The Rock of Cashel—Its Cathedral, Palace, and Round Tower—Its History and Legends—Kilmalloch: its Ruins and History—The Desmonds—Horse Fair at Buttevant.

The usual dram-shop exists near this one-time shrine of the cross and outside of it we found a man somewhat half seas over who had insisted upon showing us the abbey, but we were equally insistent that we would not submit to such a desecration, and so the good woman in charge of it, with much pleasure on her part,—"the likes of him, to be sure, to be troublin' the gintlemen!"—had locked him out. He was on hand when we came away, determined to get at least a sixpence for a drink, but to all of his wiles we proved insensible. Just before we entered the car he moved off a pace, and regarding me from top to toe remarked, "Well, I must say, sor, that's the handsomest fitting coat I ever saw." As said coat was a wretched production of a Chinese tailor of Yokohama the flattery was too fulsome and fell flat, upon obdurate ears, but he bestowed his benediction upon us for all that as the car rolled off.

This section would seem to be the very heart of Ireland. There are traces of ecclesiastical ruins everywhere, and one's interest is intensified each moment until it reaches its climax some nine miles from Holy Cross, when the land drops gently into a vast valley from the centre of which, rising some three hundred feet, and crowned with ruins, towers the Rock of Cashel. At its base clusters the town and in the spreading meadows round about there are many stately ruins. As we approach, the town gives scant evidence of life, until one wonders whether any one exists there. We certainly do not see a half-dozen living things, men or animals, before we desert the car and climb the rock.

It is a glorious day as we pass upward to the hill and the old town and ruins take on a kindly look under the streaming sunshine—for sunshine "streams" in Ireland; the sky is never cloudless and the sun breaking through sends its light always in long streaming shafts, as though it were a great searchlight directed by some giant power; and so it is to-day, and just now it is turned full upon the Rock until all the ruins seem quivering with life.

But it passes, and as we enter and the iron gate clangs behind us the whole place is full of the sadness of decay. This was the Stirling of Ireland for here is cathedral, castle, and round tower.

The stories of war and bloodshed have passed away and Cashel has fallen more and more into ruin and decay with the flight of years. An old guide, whose name does not seem to be given, made it the labour of his life and love to restore as best he could what was remaining. Here he lived on the charity of the poor, which never failed him, doing his best, and it was much, to gather together the crumbling stones and replace them in their old positions. Finally he died and was buried here and his work, almost undone by neglect and time, was finally taken up by one of equal taste and greater power, Archdeacon Cotton, who devoted time, energy, and private means to preserve this most interesting spot in Ireland from destruction. His work here started in Ireland the same movement towards the preservation of these ancient places with which Sir Walter Scott was so identified in Scotland.

To both, the lover of antiquities owes an eternal debt of gratitude.

Of Cashel it is related that Archbishop Brice in 1744, not being able to drive his carriage to the top of the rock, procured an act of Parliament to remove the cathedral down into the town, whereupon the roof was actually taken off for the value of the lead and the venerable pile abandoned to ruin.

As we pass the iron gateway which now guards the ruins and the dead who sleep around and in them (for the whole is now a great necropolis) the eye is first attracted by a rude cross rising from an equally rude base; on one side is carved the crucifixion, and on the other a figure of St. Patrick. Here it is said the kings of Munster were crowned and here also tribute was paid by those of lesser state, and it is claimed that a hollow on one side was caused by the throwing down of the tribute gold through many years.

Passing onward one enters the quaint Cormac's Chapel, one of the most interesting remains in Ireland. Its original stone roof is still in place and possesses two very singular square towers on either side, one of which carries its pyramidal roof, but the other is open to the sky. The chapel is not large, being but fifty-three feet long and having only a nave and choir. It is Norman in its character; the very rich decorations of its arches and niches are all of that style.

The cathedral is, of course, a ruin, but stately and beautiful. Its interior is crowded with flat tombstones and even to-day interments take place here, and be assured to have the right of burial in Cashel Church is a hallmark of nobility which no money can purchase; only blood ties with those long since laid to rest will gain you a right to sleep there, and the same holds with Muckross.

There is not much left of the castle. Outward amongst the many graves which cover the rock, the eye is at once attracted by the stately round tower, rising a hundred feet above the rock. To my thinking there is nothing more majestic than these simple towers with their conical caps, and one weaves around them all manner of romances and stories, which probably are very far from the truth.

There seems little doubt that they are simply the campaniles of this northern land and it appears certain that they did not make their appearance until after the advent of Christianity. They were probably used also for watch towers and are to be found all down the coast at points where the Danes were apt to land.

In those days the Danes were the marauders of Europe, and Ireland did not escape their attention.

