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HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
■■y:^f^^^^■ 
 
 The Four Courts, Dublin 
 
 Designed by Cooley, an Irish Architect (Page 6i) 
 
HEESELF-IRELAND 
 
 BY 
 
 ELIZABETH P; O'CONNOR 
 
 (MRS. T. P. O'CONNOR) 
 Author of "My Beloved South," **I Myself," etc. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
 1918 
 
.(Dz 
 
 Copyright, 1918, bt 
 OODD. MEAD AND COMPANY, INC. 
 
 FEB -7 1918 
 
 £)CI.A4816a8 
 
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 
 oifered 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. 
 
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 dfoeuvre 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 Eo- 
 
 mance 367 
 
 My Irish Year 388 
 
 XI 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 The Four Courts, Dublin, designed by Cooley, an 
 
 Irish architect (page 62) . . . Frontispiece'- 
 
 FAOINS 
 PAGB 
 
 Devenish Bound Tower, Lough Erne . . . 10"^ 
 St. John's, Wellington Place, Clyde Road, Dublin . 28- 
 "Kit" (French pocJiette) 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 O '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 Grunning 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^^ 
 ziii 
 
xiv ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 FACING 
 PAOE 
 
 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 Robert W. Smythe, Esq 240"" 
 
 Scenes in the Lake Country 268 '^ 
 
 On the Road 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, Idealist 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 life, 
 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 mihtary 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 hne 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'U 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 hked 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 featiu-es 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. Enghsh people come to 
 Dubhn, 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 
 limpid 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 Dubhn water. The Shel- 
 bourne's other pleasant qualities, perceptible to 
 sensitive olfactories, are an agreeable odour of 
 good scrubbing soap. Ice pohsh, and clean linen. 
 Generously proportioned, well-furnished bed- 
 rooms. Adequate and willing service. Constant 
 attention at the telephone. A gopd 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, comb, 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 Rew 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 like 
 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 anny thing, 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, till 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 phase 
 
<$f. 
 
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 O 
 
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WHY I WENT TO IRELAND 11 
 
 of life seemed already to have made an impres- 
 sion upon him. 
 
 " What is that pretty badge you are wearing on 
 your innocent breast?" I asked, pointing to a 
 round disc of green, white, and yellow. 
 
 He straightened his sturdy little figure, swelled 
 out his small chest, and said, " The colours of the 
 Irish Republic, Sorr — Mam," he corrected, and 
 there was the steady light of battle in his eye, 
 which I queUed with a bag of chocolates. 
 
 " Now kiss me good-bye, Sinn Feiner of the 
 eyes so blue," I said. " Go to America, and be 
 good." And we parted to meet no more. 
 
 One afternoon in Grafton Street, while in a 
 shop giving directions about the repairs of a silver 
 box, two young ladies came in, stood by my side, 
 and asked to see rings. The clerk who served 
 me said in an undertone: 
 
 " That is Mrs. Plunkett, the young widow who 
 married her husband during the rebellion, just 
 before he was shot, and a friend who is constantly 
 with her." 
 
 As they looked neither to the right nor to the 
 left, it gave me an opportunity of observing them. 
 Mrs. Plunkett wore no mourning except a broad 
 band of black on her white hat, and on the sleeve 
 of her coat. Her dress was of emerald-green 
 tweed. Her face was pale, the wide-open blue 
 eyes observed what passed before them with quiet 
 
12 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 indifference, and never have I seen a jewel selected 
 so quickly. 
 
 " Are the diamonds good? " the dark young girl 
 asked. 
 
 The salesman said, " Yes, all these rings are of 
 the best quality." 
 
 " I will take this one. Send me the bill," said 
 the dark-eyed girl, and with that brief direction, 
 these interesting ladies departed. It seemed to me 
 a tragedy lurked in the background of that 
 sparkling circle. Perhaps it was purchased by 
 his fiancee, at the request of one of the Insurrec- 
 tionists, before being deported. 
 
 Mrs. Plunkett had expressed no opinion about 
 the ring. And I thought of the difference there 
 would have been in my own happy land, if two 
 American girls had entered Tiffany's on a like 
 errand. Tray after tray of rings would have been 
 brought forward, dozens of them tried on, and 
 flashed in the light with breathless exclamations 
 of: 
 
 "Oh, Mary, don't you just love rubies!" 
 
 " My dear, look at this, it's a perfect 
 vision! " 
 
 Eventually half-a-dozen rings would have been 
 ordered home for " Poppa " to see, and with not a 
 care in the world, the lively pair would have flut- 
 tered out of the shop, and stepped briskly forth on 
 Fifth Avenue. I can scarcely believe that I saw 
 
WHY I WENT TO IRELAND 13 
 
 such an important thing as a diamond ring bought 
 in two minutes, but then strange things happen in 
 Ireland. 
 
 The very first of my serious sight-seeing was to 
 view the mail-clad figure of Strongbow the Dane, 
 in Christ Church, where in one of the vaults St. 
 Patrick said the first Mass in Ireland. The 
 ancient warrior has very tender associations for 
 me, for as soon as my son, Francis Howard, could 
 draw, he pictured Strongbow. How many times 
 have I regretted his noble proportions on my best 
 notepaper. Sometimes he was surrounded by his 
 military monks, the Knights Templar, sometimes 
 he was alone, and occasionally he divided honours 
 with Rufus and his spider. I paused before the 
 beautiful Norman door, and the exquisite interior 
 of the Church delighted me, but my coign of 
 vantage was the tomb bearing the recumbent 
 figure of a Knight in chain armour. By his side 
 is a smaller tomb, with a half-length figure of his 
 son, whom he slashed in twain for cowardice in 
 battle. I suppose that is why there is only half 
 a son lying by him. Spartanism is admirable in 
 heroes, but not in fathers; the tie of blood should 
 temper it with mercy. 
 
 The monument of the nineteenth Earl of 
 Kildare, the father of the first Duke of Leinster, 
 is quite beautiful, and there are two chapels of 
 consideration, one of St. Lorcan, the Abbot of 
 
14 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 Glendalough, the second saint canonised in Rome 
 after St. Malachy, and the Lady Chapel, which 
 was the original chapel of St. Nicholas. The red 
 Cork marble, the green Galway marble, and the 
 black Kilkenny marble, have all been used to great 
 advantage in the building of the pulpit. These 
 various stones, with their warmth of colour, in- 
 cluding Irish blue marble, are quite as valuable 
 for decoration, as any of the Italian marbles, and 
 architects might well make use of them, both in 
 England and in America. The crypt is not only in- 
 teresting to the antiquary — from various evidence, 
 it is proved a Danish built Christian church — 
 but the wooden stocks and quaint candlesticks, 
 used in the celebration of Mass during the reign of 
 James II, the silver gilt Dutch plate, presented 
 to the Cathedral by William III are objects which 
 would be appreciated by the most casual observer. 
 I should like also to see a reproduction of the 
 royal palace, built of peeled wands, in which 
 Henry II Hved just outside Dublin. It must have 
 been of the same character as the picturesque 
 cabins, built of wattles, and so poetically appre- 
 ciated by Yeats. 
 
 " I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, 
 And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made : 
 Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey 
 
 bee, 
 And live alone in the bee-loud glade. 
 
WHY I WENT TO IRELAND 15 
 
 " And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes 
 
 dropping slow, 
 Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the 
 
 cricket sings; 
 There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, 
 And evening full of the linnet's wings. 
 
 *' I will arise and go now, for always night and day, 
 I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore ; 
 While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavement gray, 
 I hear it in the deep heart's core." 
 
 Henry II may have had nine bean rows and a 
 hive for honey bees, but peace is not for Kings. 
 He was obhged to leave his castle of peeled wan,ds 
 and return to England. John, his son, who was 
 made Lord of Ireland, was never popular in the 
 country, what a pity the fine title was allowed to 
 lapse! Perhaps one day if Ireland should find 
 favour in Royal eyes, a Lord of Ireland may 
 reign again in the Emerald Isle. 
 
 My sight-seeing, which in a city of so many in- 
 terests can never end, began to be intermittent, 
 as friends came and went from the Hotel. The 
 Insurrection had been over for some weeks, but 
 every one, especially those who had seen it, been 
 thrilled and terrified and inconvenienced by it, still 
 talked of nothing else. The Government was held 
 responsible by some, John Redmond, the Leader 
 of the Irish Party, by others; and even his fol- 
 lowers, particularly the young men, felt that at the 
 
16 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 beginning of the War, by too great impulsive 
 generosity, he had thrown his own great chance 
 and that of Ireland to the winds. A young Irish 
 gentleman, the son of a Unionist, but himself a 
 believer in Home Rule, with no ambition for 
 political place, only a burning desire for the wel- 
 fare of his country, said to me: 
 
 " John Redmond missed his opportunity at the 
 beginning of the AVar. Instead of pledging Ire- 
 land to England in a very fine and dramatic 
 speech, and offering them Irish soldiers, he should 
 have demanded Home Rule in exchange for Irish 
 Regiments. He should have demanded Ireland's 
 freedom for the lives of her sons. There might 
 have been hot controversy in the House of Com- 
 mons, but, eventually, he would have got Home 
 Rule. England has always understood better 
 than any other nation barter and exchange. She 
 also understands a gun as well, or better, than 
 any other country. Was it Mr. Dooley who told 
 Mr. Hennessy that when John Bull was at din- 
 ner, the butler interrupted him and said: 
 
 " ' There's a man outside, who wants to see you, 
 with a grievance.' 
 
 " * Tell him to go away,' said John Bull, ' I 
 don't want to see a man with a grievance.' 
 
 " In a short time the butler returned and said : 
 
 " ' The man with the grievance is back again. 
 This time he has got a gun.' 
 
WHY I WENT TO IRELAND 17 
 
 " ' Has he? ' said John Bull; ' then show him in, 
 and we'll have a talk about it.' 
 
 " As England wanted Ireland to shoulder the 
 gun, John Bull should have made him a loyal sub- 
 ject by putting Home Rule into operation. 
 There are probably, or there were, before the 
 slaughter (for Irishmen went to fight when Eng- 
 land was short of ammunition, and had only the 
 breasts of soldiers as a defence against German 
 guns) 170,000 Irishmen in the Army. If we had 
 got Home Rule we could have doubled this num- 
 ber, and without conscription. Probably Mac- 
 Donagh, and the O'Rahilly, and Connolly, and 
 other leaders of the uprising, would have died with 
 the Victoria Cross on their breasts, fighting for, 
 instead of against, England." 
 
 " But surely," I said, " these men if they were 
 not madmen, must have known that death was 
 inevitable? " 
 
 " They were not mad, they were exalted vision- 
 aries and fanatics, burning with the unquench- 
 able spirit of nationality. Bloodshed is losing its 
 terrors. The papers contained a daily Roll of 
 Honour. Irish soldiers arrived from the Front 
 wounded, maimed, and dying. Death hovered in 
 the air, and became a familiar friend. These men 
 resolved to die for Ireland. They thought her 
 patience to await events was weakening the Irish 
 character. Irish Nationality was being withered, 
 
18 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 like a blight. Parnell said that no Irish member 
 was useful to Ireland after he had served two 
 years in a British Parliament. The Insurrection- 
 ists had lost faith in Irish parliamentarians. Mr. 
 Birr el must have heard of the uprising. It was 
 openly whispered over Ireland that an insurrec- 
 tion was in the air of such dimensions that after 
 the War, at the table of peace, Ireland would be 
 exalted to consideration by the International 
 Council of the World. And though she was 
 not mentioned by name, America loomed large 
 in the foreground, for the Sinn Fein move- 
 ment made a strong appeal to young Irish 
 America." 
 
 " And," I said, " Germany must have been 
 somewhat involved? " 
 
 " Germany, I am sure, had little to do with the 
 actual uprising; it was too small a thing to engage 
 her attention — and too hopeless, but undeniably 
 there was a hidden hand somewhere. England 
 has been, and is. Master of the Seas. In spite of 
 her submarine warfare, Germany has a hungry 
 realisation of this fact. Possibly she furnished a 
 certain amount of arms and ammunition. She 
 also furnished arms and ammunition to Ulster, 
 for which she has never been paid, — the war 
 interfered with that." 
 
 "What a pity," I said, "the very varied in- 
 terests of Ireland are not fused together. If 
 
WHY I WENT TO IRELAND 19 
 
 Cork and Belfast were united, couldn't The 
 Irish Question be settled at once and for 
 ever? " 
 
 " Perhaps, but you are opening up a wide field 
 now. I must send you to Belfast, to talk with my 
 brother-in-law. He is a Resident Magistrate 
 there, a very broad-minded and intellectual man; 
 my sister will be delighted to have you pay her a 
 visit." 
 
 " Can you invite me, a stranger, to your sis- 
 ter's house? " I said, smihngly. 
 
 "Certainly I can," he said, cordially; "and 
 to half-a-dozen other houses in Ireland. To my 
 mother's in County Cork, and my brother's in 
 Queenstown, and a cousin's in Kerry. You must 
 make them all visits.'* 
 
 This hospitality was as whole-hearted as that of 
 the South, although less compelhng. A story is 
 told of a man riding through my own State, 
 Texas, in the early days, who looked up, and saw 
 a negro seated on a fence tremblingly pointing a 
 rifle at him. 
 
 " Damn you, put that down, it will go off in a 
 minute — what the hell are you trying to shoot 
 me for? " 
 
 " I ain't gwine to shoot you. Sir, if you'll only 
 do what my ole Massa axes you to do," said the 
 negro. 
 
 " What the devil does he want me to do? " said 
 
20 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 the man. "It must be something inhuman if it 
 has to be done at the muzzle of a gun." 
 
 " No it ain't. Sir — ole Massa's mighty lone- 
 some, livin' on dis big ranch by hisself, an' he says 
 to me dis morning, ' Jim, go down to de road, 
 an' bring me a visitor. Ef you don't I'll blow 
 out yo' brains an' mine.' I bin sittin' here some 
 time, an' I seen two other men go by, but I 
 knowed dey wouldn't er suited ole Massa. He 
 might er blowed out dur brains, along wid mine 
 and his'en. But you an' ole Massa will git along 
 togedder. I knowed you was a gentleman de min- 
 ute I heard you cuss." 
 
 The man threw himself off his horse, walked 
 with the negro to the house, and said at the end 
 of his enforced visit he never spent a pleasanter 
 fortnight. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THE REBELLION OF 1916 
 
 God Save Ireland and the People in it 
 
 (Old Gaelic Proverb) 
 
 I MADE no haste to see the ruins of Sackville 
 Street; the great plate windows of the Shelbourne, 
 decorated with holes, from which zigzag lines 
 sprang like violent spiders' webs, were reminder 
 enough of Dublin's tragic week. And from those 
 who were eye-witnesses I could visualise all that 
 had happened. A journalist describing his ex- 
 periences said to me: 
 
 " On Easter Monday, I was writing my daily 
 column, when I heard the tramp, tramp of march- 
 ing men. It was no unusual sound, but the 
 rhythm of those steady feet somehow thrilled me. 
 I dropped my pen. Ran to the window. Threw 
 it up. Heard a shot. Saw a policeman fall. A 
 priest hurried to his side. Sharp firing began, and 
 though dazed I reaHsed it was an attack on Dub- 
 lin Castle. A few minutes later the premises of 
 the Evening Mail were seized, and I was mentally 
 preparing a column more vital than the one I 
 had been forced to abandon. As they say in the 
 
 Vernacular of your country, there was not only 
 
 21 
 
22 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 a * story ' opening before me, but a living drama, 
 unleavened by comedy, and submerged in blood, 
 and tears, and death." 
 
