A Monument of Paper

The second item in Trinity College’s Long Room that I thought deserved a place on this blog is certainly a different kind of memorial than I usually encounter.  A copy of one volume of  Ireland’s Memorial Records 1914-1918 was on display.  This book lists over 49,000 Irishmen who died in World War I: name, birthplace, rank, unit, cause of death, and place of death.

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A different kind of cemetery post

One of our destinations in Dublin was Trinity College. Trinity College is home to the famous Book of Kells, a gorgeously illuminated Gospel book. Trinity College has an exhibit that combines a display of information, “Turning Darkness into Light,” on the making of the Book of Kells and other manuscripts like it; viewing 4 pages of the Book of Kells and two other medieval manuscripts, and then exiting through the old library, with shelves and shelves of rare books that go all the way to a arched ceiling. Treasures of the old library are displayed in glass cases down the center of the library. What is displayed depends on the particular thematic mini-exhibition the library has decided on. While we visited, the theme was Drawn to the Page: Irish Artists and Illustrations.

One of the books on display was Elegy Written in a Country Church Yard.  By that point, I had already seen a dozen country churchyard from the windows of the bus and strolled the one famous as William Butler Yeats’ final resting place, so I felt compelled to share this with you.

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I have a bit of a reputation

I started this blog three years ago this month, and in that time, I think it’s safe to say that I have established a reputation for my interest in cemeteries. It meant that while we were in Ireland, a number of people saw me in cemeteries, camera in hand, and commented with some variation on “I expected to find you here.” Anytime we passed a cemetery, no matter how far in the distance, I was immediately informed. So here are some of the shots of cemeteries as we made our way across Ireland.

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Celtic Crosses on the Hill of Tara

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The Importance of Geography

One of the things that I noticed in Ireland last time I visited was that tombstones frequently list the deceased’s home – much more frequently than I see on tombstones in the U.S. I posted last week about Charles Bird, late of Bective House, a local estate.

Proudstown is nearby in County Meath. From what I can tell, the racecourse that was known as Proudstown Park is actually in Navan, but Proudstown was the name of the railway stop that used to service that area. My understanding is that Proudstown might not be an official town, but it refers to a neighborhood or area. Anyone with better knowledge is welcome to help me out with this.

There is a Killeen Road about 4 kilometers away from the Hill of Tara.

What I found most interesting about the place names on Irish tombstones is that they are not just cities, but neighborhoods, regions, and even streets.

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Celtic Crosses on the Hill of Tara

On this trip to Ireland, I got to revisit the little cemetery at the visitor center on the Hill of Tara.

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Sacred Heart

The symbol on this tombstone is the Sacred Heart of Jesus Christ – a flaming heart within a crown of thorns and topped with a cross. Some representations also include a halo of divine light, blood drops, or a lance wound like the one that Christ received in his side during the crucifixion. There is an associated Roman Catholic devotion.

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Boyd Wordless Wednesday

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Late of Bective House

The notation “late of Bective House” caught my eye and I decided to do a little more research. I was able to find the obituary for Charles “Charlie” Bird III. Bective House is a large estate in County Meath that Bird’s father purchased in 1923 just after the Irish Civil War. American by birth, the elder Bird traveled to Ireland to hunt, and eventually he purchased the estate, which remained in the family until 1960. The younger Bird continued in his father’s footsteps, also engaging in hunting as well as horse-racing. Bird passed away in the United States, but he now lies buried in the cemetery on the Hill of Tara.

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Under Ben Bulben

Under Ben Bulben
by William Butler Yeats

I
Swear by what the sages spoke
Round the Mareotic Lake
That the Witch of Atlas knew,
Spoke and set the cocks a-crow.

Swear by those horsemen, by those women
Complexion and form prove superhuman,
That pale, long-visaged company
That air in immortality
Completeness of their passions won;
Now they ride the wintry dawn
Where Ben Bulben sets the scene.

Here’s the gist of what they mean.

II
Many times man lives and dies
Between his two eternities,
That of race and that of soul,
And ancient Ireland knew it all.
Whether man die in his bed
Or the rifle knocks him dead,
A brief parting from those dear
Is the worst man has to fear.
Though grave-digger’s toil is long,
Sharp their spades, their muscles strong,
They but thrust their buried men
Back in the human mind again.

III
You that Mitchel’s prayer have heard,
“Send war in our time, O Lord!”
Know that when all words are said
And a man is fighting mad,
Something drops from eyes long blind,
He completes his partial mind,
For an instant stands at ease,
Laughs aloud, his heart at peace.
Even the wisest man grows tense
With some sort of violence
Before he can accomplish fate,
Know his work or choose his mate.

IV
Poet and sculptor, do the work,
Nor let the modish painter shirk
What his great forefathers did,
Bring the soul of man to God,
Make him fill the cradles right.

Measurement began our might:
Forms a stark Egyptian thought,
Forms that gentler Phidias wrought,
Michael Angelo left a proof
On the Sistine Chapel roof,
Where but half-awakened Adam
Can disturb globe-trotting Madam
Till her bowels are in heat,
Proof that there’s a purpose set
Before the secret working mind:
Profane perfection of mankind.

Quattrocento put in print
On backgrounds for a God or Saint
Gardens where a soul’s at ease;
Where everything that meets the eye,
Flowers and grass and cloudless sky,
Resemble forms that are or seem
When sleepers wake and yet still dream,
And when it’s vanished still declare,
With only bed and bedstead there,
That heavens had opened.

Gyres run on;
When that greater dream had gone
Calvert and Wilson, Blake and Claude,
Prepared a rest for the people of God,
Palmer’s phrase, but after that
Confusion fell upon our thought

V
Irish poets, learn your trade,
Sing whatever is well made,
Scorn the sort now growing up
All out of shape from toe to top,
Their unremembering hearts and heads
Base-born products of base beds.
Sing the peasantry, and then
Hard-riding country gentlemen,
The holiness of monks, and after
Porter-drinkers’ randy laughter;
Sing the lords and ladies gay
That were beaten into clay
Through seven heroic centuries;
Cast your mind on other days
That we in coming days may be
Still the indomitable Irishry.

VI
Under bare Ben Bulben’s head
In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid.
An ancestor was rector there
Long years ago, a church stands near,
By the road an ancient cross.
No marble, no conventional phrase;
On limestone quarried near the spot
By his command these words are cut:
Cast a cold eye
On life, on death.
Horseman, pass by!

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