The ancient annals of the island call these towers, of which seventy are still standing, "Cloicoheach" or house of a bell. There are two in the land which have most impressed me, this one high on the Rock of Cashel and the one at Glendalough, deep down in a valley. Of that one I shall speak later on.

Cashel as a place of importance dates from the early kings of Munster and from the days of St. Patrick—the fifth century—when St. Declan founded a church here.

Its name probably came from a stone fort or "Caiseal." It was also called the City of the Kings. Here in 1172 Henry the Second received the homage of Donald O'Brien, King of Thomond, and the princes of Offaly and Decies, and England became the ruler of the land. Here he read aloud that famous papal bull. Edward Bruce passed by Cashel and paused to hold a parliament. The Butlers and Fitzgeralds warred all over the place and the great Earl of Kildare in 1495 burned down the cathedral, and when called by the King of England to accounting, declared that he would not have thought of committing such a sacrilege but that he was told that the archbishop was surely in the church; whereupon the King exclaimed, "If all Ireland cannot govern this man, he is the fittest to govern all Ireland," and thereupon appointed him viceroy the following year.

The rock and town were given up to plunder and slaughter by Lord Inchiquin in 1647 when twenty monks and many of the people were slain, but Cashel shines forth most brilliantly as the seat for centuries of an archbishop, and as the stranger stands on the rock to-day it is not difficult to picture the scenes and pageants of that period. Restore in your minds the church and palace to their former grandeur, rebuild and repeople the many monasteries which dot the green valley around the rock, fill the shady lanes with the gorgeous processionals of the Church of Rome advancing to some great ceremonial in the cathedral already crowded with a multitude bowed in prayer, place the gorgeously robed archbishop on his throne before the altar ablaze with gold and lighted candles, while the sunlight streaming through the painted windows casts the greater glory of God over all, and the organ sends its deep solemn tones forth under the stately arches.

Then you have Cashel at its best; but passing outward your eye would have been at once attracted by the stately round tower, as stately to-day as it was then, which would tell you at once that, as some believed, long before the cross came to Cashel the pagans held their barbarous rites and ceremonies on this rock.

Again, we are told that Cashel was first founded in the reign of Coro, son of Loo-ee, and that its name was Sheedrum, also called Drum-feeva; from the woods about. Through the forests and up to the rock at that time came two swineherds, with their pigs, Kellarn, herdsman to the King of Ely, and Doordry, herdsman for the King of Ormond, and there appeared to them here a figure as brilliant as the sun, and whose voice, more melodious than any music of this world, was consecrating the hill and prophesying the coming of St. Patrick. The news soon reached Coro, who came hither without delay and built a palace here called Lis-no-Lachree, or the fort of heroes, and being King of Munster his royal tribute was received on this rock, then called Currick-Patrick,—wherefore it was called Cashel, i.e., Cios-ail, or the rock of tribute.

All that is but a legend and story of the long ago, yet this great round tower bears enduring testimony that Cashel was occupied long before the English invasion. Indeed the chapel of Cormac is undoubtedly of before that period but the cathedral dates from 1169, and the castle from 1260. The whole was originally surrounded by a wall, of which no trace remains to us.

But after all it is the prospect from the outer walls which will longest hold your attention, the beautiful panorama of the golden vale of Tipperary spread out before you, while beyond range the stately Galty Mountains and the Slievenaman and Clonmel hills, the old town clustering around the base of the rock, its twisting narrow streets bordered by quaint houses while the green meadows around are dotted with ruined abbeys and many a tower of far more ancient date.

If Ireland is unhappy, she does not show it here to the passing stranger to-day. All is peace down amongst those meadows and beside those still waters.

Yonder is the Abbey of Horl, the equal of Holy Cross, but to inspect all the abbeys one passes would take a lifetime.

As we return to the car, I notice that there is trouble of some sort. An old Irishman stands near-by and a little girl is trying vainly to draw him away. As we arrive Yama remarks that the old man is insulting, and in as low a tone as I can command I bid him pay no attention as the man is drunk. That may be, but not so drunk as to deaden his hearing for he promptly replies, "Yes, sor, I am drunk, but I am drunk on my own whiskey, and I am not travellin' around wid a monkey man." It was well-nigh impossible to keep grave faces, but for the Jap's sake we succeeded, and the car started, not, however, without another shot from the old man: "Well, good-bye to yez, and I forgive ye if ye did say I am drunk." I am glad to state that that was the only experience of the kind which we encountered. What may have occurred before we reached the car I cannot say,—I certainly did not question the Jap on the subject, judging it better to drop the whole matter, but I have little doubt but that he did or said something to enrage the old man. The only one concerned for whom I felt any pity was the little granddaughter, who vainly endeavoured to lead him away. Poor child, her eyes were full of tears and I felt very sorry for her. In this world of ours it seems always her sex which must suffer.