 " Yes," I said, " ' The filling up of graves, the 
 wringing of drenched hands,' — and then? " 
 
 " The Insurrectionists held our office all the 
 afternoon, and Monday night the battle still 
 raged. The Volunteers fought with red-hot cour- 
 age, desperately, as men fight who put an extrava- 
 gant resolve to the test. The bullets swarmed like 
 deadly gnats; from Cork Hill they formed a zone 
 in which nothing could live. Men in khaki tried 
 in vain to storm the fortress. The Insurgents 
 fired with unerring aim, and the soldiers fell dead 
 or wounded in groups of three or four, until the 
 end of the siege, when the final assault made the 
 Sinn Feiners lay down their arms. 
 
 " Tuesday, fighting was going on all day, snipers 
 firing from the houses in the neighbourhood of 
 Cork Hill, and the soldiers dared death in trying 
 to find them. Men going from house to house 
 duty were almost certain to be killed or wounded. 
 I saw two brave Colonials, a captain and his 
 corporal, hunting for rebels, the latter with an 
 amateur bandage about his jaw, and the former 
 with an awkward bandage round his hand. Al- 
 though both should have been in hospital, they 
 were clearing the streets, firing at windows and 
 roofs, and being fired at in return. Thursday, I 
 
THE REBELLION OF 1916 23 
 
 saw them again, and I watched the captain until he 
 was wounded in the leg, but even then he con- 
 tinued on duty, and if he had been in France fight- 
 ing against the Germans, instead of in Dublin 
 fighting against the Irish — very probably he was 
 himself of Irish extraction — undoubtedly he would 
 have won the Victoria Cross." 
 
 " Tell me how he deserved it? " I asked. 
 
 " On Friday he was at the Four Courts ; it was 
 toward the end, and both sides were fighting dog- 
 gedly. In some of the smaller streets barricades 
 had been erected by the Sinn Feiners on the one 
 side and the regular troops on the other. The 
 Sinn Feiners were firing continuously, and prov- 
 ing what good marksmen they were. A number 
 of wounded soldiers had already been carried off, 
 when the Colonial captain filled two bags with 
 bombs, slung them across his shoulders, leaped 
 over his own barricade, made for the barricade 
 of the enemy, threw bombs to the right and to 
 the left, demohshed the defence, routed and 
 wounded the snipers lying behind it, but fell, shot 
 through the heart himself." 
 
 " A gallant man," I said, " a very gallant 
 soldier of the King, indeed he deserved the Vic- 
 toria Cross. And what of the rebels, did you 
 single out any one man among them? " 
 
 " Yes, there was a tall young giant from the 
 South or West, he seemed to bear a charmed life, 
 
24 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 for again and again, the 5th DubHn Fusihers fired 
 at him, a bullet winged his sleeve, another went 
 through the top of his green hat and toppled it to 
 the ground; he let it lie, tossed back his red mane, 
 and with a steady aim sent a bullet through a sol- 
 dier's body. After that, a perfect volley fell 
 around him, but he still remained unhurt; his 
 fingers moved like lightning, he fired with the 
 quickness of a Gatling gun, and he must have 
 wounded any number of men." 
 
 "Was he killed?" 
 
 " Not while I watched him. Sometimes when he 
 fired he yelled out, ' God save the Irish Repub- 
 lic!' He was a spectacular rascal." 
 
 " The Irish Republic," I said, " it must have 
 given even your loyal heart a thrill." 
 
 " It did nothing of the kind," said my expo- 
 nent. " I am not a believer in Republics, even in 
 yours, and we don't want to be governed in Ire- 
 land by madmen." 
 
 " You did not contemplate that danger too 
 long," I said, " the leaders were all shot without 
 delay. And four of them — who, by the way, were 
 not leaders — were wrongly condemned by the 
 order of one of your own madmen. A man who 
 for your credit, you have now put in a lunatic 
 asylum." 
 
 " In a crisis," said my exponent, " some 
 wretched mistakes must occur." 
 
THE REBELLION OF 1916 25 
 
 *' Not necessarilj^" I said. " The wisest law- 
 yers, judges, supreme judges, and great jurists 
 whom I have known, men with broad and judicial 
 minds, all argue that Court Martial should be 
 abolished, more especially where private citizens 
 are concerned. The hanging of Mrs. Surrat, 
 after a trial by Court Martial, for complicity in 
 the assassination of President Lincoln, is now 
 considered a blot upon the administration of 
 American justice. The military mind is not usu- 
 ally analytic, and it often works slowly. Mili- 
 tary legs and arms are quick, but in a crisis it is 
 more necessary for the mind to work with despatch 
 than the body. But I am interrupting you ; please 
 go on with your history of the rebellion." 
 
 " On Wednesday I got as far as Ballsbridge, 
 and met the troops who had arrived at Kingstown, 
 and were then nearing their headquarters in the 
 Show grounds of Ballsbridge. They were dying 
 of thirst, and boys, women, and children ran 
 for water, bringing it back in cups, jugs, and 
 buckets, which the men drank. And well they 
 did, for early in the afternoon the battle began. 
 At first the populace following the soldiers had 
 no reahsation of danger. Even when firing com- 
 menced they were not alarmed; it was only when 
 the Sinn Feiners answered and here and there a 
 soldier fell, that they took alarm and ran pell 
 mell back to the houses." 
 
26 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 "And on Thursday?" 
 
 " After Wednesday I confined my movements 
 to Dublin. I was trying to find a young lieu- 
 tenant who had been missing since Monday. A 
 boy had seen him in the neighbourhood of the 
 Post Ofiice on that day, and it seemed more than 
 probable that he had been killed; as a matter of 
 fact, he was a prisoner in the General Post 
 Office. While buying stamps, he heard a voice 
 outside shouting, 'Charge! Charge!' A crowd 
 of Insurgents rushed in, a Volunteer presented a 
 bayonet to his breast. He was taken prisoner, 
 bound with wires, and placed in the telephone box, 
 which almost immediately became a place of dan- 
 ger, for as soon as the employees were marched 
 out, the Lancers fired from outside, and bullets 
 whizzed through the box. After three hours, by 
 the O'Rahilly's orders, he was taken to the top 
 floor and commanded to watch the safe. On 
 Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday he per- 
 formed this duty in the midst of constant firing. 
 On Friday the roof began to blaze, and he and 
 other prisoners crawled under a table when they 
 saw it was about to topple on them. In the 
 evening they were taken downstairs to the base- 
 ment below the building, but their danger only 
 increased, as it was a repository for bombs with 
 fuses set, for dynamite, gelignite, cordite, and 
 guncotton. Seeing the menace of a horrible 
 
THE REBELLION OF 1916 27 
 
 death, they shouted and a lieutenant of the In- 
 surgents found them and said, * It's all right, 
 follow me, boys,' and they did with remarkable 
 celerity. He took them through the burning 
 building to the yard at the back. A short time 
 afterwards they were led to Moore Lane and told, 
 at the point of the pistol, to cut and run. They 
 were off like hares, and successfully passed a back 
 street where troops were firing a machine-gun, 
 only to get in an alley where a big gun was spat- 
 tering out bullets like rain. They escaped that 
 danger by climbing over a parapet, found them- 
 selves in a courtyard, and crawled down the cellar 
 of a house which had been gutted by fire. There 
 they spent the night and the next day, a machine- 
 gun being constantly busy in the vicinity. 
 Towards evening things got so hot for them they 
 crawled out of the cellar into a van which had 
 been left in the yard. At half -past six o'clock 
 they were discovered by a corporal who was on the 
 lookout for rebels. They had then been without 
 food or drink for twenty-four hours. My friend 
 had received a shot in his leg, and I found him 
 in a hospital, where he had been before, recover- 
 ing from other wounds, which, as a gallant Irish 
 soldier, he had received at the Front. I also 
 saw that broad and beautiful thoroughfare, Sack- 
 ville Street, later in red flames, completely demol- 
 ished by fire; so you will not be surprised that I 
 
28 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 consider the Sinn Feiners, who brought all this 
 ruin and destruction upon our city, as rebels who 
 only got what they deserved in summary punish- 
 ment." 
 
 " And what about the looting? " I asked. 
 
 He smiled. " There Irish comedy asserted it- 
 self. The jewellers' shops containing valuables, 
 diamonds and pearls, silver and gold, were left 
 intact. Smart hats and frocks intimidated the 
 poor, but sweets, and fruits, and shoes were more 
 popular loot. There was no organisation for the 
 appropriation of property; what was taken was 
 rather like a comic scene, staged for the amuse- 
 ment of the public." 
 
 Then I asked a friend who could give me a little 
 history of the Volunteers. And he said, " Colonel 
 Moore knows more of that movement than any 
 man in Ireland." 
 
 " I am told," I said, when I met him, " that the 
 initial idea and the organisation of the Irish 
 National Volunteers were due to you. Will you 
 tell me how it came about ? " 
 
 " Shall I begin at the beginning? " 
 
 " By all means, as an introduction is necessary 
 to illumine my ignorance." 
 
 " Well, there was the Gaelic movement, headed 
 by Dr. Douglas Hyde, which aimed at the revival 
 of a culture of National literature, music, dances. 
 
./: 
 
THE REBELLION OF 1916 29 
 
 and language. Next in importance came Sir 
 Horace Plunkett's organisation of Irish Agricul- 
 ture and the Industrial Development Association. 
 Sinn Fein was very sympathetic towards all these 
 movements, which received little encouragement 
 from the Parliamentarians ; but somehow it gradu- 
 ally degenerated from being pro-Irish to anti- 
 Enghsh. It would be an error to class all, or 
 even a majority, of the people who described 
 themselves as believers in the Sinn Fein policy, 
 as believers in revolution, or as sympathetic to 
 rebellion. Many Sinn Feiners believed that by a 
 cultured propaganda and economic organisation 
 the Ireland they wished to create would come into 
 being without any appeal to arms. They un- 
 doubtedly hoped for Self-Government, but many 
 people who would before the war have called 
 themselves Sinn Feiners are now in the English 
 Army and even hold Commissions. In fact, the 
 Sinn Fein movement in its widest sense ranged 
 from believers in agricultural organisation and 
 voluntary co-operation, like Sir Horace Plunkett 
 and Sir Nugent Everard, and propagandists of 
 the native culture and language like Dr. Hyde and 
 Professor MacNeill, to those who were inclining 
 to revolution, and wished to achieve by direct 
 action in politics what voluntary organisation was 
 doing in agriculture and the Gaehc movement was 
 doing for the Irish language. 
 
30 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 " After the last Fenian rising for fifty years 
 there had been no attempt at an armed revolu- 
 tion; the possibility of it had disappeared out of 
 the minds of nearly all Irishmen, even the most 
 extreme; they had trusted to the exertions of their 
 representatives in Parliament, and in this way 
 had gradually gained much of the liberty for 
 which they had formerly shed their blood. They 
 seemed to be on the point of gaining the last and 
 greatest boon, the right to govern their own coun- 
 try. Home Rule was in sight, when a new theory 
 was developed by their opponents. Sir Edward 
 Carson and the Orangemen stated that votes were 
 of no account; and majorities not worth talking 
 about. They appealed to force, appointed a Pro- 
 visional Government, and proceeded to arm and 
 organise an army to intimidate the Government 
 of the country. Parliament was openly flouted, 
 and the Orange watchword was, * Ulster will 
 fight.' " 
 
 " How well," I said, " I remember that slogan, 
 ' Ulster will fight.' The Daily Mail had its back 
 page filled with photographs of soldiers seven 
 feet high at attention, with Sir Edward Carson 
 in a semi-demi military costume inspecting them, 
 while Arnold White stood by patriotically wear- 
 ing the cap of a sailor, and representing 'the 
 Queen's Navee.' Why, the whole lot of them 
 were perfect pets, only waiting to fight, and so 
 
THE REBELLION OF 1916 31 
 
 anxious were they to do it that the admiring pubhc 
 did not realise there was nobody to fight." 
 
 " Quite so," said Colonel Moore, with a smile; 
 " nevertheless the leaders of one of the great 
 English parties upheld them, and Ministers con- 
 doned their acts; Judges, Peers, Bishops, Clergy- 
 men, society women lauded them as heroes and 
 patriots, and even in England Volunteers were 
 enrolled to fight against Parliament under the 
 Orange flag. Race hatred and religious bigotry 
 were excited to the utmost to bring about Civil 
 War. 
 
 " Mr. Bonar Law, at Dublin, 28th November, 
 1913, said: 
 
 " ' I have said on behalf of the party that if 
 the Government attempt to coerce Ulster before 
 they have received the sanction of the electors, 
 Ulster will do well to resist them and we 'will 
 support resistance to the end. I wonder whether 
 you have tried to picture in your own minds what 
 Civil War means . . . it is a prospect from 
 which I shrink in horror, and for which I wish 
 to avoid if I can any responsibility; but really we 
 must try to think what the effect of bloodshed and 
 Civil War would be on our Parliamentary insti- 
 tutions, on the Army, on the Empire as a whole. 
 It would not mean anarchy, it would mean liter- 
 ally red ruin and the breaking up of law. It 
 would produce results from which our country 
 
32 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 would not recover in the lifetime of any one of 
 those whom I am addressing.' 
 
 " Under such circumstances Irish Nationalists 
 would have been unworthy of freedom if they 
 had not accepted the challenge flung so insultingly 
 in their faces. 
 
 " In October, 1913, a meeting was held in Dub- 
 lin for the purpose of forming a Volunteer force 
 — so you see the germ of the idea was not mine — 
 the object of which was stated to be, * to defend 
 the rights and liberties of all Irishmen irrespective 
 of creed or class or politics.' But the underlying 
 idea in the minds of all was to support Parlia- 
 ment against the illegal threats of the Orange 
 Party." 
 
 " And then what happened? " 
 
 " I joined the movement at its birth, and was 
 scoffed at by my Unionist friends in Ireland and 
 England, who prophesied that I could not raise a 
 hundred men in Ireland to defend Home Rule. 
 * No one wants it,' they said, ' now that the 
 peasants have got the land.' " 
 
 " I don't know what Unionists would do for an 
 argument without peasants and the land." 
 
 " I went to Mayo, which is my own country, 
 and began raising Volunteer Corps in various 
 towns; in this way I was brought in touch with 
 men of all classes, creeds, and opinions; and 
 when I put forward the object of the movement, 
 
THE REBELLION OF 1916 33 
 
 the one that produced the most intense enthusiasm 
 was the chance of reconcihng hostile sections." 
 
 "How splendid," I said; "it really seemed the 
 beginning of the settlement of The Irish Ques- 
 tion." 
 
 " I explained that we were not attacking land- 
 lords or tenants, Protestants or Cathohcs, and 
 that we looked upon Orangemen as our fellow- 
 countrymen. We intended neither to oppress 
 them, nor to force them, where they were in a 
 majority, to accept a Government against their 
 inclinations; but, on the other hand, we would 
 defend our own rights and not suffer ourselves 
 to be oppressed. We wanted Land Leaguers, 
 Hibernians, Sinn Feiners, and loyal Unionists 
 to drill side by side, not giving up their own 
 opinions or associations but coming together as 
 Volunteers. These were the tenets of the Irish 
 Volunteers when they were inaugurated, and 
 they captured the country in a few months. To 
 such an extreme was this toleration carried that 
 in Dublin and Galway cheers were given for the 
 Ulster Volunteers as brother Irishmen. Men of 
 the most intensely opposite sections became 
 friends; I was met one day outside a meeting by 
 the heads of two hostile leagues walking arm in 
 arm; they told me they had not spoken for years 
 but were going to drill together." 
 
