The glamour of Cork

Each story keeps the passage it was read from. Open one to read it as the scan has it, and, where the companion has written its own telling, that too. The passages are read off photographs of the page by machine, so a word here and there comes out wrong; they are kept as the reading produced them, so you can check any of them against the scan.

1. Queen Victoria visits Cork Harbour, 1848

   Cobh · municipal district · Cork · 1848

   In 1848, amid famine and mass emigration, Queen Victoria sailed into Cork Harbour and stepped ashore at Cove, which was thereafter called Queenstown. The author contrasts the imperial pageantry with the suffering of the Irish people and the exile ships sailing from the same waters.

   Read the passage

   Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

   THIS way the people have been fleeing; out between the forts that shine with furze, till the sun coming up makes the clumps of it like gold brooches on the neck of Earth, the beloved. So the exile ships are sailing and the fields smile them away; a happy journey for some at least, " bread and work for all,'* as the song foretells in fatherly U.S.A., a better hope than famine and fever and the bailiff and rack-renter can offer over here. For it is 1848, anguish and grief and hunger down the wind. Until, behold, the curtain rings up for an entrance ! Let exits be forgot ! Whitefunnelled, the suggestion of all things pure and holy, spangled down the mast-line with flags to which the villa-flags ashore make little pusillanimous curtseys, as though too loyal to wag vulgarly and roar in the wind, behold again the yacht ! Now it is up to the deepwater quay, and She steps down — ineffable day ! And her Irish, " My Irish" — the humour of it, as Nym would signify — for ever after they may call the place Queenstown ! So blow yourselves out with cheers, good folk, and, Empire, go ravaging on! And away with us all ecstatic, in small boats, on foot by the banks, in broughams and ass-carts along

   89

   Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 37

   As the companion tells it

   Cobh was called Cove until 1848, when Queen Victoria stepped ashore and the name changed to Queenstown. That same year, the people were fleeing out past the forts where the furze shines like gold brooches on the earth. The exile ships were sailing, and the fields smiled them away. Some at least might hope for "bread and work for all," as the song foretells in fatherly America, a better prospect than famine and fever and the bailiff and the rack-renter could offer in Ireland. For it is 1848, anguish and grief and hunger down the wind. And then the curtain rises. A yacht, white-funnelled, the suggestion of all things pure and holy, spangled with flags down the mast-line, while the villa-flags ashore make little curtseys, too loyal to wag vulgarly in the wind. The yacht comes up to the deepwater quay, and She steps down. "My Irish," she calls them. And ever after they may call the place Queenstown. So blow yourselves out with cheers, good folk, and, Empire, go ravaging on. And away with us all ecstatic, in small boats, on foot by the banks, in broughams and ass-carts along the shore.

2. Jacobite soldiers blown up at Cork wharf after Treaty

   Cork · city · Cork · 1691

   As the first shipload of Jacobite soldiers, about five hundred men, prepared to sail from the Lower Road in Cork under the Treaty of Limerick, the ship exploded at the wharf, killing all aboard. Sarsfield and O'Connor witnessed the catastrophe.

   Read the passage

   Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

   siege a year before. O'Connor is glad that they are to sail away from this place ; "a mean town compared with Limerick" he calls it. Their weary soldiers drift in and out of the southern suburb beyond Sullivan's Quay, the Irish town where "unregenerate Celts" can in fellow-feeling welcome the fugitives. Until now it is time for parting again. Sarsfield is on his way to superintend the sailing from the Lower Road. Suddenly, however, there is a sound as of cannon. O'Connor stops and clutches the General by the shoulder. This tragedy, fury, Erinnys, whatever it is, seems over their high and noble cause. The first shipload of the poor, footsore, faithful, daring fellows has been blown up at the wharf. For these five hundred, at least, there will be no revenge and wild cries of " Ireland ! Ireland !" as they charge down the lines at Ramillies !

   28

   Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 10

   As the companion tells it

   As you pass through Cork, you are moving through a city the Jacobite soldiers of 1691 were glad to leave. O'Connor called it a mean town compared with Limerick. The weary soldiers drifted through the southern suburb beyond Sullivan's Quay, where O'Connor wrote that unregenerate Celts could welcome the fugitives in fellow-feeling. Then it was time for parting. Sarsfield was on his way to superintend the sailing from the Lower Road. Suddenly there was a sound as of cannon. O'Connor stopped and clutched the General by the shoulder. The first shipload of those poor, footsore, faithful, daring fellows had been blown up at the wharf. About five hundred men, killed as they prepared to sail under the Treaty of Limerick. For these five hundred there would be no revenge, no wild cries of Ireland, Ireland, as they charged down the lines at Ramillies.

3. Parnell's torchlit election rally on Patrick Street

   Patrick Street · street · Cork · 1880–1891

   A vast torchlit crowd packed old Patrick Street in Cork before eight o'clock, with ten bands and a thousand torches, to hear Charles Stuart Parnell speak from a bookshop window. Parnell, tall, bearded, deadly-pale, delivered calculated rhetoric and was elected head of the poll the next day, despite opposition from Whigs, the Bishop, and the Cork Examiner.

   Read the passage

   Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

   LOOSE-LAYERED with stones, ill-lit by the green gaunt gaslamps, crack-flagged on the footpath, old Patrick Street is packed with people ere eight o'clock strikes. Ten bands, a score of tar-barrels, a thousand torches — a night for Victor Hugo to rave through, or Dickens, hatless in the midst. Round the Examiner Office, the crowd sways as a tired torch-bearer staggers, or a bandsman digs his way through into Falkener's Lane. By Marlboro' Street corner, a mass-moan indicates that fifty or sixty are crushed and must cry out. Another cry, pain, terror and ribald delight mixed is heard whenever a torch drips pitch upon a neighbour's hand. But, suddenly, all eyes burn to the window over the bookshop. An alderman thrusts out his head and shoulders. There is that overwrought attention that implies a greater figure to follow — hooray ! There he is ! — God love him ! Till the crowd, their faces torch-lit, all a bubbling cauldron underneath, rises, seems to boil up, tosses and roars. He looks down upon it, waiting, unimaginative, a calculator, his phrases cut well beforehand, no disorder or ecstasy induced in him by this heart-surge below. He is tall, bearded, deadly-pale, distinguished-looking, a "gentle-

   8

   Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 3

   As the companion tells it

   This is Patrick Street in Cork, where a torchlit crowd once packed the old street to hear Charles Stuart Parnell speak. Before eight o'clock struck, the street was full. Ten bands played, a score of tar-barrels stood, and a thousand torches lit the night. The crowd swayed round the Examiner Office. Tired torch-bearers staggered. Bandsmen dug their way through into Falkener's Lane. By Marlboro' Street corner, fifty or sixty people were crushed, and a mass-moan went up. Whenever a torch dripped pitch on a neighbour's hand, another cry rose — pain, terror, and ribald delight mixed. Then all eyes burned to the window over the bookshop. An alderman thrust out his head and shoulders. The crowd knew a greater figure was coming. There he was. They roared, faces torch-lit, the whole mass a bubbling cauldron underneath. Parnell looked down, waiting. He was tall, bearded, deadly-pale, distinguished-looking. He was a calculator, his phrases cut well beforehand. No disorder or ecstasy came over him from the heart-surge below. He was elected head of the poll the next day, despite the Whigs, the Bishop, and the Cork Examiner.

4. Spanish landing at Kinsale, 1601

   Kinsale · town · Cork · 1601

   In September 1601 a small Spanish fleet of about 3,000 men under Don Juan del Aguila arrived at Kinsale. The townspeople were elated, but the Irish chiefs largely failed to rally to the Spanish cause.

   Read the passage

   Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

   the Spanish King's Secretary, has been to Tuam to consult with the Archbishop there. Philip II. will fling in a force soon, the disgrace of the shattered Armada will be avenged. But the Spaniards are slow ; hardly the stuff of conquerors any more. Will they ever come? If they do it will be a " splendid hazard," says O* Sullivan of Beara as the Lee hushes its current in key with their expectation . Tney pledge to the tryst whatever arise ! So time whirrs to the great conclusion. For now, in September, 1601, the promise is kept. A fleet, and then another, tack past the Old Head : though hardly the ships they had awaited. For these are but poor vessels, with small guns and 3000 men, a scant force, aboard. The flagship ties up, Don Juan del Aguila marches with twentyfive colours into Kinsale. It is a golden entrance; the folk are thrilled. Let walls and bastions be manned, couriers fly !

   But alas, the story repeats, as often before ! The chiefs of the Irish do not rally. Thomond and Clanrickard reneague for the belly and bed certainty of the English side. MacCarthy Mor is seized already, a prisoner, in the Tower. For three weeks the .3000 odd Spaniards with the four hundred women and children they have brought with them on the ships await the decision. Sir George Carew has

   Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 40

   As the companion tells it

   Kinsale is a town the road passes through, and in September 1601 it was where Spain kept a promise long made. Philip the Second had vowed to avenge the shattered Armada, and now a fleet, and then another, tacked past the Old Head. But these were poor vessels, with small guns and 3000 men aboard, a scant force. The flagship tied up, and Don Juan del Aguila marched with twenty-five colours into Kinsale. It was a golden entrance. The folk were thrilled. Walls and bastions were manned, and couriers flew. The townspeople had waited long for this. O'Sullivan of Beara had called it a splendid hazard as the Lee hushes its current in key with their expectation. But the Irish chiefs did not rally. Thomond and Clanrickard went to the English side, for what the material calls the belly and bed certainty. MacCarthy Mor was already a prisoner in the Tower. For three weeks the 3000 Spaniards, with the 400 women and children they had brought on the ships, awaited the decision. Sir George Carew had moved against them.

5. Boggeragh Mountains butter transport

   near Boggeragh Mountains · mountain or mountain range · Cork · 1770

   At the foot of the Boggeragh Mountains, travellers woke in the night to prepare horses and carts for the journey to the Cork Butter Market, using strips of lighted bog-deal from the turf-fire.

   Read the passage

   Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

   WAKING in the night, west, at the foot of the Boggeragh Mountains, you would hear the horse and he being tackled in the yard outside, a strip of lighted bog-deal kindled at the constant turf-fire flaring up here and there as the servant-boy stoops and searches for a piece of the harness mislaid on the day before. At three o'clock there comes every five minutes or so a butt rattling and lurching through the Square and along the Main Street of Macroom, or a horseman with three firkins slung, since there are as yet no roads cut for wheeled traffic from about Adrigole. Until everywhere the day is coming up to that soothing rhymeless music of hoof -beats and rumbling wheels, and the stagger and strain of unsprung axles down the roads. And now near six, they are climbing old Mallow Lane or by the Watercourse for those travelling from the north, a greeting exchanged, that undiplomatic ease and courtesy of men who are wise to sunsets and dawn ! " There was a shower only and I near Fermoy," and, " 'Twas cold and the horse wheezing on me and we passing Ballea," and, " That cock at Minane — he'd crow and we coming whatever kind the weather would be." So in the year 1 770 and after, the high ground about the Butter Market is rich with the morn-

   79

   Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 33

   As the companion tells it

   In the dark before dawn, at the foot of the Boggeragh Mountains, the sound that woke you was a horse being tackled in the yard outside. A strip of lighted bog-deal, kindled at the turf-fire that was always kept burning, flared up here and there as the servant-boy stooped and searched for a piece of harness mislaid the day before. By three o'clock, every five minutes or so, a butt came rattling and lurching through the Square and along the Main Street of Macroom, or a horseman passed with three firkins slung, for there were as yet no roads cut for wheeled traffic from about Adrigole. Everywhere the day came up to the soothing rhymeless music of hoof-beats and rumbling wheels, and the stagger and strain of unsprung axles down the roads. Near six, they were climbing old Mallow Lane or by the Watercourse, for those travelling from the north, and a greeting was exchanged between men wise to sunsets and dawn. "There was a shower only and I near Fermoy." "'Twas cold and the horse wheezing on me and we passing Ballea." "That cock at Minane — he'd crow and we coming whatever kind the weather would be." So in the year 1770 and after, the high ground about the Butter Market was rich with the morning.

6. John Mitchel's final appearance at Cork Opera House

   Cork · city · Cork · 1875

   On 26 February 1875 the Opera House in Cork was packed for John Mitchel's election address. Too ill to stand, he was brought from his lodging at Sunday's Well, collapsed while attempting to speak, and was taken home to Newry where he died weeks later.

   Read the passage

   Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

   THE Opera House is packed to-night, February 26th, 1875; the audience by turns breathless, surging, whistling and chaffing. The pit is crowded with people from the shops; men who another time would not have the social courage to confront Montenotte pour now into the circle and the boxes. There are boys everywhere, the great clan -calling boys who are in every Cork crush. To-night clearly it is no common show, no acted adventure. There are love here and gratitude; and torrents of passion ready to burst. So a curious re-shuffling, a personal uneasiness begins to go along the rows as the appointed hour is passed. " Something has happened to him maybe ? The poor man ! " A deputation is sent to his lodging at Sunday's Well. He is on a sofa, hardly able to sit up. But the old courage rouses in him at the tender voices of the men. He rises, staggers to the car, they drive down. The curtain is up. There is a roar of hysterical cheers, too loud, too long continued ; the false greeting that will prove they do not fear but he will be well instantly again ! But the gallant fellow, how sadly he is changed ! Sixty years only, and a ghost ! Many a one remembers him at forty

   33

   Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 12

   As the companion tells it

   As you come through Cork, this is the city where John Mitchel made his last public appearance, in 1875. On the 26th of February that year the Opera House was packed. The pit was crowded with people from the shops. Men who another time would not have the social courage to confront Montenotte poured into the circle and the boxes. Boys were everywhere. It was no common show. There were love here and gratitude, and torrents of passion ready to burst. A curious uneasiness began to go along the rows as the appointed hour was passed. "Something has happened to him maybe? The poor man!" A deputation was sent to his lodging at Sunday's Well. He was on a sofa, hardly able to sit up. But the old courage roused in him at the tender voices of the men. He rose, staggered to the car, and they drove down. The curtain was up. There was a roar of hysterical cheers, too loud, too long continued, the false greeting that would prove they did not fear but he would be well instantly again. But the gallant fellow, how sadly he was changed. Sixty years only, and a ghost. Many a one remembered him at forty. He was taken home to Newry, where he died weeks later.

7. Perkin Warbeck's spoof prince arrival in Cork

   Cork · city · Cork · 1491–1499

   The young adventurer Perkin Warbeck arrived by ship at Passage, stole his skipper's silk suit, and walked to Cork via the Rochestown Road. He was feted by Cork's citizens as a prince, with the Mayor Walters encouraging the deception, until both were eventually executed at Tyburn.

   Read the passage

   Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

   As soon as the ship had tied up above Passage, the young sailor was in high humour. For before all things he was art adventurer and, though hardly yet seventeen, he has seen and lived already in his native France, in Belgium, Holland, and he has been for a trip to Portugal besides. So here now what fun it will be to get a sweetheart, " cut a dash," play swell-mobsman, anything, with those Anglo-Danish-Norman folk who are, he has heard, as capricious a crowd as the Gascons themselves — the trick begun by taking a silk suit of the skipper's without the asking, donning it and, so, away to Cork by the Rochestown Road; the native Irish delighted with the doll of a fellow and he foreign-like, the boys and girls clustering up as he reaches the South Gate, a rumour running, like the local " greased lightning," within the walls. Until the cabin-boy begins to be the cynosure of the North Main Street fashionable residents pouring out.

   "Some great person — I'm sure he is!" And the Mayor is sought, one Walters, a jongleur, the paragon of wags for all time. His imagination, devilment are swift to work !

   Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 23

   As the companion tells it

   In the 1490s, a young adventurer named Perkin Warbeck arrived by ship at Passage, near Cork. He was barely seventeen, already having lived in France, Belgium, Holland, and taken a trip to Portugal. Above all he was an adventurer. As soon as the ship tied up he was in high humour. He had heard the local people, those Anglo-Danish-Norman folk, were as capricious a crowd as the Gascons. So he took a silk suit from the skipper without asking, put it on, and walked to the city by the Rochestown Road. The native Irish were delighted with this doll of a fellow, foreign-like. Boys and girls clustered around him as he reached the South Gate. A rumour ran through the walls like greased lightning. He became the cynosure of North Main Street's fashionable residents, who poured out. "Some great person — I'm sure he is!" The Mayor was sought, one Walters, a jongleur, the paragon of wags. His imagination and devilment were swift to work. The citizens feted Warbeck as a prince, with Walters encouraging the deception. Both were eventually executed at Tyburn.

