Part 1

THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

NUMBER 38. SATURDAY, MARCH 20, 1841. VOLUME I.

In a recent number of our Journal we led our readers to the banks of that beautiful river,

“The gentle Shire, that, making way By sweet Clonmel, adorns rich Waterford;”

and we now return to it with pleasure to notice another of the beautiful architectural remains of antiquity seated on its banks--the celebrated Abbey of the Holy Cross. This noble monastic ruin is situated in the barony of Eliogarty, county of Tipperary, three miles from Thurles, on the road to Cashel, and seven miles north-east of the latter.

The origin as well as the name of this celebrated monastery is derived from a piece of the holy cross for which it was erected as a fitting depository. This relic, covered with gold and ornamented with precious stones, was, as O’Halloran states, but without naming his authority, a present from Pope Pascal II, in 1110, to Murtogh O’Brien, monarch of Ireland, and grandson to Brian Boru, who determined to found a monastery in its honour, but did not live to complete it. But, however true this account may be as to the gift of the relic, there is every reason to doubt it as far as the date of the foundation of the monastery is concerned, which, as appears from the original charter still in existence, was founded by Donald O’Brien, King of Limerick, the son of the Murtogh above named, as late as the year 1182, at which time it was richly endowed with lands for its support by its founder. These grants were confirmed in 1186, by King John, then Lord of Ireland, who further ordered that the monks of this abbey should enjoy all chartered liberties and freedoms, as appears from the following record of the 20th Edward I. A.D. 1320:--

“EDWARD, by the grace of God, King of England, Lord of Ireland, Duke of Aquitain, to all to whom these presents shall come, greeting. Know ye that brother Thomas, Abbot of the Church of Mary of the Holy Cross, near Cashel, came into our Chancery of Ireland the day after the feast of Michael the Archangel, in the 13th year of our reign, at Cashel, and exhibited in our said Chancery a certain charter, not cancelled, nor in any respect vitiated, under the seal of John, formerly Lord of Ireland and Earl of Morton, in these words:

‘JOHN, Lord of Ireland and Earl of Morton, to all justices, barons, &c., as well French as English, Welsh and Irish, and all other liege men of Ireland, greeting. Know ye, that, for the love of God, and for the salvation of my own and the souls of my predecessors and successors, I have granted and given, and by these presents do grant and give, to God and the blessed Mary of the Holy Cross, and to the Cistertian Monks serving God there, in free, pure, and perpetual alms, the under-written lands, as fully and freely as Domuald O’Brien, King of Lymberick, gave and granted, and by this charter confirmed to the Cistertian Monks of the Holy Cross; to wit: Kelkaterlamunu, Ballydubal, Ballyidugin, Ballygirryr, Ballymyoletobin, and Ballytheloth, Gardath, Ballaschelagh, Balythougal et Ithologin. These lands I have given for the salvation of my soul, and those of my predecessors and successors, and for the souls of my soldiers who lie there, to enjoy peaceably, with all liberties and free customs, without any secular exactions in fields, ways, forests, fisheries, &c. I have also granted that they shall be free from all mulcts in my courts, for what cause soever they shall be amerced, and also free of all toll whatever; they shall sell or buy, for their own use, throughout my land of Normandy, England, Wales, and Ireland; and that their lands be not put in plevine.--Witnesses, a Bishop of Ferns; John de Courcy, de Angulo, Riddel, Chancellor, and David of Wales.’”

It appears also that in 1233 the above charter of King John was confirmed by King Henry III, who took this monastery into his protection, which protection he again renewed in 1234; and that it was again confirmed by King Richard II. in 1395, and that in 1414, James Earl of Ormond, and the Lord Deputy Thomas le Botiller or Butler, prior of St John of Jerusalem, further granted the protection of the crown to this house.

Thus protected and fostered by royalty, the Abbey of the Holy Cross became one of the most magnificent and wealthy in the kingdom, and its mitred abbot was styled Earl of Holy Cross, the lands belonging to the abbey constituting an earldom. He was also a baron of parliament, and usually vicar-general of the Cistertian order in Ireland. The abbey was originally a daughter of the Abbey of Maig, or Monaster-Nenagh, in the county of Limerick, and was subjected to that of Furnes in Lancashire by the Abbot of Clarevaux, in a general chapter of the order in 1249. After the dissolution of the monasteries in Ireland, Holy Cross Abbey with its appurtenances was granted by Queen Elizabeth in 1563 to Gerald Earl of Ormond, _in capite_, at the annual rent of £15, 10s. 4d.; and we believe this constitutes at present the estate, by purchase, of a worthy and deeply learned fellow of Trinity College, namely, Dr Wall.

