessels can move,—passed the forts, and sailed on, till at dusk, yet before dark, the Highlands of Neversink—a misnomer to us then—retired from view, and, Byron-like, we felt and said,

"My native land, good-night."

Suppered, and enjoyed the look of that waste of sky and waters till ten o'clock, and then consigned ourselves to the embrace of

"Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep."

The morrow was Sunday. We were up betimes, and on deck for new views, fresh air, and to see how things compared with those of last night. All was well,—comparatively smooth sea, and good breeze. We had sailed 224 miles, and so were that much from home. Breakfasted, and on deck again,—this time to see nearly all our cabin passengers, about one hundred complete. They appeared well, and we thought our lot had been cast in a pleasant place; and so it proved. There were conspicuous the essentials of comfort for the voyage,—among them inclined-back, cane-finished lounging-chairs, and good blanket robes, brought by providential people who had travelled before, or who had friends who had journeyed and in whose advice they had confidence. No matter if it be July or August, it is a good friend who effectually advises one to carry a great coat, shawl, or blanket robe.

The sun shone bright, and the inhabitants of the City of Richmond were happy. At 10 a. m. came the roll-call of sailors and table-waiters, arranged in squads at special points. An officer and the captain passed in front, the name of each was distinctly called, the old, old response, Here, passed along the line, and the work was done. Of course a large part of the passengers were near by, inspecting, and they were presuming enough to think all was going on right, and the work well done.

Next came an officer giving information that divine service was to be held in the cabin at 11 a. m., and inviting singers to be at a certain location. One of our party, having before tried the ship's piano, was installed as pianist. At the hour appointed, nearly all on board, including the sailors, had assembled, and it seemed very like a church meeting. The pulpit was a desk placed on a common table, covered with a cloth; a Bible and prayer-book were on it, and our captain officiated,—a man of fine physique, apparently about sixty years old, and, but for the absence of clerical robes, very bishop-like in appearance. He went finely through the service of the Church of England, employing about an hour, and concluded by saying: "I am now to preach my usual sermon, which is to take up a collection for the widows and orphans of sailors." A good charity,—and a befitting response was made.

At one o'clock, dinner; next, various methods of using the time, the principal of which was reading or lounging about decks.

Soon came a change in conditions. Wind breezed up and we had more than a fifteen-mile power; and so sails were in order—our first sight of operations of the kind. Next came white-capped waves; and at 5 p. m. had come those indescribably hateful movements of the ship, that many a one has felt before,—down first at bow, and next up at stern, and vice versa continuing. "Confound," said they of the physically weakening brigade, "the deliberation, yet fearful determination and success with which these movements are made,"—as though transforming us first into lead and then into feathers; and soon follows an aggravating roll, playing with us as though we were alternately puff-balls and cannon-shot. But neither waves nor ship were to be confounded to accommodate us. Instead, both ship and sea appeared to be in league with the old-fashioned adversary. It seemed, to the subjugated ones, as though his Satanic Majesty was down under the propellers, with a mighty power straightening himself up, and lifting as only he could do; and then, as aid, there appeared to be an imp scarcely less powerful, pulling down at the bow, and in addition, many a fellow of like nature under each side of the ship, lifting up and letting go alternately. What masters of the art! How easily they did it!

Disgusted with the company and their doings, one after the other of our associates paid tribute to whom tribute was due; and what was left of our disgusted organisms went below as best they could. And here the curtain drops; for, though the spirit was willing, the flesh was weak.

It is 6 p. m., Sunday. We were told that the winds increased to a gale; rain, snow-squalls and hail came into the fray. The vessel staggered; the stanch bulwarks were but a partial barrier to that fury-lashed sea; and the decks were often swept with the newest of new brooms.

Next in our record is Friday p. m. Fair weather. Ship has come out ahead. Imps and their master are defeated and gone; the decks, as by talismanic transformation, are peopled again with the old brigade; and then for hours is in order a statement of what each has done and has not done. Well, the history of one lot of mortals, conditioned thus, is that of all.

