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

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

Along here on the South Mall, a woman named Catherine O'Mullane used to take a quiet walk. She came into Cork from Whitechurch in her horse and car on a week-day, the daughter of a strong farmer, retiring, far-seeing, circumspect, restrained. When she had done her round of shopping and paid her visit to the chapel, she would walk along the Mall, where a stream of water stagnated down the middle of it. She came just to have a look at the city people taking their pleasure, 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, if you were to judge by the number of people who saluted her kindly. Once or twice Catherine was going to stop. She said, "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.

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

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

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

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

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

Up ahead the road passes through Sunday's Well, a neighbourhood of Cork. In 1825 this was one of the quarters that stirred when Sir Walter Scott came to the city. 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 and the cut of an actor. Sir Walter was quizzical and talked of visiting Blarney. Lockhart was disappointed and said so: the place is dirty, by no manner of means up to his expectations. He was a pessimist, appalled at the absence of geometry here. A sandwich and a cider were swallowed, the barouche was fetched for Blarney, and they were off to kiss the stone. Meantime Sunday's Well had heard it, St. Lukes roused from its after-breakfast restraint, and the Marsh rose in alarm.

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

Along here during the famine, the arrangements were woeful. The potatoes had failed over the hills from Bantry to Kinsale, and the poor people were starving. The red-coat garrisons stayed fed in their barracks, but a corpse was cheap and the anatomists grew 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 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, as you might see along the Douglas Road, with many a fine woman's son stretched on the curb and a good priest anointing him before he'll die on the cold stone. For now the hospitals and sheds were full, and there was no nourishment left.

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.

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

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

Up ahead is Blackrock, just outside Cork city. William Makepeace Thackeray came through here in the 1840s, and he was the kind of visitor Cork might have been proud to claim. A tall, open-faced Englishman, public-school looking, with the gift, meaning you could not easily tell, listening to him, where the irony began and the sincerity ended. Charlotte Bronte might have taken a violent dislike to him, and she was not alone in that, but he had a journalist's eye for copy. He lodged up at Grattan's Hill and came down to Patrick Street, where he stood at the shop windows but really listened to what the flaneurs were saying, and wrote it all down. The next day he went out to the Ursuline Convent here at Blackrock. They did not tell him that one of their earliest Sisters had been an intimate of George Sand. What he noted was 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 published his Irish Sketch Book, and in it he called the people of Cork the greatest book-lovers he ever had met.

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
22

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

Along this street in Cork, during the famine, charitable people gave what help they could. The potatoes had failed, and night and day the fugitives thronged into the city from the grey roads along the west, looking for shelter from hunger and fever that could not be turned away. As the overflow set this way from the Union Gates, many a one shared a literal crust with the starving. Even on the fashionable hills there was a stirring to alms and prayer. But the arrangements were woeful, as you might see 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. A corpse was cheap. The red-coat garrisons stayed in barrack, fed somehow, while Empire flew its flags from Greenwich to Mandalay. Babylon was only one day's journey, with its bulging warehouses by the Thames. But over here, along Douglas Street, a crust was all some could give.

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

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

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 in Marsh, the district had its own character, and it showed when Sir Walter Scott came to Cork. The word went round. "Put on your hat, Julia, and run. Tom, get out of bed, and don't mind the sick pay. Oh glory be to God, and we'll never be in time." The Marsh came jostling round the hotel door, while Sunday's Well and St. Lukes stood preening and pouting on the distant curbstone. Inquisitiveness had become democratised. Then word came he had gone to Blarney. The proletarians turned on the traditional cold tap. "He wouldn't look at the New Wall, the Old Show. And I to leave my housework behind for such a suck in." Then at last they were back. "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." The party stepped down and into their hotel. The crowd broke and forgot.