8. Cork's rebellion against James I

   Cork · city · Cork

   When Elizabeth I died, Cork's Anglo-Norman merchant families resisted acknowledging James I, raiding royal stores and admitting rebel forces. Mountjoy marched from Dublin with 5,000 men; after two men were killed in heavy rain, the merchant families persuaded the Mayor to open the gates and surrender.

   Read the passage

   Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

   individualist. Who, indeed, is this James the First? — out upon him for an undivulged personality, say the Meades and the Roches and the Barrys and the Morroughs and the Galways — no allegiance to him till he declares whether he will continue Elizabeth's facing-both-ways government — Cork with its conditional loyalty, that went Sinn Fein often to avoid the taxes in Bess's time, will do a Bolshevik stunt now if necessary to stampede James. So out with the guns and rake the royal stores at Skiddy's Castle, the governor's windows at Shandon; let Haulbowline be blockaded against attack from the sea. Worse than all, admit those wild and woolly real rebels from without the gates — they will spare the Meades and the Roches and the Barrys and the Morroughs and the Galways the fag of this distressing war-business. But Mountjoy has marched from Dublin with 5000 men. The imported Celts are eager to resist; they thirst for a fight, but the Meades and the Roches and the Barrys and the Morroughs and the Galways have a word with the Mayor and tears are shed. It is raining heavily, two men have already been killed — bloodshed is such a wretched, messy thing compared with simple aqueous principles. Let the gates be opened. Business as usual — God save the King !

   104

   Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 42

   As the companion tells it

   Cork has always had its own way of doing things. When Elizabeth died, the old merchant families of the city — the Meades, the Roches, the Barrys, the Morroughs, and the Galways — wanted no part of James the First. They asked a fair question: who was this man, and would he carry on as Elizabeth had done? No answer came, so no allegiance was given. Out came the guns. They raided the royal stores at Skiddy's Castle and raked the governor's windows at Shandon. They blockaded Haulbowline against attack from the sea. Then they did something worse: they opened the gates to the rebels waiting outside, figuring those wild men could do the fighting for them. But Mountjoy marched from Dublin with 5000 men. The imported Celts were ready for a fight, eager for it, but the merchant families had a quiet word with the Mayor instead. Tears were shed. It was raining heavily. Two men had already been killed, and bloodshed was such a wretched, messy thing compared with what they called simple aqueous principles. So the gates were opened. Business as usual. God save the King.

9. Don Juan of Spain arrives at Cork after the Battle of Kinsale

   Cork · city · Cork · 1602

   On 9 January 1602, a fortnight after the Battle of Kinsale, the Spanish leader Don Juan entered Cork through the south gate and was feted by loyal citizens. He lodged in eclectic apartments in Portney's Lane, called the Mayfair of the town, where he danced with merchants' daughters before being shipped back to Spain on St Patrick's Eve.

   Read the passage

   Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

   NEW Portney's Lane would not recognise him at all; and if he walked up out of the " North Maina" in his flowing hair, his shining hose and broad red-tasselled hat you would not like to have to answer for the consequences. But on January 9th, a fortnight after the battle at Kinsale, his arrival was a joy to the loyal citizens. For, to Cork intensely attached to queen and comfort, the rebelly Irish alliance with his most Catholic Majesty of Spain was disturbing to trade, uncertain of success, inopportune, and therefore to be shunned ! So now when the leader canters in over the south gate he is the guest of honour for all. Mountjoy, that versatile Lord President, has come down from Shandon Castle, Mountjoy himself only 38, a dandy witK multiple loveaffairs, and a doubtful hereafter. Until they are up and into eclectic apartments in Portney's Lane, the Mayfair of the town; where for a couple of months, Don Juan (his literal startling name) will dance with the merchants' daughters and drink wine with the Meades and the Terrys and the Dalys and the rest. All a swift interlude only, " a little scene to fear be monarchised, and kill with looks." For soon, on St. Patrick's Eve, Don Juan

   55

   Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 22

   As the companion tells it

   Cork, in 1602. A fortnight after the Battle of Kinsale, on January 9th, Don Juan of Spain rode in over the south gate, and his arrival was a joy to the loyal citizens. Cork, intensely attached to queen and comfort, had found the Irish alliance with his most Catholic Majesty of Spain disturbing to trade, uncertain of success, inopportune, and therefore to be shunned. But now the leader canters through the gate and he is guest of honour for all. Mountjoy, that versatile Lord President, came down from Shandon Castle to meet him. Mountjoy himself only 38, a dandy with multiple love affairs, and a doubtful hereafter. They lodged in eclectic apartments in Portney's Lane, the Mayfair of the town. There, for a couple of months, Don Juan, his literal and startling name, would dance with the merchants' daughters and drink wine with the Meades and the Terrys and the Dalys and the rest. All a swift interlude only, "a little scene to fear be monarchised, and kill with looks." For soon, on St Patrick's Eve, Don Juan was shipped back to Spain.

10. Death of Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, at Cork monastery

    Cork · city · Cork · 1381

    Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, was brought to the Prior's cell at St. Mary's of the Isle monastery in Cork after falling ill on a punitive expedition. He was anointed and died two days after Christmas 1381, aged thirty, his body carried away from the monastery.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    THE whole monastery is in movement, prayers are said late into the night. The Prior, Sub- Prior, Novice Master are met together; the others meeting keep their voices to a whisper. Outside the gates are pushed to very gently so that they may not creak. In the kitchen the rivalries of the cooks are suspended to looks only. For a litter has just been brought in, he has been taken to the Prior's own cell, cushions and blankets laid, such as await the highest guests. Then the physicians are summoned from the walled town; the guard is doubled so that none of the " wild Irish " from Gill Abbey may go noisily by. But he sinks, for all their care, unable further to resist the fog and damp of these Munster marshes. So he is anointed two days after Christmas, 1381, and passes away just thirty years of age. No wonder the brothers are thrilled by such a lofty exit; for this is Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, a fellow of splendid physique who has been a personal enemy of John of Gaunt, has rubbed shoulders with the Black Prince, and William of Wykeham, is married to a descendant of an Ulster de Burgh, crossed with English royalty, out of which union children have been born whose rivalries will

    35

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 13

    As the companion tells it

    As you come through Cork, the city holds an old story from 1381. A litter was brought into the monastery of St. Mary's of the Isle, and the whole place went into movement. Prayers were said late into the night. The Prior, Sub-Prior, and Novice Master met together. The others kept their voices to a whisper. Outside, the gates were pushed gently so they would not creak. In the kitchen, the rivalries among the cooks fell to looks only. The man on the litter was carried to the Prior's own cell, where cushions and blankets were laid out, as for the highest guests. Physicians were summoned from the walled town. The guard was doubled so that none of the "wild Irish" from Gill Abbey might go noisily by. But he sank, for all their care, unable to resist the fog and damp of these Munster marshes. He was anointed two days after Christmas, 1381, and died, aged thirty. He was Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, a man of splendid physique, a personal enemy of John of Gaunt, who had rubbed shoulders with the Black Prince and William of Wykeham, married to a descendant of an Ulster de Burgh crossed with English royalty. Children had been born of that union whose rivalries would follow. His body was carried away from the monastery.

11. Dermot MacMurrogh departs from Corcoran Strand, 1166

    Youghal · town · Cork · 1166

    In 1166, Dermot MacMurrogh, described as a ravisher and convent-breaker, boarded a ship at the Battery Sluice near Corcoran Strand and Clay Castle to sail east and bring the Anglo-Normans to Ireland. The author portrays the landscape of the strand and castle in vivid terms before condemning MacMurrogh's departure as the beginning of eight hundred years of anguish.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    " WHITHER now, O King? You are old, heavy with the weight of many sins. Will you not turn to God and prepare for your last end, a while?" Angel after angel fails from the task ; Ollamh Fodhla, Cuchulin, Conn, following down the roads on steeds of light, whisper in his ears as he rides through Hy Felimy ; the thousand martyrs of Eire throng round his heart and pluck at the strings as he passes Portlairge. But this time heaven shall not prevail. For now, at last, he is halted at Corcoran Strand ; old Clay Castle runs high and sparkling on to sea, winds young and merry play with its breasts of silver till the fine sandshower falls and they shine an instant in mail for the waves rising up, their lovers below. Oh God ! God ! that ever it should come to this ! That wind and wave and silver spray and streaming necklace of sand and shell-fans like fallen star-clusters on the shore should dim and darken, universal eclipse ! So the Fomorians are back, subtler, more snaring than the smooth bogs; here by the foothills, in which you sink — the fearful Fomorians ! And this, their devilry such as exceeds all ! For behold that shape ! Not man, nor beast but beyond them to monster

    91

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 38

    As the companion tells it

    Youghal is the town where Dermot MacMurrogh, in 1166, boarded a ship and sailed east to bring the Anglo-Normans to Ireland. The author calls him a ravisher and a convent-breaker, old and heavy with the weight of many sins. The departure would bring eight hundred years of anguish. Heaven tried to stop him. Angel after angel failed. Ollamh Fodhla, Cuchulin, Conn followed him down roads on steeds of light, whispering in his ears as he rode through Hy Felimy. A thousand martyrs of Eire thronged round his heart and plucked at the strings as he passed Portlairge. But heaven did not prevail. He halted at Corcoran Strand, by the Battery Sluice and old Clay Castle. The castle ran high and sparkling on to sea. Winds young and merry played with its breasts of silver till fine sand showered and they shone for an instant in mail for waves rising up, their lovers below. Shell-fans lay like fallen star-clusters on the shore. The author cries that wind and wave and silver spray should dim and darken, universal eclipse. The Fomorians are back, he writes, subtler, more snaring than smooth bogs, here by the foothills in which one sinks. Their devilry exceeds all. For behold that shape, not man, nor beast, but beyond them to monster.

12. Emigrants arriving at Glanmire Station, Cork

    near Glanmire · town · Cork

    Emigrant gangs, the young and fair from every valley in Ireland, were vomited out of trains at Glanmire Station in Cork. From there they passed through Summerhill on their way to Queenstown and the emigrant ships that would carry them to America.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    WHO are these, beasts of burden in the disguise of men, the " wild Irish" of the " history "-books, outcasts, or what? They toil up Summerhill with heavy loads, a mattress often, a carpet bag with a shirt and a coat and a rosary beads, a couple of tins rattling in their hands ; the vision of Empire reflected in a glass darkly as the funeral climbs. For funeral it is with Ireland every day going to her grave, the young and fair from every valley in those emigrant gangs vomited out of trains at the Glanmire Station, and who pass now in this frightful cinema of Summerhill. And so again in train-jolts to Queenstown and the tender that shall swing them out to be swallowed into the stinking hold of the big ship between the forts. Now they stretch out upon the platform for a minute's rest at Summerhill, distracted and dumb, baffled by this confusion of travel after the slow-going days in Leitrim and Clare, buzzed about by dealers in those tin cups and plates that the emigrant himself must supply for the cynical steerage-table, tormented by the touts from the Queenstown lodging-houses crying the claims of their Stygian hotels. So farewell, island of saints and scholars ! Now art thou become a stricken place with flesh and

    64

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 35

    As the companion tells it

    Glanmire is a place the road passes through, and its station once received trains full of emigrants bound for America. The writer asks who these people are, beasts of burden in the disguise of men, the wild Irish of the history books. They toiled up Summerhill with heavy loads, a mattress often, a carpet bag with a shirt and a coat and rosary beads, a couple of tins rattling in their hands. The writer calls it a funeral, with Ireland every day going to her grave, the young and fair from every valley in those emigrant gangs vomited out of trains at the station. They passed through what he calls this frightful cinema of Summerhill. Then by train to Queenstown, and the tender that would swing them out to be swallowed into the stinking hold of the big ship between the forts. They stretched out on the platform at Summerhill for a minute's rest, distracted and dumb, baffled by the confusion of travel after the slow-going days in Leitrim and Clare. Dealers buzzed about them selling tin cups and plates that the emigrant himself had to supply for the cynical steerage table. Touts from the Queenstown lodging-houses tormented them, crying the claims of their Stygian hotels.

13. Homeless famine fugitives dumped at Ballincollig

    near Ballincollig · town · Cork

    Councillors in panic invoked a statute allowing homeless people found after dusk to be clapped in prison overnight and sent out at dawn to be dropped in a dyke at Ballincollig, there to wander off and die quickly, so long as the town may forget.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    the poor creatures, or nurses to bring them a drink and they very dry. And look at the way they're treating some of the late-comers and the plight they're in. Putting them in the jail for that night and next day loading them into a van, to be taken fainting and frightened to a spot " five miles from the boundary." Oh, God forgive us the shame ! For the Councillors in panic for their townsmen's safety have invoked this statute by which all "homeless people" found after dusk can be clapped in the prison that night and sent out at dawn to be dropped in a dyke at Ballincollig or gasping by the cross-roads at Carrigaline, there, in the mercy of God, to wander off and die quickly, or anything, so long as the town may forget.

    106

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 43

    As the companion tells it

    There is a town called Ballincollig that the road passes through. In famine times, poor creatures arrived, very dry, with nurses bringing them a drink. The councillors, in panic for their townsmen's safety, invoked a statute by which all homeless people found after dusk were clapped in the prison for the night. At dawn they were loaded into a van, taken fainting and frightened to "five miles from the boundary." They were dropped in a dyke, or left gasping by the cross-roads at Carrigaline. "Oh, God forgive us the shame," the book says. There they were left "to wander off and die quickly, or anything, so long as the town may forget."

14. Nan O'Nagle of the wealthy Mallow family

    Mallow · town · Cork

    Nan O'Nagle, who devoted herself to charitable work among Cork's poor, was of the wealthy Mallow family and a kinswoman to Edmund Burke. She had previously lived in Paris, attending the court of Louis XV and travelling by carriage through Sevres and Clichy before a religious vision changed her life.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    gold bars, the peeling walls flower down, through the dim skylight incense falls. Such light and colour and perfume as never unrolled when she danced those other nights at Versailles at the Court of the molten Louis Quinze. For Nan O'Nagle of the wealthy Mallow family, kinswoman to Edmund Burke, had often floated through Sevres and past shining Clichy in her carriage with silk to bind her lovely hair, and eyes of adoring boys to lap her in heraldry if she will but consent. Until, one immortal morning — the tale often told — Christ waved to her amid a group of working folk awaiting early Mass as her carriage rolled home through the Faubourg St. Germain. So that she flung Paris and all love and laughter of its glittering salons aside for the ecstasy of wind and rain, and secret haemorrhage from the lungs, and her ulcerated knees, and the opposition of bishops and bigoted aldermen and the rivalry of religious, all borne here in Cork without a murmur and with constant jest and smile, for Christ's sake.

    67

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 27

    As the companion tells it

    Mallow, in Cork, is the town the road passes through. Nan O'Nagle of the wealthy Mallow family, kinswoman to Edmund Burke, once lived a very different life. She had floated through Sevres and past shining Clichy in her carriage, with silk to bind her lovely hair, and the eyes of adoring boys to lap her in heraldry if she would but consent. She danced at Versailles, at the court of Louis XV. Then one morning, Christ waved to her amid a group of working folk awaiting early Mass, as her carriage rolled home through the Faubourg St. Germain. That vision changed everything. She flung Paris and all the love and laughter of its glittering salons aside. She came back to Cork and gave herself to the poor. She endured wind and rain, haemorrhage from the lungs, ulcerated knees. She faced the opposition of bishops and bigoted aldermen and the rivalry of religious. All of it she bore here in Cork without a murmur, and with constant jest and smile, for Christ's sake.