It is a question often arising with people who have never been to sea, how passengers manage to occupy their time and break up the monotony of the passage. On a long voyage, days and hours doubtless move sluggishly, but on a simple passage to England this is not so. A thousand things, that on land would be of no account, on shipboard attract attention and please. "Men are but children of a larger growth," and there are playthings in abundance. There's a discount on reserve, and at sea a general freedom in conversation obtains; aristocracy is at a discount, and democracy at a premium. Reading, lolling around in a delightfully don't-care sort of a way, are done in first-class manner; smoking, cards, and checkers occupy some, while others are busy lookers-on. Talking things over,—politics, religion, science, and a large amount of nothing in particular; promenading; watching steamers and sailing vessels; observing schools of fish, or single ones, ocean currents, peculiar clouds, and work the sailors are doing; eating four meals, or eating none, but instead hating the thought of increasing one's self,—these and like things fill the eight or ten days. And so we were entertained and employed to the journey's end,—greatly interested in the chart at the head of the companion-way, which at noon daily had marked upon it a distinct line showing the direction and extent of sea passed over the preceding twenty-four hours.

So our voyage continued till the next Sunday, at 6 p. m., when the monotony was broken by one of the officers confidentially saying he thought he saw land. Of all intelligence to a tourist this is most welcome. One of the passengers—nameless here—looked to the left far ahead, and really saw what the officers did; but to his less disciplined or sea-educated eyes it appeared to be a ship, and so he declared; but in a half-hour more sounded from stem to stern the intelligence of discovered land, and then the fancied ship had been transformed into a dim-appearing, small mountain. It was the Skellig Rocks, the first-seen land of Ireland, fifty miles from Cape Clear. Passing on came to view Dursey Island, with its Bull, Cow, and Calf rocks, and then—alas for us waiters and watchers!—night came and we must forbear.

At 4 o'clock a. m. on that fine Easter Monday morning, April 21, a good company on deck saw plainly on the left, and not far away, the veritable land. There lay in the distance the old mountains of Munster, and Fastnet Rock, a pyramidal formation standing majestic in the water five miles or so out from the high, dark, rocky coast. Next a lighthouse came into view, desolate but surrounded by an indescribable beauty.

Soon we pass into George's Channel. The land is treeless, but clothed with elegant verdure. The surf beats wildly and unhindered against its rocky ramparts. Here and there, nestling cosily on the hillsides, are small Irish cabins, one-story high, built of stone, plastered and whitewashed, having thatched roofs, a few small windows, and a single door. Next appear a few Martello Towers of stone, some twenty-five feet in diameter, and perhaps forty feet high,—designed as fortresses, having formerly, if not at present, cannon on their level, and, it may be, revolving tops. And now appear fresh evidences of civilization, in the fishing-boats with tan-colored sails; and next we arrive at a little hamlet, Crooked Haven, the seat of the telegraph to Queenstown. We next pass Kinsale Head; in less than an hour more Daunt's Rock, with its bell-buoy; and after that a sail of five miles carries us to the opening into Queenstown Harbor, and we are at the end of the voyage.

It is now 5 o'clock a. m. Our ship for the first time in eight days shuts off steam; her pace slackens; and—as though while not tired, yet willing to rest—she floats leisurely. How majestic and calm! The small "tender" steamer is alongside, and now what scenes begin! How others retire before the hurry, the bustle, the good-nature everywhere manifest. A veritable "Paradise Regained." No matter for corns trodden upon, nor lack of respect for dignity or age. Every one destined for a landing minds his own business. Never was work of the kind done better. All the Queenstown passengers on board, the tender starts for the desired haven.

