Name: The glamour of Cork
Author: D. L. (Daniel Lawrence) Kelleher

Ballea on the butter road

Travellers passing Ballea on the way to the Cork Butter Market remarked on the cold and the wheezing horses, exchanging greetings about weather conditions encountered en route.

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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-
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 33

As the companion tells it

Somewhere close to Ballea, on the old butter road into Cork, travellers in the year 1770 would be passing in the dark before dawn. They had set out from the west, waking at night at the foot of the Boggeragh Mountains to the sound of a horse being tackled in the yard outside, a strip of lighted bog-deal kindled at the turf-fire flaring up as a servant-boy stooped and searched for a piece of harness mislaid the day before. By three o'clock a butt came rattling and lurching through the Square and along the Main Street of Macroom every five minutes or so, or a horseman rode past with three firkins slung, for there were as yet no roads cut for wheeled traffic from about Adrigole. Everywhere the day filled with the rhymeless music of hoof-beats and rumbling wheels and the stagger and strain of unsprung axles. Near six they were climbing old Mallow Lane, or by the Watercourse for those coming from the north, and greetings were exchanged with the ease of men wise to sunsets and dawn. One said there was a shower only and he near Fermoy. Another said, "'Twas cold and the horse wheezing on me and we passing Ballea." Another said that cock at Minane would crow coming whatever kind the weather would be. In 1770 and after, the high ground about the Butter Market was rich with the morning.

Goldsmith on the Old Mallow Road

Mallow · town · Cork · 1751

In 1751, a young Oliver Goldsmith was seen riding along the Old Mallow Road, described as a small, stout man with a thickened upper lip and the marks of smallpox, humming carelessly despite his misfortunes.

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HlMSELF and his horse — well, I declare ! if you were to see them and they all covered with dust on the Old Mallow Road! A small little man, nice and stout, and a kind of a thickened upper lip and a sort of a dimple, you'd say, in the middle of his forehead and he humming to himself as if he hadn't a care in the world. Though you couldn't believe your eyes when you looked closer at him and saw that he was no more than a boy and the signs of the small pock only that make him look old, and when he dismounts, falls off you'd nearly say, so free and easy he takes it, you'd never suspect that he is a most " misfortunate " child and will yet be the most " misfortunate" man of his day. So, " Keep on south till you come to the river and then turn east, and good luck to you!" And he is up in the saddle then again and cantering away for Cove. Though when he reaches there 'tis cardplaying he goes and loses the passage-money for the States and goes picking shells too with the children. God love us ! he hasn't a splink of sense. And then sure he's off home again with only a shilling or two now for the road . So that soon he swops his young mare for a withered old nag
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 46

As the companion tells it

Mallow is a town the road passes through, and in 1751 a young Oliver Goldsmith was seen riding along the Old Mallow Road. He and his horse were covered in dust. He was a small man, stout, with a thickened upper lip and a kind of dimple in the middle of his forehead. He was humming to himself as if he hadn't a care in the world. When you looked closer you could see he was no more than a boy, and the marks of smallpox on him made him look older than he was. He dismounts, or falls off you'd nearly say, so free and easy he takes it. You'd never suspect he was a most misfortunate child and would yet be the most misfortunate man of his day. He was told to keep on south till he came to the river and then turn east, and good luck to you. Up in the saddle again and cantering away for Cove. When he reached there he went card playing and lost the passage-money for the States, and went picking shells with the children. Then he was off home again with only a shilling or two for the road, and soon swopped his young mare for a withered old nag.

Old Head of Kinsale sighted by Spanish fleet

near Old Head of Kinsale · promontory · Cork · 1601

The Spanish fleet tacked past the Old Head as it approached the Irish coast in September 1601. The vessels were poorly armed and carried a smaller force than the Irish had hoped for.

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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

Somewhere about Old Head of Kinsale, in September 1601, the long promise was kept. Philip the Second had said he would avenge the shattered Armada, and his Secretary had gone to Tuam to consult with the Archbishop. The Spaniards were slow, hardly the stuff of conquerors any more. O'Sullivan of Beara, watching the river Lee hush its current, called it a "splendid hazard" and pledged to the tryst whatever arose. Then a fleet, and then another, came tacking past. But these were not the ships the Irish had awaited. They were poor vessels, with small guns and 3000 men aboard, a scant force. The flagship tied up, and Don Juan del Aguila marched with 25 colours into Kinsale. It was a golden entrance and the folk were thrilled. Walls and bastions were manned, and couriers flew. But the Irish chiefs did not rally. Thomond and Clanrickard went over to the English side for the certainty of belly and bed. 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.

Citizens flee through South Gate during Cromwell's expulsion

near South Gate · street · Dublin

Citizens of the ancient faith were expelled from Cork in panic, fleeing through the South Gate amid the sound of cannon. The author evokes the terror and destruction of the expulsion.

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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
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 45

As the companion tells it

Somewhere about South Gate, citizens of the ancient faith were expelled from Cork in panic. Cromwell came on his excursion from winter-quarters at Youghal, riding through the bogs and past Middleton. With him came Sir William Fenton, Lord Broghill, the best-beloved child of Lord Cork, and divers other gentlemen. They passed Barryscourt, where Cambrensis had been, and by Tivoli, still fragrant with sweet Raleigh's cedars, and into Cork. The Lord Protector was well-bedded that night at Ballyvolane House, offered what the source calls a very hearty and noble entertainment by all the citizens. The author calls it specious, colonising cant. For these days they had a little way of sorting out the citizens, quick in execution, but with lingering reactions even down to 1920. So listen. That is the third cannon now. The author writes: Oh, Christ, we are destroyed. Hurry, 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.

Grafton's Alley where the Duke was killed in Marlborough's siege

Cork · city · Cork · 1690

Grafton's Alley in Cork was the site where the Duke of Grafton was killed during Marlborough's siege of the city a year before the Jacobite march of 1691. The Jacobite soldiers crossed stepping-stones and dead wood to view the place.

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At their head rides Sarsfield himself, six feet tall, square and strong in the saddle; behind him is O'Connor of Offaly, about to achieve military glory and a fascinating wife in France. At last they reach the little swamp-ringed city, cranes pensive in Patrick Street, wild duck and water-rats along the line of the South Mall. They make their way out of the walled town and over the steppingstones and dead wood to see Grafton's Alley where the Duke was killed in Marlboro's
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 10

As the companion tells it

As the road takes you through Cork, this is the swamp-ringed city Sarsfield rode into in 1690, cranes pensive in Patrick Street, wild duck and water-rats along the South Mall. He led his men, six feet tall, square and strong in the saddle. Behind him was O'Connor of Offaly, about to achieve military glory and a wife in France. They crossed stepping-stones and dead wood out of the walled town to see Grafton's Alley, where the Duke was killed in Marlborough's siege.

James Barry's Cork boyhood near the Bridge

Cork · city · Cork

James Barry's father failed in the building business and went to sea as captain of a schooner trading between Cork and Wales. His mother opened a public-house near the Bridge in Cork, where the young Barry showed remarkable artistic talent, drawing figures and faces on the floor.

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"God send he'll be a grand man yet!" So Mrs. Barry talks over the counter. For the building-business has failed on them, and her husband has gone away to sea as captain of a little schooner between Cork and Wales, while she opens a public-house near the Bridge herself. The " torment of a boy" has tried a spell of the sea too with his father, but he repents and runs ashore to bewilder and enchant his mother again with his chalks and his ways that mark him off and make him dearer than all other boys in the town. For, '* Glory be to goodness ! he can draw anything at all, and he'll make the most beautiful figures and faces on the floor; and you can't put a new suit on him, he loves the old clothes so much, and nothing will get him to go playing with other boys, only he'll be always coming into the shop to be watching the men and hearing their talk.** So his mother,
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 7

As the companion tells it

As the road takes you through Cork, this is the city where James Barry grew up, near the Bridge. His father's building business had failed, and his father went to sea as captain of a little schooner trading between Cork and Wales. His mother opened a public-house near the Bridge. The torment of a boy had tried a spell of the sea too with his father, but he repented and ran ashore to bewilder and enchant his mother with his chalks and his ways that marked him off and made him dearer than all other boys. His mother said, "God send he'll be a grand man yet." She said, "Glory be to goodness, he can draw anything at all, and he'll make the most beautiful figures and faces on the floor." You could not put a new suit on him, he loved the old clothes so much. Nothing would get him to go playing with other boys. He would be coming into the shop to watch the men and hear their talk.

Refugees flee to bush-country beyond Kilcrea

Kilcrea · townland · Cork

Some of those expelled from Cork, described as single and mad, made their way to the bush-country beyond Kilcrea. They accepted outlawry and hunger rather than abandon their faith.

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sea, some single, mad, are making their way to the bush-country beyond Kilcrea. But of the glory that shall abide let Cork keep memory. How all those people of the ancient faith accepted outlawry, hunger, the savage's day, rather than ever the gutter-change of religion by which at Master Cromwell's orders and invitation they might have filled their bellies and lived the foul prosperous life vouchsafed to any who turned on their own.
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 45

As the companion tells it

Somewhere around Kilcrea, people driven from Cork made their way into the bush-country. The passage calls them single and mad. They chose outlawry and hunger over what it calls the gutter-change of religion. At Cromwell's orders, any who turned on their own faith could have filled their bellies and lived. These people refused. They kept the ancient faith and accepted the savage's day instead.

Cork Races on the Marina and surrounding crowds

Marina · street · Wicklow

The Cork races drew crowds across social classes, from fashionable families in the grand stand to ordinary folk by the roulette tables, and older ladies from Friars' Walk. The racecourse on the Marina slope has since been abolished by the motor car.