15. Press gang sweeps Cork city streets, February 1781

    Cork · city · Cork · 1781

    In February 1781, press gangs comprising officers and midshipmen with bands and drums swept through Cork from the North Gate to the South Gate, past Shandon Castle, Duncan Street, St. Barry's, and Capwell, searching for sailors and recruits. Free-flowing Cork porter and flambeaux-lit streets fuelled drunken enlistment for Britain's imperial wars.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    FEBRUARY, 1781. The streets are often in an uproar. On the 17th the Press Gang, four lieutenants, two midshipmen, with band, drums and colours search for sailors. On the 23rd other parties scour in and out from the North to the South Gate and up to Shandon Castle, and back by Duncan Street to St. Barry's and Capwell. The pageant of active service is dressed; for opera almost, as light horse, artillery, and foot with hail of drums pass along the mean streets. On the 26th the victory drive is at its height. Despite familiar rain and wind the town is thronged ; numbers join up for the " great war" of their day. It is the same well-proved system as ever ; lorries with gay ladies, intensely imperialist on the profits of trade; from sparkling half -tierces they distribute martial fervour to the tonguelolling crowd. When the night-in-day of the tenebrous winter air becomes real dark after 4 p.m. flambeaux light up, and torches, till the drunken recruits are charging Troy through the smoke and sacking Rome in the javelin flames. Thus works that famous treacly talking Cork porter with sufficient horse-power in every pint to ride down the devil himself or mighty Jupiter. So, sign, boys, sign — your mark — 'twill do ! And left ! right 1 left ! and

    93

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 39

    As the companion tells it

    Cork, in February 1781, was a city under sweep. Press gangs moved through the streets searching for sailors and recruits. On the 17th, a press gang of four lieutenants and two midshipmen, with band, drums and colours, came through. On the 23rd, other parties scoured in and out, from the North Gate to the South Gate, up to Shandon Castle, and back by Duncan Street to St. Barry's and Capwell. The streets had the look of a pageant, light horse, artillery and foot soldiers passing with a hail of drums along the mean streets. By the 26th the drive was at its height. Despite the familiar rain and wind, the town was thronged, and numbers joined up for what was called the great war of their day. Lorries carried women, described as intensely imperialist on the profits of trade, who distributed martial fervour from sparkling half-tierces to the crowd. When darkness fell after 4 p.m., flambeaux and torches lit the streets. Drunken recruits charged through the smoke. The passage says that famous treacly talking Cork porter had sufficient horse-power in every pint to ride down the devil himself. As the source puts it, sign, boys, sign, your mark, twill do. And left, right, left.

16. Emigrants departing from Queenstown

    Cobh · municipal district · Cork

    Emigrants travelled by train to Queenstown where a tender would carry them out to be swallowed into the stinking hold of a big ship between the forts. This was the final departure point for those leaving Ireland for the mills and quarries of America.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    WHO are these, beasts of burden in the disguise of men, the " wild Irish" of the " history "-books, outcasts, or what? They toil up Summerhill with heavy loads, a mattress often, a carpet bag with a shirt and a coat and a rosary beads, a couple of tins rattling in their hands ; the vision of Empire reflected in a glass darkly as the funeral climbs. For funeral it is with Ireland every day going to her grave, the young and fair from every valley in those emigrant gangs vomited out of trains at the Glanmire Station, and who pass now in this frightful cinema of Summerhill. And so again in train-jolts to Queenstown and the tender that shall swing them out to be swallowed into the stinking hold of the big ship between the forts. Now they stretch out upon the platform for a minute's rest at Summerhill, distracted and dumb, baffled by this confusion of travel after the slow-going days in Leitrim and Clare, buzzed about by dealers in those tin cups and plates that the emigrant himself must supply for the cynical steerage-table, tormented by the touts from the Queenstown lodging-houses crying the claims of their Stygian hotels. So farewell, island of saints and scholars ! Now art thou become a stricken place with flesh and

    64

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 35

    As the companion tells it

    This is the district of Cobh, where the road passes through country that was once the last land thousands stood on before they left Ireland for good. They came up Summerhill with heavy loads, a mattress often, a carpet bag with a shirt and a coat and rosary beads, a couple of tins rattling in their hands. The passage calls them beasts of burden in the disguise of men, the wild Irish of the history books. Emigrant gangs vomited out of trains at the Glanmire Station, the young and fair from every valley. It was a funeral, it says, with Ireland every day going to her grave. They stretched out upon the platform at Summerhill for a minute's rest, distracted and dumb, baffled by the confusion of travel after the slow-going days in Leitrim and Clare. Dealers buzzed about them selling tin cups and plates that the emigrant himself must supply for the cynical steerage table. Touts from Queenstown lodging-houses tormented them, crying the claims of their Stygian hotels. Then came train-jolts to Queenstown and the tender that would swing them out to be swallowed into the stinking hold of the big ship between the forts. Farewell, island of saints and scholars.

17. Homeless famine fugitives abandoned at Carrigaline cross-roads

    Carrigaline · town · Cork

    Homeless people found after dusk in Cork city were arrested and transported at dawn to be left gasping at the cross-roads at Carrigaline, there in the mercy of God to wander off and die, so long as the town could forget them.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    the poor creatures, or nurses to bring them a drink and they very dry. And look at the way they're treating some of the late-comers and the plight they're in. Putting them in the jail for that night and next day loading them into a van, to be taken fainting and frightened to a spot " five miles from the boundary." Oh, God forgive us the shame ! For the Councillors in panic for their townsmen's safety have invoked this statute by which all "homeless people" found after dusk can be clapped in the prison that night and sent out at dawn to be dropped in a dyke at Ballincollig or gasping by the cross-roads at Carrigaline, there, in the mercy of God, to wander off and die quickly, or anything, so long as the town may forget.

    106

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 43

    As the companion tells it

    Carrigaline in Cork. The book calls them poor creatures, with no nurses to bring them a drink though they were very dry. The councillors of Cork city, in panic for their own townsmen's safety, invoked a statute by which any homeless person found after dusk could be locked in the prison that night. At dawn they were loaded into a van, taken fainting and frightened, in the words of the source, "five miles from the boundary." Some were dropped in a dyke at Ballincollig. Others were left gasping by the cross-roads at Carrigaline, there, in the mercy of God, to wander off and die quickly, so long as the town might forget them.

18. O'Connell's triumphant arrival in Cork, October 1843

    Cork · city · Cork · 1843

    On 5 October 1843, crowds filled Cork's streets—Blackpool, Patrick Street, Western Road, and fields near O'Neill Crowley Bridge—to welcome Daniel O'Connell, arriving by carriage from Cahirciveen. Fife and drum bands from the Butter Exchange and Fair Lane led the rejoicing throngs.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    And when the musicians swing down from the Butter Exchange and famous Fair Lane the bourgeois drawing-windows rattle with the best. And no wonder this dancing delight should spread as the crowds pour along the Western Road and overflow into the fields about O'Neill Crowley Bridge, a big drum beating now and then like the heart of a thousand men, lost angels of boys whistling and crying along the edge of the crowds, until — look ! a cloud of dust rises up towards Carrigrohane. Hooray ! The horsemen have met the carriage that has been- travelling all day from Cahirciveen. And take up the cheering now, yourself, as we all sway and eddy with the hour ! For there he is ! The human appeal is in his figure, the very shape to win the heart of a multitude; six feet high,

    49

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 20

    As the companion tells it

    Cork, in the October of 1843. On the 5th, the streets filled with people waiting for Daniel O'Connell. Musicians swung down from the Butter Exchange and Fair Lane, fife and drum bands leading the crowds. People poured along the Western Road and overflowed into the fields near O'Neill Crowley Bridge. A big drum beat now and then like the heart of a thousand men. Boys whistled and cried along the edge of the crowds. Then a cloud of dust rose towards Carrigrohane. Horsemen had met the carriage that had been travelling all day from Cahirciveen. And there he was. The cheering spread through the whole crowd. O'Connell stood six feet high, "the very shape to win the heart of a multitude."

19. Wild Geese departure from Cork's river road

    Cork · city · Cork

    Irish soldiers who had staked all for Ireland departed into exile from the river road by the fishery slip in Cork, as their wives and mothers, who had followed from Limerick, wailed and clutched at the departing ship's ropes. Some women were drowned in the swell as the ship pulled away.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    WHOEVER has heard the wailing of the women £ts the emigrant in the sixties and eighties of the last century left his native valley, or their cry as the tender swung away from the wharf at Queenstown for the liner outside, must know what the anguish of mothers and wives can be and they losing their men. For this then the low fire was blown red upon a hearth in Donegal as a son came shining through the blue twilight home ! Is their rearing worth no more than the Pittsburg furnace and docks of St. Louis will give them, mixed with the negroes and the rest ! Woe and grief, indeed now when " there won't be anyone in the long nights after Samhain" to be breathing in sleep for an old mother's ears in her cabin in the West. Oh close your eyes, Ireland, and stop your ears from a worse agony even ! For this cry here is terrible, loud and long as if all the generations in one were wailing on the river road by the fishery slip here at Cork ! Men have been stumbling up the gangways for hours; fine strapping men who have staked all for Ireland and have come to exile only ! And clustered about the decks and underneath, crushed back still along the jetty, the women, and children even, are jostled too, poor wives

    72

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 30

    As the companion tells it

    Cork holds a memory of exile along its river road by the fishery slip. Irish soldiers who had staked all for Ireland departed from here into exile. They stumbled up the gangways for hours, fine strapping men, and exile was all they gained. Their wives and mothers had followed them from Limerick. They clustered about the decks and underneath, crushed back along the jetty, wailing. The cry was terrible, loud and long, as if all the generations in one were wailing on the river road. These women clutched at the departing ship's ropes. As the ship pulled away, some were drowned in the swell. Whoever has heard the wailing of women as emigrants left their native valley in the 1860s and 1880s, or their cry as the tender swung away from the wharf at Queenstown for the liner outside, must know what the anguish of mothers and wives can be when they are losing their men. An old mother in her cabin in the West would have no one breathing in sleep for her ears in the long nights after Samhain. The low fire was blown red upon a hearth in Donegal as a son came home through the blue twilight. Their rearing worth no more than the Pittsburgh furnace and the docks of St. Louis will give them.

20. Dr. Aikenhead's house and the Sheriff's raid in Cork

    Daunt's Square · street · Cork · 1798

    Dr. Aikenhead's house at the corner of Daunt's Square was a hospitable meeting place where United Irishmen and sympathisers gathered in spring 1798. The Sheriff and his squad raided the house searching for Lord Edward Fitzgerald, who escaped through the back landing.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    DR. AlKENHEAD's again; the most hospitable house in town, here at th-2 corner of Daunt's Square; the doctor always glad to see a friend, especially this Sunday at dinner-time in Spring, 1798. So now a pleasant little party talking business, banter, gossip of ships tied up at the wharf near Drawbridge Street, the latest tyranny of the Sheriff who whips " rebels" at the cart's tail. In the shop busy always with leeches and blistering pastes and the boluses of the Beecham's of that day the two apprentices, merry country-fellows, are faithful, " in the know." For this party upstairs now are all of them enrolled — the doctor himself even— or, certainly he is a wellwisher to be trusted to the full. So the dinner begins, the courses good ; Cork slaughters the finest meat in the world, a hundred thousand beasts a year for export alone, the sweetest mutton, mountain or plain-fed — this joint now melting in your mouth — the talk flowing with the fine claret, gallons of that everywhere too so easy and cheap is the trade with France. So the Quaker gentleman — at least to judge by his dress — is the centre of attention, the host himself a Quaker too deferring in all things to his favourite guest. The talk is cryptic, a

    24

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 9

    As the companion tells it

    In spring 1798, Dr. Aikenhead's house stood at the corner of Daunt's Square, the most hospitable house in town. The doctor was always glad to see a friend, especially on a Sunday at dinner-time. That day a pleasant party gathered upstairs, talking business and gossip of ships tied up at the wharf near Drawbridge Street, and the latest tyranny of the Sheriff who whipped rebels at the cart's tail. The shop below stayed busy with leeches and blistering pastes and the boluses of the day. The two apprentices, merry country-fellows, were faithful and in the know. Everyone at that party upstairs was enrolled, the doctor himself, or certainly a well-wisher to be trusted. The dinner was good. Cork slaughtered the finest meat in the world, 100,000 beasts a year for export alone. The joint melted in the mouth. The talk flowed with the fine claret, easy and cheap from the trade with France. A Quaker gentleman, at least to judge by his dress, was the centre of attention. The host himself a Quaker too, deferring in all things to his favourite guest. The talk was cryptic. Then the Sheriff and his squad raided the house, searching for Lord Edward Fitzgerald. He escaped through the back landing.

21. Famine starvation along the coast from Bantry to Kinsale

    Bantry · town · Cork

    After the potato failure, poor people along the coast and over the hills from Bantry to Kinsale are starving, while red-coat garrisons remain fed and the Empire continues as before. The passage contrasts the abundance near the Thames with the cheapness of corpses in Ireland, where anatomists grow impudent from excess supplies.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    DOWN along the coast especially, and over the hills from Bantry to Kinsale the poor people are starving after the potatoes have failed. The red-coat garrisons are in barrack, as before, fed somehow by grace of God, or the devil, Babylon is only one day's journey with its bulging warehouses by ** Thames his side," Empire flies its blood and bone flags as lavishly as ever from Greenwich to Mandalay. But over here a corpse is cheap and the anatomists grow impudent from excess supplies. So night and day the fugitives throng into Cork city, to see if there is any shelter in the big streets from this hunger and fever that cannot be turned away at all from cabins on the grey roads along the west. On the north side the charitable people give what help they can ; along Douglas Street as the overflow sets that way from the Union Gates many a one shares a literal crust. Even on the fashionable hills there is a stirring to alms and prayer. But the arrangements are woeful, as you might see along the Douglas Road, with many a fine woman's son stretche'd on the curb and a good priest anointing him before he'll die on the cold stone. For now the hospitals and sheds are full and there is no nourishment left for

    105

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 43

    As the companion tells it

    Down along the coast and over the hills from Bantry to Kinsale the poor people are starving after the potatoes have failed. The red-coat garrisons sit in barracks, fed somehow, while Empire flies its blood and bone flags as lavishly as ever from Greenwich to Mandalay. Over here a corpse is cheap, and the anatomists grow impudent from excess supplies. Night and day the fugitives throng into Cork city, to see if there is any shelter in the big streets from this hunger and fever that cannot be turned away from the cabins on the grey roads along the west. On the north side the charitable people give what help they can. Along Douglas Street, as the overflow sets that way from the Union Gates, many a one shares a literal crust. Even on the fashionable hills there is a stirring to alms and prayer. But the arrangements are woeful. Along the Douglas Road you might see many a fine woman's son stretched on the curb, and a good priest anointing him before he dies on the cold stone. The hospitals and sheds are full, and there is no nourishment left.

22. Father Mathew's first temperance speech at Horse Bazaar

    Mary Street · street · Cork

    The night after the Cove Street meeting, Father Mathew gave his first temperance address at the Horse Bazaar on Mary Street, Cork. Crowds rallied so greatly that cavalry had to keep the streets for him, and the movement spread across Ireland and to America.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    selves, they have been preaching and organising for a long while, but they lack the magnetism, and only this Father Mathew can crown their deeds. So here they are on the following night at the Horse Bazaar, Mary Street, Mathew, the first speaker, well built, with dark shining hair, a Roman nose and a sculptor's mouth and chin.

    The note of personal appeal is immediate — besides he is known and loved for the poor school he has started and the charity he has given these years since expelled from Maynooth, he joined the Capuchins at Dublin and came to Cork. So, in a short while, cavalry must keep the streets for him because of the multitudes that rally to the cause. Protestants join to honour him; at Dublin a group of students invite him to Trinity College and sign the pledge there. They summon him to America where the Senate welcomes him, the first since Lafayette, within the bar of the House. And so he returns to end his days quietly at Cove and to be honoured thereafter as much for his sweetness as for the national service he did to Ireland and to her fair name across the world.

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 15

    As the companion tells it

    This is the Horse Bazaar on Mary Street in Cork, where Father Mathew gave his first temperance address. It was the night after the Cove Street meeting. Others had been preaching and organising for a long while, but they lacked the magnetism, and only Father Mathew could crown their deeds. He stood as the first speaker, well built, with dark shining hair, a Roman nose, and a sculptor's mouth and chin. The note of personal appeal was immediate. He was known and loved for the poor school he had started and the charity he had given in the years since he was expelled from Maynooth, joined the Capuchins at Dublin, and came to Cork. In a short while, cavalry had to keep the streets for him because of the multitudes that rallied to the cause. Protestants joined to honour him. At Dublin, a group of students invited him to Trinity College and signed the pledge there. They summoned him to America, where the Senate welcomed him, the first since Lafayette, within the bar of the House. He returned to end his days quietly at Cove, honoured as much for his sweetness as for the national service he did to Ireland and to her fair name across the world.

