Return to Ireland—Illness—Conditions on the Great Liners—The Quay at Cork "of a Saturday Evening"—En Route Once more—The Old Lady and the Donkey—Barracks at Fermoy—Killshening House, Abandoned Seat of the Roche Family—Fethard—Quaint Customs—The Man in the Coffin—"Curraghmore House"—Its great Kennels—Its Legends and Ghosts and History—Lady Waterford—Oliver Cromwell at the Castle—The Marquis in the Dungeon.

A year has rolled away since I wrote my last line about this Emerald Isle,—a year of sickness and suffering, brought about, most seem to think, by the bubbling springs and cool wells of this same island; at least B., who drank whiskey and soda, passed scathless, while typhoid for the second time seized upon my system and worked its will for months and months. But that is over and gone, and for another year at least I am immune. Still I think that during this visit I shall hold to soda and some whiskey, at least I am so advised by a last telegram as my ship moves out to sea.

If the Board of Trade knew of the state of affairs on the great liners they would scarcely permit it. Think of one hundred and sometimes one hundred and fifty stewards crowded into a confined space below the saloon with one bathroom only. They are only allowed on deck way back amongst the emigrants, and from there they come to the main saloon to wait on the first-class passengers, running the risk of carrying all sorts of contagious diseases; no air, no ventilation to speak of. The deck stewards are somewhat better off, being only six in a room, but no better ventilated than the pen referred to. If things are so on an English ship, what must they not be upon an Italian!

It blew great guns, and rained in torrents as we landed at Queenstown. The Campania came in just behind the Baltic and between the two nearly two thousand passengers were landed. The accommodations both in tenders and at the custom house are in every way inadequate, and the confusion was appalling.

However, all was passed and done at last, and ten P. M. finds me at the Imperial in Cork, which is in this rainy weather even more mouldy than last year, but where B. and a whiskey and soda make matters assume a more cheerful tone. However as the house is crowded to suffocation an excursion into the outer darkness has its attractions. On our way out we remark to the barmaid that it is rather stupid here to-night, and she suggests that this being Saturday evening if we will go down to the quay we may find some diversion. Knowing that she would be correct in her surmise as to other towns on that night and at such places we conclude to try it in Cork and sally forth, only to fall into the clutches of a car boy, who absolutely refuses either to be left behind or to allow us to walk. Hence we are shortly mounted on that characteristic Irish vehicle, a jaunting-car, and en route for wherever its owner may see fit to take us.

Our suggestion of "the quay" evidently meets with his approbation, and with a twinkle in his eye and a blow for his horse, we set forth. The pace is one which causes us to clutch the swinging car for safety. That the streets are crowded matters not at all to our jehu, and many is the anathema hurled at our heads from the scattering populace—until finally the crowd becomes so dense that our pace is reduced perforce to a walk, and at last we stop altogether. Just before us is a half-grown boy celebrating the approach of the day of rest to the best of his ability, and an odder figure I have never seen. His tattered trousers are rolled up above a pair of brogans which would fit the Cardiff giant, the tails of what once was a black coat of great size trail on the ground behind him, while his dirty mug of a face has the stump of a pipe fixed somewhere in the middle—I can see no mouth—and is crowned by what was once a silk hat, now by numerous blows and whacks more resembling an opera hat semi-collapsed. In his hand he twirls a shillalah, and as he croons a ditty he wheels ever and anon to attack any one who treads on the tails of his coat. Before we have fully appreciated all of his good points our attention is attracted by increased shouts and the rush of the crowd down the quay, where evidently Pat and Dinnis are at it hard and fast.

How the hats fly! You can hear the whacks of the shillalahs even from here. The dancing, jeering, hooting, and howling crowd takes first one side and then the other, "fightin aich uther fur konciliation and hatin aich uther fur the love o' God." Just about this time we think best to retire, as good hats are too attractive in free fights.

It has turned stormy again and the wind blows in great gusts up the river from the sea. Shortly after we start homeward a fishwife carrying her loaded basket comes out from a doorway and up a few steps onto the pavement, when the wind taking her broadside blows her over backwards, her legs sticking up in the air like two great lighthouses. Of course the contents of her basket are attacked by every gamin in sight, but the old woman gets all the fish but one and she has a firm hold on one end of that, while a sturdy boy holds tight on to the tail. Then begins a tug of war, resulting in an upset for the boy with half the fish clutched in his fist. Quick as lightning she seizes him and thoroughly washes his face with the other half. The last glimpse I have of them as we roll away she has turned him over her knees and there is no indication of "konciliation" on her face.