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Ballads,** drunk already, pouring out blasts of Guinness between the verses of his song for Ireland free. Farther off, on the Marina slope, now, alas, abolished by one He*nry Forde, the less adventurous crowd, old ladies from Friars* Walk — their seventieth summer to see the horses — nursemaids granted leave by their mistresses this day to take Willie and Peg alongside the furzy jump, farther still by the " slooishs" and the " Marble Arch" the dreamy folk that come only to be able to say they were " at the races," and farthest of all — oh, distant delight! — in the tall grass about the Railway Line and the Agricultural Grounds the lovers, linking, to whom horses and life and chaos and all are remote.
Until — " They're off — the blue and green has it — no, red cap ! Aha, the brown mare ! Well ridden, my hearty ! Good boy you are!"

Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 26

As the companion tells it

The Cork Races on the Marina drew every class of person. Fashionable families filled the grand stand, and by the roulette tables the ordinary folk gathered. Farther off on the Marina slope, now abolished by one Henry Forde, the less adventurous crowd watched. Old ladies from Friars' Walk, their seventieth summer to see the horses, stood alongside the furzy jump. Nursemaids granted leave by their mistresses that day took Willie and Peg to watch beside it. Farther still, by the slooishs and the Marble Arch, the dreamy folk came only to be able to say they were at the races. Farthest of all, in the tall grass about the Railway Line and the Agricultural Grounds, the lovers linked, to whom horses and life and chaos and all were remote. Then the cry went up. "They're off — the blue and green has it — no, red cap! Aha, the brown mare! Well ridden, my hearty! Good boy you are!"

Haulbowline blockaded during Cork revolt

near Haulbowline Island · population centre · Cork · 1603

During Cork's brief revolt against James I, Haulbowline was blockaded against attack from the sea as part of the city's defiance of the new monarch.

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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 !
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 42

As the companion tells it

Haulbowline sits out in the harbour, and in 1603 it was blockaded against attack from the sea. Cork had risen against the new king, James the First. The old merchant families — the Meades, the Roches, the Barrys, the Morroughs, the Galways — refused him allegiance until he declared whether he would continue Elizabeth's facing-both-ways government. They dragged out the guns and raided the royal stores at Skiddy's Castle. They fired on the governor's windows at Shandon. They blockaded Haulbowline to keep the sea route shut. They even let in the wild rebels from outside the gates, hoping those rougher men would spare the merchants the bother of the fighting. But Mountjoy marched from Dublin with 5000 men. The imported Celts, as the book calls them, were eager to resist and thirsted for a fight. The Meades and the Roches and the rest had a word with the Mayor instead. Two men had already been killed. It was raining heavily, and bloodshed was such a wretched, messy thing compared with simple aqueous principles. The gates were opened. Business as usual, and God save the King.

Mitchel lodged at Sunday's Well before Opera House appearance

near Sunday's Well · population centre · Cork · 1875

A deputation from the Opera House was sent to Mitchel's lodging at Sunday's Well, where he lay on a sofa barely able to sit up. He roused himself, was driven to the venue, but fainted during his address and was taken back to Sunday's Well and then to Newry.

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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
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 12

As the companion tells it

You're coming through Sunday's Well, just outside Cork. In February 1875, a deputation was sent here, to a lodging where a man called Mitchel lay on a sofa, hardly able to sit up. The Opera House in Cork was packed that night, February 26th. 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. There were boys everywhere, the great clan-calling boys who were in every Cork crush. It was no common show. There were love and gratitude and torrents of passion ready to burst. A curious uneasiness began to go along the rows as the appointed hour was passed. Someone said, "Something has happened to him maybe? The poor man!" So the deputation was sent to his lodging here 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 he would be ill again. But the gallant fellow, how sadly he was changed. Sixty years only, and a ghost. Many a one remembered him at forty.

Spenser courts Elizabeth Boyle at Youghal

Youghal · town · Cork

Edmund Spenser courted Elizabeth Boyle from Youghal shore, walking with her out by the Point where the wind took the silver sand. The passage describes her as a big, handsome figure accompanying the poet in his Elizabethan finery.

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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
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 17

As the companion tells it

Youghal is the town where Edmund Spenser courted Elizabeth Boyle. He walked with her out by the Point, where the wind took the silver sand. She was a big, handsome figure, and he the poet in his Elizabethan finery. The passage imagines their wedding. The anthem sways down from the choir gallery. The procession moves from the altar, a white flower at its head in the bride herself. 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." They pass out through the porch of old Christ Church and to the water side, where now is the Grand Parade. He helps her aboard a ribboned boat for a Venetian wedding, the bubble-chimes breaking about the prow. 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. This is Edmund Spenser, Raleigh's intimate, Elizabeth's flatterer, lord of Kilcolman, Sheriff of Cork, married now to Elizabeth Boyle from Youghal shore.

Blessed Thaddeus MacCarthy, Cork's pilgrim saint

Cork · city · Cork

Thaddeus of the royal MacCarthys of Cork died as a pilgrim at the hospice of St. Antonio near Ivrea, having walked and begged his way from Rome while longing for Ireland. A bishop's ring and a scrip from the Pope were found on his body.

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hair of the departed. Oh, Mary and Joseph ! a saint and of noble birth ! For look what is here and they searching his coarse pilgrim clothes ! A bishop's ring and the scrip from the Pope himself ! And the poor man, so holy and good, and he walking and begging his way from Rome ! Fling wide your gates, O Cork, and bid his spirit enter. For this Thaddeus of the royal MacCarthys is such a light of humility and faith as must outshine us all !
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 7

As the companion tells it

As you pass through Cork, you are in the city of a pilgrim saint. Thaddeus of the royal MacCarthys died far from here. They searched his coarse pilgrim clothes and found a bishop's ring and the scrip from the Pope himself. He had been walking and begging his way from Rome. The book calls him a light of humility and faith, and says: "Fling wide your gates, O Cork, and bid his spirit enter."

MacCarthy abandons Cork amid suspicion of enemy collusion

Cork · city · Cork

Back in Cork after his defeat, MacCarthy is ill at ease as cynics hint he is in league with the enemy, questioning how else to explain the generous Ulster attitude. He loses his temper at parish malevolences and abandons the town.

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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
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 44

As the companion tells it

The road brings you through Cork, where Justin MacCarthy came back after his defeat in the North. 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 as he reached the town. 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. They responded to his chivalry and spared him injury and humiliation. Back in the town after that defeat, he was ill at ease. The cynics hinted he was in league with the enemy, asking how else to 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.

Malachy restores Bangor before his elevation to Armagh

near Bangor · town · Down · 1129

Celsus, Archbishop of Armagh, on his deathbed in 1129 named Malachy as his successor. Malachy was a young priest who had already restored the monastery at Bangor.

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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

Bangor is the town where Malachy, a young priest, had already restored the monastery before greater work found him. In 1129, Celsus, Archbishop of Armagh, lay dying. He named Malachy as his successor. Celsus had been a model archbishop, though he came from a family that had scandalised Ireland by seizing the temporalities of the Church and claiming hieratic descent for fifteen generations. He had taken the archdiocese at twenty-seven and struggled hard against reaction and decay within the Church. At his death the times were still perilous. Dermot MacMurrough, the bull-souled bandit King of Leinster, was loose, and with him chaos and internecine strife. Malachy had discipline, determination, restless energy. Even so, his task was nearly impossible. He could not enter his city of Armagh for two years because of a self-elected archbishop faineant within the walls, a keen business-man who struck a hard bargain with Malachy over the sale of the "Staff of Jesus." The fame of the saint's mortifications and zeal had already reached Rome.

Outcasts expelled from Cork flee to Glasheen

Glasheen · townland · Cork

The last of the old, feeble, and slow-moving outcasts from Cork crawled away to Glasheen. Others fled east toward the sea rather than accept Cromwell's demand to change religion.

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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
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 45

As the companion tells it

Somewhere around here, the last of the outcasts from Cork crawled away to Glasheen. Cromwell had come on his little excursion from winter-quarters at Youghal, riding through the bogs and past Middleton. Sir William Fenton, my Lord Broghill, and divers other gentlemen were with him. They passed Barryscourt and by Tivoli, still fragrant with sweet Raleigh's cedars, and into Cork. The Lord Protector's sacred body was well bedded that night at Ballyvolane House, with a very hearty and noble entertainment offered him by all the citizens. But these days they had a little way of sorting out the citizens, quick in execution, with lingering reactions even down to 1920. Then the third cannon. The cry went up, Christ, we are destroyed. Hurry for your life. The South Gate. Thus it ends. The last of the outcasts, old, feeble, slow-moving, crawls away to Glasheen. Others, in dozens and threes, turned east toward the sea rather than accept Cromwell's demand to change religion.

Sarsfield's Jacobite army marches to Cork after Limerick

Cork · city · Cork · 1691

After the defeat at Limerick in 1691, Sarsfield led the remaining Jacobite soldiers on a march to Cork for transport to France, crossing the same line O'Sullivan Beare had taken in his earlier retreat. They found Cork a swamp-ringed city with cranes in Patrick Street and wild duck along the South Mall.

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At their head rides Sarsfield himself, six feet tall, square and strong in the saddle; behind him is O'Connor of Offaly, about to achieve military glory and a fascinating wife in France. At last they reach the little swamp-ringed city, cranes pensive in Patrick Street, wild duck and water-rats along the line of the South Mall. They make their way out of the walled town and over the steppingstones and dead wood to see Grafton's Alley where the Duke was killed in Marlboro's
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 10

As the companion tells it

As you approach Cork, in 1691 after defeat at Limerick, Sarsfield leads the remaining Jacobite soldiers to the city for transport to France. At their head rides Sarsfield himself, six feet tall, square and strong in the saddle. Behind him is O'Connor of Offaly, about to achieve military glory and a fascinating wife in France. They reach the little swamp-ringed city, cranes pensive in Patrick Street, wild duck and water-rats along the South Mall. They cross the same line O'Sullivan Beare took earlier.

