CHAPTER XVII
Dublin--Derby Day and the Rush to the Curragh--An Irish Crowd--The Kildare Street Club and Club Life--Jigginstown House and its History--The Cowardice of a King--The Old Woman on the Tram Car--Parnell--The Grave of Daniel O'Connell.
Given the capital of Ireland, a bright day in the midsummer of an exposition year, with the King almost here, and above all the Derby at hand, and if you are looking for peace and quiet you should go elsewhere. All Dublin is in an uproar this morning and there is not a jaunting-car which will look at you for less than double the tariff. Stately equipages move slowly along, motors of all descriptions pass like the wind. The beggars are out in full force and if you have a heart in your bosom you will reach the race-track with not a shilling left you. Our motor dashes around the corner and up to the door as though it were new instead of some years of age. The spirit of the races seems to have gotten into its old bones and it shrieks and snorts and rushes off with us at an appalling pace notwithstanding the crowded streets and stone pavements. Out on to the broad highway to the south in company with the whole town we roll onward past the ruins of Jigginstown House.
Of the thousands who come this way to-day, few give thought to the house or its history. They have little time for the past as just a few miles beyond is the famous Curragh of Kildare, a stretch of the most marvellous grass-lands in the world, where the turf is of greatest richness and elasticity. Not for this, and yet because of this, the people flock four times a year in tens of thousands to worship there at the altar of the noble horse. The Curragh holds Ireland's greatest race-course, and has held it for two thousand years. The winner of the last English Derby is to be on hand and to race to-day and nearly all Ireland is en route to be present.
So there is no time for dead Earls and ruined houses on such a day, and we are swept on and away, for once forgetting our caution and bidding the chauffeur beat every other motor on the road if he can, and to our amazement this old "Clement" comes near to doing it, and there are some very smart cars going down to-day. How the wind does sing around us--if a cap is lost we do not stop to get it--it would not be possible or safe to do so with this onrushing crowd behind us. Dogs and chickens get out of the way in wildest terror, and it seems to me that we take several turns on two wheels only. It is dangerous work and we know that a break means destruction most complete, but we cannot help it. Curragh air had gotten into our heads and go we must.
After all is said, I think the desire for a race is in every man of us, inborn and irresistible. Such is the case to-day and our record is good, though every now and then a sullen rumble and roar and many blasts of a horn warn us that some car of great power is coming to which we must give place, and though going at full speed we seem to stand still as it rushes by us, and here comes in one of the greatest dangers of the road. The clouds of dust in the wake of such a car are appalling and impenetrable to sight, yet through this our own car rushes on, trusting to Providence to keep the way clear. It is a relief to me at least when it mounts in safety to the downy stretches of the Curragh where there is no dust, and I find on calling the roll that none of our party is missing.
What a beautiful sight! The downs of deep grass stretch away on all sides crossed and recrossed by the wide highways. Off to the left lies the great military camp, while in front stretches the race-course, towards which what seems the whole of Dublin is moving and in every imaginable manner, from the foot passenger and funny little donkey to the tally-ho coaches and the gorgeous motor-cars, while over and around it all rings the Irish laughter, as it has rung around this race-course of Curragh for two thousand years,--its very name "_Cuir reach_" implying "race-course." It must mean that to-day at all events, but I should think that if any sort of a race could disappoint an Irishman that to-day, the Irish Derby, would do so. It was a foregone conclusion that the winner of that race in England would be first here,--but to my thinking it proves no race at all, that horse and another of the same owner simply running round the course with no show for any other, and with apparently no speed exerted on their own parts.
However, it is the changing panorama of the people and not the race which interests me, and that is not in any degree a disappointment.
The return to Dublin and on to Bray was the same wild flight as when going down and a feeling of relief came to me at least when we got safely back to our hotel, or rather to the exposition grounds where we dined. What time we reach the hotel and bed I have no memory. Boyse never got there at all.