The City of Richmond starts her machinery, and is soon lost to view on her journey of eighteen hours to Liverpool; but we on board the small steamer are full of admiration for the new sights and sounds. Have just passed through the great opening two miles across, and one mile deep or through, and so are inside the harbor lines. In passing, on our left were high, verdant hills. On the right were higher hills, crowned with a few chalk-white buildings,—the lighthouse and its keeper's dwelling, the grounds enclosed with a wall, white like the buildings, resembling fairy-work in that setting of emerald. And now has opened an expanse of great extent and rare beauty. "No finer harbor in the world can there be," think and ejaculate all, at that early day, when few if any of the party have travelled; and "No finer in the world is there," say we now, when we have gone a good part of the world over.

To the right, encircling and on a magnificent scale, stretch the green hills on a curved line, half enclosing a basin five miles long and three wide. As before named the hills are grandly verdant, and dotted over here and there with single stone shanties, as white as snow. Scattered about promiscuously in profusion is the Furze—a shrub from two to six feet high, in general appearance not unlike our savin—in full bloom, with a profusion of chrome-yellow blossoms, fragrant and like the odor of a ripe peach. A few groves intermingle, and thus a finished look is given, inclining the beholder to call all perfect and needing no change. To the left is a scene more broken in outline and less elevated and extended. There is a sublime repose and feminine beauty to the right and around the shore to the town; but on the left is a masculine effect, and a sort of vigorous business air obtains. In the foreground of this side of the harbor, and not far from the shore, are three islands, on which are the barracks, the penitentiary for eight hundred convicts, and the naval storehouses, four or five stories high. These are modern and appropriate-looking stone edifices, built, as all such establishments are, "regardless of expense." In front of the opening to the harbor, and two miles away, lies the town itself, containing 10,039 inhabitants, and till 1849 called the Cove of Cork. In that year, in commemoration of a visit of Queen Victoria, it took the name of Queenstown.

We are for the first time inside a harbor of the land of the shamrock, and beholding the soil of the Emerald Isle. Only one who has sailed and waited and, Columbus-like, watched the approach to land, and has read and thought well about the Old Country, can know the feelings that fill the breast of one about to land. This pleasant anticipation is here, for fancy resolves itself into reality and fact. He is about to "know how it is himself," and as no one can know it for him.

The town lay stretched out in front, right and left, rising by abrupt terraces or cross streets—parallel to the water—to a great height, with a few streets leading upward. The wharves are of wood; and these, which partake largely of the nature of a quay along the line of the water, are old and more or less decayed in appearance, as are many of the buildings in the vicinity. The houses to the right of our landing and along the shore, and continuing up quite a distance on the hill, are of the usual stone construction, being mostly one or two stories high. The streets are very narrow, and far from being cleanly kept. The rear yards of the houses, as they back up against the hill, are very small; and as one walks through an elevated street, and looks down into these contracted and filthy back-yards and on the roofs of the houses, he is led to pity the occupants, for there is presented the evidence of poverty and wretchedness. To the left of the landing, and above this portion of the town, is a better population and condition. The principal avenue and business portion of the place is at hand. A wide, clean, and properly built thoroughfare, used more or less as a market-place and stand for teams, stretches for a fourth of a mile, with stores of fair capacity and good variety, and a few are of more than average style. The buildings are nearly all of stone, light in color, and three or four stories high.

From the nature of the land, and intermingled as the buildings above the main street are with gardens and trees, a picturesque appearance is presented; and the view of the great basin or harbor, from these elevated streets is indescribably grand. The streets here, and especially the continuing roads, are well macadamized and clean.

At the centre of the town a large and elegant Roman Catholic Cathedral, built of dark limestone and in the decorated Gothic style of architecture, is about finished.

One peculiarity of the place is a lack of fruit-trees in the gardens. The common dark-leaved ivy abounds, and is found growing wild on road-walls, and along the roadsides in profusion. As a front-yard or lawn shrub, fuchsias, such as are raised in America in pots, are common, and often in large clumps like our elder, six or eight feet high.

Another peculiarity is an absence of clothes-lines. Instead, the practice prevails of spreading newly washed clothes on the grass, with small stones to keep them from being blown away.