Catherine O'Mullane's walks along the South Mall in Cork

South Mall · street · Cork

Catherine O'Mullane, daughter of a strong farmer from Whitechurch, regularly drove into Cork to shop, visit the chapel, and walk along the South Mall, where a stream of water stagnated down the middle. She observed the city's beaux and belles and a particular mother and child who turned out to be the Emmett family.

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WHEN Catherine O'Mullane came into Cork in her horse and car from Whitechurch on a week-day she had few visits to pay. For she was a retiring woman, the daughter of a " strong" farmer, striking enough if you knew her, far-seeing, circumspect, restrained. So when she had done her round of shopping and paid her " visit to the chapel" she would take a quiet walk along the Mall with the stream of water stagnating down the middle of it; just to have a look at the city people taking their pleasure, and the beaux in coloured vests and top-boots greeting the belles of the hour. And sometimes, too, she would stop a piece to have a look at a child, or a mother, especially one little woman who had caught her eye. Such a good mother she looked, and oh, such a delicate little child ! Well-known too if you were to judge by the number of people who salute her kindly. So that, once or twice, Catherine Mullane was going to stop : *' I declare, I was longing to talk to her she looked so nice!" But time flies and now it is 1770 and they are packing up in their home in Washington Street for the journey, three days or more to Dublin in the North, the mother, especially, glad to leave
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 11

As the companion tells it

This is the South Mall in Cork, where Catherine O'Mullane used to walk. She came into the city from Whitechurch by horse and car on week-days, a retiring woman, the daughter of a strong farmer, striking enough if you knew her, far-seeing, circumspect, restrained. After her round of shopping and a visit to the chapel, she would take a quiet walk along the Mall, where a stream of water stagnated down the middle of it, just to look at the city people taking their pleasure. She watched the beaux in coloured vests and top-boots greeting the belles of the hour. Sometimes she would stop to look at a child or a mother, especially one little woman who had caught her eye. Such a good mother she looked, and such a delicate little child, well-known too by the number of people who saluted her kindly. Catherine was going to stop, saying, as the book has it, "I declare, I was longing to talk to her she looked so nice!" That mother and child turned out to be the Emmett family. Time flies and now it is 1770 and they are packing up their home in Washington Street for the journey, three days or more to Dublin in the North, the mother especially glad to leave.

Arms trading at Kerry Pike

near Kerry Pike · population centre · Cork

The Anglo-Norman merchants of Cork purchased ammunition from French merchant vessels in the harbour and retailed it at high interest to Irish rebels operating around the Kerry Pike area outside the city walls.

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WHEN good Queen Bess died Cork lost its " excellent friend." It had thriven well under her winking eye ; a spacious business in secret service transacted with her Majesty's representatives, and in mere money -making sales of food and arms with the disloyal Irish outside, these latter a wild enough tribe, while still the wolf could be heard howling in the night by Ryecourt and round Kilcrea. So those Anglo- Normans with the Danish streak had a Kultur of connivance all their own; purchasing ammunition from French merchant-vessels in the harbour, retailing it to the " rebelly Rapes " around the Kerry Pike, at Shy lock's interest, and then turning the other pocket to their lords and masters, the English governors, at Shandon Castle. So that for their great utility Eliza would remit the fines against the Catholics amongst them, and often threw in a little grant in aid when the Munster President imposed a heavy indemnity for "Mass-houses" discovered in their midst. For the Queen argued wisely that it was better to split these Papists by pandering to their "loyal*" ones within the walls at the same time that she plundered and harried the true ultra-Montanists on the hills. At her death "the faithful garrison" were a little spoiled, refractory,
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 42

As the companion tells it

Kerry Pike was a place where the road runs past old trouble. In the years before Queen Elizabeth died, Cork had what the book calls an excellent friend in her. The city did well under her winking eye. The Anglo-Norman merchants of Cork, the ones with a Danish streak in them, ran a trade in secret. They bought ammunition from French merchant vessels in the harbour. Then they retailed it to the Irish rebels around Kerry Pike, outside the city walls, at what the source calls Shylock's interest. They sold food and arms to the disloyal Irish too, a wild enough tribe, while the wolf could still be heard howling at night by Ryecourt and round Kilcrea. Then the same merchants turned the other pocket to their lords and masters, the English governors at Shandon Castle. Queen Elizabeth reasoned it was better to split the Catholics by pandering to the loyal ones inside the walls while she plundered the true ultra-Montanists on the hills. She would remit fines against the Catholics among the merchants, and threw in a grant when the Munster President imposed a heavy indemnity for Mass-houses discovered in their midst.

Horsemen meet O'Connell's carriage near Carrigrohane

near Carrigrohane · townland · Cork · 1843

A cloud of dust rose towards Carrigrohane as horsemen rode out to meet O'Connell's carriage, which had been travelling all day from Cahirciveen. The crowds erupted in cheering as the Liberator came into view.

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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,
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 20

As the companion tells it

Somewhere around here, a cloud of dust rose towards Carrigrohane. Musicians had swung down from the Butter Exchange and famous Fair Lane, and the crowds poured along the Western Road, overflowing into the fields about 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 horsemen met the carriage that had been travelling all day from Cahirciveen. The cheering erupted. There he was. O'Connell. The human appeal was in his figure, the very shape to win the heart of a multitude. Six feet high.

Shandon bells over the Butter Market

near Shandon · locality · Cork · 1770

Old Shandon rang out health and benediction above the Butter Market, with a salt wind blowing up from the bay into the Grecian-patterned place where the butter trade was conducted.

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And now at 7 a.m. the merchants are up and to their offices in the Dickensian sjtreets about Mallow Lane. They are an easy, oily folk, fair-skinned, as though the softness of the butter was blended in their faces, the Cork plutocracy of their day. So peace and plenty to ye ! merchants and tasters and weighmasters and packers, here in this Grecianpatterned place with the salt wind blowing up to you out of the bay and old Shandon ringing health and benediction above. And good luck to ye, fanners, as ye drink a pint with the buyers in the taverns round — good luck and God speed ! my sugar-and-caution fellows that can keep a " stocking" as cutely as any in the corner of the cupboard in the " guileless open" West!
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 33

As the companion tells it

Shandon in Cork, where the road takes you through the old butter country. By 7 a.m. the merchants were up and at their offices in the streets about Mallow Lane. They were an easy, oily folk, fair-skinned, as though the softness of the butter was blended in their faces, the Cork plutocracy of their day. The book says peace and plenty to the merchants and tasters and weighmasters and packers, here in this Grecian-patterned place with the salt wind blowing up out of the bay, and old Shandon ringing health and benediction above. And good luck to the farmers, drinking a pint with the buyers in the taverns round, good luck and God speed to the sugar-and-caution fellows who could keep a stocking as cutely as any in the corner of the cupboard in the guileless open West.

Spenser driven from Kilcolman by fire

Kilcolman · townland · Cork

Edmund Spenser, described as lord of Kilcolman and Sheriff of Cork, was ultimately hunted out of his lands by fire and torture during the Elizabethan era. The passage portrays him as an exquisite, mysterious man who stole lands in the days of Queen Elizabeth.

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took the silver sand and made a glory for her feet, himself beside her big handsome figure, five feet six, with the paint-brush beard, the close-cropped side whiskers, the half-Mephistophelian ears pricked up above the wide white ruff, an exquisite, irresolute half-lonely, mysterious man, hunted with fire and torture at last out of the lands he stole in the brave, ravishing days of Good Queen Bess.
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 17

As the companion tells it

Somewhere around Kilcolman, Edmund Spenser was driven from his lands by fire. He was lord of Kilcolman and Sheriff of Cork, an exquisite, half-lonely, mysterious man, five feet six, with a paint-brush beard and close-cropped side whiskers above a wide white ruff. In the days of Queen Elizabeth he had stolen these lands. In the end, fire and torture hunted him out of them.

Ursuline Convent at Blackrock

near Blackrock · population centre · Cork

Thackeray visited the Ursuline Convent at Blackrock, noting its charm and what he called the 'sweet nun-like odour' of the place. One of its earliest Sisters had been an intimate of George Sand.

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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
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 32

As the companion tells it

Blackrock, just outside Cork, drew the English writer William Makepeace Thackeray to its Ursuline Convent. He was a fine youngish fellow, tall and open-faced, public-school looking, and he had what the passage calls the gift. Listening to him, you could not easily tell where the irony began and the sincerity ended. Like Charlotte Bronte, that little honest Mercury, you 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 really to overhear what the flaneurs there were saying, and so he wrote Pana down. His long training in free-lance journalism had put the trick of copy into his blood. At the convent, they did not tell him that one of their earliest Sisters had been an intimate of George Sand. Still, he noted the charm of the place and what he called the sweet nun-like odour, a phrase cut to the flippancy he affected. A little later, he gave a hundred years of vogue in his Irish Sketch Book. He called the people of Cork the greatest book-lovers he ever had met, and found in them, as in the rest of Ireland, the matter out of which he made his work.

Bandon revolts against MacCarthy's command

Bandon · town · Cork

When Bandon revolts against his authority, MacCarthy, unlike Maxwell, creates no immortals by quicklime and reprisal, showing restraint in dealing with the uprising.