The following day being rainy, I am not disposed to go to the races, and also learn that our car is in need of attention. However, another must be forthcoming if desired, and one does come, in which Boyse and a friend of his, "Copper," are most comfortably packed, and evidently bound for the Curragh, being Irish. Now, though that is my car, my absence is evidently very precious to its occupants; still Boyse _does_ ask kindly whether I "would like to go." What a pressing invitation that!--much like a blast from the North Atlantic. For an instant I am tempted to say yes, just to watch their discomfort, but I much prefer not to go and so state, when--whiz--they vanish like smoke around the corner, evidently with no intention of allowing any reconsideration on my part.
Laughing, I summon a jaunting-car and go to buy my ticket homeward. The usual tariff for short distances is a sixpence and I hand it over on descending at the ticket office. The driver evidently has exposition extortions in his head for, regarding me sourly for an instant, he remarks, "Ye could 'ave saved five ov thim if ye'd come in the tram." However, his anger is short lived, and when I laugh he laughs. God bless you, Pat,--may you succeed in "doing" the next man you carry.
Many of our evenings have been passed at the Kildare Street Club, of which Boyse is a member. While they do not give a stranger a week's card as we do, a member seems to be at liberty to take him there as often as that member desires, and so the result is the same, if not better. Certainly at this, the best club in the Irish capital, I was made to feel as much at home as in my own in America. I shall always remember it and the men I met there with pleasure.
There are clubs in London, notably the Army and Navy, where one is treated in the same manner. That club has been growing more and more liberal of late years. At one period a short while ago, a stranger could go only to one room and one dining-room. Now in company with a member the whole club is open to him. There are other London clubs where he may not even pass the portals, but this is the twentieth century, an age of reform, and all that will change in time. What homelike and yet what heartless things clubs are! A man may make his home in one for years, may have his own particular corner and be the very life and soul of the house; many would declare that the place could not get on without his jests and merry laugh, and that they would miss him for ever. How many would do so? Coming in some day they would note the flag at half mast and his name on a black bordered card near the door. Most who passed would not be able to recall his features whilst remembering that they had drank with him often, and the majority would forget him promptly. For those who did remember, it would be sad to think that
"PERIN has gone; and we who loved him best Can't think of him as 'entered into rest.' But he has gone; has left the morning street, The clubs no longer echo to his feet; Nor shall we see him lift his yellow wine To pledge the random host--the purple vine. At doors of other men his horses wait, His whining dogs scent false their master's fate; His chafing yacht at harbour mooring lies; 'Owner ashore' her idle pennant flies. Perin has gone--
Forsook the jovial ways Of Winter nights--his well-loved plays, The dreams and schemes and deeds of busy brain, And pensive habitations built in Spain. Gone, with his ruddy hopes! And we who knew him best Can't think of him as 'entered into rest.' So when the talk dies out or lights burn dim We often ponder what is keeping him-- What destiny that all-subduing will, That golden wit, that love of life, fulfil? For we who silent smoke, who loved him best, Can't fancy Perin 'entered into rest.'"
The touring is almost over, and I fancy for ever, in Ireland. Our last day's journey was one of the most pleasant and interesting of the lot. Having gone to Bray Head to escape the heat of the city, we rolled off at nine a.m. and passing through town in a rush fled southwards towards the military camp at Curragh. The day was brilliant and the motor fairly flew over the highway which to-day we have all to ourselves.
Passing again the unfinished palace of the Earl of Stratford we paused to inspect it and to learn its history.
"Jigginstown" was built by Sir Thomas Wentworth, created Earl of Stratford by Charles I., who made him Deputy of Ireland and regarded him at the time as his chief minister and counsellor. In his early years he was certainly a character of doubtful virtue, as before this appointment he was as strongly counter to the King as he was for him after he had received it. The King was subject to a violent outcry for using a Papist to murder his subjects. Wentworth laboured under the severe hatred of the English, Scotch, and Irish. He secured from the Irish Parliament large sums which he used to engage an army against Scotland. His rule here lasted eight years, and while active and prudent he was most unpopular. When his fall occurred the Irish Parliament used every expedient to aggravate the charge against him. Envy and jealousy both here and in England were the prime causes of his ruin.
