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.
CHAPTER II.
BLARNEY—KILLARNEY—THE LAKES.
At 9 a. m. Tuesday, April 23, we took a jaunting-car for famed Blarney Castle. Before proceeding with our story we must speak of our team, for it is the mode of conveyance for tourists over the Emerald Isle, and Ireland would hardly seem like Ireland without the jaunting-car. It is a vehicle with two wheels and a single horse. The driver is mounted up, sulky-style, in front. There are two seats, lengthwise and back-to-back, for a couple of adult persons, facing outwards, and most of the time holding on, though a little practice convinces one that the danger of falling is less than anticipated. Large numbers of these teams are in the main streets of all the principal Irish towns, waiting for employment. The usual price for a jaunt is eight shillings, or about $2.00 of American money. The one selected, whose driver was over anxious to carry the two Amirikins, as he called us, offered to do the job for 7s. 6d. Yankee-like, having made a good bargain—and the driver, unyankee-like, having as at an auction bid against himself—we mounted, and were soon on our way to the place so renowned in history. First, we will consider the roads.
The ride is exceedingly pleasant, and over one of the smooth and hard roads which are everywhere to be found in Ireland. We go out of Cork southwardly, and pass through a small and not over-nice settlement called Black Pool, by no means inaptly named. The scenery is very pleasing, and so is the road we travel. The view on the north side of the river, though not wild or romantic, has beautiful landscapes, made up of fine hills and valleys, streams and groves, with, now and then, unlooked-for ruins of a monastery or small castle, or of distant round-towers.
There are no long straight roads, but there is an ever varying aspect, and the ways are clean to a fault. It is a characteristic of Ireland, England, and nearly all European countries, to have well-built faced-stone walls along the roadside, and an entire absence of the random weeds and bushes which so commonly grow along the walls and sides of the roads in America. It is a disgrace to our Young American civilization that it should be an exception, where the sides of our roads, and especially in the vicinity of farmhouses, are clean, and in lawn-like condition, as is always the case abroad. We have much to learn from Ireland—a deal of our practice to unlearn, and considerable to do—before we can compare favorably with Europe in this respect. A waste of acres exists in consequence of this neglect on nearly all New England farms. In the aggregate there are hundreds of thousands of acres which, if kept clean and cultivated for grass, would be profitable. Even if done at the town's expense, the income would go far towards paying the cost of keeping in repair the adjoining highway. The State should pass a law making this neglect a finable offence; and the sooner all States do this the better our civilization will be.
We continue on our way enjoying inexpressibly the exhilarating air and sunny, May-like day, and entertained somewhat by the clack of the driver, who, as best he can, tries to make his old story appear to us as new as possible, but, in spite of our or his efforts, we get the impression that he has told that story before.
We next get a good but distant view of Carrigrohan Castle, belonging to one Mr. McSwiney—the name of both castle and owner Irish enough. It is situated on a precipitous limestone-rock formation on the opposite bank of the river. At length—one hour passed, and about four miles traversed—we arrive at the old, dirty, low, dilapidated, Irish town of Blarney, which, for situation and surroundings, is as beautiful as every place in Ireland can't help being. Blarney has been immortalized in song by Millikin, Croker, and old, peculiar Father Prout.
A ride of two miles, and we are at the grounds of the castle itself. It was built in the fifteenth century by Cormac McCarthy, or possibly by the Countess of Desmond, and became the home of the famous family of McCarthys. It is now a magnificent old ruin, well situated near a little lake, and surrounded by grand old trees. Admission to the premises is readily gained, as the grounds are open to the public free, such small, optional fee being given to the guide as the tourist may incline to present.
The castle consists mainly of the massive Donjon Tower, about forty feet square, and one hundred and ten feet high, and some ruined walls of less height, once part of adjoining apartments. Much of the tower and lower walls is completely covered with ivy, and most of the foliage is from twelve to sixteen inches thick. There is a picturesqueness about such a place that is indescribable. The grand and colossal scale on which it is constructed; the rich greenness of the lawns; the shade of portions of the immediately adjoining groves; the sombre hue of the stonework, and the dark green of the mantling ivy; the gleam of the little lake as discovered through the vistas; the age of the edifice, so apparent; the consciousness that this is a veritable ruin, and what is left of an unparalleled splendor of other days, now calm as if resting fixed in its immortality—these combine to resolve imagination into reality, and produce sensations that are felt, but never transferred from one mortal to another. Perhaps there enters into emotion a suggestion of decline and decay still operating. "The vulgar crowd," as old English expression would put it, are possessed not by the finer æsthetic conditions, but by those more tangible and material.
The famed Blarney Stone is one of the coping-stones of the outside projecting cornice, near the top of the tower, and resting on large, but plain, stone corbels, or brackets. In appearance from the ground, it is six feet long and eighteen inches thick, and projects two feet or so. Many years ago it appeared to be insecure, and two iron bars were put on the outside, securing it in its position. There are courses of stone upon it, falling back from the front surface, and making a parapet to the tower. It was over this parapet that persons, head downwards, held and aided by others, performed the task of kissing the stone. A stairway on the inside leads nearly to the top of the tower; but now, for a more convenient and safe way of performing the operation, another stone, bearing date 1703, is kept within the tower. Its magic is as effectual, while it is reached with comparative