 " How proud you must have been," I said. 
 
34 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 "All this was not done without difficulty; it 
 was rumoured that the Parliamentary Party was 
 opposed to our movement, but in the main I car- 
 ried my way in the West, and the same doctrine 
 was preached in every province. 
 
 " When I was satisfied about the soundness of 
 my views, and the practical possibility of our 
 plans, I went to Dublin and joined the Pro- 
 visional Committee. On my first entrance I found 
 about twenty-five members present; nearly all of 
 them were young men. None of them knew any- 
 thing of military affairs or the ' division of bat- 
 tle more than a spinster,' but they had hired halls 
 for drilling and obtained the free services of 
 excellent sergeants to instruct them. Except Mr. 
 John MacNeill and Mr. Pearce and Mr. Mac- 
 Donagh, I had never seen or heard of any of 
 them before, and it took two or three days to size 
 them up and separate the groups. There were 
 about two extremists and four or five young boys 
 under their domination; these latter were mild 
 and quiet and by no means unreasonable. Five 
 or six Sinn Feiners were in a distinct group; they 
 might be described as extreme Home Rulers at 
 this time; they did not approve of the methods 
 of the Parliamentary party, but they were not 
 revolutionists; they had a very cloudy idea how 
 they were going to attain their ends, but in the 
 main they disliked Mr. Redmond and the Parlia- 
 
THE REBELLION OF 1916 35 
 
 mentary party which they distrusted; they fol- 
 lowed the opinions of Mr. Griffith, the Editor 
 of the Sinn Fein newspaper. There were a few 
 like MacNeill, Pearce, MacDonagh, Plunkett, and 
 the O'Rahilly, who belonged to no special political 
 party; they were idealists. The remainder of the 
 Committee were moderate men inclined to follow 
 the Parliamentary party. All these opinions were 
 kept strictly in the background; no politics of 
 any sort were discussed, and the shades of opinion 
 would have been difficult to find out except by 
 private conversation. It will be interesting to note 
 how some of the Sinn Fein party, and some of the 
 Idealists gradually became extremists and merged 
 with the Fenians. The Volunteers themselves 
 were on strictly non-party lines; it was their boast 
 that they were a national, not a political body, 
 and this was not a great exaggeration." 
 " What sort of men were the leaders? " 
 " They were men of the highest character, pub- 
 lic and private, whose whole lives from childhood 
 had been permeated with thoughts not of their, 
 own selfish interests, but of the interests of their 
 country. They were intimately acquainted with 
 its history, its literature, its language and its an- 
 tiquities, and had the most romantic views regard- 
 ing its future. Some of them, like MacNeill, 
 were scholars and Professors, whose opinions are 
 as much studied and respected by students abroad 
 
36 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 as at home; others, like MacDonagh, were poets 
 with considerable gifts. Only yesterday I was 
 charmed by a beautiful poem he had translated 
 from the Gaelic. Pearce was a man of such 
 tender sympathies that he would not shoot nor 
 fish because he could not bear to give pain; his 
 school garden full of fruit was not shut off from 
 the boys; he trusted to their honour not to steal, 
 and when the temptation of rosy apples proved 
 too great, he could not bring himself to slap the 
 little culprits. All were men who would have been 
 the choicest and the finest blossom of any Nation 
 in the world, and whose one absorbing passion 
 was to lay down their lives in order that their 
 country might be advanced even one step in pros- 
 perity and enlightenment. If they had been born 
 in Canada or Australia they would have been 
 great citizens; it is certain they would have been 
 foremost in some wild Anzac charge, and might 
 have died by Turkish bullets instead of against a 
 Barrack wall in Dublin." 
 
 " Yes ; a different environment and such men 
 are heroes. Then what happened?" 
 
 " We were then advanced as far as a com- 
 mittee." 
 
 " A very dangerous stage in Ireland," I said. 
 
 " From the first I had seen that a large body 
 of twenty-five members of different views, very 
 indiscriminately chosen, and with no technical 
 
THE REBELLION OF 1916 37 
 
 knowledge, could not govern the Volunteers. I 
 pressed this point on Mr. MacNeill and those 
 who were the most intelligent, and it was agreed 
 amongst a few that this idea of a small committee 
 should be developed. I considered that a com- 
 mittee of three would be best; but it was argued 
 that there were not in the committee three men 
 sufficiently known and trusted in Ireland to 
 undertake the job, and that five would be neces- 
 sary." 
 
 " The smaller the committee the better," I 
 said. 
 
 " And I was deputed to see Mr. Redmond on 
 the subject. The party had not hitherto ap- 
 proved an organisation that might develop on 
 wrong lines, but they now agreed to join with 
 a committee of nine as a governing body. 
 
 " Unfortunately, there was a slight disagree- 
 ment as to its composition, and the dispute ended 
 by Mr. Redmond appointing twenty-five new 
 members as an addition to the old Committee; a 
 thoroughly bad arrangement which made a split 
 inevitable." 
 
 " Why didn't you, knowing this," I said, " state 
 your views quite frankly to Mr. Redmond? " 
 
 " At the moment I had gone off to inspect and 
 teach Volunteers in the West. I was in Limerick 
 when I heard that a dispute had arisen. I re- 
 turned to Dublin, but it had taken so aggravated 
 
38 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 a form that intervention had then become im- 
 possible." 
 
 " It shouldn't have been," I said. " You had 
 got 170,000 men together in Ireland. It was your 
 job. You should have been firm over the twenty- 
 five members of the committee when you didn't 
 believe in them." 
 
 " Perhaps so," he said; " but Mr. Redmond had 
 written, ' Will you accept my terms or will you 
 not? If you will not I will start a new organisa- 
 tion of my own.' That meant a split in every 
 town and village in Ireland. My hands were tied, 
 but nevertheless the Volunteers grew rapidly in 
 numbers and organisation; Mayo reckoned 10,000; 
 Galway not much less; Derry City over 2,000 
 trained men, so that we could count in the spring 
 about 170,000 men in Ireland. I had been ap- 
 pointed Inspector General from the beginning, and 
 now Colonel Cotter, late R.E., joined my office 
 as Chief of the Staff. We organised the scat- 
 tered Corps into Companies, Battalions, and Bri- 
 gades, and the nucleus of an army began to make 
 its appearance. Public opinion in England was 
 impressed, and the Orangemen began to hesitate 
 as to their conduct. In the beginning they 
 thought — wrongly I believe — that they had 
 squared the Army. It is natural for soldiers to 
 obey, they have acquired the habit, and although 
 Carson's friends and the loyal pretty ladies of 
 
THE REBELLION OF 1916 39 
 
 his acquaintance had asked a few officers not to 
 fight against Ulster, and in a moment of expan- 
 siveness they had said they would not, still when 
 the moment came officers and soldiers ahke would 
 have fallen into hne and obeyed orders; but in 
 the beginning Ulster men calculated on a walk- 
 over. Now it seemed different; the Government 
 was reinforced, and stiffened its attitude to the 
 Orangemen." 
 
 " And the whole of Ireland was becoming an 
 army of drilled militiamen?" 
 
 " Yes," said Colonel Moore; " and events of im- 
 portance were developing in England. War 
 threatened with Germany, and it was evident some 
 sort of settlement, permanent or temporary, re- 
 garding Ireland must be arranged between parties. 
 At this moment the Irish Volunteers rose to the 
 height of their popularity, not only among those 
 who usually supported the National cause, but 
 among the Southern Unionists. The most promi- 
 nent Unionists in Ireland offered their services, 
 and I was glad to seize the opportunity to bring 
 them into our movement, as a sign that we were 
 not narrow or bigoted in our views. Men hke 
 Lord Powerscourt, Lord Fingal, Marquis of 
 Conyngham, Captain Bryan Cooper, Lord Arran, 
 and numberless others, patriotically putting aside 
 old antagonisms, came to our help and became 
 officers of the Irish Volunteers. We had already 
 
40 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 far surpassed the Ulster Volunteers in numbers, 
 and now also we were ahead of them in the rank 
 and position of our officers. We had succeeded in 
 welding together all parties in at least three out 
 of four southern provinces, and we had achieved 
 the result without money or patronage, but merely 
 by the patriotism of our people, the moderation of 
 our words, and the wisdom of our actions. It is 
 a result of which I at least am proud." 
 
 " And with reason," I said. " You had achieved 
 the impossible." 
 
 Colonel Moore sighed. " War was declared 
 early in August, and it seemed impossible to carry 
 on a foreign war with rebellion threatening at 
 home in Ulster. On the National side Mr. 
 Redmond relieved the situation by making a 
 public and unconditional offer of the services 
 of the Volunteers for the defence of the 
 country. 
 
 " As usual, the Government hesitated what 
 course to pursue, and tried to do nothing. Day 
 after day speculation was keener and controversy 
 gr^w louder as to the signing of the Home Rule 
 Bill. I was travelling all over the country re- 
 viewing Volunteers, and everywhere I found the 
 anxiety growing more intense. It was freely 
 stated that Carson had made his bargain, and that 
 Redmond had shown his cards, and was being 
 cheated by the Government." 
 
THE REBELLION OF 1916 41 
 
 " In this instance the delay of the Government 
 proved not only dangerous but fatal." 
 
 " Yes," said Colonel Moore; " the Sinn Feiners 
 took full advantage of these fears, and preached 
 the doctrine of ' perfide Albion.' Lord Kitchener 
 sent over an officer to raise an Irish Division, and 
 the inclination of many people was to wait until 
 the Government declared itself; the Sinn Feiners 
 said, ' The Enghsh are humbugging us ; they want 
 our recruits, and when they have them safely 
 bagged, they will snap their fingers at us.' It 
 could not be denied that their history was true, and 
 their forebodings had every appearance of being 
 true also. Week after week passed by with no 
 sign, only the call for more recruits. The time was 
 agonising and nerves began to give way." 
 
 " With disunion and division in view that was 
 inevitable." 
 
 " I am confident that the weeks elapsing be- 
 tween the passing of the Bill and its signature 
 by the King, coupled with the demand for re- 
 cruits, estranged the people of Ireland as much 
 as the Bill itself had conciliated them. When 
 at last the Bill was signed the enthusiasm was 
 gone; and the fact that it was not to be put in 
 force until after the War, with the threat of an 
 undefined amending bill, left the uncertainty as 
 great as ever. Nobody believed in it. 
 
 " Nothing but the enormous influence of Mr. 
 
42 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 Redmond and the leaders of the Irish party pre- 
 vented a universal and determined agitation 
 against recruiting; whereas, if the Home Rule 
 Bill which had passed three times through the 
 House of Commons, had been loyally adopted by 
 England, there would have been such enthusiasm 
 for the Empire that any number of recruits would 
 have come in, and Sinn Fein would have become 
 less influential than ever." 
 
 " But the Party leaders continued to assist in 
 recruiting, didn't they? " 
 
 " Some of them did. Mr. Redmond made a 
 speech to the Volunteers at Woodenbridge in 
 favour of recruiting; the Sinn Feiners admitted 
 at this time that they could not complain of his 
 advising Irishmen to enlist, but they put forward 
 the theory that the Volunteers had offered to de- 
 fend the shores of Ireland, and that men who had 
 made certain sacrifices should not be specially 
 selected for opprobrium because they did not go 
 further; moreover, men were on parade and could 
 not express their opinions; it was not fair to 
 lecture them in this position. But the real bit- 
 terness was because the Bill was not signed and 
 it was believed that it would be torn up as soon 
 as the recruits had been collected." 
 
 " And so England again lost the confidence of 
 Ireland." 
 
 " I was at this time sitting regularly on the 
 
"Kit" (French Pochette) or Dancing Master's 
 Fiddle 
 
 }W I'errv, of I)ii!)lin. Late Eigliteciitli Century 
 
THE REBELLION OF 1916 43 
 
 provisional Committee and was in almost daily 
 private conversation with the men who have since 
 been executed for rebellion. With the possible 
 exception of one or two of the extremists, I do 
 not believe even now, looking back with the experi- 
 ence of late events, there was a man who thought 
 of rebellion, though some may have had indefinite 
 national aspirations in the far future. They were 
 all Home Rulers, angry at being cheated out of 
 their rights; many of them distrustful of Mr. 
 Redmond, and all of them by this time intensely 
 distrustful of English promises. Distrust of Eng- 
 lish good faith is the basis of Irish disloyalty." 
 
 " What a wonderfully descriptive phrase, * Dis- 
 trust of English good faith, is the basis of Irish 
 disloyalty.' " 
 
 " Before the war began, like most other people, 
 I foresaw the difficulties that were bound to arise 
 owing to the existence of two hostile armed parties 
 in Ireland. I knew that the Government was 
 afraid to suppress the Carson army, and there- 
 fore could not suppress the Volunteers. The only 
 solution I could find for the entanglement was 
 for the Government to extend the Territorial Act 
 to Ireland, into which men of both parties might 
 enlist. Orangemen would have found it difficult 
 to refuse on account of their loyal professions, 
 and many of the Irish Volunteers would do the 
 same. I believe now that was the proper solu- 
 
44 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 tion, and that it was quite feasible; serving to- 
 gether in the same regiments, party antagonisms 
 would have softened. An Orange rebellion would 
 then have been impossible, and the main object of 
 the Volunteers would have been effected. 
 
 "But time was not available; the war clouds 
 had already risen, and men's minds were wander- 
 ing from Ireland and the Volunteers of either 
 party to greater issues. I saw the necessity of 
 taking another hne, and aided by Sir Horace 
 Plunkett, a man always ready to help at a diffi- 
 cult moment, for whom I have the highest appre- 
 ciation, I got in touch with the Commander-in- 
 Chief in Ireland. At his invitation I went to see 
 him, in company with Capt. Hon. FitzRoy 
 Hemphill, and expressed my desire to find some 
 scheme for the co-operation of the Volunteers in 
 the defence of Ireland. 
 
 " An officer of his Staff proposed a scheme by 
 which all the Volunteers in Ireland, Unionist and 
 National, should receive Military Training; he 
 calculated that when the troops were removed 
 there would be room for 20,000 men at one time 
 in barracks, and these should, after a two months' 
 training, be passed on to the standing camps ; their 
 places in barracks being taken by a new levee of 
 20,000 Volunteers; after the camp training they 
 would be ready to take their place on the coast 
 defences; passing after their tour of duty to their 
 
THE REBELLION OF 1916 45 
 
 own homes. In this way by circulating new levees 
 through the barracks and camps the whole force 
 would be trained. Working side by side in this 
 way, I hoped the troubles and hatreds between the 
 different parties in Ireland would have gradually 
 abated, and while the last obstacle to National 
 Self- Government would be overcome, our former 
 quarrels would have ended in advantage to the 
 Empire. The Volunteers were to be under their 
 own officers and their own organisation, and we 
 bargained that the arms should belong to them 
 after the War." 
 
 " If this had been done," I said, " in all prob- 
 abihty the rebellion would have been prevented." 
 
 " At any rate," he said, " the most prominent 
 members of the Provisional Committee, men even 
 outside the moderate section, agreed to these pro- 
 posals. Later on Mr. Redmond and the leaders of 
 the Irish Party also accepted them, but Lord 
 Kitchener refused even to discuss the incorpora- 
 tion of the Volunteers, and the proposal was 
 abandoned." 
 
