Other people,
she says, are proud of their country, are fond of their country, but
none have the same love for their country as the Irish have for green
Erin. Every inch of ground; every blade of grass in Ireland is holy,
says this lady with tears in her eyes. She is thinking of the dust that
Irish grass covers from her sight. It is on an anniversary we meet; she
cannot help speaking on this day of sacred things. The steamboat is
wading up to the wharf. We do not know one another's names, but we have
drawn near to each other - we clasp hands and part with a mutual God
bless you. The little boat swallows up all that are willing to come on
board, and like a black swan she sails up over the calm river, under the
bright sky, past the handsome houses and the lovely grounds, among the
clustering masts back to the rich city of Cork.
All the people injured in the attack on the rejoicing at Sir George
Colthurst's marriage are pronounced recovered to-day, except the one who
was wounded by a shot; he is still in the infirmary. A dignitary of the
Catholic Church who preached at Millstreet, where the disturbance took
place, introduced into his sermon remarks on the state of society there,
when his hearers became affected with coughing to such a degree that the
rev. gentleman had to stop for a time and speak directly to his hearers.
After the sermon most of the congregation left the church before mass -
few remaining.
The sun has come out and the harvest will be greatly benefited by this
tardy warmth, I am sure.
There has been some marching of soldiers - dragoons - fine looking men on
fine horses - through the streets to-day, to the blare of a military
band, accompanied and escorted by all the loose population of Cork. I
was much interested to see among the running crowd the good pace made by
a man with a wooden leg, who really could hop along with the best of
them. This is all the apology for a crowd which I have seen in Cork. I
have not heard the roar of one belated drunkard; such sounds have broken
slumber in other towns. Whatever excitement may be in the county, the
city of Cork seems as quiet, as orderly and as thriving as any city in
the kingdom.
I have discovered that, though the lower part of the river Lee is
crowded with masts and alive with traffic, the upper part, flowing along
under the shadow of green trees and bordered by wide meadows, is as
quiet as if it were flowing through the country miles from any city. I
have discovered the magnificent promenade called the Mardyke, a wide,
gravelled road overarched with trees, running along by the river. When
the evening lamps are lit, the susceptibility of Cork wander here in
pairs and "in couples agree." There are plenty of comfortable seats in
which to rest, for the promenade is a very long one, and the shimmer of
the many lamps among the green foliage has a pretty effect.
LIV.
CORK, TO BANDON, SKIBBEREEN AND SKULL.
From Cork by the new railway to Skibbereen there is one rather
noticeable feature by the way. All the way stations in small places are
wooden houses built American fashion, either clapboarded or upright
boards battened where they meet. The road is through a hilly country and
therefore lies mostly through deep cuttings that shut out the scenery.
There is one long tunnel not far from Cork that educates you into a
sense of what utter darkness means. It is pleasant to look over rich
pastures back to the city crowding its lofty hills, and to notice what a
grand steeple-crowned city it is.
The train crawls along through deep cuts, past these little wooden
stations where everything is more primitive and backwoods looking than
anything I have seen before in Ireland. The porters are civil and
obliging, ready to answer the questions of the ignorant, even of those
who travel third-class. The vast majority of the passengers are small
traders, market-women and farmers' wives, who have been away making
purchases.
By the time we reach Dunmanway we had our allowance of light served out
to us, a lamp being thrust through the ceiling of the car from the top,
and by its light we steamed into Skibbereen. I expected Skibbereen to be
a small assemblage of mud huts, but was surprised to find it a large
town of tall houses. As the bus rattled along through one gaslight
street after another, I kept asking myself, is this really Skibbereen.
The little hotel where we stopped was very comfortable, very clean, and
possesses a good cook. The next day in exploring the by streets and
suburbs of the town I saw poverty enough, want enough. It was market day
and the streets were crowded with country women in blue cloaks. These
cloaks are all the same make, but some of them, owing to their material,
were very stylish and shrouded as pretty black eyed, black-haired, rosy-
cheeked women as I ever saw. Some of these cloaks are made of very fine
material, the pleating about the shoulders very artistic, and the wide
hoods lined with black satin when worn round the face make the wearers
look like fancy pictures. Some of the women gather them round them in
folds like drapery. I noticed at once that the artist who made the
statues of O'Connell and Father Mathew had studied the drapery from the
cloaks of some Claddagh or Skibbereen woman.