Knowing the power and deadly hatred of his enemies he implored the King to excuse him from attending Parliament, but Charles promised that not a hair of his head should be injured; but his enemies arose in such might, that no voice was raised in his defence and he was accused of high treason. The whole affair was a gigantic conspiracy of the leaders of the Parliament against one man, of whom they could prove no wrong save that he served the King, and who they were well aware possessed knowledge of their own treason. "Unprotected by power, without counsel, discountenanced by authority, what hope had he? yet such was the capacity, genius, and presence of mind displayed by this magnanimous statesman that while argument, reason, and law held any place he obtained the victory and he perished by the open violence of his enemies."
(There is a strong resemblance between this trial and that of the Queen of Scots in Fotheringay the preceding century.) His government of Ireland was promotive of the King's interests and of the people commended to his charge. He introduced industries and the arts of peace and augmented the shipping of the kingdom a hundred fold. The customs were tripled upon the same rates, the exports doubled in value that of the imports, and he introduced the manufacture of linen;--that stands his monument to-day, but,--he was a friend of the King and so must die.
That is one side of the picture. His enemies claim that whether guilty of the crime named at the trial or not, he deserved death for his treatment of the Irish. They state that his project was to subvert the titles to every estate in Connaught, also that he had sent Lord Ely to prison to force him (Ely) to settle his estates according to the wishes of his daughter-in-law, whom Strafford had seduced. The House, on his condemnation, nobly excluded his children from the legal consequences of his sentence.
It is stated that the King was deeply grieved but he certainly did consent to the deed, though by appointing a commission of four noblemen to give the royal assent in his name, he flattered himself that neither his will consented to the deed nor his hand engaged in it. The exclamation of the doomed man, "Put not your trust in princes," told how he felt, and so he died in his forty-ninth year, one of the most eminent personages that has appeared in English history.
His great unfinished palace rears its walls now close by the highway and of all the thousands who rush by here to Curragh Camp or races, how many give it a thought or know who built it? I was told that it was a monastery whose bricks were passed from hand to hand all the way from Dublin; others stated that it was an unfinished cotton factory, and it looks like such.
It is of red brick, two stories in height, and of great length. Its arches and brickwork are of the finest, but the whole stands a melancholy monument to the downfall of human greatness, to the cowardice of a King.
From whom did Charles I. inherit such a streak? Certainly not from his Danish mother, or from his royal grandmother. The worst enemies of the Stuart Queen never could accuse her of the desertion of her friends. She was faithful unto death and should deserve the crown of life for that reason if for none other. But Lord Darnley was never faithful to anything throughout his entire life, and from that source surely came this taint in the Stuart kings of England--the degeneracy of James I., and the cowardice of his son Charles.
Leaving melancholy Jigginstown behind, we moved on to the Curragh, but this time to the camp, which, by the way, is one of the largest in the empire.
En route, we chased through a drove of cattle, one of which, after racing with us for some distance, decided finally to take our right-of-way, and our guard sliding under her hind leg, lifted it high off the ground, causing her to plunge wildly and the air to be filled with distant oaths and curses from her owner. She was not hurt at all, and as the car slid forward and away, clouds of dust hid our number and defeated all chances of a claim for damages.
Luncheon with the officers in the mess-tent being over, we started again citywards, as my days in the land were growing few indeed, to my regret, and there were some shrines which must be visited or my journey would be incomplete.
En route to the tomb of a great statesman we paused to pay our homage at that of a great divine, Dean Swift, who sleeps in the Cathedral of St. Patrick under a simple tablet. There, upon an important occasion, when the cathedral was crowded, he delivered himself of those famous words, "The Lord loves them that give to the poor, and if you believe in the security, dump down the dust,"--the shortest sermon ever delivered in St. Patrick's, and the most effective, for "the dust" came in clouds.