 " Then it was Lord Kitchener," I said, " who 
 signed the death knell of your plans." 
 
 " I want to lay stress on the fact that the lead- 
 ers of the Irish Volunteers, and that members 
 connected with the late rebellion, were wilhng to 
 join in the defence of Ireland, but were refused by 
 the Government." 
 
46 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 " What a melancholy indictment," I said. 
 
 " Nothing could have been more disastrous than 
 the treatment meted out to the Volunteers; every 
 advance we made was rejected with contempt." 
 
 " And this after all their sacrifices to become 
 soldiers ! " 
 
 " The feature that surprised me most in the 
 Volunteer movement, was the strong desire of the 
 men to become soldiers, real disciplined soldiers, 
 not mere make-believe soldiers. Any officer or 
 soldier of the Regular Army, any man, that is, 
 who understood the trade, obtained their alle- 
 giance. No talker or writer could compete with 
 a soldier for leadership; in fact, there was a great 
 distrust of oratory. There would have been no 
 difficulty in training practically the whole male 
 population of the country if the superior authori- 
 ties had been intelligent, or had listened to the 
 advice of the mihtary and civil authorities in Ire- 
 land. But the opportunity was allowed to pass, 
 and the military ardour was allowed to be diverted 
 into other channels. I believe every one in Ire- 
 land has recommended it, military and civil, except 
 perhaps the Orangemen." 
 
 " It is not surprising," I said, " to learn that 
 every Irishman is a soldier in embryo, for the bit- 
 terest enemy of the Irish has never called them 
 cowards." 
 
 " Meanwhile the anger of the Volunteers against 
 
THE REBELLION OF 1916 47 
 
 the Government and the English nation for put- 
 ting off Home Rule became more intense, until a 
 split occurred in the Committee between the ex- 
 tremists and the Redmondites; I wrote advising 
 the Volunteers to follow Mr. Redmond, and it was 
 calculated that about 160,000 followed us, and 
 about 10,000 followed the Sinn Feiners, many 
 left the ranks disgusted, and never returned again. 
 Then came a series of the most stupid mistakes, 
 every one of which increased the strength of the 
 Sinn Fein section. Under the Defence of the 
 Realm Act men were deported and imprisoned 
 without even a crime being alleged against them, 
 but merely on the information of a policeman and 
 the warrant of the authorities; the advice was 
 often prejudiced or ignorant. Newspapers were 
 suppressed, and allowed to reappear again under 
 a different name with worse articles. 
 
 " There was an occurrence shortly before the 
 war which undoubtedly caused great anger in 
 Ireland, and which certainly was one of the main 
 causes for the line taken by a prominent man who 
 is now accused of extreme courses. All the com- 
 merce of Ireland passes through Great Britain, 
 and a toll for transport is levied on all goods. 
 Before 1782 this commercial blockade was carried 
 out by law, and was the occasion of the demand 
 successfully made by Grattan and the Volunteers 
 for free trade for Ireland. Since then it is be- 
 
48 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 lieved that the same effect has been produced by 
 the secret but no less powerful combination of 
 English merchants." 
 
 " And what," I said, " about Queenstown? " 
 " There again," said Colonel Moore, " the Cun- 
 ard steamers were built by a loan of Government 
 money, and were bound by contract to call for 
 mails at Queenstown, but suddenly permission was 
 asked to leave out this port and proceed directly 
 to England; this breach of contract was per- 
 mitted by the Postmaster General to the great 
 detriment of Queenstown and Ireland, which, as 
 the result of the intrigue, was again cut off from 
 intercourse with foreign nations, except through 
 England. To remedy this, communications were 
 begun with the Hamburg- American Line, and 
 arrangements were made for a regular service 
 from Queenstown. Agents were named and pas- 
 sages taken, when suddenly the sailings were 
 cancelled without any reason being alleged. It 
 was generally believed that this was contrived by 
 the Foreign Office, jealous of any foreign inter- 
 course with Ireland. Whether this were so I will 
 not argue; but it certainly had that appearance, 
 and created a very bad feeling in Ireland. 
 
 " But I think the first event that roused real 
 bitterness among the Dublin Volunteers and re- 
 sounded all over Ireland, was the action of cer- 
 tain police officials in regard to the landing of 
 
THE REBELLION OF 1916 49 
 
 rifles at Howth. The Arms Act was repealed, and 
 the Ulster Provisional Government took advan- 
 tage of this state of affairs to arm the Ulster 
 Volunteers. No steps were taken to prevent this, 
 although it was admittedly for a disloyal purpose, 
 until the Irish Volunteers were founded and be- 
 came numerous. Then an order — believed to be a 
 partisan stroke against the Nationalists — ^which has 
 since proved to be illegal, was issued, preventing 
 the introduction of arms into Ireland. 
 
 " In spite of this a ship was chartered, and with 
 the connivance of some sympathetic officials, and 
 the overbearing of others the rifles were landed at 
 Larne, and the Ulster Volunteers paraded with 
 them through the streets of Belfast, openly and 
 unrebuked. A little later the Irish Volunteers 
 followed suit and landed their cargo at Howth. 
 Immediately news of this was received a large 
 body of police and soldiers was assembled and 
 ordered to take the rifles by force from the men's 
 hands in the streets. In attempting to do this 
 several men were batoned, others bayoneted, and a 
 great disturbance was created in Dublin. A little 
 later in the day some civilians, men and women, 
 were shot by the soldiers during further dis- 
 turbances. 
 
 These unequal proceedings caused a very hostile 
 feeling in Ireland; so far from weakening the 
 Irish Volunteers their numbers were nearly 
 
50 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 doubled in the next week, but an anti-English 
 feeling, and a feeling against the Army was pro- 
 voked just before the war. The extremists became 
 more extreme, and many moderates were attracted 
 to that party." 
 
 " Then it was not surprising that some people 
 opposed or discountenanced recruiting." 
 
 " No. The Irish are a jealous people and 
 resent uneven treatment more almost than harsh 
 usage. The question was asked then as it is 
 to-day in every house in Ireland: What would 
 have happened if the Home Rule Act had been 
 enforced instead of postponed, and the Covenant- 
 ers had revolted as they had sworn? Would Sir 
 E. Carson, Mr. Bonar Law, and those rich and 
 respected Ulster magnates who formed the Ulster 
 Provisional Government have been shot by order 
 of a Field General Court Martial? And if not, 
 why not? Let us carry back our minds to the 
 state of feeling that existed in Ulster and England 
 two years ago, and answer that question without 
 fear or favour. Had they been condemned I am 
 sure every Nationalist in Ireland would have 
 petitioned for grace. 
 
 " Idealists are, as a rule, ready to die for their 
 ideals, but they never get large numbers to die 
 with them, unless there is an economic grievance 
 ready to ally itself with other grievances. 
 
 " The strike in Dublin three years ago left be- 
 
THE REBELLION OF 1916 51 
 
 hind it worse feeling than any of recent years. 
 Labour was starved out, and the condition of the 
 poor in Dubhn is worse probably than that of any 
 city in these islands. The bitter feehng of injus- 
 tice engendered by the strike, and what followed, 
 provided the passionate element needed to drive 
 revolutionary ideahsts into action." 
 
 " And then came the rebelhon? " 
 
 " Yes, and the deciding factor in the rebel- 
 lion was the labour leader James ConoUy, an 
 organiser and leader of men; a man of action 
 who insisted on the literary idealists translating 
 their words into deeds. He indicated the inevi- 
 table meaning of their speeches, and pointed 
 the direction they must go if they were not 
 to be held up to their country as mere 
 dreamers. 
 
 " I am inclined to think some months ago the 
 Governing Committee of the Irish Volunteers 
 passed a resolution condemning any anti-English 
 or pro- German agitation; but a small inner coun- 
 cil formed itself with other views, and a junction 
 was formed with the Transport Union under Con- 
 oily, who besides being a labour leader was an 
 ardent Nationahst; his grandfather had been 
 hanged after the rebelhon of 1798 and the tradi- 
 tion remained in his heart. I have heard the 
 policy of the Governing Committee was that there 
 should be no resistance to the police or mihtary 
 
52 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 unless disarmament or conscription were at- 
 tempted. 
 
 " The leaders of the Volunteers had sources of 
 information in Government circles through whom 
 they knew that a disarmament stroke was in- 
 tended against them; there were details disclosed 
 before the Commission, but probably these were 
 not known to the Sinn Fein leaders ; only the fact 
 that a disarmament was intended. It cannot be 
 ascertained for certain by whom the document 
 read at the Corporation Committee was forged — 
 if it was forged — as the authorities state; it may 
 have been done by an agent provocateur of the 
 Pohce." 
 
 " But how horrible! " I said; " do you mean to 
 tell me that England stoops to employ the agent 
 provocateur? " 
 
 "Indeed, yes; they have done plenty of work 
 in Ireland. Undoubtedly this was the match 
 apphed to inflammable material; it alarmed the 
 Volunteers throughout the country, and the Easter 
 Sunday review was used as a favourable moment 
 for the conflagration. Perhaps not more than 
 twenty-five men in Ireland were in the secret; 
 otherwise it would not have been so well kept. 
 It is certain that Mr. MacNeill, the Chairman, 
 was kept in ignorance. Priests announced coun- 
 termanding orders in Dublin, and they were pub- 
 lished in the Dublin papers. Much evil was no 
 
THE REBELLION OF 1916 53 
 
 doubt prevented by these measures but the secret 
 Committee issued their own orders as a counter- 
 blast. On Mondaj^ the O'Rahilly returned to 
 Dubhn tired but jubilant at his success in the 
 country in preventing an uprising. Later on he 
 went into the streets and found his own comrades 
 in arms; sadly he bid his wife good-bye, knowing 
 he was going to certain death, but too gallant to 
 desert his comrades even in their folly. Rifle in 
 hand, he joined them, and more fortunate than 
 other leaders, he met his death on the field of 
 battle. Hundreds of those who joined this rebel- 
 lion knew nothing of what was intended, till on 
 Monday rifles were put in their hands and they 
 found themselves face to face with the soldiers 
 and participants in an insurrection." 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 OLD DUBLIN 
 
 The Insurrection was lamentable enough, but 
 luckily it spared the most historic part of Dub- 
 lin. There are many streets of shabby but still 
 beautiful old houses in different quarters of the 
 city with imposing doors, richly carved brass 
 knockers, beautiful fanlights, wide, generous steps 
 and even in their sad decay an air of hospitality 
 lingers about them. They seem to say, " I was 
 once not only a fine house, but a Home to those 
 who loved me, and lavishly opened my doors to all 
 who would enter." 
 
 Moira House was a very fine mansion with an 
 octagon room, made brilliant by inlays of mother- 
 of-pearl. John Wesley was much impressed by 
 its rainbow radiance, and pronounced it the 
 finest room he had ever seen. Pamela, the wife 
 of Lord Edward FitzGerald, was a visitor in this 
 house, the guest of Lady Moira when the news 
 was brought to her of the arrest of her husband. 
 
 Burke was born at 12 Arran Quay, Dean 
 Swift at 7 Hoey's Court. Sir Philip Francis, 
 whom many historical students claim as the author 
 of the letters of Junius, was born in Dublin, so 
 
 54 
 
OLD DUBLIN 55 
 
 was Michael Balfe, Charles Villiers Stanford, 
 Richard Brinsley Sheridan, Joseph Le Fanu — 
 never shall I forget, as a little girl, the wild thrills 
 an Irish actor gave me by his recitation of 
 *' Shamus O'Brien." 
 
 *' And Shamus O'Brien throws one last look round ; 
 Then the hangman drew near, and the people grew still, 
 Young faces turned sickly and warm hearts grew chill. 
 And the good priest has left him, having said his last 
 
 prayer. 
 But the good priest done more, for his hands he unbound, 
 And with one daring spring Jim has leaped on the 
 
 ground ! 
 Bang! Bang! go the carbines, and clash go the sabres! 
 He's not down ! he's alive still ! now stand to him, 
 
 neighbours ! 
 Through the smoke and the horses, he's into the crowd ! 
 By the heavens he is free ! " 
 
 What superlative joy that news gave me. 
 
 Thomas Moore was born at 12 Aungier Street, 
 and the insignificant bust on the house is not even 
 kept clean, but his Irish Melodies, known all over 
 the Enghsh-speaking world, will last longer than 
 stone or marble. And I cannot at all agree with 
 the critics who designate this lyrical poet as shal- 
 low and trifling; personally I feel towards him, 
 as the darkies would say, as if he were my own 
 kin, for the very first song that I remember — I 
 could have been scarcely four years old — was 
 
56 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 *' The Light of Other Days." In the warm sum- 
 mer evenings, my mother, dressed in a low-necked 
 and short-sleeved berage, with a little lace cape 
 over her shoulders, would go among her flowers 
 at sundown, armed with a big watering-pot, and 
 followed by a swarm of little darkies, each carry- 
 ing a little watering-pot. After the procession 
 finished sprinkling the grateful roses and pinks, 
 crepe myrtle and jessamine, making the air fra- 
 grant with a thousand spicy odours, she would step 
 on to the long balcony and seat herself in her 
 little rocking-chair, before the wide-open French 
 doors of my nursery, and my father would bring 
 her guitar and ask her to sing, and the last words 
 floating me away to happy dreams were: 
 
 "Oft in the stilly night, 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me 
 Fond Memory brings the light 
 
 Of other days around me ; 
 
 The smiles, the tears 
 
 Of boyhood's years. 
 The words of love then spoken; 
 
 The eyes that shone 
 
 Now dimm'd and gone, 
 The cheerful hearts now broken ! " 
 
 And after all these years whether it be the asso- 
 ciation of early memories, " the tender grace of a 
 day that is dead " — for the old South changes 
 
OLD DUBLIN 57 
 
 year by year — or whether Moore is really a poet — 
 I love him still. 
 
 Molyneaux House in Peter Street is quaint and 
 interesting and still stands. High Street and 
 Thomas Street are wide, and some of the houses 
 are fine on the outside. 151 Thomas Street was 
 the house of a prosperous wool merchant; it was 
 at midnight, in the guest-chamber, that Lord 
 Edward FitzGerald was arrested and received his 
 fatal wound. 65 High Street is a particularly 
 interesting house, associated as it is with the 
 memory of two patriots, for Sarsfield was born 
 within its walls, and Theobald Wolfe Tone's body 
 rested there after his tragic end. It was in the 
 rebellion of 1798 that he awaited the landing of 
 the French at Killala; when arrested he was wear- 
 ing the French uniform, and in this dress was 
 brought to Dublin for trial and condemned to 
 death. But on the day of his execution, his kins- 
 man, Lord Kilwarden, who was himself a Wolfe, 
 granted a decree of Habeas Corpus with an order 
 to serve the writ at once. Curran, acting for 
 Wolfe Tone, feared that the prisoner might be 
 executed before the order arrived. " Let the 
 Sheriff hasten to the barracks and see that he is 
 not executed," said the Chief Justice. In a short 
 time the messenger returned and said that the 
 Field Marshal had refused to obey. Lord Kil- 
 warden then odered the Sheriff and Provost Mar- 
 
58 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 shal to take possession of Wolfe Tone, and show 
 the order to General Craig. Notwithstanding 
 the delay might mean reprieve, Wolfe Tone had 
 cut his throat with a penknife, rather than meet 
 death at the hands of the hangman. The wound 
 was not immediately fatal, and when found pale 
 and bleeding he whispered, " I am but a poor 
 anatomist." The wound was sewn up, and even 
 then his enemies desired his execution, but Lord 
 Kilwarden allowed his brave kinsman to die of 
 his self-inflicted wounds. 
 