As a monastic ruin, the Abbey of Holy Cross ranks in popular esteem as one of the first, if not the very first, in Ireland. But though many of its architectural features are of remarkable beauty, it is perhaps as a whole scarcely deserving of so high a character; and its effect upon the mind is greatly diminished by the cabins and other objects of a mean character by which it is nearly surrounded. Like most monastic structures of considerable importance, its general form is that of a cross, consisting of a nave, chancel, and transept, with a lofty square belfry at the intersection of the cross; but it is distinguished from other structures of the kind in having in both of its transepts two distinct chapels beautifully groined--a feature which imparts much interest and picturesqueness to the general effect. Between two of these chapels and the south transept there is a double row of three pointed arches, supported by twisted pillars, each distant about two feet four inches from the other, and having a similar pointed arch in front. The object of this singular feature has given rise to much conjecture, but the more rational opinion seems to be, that it was designed as a resting place for the dead bodies of the monks and other persons previous to interment in the abbey, or its cemetery. In addition to this, the interior of the church has another very unique and remarkable feature, namely, that the choir arch is not placed as usual beneath the tower, but thirty feet in advance of it, thus making the choir of greater length by fourteen feet than the nave, which is but fifty-eight feet long, the entire length of the church being one hundred and thirty feet. This peculiarity appears, however, to be an after-thought, and not the design of the original architect, which was evidently to limit, as usual, the length of the choir to the arch in front of the tower, and the second arch is unquestionably of more modern construction. The steeple rests on four beautifully groined arches, the supporters of which are connected in the centre by a great variety of ogives passing diagonally from their angles; and the roof of the choir, as well as those of the side chapels, is similarly enriched. The nave appears to have been of meaner architecture, and has lost its roof; but it has aisles formed by four pointed arches on each side, and which lead into the transepts. Of the windows in this church we may observe generally, that they are of very elegant taste of design.

Thus much of the abbey church itself; but of the ruins of the cloisters, which are of meaner architecture, and of all the other edifices appertaining to a monastic establishment of this grandeur, though in a tolerable state of preservation, it would be tedious to the general reader to give a detailed account, nor would our present space permit it. Neither can we describe what is of higher interest, the magnificent monumental remains for which this abbey is so eminently distinguished. But we shall return to the subject in a future number, and in the mean time we shall only add, that this abbey is well worthy the attention of the antiquary and architectural student, and that to the pleasure tourist of cultivated tastes it is of the most delightful interest.

P.

THE ITALIAN ORGAN BOY.

CONCLUSION.

Carlo having recovered himself, proceeded as follows:--

“In the thus light-hearted and unmurmuring though tedious and toilsome accumulation of the fund that was to purchase station and happiness for Bianca, the first of the three years sped prosperously past. Francesco--for old Marcolini, confiding in the integrity and industry of my father to fulfil the conditional arrangement, laid no restraint upon him--was our almost daily visitor, and not rarely a cheerful assistant in the lighter labours of our garden, in tending our rich parterres, our fig trees, and our vines. One serious drawback on our happiness--the first flush of devotion to Bianca over--we soon experienced. Ludovico, though at times he worked harder and longer than the rest, and rejected the occasional cheap indulgences my father permitted, had unfortunately been so entangled with his lawless and loose-living companions, that after a while he was again seduced by them into scenes of profligate amusement and disgraceful licence. It mischanced that near the close of the year, the very day before the great fair of Telese, to which we had long looked forward as likely to swell our savings much, our father met with an accident which disabled him from going to it. The cart, laden with our richest and choicest garden produce, my mother’s eggs and poultry, and Bianca’s contribution of nosegays, needlework, and straw plaits, was in his unfitness necessarily entrusted to the charge of Ludovico. At the fair he unfortunately fell in with some of his low-principled associates, who seduced him into a gambling booth, where soon, infected with the excitement of play, he hazarded a small sum, which by an evil chance was returned to him threefold. Inflamed by the easy acquisition, he thought with rapture how much readier a way this was for a lucky fellow, as he appeared to be, to make his money, than by the slow and dull and difficult returns of labour, and almost anticipated his returning home that night with Bianca’s fortune in his pocket, and an immediate abridgement, in consequence, of the weary postponement of her wedding. He risked a higher sum with success, another with disappointment, and so on with varying fortune, till a friendly neighbour, who had heard where he was, came in and forced him with difficulty from the fatal fascination. He had been at the table but a short time, and had lost but little, which, to escape detection, he replaced by a loan; but he was inspired with a passion for play, which, whenever an occasion was afforded, he eagerly indulged. But notwithstanding this, and the occasional losses and anxious evasions to which it exposed us, our efforts flourished, and our reserved earnings increased apace. Never before had we gathered such abundant returns from our garden and few fields, for never before had we tended them with half the care. Our sales were quick as our produce was luxuriant, and before half the allotted period had expired, Bianca’s purse was by the half more valuable than we had ventured to expect. At this time my father was induced by my mother’s influence and representations to try and bring the suspense and postponement of the nuptials to a close, by borrowing on security what would complete the stipulated sum, and engage old Marcolini’s consent to an immediate union. This was accordingly done, the necessary sum furnished by a money-lender, Marcolini’s approval obtained, a day fixed, our festive arrangements made, and all was light and merriment. But, alas and alas! a cruel blow was in wait to dash to pieces our fond and joyous schemes, just as they seemed to approach reality.