St. Patrick's blessing must be passing from Ireland at last, as the papers describe the capture of a brown snake three feet long in a garden at Ranelagh.
As we approach the stately cathedral I ask our boy:
"Is that a Catholic church, Dennis?"
"No, sor."
"A Protestant?"
"No, sor."
"What then?"
"A Church of England, sor."
While these people will generally enter whole-souled into jest or gibe they will not, it is said, do so with the English, and some of the encounters with the latter people are amusing in the extreme.
The other day on the top of a tram car, some Englishwomen were enlarging upon the not at all times cleanly inhabitants surrounding them. One remarked that they were all horrid and she should go to Wales where she would not meet any of "these dirty Irish." An old woman across the tram could no longer restrain herself, but rising in her wrath, confronted the Englishwoman with flashing eyes, and "I would not go to Wales ma'am wur I yez, for yez will find plinty of Irish there; but take my advice and go to Hell, ye'll find no Irish there."
A man, killed near Dublin not long since, had been shot through the forehead, death resulting instantly. The usual crowd gathered, amongst them an old woman, who for a moment intently regarded the poor fellow, dead as Pharoah, then, raising her hands and eyes, she ejaculated "Wusn't it a blessin' of God he wusn't shot in the eye!" What difference that could have made to him she disdained to explain.
The last resting place of Daniel O'Connell is in Prospect Cemetery, some four miles from Dublin. There Parnell also sleeps under the shadow of a simple iron cross.
The passing years have called a halt on both of those men. How little we are conscious of the flight of time until suddenly we find our thoughts, which before have all been towards the future, have unconsciously to us turned towards the past, and we are looking backward and not forward. Then we realize with a sinking heart that for us youth is over and done with, that for us there is no future save beyond the far horizon.
The memorial to O'Connell, appropriate in every respect, rears itself in the stately form of an ancient round tower. Simple and dignified, one cannot imagine a more appropriate monument to the man who sleeps beneath it. The tower is of grey stone smoothly polished and rises from a circle under which is the vault of O'Connell. Around this runs a broad, stone walk which in its turn is encircled by a rampart, holding many vaults whose doors open upon the walk, and being all unlocked you may enter where you will once you pass the outer gate of the circle, generally locked. To-day, however, the workmen are redecorating the O'Connell vault and we are allowed to enter.
Passing down a broad flight of steps and through an iron grill we find confronting us, across the circular stone pathway, another grill closing the centre vault, over whose door is the name "O'Connell." The great Irishman sleeps alone in the centre of this vault in an altar-like tomb, through the stone quarterfoils of which you may see and touch his oaken coffin. The inscription is on a brass frieze around the top. In an adjoining catacomb are the coffins of several members of his family. I think such mausoleums are always more impressive when the stone walls and ceilings are unadorned, but such is not the taste here and the ceilings and walls were being painted in gorgeous colours.
It is a useless expense, as with the arches and walls covered with moisture, the work will be undone very shortly. The plain stone would be infinitely more impressive and dignified, surely, like the tower above, more in keeping with the character of the illustrious dead.
As we leave the cemetery I turned for a last look at the shrine of Ireland. I have seen, I think, the final resting places of all the illustrious dead of the earth, and I know of none which has more profoundly impressed me than this stately tomb of Daniel O'Connell, with whose name let us close these sketches of the land he loved so well--Ireland.
