LIZABETH P OCOWNOR III I I I liiilli li III I ii ill 11 liii ! Ill i ii i ! 02 HERSELF— IRELAND The Four Courts, Dublin Designed by Cooley, an Irish Architect (Page 62) HEESELF-IRELAND BY ELIZABETH P. O'CONNOR (MRS. T. P. O'CONNOR) Author of "My Beloved South," "l Myself," etc. ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 1918 Copyright, 1918, bt DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC. i\i^ ?1«D TO THE PEOPLE WHO HAVE LOVED IRELAND TOO WELL TO LEAVE HER. AND TO THOSE WHO, STILL LOVING HER, HAVE HELPED MAKE MY COUNTRY THE GREATEST OF REPUBLICS AN APOLOGY A VERY brilliant Irishman, Oscar Wilde, claimed to be a seer in palmistry. Many years ago, at a gay little gathering, he offered to read the hand of any guest whose char- acter could stand the light of publicity. " I will not move away from the fire and tea," he said, " and go into a dark corner to screen the iniquities of any person present; but in this magic circle, in the full light of the lamp, I am prepared to reveal in classical English the past, present, and future of a daring heart." His eyes danced with deviltry, he made a dra- matic gesture, " Lady with courage, lend me your hand." I immediately laid mine open upon the table. He bent his head, and concentrated his attention on the many divergent lines. " You are Irish? " " No, there is not a drop of Irish blood in my veins." " Then," he said frowning, " there is no excuse for your character." Much laughter followed, and more when he began his paradoxes. vU viii AN APOLOGY " You are religious, and you have no religion. You are a spendthrift, and you save. You are amiable, and you have a high temper. You are passionate, and cold. You are sympathetic, and hard. You are forgiving, but never forgive. Therefore, in spite of the American Eagle, and your corporeal body, you are Irish." These idle words spoken in jest and forgotten for years, have been a whimsical help in writing this book. For at least I have felt to-day, as on that light-hearted afternoon, in sympathy with the Irish. I am a writer of necessity — not of talent. Therefore this book will not bring any additional light on that lively, ever-recurrent, and absorbing topic of interest, The Irish Question. Nor will it contain any new interpretation of the political situation, nor any erudite or important informa- tion. Various kindly people interested in my work, have questioned me as to its character. The first asked if it was to be a book of travel? I said, " Not altogether that." A brother-in-arms with a methodical mind, enquired if I intended dividing it into Sections? With my vagrant wits, that was a terribly discouraging question. An- other questioner asked if it was to be a guide-book? That too lowered my courage, and when the lady persisted in a definition I could only answer, " It's just a book." But notwithstanding its wants and AN APOLOGY ix limitations, it is written with honesty of purpose, and a keen desire to arouse in my reader — who, I hope will be as ignorant of Ireland as I was when I arrived in Dublin, almost a year ago now — an interest in the country which has proved of such absorbing interest to me. I can only liken my pages to an hors d'oeuvre served before a banquet. The little salted fish is but to increase the appetite for better things to come. Herself — Ireland is for the same purpose, a slight fillip to the feast of other and more worthy con- freres. I am not a politician. Literature, poetry, art, music, science, friendship, character, all make their appeal, but politics and politicians leave me cold. Until I came to Ireland, The Irish Question to me was a closed book, although I have heard it discussed for years. Now my opinions are, like the Faith of the people, clear and definite. It is not however of Irish politics I have written, but of Ireland and the Irish, who in many ways resemble my own race, the people of the South. I have lived in England thirty years, and admire the English. I had not lived in Ireland thirty days, before I loved the Irish. England appeals to the head. Ireland appeals to the heart. Eng- land is good for the body. Ireland is good for the soul. And whatever of bitterness or unfor- X AN APOLOGY givingness towards life I brought to these green shores, is buried and put away for ever, by con- tact with people of indestructible Faith, unselfish purpose, and not only brave — but cheerful, and even gay — endurance of poverty. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I Why I Went to Ireland .... 1 II The Rebellion of 1916 21 III Old Dublin 54 IV Dean Swift ....... 82 V Hicks, a Man Without Price ... 94 VI Old Ireland, and the Little White Flower 112 VII Irish Wit 128 VIII The Irish Temperament .... 153 IX A Performing Zoo 173 X The Treasures of Ireland .... 184 XI The National Gallery 200 XII Cork and Queenstown 233 XIII Killarney 260 XIV Limerick 279 XV A Pleasant Tour 293 XVI Galway, an Old City of the West . . 328 XVII Evergreen Friendship 351 XVIII Mitchelstown Castle and an Irish Ro- mance 367 My Irish Year 388 ^i ILLUSTRATIONS The Four Courts, Dublin, designed by Cooley, an Irish architect (page 62) . . . Frontispiece FACING FAGB Devenish Round Tower, Lough Erne ... 