23. MacMurrogh passes through Portlairge on his fatal journey

    Waterford · city · Waterford · 1166

    As Dermot MacMurrogh rode through Hy Felimy and passed Portlairge (Waterford) on his way to the coast, the thousand martyrs of Eire are described as thronging round his heart and plucking at the strings. Despite these supernatural warnings, he continued to Corcoran Strand to embark for England.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    " WHITHER now, O King? You are old, heavy with the weight of many sins. Will you not turn to God and prepare for your last end, a while?" Angel after angel fails from the task ; Ollamh Fodhla, Cuchulin, Conn, following down the roads on steeds of light, whisper in his ears as he rides through Hy Felimy ; the thousand martyrs of Eire throng round his heart and pluck at the strings as he passes Portlairge. But this time heaven shall not prevail. For now, at last, he is halted at Corcoran Strand ; old Clay Castle runs high and sparkling on to sea, winds young and merry play with its breasts of silver till the fine sandshower falls and they shine an instant in mail for the waves rising up, their lovers below. Oh God ! God ! that ever it should come to this ! That wind and wave and silver spray and streaming necklace of sand and shell-fans like fallen star-clusters on the shore should dim and darken, universal eclipse ! So the Fomorians are back, subtler, more snaring than the smooth bogs; here by the foothills, in which you sink — the fearful Fomorians ! And this, their devilry such as exceeds all ! For behold that shape ! Not man, nor beast but beyond them to monster

    91

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 38

    As the companion tells it

    In 1166, Dermot MacMurrogh passed through Waterford on his fatal journey. He rode through Hy Felimy toward the coast, and as he passed Portlairge, the thousand martyrs of Eire thronged round his heart and plucked at the strings. Angel after angel failed from the task. Ollamh Fodhla, Cuchulin, and Conn followed down the roads on steeds of light, whispering in his ears. The words came to him: "Whither now, O King? You are old, heavy with the weight of many sins. Will you not turn to God and prepare for your last end, a while?" But this time heaven would not prevail. MacMurrogh continued to Corcoran Strand. Old Clay Castle ran high and sparkling on to sea. Young winds played with the silver water and fine sand showers fell and shone for an instant like mail for the waves below. The passage calls it a universal eclipse. The Fomorians are back, it says, subtler and more snaring than the smooth bogs, here by the foothills where a man sinks.

24. Perkin Warbeck's reception in Cork

    Cork · city · Cork

    The young adventurer Perkin Warbeck arrived by ship at Passage and travelled to Cork via the Rochestown Road, entering through the South Gate. Cork citizens, led by the Mayor Walters, received him as a prince, and he became the darling of North Main Street society and the salons of Skiddy's Castle Lane before both he and Walters were ultimately executed at Tyburn.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    But Cork will not be denied. "What else? Wouldn't anyone see he was a prince?" Until one whispers that of course it is so — the real Prince — Glory be ! Richard III.'s own son. So the tremendous spoof is under way ! Perkin Warbeck that was ; the gallous fellow that stole his master's silk suit is the idol of the salons of Skiddy's Castle Lane ! They teach him the " Eng leesh," feed him, clothe him, kiss him. So prosit to the jest till Clotho cries curtain and poor Perkin and rake Walters lose their heads in the final, literal, bloody sense at Tyburn tree.

    58

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 23

    As the companion tells it

    As you come through Cork, this is the city that took Perkin Warbeck to its heart. He arrived by ship at Passage, travelled the Rochestown Road, and entered through the South Gate. The citizens would not be denied. "What else? Wouldn't anyone see he was a prince?" They whispered it was so — the real Prince — Richard III's own son. The tremendous spoof was under way. Warbeck became the idol of the salons of Skiddy's Castle Lane. They taught him English, fed him, clothed him, kissed him. Mayor Walters led the reception. But the jest ended. Poor Perkin and rake Walters lost their heads at Tyburn tree.

25. Raleigh arrives at Shandon Castle, Cork

    near Shandon · locality · Cork · 1580

    In February 1580, Captain Walter Raleigh, aged about 24, arrived in the walled city of Cork with roughly a hundred Devon men and went to Shandon Castle to present his credentials at the President's office. He was part of the Elizabethan onslaught on Ireland described as an age of discovery, piracy, and expropriation.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    Sir Peter Carew, Knight, sticking children and pregnant women with his sword because they have a " treasonous air," Grey himself the exquisite disemboweller of Smerwick. But our tryst is with the latest of them now as he steps up from the river to Shandon Castle there at the President's office to present his credentials; a commanding figure, the forehead a little too high, a touch of cunning in the arch of it, the nose shapely, lips pouting, a full moustache and the tapering beard in the fashion, confident, a demon of observation and energy, electrifying even when he walks out in his ruffs and shining hose. So in and out of Cork and the world for forty years he will garotte and gamble and seduce and achieve — murder, lies, munificence, valour all into the Walpurgis fire wherethrough he whirls. Until behold him on a day again, lousy and palsied, gibbering, spitting phthisis out with every breath, shaking with fear of this plague that is going in rigors over the prisoners near him ! Well done, Fate, thou art conqueror still ! Come now, Erinnys, thou didst not die with Greece overthrown ! So watch reader, watch how the destinies do the trick. And one fine morning, scars and kingdoms nothing worth, he gives a little kick, throws out his arms and is dead in the Tower of London, this Walter

    82

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 34

    As the companion tells it

    Shandon was where Walter Raleigh came in February 1580, stepping up from the river to the castle, a captain of about 24 with roughly a hundred Devon men behind him. The walled city of Cork was his destination. He went to present his credentials at the President's office. He was the latest in an Elizabethan onslaught on Ireland described as an age of discovery, piracy, and expropriation. Others had come before. Sir Peter Carew stuck children and pregnant women with his sword because they had, in his words, a "treasonous air." Grey was the disemboweller of Smerwick. Raleigh was a commanding figure. His forehead was a little too high, with a touch of cunning in the arch of it. His nose was shapely, his lips pouting, a full moustache and the tapering beard in the fashion. He was confident, a demon of observation and energy, electrifying even when he walked out in his ruffs and shining hose. For forty years he would garotte and gamble and seduce and achieve. Murder, lies, munificence, valour, all into the same fire. Then one day he was lousy and palsied, gibbering, spitting phthisis with every breath, shaking with fear of the plague going over the prisoners near him. One fine morning he gave a little kick, threw out his arms, and was dead in the Tower of London.

26. Emigrants climbing Summerhill, Cork

    Summerhill · street · Dublin

    Emigrants, described as beasts of burden in the disguise of men, toiled up Summerhill in Cork carrying heavy loads including mattresses and carpet bags. They rested on the platform at Summerhill Station, confused and tormented by touts from Queenstown lodging-houses, before continuing their journey out of Ireland.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    WHO are these, beasts of burden in the disguise of men, the " wild Irish" of the " history "-books, outcasts, or what? They toil up Summerhill with heavy loads, a mattress often, a carpet bag with a shirt and a coat and a rosary beads, a couple of tins rattling in their hands ; the vision of Empire reflected in a glass darkly as the funeral climbs. For funeral it is with Ireland every day going to her grave, the young and fair from every valley in those emigrant gangs vomited out of trains at the Glanmire Station, and who pass now in this frightful cinema of Summerhill. And so again in train-jolts to Queenstown and the tender that shall swing them out to be swallowed into the stinking hold of the big ship between the forts. Now they stretch out upon the platform for a minute's rest at Summerhill, distracted and dumb, baffled by this confusion of travel after the slow-going days in Leitrim and Clare, buzzed about by dealers in those tin cups and plates that the emigrant himself must supply for the cynical steerage-table, tormented by the touts from the Queenstown lodging-houses crying the claims of their Stygian hotels. So farewell, island of saints and scholars ! Now art thou become a stricken place with flesh and

    64

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 35

    As the companion tells it

    These were the emigrants climbing Summerhill in Cork, described as beasts of burden in the disguise of men. They toiled up the street with heavy loads, a mattress often, a carpet bag holding a shirt and a coat and rosary beads, a couple of tins rattling in their hands. The writer called it a funeral, Ireland every day going to her grave, the young and fair from every valley vomited out of trains at the Glanmire Station and passing in what he called the frightful cinema of Summerhill. From there it was train-jolts to Queenstown and the tender that would swing them out to be swallowed into the stinking hold of a big ship between the forts. They stretched out on the platform at Summerhill for a minute's rest, distracted and dumb, baffled by the confusion of travel after the slow-going days in Leitrim and Clare. Dealers buzzed about them selling tin cups and plates that the emigrant had to supply for what the writer called the cynical steerage-table. Touts from the Queenstown lodging-houses tormented them, crying the claims of their Stygian hotels. So farewell, island of saints and scholars.

27. Nan O'Nagle's schoolhouse in Douglas Street

    Douglas Street · street · Cork

    Nan O'Nagle, born of the wealthy Mallow family and kinswoman to Edmund Burke, built and endowed a schoolhouse on Douglas Street in Cork where she taught ragged children for five or six hours daily. She had abandoned a glittering life in Paris at the court of Louis XV after a religious awakening.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    To be known in every garret of the town is distinction little sought. For there is peril as well as glory in a wide beneficence of spirit, and only with the predestined can great kindness be altogether perfect grace. To Nan O'Nagle, however, it came as you would have known had you met her, stumbling on her stick, spitting blood sometimes in the deep puddled lanes below the North Gate, or toiling with her lantern later through rain and wind for some old woman's sake round Shandon way. Though indeed these are but her pastime, since already she has been teaching the ragged children for five or six hours in her schoolhouse in Douglas Street, built and endowed by her own endeavour. And though her heart labours she climbs the rickety staircases with a snatch of a song for her kings and queens that were once but carters or kitchen-maids in the world's eye; a visit that is a smile and a surrender in the little broken thanksgivings from the bed : —

    " Wisha God love you, asthore, and aren't you good to me!** and "You're son and daughter to me, ma'am, and I seeing your face!"

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 27

    As the companion tells it

    Nan O'Nagle, born of the wealthy Mallow family and kinswoman to Edmund Burke, built and endowed a schoolhouse on Douglas Street in Cork. She had abandoned a glittering life in Paris at the court of Louis XV after a religious awakening, and now she taught ragged children there for five or six hours daily. She would stumble on her stick through the deep puddled lanes below the North Gate, spitting blood sometimes, or toil with her lantern through rain and wind round Shandon way for some old woman's sake. These were her pastimes, after the teaching was done. Though her heart laboured, she climbed the rickety staircases with a snatch of a song for her kings and queens that were once but carters or kitchen-maids in the world's eye. Her visits were a smile and a surrender, and from the beds came little broken thanksgivings: "Wisha God love you, asthore, and aren't you good to me!" and "You're son and daughter to me, ma'am, and I seeing your face!"

28. Prince Rupert begs food at the gate of Cork

    Cork · city · Cork · 1649

    Prince Rupert rode in through the gate of Cork city to beg food for his men, who were most awkwardly cut off by the blockade at Kinsale. Cork fed him, sent a convoy, and blushed with pride at hosting the general whose mother was a queen.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    have reached Holland where baby has time to grow up and join the Prince of Orange's army in Brabant; quitting it soon again however for the focus of all the filibusters in London, planning there a great scheme to become king of free-loving Madagascar, till mother begs him " not to be a fool." So he flashes back to Germany for another little war, spends three years in jail at Limburg Castle, makes eyes at the Governor's daughter, is released, and then via England, still flying, wild bird, hawk, and skylark mixed, to Holland a second time to declare for Charles, and in 1642, already commanderin-chief, fugitive again across a bean-field after Marston Moor ! So maps out, swing the needle, off he goes ! To St. Germains, next lap, and the exiled Stuart Court, indulging a little flutter on a year's campaigning with the French army between whiles. Until the rain! rain! rain! and January, 1649, and his fleet at Kinsale for the Stuarts again. Wherefore now this new Alexander, Prince Rupert his name, pestered with another fleet blockading him inside the old Head, rides in at the gate of Cork to beg food for his men most awkwardly cut off. And Cork feeds him and sends a convoy and blushes for pride. " The General! The General! His mother was a Queen !**

    46

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 18

    As the companion tells it

    In 1649, this new Alexander, Prince Rupert, rode in through the gate of Cork to beg food for his men. His fleet lay at Kinsale for the Stuarts, and another fleet blockaded him inside the old Head, leaving his men most awkwardly cut off. Cork fed him and sent a convoy and blushed with pride. "The General! The General! His mother was a Queen!" Rupert had come a long way to that gate. He had joined the Prince of Orange's army in Brabant, then quit for London, the focus of all the filibusters, planning a great scheme to become king of free-loving Madagascar, until his mother begged him not to be a fool. He flashed back to Germany for another little war, spent three years in jail at Limburg Castle, made eyes at the Governor's daughter, was released, and went via England to Holland a second time to declare for Charles. In 1642, already commander-in-chief, he was fugitive again across a bean-field after Marston Moor. He went to St. Germains and the exiled Stuart Court, indulging a year's campaigning with the French army between whiles, until the rain and January 1649 brought his fleet to Kinsale for the Stuarts again.

29. Dr. George Farren's apothecary on Washington Street

    Washington Street · street · Cork

    Dr. George Farren kept an apothecary shop on Washington Street (formerly Great George's Street) in Cork before abandoning the practice, moving his family to England, and taking to the stage and drink. His daughter Lizzie Farren, raised on Washington Street, later became a celebrated actress and married the Earl of Derby.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    (Great George's Street that was) is getting terribly uneasy, fidgety in himself — something will happen to him if he doesn't get out of this place ! So up go the shutters, the apothecary will open for the sale of pills and ointment no more. This farce of prescribing at random, the exploratory and the experimental practise of the day — away with it once and for all ! So they pack up — the foolish man — to the tears, jeers and entreaties of the neighbours.

    His poor wife, and she with her young family, oh some men are trials, surely indeed ! And off to England they are, the whole seven of them, poor dear children, dragged from place to place as their father turns actor, vaudevillist, anything at all, so long as it means movement and the stage; taking to drink heavily now too and staggering on, many a night, to the delight of the ribald village audience. Till this little sylph of a daughter, with lips for favour, and eyes of young winds and waves, a wisp of a creature, a nerve at every pore, receptive, heroic, plays the drum outside the booth and bad men recover their innocence a moment as they pass; a picture

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 16

    As the companion tells it

    Dr. George Farren kept an apothecary on Washington Street, then called Great George's Street, in Cork. He grew terribly uneasy in himself, convinced something would happen to him if he didn't get away. Up went the shutters. The apothecary opened for the sale of pills and ointment no more. He was done with "this farce of prescribing at random, the exploratory and the experimental practise of the day." He packed up, to the tears, jeers and entreaties of the neighbours, a foolish man. His poor wife had her young family. Off to England they went, the seven of them, poor children dragged from place to place as their father turned actor, vaudevillist, anything at all, so long as it meant movement and the stage. He took to drink heavily, staggering on many a night to the delight of a ribald village audience. His daughter Lizzie was a little sylph, with lips for favour and eyes of young winds and waves, a wisp of a creature, a nerve at every pore, receptive and heroic. She played the drum outside the booth, and bad men recovered their innocence a moment as they passed. Lizzie Farren became a celebrated actress and married the Earl of Derby.

30. Grey the disemboweller of Smerwick

    Smerwick · townland · Kerry

    Lord Grey, one of the Elizabethan commanders who descended upon Ireland, is characterised as the 'exquisite disemboweller of Smerwick,' alongside other notorious figures such as Sir Peter Carew who killed children and pregnant women. The passage evokes the brutality of the Elizabethan conquest.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    Sir Peter Carew, Knight, sticking children and pregnant women with his sword because they have a " treasonous air," Grey himself the exquisite disemboweller of Smerwick. But our tryst is with the latest of them now as he steps up from the river to Shandon Castle there at the President's office to present his credentials; a commanding figure, the forehead a little too high, a touch of cunning in the arch of it, the nose shapely, lips pouting, a full moustache and the tapering beard in the fashion, confident, a demon of observation and energy, electrifying even when he walks out in his ruffs and shining hose. So in and out of Cork and the world for forty years he will garotte and gamble and seduce and achieve — murder, lies, munificence, valour all into the Walpurgis fire wherethrough he whirls. Until behold him on a day again, lousy and palsied, gibbering, spitting phthisis out with every breath, shaking with fear of this plague that is going in rigors over the prisoners near him ! Well done, Fate, thou art conqueror still ! Come now, Erinnys, thou didst not die with Greece overthrown ! So watch reader, watch how the destinies do the trick. And one fine morning, scars and kingdoms nothing worth, he gives a little kick, throws out his arms and is dead in the Tower of London, this Walter

    82

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 34

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Smerwick, Lord Grey is remembered as the exquisite disemboweller. He was one of the Elizabethan commanders who descended upon Ireland, and beside him stood men like Sir Peter Carew, a knight who stuck children and pregnant women with his sword because they had, in his words, a treasonous air. The passage that carries these names does not linger on them alone. It turns to a figure who steps up from the river to Shandon Castle, to the President's office, to present his credentials. A commanding figure, the forehead a little too high, a touch of cunning in the arch of it, the nose shapely, lips pouting, a full moustache and a tapering beard in the fashion. Confident, a demon of observation and energy, electrifying even when he walks out in his ruffs and shining hose. For forty years he will garotte and gamble and seduce and achieve. Murder, lies, munificence, valour, all into the Walpurgis fire wherethrough he whirls. Until behold him again, lousy and palsied, gibbering, spitting phthisis out with every breath, shaking with fear of the plague going in rigors over the prisoners near him. And one fine morning, scars and kingdoms nothing worth, he gives a little kick, throws out his arms and is dead in the Tower of London. This Walter.