INDEX
A
Achill, island of, 50, 53, 57, 60, 62, 64, 95, 156, 173
Adrian IV., Pope, 248, 252, 253, 255
Aldworth, Mrs., 153
Alexander III., Pope, 251
Antrim, 26
Ardill, John Roche, 256
Armagh, 22, 27
Arran, 32
Augustine, Abbot, 165
Auxerre, 26
Awbeg, 146
B
Baginbun, 248
Ballentine, Nancy, 21
Ballinaboy Bridge, 85
Ballybeg Abbey, 140, 146
Ballycastle, 33, 34, 173
Ballygalley Bay, 32
Ballymena, 26
Ballynahinch, 85
Bannow, 184, 189, 231, 234, 246, 247, 260, 264
Bannow church, 191, 192
Bannow House, 184, 186, 188, 242, 262, 264
Bantry Bay, 173
Beddoes, Major, 135, 154, 156
Belfast, 31
Bennett's Bridge, 266
Biddy, 90, 91
Birr, 101, 104, 115
Birr Castle, 102, 103
Blackwater, 162, 180
Blake, Mr. and Mrs., 44
Blarney, 167
Boggeragh Mountains, 173
Bohemia, Queen of, 205
Bombay, 157
Bowen, Mr., 40
Boyne, the, 12
Boyse family, the, 185, 191
Braganza, Catherine of, 157
Bray, 234, 299
Bray Head, 282
Brenan, Rev. M. J., 254
Bretons, 138
Brice, Archbishop, 121
Brigid, St., 28
Brittany, 138
Bruce, Edward, 123
Buchanan, George, 19
Bundoran, 37, 52
Burne-Jones, 155
Burrishoole, 77, 78
Bushmills, 36
Butlers, 124
Buttevant, 127, 130, 132, 134, 148, 150, 160, 214
Buttevant Castle, 147
C
"Caiseal," 123
Campion, Edmund, 255, 256
Cantyre, 32
Carrickfergus, 31
Carrig-a-Hooly, 77, 78, 80
Carrig-a-pooka, 174
Carrolls, the, 101, 102
Cashel, 44, 127, 129
Cashel, Rock of, 120, 121, 123-125
"Castle of Roses," 78
Castlebar, 73
Castletown, Lord, 151
Caucasus, 78
Caulfields, the, 61
Celtic tongue, the, 86, 87
Charles I., King, 97, 205, 206
Charles II., King, 132, 157, 185
Charlotte, Queen, 186
Chinon Castle, 259
"Cios-ail," 125
Claddagh, 99
Clare, island of, 75, 79, 80
Clare, Lady Isabel de, 195
Clarence, Duke of, 206, 207
Clares, the de, 195
Clew Bay, 50
Clifden, 85
"Cloicoheach," 123
Clonmacnoise, 114-116
Clonmel, 126, 218, 219
Clonmines, 167, 246, 247
"Cluain-maccu-Nois," 115
"Cluan-mac-noise," 115
Colclough, Sir Anthony, 198, 202
Coleraine, 36
Columba, St., 28
Connemara, 82
Constantine, Emperor, 255, 256
"Copper," 279
Cork, 175, 176, 178, 210, 211, 213
Cormac, King, 10
Cormac's Chapel, 122, 125, 282, 283, 288
Coro, 125
Cotton, Archdeacon, 121
Cromwell, Edward, Lord, 28
Cromwell, Oliver, 97, 218, 224
Culloden, battle of, 103
Cumberland, Duke of, 103
Curragh, the, 277-279, 282, 285
Curragh Camp, 288
Curraghmore House, 219, 221, 223, 224
Curraun, Peninsula of, 54
Currick-Patrick, 125
D
D----, Captain, 158, 159
Dame Court, Dublin, 36
Danes, the, 12, 28, 123, 181
Dargle, the, 268
Dark Valley, 68
Darnley, Lord, 285
Deasy, Jerry, 174
Decies, 123
Declan, St., 123
De Courcey, 28
Derby, 227
Desmond, Earl of, 129, 130
Desmonds, the, 128, 150
Dichu, 27
Dickens, Charles, 230
"Dinnis," 163, 168
Doneraile Court, 150, 152, 153, 187
Donnelly, Bishop, 27
Dooley's Hotel, Birr, 103