One morning, as by sunrise my father was going to the garden--it was to decorate a bridal arbour which we had constructed for the occasion--I heard from him, as he passed through the inner room, a cry of astonishment and dismay, and hurrying in, found him gazing in horror upon an open and, alas, empty box--it was the one in which Bianca’s long hoarded dower had been kept! All was gone--the hardly gathered earnings, the borrowed money, and with it all our mirthful plans and sparkling expectations; and, though a grave, strong-minded man, he was for the time quite crushed and broken by the shock. ‘Carlo,’ said he, ‘we are ruined, utterly undone. Villains have plundered us: your sister’s heart will be broken, and there is nothing left for us but despair. These weakened limbs could not go through such another term of trial in the face of such misfortune. It will be well if they last long enough to earn what will meet the demands of Bartolo the broker. Your brother, to whom we might else have looked for aid, is getting worse and worse in his evil ways: he has turned--that ever I should have to speak such words of son of mine!--yes, turned a worthless profligate and gamester. The God of Heaven grant,’ continued he, turning ghastly pale, and staggering against the wall as his eye fell upon a well-known knife, that, with its blade broken, lay upon the floor, ‘that it be not even worse. Carlo, look on that, and tell me, O tell me, that you know it not!’ With horror I recognized my unhappy brother’s knife; and a fragment of the steel fixed in the box showed too plainly in what base work it had been employed. I was struck speechless at the sight; but in defiance of all evidence, when I thought of my warm-hearted generous brother, I burned with anger at myself for my momentary misgiving, and almost fiercely chid my father for his dark suspicion. ‘Carlo,’ answered he gravely, ‘you are yet childish and inexperienced, and know not the power of evil company, the blight of that accursed vice upon every principle of truth and honesty. Your brother, I have told you, is an abandoned gambler--consorts with all the dregs and refuse of the country, mocks at the entreaties of a mother, the warnings of a father, the honest, ay, till he bore it, the ever honest name of his family; and he who does all this, will, time and temptation pressing him, but feebly shrink from the basest act. But go,’ added he with stern emphasis, ‘call him. Though guilty, I will see him face to face before I lay my curse upon him.’ With fear and trembling, for I knew how terrible my father’s temper was when roused, I was obliged to confess that he had not spent the night at home; and his forehead grew still gloomier and more wrinkled as he listened.

He said nothing, but fell upon a seat, folded his arms, and remained looking fixedly upon the ground in great and fearful agony of thought.

About half an hour afterwards, my heart leaped within me as I caught the sound of Ludovico’s cautiously approaching steps--for on such occasions he strove to steal in unnoticed--and I rushed to the door. There indeed he was coming up the walk in front. But what a figure!--his eyes were bloodshot, his face haggard, his dress disordered, his gait uneven, and altogether he appeared still under the power of a deep overnight debauch. My father upon hearing rose to meet him, and at the sight of his agitated and afflicted features, Ludovico, overcome with dismay and confusion, only afforded confirmatory evidence of guilt. Without a word, my father beckoned with his hand to him, and walking into the room, pointed to the forced and vacant box, fixing his eyes sternly and accusingly upon my poor brother, who with fainting knees accompanied him. With constrained silence he then lifted up the broken knife from the floor, fitted it before Ludovico’s eyes to the fragment remaining in the lid, and then turning up the haft, presented it to him. A cry of dismay and horror broke from his lips as he recognized his knife, and the terrible truth burst upon him.