10 St. John's, Wellington Place, Clyde Road, Dublin . 28 "Kit" (French pochette) or dancing-master's fid- dle. By Perry of Dublin. Late eighteenth century 42 Portrait of an Irish Lady 66 Peg Woffington, National Gallery, Dublin ... 88 The Cross of Cong. Made for Turlough 'Conor, King of Ireland in 1123, designed as a shrine worthy to hold a piece of the true cross . . 100 End of Saloon, with organ, at Carton, the Family Seat of the Duke of Leinster .... 118 Loving Cups, Dublin make, 1730, 1775 . . .136 Miss Kitty Gunning 160 Lion Cubs at the Dublin Zoo 174 "General" and "Captain" are as well trained ele- phants as the usual performing animals of a circus 182 Ceiling, Wall Panelling, Doors, Mantel-piece, and Fire-grates from Tracton House, St. Stephen's Green. The Ceiling dated 1746 . . . .186 ZIll xiv ILLUSTRATIONS PACING PAGK The Tara Brooch. Made about 700 a.d. and discov- ered in 1850 on Strand at Bettystown near Drogheda 194 Gold Lunula. Found in 1836 at Barrisnoe near the eastern side of Benduff Mountain, Tipperary County 194 The Piping Boy. By Nathaniel Hone . . . . 204 The Village School. By Jan Steen . . . .216 Harpsichord, mahogany with ornamental brass mount- ings. By Ferdinand Weber, Dublin. The prop- erty of Kobert W. Smythe, Esq 240 Scenes in the Lake Country . . . • . . . 268 On the Koad to Parknasilla 284 In the Hotel Garden, Parknasilla 298 Poisoned Glen and Marble Church, Dunlewy, Gwee- dore 310 Island where a Girl lived alone. Lough Gill, Sligo . 338 Doneraile Court . . . 356 Mitchelstown Castle 374 THE WEST'S ASLEEP When all beside a vigil keep. The West's asleep, the West's asleep. Alas! and well may Erin weep When Connaught lies in slumber deep. There lake and plain smile fair and free, 'Mid rocks — their guardian chivalry. Sing, oh ! let man learn liberty From crashing wind and lashing sea. That chainless wave and lovely land Freedom and Nationhood demand; Be sure the great God never planned For slumbering slaves a home so grand. And long a brave and haughty race Honoured and sentinell'd the place. Sing, oh! not e'en their sons' disgrace Can quite destroy their glory's trace. For often in O'Connor's van To triumph dashed each Connaught man, And fleet as deer the Normans ran Through Curlieu's Pass and Ardrahan. And later day saw deeds as brave. And glory guards Clanricarde's grave. Sing, oh ! they died their land to save At Aughrim's slopes and Shannon's wave. And if, when all a vigil keep. The West's alseep, the West's asleep — Alas ! and well may Erin weep That Connaught lies in slumber deep. But hark! some voice like thunder spake. " The West's awake ! the West's awake ! " We'll watch till death for Erin's sake — The West's awake! the West's awake! — Thomas Davis. HERSELF— IRELAND CHAPTER I WHY I WENT TO IRELAND It is not day yet (Old Gaelic Proverb) "Why do you go to Ireland?" said an English friend. " The country is under Martial Law, Dublin is in ruins, there is sure to be another uprising, and you will probably be shot." " Nobody from Texas is afraid of a familiar little thing like a bullet, and nothing can be so good for the circulation as an insurrection. How the exaltation of spirit would make the blood race through the body. I shall go to Ireland the day after to-morrow." " Is it necessary to select this particular time? You have never been interested in Irish politics." " That's just it, I carry with me a nice clean mind, like a sheet of white paper, for Imperialist, Nationalist, Ideahst or Sinn Feiner to write upon. The spring and summer are before me, and at this moment Ireland is the most interesting coun- try in Europe. Men who were alive and loved hfe, loved Ireland more, and have just died for her." " Once a rebel, always a rebel," said my friend. 1 2 HERSELF— IRELAND " You were obliged to have Martial Law in your own country, you know something about it." " Yes," I said, " and as long as the South was under military disciphne she never raised her de- spairing head; it was a hopeless chaotic country until the reins of government were in her own hands again." " Then you are already a Home Ruler? " " I can better tell you what I am, after I have lived in Ireland." "I'll forgive you Home Rule," said my friend, " but I draw the line at a Sinn Feiner." " Lines," I said, " are elastic, and are deter- mined by time and point of view. A rebel of 1916 may be a hero in 2016. In 1836 a young uncle of mine who had just taken his degree at Bardstown — the college where Louis Phillipe was a professor, when they were after his head in France, even Monarchs are sometimes rebels — raised a regiment of soldiers, the flower of Kentucky manhood, and marched into Texas to capture it from the Mexicans. These young Southerners fought with desperate bravery, but were taken prisoners by the Mexicans, and shot. Mexico regarded them as traitors, and even the young United States thought them foolhardy visionaries. But they started the ball rolling, eventually Texas was wrested from the Mexicans, WHY I WENT TO IRELAND 3 became a Republic, later a State; and to-day a granite monument of imposing dimensions, stands in front of the Capitol, to record the daring of Captian Burr Duval