Another thing of interest is the common and general use of diminutive donkeys to draw small carts, used by boys and girls, from eight to sixteen years old, for common porterage. They are also used for milk-wagons. Each wagon has an oaken tank, holding about half a barrel; straight-sided, larger at the bottom than at the top, having a cover and padlock; the measure hanging on one side. There is straw behind, and at the front end the boy or girl is driving. These donkeys are usually of a cream-color or gray. All are cheap and coarse-looking, and a majority of them are aged, with their hair two thirds worn off. They are the very personification of good-nature, and do their work well. So far as value is concerned they are "worth their weight in gold," but they cost, when in best condition, not more than ten dollars each. Witnessing their patience, the great services they render, and the small amount of recompense they have while living, we incline to the opinion that, as a result of the working of the laws of cause and effect, there may be expected for them good conditions in their Hereafter. They are angels in disguise, and we wish they were in use in America as commonly as they are here.

Other objects that attracted attention were the public wells built in especial parts of the town. They are enclosed springs of water, or it may be reservoirs supplied by pipes; the places are from six to ten feet square, and only a few feet deep, a descent to which is made by stone steps into the small, stone-covered rooms. The people using them for the most part carry the water to their houses in earthen jars holding two or three gallons each. The water is carried by girls and women, seldom by boys and men; at least we could see none engaged in the service. As may be imagined, considering the filthy nature of some of the people who thus obtain the water, it is necessary to have a placard declaring the enforcement of law on any one who dips a dirty or questionable article into one of the wells, or interferes with the purity of the water.

Signs render a large service in the place, and some of them make queer statements,—at least so they appear to Americans. For instance, one reads:

Here Margaret Ahearn is Licensed to sell Tobacco.

The street letter-boxes had this inscription:

Cleared at 8 a.m. and 6 p.m., and on Sundays at 5 p.m.

At 2 p. m. this same day with some reluctance we left what was to us a place of interest, and took the nice little black-painted steamer Erin, for a sail from this Lower Harbor of Cork, as it formerly was called, to the city itself.

The journey, covering a distance of eleven miles, may be made by rail or steamer. The wise, pleasure-seeking tourist goes by river. On board the little steamer, having paid a shilling (twenty-four cents) for the passage, valises at our side,—and that is all of our baggage, or as we ought now, being in foreign lands, to term it, luggage,—we take our last admiring look at this queen of harbors, and with inexpressible reluctance bid adieu to its beautiful scenery, submitting to our fate in anticipation of another visit, as the steamer that takes us to America will be here for a day to receive the mails. We steam to the left end of the basin, and, rounding to the right, pass into the lovely River Lee,—an extremely picturesque stream averaging here perhaps a quarter of a mile in width.

The weather is cool, but pleasant for the season. Vegetation in certain respects is three or four weeks in advance of that about Boston. This applies to grass, lilacs and shrubs of the kind, and spring flowers; but garden vegetables, from planted seeds, are not at all in advance. In fact, up to this time, April 22, little planting has been done. The atmosphere of the southern parts of Ireland and of England being very damp, and the entire winter mild, certain kinds of vegetation advance; but cultivated work has no especial advantage over New England, where the first fruits of the gardener's labor are gathered as early as in those islands.

But to return from our digression, we proceed on our short voyage to Cork, and are now on our passage up the River Lee. The scenery on the right bank, on the Queenstown side, is somewhat hilly and of pleasing aspect, though not especially striking or unusual; but that of the opposite shore is elegant and picturesque in the extreme. About a mile from the mouth of the river is the beautiful village of Monkstown, a semi-watering-place, having tourists' hotels and a castle. Monkstown Castle is in ruins, having been built in the year 1636. It is related that Anastatia Goold, a woman of masculine qualities, during the absence of her husband in Spain, conceived the idea of building this as a family mansion, and to pay for it, hit upon the scheme of supplying her workmen with their family stores. She purchased them at wholesale, and retailed them at a profit which paid the entire cost of the castle, with the exception of a single groat (eight cents of our money).

