 
Our route lies from Newry north-west through Pointz-pass, beyond which as we approach Tanderagee, the castle, a stately stone structure, is seen towering high on a forest-crowned hill with a flag denoting its owner's presence floating from the main tower. While the castle is a modern structure of some seventy-five years of age,—originally built by the Count de Salis,—it stands on the site of the very ancient stronghold of Redmond O'Hanlon, the most noted outlaw of Ireland. As we roll through the quaint town clustering around the hill, where every soul appears to have gone to sleep or gone dead long since, the sound of the motor brings a few pale faces to the doors of the houses, but it is very quiet withal. Looking upward from this street the growth of trees is so dense that no sign of the castle is visible. We pass through almost a tunnel cut through the rocks and trees, and emerging in a This gives us time for a quiet inspection. We find ourselves in a long, wide, and lofty corridor having a row of windows on its right, while on the left one has entrance first to the main hall and chapel, stately apartments very richly decorated, and then in order follow several drawing-rooms, a library, and a spacious dining-hall, and from the walls of each and all, the painted faces of those who walked these chambers long ago look down upon us with questioning gaze as though they still retained some interest in this world of the living, and yonder dame would, I know, like to hear the latest news from London; but take my advice, my lady, and let it pass, it is productive of just the same unrest and discontent now as when you trod the boards of that great theatre of life,—Dead Sea fruit, the whole of it. Wondering what part she played in life, my eyes wander to an open window and straightway all thoughts of Madam vanish as I gaze downward through the glades of one of those beautiful parks which abound in these dominions. A stately terrace of stone shrouded in ivy runs below these windows and from it the land drops away into a gentle valley filled with great trees and blossoming banks of rhododendrons with here and there a stretch of grassland and a gleam of water, a vista which must have been a perpetual delight to the Duke who collected these books in this library, for a lover of books is generally a lover of nature. Tanderagee Castle Photo by W. Leonard Tanderagee Castle Passing onward you will enter the courtyard and at the end of the long arcades on one side find the billiard and smoking rooms. On the upper floors, aside from the state and family apartments, one finds long rows of bachelor apartments, twenty or thirty of them I should say, and in the middle of the row a cozy octagon chamber where much high revel has held forth, and which looks very lonely just now. There are small closets in the walls which certainly did not hold holy water. But times are changed at Tanderagee, and while there is to-day high revel within its walls, it comes from the fresh young voices of children and would in no way appeal to the ghosts which haunt the octagon chamber. After luncheon we visit the little ones in their rooms high up in the sunlight, and very happy, fine children they appear to be. Round-eyed little Lady Mary did the honours and presented her brother, who at the time was making vain attempts to stand on his head in a corner, while the new baby dreamed his days away in a crib by the fire. I am told that the present Duke dying without an heir the estate would pass to a Catholic owner, much to the distaste of the tenants here, who are mostly Protestants, and Passing downward, we spend some hours in wandering over the park, pausing at last by the grave of the late Duke in the little churchyard. I did not notice the graves of any other members of the family. I believe former dukes are interred at Kimbolton, the family seat in England. The church holds some very beautiful windows erected by the present Duchess to the memory of her mother, Helena Zimmerman. As we return to the castle the voices of the children have roused all the echoes of the courtyard into wild replies and now the sunlight streams downward as though in thorough approval. Tea-time, that most pleasant hour of the day, finds me in the chapel listening to the soft tones of the organ. My hand quite haphazard picks up a volume lying near me whose title at once chains my attention and in view of the base manner in which the author afterward sold his talents to her enemies and slandered his Queen it may be well to quote what he says of that Queen in this preface:
Deep in thoughts of that most interesting period of Scotch history I do not even hear the dressing bell until its clangour becomes too insistent to be disregarded, and I mount to my room to dress for that most important function of the day—dinner. A bright fire makes the chamber warm and cozy so that it is difficult to resist the temptation to further reverie. Evidently Tanderagee has been greatly improved of late years. In the building have been placed several modern bathrooms, a Turkish plunge, and an electric light plant and steam heat, so that the damp, penetrating cold and musty, mouldy smell usually so ever-present in these houses, where fortunes are so constantly spent in decorations and so little done for actual comfort, are absent. From my window I can see on the lake of the park an ancient swan named Billy, alone in all his glory and from choice and bad temper, not necessity. He has killed off all his kind and all other kinds, is in fact a degenerate bird, and when evening comes on he betakes himself with the rest of the "boys" to the village street, and loafs around all night, no dog in the place daring to molest him. I saw him outside of a public house there with a desire for strong drink expressed in his eyes. He is a rake of the worst character but you dare not tell him so. He leaves the park every night before the gates are closed and returns next morning. There are fine drives in all directions hereabouts, and the roads being good we have many a rush in the motor-cars,—one to an old ruin where the devil is supposed to leave the impress of his foot upon a plank in the floor each night. I doubt if to-day even the devil could reach the plank through the accumulation of dirt thereon. Chapel, Tanderagee Castle Photo by Wm. Lawrence Chapel, Tanderagee Castle As we wait in the quadrangle one morning for our motors, to my astonishment I am accosted in salutation by a name used only at home, and by those I have known for years. "How de do, Mr. Mike?" Around me rise the walls of the castle, but aside from the expressionless faces of the house servants standing near I can see no one until in a dark corner of the court a yet blacker spot suddenly shows a white gleam of teeth, and out into the light comes the speaker. "How de do, sir?—I'se de cook on de boss's car, and I knowed you all your life. Don't you remember nigger John and Miss Nancy Ballentine?" Convulsed with laughter, I can scarcely answer. This explains the hot bread and waffles on the breakfast table, which surprised me for the moment, but which I had entirely forgotten. Bowing and scraping came black "Tom" into the sunshine and it seemed to do his heart good to talk of the old times, of Black John our own cook, and Miss Nancy Ballentine, who "tended de ladies' waitin' room in the C. H. & D. station" when she was not assisting at the marrying or burying of most of us, at the latter wearing a dress composed of the crÊpe from many a doorbell. That it did not match in degrees of blackness mattered not at all to the good dame. She arranged it in stripes and she could tell you which particular funeral each of those stripes came from. She has been dead many years, and to have her recalled here was strange indeed, but—the cars come with a rush, and we are off with a rush, speeding through the beautiful park whose trees I find that my fifteen horse-power Clements keeps up very fairly with the Duke's motor of sixty horse-power. Of course on the wide straight roads of France this could not be, but on these narrow and crooked lanes of Ireland we are never very far apart, and have had many good runs together. Our motoring carries us often to the town of Armagh where one comes across traces of the hatred of that Catholic Queen, Mary I., for the Irish. She burned this see and three other churches. The cruelties of that Queen to the people of Kings and Queens counties equals anything told in Irish history, but is rarely mentioned by the historians of the day. In fact, all the territory forming now those counties was stolen from its ancient owners and the name changed as above, resulting in a warfare which lasted into the reign of Elizabeth until the people finally disappeared into the mountains. No torture or cruelty was spared. In Forgotten facts in Irish History we read that "it seems very apparent to the student of Irish history that these people received their persecutions not because they were Catholics, but because they were Irish. The most terrible persecutions took place under the Catholic sovereigns of England and not until those monarchs became so-called heretics was the Church of The history of the archbishopric of Dublin is an object-lesson on the exclusion of the Irish from the Church ever since the Conquest. From 1171 down to the Reformation, in 1549, there were twenty-three archbishops of Dublin. Of these not one was Irish. For the archbishopric of Dublin "No Irish need apply!" The Statute of Kilkenny enacted that no religious house shall receive an Irishman, under penalty of being attainted and having its temporalities seized. One historian of our times asks:
Armagh has suffered terribly throughout the years since St. Patrick founded the cathedral, but though abounding in memories, there is little existing of the past in the town to-day. The site of its cathedral is very fine, but the building has suffered a complete restoration. Our days at Tanderagee have passed pleasantly but they are over at last and bidding our hosts adieu we roll off towards Newry. Drawing-room, Tanderagee Castle Photo by Wm. Lawrence Drawing-room, Tanderagee Castle FOOTNOTES:Translated literally into English by Pat Stobin, A. M. Copied by me from the MS. copy of Stobin at Tanderagee, owned by the Duke of Manchester. The whole book is in MS. M. M. Shoemaker. |
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