 Fishamble Street holds other and more cheer- 
 ful memories, for Handel often played the organ 
 at the Fishamble Street Theatre, and conducted 
 his rehearsals for the first performance of The 
 Messiah there. The Dublin Evening Post of 
 April 15, 1741, was kindly but tepid in its notices 
 of this noble creation: 
 
 " On Tuesday last," it records, " Mr. Handel's 
 oratorio of The Messiah was performed at the 
 New Musick Hall, Fishamble Street. The best 
 judges allowed it to be a most finished piece of 
 musick." And it has proved not only a " finished 
 piece of musick," but an inspired and immortal 
 oratorio. Handel, however, was satisfied with 
 this meagre praise. He wrote to a friend in 
 London : 
 
 " The nobility did me the honour to make among 
 themselves a subscription for six nights which did 
 
OLD DUBLIN 59 
 
 fill a room of six hundred persons so that I did 
 not need to sell a single ticket at the door, and, 
 without vanity, the performance was received with 
 general approbation." 
 
 Grattan, the great Irish patriot, the son of an 
 eminent physician, was born in Fishamble Street. 
 And Clarence Mangan, the gifted and unhappy 
 poet, was born not many doors away at No. 3. 
 The delicate boy had a most unhappy childhood 
 owing to his father's severity and unpleasant tem- 
 per. James Mangan was very like the father of 
 Jane Eyre, who, to discipline his children when 
 he found them wearing httle red shoes, sent them 
 as a present by a friend of their mother's, ordered 
 the removal of their finery, and deaf to the plead- 
 ings of the two weeping little girls, placed the 
 treasures on a red-hot fire and burnt them to 
 ashes. It is a natural consequence for sensitive 
 children unjustly punished to become morbid and 
 to contract the habit of permanent unhappiness. 
 At an early age Clarence Mangan was appren- 
 ticed to a Scrivener, and remained at this monoto- 
 nous occupation the greater part of his life. He 
 is described as prematurely old at thirty-five, odd 
 in appearance, near-sighted, and stoop -shouldered, 
 but his face was beautifully chiselled. Whenever 
 I cross St. Stephen's Green, I make a little detour 
 to pass by his statue and give him a friendly greet- 
 ing. If he had written nothing else, " The Dark 
 
60 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 Rosaleen," would have proclaimed his genius. An 
 Irish girl with a plaintive voice sang it without 
 accompaniment to me, and I seemed to be listening 
 to the sad but ever unconquerable voice of Erin's 
 ages of oppression. 
 
 Belvedere House, standing in a fine position, is 
 one of the most commanding of the old Georgian 
 houses. It overlooks North Great George's 
 Street, that in its day was such a fashionable thor- 
 oughfare. The floor of the entrance hall is of 
 black and white marble, and the wide staircase is 
 richly ornamented with a profusion of stucco 
 work. The Venus, the Diana, and the Apollo — 
 the three great reception-rooms — take their names 
 from their elaborate mythological ceilings which 
 are boldly executed. The chimney-piece and old 
 brass fire-grates are of noble design, and over the 
 mantel of the room of Diana hangs a richly 
 painted Dosso Dossi. Luckily for the preservation 
 of this historical house the Jesuits bought it in 
 1843, and later the Rev. Professor Thomas Fin- 
 lay — who has done so much for Ireland in co- 
 operative work and the encouragement of manu- 
 factures — was instrumental in having the orna- 
 mentation, which was in bad condition, restored. 
 
 I wonder if the students ever see a gentle, un- 
 happy ghost wandering over the house; for the 
 first Countess of Belvedere, whose jealous hus- 
 band suspected her of an intrigue with his brother, 
 
OLD DUBLIN 61 
 
 sent her to his country place, Gaulstown, and 
 there she was incarcerated as a close prisoner 
 for seventeen years. A dark-haired girl of 
 twenty-five, when she was forced to enter her 
 lonely prison, she left it a broken-spirited, white- 
 haired woman over forty. Like the prisoners of 
 the Bastille she had lost heart and courage, a 
 stranger to her children, life's dearest links broken, 
 she sank into a quiet melancholy and died. Even 
 in the beginning she had never loved her husband, 
 but was persuaded by her parents into the mar- 
 riage, and well might she have said: 
 
 ** I go to knit two clans together ; 
 
 Our clan and this clan unseen of yore: — 
 Our clan fears nought ! but I go, O whither? 
 
 This day I go from my mother's door. 
 
 " He has killed ten chiefs, this chief that plights me. 
 His hand is like that of the giant Balor ; 
 
 But I fear his kiss, and his beard affrights me. 
 And the great stone dragon above his door. 
 
 " Had I daughters nine with me they should tarry ; 
 
 They should sing old songs; they should dance at 
 my door; 
 They should grind at the quern; — no need to marry; 
 
 O when will this marriage-day be o'er ? " 
 
 I went through the Coombe one day, and tried 
 to imagine the poverty-stricken quarter prosperous 
 and populous as it was when the Huguenots made 
 
62 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 brocades, paduasoys — which were thick softly 
 corded silks — plain silks, and Flemish tapestries 
 there. Dr. Samuel Madden, the friend of John- 
 son, gave handsome prizes of £50 and £25 for the 
 most perfect painting on silk, £lO for the richest 
 velvet, £10 for the finest coloured original tapes- 
 try, and £15 for the cleverest imitation of Flemish 
 tapestry. Where are all these products from 
 Irish looms now? Doubtless in other countries 
 treasured as heirlooms from France or Belgium. 
 One piece at least of beautiful tapestry, woven 
 by John Van Beaver, representing the Battle of 
 the Boyne, hangs over the chimney-piece in what 
 was the House of Lords. But much Irish work 
 has passed to other lands. The picturesque Quays 
 are full of curiosity shops, and one can cross and 
 recross the bridges over the Liffey, loiter among 
 old books and old china, and pass down the narrow 
 lanes and alleys. Smoke Alley contained the 
 theatre where Mrs. Siddons, Mrs. Kemble, Miss 
 Farren Garrick, Peg Woffington the beautiful, 
 warm-hearted Irish actress, and other lesser lights 
 delighted Dublin audiences. 
 
 On the Quays are the two most picturesque 
 buildings in Dubhn: The Four Courts, designed 
 by Cooley, an Irish architect, is an imposing edifice 
 of grey marble, a beautiful dome rising from the 
 centre of it; and the lovely Custom House with 
 four fronts. The South Front, facing the river. 
 
OLD DUBLIN 63 
 
 is composed of pavilions at either end and joined 
 to arcades, and united by the centre ornamentation 
 of figures. They lovingly embrace each other, 
 and bear in their hands emblems of peace and 
 liberty. England and Ireland for ever united by 
 peace, and above all by liberty. What a satiric 
 commentary in stone! The dome rises splendidly 
 in the centre, and is not unlike the dome of the 
 Capitol. Instead of our massive Goddess of Lib- 
 erty a statue of Commerce dominates it. The 
 keystones of the arches are colossal heads em- 
 blematic of the big rivers of Ireland. And near 
 by, or far away, it is an interesting and archi- 
 tecturally most beautiful building, a lovely memo- 
 rial to the memory of James Gandon, the English 
 architect who designed it. Sir Hugh Lane 
 wanted the Municipal Gallery on the Liffey, but 
 the idea did not meet with Dublin's approval, so 
 the pictures are now housed in Harcourt Street. 
 Why is it that some one scene or appearance in the 
 life of a friend etches itself upon the memory, 
 as though drawn by an indelible pen! I saw 
 Hugh Lane at many distinguished assemblies in 
 London, at receptions, picture exhibitions, in fine 
 houses, and for the last time in New York 
 the night before he sailed on the doomed Lusi- 
 tania. But the picture that remains with per- 
 fect distinctness in my memory of him, is on 
 a day towards the end of February. The sun 
 
64 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 had shone from early morning in a cloudless 
 sky, as though it were June, and snowdrops and 
 primroses had opened their pearl and velvet faces 
 to the warmth, until the park was starred with 
 gold and white. The budding trees looked almost 
 green, as I walked from Carlton House Terrace, 
 through St. James' Park, by Victoria, and on to 
 Warwick Square. The magnificent sunset gave 
 fair promise for the following day, banks of thin 
 white clouds were transformed to rose and gold by 
 the strong departing rays. It was one of those 
 soft, tender days when spring, treading on the 
 heels of winter, can make even the saddest spirit 
 rejoice. As I approached my son's house I saw 
 a man, standing at the top of the steps, ring the 
 bell. Under his left arm was a large, untidy 
 bundle, and when near enough I noticed a long, 
 red velvet sleeve fringed with gold, which swept to 
 the end of his light overcoat. When my eyes 
 reached as high as his head, his hat was swept off 
 with a grand bow, and there stood Hugh Lane 
 laughing like a boy. 
 
 " What in the world ? " I asked him. 
 
 " Oh, it's easily explained," he said. " Toodie 
 threatens not to wear his fancy dress to the Chel- 
 sea ball to-night, so I have brought him one or 
 two costumes to see if they will please him any 
 better." 
 
 " Did you tie up that bundle yourself? " I said, 
 
OLD DUBLIN 65 
 
 lifting the velvet sleeve and laying it across the 
 torn brown paper. 
 
 He laughed again. " That is why people have 
 been smiling and looking at me as I walked along. 
 It was not my handsome self, but my handsome 
 sleeve which attracted their attention." 
 
 Then the door opened, he was shown into the 
 drawing-room, and I went upstairs to try on a 
 white wig. 
 
 And that is how I always see him, as a good- 
 natured, laughing boy, holding a bundle of gay 
 tinsel, velvet, and silk under his arm, happy in 
 doing a favour for a friend. 
 
 What more beautiful memorial has any man 
 than the Municipal Gallery of Dublin, which is 
 for ever stamped with Hugh Lane's manifest 
 spirit of generosity? He not only gave pictures 
 of great value himself, but he so impressed his 
 generous spirit upon his friends, that they too 
 gave their best. Not to the gallery really, but, 
 imbued by his ardent enthusiasm, to him. It is 
 easy enough for all of us who have the power and 
 the means to give, but to induce generosity in 
 other people is quite a different matter. For that 
 your own spirit must be free, genuine, sincere, and 
 filled with buoyant and communicable enthusiasm. 
 The Municipal Gallery ought really to have its 
 name changed to Hugh Lane's Gift Gallery. It 
 would better serve to explain his remarkable 
 
66 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 genius. And not only was he generous in gifts, 
 but he was generous of something far more 
 precious, his time, which, with his great talent, was 
 of inestimable value to the world at large. A 
 member of his family told me that he often said 
 at the end of a long London day, " I am tired 
 to-night, and I've not had an hour to attend to my 
 own affairs, from early morning till late evening, 
 every moment has been given to looking at pic- 
 tures, either that my friends wanted to buy or 
 wanted to sell, and pronouncing judgment upon 
 them." If the owner of a picture was poor and 
 needy, he would travel miles to see it, and the 
 smallest merit induced him to pay a fair price. 
 To the more humble-minded of his friends who 
 bought, instead of pictures, enamels and bronzes, 
 screens or lacquer, porcelain or delft, he was quite 
 as kind and lavish in his advice to them. 
 
 One afternoon when having tea with Miss 
 Purser in the drawing-room in Mespil House 
 with its beautiful Georgian ceiling, I admired a 
 finely carved and coloured coromandle screen. 
 My hostess said, "Yes, it is beautiful; I bought 
 it on the advice of Hugh Lane who went with 
 me to see it." 
 
 And many a young, struggling artist has been 
 helped and heartened by his appreciative criti- 
 cism and understanding suggestions. With his 
 strange, divining eye, he could see the promise 
 
Portrait of an Irish Lady 
 
OLD DUBLIN 67 
 
 and the meaning of a half -finished picture, and 
 almost portend its future. One of his great and 
 most amusing and unusual gifts was his vision 
 of penetration, the power of seeing through and 
 under layers of paint. If a beautiful lady, as 
 sometimes happened, even one who had been 
 painted by Romney or Sir Joshua Reynolds, 
 had later a fancy for a more modern costume, 
 Hugh Lane discerned her restless vanity, and 
 would direct a picture restorer very carefully 
 to work and remove a billowing crinohne over- 
 laid with taffeta flounces, to find underneath 
 it a white muslin and blue ribbons. Or a stiff, 
 high-bodiced brocade, the costume of another 
 changeable dame, would conceal the classical folds 
 of blue gauze and fair, drooping shoulders. He 
 even removed elaborate headgear, mountains of 
 waving feathers and amazing coiffures to find the 
 hair simply dressed, which made the charming 
 face more charming still. 
 
 The first room of the Gift Gallery is called 
 the Irish Room, as the pictures in it are 
 painted by distinguished artists of Irish birth or 
 descent. There are two landscapes by the younger 
 Nathaniel Hone, " Malahide Sands " on a golden 
 evening with a wide sky full of fight and a fresh- 
 ening wind, and " The Donegal Coast." Sir Hugh 
 Lane thought so highly of the talent of this artist 
 that he presented one of his pictures to the 
 
68 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 Luxembourg. John La very has given a dis- 
 tinguished portrait of " An Austrian Lady '* in 
 a shining satin gown that you feel would be silken 
 smooth to the touch. A young girl with a string 
 of iridescent pearls around her neck, and a vivid 
 paroquet on her shoulder, seated at an embroidery 
 frame of glowing colours, is the gift of J. J. Shan- 
 non. " The Winged Horse " by George Russell 
 (A.E.), a finely imaginative picture, is a Lane 
 gift. " The Fish Market," by Walter Osborne, 
 is not only arresting as an exceedingly fine pic- 
 ture full of movement and opalescent colour, but 
 it depicts the picturesque old Fish Market in Pat- 
 rick Street, which is now demolished. Wilham 
 Orpen has contributed what he calls " Reflec- 
 tions," a most brilliant study of Chinese and Japa- 
 nese porcelains. A bunch of anemones by Gerald 
 Chowne is rich in tone, and hke the flowers velvety 
 in texture. Although every amateur begins by 
 painting roses or pansies, there is really nothing 
 more difficult to reproduce than the life and deli- 
 cate appearance of a flower. Miss Ceciha Harri- 
 son, a Dubhn artist, has contributed an expressive 
 and clever portrait of herself. Mark Fisher is 
 represented by his picture of " The Bathers," 
 which won the gold medal at the St. Louis Ex- 
 hibition, and is probably the artist's finest picture. 
 Although he was born in Ireland, America claims 
 the gaiety of his sunshine, and France his bold 
 
OLD DUBLIN 69 
 
 technique. There are two pictures, " Towards the 
 Night and Winter " and " The Study of an Old 
 Woman," by Frank O'Neara, whom the gods 
 loved, for he died young. There is a luminous 
 study by Ambrose McEvoy, " Sheep-shearing " by 
 Dermod O'Brien, " An Oriental Group," charm- 
 ingly painted by Chinnery. " A Tea Party " by 
 B. Bellingham Smith. " The Stranger " by Nor- 
 man Gartin. "The Building of the Ship" by 
 Alexander Roche. " Meditations " by Mrs. C. J. 
 MacCarthy. "A Flood in the Dargle " by J. 
 Vincent Duffy, and two interesting pictures, " My 
 Daughter" and "The Bird Market" by John 
 Butler Yeates. 
 