The river above this widens into a small lake, and is called Loch Mahon. Three and a half miles farther up we arrive at the smart little village of Glenbrook; and one and a half miles farther, we come to another pretty town, called Passage.

Soon appears Blackrock, a small promontory, on which is a structure suggesting an ancient castle, built on a tongue of land extending into the clear water of the river. The mansion, however, is old only in style and outline, for it is of modern construction. Blackrock is supposed to be the place from which William Penn, the founder of Pennsylvania, set sail, a. d. 1682, landing after a passage of six weeks.

We were for the hour sumptuously entertained. Small castles, coves, headlands, near and distant scenery, and a luxurious vegetation lent a fascination and charm, which was but the beginning of a series of similar entertainments, not to end till after the first of September.

CORK.

Arrived at the castle, not far in the distance is seen, through the opening of the hills making the river banks, the shipping of the city of Cork, which is practically the capital of South Ireland. We find it a large commercial metropolis, built closely on both sides of the River Lee. The latter is parted at the city, and thus the left side of Cork stands mainly on an island, connected with the other side by nine stone or iron bridges. It has in all a population of 97,887, and is the third city of Ireland in importance and commerce, being excelled only by Dublin and Belfast.

On one side of the river as we pass into the city, at our left hand, are shipyards, repair and dry docks, and a vast amount of work of the kind is done. It may be added, there is presented to view in the harbor a forest of masts, and here may be seen the shipping of all nations. Near these and just above them, up along farther in the city and bordering the river, are fine Boulevards,—narrow parks or promenades well graded, called the Mardyke, and set out with shade-trees. The opposite side of the river, at the entrance of the harbor proper, is occupied by elegant lawns, with shrubbery and shade-trees in front of fine mansions and villas; and again, along the river above these, begins the business part of the city.

A good quay extends half a mile on both sides of the river. These have walls of cut, dark limestone, crowned by a substantial railing as a protecting balustrade. The larger part of the place, so far as its business portion is concerned, is built on level ground, and here the streets are wide, well paved and clean, and with the buildings, all of which are of brick or stone, a majority of the latter being painted in light colors, present a pleasing and finished appearance. All things seen are anything but what is imagined by a stranger when he hears one speak of Irish Cork.

Here and there, as at Queenstown, may be seen some of the old Irish male stock, with corduroys and long stockings, velvet coats, peculiar felt hats, heavy shoes—strangers to Day and Martin's specialty; but these are exceptions, about as much so as they are in the Irish sections of New York or Boston. Generally speaking, the dress of the people, male and female, of Irish cities is not peculiar, and aside from these exceptional instances they do not vary from those of London or Boston.

As regards a good civilization—everywhere in the business parts of the city, manifested by large and well-filled stores and fine warehouses, and by well dressed and industrious people—our impressions were very favorable.

The city in this region, like all large places, has its quota of men loafing about its bridges and wharves, waiting, Micawber like, "for something to turn up." So has Atlantic Avenue, Boston. In these respects Boston is Corkish, or Cork is like Boston. About the steamer wharves and at the railway station (we don't now talk of depots, for to be true to foreign dialect, we must say station) it is the same. At these, and along the thoroughfare from it, are boys, Yankee-like, ready to turn an honest penny or to earn one; and very demonstrative they are, and the cabmen as well. Americans are often outdone by them. One of these boys, at the moment of our landing from the steamer, seized our valises and would carry them. He insisted and we resisted, and at length the American element in us—"the spirit of '76"—was aroused, and in the ascendant; and to convince him that he ought to let go his hold, down came a hand on his arm with a force, and accompanied by a tone of voice and ejaculation, that meant business. "Keep off! Let go!" was the order and advice, and he did both.