‘I am innocent, oh, my father, I am innocent,’ he cried as he fell on his knees before him. But, alas, the action, in place of removing, was about to rivet the evidence of his guilt, for as he stooped, a key fell from his pocket--a false one for the door which led from the very room into the garden, which he had privately procured for the purpose of secret admission when belated in his revels. My father, without other reply, seized it, applied it to the door, and opened the lock. He then turned to him, as if every stay and doubt were banished, and with a voice in which pain and sorrow only aggravated passion, exclaimed, ‘Wretched boy, I disown thee! Never shall villain, gambler, robber, liar, be called son of mine. Away, then, from my presence and my roof for ever! He who could so basely forget every lesson of honesty he was taught from his childhood, who could plunder his poor sister of what we have painfully earned for her by the sweat of our brows, and doom her to hopelessness and life-long loneliness, to feed his own vile profligacy, would not scruple to dip his hand in blood, ay, in the blood of his household, for their inheritance. We are not safe with such a one. Away to your brigand comrades of the hills--lead the villain life you incline to--do what you will--but never cross this threshold again!’ My mother and Bianca, roused by the noise, now hurried fearfully into the room, and a glance at Ludovico’s horror-struck and supplicating posture, at the shattered box, and my father’s inflamed and convulsed countenance, was enough without words to inform them of the revolting truth.

‘My father’s heart is hardened against me,’ exclaimed Ludovico, ‘and I wonder not. I have indeed been loose-lived and disobedient, but never base nor dishonest, and let me not be now condemned because these appearances are against me. I solemnly swear by----’ My father fiercely checked him. ‘Add not perjury to infamy--it needs not swearing--the matter can be put beyond a doubt, ay, even beyond your own audacious denial. Mark those footsteps in the soft soil before the door: that bed was left by me smooth and unruffled yesternight--they are those of the villain thief; and, Ludovico, I cannot mistake the footprints of him who has wrought by my side since boyhood--wretched father that I am! they are _yours_. Deny it if you can.’ Convinced in my own heart of his innocence, I sprang forward to apply the test, but soon recoiled in horror, as before the anxious eyes of all I proved the accurate correspondence of the marks--a shock which for a moment crushed my own faith in my brother’s truth. What now availed my mother’s entreaties, my sister’s tears, Ludovico’s continued passionate assertion of his innocence, to change the stern conviction of my father? He vehemently reiterated his sentence of banishment, and counselled him, if he would mitigate the keenness of remorse, to confess his crime and return its ill-gotten fruits. Ludovico, stung to the quick by his reproaches, and by the agonies of my mother and Bianca, felt resentment rise in his heart to strengthen him to support his fate, and indignantly rose to depart. ‘Cease your prayers, my mother and my Bianca. Carlo, you will live, I feel, to see me righted, and my father, too, to repent his harshness to his son, and his distrust in one whom he has often detected in error, but never yet in ignominy. My sister, if my heart’s blood could at this moment be coined into treasure to replace that which you have lost, and build again your shattered hopes, freely would I pour it out. But words are idle to make your heart what it was but an hour ago. I go--better any where than here--and if you hear of me again, it will be of one who has learned seriousness from suffering, and proved by acts his love and interest for you all.’ As he finished speaking, he hurried from the door without further farewell, and, plunging among the thickly wooded slopes, was speedily lost to my passionate pursuit.

That evening, however, a boy left a billet from him to Bianca, in which he mentioned his intention of trying to turn his musical talent to account, by proceeding to England, where he was told that money was but lightly thought of, and purses were ever open, and where he might readily glean both what would support himself, and supply something towards enabling my father to meet Bartolo the usurer, and perhaps, too, old Marcolini, upon the day first fixed for her union with Francesco. He concluded by asking pardon from our offended confidence and affection for once more scornfully denying the odious charge--a denial which, amid our joint tears over the letter, we believed as firmly as the words of holy writ.

Why need I stay to mention all the gloom and grief which was now spread over our but lately so bright and hopeful household, for Ludovico, despite his thoughtless forwardness, had been the life and spring of all our movements.

My father’s dark locks soon became streaked with grey, for his pride of honesty in an unblemished name was sorely abased: his heart was wounded and enfeebled; and when the fever of his first anger was past, he began to think at times that perhaps he had dealt too hardly and hastily with Ludovico. My mother often wept: my sister’s cheek became wan and pale even with Francesco by her side: my own heart was faint and joyless: a cloud of spiritless sadness and depression settled over all, and every thing seemed to lament him who was far away among strangers, in loneliness and disgrace--him whose bold spirit, athletic form, and buoyant beauty, had, notwithstanding his frailties, been the pride and glory, secret or avowed, of all.