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

Along this street, around 1770, a family was packing up their home for the journey to Dublin. Dr. Robert Emmett, physician and verse-writer, lived here with his wife Catherine O'Mullane, who had come into Cork from Whitechurch in her horse and car. She was a retiring woman, the daughter of a strong farmer, far-seeing and restrained. When she came to the city on a week-day, after her shopping and 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 watch the city people taking their pleasure, the beaux in coloured vests and top-boots greeting the belles of the hour. And sometimes she would stop to look at a child, or a mother. She had noticed one little woman who looked such a good mother, with such a delicate little child, well-known by the number of people who saluted her kindly. Catherine was going to stop: "I declare, I was longing to talk to her she looked so nice!" Many of the Emmetts' own babies had died here in Cork. Now Dr. Emmett had been appointed physician to the Lord Lieutenant, and they were leaving for Dublin, three days or more to the north. The mother, especially, was glad to leave. Their son Robert Emmett was born later in Dublin.

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

Along here, in 1691, weary Jacobite soldiers drifted through the southern suburb beyond Sullivan's Quay. This was the Irish town, a place where, as the book puts it, "unregenerate Celts" could welcome the fugitives with fellow-feeling. O'Connor was glad they were to sail away from this place. He called it a mean town compared with Limerick. Sarsfield was on his way to superintend the sailing from the Lower Road. Then came a sound as of 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, 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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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

Adrigole's lack of wheeled roads

Adrigole · townland · Cork · 1770

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

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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

Ballea on the butter road

Ballea · townland · Cork · 1770

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.

Read the passage

WAKING in the night, west, at the foot of the Boggeragh Mountains, you would hear the horse and he being tackled in the yard outside, a strip of lighted bog-deal kindled at the constant turf-fire flaring up here and there as the servant-boy stoops and searches for a piece of the harness mislaid on the day before. At three o'clock there comes every five minutes or so a butt rattling and lurching through the Square and along the Main Street of Macroom, or a horseman with three firkins slung, since there are as yet no roads cut for wheeled traffic from about Adrigole. Until everywhere the day is coming up to that soothing rhymeless music of hoof -beats and rumbling wheels, and the stagger and strain of unsprung axles down the roads. And now near six, they are climbing old Mallow Lane or by the Watercourse for those travelling from the north, a greeting exchanged, that undiplomatic ease and courtesy of men who are wise to sunsets and dawn ! " There was a shower only and I near Fermoy," and, " 'Twas cold and the horse wheezing on me and we passing Ballea," and, " That cock at Minane — he'd crow and we coming whatever kind the weather would be." So in the year 1 770 and after, the high ground about the Butter Market is rich with the morn-
79

Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 33

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

Doneraile · townland · Cork · 1910–1913

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

Read the passage

Ke goes along. Until, one evening soon, he comes a different way, riding from the station in an ambulance to the South Infirmary, still grave, calm, kind, inquiring about young men especially whom he had met in the past, . anxious to hear what the writers of the town were ambitioning in their art; the Christian Stoic and never a cynic in face of misfortune. So after a little respite of treatment they take him back to die rapidly in Doneraile, destroying all his letters and diaries there just before the end lest any bitterness should come out of a word he left behind. A stately passing, that heroic gesture of magnanimity that is the mark of a genuine man. So shall he endure, P. A. Sheehan, P.P. of Doneraile, now set in love and memory safe beyond any " cast of fortune's die and the iniquitous hour."
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 24

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.

Read the passage

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

Dermot MacMurrogh departs from Corcoran Strand, 1166

Youghal · town · Cork · 1166

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

Read the passage

" 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

Emigrants arriving at Glanmire Station, Cork

near Glanmire · town · Cork

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

Read the passage

WHO are these, beasts of burden in the disguise of men, the " wild Irish" of the " history "-books, outcasts, or what? They toil up Summerhill with heavy loads, a mattress often, a carpet bag with a shirt and a coat and a rosary beads, a couple of tins rattling in their hands ; the vision of Empire reflected in a glass darkly as the funeral climbs. For funeral it is with Ireland every day going to her grave, the young and fair from every valley in those emigrant gangs vomited out of trains at the Glanmire Station, and who pass now in this frightful cinema of Summerhill. And so again in train-jolts to Queenstown and the tender that shall swing them out to be swallowed into the stinking hold of the big ship between the forts. Now they stretch out upon the platform for a minute's rest at Summerhill, distracted and dumb, baffled by this confusion of travel after the slow-going days in Leitrim and Clare, buzzed about by dealers in those tin cups and plates that the emigrant himself must supply for the cynical steerage-table, tormented by the touts from the Queenstown lodging-houses crying the claims of their Stygian hotels. So farewell, island of saints and scholars ! Now art thou become a stricken place with flesh and
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 35