 While these finish the notable Irish Room, it is 
 only the beginning of this entirely interesting and 
 carefully chosen collection, which includes ex- 
 amples of the art of many continental painters. 
 A noticeable bust is that of George Bernard Shaw 
 by Rodin. The chisel of the great master reveals 
 the author at his best, for the face is not only in- 
 tellectual, thoughtful, and distinguished, but the 
 humour in the hair slightly raised at each side 
 suggests a gentlemanly faun. 
 
 It does not seem possible that a city can contain 
 such beauty as the Four Courts, the Custom 
 House, the Municipal Gallery, and at the same 
 time the repulsive ugliness of the slums. 
 
 It is said that the Insurrection in Dublin can be 
 
70 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 traced not indirectly but directly to the slums, and 
 having seen them I can well believe that such a 
 poisonous ulcer would make any wild upheaval in 
 the blood possible. The heart-rending sights in 
 this district brand themselves upon the memory. 
 The largest national school is well-built, light, 
 airy, and comfortably warm — but the children, oh, 
 the children! The wretched, hungry, thinly clad, 
 shoeless, stockingless children! I saw several boys 
 wearing only one garment, a man's coat with the 
 sleeves cut short, a belt round the waist, and the 
 collar pinned together with a safety pin. The 
 little fellows dressed in this way looked at me 
 with self-conscious shame, as if I could see through 
 their miserable garments to their pitiful nakedness. 
 What sort of a future is the State preparing for 
 these children? What has life given them but 
 hunger, cold, and mortification? Between these 
 wretched waifs and carefully nurtured, well-fed, 
 happy, careless children, full of the joy of life 
 yawns a black abyss. They live in another world. 
 And, incredible as it may seem, greater depths of 
 poverty are reached than the one ragged coat. 
 There are children with no clothes at all. A doc- 
 tor told me he had been hurriedly summoned to a 
 sick call, and when he climbed five pairs of stairs 
 to a garret room, it was perfectly bare except for 
 an old mattress on the floor, which had been slit at 
 the top, and in which were lying three children 
 
OLD DUBLIN 71 
 
 stark naked, one of them very ill. Whether the 
 mother was out trying to get work or drink he did 
 not know. Many of the children that I saw at the 
 school looked thin and frail, but, even clothed in 
 one garment, others were ruddy and healthy; pre- 
 sumably they are the survival of the fittest, as the 
 mortality of infants and children is appalling in 
 Dublin. The teachers in the national schools are 
 doing noble work, but it is against horrible odds. 
 They know what would help heal this festering 
 sore, but are in no position to speak. Politics, 
 preference, and public houses form too strong a 
 combination against them. They can only appeal 
 to the children by example, and give an incentive 
 to order, decency, and cleanness. A large pink 
 ribbon rosette is pinned on the breast of the clean- 
 est child in the class. One little girl of five was 
 brought forwards in a stiffly starched pinafore 
 adorned with the badge of honour. She looked 
 pale and chilly. The teacher said, " There is very 
 little under that clean apron," and certainly two 
 scant cotton garments cannot give much warmth 
 on a bitter day in January. At noontime a cer- 
 tain number of children who are literally starving 
 for food are provided with cups of cocoa and gen- 
 erous slices of bread and butter. 
 
 A young priest whose hands seemed to touch 
 half-a-dozen heads at once of the children who 
 clustered about him, said to me, " Many of them 
 
72 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 will not have a single mouthful to-day except this 
 bread and cocoa. For myself, I rarely have a 
 penny in my pocket, if I wanted to buy a cup of 
 tea I could not. In this freezing weather the 
 poverty which surrounds us cannot wait, for delay 
 often means death. A woman came to me last 
 night and said, ' Father, Mrs. McCarthy has a 
 new-born baby, if she doesn't get food for herself 
 she cannot nurse it, and the child will die.' I was 
 obliged to say, ' My good woman, go away and 
 leave me in peace, to-night I have not one farth- 
 ing in the world. I will see the woman in the 
 morning.' I give all I have and all I can beg, 
 and yet the children must go hungry." 
 
 " What," I said, " makes this overwhelming 
 poverty among these people ? " 
 
 " Want of work, poor wages, but above all 
 drink," he said. " You have seen their places of 
 abode?" 
 
 " Yes," I said, " and they are not fit to shelter 
 decent animals. The owner of a race-horse would 
 not let it remain for half-an-hour where these 
 women and children spend their lives. They have 
 neither necessities nor decencies. The housing of 
 the poor is a crying injustice, not only to Dublin 
 but to the Imperial Government." 
 
 " Then," said the priest, " as you have seen 
 their surroundings you will scarcely wonder that 
 these poor creatures go to the public houses where 
 
OLD DUBLIN 73 
 
 they can have warmth and hght and sit on a clean 
 chair, but aknost invariably they drink too much, 
 and their condition then becomes hopeless. I am 
 setting my face against the public houses imme- 
 diately about us, and more than likely on this 
 account I shall be removed from my work, but 
 whatever the outcome, it is a question of principle. 
 I must go on." 
 
 I looked at his strong face and said, " Father, 
 that jaw of yours ought to accomplish something, 
 it indicates grip and courage." 
 
 " Both are needed here," he said. 
 
 The slums are a result of consequences. The 
 consequences of human nature at its worst. They 
 represent the injustice, cruelty, indifference, and 
 ruthlessness of the rich to the poor, the powerful 
 to the weak. They are a shrieking reproach to 
 mankind, and a monster indictment against pub- 
 licans, the public houses, and the corporation. 
 Thank God, O thank God! that such a state of 
 things could not exist in my own free country of 
 yellow journalism, for newspapers would get at 
 the root of the evil, and cry their knowledge from 
 the housetops. Women would form themselves 
 into meetings and committees, money would flow, 
 and be properly applied to the cure of the can- 
 cerous growth that is destroying the life and self- 
 respect of Dublin. There are slums in New York, 
 of course, and other cities, but nothing that ap- 
 
74 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 proaches Dublin in the horror and dirt of its pov- 
 erty. And there is scarcely a newspaper or a man 
 in Ireland that dare lift a voice against the dis- 
 tillers or publicans, least of all the politician whom 
 they send to Parliament ; he is muzzled and obliged 
 to play into the ruthless hands of the men who 
 ruin the poor, and are directly responsible for the 
 starvation and death of many children. Publicans 
 are not impulsive murderers; they destroy by 
 inches and slow methods the bodies and the souls 
 of those who enrich them. It is prophesied that 
 in twenty-five years every saloon in every State in 
 the Union will be closed. If this is done, then 
 indeed America will be the greatest country in the 
 world. I have only seen one paper in Ireland that 
 has dared to speak in favour of temperance; it is 
 edited by a man of unswerving honesty and un- 
 flinching courage, George Russell, " A.E.," who 
 says: 
 
 " We must say, though we never liked autoc- 
 racy, that we envied Russia its autocrat, when we 
 read the letter printed on the Russian Budget and 
 prohibition. In Russia for the sake of human effi- 
 ciency and decency, the State sacrificed a revenue 
 of £90,000,00(> a year, and no intoxicating liquors 
 containing more than one and a half per cent, of 
 alcohol are allowed to be manufactured or sold. 
 This prohibition is probably the most beneficent 
 action any autocrat took since an ancestor of the 
 
OLD DUBLIN 75 
 
 present Czar emancipated the serfs, and the Rus- 
 sian Duma passed a law making prohibition per- 
 manent. Russia will be a dry Empire, in future, 
 and we have not the slightest doubt when its brains 
 are no longer muddled with vodka, it will become 
 one of the most progressive nations in the world. 
 We in Ireland have signahsed the War by in- 
 creasing expenditure on drink by two millions. 
 The world tragedy has been celebrated by us by 
 the expenditure of fifteen million pounds spent on 
 alcohol in one year. Fifteen million pounds on 
 drink, when industry and agriculture are starved 
 for want of capital and a body like the Agricul- 
 tural Organisation Society finds it difficult to get 
 the few thousand a year it requires to carry on its 
 work of national organisation of agriculture. Fif- 
 teen million pounds spent in muddling our wits 
 and suppressing the soul of God breathed into 
 man, in one small country with a population of 
 four million people. Our politicians are afraid of 
 their lives to hint at enmity to this beastly trade! 
 Men who won't unite or consult with each other 
 for the good of their country, will unite cordially 
 for its evil, so that the devil may always be on 
 tap in pints and pots, in bottle and in barrel for 
 all who require him. We wonder whether any of 
 the galaxy of autocrats created by Mr. Lloyd- 
 George will have the courage to prohibit the 
 sale of alcohol in these islands? The unmaking 
 
76 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 of the distilleries would be the making of the 
 people." 
 
 Ireland can be quite certain none of Mr. Lloyd- 
 George's autocrats will have the courage to pro- 
 hibit the abolition or sale of alcohol. And not a 
 single Irish member of Parliament would dare 
 wage war against the distilleries of Ireland. 
 
 A. M. Sullivan, writing of the Temperance 
 movement, under Father Mathew in 1845, said: 
 
 " That never had a people made within the 
 same space of time such strides from hardship to 
 comparative comfort, from improvidence to thrift, 
 from the crimes of inebriate passion to the ordered 
 habits of sobriety and industry. It did not remove 
 the deep-lying political causes of Irish poverty and 
 crime; but it brought to the humblest help, it 
 banished from thousands of homes afflictions that 
 politics could neither create nor cure, it diffused 
 self-respect and self-reliance among the people. 
 We all noted its influence, not only in their per- 
 sonal habits, but in dress, in manners, and in the 
 neatness and tidiness of their homes. The magis- 
 tracy and police told of crime greatly diminished. 
 The clergy told of churches better filled with 
 decent worshippers. Traders rejoiced to find how 
 vast was the increase in expenditure on articles of 
 food and clothing or of home or personal com- 
 forts. It was convincing to find that the annual 
 committals to prison in the seven years from 1839 
 
OLD DUBLIN 77 
 
 to 1845, with a rapidly increasing population, 
 showed a steady decrease from twelve thousand to 
 seven thousand; that the capital sentences in each 
 year declined gradually from sixty-six to four- 
 teen; and that the penal convictions sank from 
 nine hundred in 1839 to five hundred in 1845." 
 And the same result would be found to-day if 
 a temperance movement swept over Ireland. 
 Drink is a strong and slimy web which covers the 
 entire country, and no courageous knight-errant 
 will rise up with righteous sword to cut its veno- 
 mous threads. 
 
 The Homestead, edited by George Russell, is a 
 high-minded, courageous paper, animated by lofty 
 ideals to benefit mankind. With capital behind 
 it, the good it might accomplish is limitless; 
 unfortunately capitalists are not idealists, and 
 so the slums of Dublin and other wrongs remain 
 unrighted. 
 
 It says much for Dublin that not even the 
 slums, when one gets away from them, can affect 
 its charm. The pale silvery grey skies, the sweet 
 green even in mid-winter of the peaceful squares, 
 the leisurely approach of the public vehicles, noth- 
 ing is hurried in Dublin. Running quickly to catch 
 a tram, the conductor notices my plump propor- 
 tions and calls out, " Ah, sure, don't hurry, lady, 
 we'll wait for you." The same thing would have 
 been said to me in New Orleans, or in Charleston, 
 
78 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 by a tram conductor there. Heaven bless them, 
 and all people who wait for us — pleasantly. 
 
 Another day I had lunched with a friend at 
 Kingstown and found at the station that my 
 ticket had vanished. 
 
 " I'm very sorry, but I've lost my ticket," I said 
 to the man at the gate, " what are you going to 
 do with me? " 
 
 " Sure, what can I do wid yez, lady," said the 
 man, " but pass yez through, an' say no more 
 about it? " 
 
 And it was in Dublin that I met a waiter who 
 refused a tip! I often think I've expected too 
 much of life, but I certainly never expected to 
 meet a waiter who would refuse a tip! Such an 
 experience convinces me more than a sheaf of 
 literature, of the uncalculating generosity of the 
 Irishman. Think of a waiter in the dead of night 
 refusing a perfectly good two-shilling piece from 
 a lady whom he was never to see again. And 
 thus it happened : 
 
 I was dining with Sir John and Lady O'Con- 
 nell at Kilkenny, and though my subconscious man 
 advised me against it, they had no great difficulty 
 in persuading me to take a late train. The com- 
 pany was agreeable, and as there were none of 
 them coming to town, naturally they were opti- 
 mistic about my finding a cab at the station, but 
 the station and street were as empty of cabs as 
 
OLD DUBLIN 79 
 
 Venice. The night was rather dark, and even in 
 the daylight my sense of location was vague. I 
 looked about, and asked a man the way to the 
 Shelbourne. He was just tipsy enough to be too 
 obliging, and said he would show me the way. I 
 dechned the offer — crossed the street — it was then 
 nearly midnight — and rang the bell of a small 
 hotel. The porter who answered the door tele- 
 phoned for a taxi, but they were all out, and 
 the man in the garage said it might be a long time 
 before any of them came in. I asked was there 
 a waiter who would see me safely to the Shel- 
 bourne. " Yes," he said, " a man who lived in 
 Kildare Street," would change his coat and be 
 ready to escort me in a moment. Presently a 
 tall, pink-faced young man appeared, speaking 
 with a tremendous brogue, and we started for 
 the Hotel. 
 
 " Lady, you look like an American lady who 
 used to come to Killarney. Are you an American 
 lady? " 
 
 " I am," I said. • " Have you ever thought of 
 going to America? " 
 
 " That's the dearest wish of me heart, an' 'tis 
 to America I'm goin' the minute the war's over." 
 
 " I wish," I said, looking at his fine physique, 
 "more young Irishmen would go to the war." 
 
 " Tim wint," he said ; " he was killed at Ypres." 
 
 "Was he your brother?" I asked. 
 
80 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 " Yes, he was the oldest of the flock ; he was 
 more hke me Mother than anny of us. Tim cud 
 dance the ould Irish dances, an' he was a great 
 wun for the songs; me Mother was too when we 
 was childer; an' he played the fiddle in a way to 
 draw the Good People from the mountains to 
 listen to him. It was a great blow to me Mother 
 whin Tim wint an' 'listed in the Dublin Fusiliers. 
 I was goin', but me Mother put her apron over 
 her head, an' rocked an' cried, an' wouldn't un- 
 cover the poor face on her, till I promised to stay 
 in Ireland." 
 
 " What do you think of Conscription? " I said. 
 " What would you do then? " 
 
 "Ah, well," he said; "sure if they compelled 
 me to go I'd go willingly, so I would, for then 
 me Mother could say nothin.' " 
 
 " Tell me," I said, " why do you want so much 
 to go to America; you will have to leave your 
 Mother then?" 
 
 "Mary's there," he said; "me friend Mary 
 O'Hagan, an' she says it's the grandest place, an' 
 plenty of money to be made. She's in a grand 
 shop, an' she's savin' a hundred pounds an' more. 
 She do make dresses most beautiful, she learned 
 her trade in Cork." 
 
 "Where is she?" I asked. "In what part of 
 America? " 
 
 " Mitchigan," he said. " Detroit, Mitchigan. 
 
OLD DUBLIN 81 
 
 She's with her brother an' his wife. They do be 
 havin' a grand house them two, for he's a builder 
 he is." 
 
 "And is Mary your sweetheart?" I asked. I 
 could see him blush as we passed under a street- 
 lamp. 
 
 " There's a kindness bechune us," he said. " A 
 great kindness bechune us two; there has been — 
 since me an' Mary was no more than fourteen 
 years old — me Mother loves Mary too. She's a 
 grand girl indeed is Mary." 
 