31. Macroom butter carts through the Square

    Macroom · town · Cork · 1770

    In the early hours, butter carts rattled through the Square and along the Main Street of Macroom, while horsemen with three firkins slung rode from areas like Adrigole where no roads existed for wheeled traffic.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    WAKING in the night, west, at the foot of the Boggeragh Mountains, you would hear the horse and he being tackled in the yard outside, a strip of lighted bog-deal kindled at the constant turf-fire flaring up here and there as the servant-boy stoops and searches for a piece of the harness mislaid on the day before. At three o'clock there comes every five minutes or so a butt rattling and lurching through the Square and along the Main Street of Macroom, or a horseman with three firkins slung, since there are as yet no roads cut for wheeled traffic from about Adrigole. Until everywhere the day is coming up to that soothing rhymeless music of hoof -beats and rumbling wheels, and the stagger and strain of unsprung axles down the roads. And now near six, they are climbing old Mallow Lane or by the Watercourse for those travelling from the north, a greeting exchanged, that undiplomatic ease and courtesy of men who are wise to sunsets and dawn ! " There was a shower only and I near Fermoy," and, " 'Twas cold and the horse wheezing on me and we passing Ballea," and, " That cock at Minane — he'd crow and we coming whatever kind the weather would be." So in the year 1 770 and after, the high ground about the Butter Market is rich with the morn-

    79

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 33

    As the companion tells it

    Macroom in County Cork was a town of early mornings. In 1770 and after, you would wake in the night at the foot of the Boggeragh Mountains and hear a horse being tackled in the yard outside. A strip of lighted bog-deal, kindled at the constant turf-fire, would flare up as a servant-boy stooped and searched for a piece of harness mislaid the day before. By three o'clock, every five minutes or so, a cart would come rattling and lurching through the Square and along the Main Street of Macroom. Or a horseman would pass with three firkins slung, because from places like Adrigole there were as yet no roads cut for wheeled traffic. Soon the day would fill with the soothing rhymeless music of hoof-beats and rumbling wheels, and the stagger and strain of unsprung axles down the roads. Near six, those travelling from the north would be climbing old Mallow Lane or going by the Watercourse. Greetings would pass between them, that easy courtesy of men who knew sunsets and dawn. One would say, "There was a shower only and I near Fermoy." Another, "'Twas cold and the horse wheezing on me and we passing Ballea." And a third, "That cock at Minane — he'd crow and we coming whatever kind the weather would be." The high ground about the Butter Market grew rich with the morning.

32. Malachy presides over synod at the gates of Cork

    Cork · city · Cork

    A synod at the gates of Cork was deadlocked by rivalry among local clerics and chiefs over the selection of a bishop. Malachy, as Primate and Papal Legate, silenced the assembly and miraculously summoned a bedridden priest to take the throne.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    Malachy arrived on a visit to Innocent II., and that Pope descending from his throne put his own mitre on Malachy 's head as a sign of his favour. So the Irish reformer is appointed legate in Latere and returns to Ireland, visiting St. Bernard at Clairvaux on the way. And here he is one day, haggard, clad as a humble monk, with his scant beard, pointed chin, and long slender neck, walking as is his wont all his journeys, now at the gates of Cork. There is a contest in the synod over the selection of bishop, pride jarring pride in the local clerics and chiefs. This Primate and Legate, the poorest-clad, humblest-looking man amongst them, rises and bids their rivalries be still. Let them summon hither a poor priest he names — " He is ill. Too feeble to come." Malachy waves the protest aside, assuming the prophet. "He shall come! Bid him!" The assembly shudders, is silent. A pale shining figure approaches. This passes belief, as Malachy leads him to the throne. So are the humble exalted and the proud cast down this day as Malachy passes out and away to die soon at Clairvaux, in St. Bernard's arms, the painter's, poet's, all men's ideal death.

    48

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 19

    As the companion tells it

    As the road brings you through Cork, this is the city where Malachy one day stood at the gates, haggard, clad as a humble monk, with his scant beard, pointed chin, and long slender neck, walking as was his wont on all his journeys. He had visited Pope Innocent the Second, who descended from his throne and placed his own mitre on Malachy's head. Appointed legate in Latere, he returned to Ireland, visiting Saint Bernard at Clairvaux on the way. Now at the gates of Cork, a synod was deadlocked. There was a contest over the selection of a bishop, pride jarring pride among the local clerics and chiefs. This Primate and Legate, the poorest-clad, humblest-looking man among them, rose and bid their rivalries be still. He told them to summon a poor priest he named. They protested: he is ill, too feeble to come. Malachy waved that aside and said: he shall come, bid him. The assembly shuddered and fell silent. A pale shining figure approached. Malachy led him to the throne, and the humble were exalted and the proud cast down. Malachy passed out and away, to die soon at Clairvaux in Saint Bernard's arms.

33. O'Neill's conference at Inniscarra, 1600

    Inishcarra · parish · Cork · 1600

    In 1600, Hugh O'Neill came to Inniscarra to confer with Florence MacCarthy as part of the coordination among Irish chiefs in anticipation of Spanish aid against the English.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    WHEN the Elizabethan bandits had broken the Brehon clan-systems of land tenure the planters seemed in full control. The Irish Clanrickardists, beaten in body and spirit, apostatised, compounded, accepted grants in fee-simple, did a thousand cowardly things because hunger and outlawry made them weak. A few only held out here and there for faith and honour, and even these were near dissolution when, suddenly, a terrific rumour ran. The North, rebel as ever, had united; Hugh O'Neill and Red Hugh O'Donnell, who, the one at Whitehall, the other at Dublin Castle, had already defied the compromisers, are on the march together now. Armagh has fallen, the English (God's blessing !) are hammered back into the Pale. In 1598, at the Yellow Ford there has been an eternal hour, Bagenal and two thousand of his raveners dead and unwept when the fight is done. In 1599, over the Curlew Mountains a cry is heard, but not of wailing or any keen; for the Lord- President and 1 500 of his men are killed ! The story rattles from hill to hill, like thunder. South and East; hearts swell and vows are pledged with hope again for the invincible cause. In 1 600 O'Neill is at Inniscarra to confer with Florence MacCarthy; Donal O'Sullivan,

    97

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 40

    As the companion tells it

    You are travelling through the parish of Inishcarra in Cork. In 1600, Hugh O'Neill came to confer with Florence MacCarthy, as Irish chiefs coordinated in hope of Spanish aid against the English. The years before had been bitter. When the Elizabethans broke the Brehon clan-systems of land tenure, the planters seemed in full control. Many of the Irish, beaten in body and spirit, apostatised, compounded, accepted grants in fee-simple, did a thousand cowardly things because hunger and outlawry made them weak. A few only held out for faith and honour, and even these were near dissolution when a terrific rumour ran. The North, rebel as ever, had united. Hugh O'Neill and Red Hugh O'Donnell, who had already defied the compromisers, the one at Whitehall, the other at Dublin Castle, were on the march together. Armagh had fallen. The English were hammered back into the Pale. In 1598, at the Yellow Ford, Bagenal and 2,000 of his raveners lay dead and unwept. In 1599, over the Curlew Mountains, the Lord-President and 1,500 of his men were killed. The story rattled from hill to hill like thunder, south and east. Hearts swelled and vows were pledged with hope again for the cause. Donal O'Sullivan is named too, though the passage breaks off.

34. Temperance crusade launched at Cove Street meeting

    Cove Street · street · Cork

    At No. 1 Cove Street in Cork, Martin the Quaker, Dowden the Unitarian, Dunscombe the Episcopalian and a priest debated the drink problem until the priest—Father Mathew—agreed to lead the temperance crusade, declaring 'Here goes in the name of God.'

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    CARLYLE would not pass this man as a hero; one of the shallowest strokes of all his life. For when they proposed to hang a portrait of him in the Portrait Gallery, London, the sage wrote demurring; the priest had extracted a mere passing pledge, a hysterical resolution, the Celt's prerogative, broken when the pledger had walked to the next cross-road. But the Trustees disagreed and the portrait was hung. And now consider the case : here is Ireland of the early nineteenth century; no house is complete without the whiskey-jar, none the full " gentleman" till he has learned to sleep under the table. You will read in all contemporary books of Cork Porter, Dublin Stout, Galway Whiskey. Till, in the thirsty heresy, drunkenness becomes the badge of our tribe. Some feel the shame and the pity of it, especially here in Cork. And one night at No. 1, Cove Street, an animated argument ensues. Martin the Quaker, Dowden the Unitarian, Dunscombe the Episcopalian, a clergyman, are urging and pleading till the fourth, a priest, rises, stretches out his hand and — " Here goes in the name of God." So these godly, patriot men are in great joy that the Capuchin will lead the crusade. Them-

    39

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 15

    As the companion tells it

    Carlyle would not have passed Father Mathew as a hero, the priest whose temperance crusade began at a meeting on Cove Street in Cork. It was one of the shallowest strokes of all his life. When they proposed to hang his portrait in the Portrait Gallery in London, the sage wrote demurring. The priest had extracted a mere passing pledge, a hysterical resolution, the Celt's prerogative, broken when the pledger had walked to the next cross-road. The Trustees disagreed, and the portrait was hung. This was Ireland of the early nineteenth century. No house was complete without the whiskey-jar, none the full gentleman till he had learned to sleep under the table. Contemporary books spoke of Cork Porter, Dublin Stout, Galway Whiskey. Drunkenness became the badge of the tribe. Some felt the shame and pity of it, especially in Cork. And one night at No. 1, an animated argument ensued. Martin the Quaker, Dowden the Unitarian, Dunscombe the Episcopalian, a clergyman, urged and pleaded till the fourth, a priest, rose, stretched out his hand and said, 'Here goes in the name of God.' These godly, patriot men were in great joy that the Capuchin would lead the crusade.

35. William Penn sent to Cork and Shanagarry castle

    Shanagarry · town · Cork · 1666

    In 1666, Admiral Penn sent his son William to Cork to learn colonist tricks, dividing his time between the Lee side and Shanagarry, where a forfeited castle had fallen to the family. Penn joined the Quakers there and was jailed with other Quakers in Cork.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    WILLIAM PENN, the " planted " English Admiral's son is "doing better now," his father thinks. Perhaps he will turn out an orthodox, well-behaved colonist in a little while — hard to say ! For at school in Essex he had turned to Nonconformity with a fervour startling in a boy. And when they hurried him back to communicant London his attitudes had only become more marked. So that sending him to Oxford at 15 his father was gravely perturbed; and justifiably when the youth is expelled from his college for turning Quaker under the spell of Thomas Loe. So Penn pere brings him back to " town" again, attempts another course of dissuasion, fails, is at his wits' end. Until, the year is 1666, the old quiet city of Cork runs into his head. He will send the young man, he is now 22, over there to learn the colonist tricks, and spend his time between the Lee side and Shanagarry, where the forfeited castle has fallen to the family loot. For a while, all is well, until, good gracious ! Thomas Loe, that horrid Quaker fellow, has turned up*! Penn fils is fascinated a second time, joins the society actively; the *' law is

    61

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 25

    As the companion tells it

    As you pass through Cork, this is the city where William Penn, the planted English Admiral's son, came in 1666. He was 22. His father sent him over to learn the colonist trade, to spend his time between the Lee side and Shanagarry, where the forfeited castle had fallen to the family. At school in Essex he had already turned to Nonconformity with a fervour startling in a boy. In London his attitudes had only grown more marked. At 15 he went to Oxford and was expelled from his college for turning Quaker under the spell of Thomas Loe. His father brought him back to town, tried to dissuade him, failed, and was at his wits end. Then Cork came into his head. For a while all went well. Then Thomas Loe turned up again. Penn was fascinated a second time and joined the society actively. The law came down, and he was jailed along with the local Quakers.

36. Battle of Kinsale and Red Hugh's flight to Belgooly

    Kinsale · town · Cork

    Red Hugh O'Donnell, racing south to Belgooly, barely escaped death at Kinsale where George Carew smashed the Spanish-Irish force, though the leaders escaped on ships. Carew, described as ruthless in his conquest of Munster, had previously slain young men on suspicion of killing his brother.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    champion has begun to wrestle, Red Hugh O'Donnell his name; a terrible fiery fellow, Apollo to look upon, but with no luck. For racing south to Belgooly he barely escapes death at Kinsaie where Carew smashes the Spanish-Irish force, though the leaders get off on the ships. After which, for a while, the conqueror can turn to his archaeological studies, fulfilling the gentleman thus. Until tiring of genealogies he writes out a subtle prescription, the most drastic cure known for mal de vie. They mix it at the apothecary's, and a slave is summoned. So, one night, a scrubby, dark wart of a man goes aboard a ship for Spain at Cork; with him his phials and orders and the sure hope of hell ! James Blake is his name, despatched thus by the son of the exquisite Dean with purpose to poison Red Hugh. A purpose most honourably achieved, antiquary and snake triumphant at Valladolid seven months later when Red Hugh writhes and is dead; the hiss and rattle of the deed heard and enduring till all the Carews and Windsors shall fade away with an Empire's dust.

    69

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 28

    As the companion tells it

    You are coming through Kinsale, in Cork. It was here that Red Hugh O'Donnell barely escaped death. He had raced south to Belgooly, but at Kinsale, George Carew smashed the Spanish-Irish force. The leaders got off on the ships, O'Donnell among them, and survived. Carew, the conqueror, then turned for a while to his archaeological studies, fulfilling the gentleman in himself, until he tired of genealogies. Then he wrote out a subtle prescription, the most drastic cure known for what he called mal de vie. They mixed it at the apothecary's, and a slave was summoned. One night, a scrubby, dark wart of a man went aboard a ship for Spain at Cork, with his phials and orders and the sure hope of hell. James Blake was his name, sent by the son of the exquisite Dean to poison Red Hugh. The purpose was most honourably achieved. Seven months later, at Valladolid, Red Hugh writhed and was dead. Antiquary and snake triumphant, the deed endured.

37. Emigration anguish at Queenstown wharf

    Cobh · municipal district · Cork · 1860–1890

    The text evokes the anguish of women and mothers crying as the tender swung away from the wharf at Queenstown for the liner outside, comparing it to earlier centuries of departure. The cry of emigrants leaving their native valleys for Pittsburgh and St. Louis is described as terrible and enduring.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    WHOEVER has heard the wailing of the women £ts the emigrant in the sixties and eighties of the last century left his native valley, or their cry as the tender swung away from the wharf at Queenstown for the liner outside, must know what the anguish of mothers and wives can be and they losing their men. For this then the low fire was blown red upon a hearth in Donegal as a son came shining through the blue twilight home ! Is their rearing worth no more than the Pittsburg furnace and docks of St. Louis will give them, mixed with the negroes and the rest ! Woe and grief, indeed now when " there won't be anyone in the long nights after Samhain" to be breathing in sleep for an old mother's ears in her cabin in the West. Oh close your eyes, Ireland, and stop your ears from a worse agony even ! For this cry here is terrible, loud and long as if all the generations in one were wailing on the river road by the fishery slip here at Cork ! Men have been stumbling up the gangways for hours; fine strapping men who have staked all for Ireland and have come to exile only ! And clustered about the decks and underneath, crushed back still along the jetty, the women, and children even, are jostled too, poor wives

    72

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 30

    As the companion tells it

    Cobh was Queenstown once, and in the 1860s and 1880s the wharf here heard sounds you would not forget. Whoever heard the wailing of the women as the emigrant left his native valley, or their cry as the tender swung away from the wharf at Queenstown for the liner outside, knows what the anguish of mothers and wives can be when they are losing their men. The low fire was blown red upon a hearth in Donegal as a son came shining through the blue twilight home. Is their rearing worth no more than the Pittsburgh furnace and the docks of St. Louis will give them. Woe and grief when there will not be anyone in the long nights after Samhain to be breathing in sleep for an old mother's ears in her cabin in the West. The cry here is terrible, loud and long, as if all the generations in one were wailing on the river road by the fishery slip at Cork. Men have been stumbling up the gangways for hours. Fine strapping men who have staked all for Ireland and have come to exile only. Clustered about the decks and underneath, crushed back along the jetty, the women and children even, jostled too, poor wives.