Emigrants climbing Summerhill, Cork

Summerhill · street · Dublin

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

Read the passage

WHO are these, beasts of burden in the disguise of men, the " wild Irish" of the " history "-books, outcasts, or what? They toil up Summerhill with heavy loads, a mattress often, a carpet bag with a shirt and a coat and a rosary beads, a couple of tins rattling in their hands ; the vision of Empire reflected in a glass darkly as the funeral climbs. For funeral it is with Ireland every day going to her grave, the young and fair from every valley in those emigrant gangs vomited out of trains at the Glanmire Station, and who pass now in this frightful cinema of Summerhill. And so again in train-jolts to Queenstown and the tender that shall swing them out to be swallowed into the stinking hold of the big ship between the forts. Now they stretch out upon the platform for a minute's rest at Summerhill, distracted and dumb, baffled by this confusion of travel after the slow-going days in Leitrim and Clare, buzzed about by dealers in those tin cups and plates that the emigrant himself must supply for the cynical steerage-table, tormented by the touts from the Queenstown lodging-houses crying the claims of their Stygian hotels. So farewell, island of saints and scholars ! Now art thou become a stricken place with flesh and
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 35

Emigrants departing from Queenstown

Cobh · municipal district · Cork

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

Read the passage

WHO are these, beasts of burden in the disguise of men, the " wild Irish" of the " history "-books, outcasts, or what? They toil up Summerhill with heavy loads, a mattress often, a carpet bag with a shirt and a coat and a rosary beads, a couple of tins rattling in their hands ; the vision of Empire reflected in a glass darkly as the funeral climbs. For funeral it is with Ireland every day going to her grave, the young and fair from every valley in those emigrant gangs vomited out of trains at the Glanmire Station, and who pass now in this frightful cinema of Summerhill. And so again in train-jolts to Queenstown and the tender that shall swing them out to be swallowed into the stinking hold of the big ship between the forts. Now they stretch out upon the platform for a minute's rest at Summerhill, distracted and dumb, baffled by this confusion of travel after the slow-going days in Leitrim and Clare, buzzed about by dealers in those tin cups and plates that the emigrant himself must supply for the cynical steerage-table, tormented by the touts from the Queenstown lodging-houses crying the claims of their Stygian hotels. So farewell, island of saints and scholars ! Now art thou become a stricken place with flesh and
64

Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 35

Emigration anguish at Queenstown wharf

Cobh · municipal district · Cork · 1860–1890

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

Read the passage

WHOEVER has heard the wailing of the women £ts the emigrant in the sixties and eighties of the last century left his native valley, or their cry as the tender swung away from the wharf at Queenstown for the liner outside, must know what the anguish of mothers and wives can be and they losing their men. For this then the low fire was blown red upon a hearth in Donegal as a son came shining through the blue twilight home ! Is their rearing worth no more than the Pittsburg furnace and docks of St. Louis will give them, mixed with the negroes and the rest ! Woe and grief, indeed now when " there won't be anyone in the long nights after Samhain" to be breathing in sleep for an old mother's ears in her cabin in the West. Oh close your eyes, Ireland, and stop your ears from a worse agony even ! For this cry here is terrible, loud and long as if all the generations in one were wailing on the river road by the fishery slip here at Cork ! Men have been stumbling up the gangways for hours; fine strapping men who have staked all for Ireland and have come to exile only ! And clustered about the decks and underneath, crushed back still along the jetty, the women, and children even, are jostled too, poor wives
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 30