and his brave followers. The youth of Texas only know these men as heroes, not as rebels. So who can tell how history may, after a century or two have passed, regard the uprising in Ireland? " " You say you are not a politician," said my friend, " but that does not modify your convictions. I am sure you think you could have averted this war." " Anybody could prevent war, who had power to send the King, the Privy Council, the House of Commons, the Cabinet, the House of Lords, the members of the Government, and all editors and journalists, to open the campaign. After three months' dignified, ponderous, middle-aged, and decorous fighting, the Army and Navy could then be called upon to join the fray." " And in your native land, — what would you do there?" " The President," I said, " the Cabinet, the Sen- ate and House, the Judges of the Supreme Court, and all fire-eating editors and journalists, should bare patriotic breasts to the enemy, before rein- forcements came from the Army." " Your theories are too altruistic for adoption, but if you really intend going to Ireland, I'll 4 HERSELF— IRELAND drive you to the station, and you can make ar- rangements for your journey. Have you got a fur coat? If not I'll lend you mine." " Even if I come back a Sinn Feiner? " "Yes, if you'll only come back; you see I can talk to you, as if we both lived in a palace of truth. You are a fool, but not a vain fool." When without misunderstanding, two women can call each other fools and liars, their house of friendship is built upon a rock. " I don't want you to go to Ireland," said my confidante and comfort, Rose, " but of course I'll pack for you. Will you need clothes for a short or a long time? " " That," I said, " is on the knees of the gods. A week will be long enough if I'm disappointed, if not I'll stay six months, or perhaps for ever, who knows, so there must be separations in my ward- robe, winter garments somewhere out of reach, a summer outfit for the later months, and spring garments to hand." " It reminds me," said Rose, " of the good old days at Oakley Lodge, when Cook went up to you for orders, and asked, ' How many to dinner. Madam?' And you said, 'Ellen, I don't know if I'll be alone, or if there will be fourteen to dine.' " " When I kept house I wasn't so bad as that. Rose. It sounds like me, but Ellen must have WHY I WENT TO IRELAND 5 had a sense of character, and invented the con- versation." " No, she did not. Madam; it was what you told her; for seven came, Ellen said it was a tempta- tion to teach you a lesson, but she relented; for she really liked dinner parties. We all did." Being equal to any emergency, Rose packed for the week, or the year, waked me in time for the early train, and I crossed by day to Dublin. I had been up late the night before, was tired and depressed, but when I set foot on Irish soil, a word of sympathy cheered me in the greeting of old Davy Stevens, the elderly newsboy of Kings- town, who observed my weary eyes, and said: " Buy a picture paper Lady avick, then you won't have to read." One of the most striking qualities of the Irish is perception. They divine your mental and physical condition by intuition, and even the lower classes have singularly good manners. With tradition behind them, manners are to them an instinct, for no matter how humble in occupa- tion an O'Brien, or an O'Donohue, or an O'Grady may be, he is the kinsman of a one-time King or Prince. I know working people in Dublin, who washed — yes, I must acknowledge they would have to be washed — and suitably dressed, could pass muster in any society. I have met an Irish- woman married to an English gentleman, who 6 HERSELF— IRELAND began life as a furniture polisher. She is romanti- cally pretty, and not only are her manners good, but she is serenely at ease, and is as cultivated and agreeable, as any woman of my acquaintance. Pretentiousness is vulgar. The lower classes in Ireland are never pretentious. But I regret to say, when they emigrate to America, they take on the worst features of the pushing polygot Ameri- can. There, they too often exchange simplicity for self-assurance, and modesty for braggadocio, and the Irish Yankee who returns to his native country is seldom popular, with either priest or people. On my arrival in Dublin, I went to the Shel- bourne Hotel, where it is said, if you stay long enough, as in London and Paris, you will meet every one you know. English people come to Dublin, for the Horse Show, for the races, for the hunting, — they come for a thousand reasons, — but they come. And sooner or later at lunch or dinner, you meet your friends at the Shelbourne. Putting aside any interest one may have in Ire- land, the Hotel is an exceptionally comfortable and satisfactory place of abode. In the first place, there is hot water. Not warm water. But boiling water, like the natural geysers of Australia. You can take a cure by drinking it, and you can have an enlivening bath at any hour of the day or of the night. And such water! As soft and tender WHY I WENT TO IRELAND 7 as the down on a newly hatched chicken's breast. A httle soap goes a long way in this pale blue hmpid fluid. Hair after being washed