As soon after my arrival in Cork as I was comfortably settled, I sallied
out to discover the river Lee with an insane notion that I would hear
"the bells of Shandon that sound so grand on" its pleasant waters.
I
discovered the river with tree-shaded, secluded dwellings on one bank
and a wide green pasture on another. There was a bridge at the place
where I first came in sight of the river, and a great crowd, so eager as
to be silent, gazing up the stream. Thinking it was a boat race that
drew their attention, I crossed the bridge to gain the green pasture at
the other side. The pasture was reached by a little arched door through
a boundary wall, where a policeman kept guard. There was a great crowd
around this little door. There had been an accident, a boat had upset
and all in it had been lost; they were searching for the bodies. I asked
for admittance and the policeman unlocked the door and allowed me to
pass. Followed the path along the water side, and came to the crowd
round the four bodies laid upon the wet meadow grass. A father, so
quiet, partially gray, trim and respectable looking, a young lad in blue
boating costume, a young girl in black, farther on another in whom they
thought there were signs of life, and about her two doctors were
working, applying a galvanic battery. The mother had been restored and
was conveyed into one of the houses.
I never saw any attempts to recover a drowned person before. I wondered
that they left the body lying on the damp earth in wet clothing. They
told me that it might be fatal to move her before they succeeded in
bringing her back to life. They tried a long time in vain, then they
laid the four bodies all in a row for the coroner. The damp grass, the
trampling and sympathetic crowd, the four bodies in their wet garments
laid on the bank, will always rise in my memory along with my first
sight of the river Lee.
Cork seems a rich city, full of business, bustle on all the wharves,
buying and selling on all the streets. The buildings are very grand.
Alongside the river is a long ridge rising up to a tree-crowned summit.
On that hillside is tier upon tier of grand houses, grand churches, fine
convents and public buildings of one kind and another. You come upon
fine churches through the town in corners where you do not expect them.
The church of churches in Cork is the Protestant Cathedral, of St. Finn
Barre - whoever he was. This church sits high up on a rocky foundation,
its pointed spires of exquisite stone-work pierce the sky. It is not
finished, scaffoldings are there, and skilled chisels and cunning
hammers have been knapping and polishing there for many a day, and are
likely to continue hammering and chiselling for many a day more.
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