Doo Lough, 82, 85
Doordry, 125
Downpatrick, 26, 27, 31
Dowth, 12
Drogheda, 13
Drum-feeva, 125
Dublin, 6, 14, 23, 227, 228, 279, 282
Dublin Fusiliers, 132, 158
Dudley, Lady, 58
Dugort, 61
Dunbrody Abbey, 183
Dundalethglass, 27
Dundrum, 25
Dunloe, Gap of, 169
E
Edison, Mr., 237
Edward IV., King, 206
Edward VI., King, 204
Edward VII., King, 23
Elizabeth, Queen, 22, 79, 202, 246
Ely, Earl of, 190
Ely, King of, 125
Emmet, Thomas Addis, 257
Erne, Lough, 37
F
Fee Lough, 85
Fermoy, 160, 178, 179, 214, 215
Fermoy, Lord, 215
Ferns Castle, 258
Fethard, 218
Ffranckfort Castle, 102, 110, 112, 113
Fitzgeralds, 124
Fitzstephens, Robert, 248, 258
Fontevrault, 259
_Forgotten Facts of Irish History_, 256
Franciscan Friary, 182
French, Walter, 190
G
Galty Mountains, 126
Galway, 14, 40, 44, 66, 88, 94, 95, 97, 99-101, 168
Gaughans, 61
Germanus, Bishop, 26
Giant's Causeway, 34, 35, 167
Gladstone, 14
Glasgow, 31
Glendalough, 123, 231-233
Glengariff, 170, 172
Grace, Queen, 77, 78
Gurguntius, 255
H
H----, Lord, 274
"Harp of Erin," 105
Henry II., King, 123, 248, 251-255, 257, 259
Henry VI., King, 206, 246
Henry VII., King, 206
Henry VIII., King, 79, 129, 183
Henry, Mr., 89
Herberts, the, 170
Heremon, King, 9
Holy Cross Abbey, 117, 120
Hook, tower, 198
Hore family, 246
Horl, Abbey of, 126
"House in the Bog," 41, 42
I
Imperial Hotel, Cork, 175
Inchiquin, Lord, 124
Inistioge, 266
Innisfallen, 165-167
_Irish Cyclist_, 36
J
James II., King, 11, 12
Jigginstown House, 277, 282, 285
John XXII., Pope, 251, 253
John, King, 10, 28, 182
"John of the Glen," 64, 67-71
John of Salisbury, 254
K
Keatinge, Rev. Geoffrey, 255, 256
"Keening," 56
Kellarn, 125
Kelly, Daniel, 130
Kenmare, domain, 170
Kevin, St., 232
Kieran, St., 115
Kilcoman Castle, 150
Kildare, Earl of, 124
Kildare Street Club, 6, 280
Kilkenny, 23, 266, 267
Killarney, 161, 163, 167-170
Killary Bay, 82
Killary Harbour, 85
Killshening House, 215
Kilmalloch, 127-130
Kilruddery House, 228-230
Kimbolton Castle, 18
King, Captain, 264
Knockninoss, 147
"Knockshigowna," 106
Kylemore Castle, 88-93
L
Lanigan, Dr., 253-256
Larne, 32
Lavelles, the, 61
Leap Castle, 102, 104, 106, 108
Lee, the, 178
Leenane, 82, 83, 85
Lely, Sir Peter, 196
Letterfrack, 85
Limavady, 36
Lis-no-Lachree, 125
Llemish Mountain, 26
Londonderry, 37
Loo-ee, 125
Lorrha, 101-103
Louis le Grand, 90
Louisburgh, 80, 85
Lynch, family of, 98
Lynch, James, 98
M
Mac Art, Cormac, 8
MacCarthys, the, 174
MacMurrogh, Dermot, 255, 257, 258
Macroom Castle, 174, 175
Mallaranny, 50-52, 62, 64, 77, 84
Mallow, 161, 162
Manchester, Duke of, 92, 217
Mantua House, 40, 41, 48
Marianus, 254
Marine Hotel, Ballycastle, 33
Martin, St., of Tours, 26
Mary Queen of Scots, 19
Matilda, Empress, 255
Mayo, 72, 78, 179
Mayo Mountains, 71
Meath, Earl of, 228
Mecridy's Maps, 36
Michael, Sacristan, 166