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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
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 44

As the companion tells it

Justin MacCarthy was King James II's Commander-in-Chief for Munster, and he came to Cork a curious figure. A 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 against his authority, 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. They responded to the 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.

Cork neighbourhoods react to Scott's visit

near Sunday's Well · population centre · Cork · 1825

When news spread that Sir Walter Scott was in Cork, residents of the Marsh, Sunday's Well, and St. Lukes rushed to the hotel to see him, with the Marsh jostling rudely at the door. After learning Scott had gone to Blarney, the crowd turned dismissive, then reassembled on his return to appraise his companions.

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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!
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 4

As the companion tells it

This is Sunday's Well, a part of Cork the road passes through. In 1825 the news went round that Sir Walter Scott was in the city, and Sunday's Well heard it. St. Lukes roused from its after-breakfast restraint, and the Marsh rose in alarm. People rushed to the hotel to see him, the Marsh jostling rudely at the door. Scott had come in a green-coloured carriage and pair from Blackpool, over the Bridge. He was a big, robust, red-cheeked, lame-legged man, very grey. Beside him sat Maria Edgeworth, tiny, plain, all brains and no beauty, too sensitive about it ever to be photographed. Captain Scott of the Hussars, a youth quartered at Dublin, sat third on the seat. Opposite them sat 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. Scott talked of visiting Blarney. Lockhart was disappointed, and said so. The crowd learned Scott had gone to Blarney, turned dismissive, then reassembled on his return to appraise his companions.

Dying on the curb along Douglas Road during famine

Douglas Road · street · Cork

Along Douglas Road, the arrangements are woeful, with dying people stretched on the curb being anointed by priests. Hospitals and sheds are full and there is no nourishment or nurses left for the poor creatures.

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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
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 43

As the companion tells it

Douglas Road in Cork was a street where the famine showed its worst face. The potatoes had failed across the west, from Bantry to Kinsale, and a corpse was cheap, with anatomists growing impudent from excess supplies. Night and day the fugitives thronged into Cork city, looking for shelter from hunger and fever that could not be turned away from the cabins on the grey roads. On the north side charitable people gave what help they could. Along Douglas Street the overflow from the Union Gates meant many a one shared "a literal crust." Even on the fashionable hills there was a stirring to alms and prayer. But "the arrangements are woeful" along the Douglas Road, with 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 for the poor creatures who had fled as far as the city.

Lord Edward Fitzgerald escapes via Blackrock and Sunday's Well

near Sunday's Well · population centre · Cork · 1798

In spring 1798, Lord Edward Fitzgerald dined at Dr. Aikenhead's house at the corner of Daunt's Square in Cork, surrounded by United Irishmen sympathisers. The Sheriff raided the house, but Fitzgerald escaped out the back, fled to Blackrock, crossed by fisherman's boat, and sheltered at a United Irishmen's cottage called 'Jemappes' at Sunday's Well.

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OK, thank God, he is across, and away on now by road past Tivoli, and swiftly to Sunday's Well to shelter again at the United Irishmen's cottage, " Jemappes " — Lord Edward Fitzgerald "on the run" as many another whose heart rains roses down the lengthening years.
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 9

As the companion tells it

Up ahead is Sunday's Well. In spring 1798 Lord Edward Fitzgerald, on the run, dined at Dr. Aikenhead's house in Cork. The Sheriff raided it. Fitzgerald slipped out the back, fled to Blackrock, crossed by fisherman's boat, and came by road past Tivoli to shelter here at a United Irishmen's cottage called Jemappes.

Minane's weather-signalling cock

near Minane Bridge · population centre · Cork · 1770

A cock at Minane was noted by butter farmers as a reliable weather signal, crowing as they passed regardless of what kind of weather was coming.

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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-
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 33

As the companion tells it

The road takes you through Minane Bridge, and back around 1770 there was a cock here that the butter farmers counted on. Men were travelling in the dark before dawn from places west, from the foot of the Boggeragh Mountains, hauling firkins of butter on horses and in butts that lurched and rattled through Macroom's Main Street. There were no roads cut for wheeled traffic from about Adrigole yet, so some came on horseback with three firkins slung. By near six they were climbing old Mallow Lane or coming by the Watercourse from the north, and they would exchange greetings in that undiplomatic ease of men wise to sunsets and dawn. One would say there was a shower only and he near Fermoy. Another would say it was cold and the horse wheezing on him passing Ballea. And another would speak of the cock at Minane. The words were: "That cock at Minane — he'd crow and we coming whatever kind the weather would be." The farmers noted him as a reliable signal. He crowed as they passed, no matter what weather was coming. The high ground about the Butter Market was rich with the morning of those journeys.

Thomas Carlyle stays at the Imperial Hotel, Cork

Cork · city · Cork

Thomas Carlyle arrived in Cork from Chelsea and stayed at the Imperial Hotel on Pembroke Street. Father O'Shea of St. Patrick's visited him there, confident he would recognise his friend from portraits by Maclise and others.

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"THE drawing-room? Very well — you needn't mind. I'll go in and find him myself." The little flushed, grey-haired priest pushes past the boots and turns into the room on the left of the entrance hall in the Imperial Hotel, Pembroke Street. He is confident he will recognise his friend from the pictures of him by Maclise and others he has seen. And though he is a little shy about the intrusion he is too good-natured and humanly inquisitive to be turned back now. The stranger is meditative in a corner armchair as he enters. He seems half -lion, half -spaniel as Father O'Shea draws near. This is an early visitor for the long-haired fellow has only reached Cork this very evening from Chelsea. He has taken a chop and a rusk, spare diet for a stomach overloaded, it must be, with big words and "prophetic ulcers." In a turn along Patrick Street he has gone as far as the Bridge, joining a group about a ballad-singer there until the soft mild rain our " faithful asperges'* begins to sprinkle the dear old aqueous town. So Thomas Carlyle takes cover in his hotel and Father O'Shea of St. Patrick's enters his pent-house. Yes, he remembers quite well how two people, the American, Emerson, and
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 8

As the companion tells it

As you pass through Cork, the story reaches back to an evening when Thomas Carlyle arrived here from Chelsea and checked into the Imperial Hotel on Pembroke Street. He had taken a chop and a rusk, spare diet for a stomach overloaded, it must be, with big words and what the book calls prophetic ulcers. Before settling in, he walked along Patrick Street as far as the Bridge and joined a group gathered around a ballad-singer, until the soft mild rain the book calls our faithful asperges began to sprinkle the town. He took cover in his hotel. Father O'Shea of St. Patrick's came to visit him there, pushing past the boots at the entrance and turning into the room on the left of the hall. The little flushed, grey-haired priest was confident he would recognise his friend from the pictures of him by Maclise and others he had seen. He found Carlyle meditative in a corner armchair, seeming half-lion, half-spaniel as the priest drew near. The book records that Carlyle remembered quite well how two people, the American, Emerson, and another, had called on him.

Father Mathew ends his days at Cove (Cobh)

Cobh · municipal district · Cork

After his temperance crusade across Ireland and America—where the Senate welcomed him as the first since Lafayette—Father Mathew returned to end his days quietly at Cove (now Cobh), honoured for his sweetness and national service.

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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.
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 15

As the companion tells it

Cobh was once called Cove, and it is where Father Mathew came to end his days quietly. He had been expelled from Maynooth, joined the Capuchins at Dublin, and came to Cork, where he started a poor school and gave charity for years. People loved him for it. Soon cavalry had to keep the streets for him because of the multitudes that rallied to his temperance 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 within the bar of the House, the first to be so honoured since Lafayette. And so he returned to Cove, 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.

Nan O'Nagle tending the poor around Shandon

near Shandon · locality · Cork

Nan O'Nagle, despite suffering from haemorrhage of the lungs and ulcerated knees, toiled through rain and wind around Shandon and the puddled lanes below the North Gate visiting the sick and poor in their garrets. Her visits were met with broken thanksgivings from the bedridden poor of Cork.

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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

Coming through Shandon now. 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. Only with the predestined can great kindness be altogether perfect grace. It came as grace to Nan O'Nagle. She stumbled on her stick, spitting blood sometimes in the deep puddled lanes below the North Gate, or toiling with her lantern through rain and wind for some old woman's sake round Shandon way. These were but her pastime. Already she had been teaching ragged children for five or six hours in her schoolhouse in Douglas Street, built and endowed by her own endeavour. Her heart laboured but 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 visit was 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!"

Patrick Street flaneurs and 'Pana'

Patrick Street · street · Cork

Thackeray wandered Patrick Street in Cork, listening to the flaneurs' conversations and writing down his observations, which he called 'Pana' after the street's local name.

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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
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 32

As the companion tells it

This is Patrick Street in Cork, where the flaneurs gathered and talked. The visitor was a fine youngish fellow, tall, open-faced, English, public-school looking, and he had the gift. Listening to him, you could not easily tell where the irony began and the sincerity ended. Like Charlotte Brontë, you might grow irritated and take a violent dislike to the man. He lodged at Grattan's Hill and came down to Patrick Street ostensibly to look in the shop windows. What he really did was overhear what the flaneurs were saying and write it down as Pana. His long training in free-lance journalism had put the trick of copy into his blood. The next day he went to the Ursuline Convent at Blackrock. They did not tell him that one of their earliest Sisters had been George Sand's intimate. He noted the charm of the place and the sweet nun-like odour, a phrase cut to the flippancy he affected. When, a little later, he gave a hundred years of vogue in his Irish Sketch Book, there were three 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

Canon Sheehan's quiet visits to Cork city

Cork · city · Cork

In his final years Canon Sheehan seldom drove to Buttevant to take the train to Cork, but when he did he could be glimpsed looking into bookshop windows in Patrick Street or at the picture-shop on the Grand Parade, unrecognised. He was eventually taken by ambulance from the station to the South Infirmary, still calm and kind, inquiring about young writers of the town.