Verily—there is "something doing on the quay at Cork of a Saturday evening."

Nine o'clock next morning brings our motor to the hotel door. It is soon packed and, the word given, is rolling away through the streets of the city, which one moment laugh with sunshine and the next weep with downpouring rain,—but bless you, no one minds the rain in Ireland, certainly not in Cork.

The music of the Bells of Shandon follows us far out into the green lanes and winding highways and the motor hums and sings in response as we roll under the grand old trees with their curtains of quivering ivy. Almost at once, things begin to happen, and, as usual, an ancient dame is the cause of war.

At the end of a long lane, over which the ivy draped trees form a perfect archway, a donkey cart driven by an old lady approaches us, and as usual we produce consternation. With each leg pointed towards one of the points of the compass and with great ears slanting towards us, the little beast is prepared against all attacks, and to run in any direction, but he reckons without his mistress. She does not propose that there shall be any run at all, and quickly slides to the ground from her perch in the cart—and in her progress shows us that aside from her waist and woollen skirt she is not encumbered with clothing. The situation requires prompt action, and seizing her skirt in both hands she rushes at the donkey and claps it over his head. His surprise is intense and deprives him of action. What he thinks I know not, but as we roll by we distinctly hear a suppressed "he-haw."

The distance to Fermoy is quickly covered, and we pass in triumph the spot where last year we broke down and were forced to take to jaunting-cars.

The Fusiliers who then were at Buttevant are in Fermoy now, and we dine in the Mess.

The barracks are much alike in the two places, but while this has no "green" for cricket and croquet, Fermoy is quite a contrast to the wretched town of Buttevant. Still all that sinks into nothingness when it is stated that that is "a better hunting country."

As of old, the officers endeavour to induce me to spend a winter in that sport. Twenty years ago I might have done so, but it's too late now, though I have no doubt that if I lived here I should try it regardless of the flight of years. I have no doubt but that I could if necessary buy hunters from each and all of them,—and I have also no doubt but that they would loan me all they have or may have if I would accept, which I would not do.

This is Sunday morning, and his Majesty's soldiers are going to church. The Church of Rome claims the larger number and there are some hundreds of scarlet coats marching past the hotel now to the ever favourite and inspiring tune of Hiawatha. How the fifes do seize upon and rip out those notes and what joy there is in every whack given by that great bass drummer! My admiration of last year is intensified.

The officer in charge is a man I know very well and I try my best to attract his attention, but without success; discipline must be maintained, and not a glance comes in my direction from under his towering "bear skin," though I know that he sees me. He owes me a grudge because, his mother being an American, I tell him his coat should be blue.

The streets have ceased to glitter with crimson and gold, and the air has lost the tones of martial music as we roll away,—only the murmur of the river and the solemn music of the organ from an ivy-clad church yonder breaks the stillness of this sunny Sunday morning.

Not far from Fermoy stands a mansion which is of interest to many in America, Killshening House, one of the seats of Lord Fermoy. That title will in time pass to an American boy, or man as he will be then, though I doubt his ever assuming it—certainly he will never occupy this house. The present owner lives in a place belonging to his wife, and as we enter the gates of Killshening, we see at once that it is and has been long deserted.

These abandoned houses greet the traveller all over Ireland. This one has not been lived in for some generations by the family. It does not pay to keep up the house, and renting the land out as pasturage brings more income than in any other way. Still it is sad to find a stately mansion in such a reduced state. The rusty gates have long ceased to perform their function and stand deeply imbedded in the grass-grown drive which stretches inward toward the house. The trees have grown wild at will and stretch their branches almost across the drive. The grass is rank but still thick and velvety and some sheep stare at our intrusion and then scuttle away to a safe distance where they stop huddled together and stare again. Hawthorn hedges white with bloom enclose the place almost like the palace of the sleeping beauty and one wonders whether man has entered yonder silent house for the last hundred years. It certainly has not that appearance. Its windows have a sightless, unoccupied look and its doors swing open to the summer breezes. Except for the sheep there is no sign of life anywhere and we enter and roam at will through the deserted rooms. In its exterior it is of the usual type of such houses in Ireland, a stately rectangular structure, probably of some two centuries of age. Its portals are never closed, and passing inward, one enters a large square hallway, whose fine ceiling is supported by four stately columns. Surrounding this are numerous living-rooms, reception-and dining-rooms, and in several the ceilings show much beauty even through the mould and dirt of years of neglect.