Michu, 26
Milesius, 252
Monahans, 61
Moore, Tom, 233, 234
Mourne Mountains, 25
Moyle, the, 218
Muckross, 170, 171
Munster, kings of, 122
N
Navan, 10, 11
Neagh, Loch, 167
Nestorian Christians, 59
Neville, John, 246
Newcastle, 25
New Grange, 11
New Port, 50, 66, 84
New Ross, 184
Newry, 13-15, 25
O
O'Brien, Donald, 123
O'Carrolls, 107
O'Connell, Daniel, 288, 289
O'Conner, 166
Offaly, 123
O'Flynns, the, 174
O'Hallon, Redmond, 15
O'Halloran, 32
O'Malleys, 61
O'Neill, Donald, King of Ulster, 252
O'Rourke, Prince, 257
Ormond, 125
Ormond, Earl of, 129
Ovoca, Vale of, 233, 267
P
P----, Mrs., 225
Parnell, 288
Parsonstown, 101
Patrick, St., 10, 24, 26, 28, 122, 125, 252
"Patrick's Sabball," 27
Penshurst, 204
Peterborough, 207
Phoenix Park, 7
Pointz-pass, 15
Pole, Cardinal, 254
Pope, the, 23
Portugal, 158
Powerscourt, 267, 270, 271
Powerscourt House, 231, 275
Powerscourt, Viscount, 267, 273
Prospect Cemetery, 288
Ptolemy, 8
Purcell, Sir Hugh, 182
Q
"Queen of Hearts," 205
R
Read, T. Buchanan, 105
Recess, 85, 88, 91
Redmond, 198
Reginald, 181, 182
Richard, Earl of Chepstow, 258
Richard, King, 206
Rolleston, Major, 110, 111
Roscommon, 40, 42, 48
"Royal Irish," the, 188
S
St. Dominick, Abbey of, Lorrha, 102
St. James's Palace, 208
St. Ledger, Hon. Mary, 153
St. Ledger, William, 152
St. Mary's, Abbey of, Trim, 10
St. Nicholas, Church of, Claddagh, 100
St. Patrick's Cathedral, 286
Salis, Count de, 15
Saul, Church of, Strangford Lough, 26
Scullaboyne House, 264, 265
Shandon bells, 167, 175, 213
Shannon, the, 115
"Shan Van Do," the, 68
Shelburn Hotel, Dublin, 3
Sidneys, the, 204
Skreen, Hill of, 8
Slieve Donard, 25
Slievemore, 61
Slievenaman Hills, 126
Sligo, county of, 37, 40, 55, 179
Spenser, 150, 152
Stanford's, 36
"Stone of Destiny," 10
Strafford, Earl of, 282
Strangford, 26, 31
Strongbow, 28, 195, 258
Stuart, Mary, 207
Succat, 26
Suir River, 116, 181
Sutton, Sir Roger de, 246
Swift, Dean, 286
T
Tamara, Queen, 78
Tanderagee, 15, 17, 19, 24, 92
Tara Hill, 7-10
Taylor, Bayard, 113
Teheran, 59
Temora, 9
Thea, 9
Thomas, St., 252
Thomastown, 266
Thomond, King of, 123
Tintern Abbey, 194, 196, 197, 200
Tipperary Vale, 126
Toombeola Bridge, 85
Trim, 10
Tully Chapel, 85
Tyburn, 130
U
Urban II., Pope, 255, 256
V
Victoria Hotel, Killarney, 163
Virgil, Polydore, 256
W
W----, Marquis of, 219
Waterford, 180-183
Waterford, Lady, 223
Wayte Bros., 218
Wentworth, Sir Thomas, 282
Westport, 85
Wexford, 182, 185, 194, 246, 260, 265
Whitehall, 204
Wicklow, 231, 267
William III., King, 11
"Wingfield," 104-106, 108
_A Selection from the Catalogue of_
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
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By MICHAEL MYERS SHOEMAKER
Islands of the Southern Seas
With 80 Illustrations. Second edition. Large 8o. Gilt top. $2.25.