 " I am sure of it," I said. " And I hope you 
 will both be happy in my country, which has 
 proved a happy home for so many Irish people. 
 Good-night, and thank you." I held out the two 
 shillings. 
 
 " Good-night, lady," he said. " I'm pleased to 
 have been of service to you," and with a grand 
 sweep of his hat, and a careless glance towards 
 the bright coin, he vanished into the night. 
 
 Perhaps he refused the money because I came 
 from Mary's country — how soon the Irish with 
 appreciative understanding adopt America as their 
 own — with " a kindness between them, a great 
 kindness." It was the first time I had heard the 
 expression, and how tender it is — he is sure to 
 follow Mary, and one day they will have a little 
 house all their own, built by the builder in 
 " Mitchigan." 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 DEAN SWIFT 
 
 He now toould praise esteem approve, 
 ■But understood not what was love. 
 
 The Cathedral of St. Patrick has had a 
 chequered past. It was founded as early as 1190. 
 The great tower of Irish limestone, with walls 
 ten feet thick, was built by Archbishop Minot, in 
 1362. After various dangers, dilapidations, and 
 vicissitudes, the complete restoration was begun 
 in 1865. The ground plan is said to be of a 
 beautiful proportion, and the great Latin Cross 
 demonstrates a mind of wonderful mathematical 
 knowledge and accuracy; being finer and more ex- 
 quisitely exact than any Cathedral in England. 
 The interior is adorned with numerous monuments, 
 brasses, and tablets, among them an imposing 
 fourteenth century statue of St. Patrick. Fur- 
 ther away, a little crowd of people, seventeen in 
 all, piously kneeling together, are described as 
 Sir Edward Fitton, his wife, and family. He was 
 President of Thomond under Queen Elizabeth. 
 A monument to Dame Mary Sentleger describes 
 a full life, inasmuch as during her thirty-seven 
 
 82 
 
DEAN SWIFT 83 
 
 years, the lady provided herself with four hus- 
 bands. It is to be hoped the manner of their 
 death was enquired into before her prowess in 
 disposing of them was recorded. 
 
 There are banners and escutcheons to the 
 Knights of St. Patrick, tributes to the Royal 
 Irish, who fought so bravely at Sebastopol, and 
 a finely carved Celtic Cross to the memory of the 
 heroes of the South African campaign. There is a 
 bas-relief to Turlough Carolan, the last of the 
 Irish bards; I daresay the good-looking blue-eyed 
 Carolans of California are his descendants; but 
 nothing interested me so much as the bust of Dean 
 Swift, his epitaph to Stella, his epitaph of him- 
 self, and his autograph contained in a httle glass 
 case. 
 
 When I was a little girl, the most condemnatory 
 word applied in the South to a person, or persons, 
 was " Yahoo," or " Yahoos." I have known a 
 good many in my life, and they inevitably remain 
 as they were born, Yahoos. Dean Swift enriched 
 the language with other words equally useful, 
 Liliputian and Brobdingnagian, for example. My 
 father insisted upon my reading at a very early 
 age Scott's Swift, and I remember exactly how 
 the books of Addison, Swift, Steele, Dryden, 
 Pope, Grey, and Arbuthnot were bound, and on 
 which shelf of the library they stood. 
 
 My beloved father, who was himself a man of 
 
84 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 great independence, used to tell the story of the 
 Lord Treasurer, who at one of his levys asked 
 Swift to present Parnell, and he replied with a 
 brilliant smile, " A man of genius, my Lord, al- 
 though you may not realise it, is superior to a 
 Lord in station, and, therefore, I will leave you to 
 seek out Dr. Parnell and introduce yourself." 
 Lord Oxford took the reprimand good-naturedly, 
 and with his Treasurer's staff went from room to 
 room until he discovered his guest. 
 
 On another occasion, when the Duke of Buck- 
 inghamshire, a nobleman who bristled with pride, 
 asked to be introduced to him, the Dean raised his 
 handsome head, and said: 
 
 " I regret that at present it is impossible. The 
 Duke has not yet made sufficient advances to me." 
 
 I suppose on account of his reputation for wit, 
 his sarcastic humour was borne with patience. If 
 he had lived in the present day, there would have 
 been no unwise insurrection, he would have been 
 the leader of the Clan-na-Gael or Sinn Fein, or 
 of both, as the text of all his eloquence was Ire- 
 land for the Irish. AVhat a pity that he could not 
 have been one of those souls waiting for birth, so 
 poetically described by Maeterlinck. With the 
 fearless genius of Dean Swift now at the helm of 
 affairs in Ireland, she might have had independ- 
 ence, respect, and recognition as a nation. 
 
 It is two hundred years ago, in 1719, that he 
 
DEAN SWIFT 85 
 
 wrote a pamphlet entitled " The Proposals for 
 the Universal Use of Irish Manufactures," its 
 object being to induce the people of Ireland to use 
 only wearing apparel, furniture, carpets, and rugs 
 manufactured in the country, and to close their 
 markets against everything wearable imported 
 from England. What he said seemed an echo of 
 the Irish House of Commons, but it was in reality 
 a stinging and bitter protest against the inhumanity 
 and injustice which had characterised the policy 
 of England towards Ireland since 1665. It was a 
 clarion note to the nation at any cost to assert 
 herself. 
 
 " Burn everything from England except the 
 coal! " he exhorted them. 
 
 In 1660, the prospects of Ireland looked fair and 
 bright, the soil was fertile, the pasture lands rich 
 and beautiful. There were many rivers which 
 were navigable, and the ports and harbours — 
 alas, now lonely and deserted — were the envy of 
 maritime Europe. Farm produce, fat cattle, and 
 grain were sent to England, and fine woollen 
 goods were being rapidly manufactured. There 
 was hopeful talk and plans of sending ships laden 
 with goods to the Colonies. But either England 
 feared Ireland's commercial relations with other 
 countries, or, jealous of her, she deliberately pro- 
 ceeded to destroy all her fair prospects. The 
 wool trade was ruined, industrial people were 
 
86 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 thrown upon the parish for charity, and emigra- 
 tion — which, alas, has never since ceased — sent 
 the strong and the able-bodied from the coun- 
 try. With a prophetic realisation of Ireland's 
 cruel future, and a resentment that his own bril- 
 liant efforts in her behalf had failed, it was no 
 wonder the heart of Dean Swift was ahnost 
 broken and his whole life was embittered. He 
 never forgot the terrible scenes of famine and 
 wretchedness which he had witnessed, although, 
 with his splendid intellect, he had moments and 
 hours of keen enjoyment, and until the death of 
 his tender, devoted, life-long friend, Esther John- 
 son, he was never lonely. 
 
 She was only seven years old when Swift first 
 saw her. They lived under one roof; he as the 
 secretary; her mother, Lady Giffard as house- 
 keeper, to Sir William Temple. To amuse himself 
 he began to teach the thoughtful, pretty, intelli- 
 gent, gentle child, who won his heart by diligence 
 to her books. He was her revered teacher, she 
 was his beloved pupil, and thus began the innocent 
 friendship which was to prove his greatest happi- 
 ness, and to last until her death. There is no 
 manner of doubt that Swift loved Esther John- 
 son; that he ever fell in love with her is another 
 question. 
 
 There can be, and are, strange bonds between 
 the sexes. A man can love a woman as a com- 
 
DEAN SWIFT 87 
 
 panion, comrade, and friend without desiring 
 her as a wife. A woman can love a man without 
 desiring him as a husband. The spark of passion 
 between them has not been, and can never be, 
 ignited. If spiritual and physical communion on 
 both sides be compassed, that marriage is planned 
 in Heaven. But such unions are all too rare. 
 Many marriages are only a compromise. Many 
 friendships are only a compromise. Occasionally, 
 there is an understanding so complete between 
 two people that words are almost unnecessary. I 
 had such an understanding with my father; and it 
 is as restful and refreshing to the spirit as a soft, 
 warm bath to the body. 
 
 The bond between Swift and Esther Johnson 
 was a spiritual one, with no hint of passion to 
 disturb the harmony. He ioved her too much to 
 marry another woman, and what woman could 
 have borne his friendship with Esther? Whom, 
 nevertheless, he did not love enough to marry. 
 Perhaps he was incapable of such love. Undoubt- 
 edly there are men born celibates and priests, as 
 there are men born to be soldiers and patriots. 
 Esther Johnson was not an unusual woman to be 
 satisfied with friendship alone, there are many 
 such in the world who can subjugate passion with 
 tenderness. And there would be much more 
 friendship between the sexes but for a censorious 
 world. To men and women, of undeveloped intel- 
 
88 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 lectuality and meagre spiritual gifts there appears 
 to be but one bond existing between other men 
 and women — a physical one — whereas, a spiritual 
 bond is often the strongest, and the most en- 
 during. 
 
 Next to the love of a mother for her children, 
 there is no love more unselfish than that of a true 
 friend. It is effortless, flowing in a strong, deep 
 tide, like the waters of the Mississippi. It is 
 easy and comfortable, giving a feeling of sureness 
 and serenity that is almost unknown in love. And 
 perhaps friendship has even higher ideals than 
 love. To find a friend unworthy creates a most 
 hurtful wound. 
 
 Swift enjoyed the intellect of Esther Johnson, 
 he respected her character, he basked in her reason- 
 able amiability, he desired above all things to 
 stand well in her eyes, and, allowing for his 
 divagations, she remained the first woman in his 
 life and in his heart. That he philandered with 
 Hester Vanhomrigh is perfectly certain, but there 
 are the fewest men in the world — particularly 
 middle-aged men — who would not inhale incense 
 offered to their vanity by a young woman en- 
 amoured of their vanishing charms. The fumes 
 are too potent for resistance. Dean Swift had an 
 extraordinary mind and intellect, but his vanity 
 was like that of other men. Hester Vanhomrigh 
 offered him the most seductive of all flatteries. 
 
Peg Woffingtox 
 
 National Gallery, Dublin 
 
DEAN SWIFT 89 
 
 a physical adoration of his fine eyes, his fine 
 nose, his fine hands, rather than his fine 
 intellect. 
 
 For a moment her fresh enthusiasm gave him 
 renewed youth. While in her presence he felt the 
 world a gayer, pleasanter place, but with a man 
 of his clear and bitter insight into motives and 
 character, the reaction came, and there were dan- 
 gerous intervals for her and for him, when he 
 almost despised her, but she was passionately 
 importunate. 
 
 " It is impossible," she wrote in one of her let- 
 ters, " to describe what I have suffered since I 
 saw you last. I am sure I could have borne the 
 rack much better than those killing words of 
 yours. Sometimes I have resolved to die without 
 seeing you again, but these resolves to your mis- 
 fortune did not last long." 
 
 Swift, being a man, in answer naturally wrote 
 the wrong letter. 
 
 " I will see you in a day or two, and, believe 
 me, it goes to my heart not to see you oftener. 
 I will give you the best advice, countenance, and 
 assistance I can. I would have been with you 
 sooner, if a thousand impediments had not pre- 
 vented me. I did not know you had been under 
 difficulties. I am sure my whole fortune should 
 go to remove them. I cannot see you to-day, I 
 fear, having affairs of my own place to do, but 
 
90 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 pray do not think it want of friendship or tender- 
 ness, which I will always continue to the utmost." 
 
 This suggestively worded missive, while it says 
 nothing obviously compromising, soothes and puts 
 forth delicate tendrils of hope, and no drowning 
 man is quicker to catch at straws than the anxious 
 and uncertain lover. 
 
 Probably, if there had been no other woman, 
 Hester Vanhomrigh would have captured the 
 Dean; as it was, she only appealed to his vanity, 
 while Esther Johnson appealed to his heart. Many 
 men have philandered at the same moment with 
 two women. One is loved, the other is appreci- 
 ated for her love of him. Dean Swift may have 
 been devoid of passion, but he was not devoid 
 of the love of adulation, he would have been 
 superman if he had been. He cared nothing for 
 Hester, and when she eventually wrote a letter to 
 Esther Johnson, demanding to know if the Dean 
 was her lover or husband, and jeopardised his 
 relations with his life-long friend, he was trans- 
 ported with rage, rode on the wings of the wind 
 to Celbridge Abbey, rushed into Vanessa's boudoir, 
 threw the offending missive at her feet, and in 
 that tragic moment of silence the man and the 
 woman dropped their protecting masques and 
 looked upon each other for the first time. Hes- 
 ter saw a man devoid of all compassion toward 
 her, his heart filled with rage, selfishness, and 
 
DEAN SWIFT 91 
 
 irreconcilable resentment; and he saw a woman 
 whose quest had failed, hard, angry, and vindic- 
 tive. With a grim look of hate and no word of 
 farewell, he left her for ever. 
 
 This action is conclusive evidence of where his 
 heart belonged, and which woman he wished to 
 protect and save from pain. A great deal of 
 sympathy has been lavished on Vanessa, but 
 after all Dean Swift practised no deceit upon her. 
 She knew too of his allegiance to another woman. 
 Diana was a huntress. There are many women 
 who love the chase. Vanessa was one of them. 
 To conquer the citadel of a heart that has en- 
 dured a long siege is very sweet. Shaw has never 
 written a truer document than " Man and Super- 
 man." There are innumerable Annes. At the 
 present time they are nursing in hospitals in 
 France and in England. They are travelling back 
 and forth to Serbia. They are seeking and finding 
 opportunities all over this warring and wounded 
 world to exercise the unacknowledged right of 
 choosing their mates. Men are having nothing 
 their own way any longer. Not even the quest. 
 
 But, however manufactured, the human heart 
 "loves romance. There are people who have never 
 read a line of Dean Swift, who know of the exist- 
 ence of " Vanessa's Bower." In the grounds of 
 Celbridge Abbey, an ancient and picturesque 
 bridge, so overgrown with ivy that only the arches 
 
92 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 are visible, connects a little island in the Liffey 
 with the mainland. A screen of laurel, cypress, 
 yew, and box trees hides the celebrated arbour 
 which blossomed in roses, eglantine, jessamine, 
 and honeysuckle. It was not only the meeting- 
 place of Dean Swift and Vanessa, but Henry 
 Grattan loved it, and has written a poem of re- 
 monstrance to one of the later owners. Dean 
 Marley, who meditated making changes in the 
 grounds near the island. 
 
 There is a very early link connecting this his- 
 toric house with America, for in 1683, Colonel 
 Thomas Dongan, one of the younger sons of the 
 owner of the Abbey, was appointed Governor 
 General of the Duke of York's Province in New 
 York. Sympathising with the ambition of the 
 Colonists, he called together a General Assembly 
 which formed a Charter of Liberties, and he ef- 
 fected a Treaty with the Five Nations of the 
 Iroquois Indians, withdrawing them from their 
 French Allies. He also granted to New York 
 City the celebrated Dongan Charter, which is still 
 the basis and foundation of its municipal law. 
 The Duke of York's Province comprised at that 
 time the States of Maine and New York and the 
 islands of Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard. 
 
 Booth, the historian of the City of New York, 
 wrote of Colonel Dongan, " The firm judicial 
 policy of this distinguished Irishman, his stead- 
 
DEAN SWIFT 93 
 
 fast integrity, and his pleasing and courteous ad- 
 dress soon won the affections of the people." 
 