38. Justin MacCarthy arrives in Cork as James II's commander

    Cork · city · Cork

    Justin MacCarthy, King James II's Commander-in-Chief for Munster, reaches Cork and reinstates landless Catholics while reassuring startled Protestants, a brilliant experiment not favoured by Dublin Castle diplomacy.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    JUSTIN MAcCARTHY is a name that has risen to distinction often in Cork. But this one now is the most versatile of them all. A curiously woman-faced man, with a long Roman nose tapering almost like a beak; hardly an impressive-looking soldier as he reaches Cork, King James II. 's Commander-in-Chief for Munster. But his actions are arresting. He reinstates the landless Catholics, he reassures the startled Protestants. It is a brilliant experiment, not much favoured in the trick o' the loop diplomacy of Dublin Castle. When Bandon revolts the Commander, unlike Maxwell, creates no immortals by quicklime and the rest. Later, in the North, when his troops break he advances single-handed, in the classic mode, against the Enniskilleners himself; and they respond to the chivalry and spare him injury and humiliation. Back in Cork again after his defeat, he is ill at ease. The cynics hint that he is in league with the enemy. How else explain the generous Ulster attitude ! He loses his temper at the parish malevolences and abandons the town. Look for him soon after about Ivrea, across the Alps, where his kinsman Thaddeus the Blessed had begged his way and died long ago. For Justin MacCarthy leads

    107

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 44

    As the companion tells it

    You are coming through Cork now. A man named Justin MacCarthy came here once, King James the Second's Commander-in-Chief for Munster. He was a curiously woman-faced man, with a long Roman nose tapering almost like a beak. Hardly an impressive-looking soldier. But his actions were arresting. He reinstated the landless Catholics, he reassured the startled Protestants. It was a brilliant experiment, not much favoured in the trick of the loop diplomacy of Dublin Castle. When Bandon revolted, the Commander, unlike Maxwell, created no immortals by quicklime and the rest. Later, in the North, when his troops broke, he advanced single-handed, in the classic mode, against the Enniskilleners himself. And they responded to the chivalry and spared him injury and humiliation. Back in Cork again after his defeat, he was ill at ease. The cynics hinted that he was in league with the enemy. How else explain the generous Ulster attitude. He lost his temper at the parish malevolences and abandoned the town. Look for him soon after about Ivrea, across the Alps, where his kinsman Thaddeus the Blessed had begged his way and died long ago. For Justin MacCarthy leads.

39. Lady Becher's life near Mallow

    Mallow · town · Cork

    Elizabeth O'Neill, a poor actor's daughter from Drogheda, became a celebrated actress at Covent Garden before marrying Sir W. Becher and settling near Mallow. She lived there for over fifty years, having saved £30,000 to support her family.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    ALTHOUGH Elizabeth O'Neill (Lady Becher) lived for over fifty years, until her death, near Mallow, she was a rare enough visitor to Cork. Nor would you have noticed her quiet motherly calm in a tea-shop or at a sale beyond that of a well-bred woman of the suburbs. For she had accomplished a quite extraordinary thing when she was only 28, and it had lifted up her spirit to the levels beyond the cant and gossip of the world. So there was a strength beneath that soft, rounded face, and low brow; and those hands and arms, moving always in a kind of Grecian rhythm, had the magnetic touch in them that was of the spirit. And perhaps it was as well that gossip could say little about her. For otherwise she might have been a parish vogue and lost her universal magnificence. Though we may whisper her history as we stand beside her, all of us waiting for the train now in the dim old Dublin Station near the Steampacket Quay. A poor actor's daughter from Drogheda she was, dragged from town to town, giving little performances in which the whole family, like the Farrens of Washington Street before her, used to take part. Until, young as she was, she conceived a horror of the life and down-at-heel, in peril

    75

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 31

    As the companion tells it

    Mallow is a town the road passes through, and for over fifty years it was home to a woman whose past was far from quiet. Elizabeth O'Neill, who became Lady Becher, lived near Mallow until her death, though she was a rare enough visitor to Cork itself. You would not have noticed her quiet motherly calm in a tea-shop or at a sale beyond that of a well-bred woman of the suburbs. But she had done a quite extraordinary thing when she was only 28, and it had lifted her spirit beyond the cant and gossip of the world. There was a strength beneath that soft, rounded face and low brow, and her hands and arms, moving always in a kind of Grecian rhythm, had a magnetic touch in them. She was a poor actor's daughter from Drogheda, dragged from town to town, giving little performances in which the whole family used to take part, until, young as she was, she conceived a horror of the life. She became a celebrated actress at Covent Garden, married Sir W. Becher, and settled near Mallow, having saved 30,000 pounds to support her family. Gossip could say little about her, and perhaps that was as well, for otherwise she might have been a parish vogue and lost her universal magnificence.

40. Mountjoy marches 5,000 men to subdue Cork

    Cork · city · Cork · 1603

    Lord Mountjoy marched from Dublin with 5,000 men to quell Cork's revolt against James I. The city's merchant families ultimately opened the gates rather than fight, preferring business as usual.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    individualist. Who, indeed, is this James the First? — out upon him for an undivulged personality, say the Meades and the Roches and the Barrys and the Morroughs and the Galways — no allegiance to him till he declares whether he will continue Elizabeth's facing-both-ways government — Cork with its conditional loyalty, that went Sinn Fein often to avoid the taxes in Bess's time, will do a Bolshevik stunt now if necessary to stampede James. So out with the guns and rake the royal stores at Skiddy's Castle, the governor's windows at Shandon; let Haulbowline be blockaded against attack from the sea. Worse than all, admit those wild and woolly real rebels from without the gates — they will spare the Meades and the Roches and the Barrys and the Morroughs and the Galways the fag of this distressing war-business. But Mountjoy has marched from Dublin with 5000 men. The imported Celts are eager to resist; they thirst for a fight, but the Meades and the Roches and the Barrys and the Morroughs and the Galways have a word with the Mayor and tears are shed. It is raining heavily, two men have already been killed — bloodshed is such a wretched, messy thing compared with simple aqueous principles. Let the gates be opened. Business as usual — God save the King !

    104

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 42

    As the companion tells it

    Cork has always been a trading city, and in 1603 that instinct ran the show. The merchant families, the Meades, the Roches, the Barrys, the Morroughs, the Galways, would not pledge allegiance to James the First until he showed his hand. Would he continue Elizabeth's facing-both-ways government or not. Cork's loyalty was conditional. In Elizabeth's time the city had gone its own way to avoid taxes, and now it was ready to go further to pressure James. Guns came out. The royal stores at Skiddy's Castle were raked. The governor's windows at Shandon were raked too. Haulbowline was blockaded against attack from the sea. Rebels from outside the gates were let in, the merchant families figuring those wild men would spare them the bother of this distressing war-business. But Lord Mountjoy marched from Dublin with 5,000 men. The imported Celts among the defenders were eager to resist. They thirsted for a fight. But the Meades and the Roches and the Barrys and the Morroughs and the Galways had a word with the Mayor, and tears were shed. It was raining heavily. Two men had already been killed. Bloodshed was such a wretched, messy thing. Let the gates be opened. Business as usual, God save the King.

41. Prince Rupert's fleet at Kinsale, 1649

    Kinsale · town · Cork · 1649

    In January 1649, Prince Rupert arrived with his fleet at Kinsale in support of the Stuart cause, but found himself blockaded inside the Old Head by another fleet. The restless commander, never beaten elsewhere, was pestered and cut off from supplies.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    have reached Holland where baby has time to grow up and join the Prince of Orange's army in Brabant; quitting it soon again however for the focus of all the filibusters in London, planning there a great scheme to become king of free-loving Madagascar, till mother begs him " not to be a fool." So he flashes back to Germany for another little war, spends three years in jail at Limburg Castle, makes eyes at the Governor's daughter, is released, and then via England, still flying, wild bird, hawk, and skylark mixed, to Holland a second time to declare for Charles, and in 1642, already commanderin-chief, fugitive again across a bean-field after Marston Moor ! So maps out, swing the needle, off he goes ! To St. Germains, next lap, and the exiled Stuart Court, indulging a little flutter on a year's campaigning with the French army between whiles. Until the rain! rain! rain! and January, 1649, and his fleet at Kinsale for the Stuarts again. Wherefore now this new Alexander, Prince Rupert his name, pestered with another fleet blockading him inside the old Head, rides in at the gate of Cork to beg food for his men most awkwardly cut off. And Cork feeds him and sends a convoy and blushes for pride. " The General! The General! His mother was a Queen !**

    46

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 18

    As the companion tells it

    Kinsale, in County Cork, was where Prince Rupert brought his fleet in January 1649, flying the Stuart cause. He was a man who never settled. Before this, he had reached Holland and joined the Prince of Orange's army in Brabant, then quit it for London, where he planned a great scheme to become king of Madagascar, until his mother begged him, in the words of the source, not to be a fool. He flashed back to Germany for another little war, spent 3 years in jail at Limburg Castle, made eyes at the Governor's daughter, was released, and went via England to Holland a second time to declare for Charles. By 1642 he was already commander-in-chief, a fugitive again across a bean-field after Marston Moor. He went to St. Germains and the exiled Stuart Court, indulging in a year's campaigning with the French army between whiles. Then came January 1649, and his fleet at Kinsale for the Stuarts again. This new Alexander, Prince Rupert his name, was pestered with another fleet blockading him inside the Old Head, cut off from supplies. He rode in at the gate of Cork to beg food for his men. Cork fed him and sent a convoy. The people cried, in the words of the source, The General! The General! His mother was a Queen!

42. Victoria sails past Blackrock to the rebel city of Cork

    near Blackrock · population centre · Cork · 1848

    During her 1848 visit, Queen Victoria's yacht sailed past Blackrock on the Lee before arriving at the quays of Cork, a city described as the 'grand old rebel city.' The author juxtaposes the royal arrival with the memory of Sarsfield and his followers being driven into exile from the same spot.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    the road, away, away while she " clustered about by all her starry fays" (Keats the best anticlimax for it now), " Victoria the Good," foozling and fair, is past Blackrock and, at last, to the jetties of the "grand old rebel city." And there while the riggings throb with shouting sailors and the quaysides ring to " rebel " cheers, by swift stagecraft call up Sarsfield and his hunted Irish wailing out to exile from the self-same spot. So louder, louder, Cork, with your cheers to drown that cry ! Till She smiles upon us all, God help us, and knows us not, how we can these years huzza for anything being, as failing bodies are, prone to all hysterias that enter through the eye. So farewell Victoria, the queen of our raree show. Farewell, and may the Lord have mercy upon us and all living fools !

    90

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 37

    As the companion tells it

    You are nearing Blackrock, on the Lee. In 1848 Queen Victoria's yacht passed this way, clustered about by all her starry fays, as the author puts it, foozling and fair, past Blackrock and on to the jetties of the grand old rebel city. The riggings throbbed with shouting sailors and the quaysides rang with rebel cheers. But the author calls up another scene from this same spot: Sarsfield and his hunted Irish, wailing out to exile. Louder, louder, Cork, with your cheers to drown that cry, he writes. Till she smiles upon us all, and knows us not, how we can huzza for anything, being prone to all hysterias that enter through the eye. So farewell Victoria, the queen of our raree show. Farewell, and may the Lord have mercy upon us and all living fools.

43. American destroyers at Queenstown, 1918

    Cobh · municipal district · Cork · 1918

    In 1918 American naval vessels filled the harbour at Queenstown (Cove), with destroyers painted in dazzle camouflage to confuse U-boats. The scene was visible from Spy Hill.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    TlME, the juggler, plays his latest trick : 1 782 — 1918. Hey! Presto! Enemies, Friends! Friends, Enemies ! For behold the big-sailed schooners tacking heavily past Beala Coneen, a coastguard signalling from the shore. So month by month the " All clear " waves as the foodships put out. Though this sick thing overseas will thrive now by no feeding. For these cargoes from the great victualling centre at Cork with food-stuffs for the 40,000 English fighting against American freedom must turn again and head home with fugitives only half -fed aboard; the U.S.A. too strong to be enslaved any more to the Georgian stupidities of empire bursting with the weight of pride. And lucky for the old Empire as the sequel proves. For here now it is 1918 with steam and dynamo to diabolise the waters of old Cove, and such a flung down pallette of ships as makes the whole waterway a child's delight for any who sees from Spy Hill the linked destroyers painted out into disguises of hulls, life-buoys, rocks, fish, anything such as later may confuse the furtive U-boat periscoping round and past the Heads outside in search of prey. For this ingenious, hybrid America, U.S. rather, has rushed in, by trick, force or any

    101

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 41

    As the companion tells it

    You are coming through Cork, and in 1782 this was the great victualling centre of the British Empire. The American War of Independence was raging, and from here month by month the foodships put out past Beala Coneen, a coastguard signalling from the shore, the all clear waved as the big-sailed schooners tacked heavily out. Their cargoes were food-stuffs for 40,000 English soldiers fighting against American freedom. Time the juggler plays his strangest trick here, 1782 to 1918, enemies become friends. But in 1782 those ships had to turn again and head home with fugitives only half-fed aboard. The USA was too strong to be enslaved any longer to what the source calls the Georgian stupidities of empire, bursting with the weight of pride. Lucky for the old Empire, as the sequel proves. The author marks the irony sharply. The same waters off Cove that saw those foodships struggle out to feed troops suppressing American freedom would, by 1918, see American destroyers arriving in the harbour, painted into disguises of hulls and rocks and fish, anything to confuse the furtive U-boat periscoping past the Heads outside in search of prey.

44. Canon P.A. Sheehan's final days in Doneraile

    Doneraile · townland · Cork · 1910–1913

    Canon Patrick Augustine Sheehan, parish priest of Doneraile, spent his final years in his house at the end of the painted street, preparing quietly for death after his Dublin doctor told him he had at most two years to live. He destroyed all his letters and diaries before the end to prevent any bitterness escaping his words.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    Ke goes along. Until, one evening soon, he comes a different way, riding from the station in an ambulance to the South Infirmary, still grave, calm, kind, inquiring about young men especially whom he had met in the past, . anxious to hear what the writers of the town were ambitioning in their art; the Christian Stoic and never a cynic in face of misfortune. So after a little respite of treatment they take him back to die rapidly in Doneraile, destroying all his letters and diaries there just before the end lest any bitterness should come out of a word he left behind. A stately passing, that heroic gesture of magnanimity that is the mark of a genuine man. So shall he endure, P. A. Sheehan, P.P. of Doneraile, now set in love and memory safe beyond any " cast of fortune's die and the iniquitous hour."

    60

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 24

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Doneraile, Canon Patrick Augustine Sheehan came home to die. He had been taken from the station in an ambulance to the South Infirmary, still grave and calm and kind, asking after young men he had met, wanting to know what the writers of the town were aiming for in their art. He was a Christian Stoic, never a cynic in the face of misfortune. After a brief treatment they brought him back here, and he died rapidly. Before the end he destroyed all his letters and diaries, so that no bitterness should come out of a word he left behind. The book calls it a stately passing, a heroic gesture of magnanimity, the mark of a genuine man. P. A. Sheehan, parish priest of Doneraile, is remembered now, set safe beyond any cast of fortune's die and the iniquitous hour.

45. Cork quays: site of royal arrival and Sarsfield's exile

    Cork · city · Cork · 1848

    The quays of Cork city witnessed both Queen Victoria's triumphant arrival in 1848 and, centuries earlier, the departure of Sarsfield and his followers into exile. The author uses the royal visit to highlight the contrast between imperial celebration and Irish suffering during the famine years.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    the road, away, away while she " clustered about by all her starry fays" (Keats the best anticlimax for it now), " Victoria the Good," foozling and fair, is past Blackrock and, at last, to the jetties of the "grand old rebel city." And there while the riggings throb with shouting sailors and the quaysides ring to " rebel " cheers, by swift stagecraft call up Sarsfield and his hunted Irish wailing out to exile from the self-same spot. So louder, louder, Cork, with your cheers to drown that cry ! Till She smiles upon us all, God help us, and knows us not, how we can these years huzza for anything being, as failing bodies are, prone to all hysterias that enter through the eye. So farewell Victoria, the queen of our raree show. Farewell, and may the Lord have mercy upon us and all living fools !

    90

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 37

    As the companion tells it

    As the road brings you through Cork, think of 1848. Victoria the Good, past Blackrock, came at last to the jetties of the grand old rebel city. Sailors shouted from the riggings. The quaysides rang with rebel cheers. But the same spot holds another memory. From here, Sarsfield and his hunted Irish wailed out to exile. The cheers grew louder to drown that cry. Victoria smiled upon the crowd and knew them not. We can huzza for anything, prone to all hysterias that enter through the eye. Farewell Victoria, the queen of our raree show. May the Lord have mercy upon us and all living fools.