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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
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 24

As the companion tells it

As the road brings you near Cork, this is the city Canon Sheehan seldom visited in his final years. 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, like a commander who had fought many wars and was struck to silence at the cumulative vanities even of blood. His wise Dublin doctor had told him, a few weeks before, that two years at most would elapse before the Call. So his journeys grew fewer. It was seldom or never now that he drove to Buttevant and took the train to Cork. You might occasionally have caught a glimpse of him looking into a book window in Patrick Street or at the picture-shop on the Grand Parade, not one person recognising him, so that, just as he liked best, meditation and contrast could work through heart and brain. He was eventually taken by ambulance from the station to the South Infirmary, still calm and kind, inquiring about young writers of the town.

Carlyle walks Patrick Street to the Bridge in Cork

Cork · city · Cork

On his first evening in Cork, Thomas Carlyle walked along Patrick Street as far as the Bridge, joining a group gathered around a ballad-singer before soft Cork rain drove him back to his hotel.

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"THE drawing-room? Very well — you needn't mind. I'll go in and find him myself." The little flushed, grey-haired priest pushes past the boots and turns into the room on the left of the entrance hall in the Imperial Hotel, Pembroke Street. He is confident he will recognise his friend from the pictures of him by Maclise and others he has seen. And though he is a little shy about the intrusion he is too good-natured and humanly inquisitive to be turned back now. The stranger is meditative in a corner armchair as he enters. He seems half -lion, half -spaniel as Father O'Shea draws near. This is an early visitor for the long-haired fellow has only reached Cork this very evening from Chelsea. He has taken a chop and a rusk, spare diet for a stomach overloaded, it must be, with big words and "prophetic ulcers." In a turn along Patrick Street he has gone as far as the Bridge, joining a group about a ballad-singer there until the soft mild rain our " faithful asperges'* begins to sprinkle the dear old aqueous town. So Thomas Carlyle takes cover in his hotel and Father O'Shea of St. Patrick's enters his pent-house. Yes, he remembers quite well how two people, the American, Emerson, and
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 8

As the companion tells it

Cork is the old aqueous town the road is carrying you through now. On his first evening here, Thomas Carlyle had only just arrived from Chelsea. He took a chop and a rusk at the Imperial Hotel on Pembroke Street, then walked out along Patrick Street as far as the Bridge. There he joined a group gathered around a ballad-singer, standing with them until the soft mild rain began to sprinkle the town. Cork's rain, the book calls it the faithful asperges, drove him back to his hotel. He was a long-haired fellow, meditative in a corner armchair, described as half lion and half spaniel. That same evening, Father O'Shea of Saint Patrick's came into the hotel to find him. The little flushed, grey-haired priest pushed past the boots and turned into the room on the left of the entrance hall, confident he would recognise his friend from the pictures of him by Maclise and others he had seen. He was too good-natured and humanly inquisitive to be turned back. Carlyle's stomach, it was said, was overloaded with big words and prophetic ulcers.

Charitable relief along Douglas Street near Union Gates

Douglas Street · street · Cork

During the famine, charitable people on the north side of Cork give what help they can. Along Douglas Street, as the overflow sets from the Union Gates, many share a literal crust with the starving fugitives.

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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
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 43

As the companion tells it

This is charitable relief on Douglas Street, where during the famine the starving came seeking shelter. Down along the coast and over the hills from Bantry to Kinsale the poor people were starving after the potatoes failed. Night and day the fugitives thronged into Cork city, looking for shelter from a hunger and fever that could not be turned away from 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 died on the cold stone. The hospitals and sheds were full and there was no nourishment left.

Parnell stoned at Enniscorthy before Cork triumph

Enniscorthy · townland · Wexford · 1880–1891

Ten days before his triumphant election in Cork, Parnell was stoned at Enniscorthy, making his head-of-the-poll victory in Cork all the more remarkable given the combined opposition of Whigs, the Bishop, and the Cork Examiner.

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man." The cheers rattle and roar, for minutes he cannot speak. With the cool accuracy of a mathematician he knows how much each added hooray means now for the success of his scheme. At last, there is silence — the complete unbreathing awe of wonder, love, idolatry. He stands erect, no emotion betrayed, then slowly, oratorically he recites, "Citizens of Cork, this is the night before the battle. To your guns then!" That is the god, the oracular voice! Little more is heard, for there is a singing in their ears, a roaring in their blood. This cannonshot rhetoric can swiftest achieve the mastery in the quick-silver town ! So next day Charles Stuart Parnell is elected head of the poll, a triumph remembering how, ten days before, he had been stoned at Enniscorthy, and how at Cork now the Whigs, the Bishop and the Cor^; Examiner with all their forces are against him and his policy.

Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 3

As the companion tells it

Somewhere around here, Charles Stuart Parnell was stoned. It happened ten days before his triumph at Cork. The crowd in Cork roared for him, cheers rattling so long he could not speak at first. He stood erect, showing no emotion. When silence came, he recited the words: Citizens of Cork, this is the night before the battle. To your guns then. There was a singing in their ears, a roaring in their blood. The next day he was elected head of the poll. That victory was remarkable. The Whigs were against him. The Bishop was against him. The Cork Examiner was against him and his policy. All their forces were combined. And yet only ten days earlier, here at Enniscorthy, they had stoned him. The cheers in Cork and the stones here belonged to the same short passage of days.

Sir Walter Scott's visit to Blarney disappoints Lockhart

near Blarney · townland · Cork · 1825

Scott's party drove to Blarney to kiss the famous stone, but Lockhart was openly disappointed, declaring the place dirty and not up to his expectations. The visit prompted excited crowds from Sunday's Well, St. Lukes, and the Marsh to gather outside the hotel.

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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!
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 4

As the companion tells it

Somewhere around here in 1825, Sir Walter Scott came to kiss the famous stone. He arrived in a green-coloured carriage and pair, driving in from Blackpool and over the bridge. He was a big, robust, red-cheeked, lame-legged man, very grey. Beside him sat Maria Edgeworth, tiny, plain, all brains and no beauty, too sensitive about it ever to be photographed. Third on the seat was Captain Scott of the Hussars, a youth quartered at Dublin. Opposite them sat 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 was quizzical, 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-Tyner, was appalled at the absence of geometry here. The costumes of the women and their ease claimed Miss Scott. Miss Edgeworth was perfectly bland and did not trouble. Scott stepped out in his mouse-grey trousers, spats and cutaway coat, 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. The Marsh rose in alarm.

The Marsh district's social character in Cork

Marsh · townland · Cork · 1825

The Marsh district was depicted as enthusiastically jostling round the hotel door when Sir Walter Scott visited, while Sunday's Well and St. Lukes preened and pouted on the distant curbstone, reflecting distinct social characters of these Cork neighbourhoods.

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Sir Walter Scott, the famous writer, in town? Put on your hat, Julia, and run ! Tom, get out of bed, I tell you, and don't mind the sickpay ! Oh glory be to God, an* we'll never be in time !" Until they all are thronging up and down outside the hotel, the Marsh jostling rudely round the door, Sunday's Well and St. Lukes preening and pouting a little on the distant curbstone, for inquisitiveness become so democratised! And then, "Gone to Blarney, yerra, he is ! Oh, law, 'tis easy to amuse him after all!" — the proletarians turning on the traditional cold tap, and "He wouldn't look at the New Wall! the Old Show ! And I to leave my housework behind for such a suck in!" Until, at last, "Here they're back, look, again!" and, "Who's that one in the corner, though? Isn't she very small entirely?" and, " I wouldn't think much of that hat, would you, Lizzie Ann?" So the party step down and into their hotel. The crowd breaks and forgets.
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 4

As the companion tells it

Somewhere around here is the Marsh district of Cork, a place whose social character showed itself the day Sir Walter Scott came to town in 1825. The news spread fast. Someone shouts to put on a hat, to get out of bed and not mind the sickpay, that they will never be in time. Soon they are all thronging up and down outside the hotel. The Marsh jostles rudely round the door, while Sunday's Well and St. Lukes preen and pout on the distant curbstone, inquisitiveness become so democratised. Then word comes he has gone to Blarney, and the crowd turns the traditional cold tap, saying it is easy to amuse him after all. One says he would not look at the New Wall, only the Old Show, and complains of leaving housework for such a fool's errand. When the party returns, the crowd gathers again, picking out someone very small in the corner and judging a hat. The party step down into their hotel. The crowd breaks and forgets.

Robert Emmett's family home in Washington Street, Cork

Washington Street · street · Cork · 1770

Around 1770, Dr. Robert Emmett, physician and verse-writer, lived with his family in Washington Street, Cork, where many of their babies had died. He was appointed physician to the Lord Lieutenant, prompting the family's move to Dublin, where son Robert Emmett was later born.