Here, as at Queenstown, the little donkeys were on hand, and rendering a large and patient service. The public buildings are not very important, but substantial and good of their kind. Conspicuous among the new edifices is the Episcopal Cathedral now being erected. It is of stone, very imposing, with three towers, and in the Romanesque style of architecture. The Roman Catholic Cathedral, SS. Peter and Paul, also of dark limestone, having cut or hammered dressing, is a Gothic structure of considerable size, with a good tower at the centre of the front end, crowned with four turrets, and having a neat but small lawn, surrounded with an iron fence, about the cathedral's front. It was erected after designs by the celebrated F. W. Pugin, and cost $150,000. The interior, although not old, was dirty and presented a dingy appearance. We were told by the verger (sexton) that times being hard, business dull, and the people poor, accounted for the condition. We differed in opinion in other respects than theologically, but made no mention of the fact, and passed out.

Of course we must see, and soon at that, the church of St. Ann's, Shandon, and so made for that. It ought before to have been said that soon after crossing the river the land rises quite fast; so that as one stands in the business part, and in the thoroughfare along the line of the river,—and looks across the entire section of the city from the river backwards, the distant parts are seen towering much above the business portion. High up, along from the centre to the right, appear shade-trees and good gardens, with other evidences of a better civilization; but from these along to the left is presented a view quite the opposite of the front, or harbor, view of Queenstown. There, the low population is to the right and near the water; while here it begins half-way up the hill at the centre, and extends a half-mile or more to the left; and, as we leave the centre named, the buildings on the hillside, and the group or lot widening till they reach from the river to the top of the hill, are so arranged that, with houses of several stories and of remarkably quaint design, the high roofs appear in ranges one above the other, and the great hillside presents a strange, antique, thoroughly European appearance. They are of stone, built in the most substantial manner, and are unlike anything that can be found in America.

But we resume our journey to St. Ann's, Shandon. As observed from the river streets, it stands not far from the Catholic Cathedral, nor far from the centre of the hillside, as regards extent right and left, or elevation. The edifice was built in 1722. The tower was built of hewn stone, taken from the Franciscan Abbey—where James II. heard mass—and from the ruins of Lord Barry's castle. It is of dark limestone on the three principal sides, and, like the body of the church, with red sandstone on the rear side above the church roof. The edifice is made celebrated by what are termed and somewhat well known as The Sweet Bells of Shandon, made conspicuous by the poem of Father Prout:—

"Sweet Bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters of the River Lee."

The church is Protestant Episcopal, and is of a debased Roman architecture. It has a square tower rising a proper distance above the roof, and this is crowned by a series of three square sections of somewhat ill proportions as regards their low height; and the top one is finished with a small dome surmounted by an immense fish as a vane, the tower and steeple being perhaps one hundred and twenty feet high. We did not hear the bells, save as they played a few notes at the quarter-hours. The one on which the hours are struck is probably the largest tenor bell, and weighs perhaps 2000 pounds. What we did hear of them did not arouse enthusiasm. We simply thought them good average bells, and made more than that, in song and story, simply by Father Prout's poem. One thing about the tower struck us forcibly, and that was the monstrous dials, full twelve feet in diameter, painted directly on the stonework of the tower, with a rim of stone at the figure circle.

Next, a few words in relation to the population and condition of this part of the city. It will be remembered that we are now in the centre of the hillside, as seen from the business parts of the place, and at an elevation of full sixty feet,—in the conspicuous, and what ought to be aristocratic, quarter of the metropolis. But alas for what "might have been." The street in front, and the passage along the side of this building, are ill cared for and filthy in the extreme. A burial-ground forms part of the premises on both sides of the edifice, and is as neglected and disgraceful as one can well imagine. On the right is a thoroughfare alongside of the church, leading through the cemetery to some institution—perhaps a parish-school or hospital—in the rear of the church, and fronting on this passage-way. Here are cast-off shoes, broken crockery, stones thrown about by the boys, and unmentionable filth in abundance. At the right are broken monuments, badly defaced gravestones, and half-dilapidated tombs, all betokening a general lack of care over the premises.