Our route from Cashel to Buttevant lies through rich meadow-lands where the grass is greener and the buttercups of a deeper golden than anywhere else in the world I think, unless it be in the "blue grass" regions of our own Kentucky. This was certainly the land of promise to all who lived here or could force their way in; almost every turn in the road brings us upon some ruined tower or castle, whilst fragments of ecclesiastical buildings dot the landscape far and near. Indeed, as we roll leisurely along on this bright summer's morning, the prospect is at all times enchanting to the lover of history and antiquity, and the interest increases steadily until Kilmalloch, the Balbec of Ireland, is reached, though at all times the traveller's regret will be intense that the ruin of all is so complete. In fact, the town is but a mass of ruins where the miserable hovels of the poor prop up what is left of the ancient mansions of a vanished nobility. As we pass through what was once its greatest street we note the remains of stately houses every here and there, but they have evidently been partly pulled down and their materials used to build the wretched structures which now shelter these people. Only the property of the church has been spared and in this case, though the ruin is great, it is the result of the sieges during Elizabeth's and Cromwell's time; the people have let the buildings alone, only that great disbeliever in church or state, time, is for ever at work completing their destruction.

One comes here upon the trails of the most powerful family which Ireland has ever possessed, the Desmonds, whose properties, covering four counties, extended over one hundred miles and contained over five hundred and seventy thousand acres. An ancient family, even at that period, they were made earls in 1329. Their power appears to have been at all times dreaded by the crown and we find one of them of the Kildare branch a prisoner in the Tower in Henry VII.'s time. He it was who burned the cathedral at Cashel, hence we may save our sympathies for a better man, especially as his assurance so affected the King that he was appointed governor of Ireland, as we related in the account of Cashel.

His son, for rebellion, did not fare so well with Henry VIII., as, with five of his uncles, he perished on the scaffold and his family was only saved from extinction by having his youngest brother smuggled over to France to return to home and restored estates when Edward VI. sat on the throne.

Do not, however, for a moment imagine that that family "lived happily for ever after." Certainly not with such blood flowing in their veins and with Elizabeth Tudor wearing the crown, during whose reign the sixteenth Earl of Desmond did all he could to prevent his name from sinking into oblivion. He became conspicuous as an "ingenious rebel" and the Queen speaks of him in one of her letters as "a nobleman not brought up where law and justice had been frequent," by which I presume her Majesty meant that he had forgotten that the words "law" and "justice" meant the royal "will" and "desire" only. We have had some such forgetfulness in our own land of late years. Desmond was of such power that he could raise a company of five hundred men of his own name alone, all of whom and his own life also he lost in three years' time. There is little doubt that he was driven to rebellion by wrong and oppression, as he and his estates were objects of envy to every other chieftain of Ireland. His greatest enemy, the Earl of Ormond, was finally empowered by the crown to crush him and in the end succeeded. Desmond, "trusting no home or castle," was driven to woods and bogs and finally captured in a ruined hovel where his head was struck off and sent to the Queen "pickled in a pipkin." His executioner, a soldier named "Daniel Kelly," received a pension of twenty pounds from the crown but for some later act was hanged at Tyburn.

With James, the son of this Desmond, the power of the family terminated. He became a Protestant and the only one of his name. It is useless to state that the followers of his ancient house would not tolerate such a lapse and upon his only visit to Kilmalloch he was spat upon on his return from church. That drove him to London, where he died.

As I have stated, there is almost nothing to remind the traveller through Kilmalloch to-day of its ancient splendour, though he may still trace its walls which once completely surrounded the town. Just outside stands the ruins of the Dominican friary, a stately empty shell.

Leaving it, we roll away southward and upon entering the town of Buttevant are rudely shaken from the contemplation of ancient days to the activity of this twentieth century.

Buttevant is indulging in a horse fair where David Harums congregate from all the land roundabout. As our car rolls through the streets, we are regarded as legitimate prey and have horses of all ages, sizes, and colours,—"Sound? Glory be to God, as sound as yer honour," shoved in front of us. (That we pass on without pausing stamps us at once as unworthy of further notice.) One man with absolutely no right has seized upon an adjoining field and after breaking a hole in the wall as a ticket window proceeds to collect a shilling from all who enter, of which there are many. If any refuse to pay he seizes a convenient rock and threatens them. It is useless to state that most of the community imagine that all that is worth seeing in the place is in that field, and as every one crowds in there they are not far wrong. Still, I learn later, the canny ticket collector takes care to vanish at the proper moment. They spend some time looking for him, especially as the owner of the field threatens to have the law on the whole lot for trespass.

Leaving the noise and confusion behind us, we enter the great square of the barracks, and the motor vanishes for a season.