Irish Wonders | Page 2

"Howld on, we 'll argy the matther"]

IRISH WONDERS

IRISH WONDERS.

THE SEVEN KINGS OF ATHENRY.
[Illustration: Initial: "The Seven Kinds of Athenry"]
It was a characteristic Irish ruin. Standing on a slight elevation, in the
midst of a flat country, the castle lifted its turreted walls as proudly as
when its ramparts were fringed with banners and glittered with helmets
and shields. In olden times it was the citadel of the town, and although
Athenry was fortified by a strong wall, protecting it alike from
predatory assault and organized attack, the citadel, occupying the
highest ground within the city, was itself surrounded by stronger walls,
a fort within a fort, making assurance of security doubly sure. Only by
treachery, surprise, or regular and long-continued siege could the castle
have been taken.
The central portion was a large, square structure; except in size, not
differing greatly from the isolated castles found in all parts of Ireland,

and always in pairs, as if, when one Irish chieftain built a castle, his
rival at once erected another a mile or so away, for the purpose of
holding him in check. This central fort was connected by double walls,
the remains of covered passages, with smaller fortresses, little castles
built into the wall surrounding the citadel; and over these connecting
walls, over the little castles, and over the piles of loose stones where
once the strong outer walls had stood, the ivy grew in luxuriant
profusion, throwing its dark green curtain on the unsightly masses,
rounding the sharp edge of the masonry, hiding the rough corners as
though ashamed of their roughness, and climbing the battlements of the
central castle to spread nature's mantle of charity over the remains of a
barbarous age, and forever conceal from human view the stony
reminders of battle and blood.
The success of the ivy was not complete. Here and there the corner of a
battlement stood out in sharp relief, as though it had pushed back the
struggling plant, and, by main force, had risen above the leaves, while
on one side a round tower lifted itself as if to show that a stone tower
could stand for six hundred years without permitting itself to become
ivy-grown; that there could be individuality in towers as among men.
The great arched gateway too was not entirely subjugated, though the
climbing tendrils and velvety leaves dressed the pillars and encroached
on the arch. The keystone bore a rudely carved, crowned head, and ivy
vines, coming up underneath the arch, to take the old king by surprise,
climbed the bearded chin, crossed the lips, and were playing before the
nose as if to give it a sportive tweak, while the stern brow frowned in
anger at the plant's presumption.
But only a few surly crags of the citadel refused to go gracefully into
the retirement furnished by the ivy, and the loving plant softened every
outline, filled up every crevice, bridged the gaps in the walls, toned
down the rudeness of projecting stones, and did everything that an
ivy-plant could do to make the rugged old castle as presentable as were
the high rounded mounds without the city, cast up by the besiegers
when the enemy last encamped against it.
[Illustration: A Modern Irish Village]

The old castle had fallen on evil days, for around the walls of the
citadel clustered the miserable huts of the modern Irish village. The
imposing castle gate faced a lane, muddy and foul with the refuse
thrown from the houses. The ivy-mantled towers looked down upon
earth and stone huts, with thatched roofs, low chimneys, and doors
seeming as if the builder designed them for windows and changed his
mind without altering their size, but simply continued them to the
ground and made them answer the purpose. A population, notable
chiefly for its numerousness and lack of cleanliness, presented itself at
every door, but little merriment was heard in the alleys of Athenry.
"Sure it's mighty little they have to laugh at," said the car-man. "Indade,
the times has changed fur the counthry, Sorr. Wanst Ireland was as full
o' payple as a Dublin sthrate, an' they was all as happy as a grazin' colt,
an' as paceful as a basket av puppies, barrin' a bit o' fun at a marryin' or
a wake, but thim times is all gone. Wid the landlords, an' the guver'mint,
an' the sojers, an' the polis, lettin' in the rich an' turnin' out the poor,
Irishmin is shtarvin' to death. See that bit av a cabin there, Sorr? Sure
there's foorteen o' thim in it, an' two pigs, an' tin fowls; they all shlape
togather on a pile av wet shtraw in the corner, an' sorra a wan o' thim
knows where the bit in the