Grey the disemboweller of Smerwick

Smerwick · townland · Kerry

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

Read the passage

Sir Peter Carew, Knight, sticking children and pregnant women with his sword because they have a " treasonous air," Grey himself the exquisite disemboweller of Smerwick. But our tryst is with the latest of them now as he steps up from the river to Shandon Castle there at the President's office to present his credentials; a commanding figure, the forehead a little too high, a touch of cunning in the arch of it, the nose shapely, lips pouting, a full moustache and the tapering beard in the fashion, confident, a demon of observation and energy, electrifying even when he walks out in his ruffs and shining hose. So in and out of Cork and the world for forty years he will garotte and gamble and seduce and achieve — murder, lies, munificence, valour all into the Walpurgis fire wherethrough he whirls. Until behold him on a day again, lousy and palsied, gibbering, spitting phthisis out with every breath, shaking with fear of this plague that is going in rigors over the prisoners near him ! Well done, Fate, thou art conqueror still ! Come now, Erinnys, thou didst not die with Greece overthrown ! So watch reader, watch how the destinies do the trick. And one fine morning, scars and kingdoms nothing worth, he gives a little kick, throws out his arms and is dead in the Tower of London, this Walter
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 34

MacMurrogh boards ship at the Battery Sluice

Youghal · town · Cork · 1166

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

Read the passage

and devil, a lust-ridden lump, heavy, huge, harsh-voiced, pawing, cursing, raving; age no mellowing tenderness in his blood as he enters now his seventy-seventh year. Down upon your knees, Ireland, and wail as he boards his ship by the Battery Sluice, and sails out east. For this is 1 166, and that boat is more horrid than all boats that ferry the dead over Styx since one worse than any of the ancient world is aboard ; Dermot MacMurrogh, the ravisher, cut-throat, convent-breaker, incendiary, of diabolical courage too, Dermot MacMurrogh away now to bring Anglo-Normans and the eight hundred years of anguish in.
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 38

MacMurrogh passes through Portlairge on his fatal journey

Waterford · city · Waterford · 1166

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

Read the passage

" WHITHER now, O King? You are old, heavy with the weight of many sins. Will you not turn to God and prepare for your last end, a while?" Angel after angel fails from the task ; Ollamh Fodhla, Cuchulin, Conn, following down the roads on steeds of light, whisper in his ears as he rides through Hy Felimy ; the thousand martyrs of Eire throng round his heart and pluck at the strings as he passes Portlairge. But this time heaven shall not prevail. For now, at last, he is halted at Corcoran Strand ; old Clay Castle runs high and sparkling on to sea, winds young and merry play with its breasts of silver till the fine sandshower falls and they shine an instant in mail for the waves rising up, their lovers below. Oh God ! God ! that ever it should come to this ! That wind and wave and silver spray and streaming necklace of sand and shell-fans like fallen star-clusters on the shore should dim and darken, universal eclipse ! So the Fomorians are back, subtler, more snaring than the smooth bogs; here by the foothills, in which you sink — the fearful Fomorians ! And this, their devilry such as exceeds all ! For behold that shape ! Not man, nor beast but beyond them to monster
91

Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 38

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.

Read the passage

WAKING in the night, west, at the foot of the Boggeragh Mountains, you would hear the horse and he being tackled in the yard outside, a strip of lighted bog-deal kindled at the constant turf-fire flaring up here and there as the servant-boy stoops and searches for a piece of the harness mislaid on the day before. At three o'clock there comes every five minutes or so a butt rattling and lurching through the Square and along the Main Street of Macroom, or a horseman with three firkins slung, since there are as yet no roads cut for wheeled traffic from about Adrigole. Until everywhere the day is coming up to that soothing rhymeless music of hoof -beats and rumbling wheels, and the stagger and strain of unsprung axles down the roads. And now near six, they are climbing old Mallow Lane or by the Watercourse for those travelling from the north, a greeting exchanged, that undiplomatic ease and courtesy of men who are wise to sunsets and dawn ! " There was a shower only and I near Fermoy," and, " 'Twas cold and the horse wheezing on me and we passing Ballea," and, " That cock at Minane — he'd crow and we coming whatever kind the weather would be." So in the year 1 770 and after, the high ground about the Butter Market is rich with the morn-
79

Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 33

Mountjoy marches 5,000 men to subdue Cork

Cork · city · Cork · 1603

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

Read the passage

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

Nan O'Nagle of the wealthy Mallow family

Mallow · town · Cork

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

Read the passage

gold bars, the peeling walls flower down, through the dim skylight incense falls. Such light and colour and perfume as never unrolled when she danced those other nights at Versailles at the Court of the molten Louis Quinze. For Nan O'Nagle of the wealthy Mallow family, kinswoman to Edmund Burke, had often floated through Sevres and past shining Clichy in her carriage with silk to bind her lovely hair, and eyes of adoring boys to lap her in heraldry if she will but consent. Until, one immortal morning — the tale often told — Christ waved to her amid a group of working folk awaiting early Mass as her carriage rolled home through the Faubourg St. Germain. So that she flung Paris and all love and laughter of its glittering salons aside for the ecstasy of wind and rain, and secret haemorrhage from the lungs, and her ulcerated knees, and the opposition of bishops and bigoted aldermen and the rivalry of religious, all borne here in Cork without a murmur and with constant jest and smile, for Christ's sake.
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 27

Perkin Warbeck's spoof prince arrival in Cork

Cork · city · Cork · 1491–1499

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

Read the passage

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

Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 23

Raleigh arrives at Shandon Castle, Cork

near Shandon · locality · Cork · 1580

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

Read the passage

Sir Peter Carew, Knight, sticking children and pregnant women with his sword because they have a " treasonous air," Grey himself the exquisite disemboweller of Smerwick. But our tryst is with the latest of them now as he steps up from the river to Shandon Castle there at the President's office to present his credentials; a commanding figure, the forehead a little too high, a touch of cunning in the arch of it, the nose shapely, lips pouting, a full moustache and the tapering beard in the fashion, confident, a demon of observation and energy, electrifying even when he walks out in his ruffs and shining hose. So in and out of Cork and the world for forty years he will garotte and gamble and seduce and achieve — murder, lies, munificence, valour all into the Walpurgis fire wherethrough he whirls. Until behold him on a day again, lousy and palsied, gibbering, spitting phthisis out with every breath, shaking with fear of this plague that is going in rigors over the prisoners near him ! Well done, Fate, thou art conqueror still ! Come now, Erinnys, thou didst not die with Greece overthrown ! So watch reader, watch how the destinies do the trick. And one fine morning, scars and kingdoms nothing worth, he gives a little kick, throws out his arms and is dead in the Tower of London, this Walter
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Internet Archive glamourofcork00kelliala, Chapter 34

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.

Read the passage

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

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.

Read the passage

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

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.

Read the passage

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

The glamour of Cork

The stories, best first

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

Arms trading at Kerry Pike

Horsemen meet O'Connell's carriage near Carrigrohane

Spenser driven from Kilcolman by fire

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

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

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

Adrigole's lack of wheeled roads

Ballea on the butter road

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

Cork Races on the Marina and surrounding crowds

Dermot MacMurrogh departs from Corcoran Strand, 1166

Emigrants arriving at Glanmire Station, Cork

Emigrants climbing Summerhill, Cork

Emigrants departing from Queenstown

Emigration anguish at Queenstown wharf

Grey the disemboweller of Smerwick

MacMurrogh boards ship at the Battery Sluice

MacMurrogh passes through Portlairge on his fatal journey

Minane's weather-signalling cock

Mountjoy marches 5,000 men to subdue Cork

Nan O'Nagle of the wealthy Mallow family

Perkin Warbeck's spoof prince arrival in Cork

Raleigh arrives at Shandon Castle, Cork

Shandon bells over the Butter Market

The Farrens of Washington Street

Ursuline Convent at Blackrock