Of those who made this place a home all have long since passed beneath the "low green tent whose curtains never outward swing" and those who own it now have other houses more to their taste, so this stands tenantless, the silence both without and within broken only by the sound of our footfalls as we explore the empty, echoing spaces.

The park around is fine, but as we pass away we note that nearly all the great timber has been cut down.

It's a sad place, and even our motor seems anxious to leave it.

Our car this year is a 16-20 Clement and on its top speed runs as noiselessly as an electric. It is not an especially good hill climber, though that may be but a temporary fault, as sometimes it sails up an incline with ease, while at others balks at much lesser grades. On the whole I like the car very much, and though two years old and having had hard usage, with but small expense it could be made as good as new. It is certainly to be preferred to the Panhard of last year and is more agreeable to ride in than the sixty horse-power Mercedes of the Duke of M. In those high power cars, unless at full speed, which is impossible on most Irish roads, one is disagreeably conscious of the power beneath one, and rather dreads a breaking away with its ensuing destruction. Certainly but few of these Irish roads are suited to a speed of sixty miles per hour. This car comes from Wayte Bros., of Dublin, and costs twenty pounds per month less than that of last season.

Our onward route lies over the hills to Fethard through Clonmel and across the river Moyle. As we enter, we encounter a funeral, and I notice that they are carrying the corpse round and round what is certainly the town pump. Later I learn that a cross once stood there, also that through the gate by which Cromwell entered the town the dead are never carried.

Boyse has a sister living here, and we pass the night in her home.

Fethard is one of those quaint Irish places which the world, unless it hunts the fox, never comes near,—but the Irish world does hunt the fox and hence everybody that is anybody comes to Fethard.

As I wandered out into the meadows behind the mews, I came upon a pile of coffins under a shed,—new and awaiting occupants. Evidently they are bought by the wholesale here and of assorted sizes against emergencies. Near-by stood the village hearse, and backed up against a hayrick the remains of the worn-out one which had ceased from its labors. My remark that the "coffins were cheap and thin" brought out the rejoinder, "Ah, they're good enough, give the worms a chance." So wears the world away. The reply came from an old man smoking a stump of a pipe, and calmly reposing the while in a pine box, the future use of which could not be a matter of doubt.

Leaving him to his repose I enter the motor and with my host and hostess and B. roll off through Clonmel to the superb estate of the Marquis of W., "Curraghmore House," the location of which at once strikes the beholder as very superb. Lofty hills, rich dales, and almost impenetrable woods surround him in all directions. The home park alone holds some twenty-seven hundred acres, entirely enclosed by a high stone wall.

As we approach the gates we see on a distant hill a lofty tower erected in memory of one of the heirs, who as a boy broke his neck while attempting to jump his horse over the gate just before us, and which is to-day opened to our sounding horn by a smiling old lady, who curtsies deeply as we pass her.

Three gates are encountered before we enter the court of Curraghmore House, where we hear that "His Lordship is down at the kennels," and so roll away again through the aisles of such trees as only these ancestral places can show, save in California or a primeval forest where the vandal, man, has not had his way. How beautiful it is! The wide white avenues roll and twist away over the deep rich grass. Yonder valley is a mass of blossoming rhododendrons,—tree fuchsias bloom on the other hand,—and across the river the green hills mount away, dotted with sheep, to a fair blue sky.

We cross an ancient bridge of stone with the water gurgling deliciously beneath as it flows off down a lane brilliant with the lilac of the rhododendrons.

The kennels are probably the most extensive in Ireland and resemble a large carnivora house in some zoÖlogical garden,—even to the iron cages for summer use.

Here, amidst more than a hundred hounds, we find our host. Of an ancient Irish family, tall, very fair, with close cropped yellow hair and blue eyes, and clad in a long white linen coat, his appearance is very English, which remark would not please him at all I am told. He is making a register of his hounds for the dog show at Peterborough next month.

Each hound is presented, passed upon, and has her name duly entered on the list. I am told that the dog does not make a good hunter in Ireland, and hence all of the one hundred and twelve animals here are bitches. [Perhaps that is always the case, if so you will discover that I am not a sportsman.] If you were to stumble and fall while near them they would promptly tear you to pieces, though they are friendly enough and almost every one, as she passes through the cage, pokes her nose into our hands.