is satin- smooth to the touch, and the lustrous Irish poplin, and the excellent stout and whiskey, are said to owe their renown to' Dublin water. The Shel- bourne's other pleasant qualities, perceptible to sensitive olfactories, are an agreeable odour of good scrubbing soap, Ice polish, and clean linen. Generously proportioned, well-furnished bed- rooms. Adequate and willing service. Constant attention at the telephone. A good table of elastic hours. A lounge large enough — no matter how fully peopled — to ensure a quiet corner with a friend, and an atmosphere withal of interest and friendly kindness. What more can be wanted, or asked for in any Inn? If I could always be sure of the same measure of comfort, I would start to-morrow on a journey around the world. The few people I knew in Dublin happened to be away, and I should have felt lonely, the early days of my arrival, but for a friend. While un- packing I heard a coo-oo, coo-oo, and looking up found at the corner of my window, a pair of bright, curious eyes observing my movements. They belonged to a wine-coloured pigeon, of lib- eral dimensions. Without movement, he sat watching me place pincushion, com.b, hairbrush, nail scissors, cold cream, and polisher on the 8 HERSELF— IRELAND dressing-table, but stretched his wings if I got too near. When I retired, he folded them close to his plump body, and coo-cooed with renewed confidence, indicating that he had appreciated my tact. After tea, when I returned to my room, it was not long before he flew to the outer ledge to eat the crumbs I had brought him. The next morning I found a corn chandler, and bought a bag of maize. This thoughtful hospitality on my part, sealed our fellowship. Very soon he occu- pied the centre of the window-sill, and one day after a profound examination of me, with a trust- ing baritone coo, he proudly promenaded the dressing-table, leaving little muddy tracks on the toilet-cover. "Glory be to God! I'll show him the windy, I will that," said my chambermaid, " traipsin' over the clane linen, like a Christian, an' lavin' black tracks all up and down — and him with heels hke a jay-bird." " No," I said, " please don't show him either the window or the door. I want him encouraged to come; not to go." And I made one other friend. A ten o'clock duck. — He lived on the pond in Stephen's Green. At the last stroke of the clock, I am sure he looked up at my window and quacked, " Go to bed! Go to bed! " After a few ten o'clocks, I walked over to the Green, found the little lake, and as the WHY I WENT TO IRELAND 9 ducks swam towards me, I recognised my portly friend's quacks. His enunciation was better than the others'. He was quicker to discern food, and his appetite was very sound. I have an affection for ducks. They are more benign than chickens, more trustful, and they have less idle curiosity. Every night I listened at ten o'clock, for that penetrating quack, and he never failed me. And every morning, during my six weeks' stay, my wine-coloured pigeon woke me with his deep- throated note. I travelled about Ireland during the summer, and returned to Dublin in Sep- tember. My chambermaid said: *' Ye couldn't have belaved how that bird car- ried on, whin you went away. He was here the whole day, peerin' in the room, an' if I opened the door sudden, he'd be sittin' on the dressin'-table, lukin' at himself, an' as plain as annything, he axed me where you were." But he never came back during my second visit, and a little wine- coloured feather is all that I have of our friendship. There are certain cities where one can be alone, and others where loneliness is unbearable. New York, for instance. There life assumes a ruthless and belligerent aspect, intimidating to the strongest spirit. London is too vast, and grey, sombre, and indifferent, to endure solitari- ness. Belfast is uninteresting enough to create 10 HERSELF— IRELAND restlessness. But Washington, where one can spend weeks, among the treasures of the Capitol, or Florence, where the architecture is of unfor- gettable beauty, or Madrid, sitting for hours be- fore the immortal work of the great Masters — making them one's own in memory — or New Orleans, caressed by the softly perfumed air of the South, and surrounded by the past glories of old France, or Dublin, which possesses a charm peculiar to itself, in all these cities, of a friendly size and atmosphere, loneliness is not only pos- sible, but even restful and agreeable. I like to wander alone, in the streets of a strange town, to loiter before the shop-windows, and look at old pictures, old silver, old fans, or old china. A collector of old jewelry placed a whole heap of antiquated rings before me; they included one or two specimens of Claddagh marriage rings, and engraved in the thin gold circles I found these different love phrases: " In thee I find content of mind." " Let love abide, tiU death divide." " God for me appointed thee." " Love fixt on virtue lasteth." " My love and I, till death divide." Walking along Lower Leeson Street in the early morning, I noticed a child, with the bluest eyes that eyes can endure, and although he was not more than four or five years old, some phas