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WHEN Catherine O'Mullane came into Cork in her horse and car from Whitechurch on a week-day she had few visits to pay. For she was a retiring woman, the daughter of a " strong" farmer, striking enough if you knew her, far-seeing, circumspect, restrained. So when she had done her round of shopping and paid her " visit to the chapel" she would take a quiet walk along the Mall with the stream of water stagnating down the middle of it; just to have a look at the city people taking their pleasure, and the beaux in coloured vests and top-boots greeting the belles of the hour. And sometimes, too, she would stop a piece to have a look at a child, or a mother, especially one little woman who had caught her eye. Such a good mother she looked, and oh, such a delicate little child ! Well-known too if you were to judge by the number of people who salute her kindly. So that, once or twice, Catherine Mullane was going to stop : *' I declare, I was longing to talk to her she looked so nice!" But time flies and now it is 1770 and they are packing up in their home in Washington Street for the journey, three days or more to Dublin in the North, the mother, especially, glad to leave
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 11

As the companion tells it

Robert Emmett's family home stood on Washington Street in Cork. Around 1770, Robert Emmett, physician and verse-writer, lived there with his family, where many of their babies had died. He was appointed physician to the Lord Lieutenant, and the family packed for Dublin, three days or more to the north. The mother was especially glad to leave. Their son Robert Emmett was born later in Dublin. A woman named Catherine O'Mullane used to come into Cork from Whitechurch in her horse and car, a retiring woman, the daughter of a strong farmer. After shopping and a visit to the chapel, she would walk along the Mall, watching city people taking their pleasure, the beaux in coloured vests and top-boots greeting the belles of the hour. Sometimes she stopped to look at one little woman who had caught her eye, such a good mother, and oh, such a delicate little child, well-known by the number of people who saluted her kindly. Catherine said, 'I declare, I was longing to talk to her she looked so nice.' But time flies, and by 1770 they were packing up for the journey to Dublin.

The Farrens of Washington Street

Washington Street · street · Cork

The Farrens were an acting family on Washington Street in Cork, referenced as predecessors to the kind of touring family performances Elizabeth O'Neill grew up in.

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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
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 31

As the companion tells it

The Farrens were an acting family on Washington Street in Cork, remembered as the kind of touring performers who came before Elizabeth O'Neill. Elizabeth O'Neill, later Lady Becher, was a poor actor's daughter from Drogheda. As a child she was dragged from town to town, giving little performances in which the whole family took part, just as the Farrens had done before her. The life wore her down. Young as she was, she conceived a horror of it, and found herself down-at-heel and in peril. But at 28 she accomplished something quite extraordinary, and it lifted her spirit beyond the cant and gossip of the world. She lived for over 50 years near Mallow until her death, though she was a rare visitor to Cork. In a tea-shop or at a sale you would not have noticed her beyond any well-bred woman of the suburbs. There was a strength beneath that soft, rounded face and low brow. Her hands and arms moved always in a kind of Grecian rhythm, with a magnetic touch of the spirit in them. 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.

Jacobite soldiers in the southern suburb beyond Sullivan's Quay

Sullivan's Quay · street · Cork · 1691

Weary Jacobite soldiers under Sarsfield drifted through the southern suburb beyond Sullivan's Quay in Cork, described as the 'Irish town' where 'unregenerate Celts' welcomed the fugitives with fellow-feeling before their embarkation for France.

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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 !
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 10

As the companion tells it

A southern suburb beyond Sullivan's Quay in Cork, where Jacobite soldiers drifted in 1691 after the siege a year before. The area was called the Irish town. O'Connor was glad they were to sail away; he called Cork "a mean town compared with Limerick." Their weary soldiers drifted in and out of the suburb, where, in the words of the source, "unregenerate Celts" could welcome the fugitives with fellow-feeling. It was time for parting again. Sarsfield was on his way to superintend the sailing from the Lower Road. Then came a sound like cannon. O'Connor stopped and clutched the General by the shoulder. The first shipload of the poor, footsore, faithful, daring fellows had been blown up at the wharf. For these five hundred, at least, there would be no revenge and no wild cries of "Ireland! Ireland!" as they charged down the lines at Ramillies.

James Blake dispatched from Cork to poison Red Hugh O'Donnell

Cork · city · Cork

George Carew arranged for a man named James Blake to sail from Cork to Spain carrying poison, with orders to assassinate Red Hugh O'Donnell. The plot succeeded seven months later when Red Hugh died at Valladolid, poisoned by Blake's phials.

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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.
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 28

As the companion tells it

Cork is where this dark errand began. Red Hugh O'Donnell was the champion the Irish had set their hopes on, a fiery man, handsome to look upon but unlucky. He raced south to Belgooly and barely escaped death at Kinsale, where George Carew smashed the Spanish-Irish force, though the leaders got off on the ships. Carew, the conqueror, turned for a while to his archaeological studies, fulfilling himself as a gentleman. But he tired of genealogies and wrote out a subtle prescription, the most drastic cure known for what the book calls 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, carrying his phials and his orders. His name was James Blake, dispatched by the son of the exquisite Dean to poison Red Hugh. The purpose was achieved seven months later at Valladolid, when Red Hugh writhed and was dead, the antiquary and the snake triumphant together.

Quakers jailed in Cork with William Penn

Cork · city · Cork · 1666–1667

After William Penn joined the Quaker society in Cork under the influence of Thomas Loe, the law was invoked and all the Quakers were clapped in jail in Cork. His father came to release him and took him back to London.

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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
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 25

As the companion tells it

Cork has a story from 1666 that follows a young man named William Penn. His father was an English admiral who had hopes his son would settle into orthodox life. But Penn had turned to Nonconformity at school in Essex, and his attitudes only grew more marked in London. His father sent him to Oxford at 15, and the youth 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, and failed. He was at his wits' end. Then in 1666 the old quiet city of Cork came to his mind. Penn was now 22. His father sent him over to learn the colonist tricks, to spend his time between the Lee side and Shanagarry, where a forfeited castle had fallen to the family. For a while all was well. Then Thomas Loe turned up again. Penn was fascinated a second time and joined the Quaker society actively. The law was invoked, and all the Quakers were clapped in jail in Cork. His father came to release him and took him back to London.

Carlyle sails on the Crosshaven steamer with Father O'Shea

Crosshaven · town · Cork

The day after arriving in Cork, Thomas Carlyle sat on the paddle-box of the Crosshaven steamer in the company of Father O'Shea, whom he described as a true gentleman and priest, good everyway.

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the Cork priest, Father O'Shea, had written co the editor of Eraser's fifteen years ago in praise of Sartor, then annoying most of the critics of the hour. Sage and snarler he can dissolve to a smile in the exuberant welcome of his priest-friend here. And next day, sitting on the paddle-box of the Crosshaven steamer, his heart and his liver will be in the better of his uproarious company. " Kind Father O'Shea, courteous, good everyway, a true gentleman and priest," emphatic approval that from the phrase-tost philosopher. So that for his soul and liver's sake one regrets that he did not come oftener to the laughing people of " Old Cork, beside the Lee."
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 8

As the companion tells it

Crosshaven was where Thomas Carlyle found himself on a steamer the day after he arrived in Cork. He sat on the paddle-box beside Father O'Shea, a Cork priest who years before had written in praise of Carlyle's Sartor, a book then annoying most critics of the hour. In the priest's uproarious company, the philosopher who could snarl dissolved to a smile. Carlyle called him, in his own words, "Kind Father O'Shea, courteous, good everyway, a true gentleman and priest." That approval was emphatic from a phrase-tost philosopher. For his soul and liver's sake, one regrets he did not come oftener to the laughing people of Old Cork, beside the Lee.

Daniel Maclise rowing past old Blackrock on summer evenings

near Blackrock · population centre · Cork

Before his rise to fame in London, the young Daniel Maclise excelled at the Cork gymnasium and loved to row on summer evenings past old Blackrock. He treasured these colours and memories of his native town, which he left unvisited for many years due to fear of sea-sickness.

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Street poor shoemaker's son, races home with his three lightning sketches, sits up all night in the little back parlour of the small house opposite Woodford Bourne's, the finished drawing is back early next day to Bolster, with the portrait and his beating heart ! They put the picture in the window, Scott returns, is surprised and enchanted, calls for the artist, beams upon him, signs his sketch. The flying fame is 'loose; in six months boy Maclise has a studio at the Patrick Street corner of Prince's Street. Soon he is heard of at London, travels thither, rises to the heights, refuses, philosopher passing painter, the Presidency of the Royal Academy, keeps house for his parents and sisters, escapes slander, dies renowned, the lad who excelled at the Cork gymnasium, who loved to row on summer evenings past old Blackrock, whose colours and memories he treasured and longed for often, when from fear of sea-sickness he had left his native town unvisited many a year.
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 5

As the companion tells it

We're passing through the outskirts of Cork. On summer evenings long ago, a young Daniel Maclise used to row past old Blackrock, which you're coming through now. A shoemaker's son. One day he raced home with three lightning sketches, sat up all night in the little back parlour of the small house opposite Woodford Bourne's, and had the finished drawing back to Bolster early next day. They put it in the window. Scott returned, was surprised and enchanted, called for the artist, beamed upon him, and signed his sketch. In six months the boy had a studio at the Patrick Street corner of Prince's Street. Soon he was heard of in London. He travelled there, rose to the heights, refused the Presidency of the Royal Academy, kept house for his parents and sisters, escaped slander, and died renowned. He excelled at the Cork gymnasium, and treasured the colours and memories of his native town. From fear of sea-sickness he left it unvisited for many a year.

Henry Sheares, banker's son of Glasheen

Glasheen · townland · Cork

Henry Sheares, with whom Mary Swete eloped, was the son of a philanthropist banker from Glasheen. Mary Swete chose him over Fitzgibbon, the barrister son of an apostate from Clare, who later became Lord Clare and died amid riots and curses in Dublin.