"The author has not only a cultured style and highly descriptive power, but a quiet, delightful humor. Moreover, he is always interesting, even when describing the daily incidents of a tour through New Zealand and Tasmania.... 'Islands of the Southern Seas' is one of the few books of modern travel that are worthy of being kept and read over and over again. The illustrations throughout are excellent and as fittingly clear and incisive as the author's style demands. A more readable book on the nowadays somewhat hackneyed subject of travel in the Southern Seas has never been printed, and we unhesitatingly commend it."--_London Chronicle._
Quaint Corners of Ancient Empires
Southern India, Burma and Manila. With 47 illustrations. Large 8o. Gilt top. $2.25.
"Mr. Shoemaker writes descriptively, entertainingly, with ease, one would say. He carried to the 'quaint corners' which he visited a very inquiring mind, as well as a photographic eye, and sought out answers to many queries as to the why of things he saw, so that his observations and recollections are interesting and well considered."--_Interior._
The Great Siberian Railway from Petersburg to Peking
8o. With 30 Illustrations and a Map. By mail, $2.20. Net, $2.00.
"The descriptions of people and places are always interesting; the personal impressions are striking, and a great deal of valuable information, not easily accessible, is given."--_Independent._
Simple, direct, and graphic. Emphasizes the commercial and national possibilities of Russia's industrial development."--_Literary News._
"The only authority of its kind on a great subject."--_Literary World._
_Send for descriptive circular._
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS NEW YORK LONDON
By MICHAEL MYERS SHOEMAKER
Palaces and Prisons of Mary Queen of Scots
Revised by _Thomas Allen Crowell_, F.S.A. (Scot.)
With 8 photogravure plates and about 50 other illustrations. Large square 8o, handsomely bound, net, $5.00. _Large Paper Edition._ Limited to 375 copies. With portrait of Mary Stuart in colors. Photogravures printed on Japanese paper, and other full-page illustrations on India paper. 4o, decorated parchment cover, in box, net, $12.00. This sumptuous work is now offered at very greatly reduced prices.
"Nine people out of ten if asked to name the most romantic figure in history would without hesitation select the beautiful Queen of Scots, round whose tragic career more controversy has raged than concerning any other personage in the history of these islands.... Those who are fascinated by the great romance, who have as yet made no detailed study of the period, will find the story here outlined by a trustworthy hand, and adorned by a wealth of artistic illustration worthy of so picturesque and royal a theme."--_St. James's Gazette._
The Heart of the Orient
Saunterings through Georgia, Armenia, Persia, Turkomania, and Turkestan, to the Vale of Paradise. 8o. With 52 illustrations. Net, $2.50. By mail, $2.70.
These pages and pictures are descriptive of the heart of the Orient, from high life at the Persian Court to low life in the tents of Kirghiz. They include also a description of a tarantass journey through Central Asia.
"Mr. Shoemaker's descriptive powers are of the best. He writes entertainingly, he is never tiresome, and is always enjoyable; his observation and statements of fact are unusually accurate, his style is pleasant. For big and for little, with all that makes up the intermediate, 'The Heart of the Orient,' with its excellent illustrations and its cultured letterpress, is one of the best books of travel that we have read in a long time."--_Times._
"One of the best travel stories of the year."--_Literary World._
_Send for descriptive circular._
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS NEW YORK LONDON
End of Project Gutenberg's Wanderings in Ireland, by Michael Myers Shoemaker