Walking from the front of the church to the narrow and filthy streets that compose the neighborhood, we noticed such odors, sights, and conditions as we had before erroneously associated with all of Cork. We here saw a low Ireland at its best—or worst, as we may choose to term it; for here abounded dirt, degradation, poverty, and general squalor, up to the height of our early imagination. The houses are of stone, plastered and whitewashed, most of them one or two stories high, with roofs covered with very small and thick slates. We soon had enough of this kind of "Erin go bragh." If we did not know all that was possible to be known, imagination would, in spite of us, aggravatingly supply what was lacking.

As we passed out of this "Paradise Lost," or at least the one not regained, we could but feel that to make less display of service within their churches, depend less for good fame on the Sweet Bells of Shandon, and render a more reasonable and practical service, would be more rational, Christian and right.

We are told that the ancient Pharisees made the outside clean, and the inside was full of dead men's bones, and all manner of uncleanness. These people have reversed this, and without visible improvement.

Next must be named a thing of interest, and that is the Bazaar. It is a one-story building of immense size, and in appearance like a railway freight-house. Built of stone, and centrally situated, it is filled with every conceivable kind of second-hand goods. Separated, market-like, into stalls, it is so arranged and confusing as to make a labyrinth of avenues and divisions. Here are such things as old hardware, boots and shoes,—some as poor and valueless as we throw away, some better and newly blacked,—clothing for both sexes, crockery,—and we might continue the list. The Bazaar is managed by women, and the place and its commodities are as indescribable as the nationality of the Man in the Moon.

As at Queenstown, we saw much drunkenness, and often met, singly or in squads, the Red-coats, or English soldiers; but more concerning these will be said in another place.

The space we devote to this city is perhaps more than its share, but less can hardly be said, and our references to it are ended by a quotation or two from its history.

It is said that Cromwell, during his short sojourn in Cork, caused the church bells to be cast into cannon. On being remonstrated with against the profanity, he replied that as a priest had been the inventor of gunpowder, the best use of the bells would be to cast them into canons.

It was here that William Penn, founder of our Pennsylvania, became a convert to Quakerism. He visited the place to look after his father's property, changed his religion under the preaching of Thomas Loe, and on Sept. 3, 1667, was apprehended with others and taken before the Mayor's Court, charged with "attending unlawful assemblies." Refusing to give bonds for good behavior he was imprisoned, but wrote to the Lord President of the council of Munster, who ordered his discharge. He was identified with the Quakers from this time till his decease, at Ruscombe, England, July 30, 1718, at the age of seventy-four.

Cork has an interesting ancient history. It was long the seat of a Pagan temple, on the site of which St. Fionn Bar, the anchorite, founded a monastery in the beginning of the seventh century. The Danes in the ninth century overran the kingdom, and were probably the real founders of the city, and they surrounded it with walls; though the St. Fionn Bar monastery had continued through the centuries, and it is recorded that, on the intrusion of the Danes, the seminary had full seven hundred scholars "who had flocked there from all parts."

The inhabitants, under the Danes and their successors, frequently devastated the entire vicinity, and were in turn punished by the neighboring chiefs.

In 1493 Perkin Warbeck, the impostor king and pretender to the throne of England in the reign of Henry VII., was received here with great pomp and display. In consequence of participation in this act, the mayor was hanged and beheaded, and the city lost its charter, which was not restored till 1609.

An ancient historian, Ralph Holinshed, whose works were published in 1577, thus describes this city. "On the land side they are encumbered with evil neighbors—the Irish outlaws, that they are fein to watch their gates hourlie, to keep them shut at service time, and at meales, from sun to sun, nor suffer anie stranger to enter the citie with his weapon, but the same to leave at a lodge appointed. They walk out at seasons for recreation with power of men furnished. They trust not the country adjoining, but match in wedlock among themselves onlie, so that the whole citie is well-nigh linked one to the other in affinite."

In the War of the Protectorate, Cork maintained its condition as a loyal city till 1649, when it was surprised and taken by Cromwell, whose acts and cruelties are well known the civilized world over.