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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
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 29

As the companion tells it

Somewhere around here lived Henry Sheares, the philanthropist banker's son of Glasheen. Mary Swete chose him over a far more prosperous match. She was a plucky girl, quicksilver and fire in her veins, and she eloped with Henry Sheares before the Ursulines had even come to her father's house. The pair came along the avenue, the gate creaking, and they were gone, traveling the road from the Ursuline Convent to Cork, touched with the wand of illusion. The moon was all velvet and cream, the stars pranked round about it, and underneath, the river ran smooth and luring, shining and soft like a woman's arm. What Mary Swete scorned was Fitzgibbon, a barrister with money to burn, an apostate's son from Clare. He would soon reach the infamy of the woolsack, would spit upon his kith and kin, and would go to his grave with riots and curses in Dublin while still comparatively

MacMurrogh passes Portlairge on his ride east

Waterford · city · Waterford · 1166

As Dermot MacMurrogh rides eastward, the thousand martyrs of Eire throng his heart and pluck at the strings as he passes Portlairge (Waterford), but he does not turn to God.

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" 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
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 38

As the companion tells it

Dermot MacMurrogh rode east through Waterford in 1166, an old king heavy with the weight of many sins. As he passed the city, the thousand martyrs of Eire thronged his heart and plucked at the strings. Angel after angel had failed at the task of turning him to God. Ollamh Fodhla, Cuchulin, Conn followed him down the roads on steeds of light, whispering in his ears as he rode through Hy Felimy. The words came: "Will you not turn to God and prepare for your last end?" But this time heaven would not prevail. He was halted at Corcoran Strand. Old Clay Castle ran high and sparkling on to sea. Winds young and merry played with its breasts of silver until the fine sand-shower fell and they shone an instant in mail for the waves rising up below. Then all dimmed and darkened, universal eclipse. The Fomorians were back, subtler, more snaring than the smooth bogs, here by the foothills where one sinks. And there was a shape, not man, nor beast, but beyond them to monster.

Sheriff whipping rebels at the cart's tail in Cork

Cork · city · Cork · 1798

In 1798 Cork, the Sheriff publicly whipped captured 'rebels' at the cart's tail as a form of punishment and intimidation, a tyranny discussed among the United Irishmen sympathisers at Dr. Aikenhead's dinner table.

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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
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 9

As the companion tells it

Cork, in the spring of 1798, was a city where the Sheriff whipped captured rebels at the cart's tail, a punishment meant to terrify. The talk of that tyranny reached the dinner table at Dr. Aikenhead's house at the corner of Daunt's Square, the most hospitable house in town, where the doctor gathered friends on a Sunday in spring. The party talked business and gossip of ships tied up at the wharf near Drawbridge Street, and the latest cruelty of the Sheriff, who whipped rebels at the cart's tail. Downstairs in the shop, busy with leeches and blistering pastes and the boluses of that day, the two apprentices, merry country fellows, were faithful and in the know. Upstairs, every one of them at that dinner was enrolled, or certainly a well-wisher to be trusted to the full, the doctor himself among them. The courses were good. Cork slaughtered the finest meat in the world, a hundred thousand beasts a year for export alone, sweetest mutton, mountain or plain-fed. The talk flowed with the fine claret, easy and cheap from the trade with France. A Quaker gentleman, 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.

Swampy conditions at St. Mary's of the Isle and Grand Parade

Grand Parade · street · Cork · 1649

The area around St. Mary's of the Isle and the Grand Parade in Cork was described as a deadly, swampy landscape of puddles and fogs when Prince Rupert arrived in January 1649. The rain and tunnel-vapour over the marshy ground made the approaches to town nearly impassable.

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THROUGH the slush of the limestone tracks and the sopping field-paths they are cantering past the Viaduct to town. The rain drifts in their eyes and ears, and that trollop - ing wind that lurches rather than blows now west now south as if itself too characterless to decide. A deadly day, with a kind of tunnel-vapour, over the puddles of St. Mary's of the Isle, and the swamps of the Grand Parade giving off fogs and gas. And so the foremost rider swears and shouts and wonders who dug this town out, and whether the natives of it are web-footed from so much floundering in the wet. For he is a man never beaten elsewhere by wind or enemy, always restless, planning, plotting, fighting; tall, nimble as a sprinter, dark-browed, Roman-nosed, a little curl on his upper lip as of conceit and courage such as no fear shall daunt, long hair flowing down over his blue hooded cloak, a dimple on his cheek as though cosy for a kiss.
For a good while he has been on the hustle now, starting early, in 1620, when he was only ten months old and his mother, the Queen of Bohemia, flew away with her infant, 'driven from her throne. Until they

Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 18

As the companion tells it

The ground around St. Mary's of the Isle and the Grand Parade in Cork was a deadly, swampy mess in January 1649, when Prince Rupert rode in. The rain drifted in his eyes and ears. The wind lurched, now west, now south, as if itself too characterless to decide. There was a kind of tunnel-vapour over the puddles, and the swamps gave off fogs and gas. The foremost rider swore and shouted and wondered who dug this town out, and whether the natives of it are web-footed from so much floundering in the wet. He was a man never beaten elsewhere by wind or enemy, always restless, planning, plotting, fighting. Tall, nimble as a sprinter, dark-browed, Roman-nosed, with a little curl on his upper lip as of conceit and courage such as no fear shall daunt. Long hair flowed down over his blue hooded cloak, a dimple on his cheek as though cosy for a kiss. He had been on the hustle a good while, starting early, in 1620, when he was only ten months old and his mother, the Queen of Bohemia, flew away with her infant, "driven from her throne."

Cork's Catholic merchants persecuted under Tudors

Cork · city · Cork · 1509–1603

Catholic merchants in Cork were persecuted under Henry VIII and Elizabeth, though some compensation was offered through grants from the sovereigns for fines imposed on Catholics for conscience sake. Cork remained uniquely attached to the British connection, unlike Dublin and Limerick.

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and Anglo-Norman upper classes and bourgeoisie have kept it uniquely attached to the British connection. So that, however much the Catholic merchants were persecuted there in Henry VIII. 's and Elizabeth's day, some compensation was offered by way of grants from these cute sovereigns for fines and punishments imposed by their governors upon the Catholics for conscience sake. In no sense then " rebel," as Dublin and Limerick have often been, Cork has developed a highly individualistic life of her own, dominated still by laws of caste and local attitudes such as in the past forbade the marriage of any within the walls with those outside, inventing or following unorthodox political causes as when long ago the inhabitants declared for and against Tudor or Stuart Governments according as they were taxed, or for the sake of their city dignity rather than that of the country as a whole.
Thus, explosively enthusiastic, cynically indifferent, vowing, forgetting, ribald and 2

Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 2

As the companion tells it

Cork kept itself uniquely attached to the British connection, its Anglo-Norman upper classes and bourgeoisie seeing to that. The Catholic merchants here were persecuted in the days of Henry the Eighth and Elizabeth. Yet some compensation came back the other way. The sovereigns offered grants for the fines and punishments their governors had imposed on Catholics, as the book puts it, for conscience sake. Cork was never rebel in the way Dublin and Limerick have often been. The city developed a highly individualistic life of its own, ruled still by laws of caste and local attitudes. In the past, those attitudes forbade marriage between anyone within the walls and anyone outside them. The inhabitants declared for and against Tudor or Stuart governments according to how they were taxed, or for the sake of their city dignity rather than the country as a whole.

Wolves howling at Kilcrea in Elizabethan times

Kilcrea · townland · Cork

During Queen Elizabeth's reign, wolves could still be heard howling at night around Kilcrea and Ryecourt, indicating the wild state of the countryside surrounding Cork.

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WHEN good Queen Bess died Cork lost its " excellent friend." It had thriven well under her winking eye ; a spacious business in secret service transacted with her Majesty's representatives, and in mere money -making sales of food and arms with the disloyal Irish outside, these latter a wild enough tribe, while still the wolf could be heard howling in the night by Ryecourt and round Kilcrea. So those Anglo- Normans with the Danish streak had a Kultur of connivance all their own; purchasing ammunition from French merchant-vessels in the harbour, retailing it to the " rebelly Rapes " around the Kerry Pike, at Shy lock's interest, and then turning the other pocket to their lords and masters, the English governors, at Shandon Castle. So that for their great utility Eliza would remit the fines against the Catholics amongst them, and often threw in a little grant in aid when the Munster President imposed a heavy indemnity for "Mass-houses" discovered in their midst. For the Queen argued wisely that it was better to split these Papists by pandering to their "loyal*" ones within the walls at the same time that she plundered and harried the true ultra-Montanists on the hills. At her death "the faithful garrison" were a little spoiled, refractory,
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 42

As the companion tells it

Somewhere close to Kilcrea, in the time of Queen Elizabeth, the countryside was wild enough that wolves could still be heard howling in the night. The book calls it the age when good Queen Bess held her winking eye over Cork, and the land outside the walls was still untamed. The disloyal Irish beyond the city were described as a wild enough tribe, while the wolf howled by Ryecourt and round Kilcrea. Inside Cork, the Anglo-Normans with the Danish streak ran their own culture of connivance. They bought ammunition from French merchant vessels in the harbour and sold it on to the rebels around the Kerry Pike, at Shylock's interest, then turned the other pocket to their lords and masters, the English governors, at Shandon Castle. For their great utility, Elizabeth would remit the fines against the Catholics among them, and often threw in a grant when the Munster President imposed a heavy indemnity for Mass-houses discovered in their midst. The Queen reasoned it was better to split these Catholics by pandering to the loyal ones within the walls, while she plundered and harried the true ultra-Montanists on the hills. At her death, the faithful garrison were a little spoiled, refractory.

Macaulay admires Cork Court House on Washington Street

Washington Street · street · Cork

Lord Macaulay, travelling through Ireland, paused in Washington Street by the new Court House in Cork, which he praised as 'a portico that would have done honour to Palladio.' He then departed for London to write about his travels.