46. Cromwell's winter quarters at Youghal

    Youghal · town · Cork

    Cromwell departed from his winter quarters at Youghal on his excursion toward Cork. He was accompanied by Lord Broghill, son of Lord Cork, and other gentlemen.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    THIS to the glory of Cork forever ! Cromwell, with his cherry-tipped nose and his great oxback has come on his little excursion from winter-quarters at Youghal. The ride through the bogs, and on past Middleton is Puritanism in pageant. Sir William Fenton, the bunco steerer's son, my Lord Broghill, best-beloved child of land-sharping Lord Cork, "divers other gentlemen" — they all are en route I They pass Barryscourt where Cambrensis, a choicer liar, had been, and by Tivoli fragrant still with " sweet Raleigh's," cedars, and into Cork, the Lord Protector's sacred body wellbedded this night at Ballyvolane House, a " very hearty and noble entertainment offered him" by all the citizens — oh specious, colonising cant ! For these days they have a little way of sorting out the citizens, quick in execution, but with lingering reactions even down to 1920 and the allegedly progressive future. So listen ! that is the third cannon now ! Oh, Christ, we are destroyed. Hurry 1 hurry — for your life ! . . . . Oh, God be praised ! The South Gate .... Thus it ends. The last of the outcasts, old, feeble, slow-moving crawls away to Glasheen. Others in dozens and threes, are turning east to the

    109

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 45

    As the companion tells it

    Youghal was where Cromwell kept his winter quarters before he rode out toward Cork. The book calls him cherry-nosed and great-backed, and calls the whole thing his little excursion. He had with him Lord Broghill, best-loved child of Lord Cork, Sir William Fenton, and what the record calls "divers other gentlemen." They rode through the bogs and on past Middleton. They passed Barryscourt, where Cambrensis had been before them, and by Tivoli, still fragrant with Raleigh's cedars, and so into Cork. That night the Lord Protector was well bedded at Ballyvolane House, with what the book calls "a very hearty and noble entertainment offered him" by all the citizens. The writer calls it specious, colonising cant. For these days, he says, they had a little way of sorting out the citizens, quick in execution, but with lingering reactions even down to 1920. A third cannon sounds. The last of the outcasts, old, feeble, slow-moving, crawls away to Glasheen. Others, in dozens and threes, are turning east.

47. Famine fugitives throng into Cork city seeking shelter

    Cork · city · Cork

    Night and day, fugitives from the west throng into Cork city seeking shelter from hunger and fever. Hospitals and sheds are full, with no nourishment or nurses for the poor creatures, many of whom are dying on the streets.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    DOWN along the coast especially, and over the hills from Bantry to Kinsale the poor people are starving after the potatoes have failed. The red-coat garrisons are in barrack, as before, fed somehow by grace of God, or the devil, Babylon is only one day's journey with its bulging warehouses by ** Thames his side," Empire flies its blood and bone flags as lavishly as ever from Greenwich to Mandalay. But over here a corpse is cheap and the anatomists grow impudent from excess supplies. So night and day the fugitives throng into Cork city, to see if there is any shelter in the big streets from this hunger and fever that cannot be turned away at all from cabins on the grey roads along the west. On the north side the charitable people give what help they can ; along Douglas Street as the overflow sets that way from the Union Gates many a one shares a literal crust. Even on the fashionable hills there is a stirring to alms and prayer. But the arrangements are woeful, as you might see along the Douglas Road, with many a fine woman's son stretche'd on the curb and a good priest anointing him before he'll die on the cold stone. For now the hospitals and sheds are full and there is no nourishment left for

    105

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 43

    As the companion tells it

    Cork is a city the road passes through, and in the famine years it became a place people fled to rather than from. Down along the coast and over the hills from Bantry to Kinsale the poor people were starving after the potatoes failed. The red-coat garrisons stayed in barrack, fed somehow. But over here a corpse was cheap. Night and day the fugitives thronged into Cork city, to see if there was any shelter in the big streets from the hunger and fever that could not be turned away from the cabins on the grey roads along the west. On the north side the charitable people gave what help they could. Along Douglas Street, as the overflow set that way from the Union Gates, many a one shared a literal crust. Even on the fashionable hills there was a stirring to alms and prayer. But the arrangements were woeful. Along the Douglas Road you might see many a fine woman's son stretched on the curb, and a good priest anointing him before he would die on the cold stone. The hospitals and sheds were full and there was no nourishment left.

48. Malachy barred from entering Armagh for two years

    near Armagh · town · Armagh · 1129–1131

    Malachy could not enter the city of Armagh for two years because a self-elected rival archbishop held the walls. The rival struck a hard bargain over the sale of the 'Staff of Jesus.'

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    CHURCH and State were in dire distress when Celsus, on his deathbed in 1129, named Malachy, a young priest who had already restored Bangor, as his successor. This Celsus had been a model Archbishop of Armagh, although himself of the usurping family which scandalised Ireland by the seizure of the temporalities and the assumption of hieratic descent for fifteen generations. He had succeeded to the archdiocese at the age of twenty-seven and he had struggled hard with the forces of reaction and decay within the Church. But the time still was perilous at his death, for Dermot MacMurrough, the bull-souled bandit King of Leinster was loose, and with him chaos and internecine strife. Malachy had discipline, determination, restless energy. But, even so, his task is nearly impossible, especially when he cannot enter his city of Armagh for two years on account of this archbishop faineant, selfelected, within the walls, such an " archbishop" too as is a keen business-man, to judge by the hard bargain he strikes with Malachy over the sale of the " Staff of Jesus."

    The fame of the Saint's mortifications and his zeal had already reached Rome when

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 19

    As the companion tells it

    Armagh is the town you are passing through. In 1129, the archbishop Celsus lay dying, and he named Malachy, a young priest who had already restored Bangor, as his successor. Celsus had been a model archbishop, though he came from a family that had seized the position for fifteen generations. He had taken the archdiocese at the age of 27 and had struggled against reaction and decay within the Church. At his death the land was still perilous. Dermot MacMurrough, the bandit King of Leinster, was loose, and with him came chaos and internecine strife. Malachy had discipline, determination, restless energy. But his task was nearly impossible. He could not enter his city of Armagh for two years because a self-elected rival archbishop held the walls. This rival was a keen businessman, to judge by the hard bargain he struck with Malachy over the sale of the Staff of Jesus.

49. Mary Swete elopes with Henry Sheares from Ursuline Convent to Cork

    Cork · city · Cork

    Mary Swete of Cork eloped with Henry Sheares along the road from the Ursuline Convent to Cork, rejecting a more prosperous match with the barrister Fitzgibbon, later Lord Clare. Sheares was the son of a philanthropist banker and a finer choice than the apostate's son from Clare.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    THE moon is all velvet and cream, the white narcissi of the stars pranked round about it. Underneath, the river shining and soft, like a woman's arm, runs smooth and luring,, the very symbol for lovers. And, hist ! they are coming now along the avenue, the gate is creaking, they have turned and are gone — without a word, magical, touched themselves with the wand of illusion, protean from shape to shape of delight as they travel the road from the Ursuline Convent to Cork. So that the sky is all a great chandelier with every star of cut glass and the moon itself, risen up midway, the central light for the world reduced to room-size in the miracle of visioning love. A plucky girl, quicksilver and fire in her veins ; for eloping now with Henry Sheares before yet the Ursulines have come to her father's house Mary Swete has rejected a far more prosperous and banal match. She will fly with Henry Sheares, the philanthropist banker's son of Glasheen and scorn that other Fitzgibbon, the barrister with money to burn, an apostate's son from Clare, who will soon reach the infamy of the woolsack, will spit upon his kith and kin, and will go to his grave with riots and curses in Dublin while still comparatively

    70

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 29

    As the companion tells it

    The road is taking you through Cork. This is the city Mary Swete eloped to with Henry Sheares, travelling the road from the Ursuline Convent under a moon of velvet and cream, the stars pranked round about it. The river underneath shone soft, like a woman's arm, smooth and luring. They came along the avenue, the gate creaking, and they turned and were gone without a word, touched with the wand of illusion as they travelled the road. Mary Swete was a plucky girl, quicksilver and fire in her veins. She eloped with Henry Sheares before the Ursulines had come to her father's house, rejecting a far more prosperous match with Fitzgibbon, a barrister with money to burn, an apostate's son from Clare. The sky was all a great chandelier with every star of cut glass, and the moon risen up midway, the central light for the world reduced to room-size in the miracle of visioning love. She chose Henry Sheares, the philanthropist banker's son of Glasheen, and scorned Fitzgibbon, who would reach the infamy of the woolsack, spit upon his kith and kin, and go to his grave with riots and curses in Dublin.

50. MacMurrogh boards ship at the Battery Sluice

    Youghal · town · Cork · 1166

    Dermot MacMurrogh boarded his ship at the Battery Sluice in 1166 to sail east and seek Anglo-Norman assistance, an act the author likens to ferrying the dead across the River Styx. The departure is framed as a catastrophe that would bring eight hundred years of anguish to Ireland.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    and devil, a lust-ridden lump, heavy, huge, harsh-voiced, pawing, cursing, raving; age no mellowing tenderness in his blood as he enters now his seventy-seventh year. Down upon your knees, Ireland, and wail as he boards his ship by the Battery Sluice, and sails out east. For this is 1 166, and that boat is more horrid than all boats that ferry the dead over Styx since one worse than any of the ancient world is aboard ; Dermot MacMurrogh, the ravisher, cut-throat, convent-breaker, incendiary, of diabolical courage too, Dermot MacMurrogh away now to bring Anglo-Normans and the eight hundred years of anguish in.

    92

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 38

    As the companion tells it

    Youghal is a town the road passes through. In 1166, Dermot MacMurrogh boarded his ship by the Battery Sluice and sailed out east. The author describes him as a lust-ridden lump, heavy, harsh-voiced, pawing, cursing, raving, in his seventy-seventh year with no mellowing tenderness in his blood. He calls him ravisher, cut-throat, convent-breaker, incendiary, a man of diabolical courage. That boat, the author says, was more horrid than any that ferried the dead over the River Styx, because aboard was one worse than any figure of the ancient world. MacMurrogh sailed to bring the Anglo-Normans and eight hundred years of anguish to Ireland.

51. Adrigole's lack of wheeled roads

    Adrigole · townland · Cork · 1770

    From about Adrigole in west Cork, no roads had been cut for wheeled traffic, so butter had to be transported on horseback with firkins slung across the animals.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    WAKING in the night, west, at the foot of the Boggeragh Mountains, you would hear the horse and he being tackled in the yard outside, a strip of lighted bog-deal kindled at the constant turf-fire flaring up here and there as the servant-boy stoops and searches for a piece of the harness mislaid on the day before. At three o'clock there comes every five minutes or so a butt rattling and lurching through the Square and along the Main Street of Macroom, or a horseman with three firkins slung, since there are as yet no roads cut for wheeled traffic from about Adrigole. Until everywhere the day is coming up to that soothing rhymeless music of hoof -beats and rumbling wheels, and the stagger and strain of unsprung axles down the roads. And now near six, they are climbing old Mallow Lane or by the Watercourse for those travelling from the north, a greeting exchanged, that undiplomatic ease and courtesy of men who are wise to sunsets and dawn ! " There was a shower only and I near Fermoy," and, " 'Twas cold and the horse wheezing on me and we passing Ballea," and, " That cock at Minane — he'd crow and we coming whatever kind the weather would be." So in the year 1 770 and after, the high ground about the Butter Market is rich with the morn-

    79

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 33

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here, in 1770, no roads had been cut for wheeled traffic. Butter had to go on horseback, firkins slung across the animals. Waking at night at the foot of the Boggeragh Mountains, you would hear the horse being tackled in the yard outside. A strip of lighted bog-deal, kindled at the constant turf-fire, flared up here and there as a servant-boy stooped and searched for a piece of harness mislaid the day before. At three o'clock, every five minutes or so, a horseman with three firkins slung came rattling and lurching through the Square and along the Main Street of Macroom. Until everywhere the day was coming up to that soothing rhymeless music of hoof-beats and rumbling wheels, the stagger and strain of unsprung axles down the roads. Now near six, they were climbing old Mallow Lane or by the Watercourse, for those travelling from the north. A greeting was exchanged, that undiplomatic ease and courtesy of men who are wise to sunsets and dawn. "There was a shower only and I near Fermoy." "'Twas cold and the horse wheezing on me and we passing Ballea." "That cock at Minane — he'd crow and we coming whatever kind the weather would be." So in 1770 and after, the high ground about the Butter Market was rich with the morning.

52. James Blake despatched from Cork to poison Red Hugh

    Cork · city · Cork

    George Carew dispatched James Blake from Cork on a ship bound for Spain, carrying poisoned phials with orders to kill Red Hugh O'Donnell. The assassination was accomplished seven months later at Valladolid.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    champion has begun to wrestle, Red Hugh O'Donnell his name; a terrible fiery fellow, Apollo to look upon, but with no luck. For racing south to Belgooly he barely escapes death at Kinsaie where Carew smashes the Spanish-Irish force, though the leaders get off on the ships. After which, for a while, the conqueror can turn to his archaeological studies, fulfilling the gentleman thus. Until tiring of genealogies he writes out a subtle prescription, the most drastic cure known for mal de vie. They mix it at the apothecary's, and a slave is summoned. So, one night, a scrubby, dark wart of a man goes aboard a ship for Spain at Cork; with him his phials and orders and the sure hope of hell ! James Blake is his name, despatched thus by the son of the exquisite Dean with purpose to poison Red Hugh. A purpose most honourably achieved, antiquary and snake triumphant at Valladolid seven months later when Red Hugh writhes and is dead; the hiss and rattle of the deed heard and enduring till all the Carews and Windsors shall fade away with an Empire's dust.

    69

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 28

    As the companion tells it

    As the road takes you through Cork, this is the port where an assassination sailed out. Red Hugh O'Donnell was a terrible fiery fellow, Apollo to look upon, but with no luck. He raced south to Belgooly and barely escaped death at Kinsale, where Carew smashed the Spanish-Irish force, though the leaders got off on the ships. After that, Carew turned to his archaeological studies, fulfilling himself as a gentleman. Until tiring of genealogies, he wrote out a subtle prescription, the most drastic cure known for what ailed Red Hugh. They mixed it at the apothecary's, and a slave was summoned. One night, a scrubby, dark wart of a man went aboard a ship for Spain at Cork, with him his phials and orders. James Blake was his name, despatched by Carew, the son of the exquisite Dean, to poison Red Hugh. The purpose was honourably achieved at Valladolid seven months later, when Red Hugh writhed and was dead.

53. Cromwell's Puritan pageant through the bogs past Midleton

    Midleton · town · Cork

    Cromwell's ride through the bogs and past Midleton is characterised as 'Puritanism in pageant,' with Lord Broghill and other gentlemen accompanying him on the route.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    THIS to the glory of Cork forever ! Cromwell, with his cherry-tipped nose and his great oxback has come on his little excursion from winter-quarters at Youghal. The ride through the bogs, and on past Middleton is Puritanism in pageant. Sir William Fenton, the bunco steerer's son, my Lord Broghill, best-beloved child of land-sharping Lord Cork, "divers other gentlemen" — they all are en route I They pass Barryscourt where Cambrensis, a choicer liar, had been, and by Tivoli fragrant still with " sweet Raleigh's," cedars, and into Cork, the Lord Protector's sacred body wellbedded this night at Ballyvolane House, a " very hearty and noble entertainment offered him" by all the citizens — oh specious, colonising cant ! For these days they have a little way of sorting out the citizens, quick in execution, but with lingering reactions even down to 1920 and the allegedly progressive future. So listen ! that is the third cannon now ! Oh, Christ, we are destroyed. Hurry 1 hurry — for your life ! . . . . Oh, God be praised ! The South Gate .... Thus it ends. The last of the outcasts, old, feeble, slow-moving crawls away to Glasheen. Others in dozens and threes, are turning east to the

    109

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 45

    As the companion tells it

    Midleton is a town on the road through the bogs of Cork. Cromwell came this way from his winter-quarters at Youghal. The ride is Puritanism in pageant. He had his cherry-tipped nose and his great oxback, and he was not alone. Sir William Fenton, the bunco steerer's son, rode with him. Lord Broghill was there too, called the best-beloved child of land-sharping Lord Cork, and "divers other gentlemen" besides. They passed Barryscourt, where Cambrensis, a choicer liar, had been before them. They went by Tivoli, still fragrant with "sweet Raleigh's" cedars, and into Cork itself. That night the Lord Protector's sacred body was well bedded at Ballyvolane House. A "very hearty and noble entertainment" was offered him by all the citizens. It is specious, colonising cant. These days have a way of sorting out the citizens, quick in execution but with lingering reactions down to 1920 and the allegedly progressive future. Then a cannon sounds. People cry out they are destroyed. They hurry for their lives through the South Gate. The last of the outcasts, old and feeble, crawls away to Glasheen. Others, in dozens and threes, turn east.