These dogs actually seem to know what is being said about them. When they passed muster they jumped away like a boy through with his examinations,—but there were two or three which did not pass, and the look of reproach cast upon their keeper as he told of their failings was almost human.

The registering done with, they are let out in two lots on the hillside, and crowd around us, still friendly apparently, but as we turn to leave—the hounds having been caged again—I drop my stick, and when I stoop to pick it up the whole pack spring at the bars in a wild attempt to get at me. I do not regret the protecting iron.

These kennels are beautifully kept, and the oatmeal cakes on the shelves of the feed house would taste very good, I fancy. In fact I am bidden to try one.

We motor back through the domain to the grounds back of the house and walk across them to enter the mansion. They are beautifully laid off, but I think the huge bronze fountain in the centre is a mistake,—a simple stone basin with a majestic geyser of water would be more in keeping with the age of the place and the simple and severe outlines of the house. Like most of the great fountains there is too much bronze and too little water.

Curraghmore House was built about 1700, around the remains of a very ancient castle. From this side the building somewhat resembles Chatsworth, but on the other one sees the great square tower which dates from the twelfth century. It has been, of course, much changed and is now outwardly made to conform to the rest of the mansion,—but upon entering you at once notice the great thickness of the walls which prove its age. They are adorned with trophies of the chase of much interest.

Mounting a staircase of gradual ascent one enters another square hall around which are the living-rooms, some very rich in ornamentation, especially in the painted ceilings. Many portraits gaze questioningly at me from the walls, some so dark with age that only the eyes are visible, eyes in a pallid face and all else lost in the shadow,—faces whose owners have come and gone like the shadows of a dream, and whose very names are now forgotten;—living, I fancy, their lives out in these old halls, with as little thought for the inevitable forgetfulness of time, as we have to-day, and we have none at all, but pass the time in a happy fashion over tea in the Library.

Some of us wander off to the billiard hall up in the great tower, and descending stop a moment in a room which it is claimed is visited by such a ghostly caller as Scott tells of in his "Tapestried chamber,"—one which will wake you and jibe at you. Here is a portrait of a lady, with a band on her wrist. She and a brother lived long ago and were both atheists. The brother became converted to a belief in God but not this sister, and he promised that when he died if there was a God and a hereafter, he would return, which he did, and seizing his sister by the wrist left a mark which necessitated the wearing of this band. There it is in that portrait over the mantel in the ghost's room.

There are other phantoms which haunt this mansion of Curraghmore, but let this suffice. I should like to have slept in that room, and after we departed I was told that we had all been asked to "stay the night," but the ladies of the party objected as Lady W. was absent.

Many years ago en route from Calcutta to Ceylon we had on board a poor sick man en route to colder climes in the hope of prolonging his life—a vain one as it proved. He was brought out daily and laid on the deck and naturally became an object of interest and sympathy to all of the passengers. One elderly lady was especially kind to him and I held many long conversations with her. She told me that he had been in the employ of the government in the Indian Islands, and, stricken with fever, had been ordered home, leaving a wife and a newly born child behind him. As I left the ship at Colombo I saw her standing by his side fanning him. Poor man—he was buried at sea near Aden and to-day I find her portrait looking down upon me from these walls. She was Lady Waterford, the grandmother of our host, a woman who believed in seeing the world and, as I know, doing good as she passed along. I believe she was considered rather eccentric—interesting people generally are so,—and it is stated that she discarded all the family jewels in favour of one made of foxes' teeth. Although eighteen years had elapsed since that sea trip hers was not a face to be forgotten, and I knew it at once. I believe she has long since passed away.

There is a story told of the castle in Cromwell's day which, while it proves that there is a woman at the bottom of most incidents in this world, shows that here her wits were the salvation of the house. Knowing that her father would die rather than surrender to the king-killer, she seduced the lord of the manor into one of his own dungeons and promptly locked him up. Into Cromwell's hands she then delivered the keys of the castle, assuring him that though forced to be absent on this auspicious occasion her father was nevertheless well disposed to the cause of Parliament and willing to give such proof as the Protector might demand. In consequence Curraghmore remained unimpaired in the possession of its owner, securely locked up the while in his own dungeon.

Taking it all in all it is a most interesting place, yet when all is said, to my thinking, the greatest beauty lies in the superb trees of the park, and its wonderful stretches of grassland.