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THIS is the most brilliant autorraton of his age, a fellow all memory and clockwork of quotation, running well without friction but with the unprincipled ease of a machine, a genius assuming the philosopher and historian, and producing lightning judgments, wrong and rapid but always interesting, whether he writes of " Romish" Ireland or cf that " schoolgirl" who is herself step-daughter to the lamented Munchausen. Leaving London now he will read in the train between Euston and Bangor the " Lives" of half of the Roman Emperors and aboard the boat he will repeat to himself five books of " Paradise Lost" as he sits tucked up on deck scorning the rough sea until the lights of Dublin shine and he steps ashore to shoot his first arrow at the Metropolis, " City of raving Orangemen and raving Repealers!" After which via Killarney with its " almost sensual beauty" he is at last into Cork pausing in Washington Street by the new Court House, " A portico that would have done honour to Palladio."
And so exit again to weigh us up and kill us with phrases when he returns to London and resumes the secret life, playing with his friends* children, walking little Miss Trevelyan

Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 14

As the companion tells it

The Court House on Washington Street in Cork drew the eye of Lord Macaulay when he came through Ireland. He was a man all memory and clockwork of quotation, producing lightning judgments, wrong and rapid but always interesting. He had left London and read the Lives of half the Roman Emperors on the train between Euston and Bangor. Aboard the boat he repeated to himself five books of Paradise Lost, sitting on deck, scorning the rough sea until the lights of Dublin appeared. He stepped ashore and called the city "City of raving Orangemen and raving Repealers." From there he travelled by way of Killarney, with what he called its "almost sensual beauty," and came at last into Cork. There he stopped by the new building and called it, in his words, "A portico that would have done honour to Palladio." Then he left again for London, where he would resume his secret life, playing with his friends' children, walking little Miss Trevelyan.

Cork's geography shaped its troubled history

Cork · city · Cork · 1172–1261

Cork's mild climate and commanding hills made sustained defence difficult, allowing successive invaders to raid and hold the town. The Danes raided it repeatedly, the Anglo-Normans stormed it in 1172, and even when the MacCarthys recovered the surrounding Desmond country in 1261, Cork still held for the invader.

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WO facts, especially, condition the history of Cork : its climate and its situation. The mild and languorous air and the excessive moisture in the valley make sustained effort often very difficult; unconsciously one loses faith a little in achievement, out of which, logically, there may grow a certain attitude either of derisive cynicism or of gentle acquiescence. Any invader, while the energy of other places was in him, could rush the town incapable of sustained defence, too, by reason of its commanding hills. So the Danes raided it repeatedly, and the Anglo-Normans stormed it in 11 72 and have never entirely let go. Nor can one believe that the Irish really meant to re-take the place, for even in 1261, when the Desmond country all round it was recovered by the MacCarthys, Cork still held for the invader.
And ever since that time on to Catholic Emancipation, if not later, the fused Danish 1

Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 2

As the companion tells it

Two things shaped the history of this city: its climate and its situation. The mild air and the excessive moisture in the valley make sustained effort difficult. A man unconsciously loses faith a little in achievement. The commanding hills made the town incapable of sustained defence. Any invader, while the energy of other places was still in him, could rush it. The Danes raided it repeatedly. The Anglo-Normans stormed it in 1172 and never entirely let go. Nor can one believe that the Irish really meant to retake the place, for even in 1261, when the Desmond country all round it was recovered by the MacCarthys, Cork still held for the invader. And from that time on, right to Catholic Emancipation if not later, that hold did not break.

Cork's narrow provincial outlook on art

Cork · city · Cork

Cork is described as a narrow provincial place in its outlook on aesthetics, a local bigotry that drove artists like James Barry to extremes of defiance. The text notes this characterization applies both then and now.

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devout Catholic, as her husband is honest Protestant, introduces James to a couple of priest friends who encourage his inquiring mind, though indeed for his art he must battle alone, Cork then as now a narrow provincial place in its outlook on aesthetics in practise in its midst. A kind of local bigotry calculated, as in the case of James Barry, to drive the artist to extremes of defiance. Thus the lad, at 15, will paint Aeneas, and Absalom's sacrifice, and Daniel amid the lions — this latter a plea perhaps for his own daring ! And soon, with his early acquired luminous vocabulary, he will startle gentle folk in Dublin and via London will reach Rome, working like a bee everywhere, and stinging too ! Until returning to London for six years "on a diet of bread and apples" he will devote himself to the unsalaried task of painting the walls of the Society of Arts there, " the greatest enthusiast for painting ever produced," Alan Cunningham's description of him. And moved by the astounding idealist — he offers to decorate St. Paul's Cathedral without fee too — the Academy will elect him to a chair and a Fellowship, from which soon again, stung by his satires on their " nepotism and reactionary ways" they will expel him;
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 7

As the companion tells it

Cork has a narrow provincial outlook on art, and it had one long before your journey. The book calls it a kind of local bigotry, one that could drive an artist to extremes of defiance. James Barry was the case in point. His mother was a devout Catholic, his father an honest Protestant, and she brought him to priest friends who encouraged his inquiring mind. But for his art he had to battle alone. At 15 he painted Aeneas, and Absalom's sacrifice, and Daniel amid the lions, that last perhaps a plea for his own daring. With an early luminous vocabulary he startled gentle folk in Dublin, and through London reached Rome, working like a bee and stinging too. He came back to London for six years on a diet of bread and apples, devoting himself to the unsalaried task of painting the walls of the Society of Arts. Alan Cunningham called him the greatest enthusiast for painting ever produced. He offered to decorate St. Paul's Cathedral without fee as well. The Academy elected him to a chair and a Fellowship, then expelled him for his satires on what he called their nepotism and reactionary ways.

St Colman's tower bell over Queenstown harbour

Cobh · municipal district · Cork · 1918

The bell from St Colman's tower beat over the harbour at Queenstown as the port returned to peace and quiet after the American naval presence.

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way at all to salve the sinking Anglo-Saxon world. A task accomplished quickly as you shall hear soon with Queenstown dressed for peace and quiet again, a bell beating over the harbour from St. Colman's tower, white seagulls in and out of the little mills of waters whose overseers they are.
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 41

As the companion tells it

As you pass through Cobh, Queenstown was dressed for peace and quiet again in 1918 after the American naval presence. A bell beat over the harbour from St Colman's tower. White seagulls moved in and out of the little mills of waters, "whose overseers they are."

Thackeray's wife from Doneraile

Doneraile · townland · Cork

Thackeray married a wife from Doneraile, though she was described as ill-starred. The text notes this as one of Cork's boasts regarding Thackeray's connection to the region.

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.

first real start on the career of author, and that he married a wife from Doneraile, though she, poor thing, was destined to be ill-starred enough.
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 32

As the companion tells it

Somewhere around here, Thackeray married a wife from Doneraile. The record calls her "ill-starred enough," poor thing. It is one of Cork's boasts, that a woman from this place became the wife of so notable an author.

The glamour of Cork

The stories, best first

Ballea on the butter road

Goldsmith on the Old Mallow Road

Old Head of Kinsale sighted by Spanish fleet

Citizens flee through South Gate during Cromwell's expulsion

Grafton's Alley where the Duke was killed in Marlborough's siege

James Barry's Cork boyhood near the Bridge

Refugees flee to bush-country beyond Kilcrea

Cork Races on the Marina and surrounding crowds

Haulbowline blockaded during Cork revolt

Mitchel lodged at Sunday's Well before Opera House appearance

Spenser courts Elizabeth Boyle at Youghal

Blessed Thaddeus MacCarthy, Cork's pilgrim saint

MacCarthy abandons Cork amid suspicion of enemy collusion

Malachy restores Bangor before his elevation to Armagh

Outcasts expelled from Cork flee to Glasheen

Sarsfield's Jacobite army marches to Cork after Limerick

Catherine O'Mullane's walks along the South Mall in Cork

Arms trading at Kerry Pike

Horsemen meet O'Connell's carriage near Carrigrohane

Shandon bells over the Butter Market

Spenser driven from Kilcolman by fire

Ursuline Convent at Blackrock

Bandon revolts against MacCarthy's command

Cork neighbourhoods react to Scott's visit

Dying on the curb along Douglas Road during famine

Lord Edward Fitzgerald escapes via Blackrock and Sunday's Well

Minane's weather-signalling cock

Thomas Carlyle stays at the Imperial Hotel, Cork

Father Mathew ends his days at Cove (Cobh)

Nan O'Nagle tending the poor around Shandon

Patrick Street flaneurs and 'Pana'

Canon Sheehan's quiet visits to Cork city

Carlyle walks Patrick Street to the Bridge in Cork

Charitable relief along Douglas Street near Union Gates

Parnell stoned at Enniscorthy before Cork triumph

Sir Walter Scott's visit to Blarney disappoints Lockhart

The Marsh district's social character in Cork

Robert Emmett's family home in Washington Street, Cork

The Farrens of Washington Street

Jacobite soldiers in the southern suburb beyond Sullivan's Quay

James Blake dispatched from Cork to poison Red Hugh O'Donnell

Quakers jailed in Cork with William Penn

Carlyle sails on the Crosshaven steamer with Father O'Shea

Daniel Maclise rowing past old Blackrock on summer evenings

Henry Sheares, banker's son of Glasheen

MacMurrogh passes Portlairge on his ride east

Sheriff whipping rebels at the cart's tail in Cork

Swampy conditions at St. Mary's of the Isle and Grand Parade

Cork's Catholic merchants persecuted under Tudors

Wolves howling at Kilcrea in Elizabethan times

Macaulay admires Cork Court House on Washington Street

Cork's geography shaped its troubled history

Cork's narrow provincial outlook on art

St Colman's tower bell over Queenstown harbour

Thackeray's wife from Doneraile