54. Food ships victualling at Cork during American War

    Cork · city · Cork · 1782

    During the American War of Independence, Cork served as a great victualling centre supplying food to 40,000 English troops fighting against American freedom. The ships returned with half-fed fugitives.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    TlME, the juggler, plays his latest trick : 1 782 — 1918. Hey! Presto! Enemies, Friends! Friends, Enemies ! For behold the big-sailed schooners tacking heavily past Beala Coneen, a coastguard signalling from the shore. So month by month the " All clear " waves as the foodships put out. Though this sick thing overseas will thrive now by no feeding. For these cargoes from the great victualling centre at Cork with food-stuffs for the 40,000 English fighting against American freedom must turn again and head home with fugitives only half -fed aboard; the U.S.A. too strong to be enslaved any more to the Georgian stupidities of empire bursting with the weight of pride. And lucky for the old Empire as the sequel proves. For here now it is 1918 with steam and dynamo to diabolise the waters of old Cove, and such a flung down pallette of ships as makes the whole waterway a child's delight for any who sees from Spy Hill the linked destroyers painted out into disguises of hulls, life-buoys, rocks, fish, anything such as later may confuse the furtive U-boat periscoping round and past the Heads outside in search of prey. For this ingenious, hybrid America, U.S. rather, has rushed in, by trick, force or any

    101

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 41

    As the companion tells it

    Cork was a great victualling centre in 1782, during the American War of Independence. Big-sailed schooners tacked heavily past the coast, a coastguard signalling from the shore. Month by month the all-clear waved as the food ships put out. Their cargoes from Cork carried food-stuffs for 40,000 English troops fighting against American freedom. But the ships had to turn and head home again with fugitives aboard, only half-fed. The United States was too strong to be enslaved any longer to what the book calls the Georgian stupidities of empire, bursting with the weight of pride. The author notes it was lucky for the old Empire, as the sequel proves. Then the passage jumps forward to 1918, when steam and dynamo transformed the waters of old Cove. From Spy Hill you could see linked destroyers painted into disguises of hulls, life-buoys, rocks, fish, anything to confuse the furtive U-boat periscoping round and past the Heads outside in search of prey. This ingenious America, the U.S., had rushed in, by trick, force or any means.

55. MacCarthy's single-handed advance against the Enniskilleners

    near Enniskillen · town · Fermanagh

    In the North, when his troops break, MacCarthy advances single-handed against the Enniskilleners, who respond to his chivalry and spare him injury and humiliation.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    JUSTIN MAcCARTHY is a name that has risen to distinction often in Cork. But this one now is the most versatile of them all. A curiously woman-faced man, with a long Roman nose tapering almost like a beak; hardly an impressive-looking soldier as he reaches Cork, King James II. 's Commander-in-Chief for Munster. But his actions are arresting. He reinstates the landless Catholics, he reassures the startled Protestants. It is a brilliant experiment, not much favoured in the trick o' the loop diplomacy of Dublin Castle. When Bandon revolts the Commander, unlike Maxwell, creates no immortals by quicklime and the rest. Later, in the North, when his troops break he advances single-handed, in the classic mode, against the Enniskilleners himself; and they respond to the chivalry and spare him injury and humiliation. Back in Cork again after his defeat, he is ill at ease. The cynics hint that he is in league with the enemy. How else explain the generous Ulster attitude ! He loses his temper at the parish malevolences and abandons the town. Look for him soon after about Ivrea, across the Alps, where his kinsman Thaddeus the Blessed had begged his way and died long ago. For Justin MacCarthy leads

    107

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 44

    As the companion tells it

    Enniskillen is a town the road passes through. In the north, when his troops broke, Justin MacCarthy advanced single-handed against the Enniskilleners himself. He was King James the Second's Commander-in-Chief for Munster, a curiously woman-faced man with a long Roman nose tapering almost like a beak, hardly an impressive-looking soldier when he first reached Cork. But his actions were arresting. He reinstated the landless Catholics and reassured the startled Protestants, a brilliant experiment not much favoured in the trick o' the loop diplomacy of Dublin Castle. When Bandon revolted, he, unlike Maxwell, created no immortals by quicklime and the rest. So it was in character that in the north, when his troops broke, he advanced alone against the Enniskilleners in the classic mode. They responded to his chivalry and spared him injury and humiliation. Back in Cork after his defeat, he was ill at ease. The cynics hinted he was in league with the enemy. How else explain the generous Ulster attitude. He lost his temper at the parish malevolences and abandoned the town. Look for him soon after about Ivrea, across the Alps, where his kinsman Thaddeus the Blessed had begged his way and died long ago.

56. Sir Walter Scott's carriage drive through Blackpool to Cork

    Blackpool · townland · Cork · 1825

    Sir Walter Scott, accompanied by Maria Edgeworth, Captain Scott, Miss Scott, and Mr. Lockhart, drove in a green-coloured carriage and pair from Blackpool over the Bridge into Cork. Lockhart pronounced himself disappointed, calling the place dirty and not up to his expectations.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    A GREEN-COLOURED carriage and pair drives in from Blackpool and over the Bridge. In it Sir Walter Scott, a big, robust, red -cheeked, lamelegged man, very grey; in the corner, beside him, Maria Edgeworth, tiny, plain, all brains and no beauty, too sensitive about it ever to be photographed, third on the seat, Captain Scott of the Hussars, a youth quartered at Dublin; opposite them Miss Scott, pretty, 22, and Mr. Lockhart, her sister's husband, a tall manly fellow with masses of glossy black hair, the cut of an actor. Sir Walter is quizzical, talks of visiting Blarney. Lockhart is disappointed, says so, "The place is dirty, by no manner of means up to my expectations" — a pessimist, Lockhart the Newcastle-on-Tyner appalled at the absence of geometry here. The costumes of the women and their ease claim Miss Scott; Miss Edgeworth is the perfect bland, does not trouble ! So Scott in his mouse-grey trousers, spats and cutaway coat steps out, the others following; a sandwich and a cider are swallowed; the barouche is fetched for Blarney, and they are off to kiss the stone. Meantime Sunday's Well has heard it, St. Lukes rouses from its afterbreakfast restraint. The Marsh rises in alarm ! "What!

    10

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 4

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Blackpool, in 1825, a green-coloured carriage and pair drove in and over the Bridge into Cork. In it sat Sir Walter Scott, a big, robust, red-cheeked man, lame-legged and very grey. Beside him in the corner was Maria Edgeworth, tiny and plain, all brains and no beauty, too sensitive about it ever to be photographed. Third on the seat sat Captain Scott of the Hussars, a youth quartered at Dublin. Opposite them were Miss Scott, pretty and 22, and Mr. Lockhart, her sister's husband, a tall manly fellow with masses of glossy black hair and the cut of an actor. Sir Walter was quizzical and talked of visiting Blarney. Lockhart was disappointed and said so. His words were, "The place is dirty, by no manner of means up to my expectations." Lockhart, the Newcastle-on-Tyne man, was appalled at the absence of geometry here. The costumes of the women and their ease claimed Miss Scott's attention. Miss Edgeworth was the perfect bland and did not trouble. So Scott in his mouse-grey trousers, spats and cutaway coat stepped out, the others following. A sandwich and a cider were swallowed. The barouche was fetched for Blarney, and they were off to kiss the stone. Meantime Sunday's Well had heard it, St. Lukes roused from its after-breakfast restraint, and the Marsh rose in alarm.

57. Spenser's home off North Main Street, Cork

    North Main Street · street · Cork

    After their wedding at Christ Church, Edmund Spenser and Elizabeth Boyle stepped ashore and entered their house off the North Main Street of Cork. The passage evokes the Elizabethan-era domestic life of the poet in Cork city.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    THE wedding anthem sways down like foliage from the choir gallery; the procession moves from the altar, a white flower at its head in the bride herself. So that now, to his eyes and ears the whole church trembles to a treetop and in the boys' voices, larks and thrushes " lave their mouths with May." For such is the miracle of this sixth sense, Love ! And so they are out through the porch of old Christ Church and to the water side (where now is the Grand Parade) as he helps her aboard the ribboned boat that, for a little, at least, they may have a Venetian wedding, the bubblechimes breaking about the prow as if the bellringers of the coral deeps were making them greeting. The Lido pales away, and royal Baiae white with acolytes is dim to this as they step ashore and enter their house off the North Main Street of Cork in the Shakespeare day. Especially to him whose heart is all Hippocrene, oblivious how the springs shall grow turbid suddenly, then dry, and turn to acrid dust ! For this is Edmund Spenser, Raleigh's intimate, Elizabeth's flatterer, lord of Kilcolman, Sheriff of Cork, married now to Elizabeth Boyle from Youghal shore whom he courted out by the Point there as the wind

    43

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 17

    As the companion tells it

    A poet's home off North Main Street in Cork, where Edmund Spenser brought his bride after their wedding at Christ Church. The wedding anthem swayed down from the choir gallery, and the procession moved from the altar with the bride herself a white flower at its head. To his eyes and ears the whole church trembled like a treetop, and in the boys' voices, larks and thrushes "lave their mouths with May." They passed out through the porch of old Christ Church to the water side, where now is the Grand Parade. He helped her aboard a ribboned boat, so that for a little they might have a Venetian wedding, chimes breaking about the prow. The Lido pales away, and royal Baiae is dim to this, as they step ashore and enter their house off the North Main Street of Cork in the Shakespeare day. This was Edmund Spenser, Raleigh's intimate, Elizabeth's flatterer, lord of Kilcolman, Sheriff of Cork, married now to Elizabeth Boyle from Youghal shore, whom he courted out by the Point there as the wind.

58. St Fursey prays by Finnbarr's body at hilltop church near Gougane

    near Gougane Barra · population centre · Cork

    After Finnbarr's death, his silver coffin was brought from Cloyne—where Bishop Colman had anointed him—to his own church upon the hill near Gougane. St Fursey, Bishop of Ferns, came to pray beside the body and experienced a visionary miracle of angels descending from heaven.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    THEY have brought his body from Cloyne where Colman has anointed him back now to his own church upon the hill. The silver coffin is laid before the altar and the crowds throng up to pray beside it ; his students from their huts, the converted country people from about Gougane, priests and monks from ail parts; and one especially that, like the dead Finnbarr, shall be remembered for an age. Though none save himself are conscious of an immediate miracle now as he kneels. Look then at him and he stock-still, hardly breathing, you would think, transfigured I The roof above his head has rolled away, a ladder of stars and sunshine let down over the cloud-tops and in gold and sapphire the angels descending to minister to his dream. For this is Fursey, Bishop of Ferns, come to pray by the body of Finnbarr and so soon communicant with the dead, Fursey the Saint to whom a King shall kneel in East Anglia and put off his crown, for whom Clovis the Second shall prostrate himself upon the Marne bank by Paris, and to whom an Emperor of Thuringia shall cry out for solace. A poor friar indeed, infinitely wise, to whose visional writings Dante himself may well

    53

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 21

    As the companion tells it

    Gougane Barra is a place the road passes near, and in its story the dead are carried home. After Finnbarr's death, his body was brought from Cloyne, where Bishop Colman had anointed him, back to his own church upon the hill. The silver coffin was laid before the altar, and the crowds came up to pray beside it. His students came from their huts, the converted country people from about Gougane, priests and monks from all parts. And one among them especially, who like the dead Finnbarr would be remembered for an age. His name was Fursey, Bishop of Ferns, and he had come to pray by the body. As he knelt, none but himself were conscious of what happened. The roof above his head rolled away. A ladder of stars and sunshine came down over the cloud-tops, and in gold and sapphire the angels descended to minister to his dream. This was the saint to whom a king would kneel in East Anglia and put off his crown, for whom Clovis the Second would prostrate himself on the Marne bank by Paris, and to whom an Emperor of Thuringia would cry out for solace. A poor friar, infinitely wise.

59. Thackeray's lodgings at Grattan's Hill

    Grattan's Hill · street · Cork

    William Makepeace Thackeray lodged at Grattan's Hill in Cork, from where he wandered to Patrick Street shop windows to overhear conversations and gather material for his Irish Sketch Book.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    THIS visitor should, if any ever, have appealed to the town. For he is a fine youngish fellow, tall, open-faced, English, public-school looking, and, above all, he has the gift. That is to say you cannot easily tell, listening to him, where the irony begins and the sincerity ends. Though, like Charlotte Bronte, that little honest Mercury, you may grow irritated and take a violent dislike of the man. So now when he comes down from his lodgings at Grattan's Hill ostensibly to look in the Patrick Street shop windows he really overhears what the flaneurs there are saying and so writes "Pana" down. For his long training in free-lance journalism has put the trick of '* copy" into his blood. And when to-morrow he goes to the Ursuline Convent at Blackrock, though they do not tell him of George Sand's intimate, one of their earliest Sisters, he notes the charm of the place and the " sweet nun-like odour," a phrase cut to the flippancy he affects. And when, a little later, he gives us a hundred years of vogue in his Irish Sketch Boo^ we shall at least have three justifiable boasts to make, that he called us the " greatest book-lovers he ever had met," that he found in us as in the rest of Ireland, the matter out of which he made his

    77

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala

    As the companion tells it

    Thackeray's lodgings at Grattan's Hill housed William Makepeace Thackeray during his time in Cork. The writer describes him as a tall, open-faced, English, public-school looking youngish fellow with "the gift" — one could not easily tell, listening to him, where the irony began and the sincerity ended. Though, like Charlotte Bronte, that little honest Mercury, one might grow irritated and take a violent dislike to the man. He would come down from his lodgings at Grattan's Hill ostensibly to look in the Patrick Street shop windows, but he really overheard what the flaneurs there were saying, and so wrote "Pana" down. His long training in free-lance journalism had put the trick of copy into his blood. When he went to the Ursuline Convent at Blackrock, he noted the charm of the place and the "sweet nun-like odour," a phrase cut to the flippancy he affects. When he later gave a hundred years of vogue in his Irish Sketch Book, there were at least three justifiable boasts to make: he called the people the "greatest book-lovers he ever had met," and he found in them, as in the rest of Ireland, the matter out of which he made his work.

60. Sheehan's visits to Patrick Street and Grand Parade

    Grand Parade · street · Cork · 1910–1913

    In his final years, Canon Sheehan was occasionally seen looking into bookshop windows in Patrick Street or at the picture-shop on the Grand Parade in Cork, going unrecognised so he could meditate as he walked.

    Read the passage

    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    HE is very quiet in his ways, the world has faded back from him so that he hardly seems to observe its harsh colours, the hysterias of the hour do not hurt him, though he clearly measures their effect on others about him. He has a stately, grave, gentle, but very firm way of walking or stopping. He might be a commander who had fought many wars and was struck to silence at the cumulative vanities even of blood. So at Doneraile already he begins to develop into the epic figure, love everywhere shown him, though love with a difference of awe. In his big sad house at the end of the painted street he is preparing quietly still, without hysteria, for a certain visitor. For, a few weeks ago, his wise Dublin doctor has told him that the day and the hour are at hand, that two years at the most, will elapse before the Call. So his journeys grow fewer, and it is seldom or never now that he drives to Buttevant and takes the train to Cork. You might occasionally catch a glimpse of him looking into a book window in Patrick Street or at the picture-shop on the Grand Parade, not one recognising him so that, just as he likes best, meditation and contrast can work through heart and brain as

    59

    Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 24

    As the companion tells it

    Grand Parade in Cork was one of the streets Canon Sheehan still came to in his last years. A few weeks before, his Dublin doctor had told him the day and the hour were at hand, that two years at most would elapse before the Call. So his journeys grew fewer. It was seldom now that he drove to Buttevant and took the train to Cork. He was very quiet in his ways. The world had faded back from him so that he hardly seemed to observe its harsh colours. The hysterias of the hour did not hurt him, though he clearly measured their effect on others. He had a stately, grave, gentle, but very firm way of walking or stopping. You might occasionally catch a glimpse of him looking into a book window in Patrick Street or at the picture-shop on the Grand Parade, not one recognising him, so that, just as he liked best, meditation and contrast could work through heart and brain. He was already beginning to develop into the epic figure, love everywhere shown him, though love with a difference of awe. In his big sad house at the end of the painted street he was preparing quietly, without hysteria, for a certain visitor.