of assassination and hanging narrated without apology or comment of any sort, and by the time the coach penetrated the boundary of Tipperary felt that report had not belied its character in the least. We drove by Templemore with its grim barracks, and advanced in the dusk of evening towards Thurles. It was lovely weather in the middle of May, and the face of the country, fresh and verdant, was pleasant to the eye. The meadows struck me as being of a peculiarly rich green colour; the roads were narrow and winding, flanked on either side by thick hedges, seldom neatly trimmed. At Thurles the coach on halting was surrounded immediately by idlers, who made comments freely on the passengers, betraying a certain degree of independence and lawlessness that could not fail to strike a stranger with surprise. The night air growing sharp at this time, I buttoned my coat to the chin, and with folded arms awaited the continuance of my journey. Somehow as the moon came forth shining mildly in the clear sky I found myself ever and anon thinking of the fair face of Sir Denis Barnett’s sister, and she was strangely mixed up in my mind with other feelings as I beheld my first sight of the beautiful ruin of Holycross Abbey, which the coach passed closely, its ivy-covered walls and Gothic windows glancing weirdly in the bright moonlight.
“We haven’t far to go now, sir,” said the coachman, when the abbey was left behind, and we plunged into more narrow roads with abrupt turnings. “There, you can see already the Rock of Cashel standing right opposite you.”
I gazed eagerly in the direction pointed out, and beheld distinctly the outline of the steep eminence crowned by the finest of Ireland’s ecclesiastical ruins standing clear and sharp against the moonlit sky. A fine sight it was, that perpendicular rock, with its pile of ancient relics, its dilapidated palace, cathedral and chapel, and well-preserved round tower standing so mutely above the surrounding country, telling of kings and priests long gone. Brave old rock! To this day I can recall my first glimpse of you, dear as you have since become to me from memories associated with yourself and your surroundings! No matter what direction we took now, the “rock” always was visible, and I kept my eyes upon it with a sort of fascination that it was impossible to withstand.
Late in the evening we arrived at Cashel, and I took my leave of the Cork Mail, the coachman telling me complacently that he expected to reach his final destination next morning at six o’clock.
CHAPTER II. CASHEL. KNOCKGRIFFIN HOUSE.
Imagine the most wretched of tumble-down barracks, reader, situated in the most wretched part of a wretched country town, and you will form some idea of my quarters in the City of the Kings at this time in company with two or three other victims of military chance and change. The “city,” consisting then of about eight or nine hundred houses, three fourths of which were thatched, had an aspect of age and misery that was inexpressibly dreary to my English eye. There was one good street, wide and well built, but the lanes and alleys branching from it were terrible to contemplate. The few gentry living in the town had chiefly betaken themselves to the watering-places of Kilkee or Tramore. For some months we had few visitors at the barracks. We heard wonderful stories of former gay times in the neighbourhood of our present pilgrimage, but nothing came to give us an idea of Irish hospitality. The pleasantest inhabitant of the city, with whom we chatted frequently, was good old Mrs. Conan, who supplied the requisites for our mess, and who charged a most exorbitant price for the very worst wine that anybody ever drank. She re tailed all the gossip of the county for our benefit as we lounged in dishabille over her counter or round her shop door, told us the names of the people who came into town on market days, and obtained pardon for her depredations on our pockets in consideration of her useful and amusing information. Indeed, I do not know what we should have done only for Mrs. Conan’s shop and her pleasant chat. She was a fat, elderly woman, with a red face and a roguish eye, full of fun and drollery, yet in spite of her general good-nature and cheerfulness we were all a little afraid of her. She had a keen wit and much observation, and her ideas of what a gentleman owed to himself and the world were somewhat exacting, especially with reference to his expenditure. I fear she had a great contempt for poor or economical members of the army. She spoke in terms of strong disapprobation against the miserly propensities of certain regiments, and in glowing language of those corps who had dashed away their money in a becoming manner.
For the first fortnight of my stay at Cashel I found enough to amuse me to prevent my getting into despair. I had discovered all the eligible walks round the neighbourhood, and. explored different strange regions; I had made myself familiar with the famous rock and its ruined castle, insomuch that I would have made a much better guide for the visitors coming to see it than the individual who filled the office