 He was, however, recalled in 1688; and on the 
 death of his elder brother, William, whose son had 
 been killed in the Battle of the Boyne, he became 
 Earl of Limerick. It was after he had succeeded 
 to the Earldom that Celbridge Abbey was leased 
 or sold to Bartholomew Vanhomrigh, and upon 
 his death it descended to his daughter Hester. 
 
 This honoured house, one of the landmarks of 
 history and romance, which holds so many memo- 
 ries of famous aristocrats, statesmen, poets, and 
 patriots, has now passed into the hands of appre- 
 ciative Americans. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 HICKS, A MAN WITHOUT PRICE 
 
 And then I found Hicks. Hicks the rare — 
 Hicks the untemptable — Hicks the incorruptible 
 — the man to whom, after a deal in old furniture, 
 Lord Charles Beresford said, " Hicks, when you 
 die, you ought not to be buried; you should be 
 stuffed and put in a glass-case." 
 
 A httle old, interesting engraving of George 
 Washington, displayed in the window, induced me 
 to enter a shop and enquire the price. It proved 
 moderate, and I bought the print in spite of its 
 not representing President Washington at his 
 best. The mouth, though firm, looks as if the 
 lips had closed over a set of very badly fitting 
 false teeth, which was probable, as history records 
 that General Washington, like many of the sol- 
 diers at the front to-day, suffered from tooth- 
 ache; and false teeth were not made with the per- 
 fection of the present mechanician, although I have 
 seen some wretched affairs, not only in Ireland, 
 but elsewhere. And Mr. Labouchere had in all, 
 twenty-seven sets of false teeth. He used to say 
 that wherever he went he had teeth made, hop- 
 ing they would be more comfortable than the 
 
 94 
 
HICKS, A MAN WITHOUT PRICE 95 
 
 others. At their villa in Florence, after a dinner- 
 party, when the guests were assembled in the 
 library, a distinguished General of the Enghsh 
 Army, standing by the mantelpiece, smoking a 
 cigarette, flicked the ashes into a small coral- 
 coloured object. Mr. Labouchere watched him 
 with mischievous eyes and no interference until 
 the receptacle was heaping full; then he said: 
 
 " General, do you know you have been using my 
 teeth as an ash-receiver? " 
 
 The General said, "God bless me, so I 
 have." 
 
 " It's a matter of no consequence," said Mr. 
 Labouchere. "I've got twenty-six other sets of 
 false teeth; there is no reason why one of them 
 should not be converted into an ash-tray." 
 
 In the sourse of conversation about the engrav- 
 ing and its authenticity, this Irishman's name, by 
 the way, was Bragazzi— his father was an Italian, 
 and he makes beautiful frames — I asked him the 
 names of shops for old furniture. 
 
 " The most honest man in Dublin for old furni- 
 ture," he said; " he hasn't got the most, mind you, 
 but what he has got he'll speak the truth about, 
 for he can nayther be bought nor sold, is Hicks of 
 Lower Pembroke Street." 
 
 "Do you mean to tell me," I said, "there is 
 such a rara avis in the world, such an original 
 and surprising creature, as a dealer in antiques 
 
96 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 who is scrupulously honest and reliable? -I can 
 hardly believe you." 
 
 " Lady, you can, for I'm tellin' you no lies. 
 And the amazin' part of it is, an' that's where 
 Hicks' timptation comes in, he can make new fur- 
 niture out of old wood, an' the divil himself can't 
 tell that it's new. But Hicks he'll up and tell 
 you, if he cud make a hundred pounds or more, 
 'tis new an' 'tis old." 
 
 I said, " It seems to me that Hicks is making 
 a glorious path to Heaven, isn't he?" 
 
 " He is that, lady, an' he won't stumble over a 
 single imitation table, or stool, or chair on the 
 way. You see, it is in Hicks' blood to make 
 furniture; his father was a famous chairmaker 
 of Dubhn. Now, occasionally, a beautiful old 
 chair of the elder Hicks will come on the market, 
 and fetch a large price as a genuine old bit of 
 Chippendale, Sheraton, or Hepplewhite. The 
 father trained both his sons, William and James, 
 to be not only first-class cabinet-makers, but rale 
 artists. William — Lord rest his soul! — was a fa- 
 mous carver, and had a hand on him as light and 
 delicate as a woman, and as steady and strong as 
 a man. Sir Thornley Stoker owned a table carved! 
 by William Hicks; the wood was a fine old piece 
 of mahogany, and his understandin' hand done 
 justice to it. After Sir Thornley 's death, in the 
 sale of his furniture, one of these Bond Street 
 
HICKS, A MAN WITHOUT PRICE 97 
 
 dealers pronounced it a genuine Adam table — no 
 Irishman was going to contradict him — there were 
 many bidders for it, and the hammer fell at 
 115 guineas, and it went off to London. James 
 Hicks is just as remarkable in his way as his 
 brother Wilham. Sir Thornley Stoker, wander- 
 ing about the old shops, — he was a born col- 
 lector, — came across a fine old wreck, so bad, that 
 old Mrs. Brady was glad enough to get five 
 pounds for it. It was a Louis Quinze chest of 
 drawers with a bow in front, as the legs were 
 entirely gone, sittin' flat on the floor. Sir Thorn- 
 ley sent it on to James Hicks, who restored it and 
 made new legs of old wood. It was afterwards 
 pronounced genuine by competent — annyway, 
 they thought themselves competent — judges, and 
 at Sir Thornley 's sale fetched three hundred 
 guineas. Hicks is well known to royalty and 
 aristocracy; he has made a lot of old-new furni- 
 ture for the Duke of Connaught's house in Lon- 
 don, and while the Connaughts were resident in 
 the Royal Hospital, he gave the Duchess lessons 
 in cabinet-making. There is no one in the king- 
 dom that can turn out more beautiful work in 
 marquetry. Give him a piece of fine old satin- 
 wood, and bits of hardwood, and he can make a 
 table or a cabinet that would pass for a fine 
 French piece annywhere, even in France. In 
 fact, a good many of his pieces have found their 
 
98 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 way to Paris. He buys tumbled-down, forlorn 
 wrecks of furniture that you wouldn't look at; 
 they can be covered with dirt and divided with 
 cracks, but he makes no mistake, and turns old 
 mahogany tables, old beds, and old sideboards 
 into beautiful copies of old furniture. It is a 
 pity that he rarely puts his name on anny of his 
 work, as he never keeps annything long. A lot of 
 the London dealers come over to buy his stuff, and 
 they tell me a great deal of it has been passed as 
 genuine old French and English pieces; and to 
 my thinkin', it would be just as well that Ireland 
 got the credit for good Irish work. But he's 
 an artist, not a tradesman, and glory be to God, 
 it's not his fault that he ever sells annything. I 
 was in his place one day when Lady Cadogan, 
 who was the Lady Liftenant of them times, came 
 in with some quality, and began to admire his 
 stock, and she particularly liked some chairs. He 
 was standin' by with a pad and pencil. ' No,' he 
 said, ' thim chairs is not as they ought to be. If 
 I was to make thim ag'in here's what I'd do '; and 
 then he began to draw different parts, and if he 
 didn't go about among thim English folk dis- 
 paragin' his own work and showin' thim how he 
 could improve on it. Bein' accustomed to Eng- 
 lish tradesmen, who have a rule of praisin' ivery- 
 thing in their own shops, — good, bad, and indif- 
 ferent, and the more indifferent the more praise 
 
HICKS, A MAN WITHOUT PRICE 99 
 
 — these ladies and gintlemen didn't know whether 
 Hicks was a fraud or a janius. But one thing 
 they did know: they had never met annybody like 
 him in Bond Street. They had to come to Ireland 
 to find himself. He has got an order now from 
 the Queen of Spain to make an illegant writin'- 
 table and a large chair for Prince George of Bat- 
 tenburg as a wedding present. The chances are 
 that the table and chair will go out of Dublin 
 without annywan but myself seein' thim, when, 
 sure, they ought to be put on exhibition in Grafton 
 Street for ivery stranger to see what can be done 
 in Ireland. But maybe if you are over here whin 
 they are ready for the Prince you can see thim." 
 
 When finished, the chair and table were noble 
 pieces of furniture. I saw them before they were 
 packed, and Hicks was in great feather, as he 
 said Prince George had the taste of a gintleman, 
 and would appreciate his work. 
 
 It was after my talk with Brigazzi that I went 
 to see Hicks, and since then I have spent many 
 afternoons in the shop of that entertaining man. 
 The night before my first visit, that brilliant Irish- 
 man, Barry O'Brien, the biographer of Parnell, 
 was talking to me of that great statesman. 
 
 " I claim," I said, " through America, half of 
 Parnell's glory. Do you remember the descrip- 
 tion of him by A. M. Sullivan? ' In everything 
 but convictions and resolutions, a more un-Irish, 
 
100 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 un-Celtic man it would be rare to meet.' He is, 
 indeed, the very antithesis of the emotional and 
 impulsive Celt, whose heart divides with his head, 
 the course of his policy. Many EngHshmen ex- 
 pect to see in him a burly, brawling, fierce Irish- 
 man. Instead of that, they would meet a pale- 
 faced and thoughtful young gentleman, quiet, 
 reserved, and refined. In personal appearance, in 
 manners, voice, and accent, he is English with a 
 tinge of the American. A stranger would judge 
 him to be a cultivated Englishman who lived in 
 America, or a cultivated American who had lived 
 in England." 
 
 " Yes," said Barry O'Brien, " but you know that 
 Parnell's grandfather. Admiral Stewart, known 
 as Old Ironsides, was an American. After a 
 dashing courtship, he married Elizabeth Tudor, 
 a beautiful girl of New England birth." 
 
 " I visited Mrs. William Tudor in Boston," 
 I said. "A lovely portrait of Elizabeth Tudor 
 hung in the drawing-room; she was Wilham 
 Tudor's grandmother as well as Parnell's." 
 
 " When she was the affianced bride of Admiral 
 Stewart," said Barry O'Brien, "he asked, as he 
 was saihng for English waters, 'When I come 
 back what shall I bring you?' 'An Enghsh 
 frigate,' she said. 'I'll bring you two,' he an- 
 swered, and he did. His battleship appeared 
 with two frigates in tow. Do you know that 
 
The Cross op^ Cong 
 
 Made for Turlough O'Conor, King of Ireland in 11^3, designed as a 
 shrine worthy to liold a piere of the true Cross 
 
HICKS, A MAN WITHOUT PRICE 101 
 
 pretty story of your high-spirited country- 
 women? " 
 
 What a strange coincidence that I was to see 
 the picture of those very ships. Looking about 
 the salesroom of Hicks the next day, he soon 
 divined my nationahty, and offered to show me 
 two pictures that were in process of packing for 
 shipment to America. A hfe-sized portrait of 
 Admiral Stewart, in the gold-laced uniform of the 
 American Navy was one; and a picture of three 
 ships — an American battleship and two Eng- 
 lish frigates — was the other. They had originally 
 come from America, had hung for many years in 
 Avondale, Parnell's house in Wicklow, and were 
 now going home. I hope they have crossed the 
 water for the last time, and will be treasured by 
 some member of the Tudor family. 
 
 " How much are these chairs? " I asked Hicks, 
 on another visit. 
 
 " They are not for sale ; they belong to a gintle- 
 man who sent them to me fifteen years ago to be 
 repaired." 
 
 I smiled. "Fifteen years ago! And have you 
 repaired them? " 
 
 " They are nearly finished," said Hicks. 
 " When he comes for them they'll soon be ready." 
 
 "And don't you charge for storage?" 
 
 "An' how could I be doin' that? Sure, the 
 man may be travellin'; certainly he has the best 
 
102 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 of raisons for leavin' thim chairs here. But that's 
 not so long as a harpsichord a lady left with me 
 for twenty-five years, and it would have been 
 there still but for a dinner-party given by the 
 Duke of Connaught." 
 
 " Did you lend it to the Duke for the party? " 
 I asked, remembering that one day I had seen a 
 van piled high with beautiful furniture, which 
 Mrs. Hicks, a true lady in manner and in heart, 
 told me they were lending to a poor young doctor 
 who was getting married. I wonder if they'll 
 lend it to him for fifteen years. 
 
 " God bless my soul, no," said Hicks. " The 
 Duke wouldn't be borrowin' furniture. He has 
 got a very fair an' decided taste of his own; he 
 knows what to buy, and he buys it. What a 
 blessin' for Ireland if we had him here altogether. 
 He's a rale gintleman — if he is a royalty — and 
 he could help settle The Irish Question better 
 than most, because he has an understandin' of the 
 people. The Irish like him, and they wouldn't 
 like him if he didn't like thim." 
 
 " Tell me," I said, " about the dinner and the 
 harpsichord." 
 
 " I have to go back," said Hicks, " to whin the 
 piano arrived from London, and I paid twenty- 
 five shilhn's carriage — I wrote that down in a book 
 — and I heard nothin' more. Twenty years after- 
 wards, I opened the case; the instrument pretty 
 
HICKS, A MAN WITHOUT PRICE 103 
 
 well fell to pieces. It wasn't for music the lady 
 bought it, annyhow, but for satinwood, and sure 
 it was a rare piece of wood. There was wan other 
 thing in the case, a mahogany stand. A grand 
 thickness it was, and I could have used it for 
 manny a thing, and thought I would when twenty- 
 three years wint by. But, as luck would have it, 
 I let it alone. Then the Duke came to me and 
 says, ' Hicks, have you got an old satinwood piano 
 or harpsichord?' 'I have. Sir,' I said. 'I got 
 one at a sale in town. It is a beautiful piece of 
 satinwood, and has got the name of the maker on 
 it, — H. Woffington, — most probably he was a 
 relative of the celebrated actress, Peg Woffington, 
 that wonderful daughter of a Dublin bricklayer 
 and a Dublin laundress, who took the town by 
 storm in the Beggar's Opera, when she was only 
 eighteen years old. But she could niver have gone 
 straight into opera without some musical educa- 
 tion; so it seems to me, that her father and the 
 H. Woffington that made this harpsichord 
 must have been brothers. That Mrs. Woffington 
 must have been a great woman to preside at the 
 Tory dinners of the Beefsteak Club.' Well, the 
 Duke was very pleased to hear about the harpsi- 
 chord, and I didn't let him see it until I got a 
 pianomaker to come and set the movements right, 
 and it made a nice little gentle, old-fashioned, 
 tingling kind of music. Most dealers make these 
 
104 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 pianos into cabinets, but I think it is much better 
 to leave things for what they were meant to be. 
 If it is possible, a thing should remain honestly 
 what it is. I must say that the Duke was pleased 
 and smiling when he saw the piano," — then Hicks 
 gave an unconscious sigh, — " but what with one 
 thing and another, restoring it, and the piano- 
 maker to set it right again, I must say I had more 
 pleasure than profit when I sold it. In fact it 
 was only a matter of a few pounds. But then 
 over a very good thing I often make no more than 
 a couple of pounds. And, upon my word, I'd 
 rather that than sell it to a rank outsider, who 
 wouldn't know what he was buying. If I say 
 to a customer who knows what's what, ' That 
 table's tin pounds,' and he says, ' Hicks, send it 
 to me to-morrow, and here's a cheque for eight,' 
 'tis hard for me to hold out agin' him. I've got 
 a kind of feelin' for furniture; I suppose it is I 
 like me chairs to go where they will be kindly 
 tr'ated and looked after. So I sint the tinklin' 
 harpsichord to the Duke and he agreed with me 
 it was a grand piece. And at the dinner-party a 
 lady said to him, ' I see Hicks has sold you me 
 cousin's piano that he's had stored away.' ' No,' 
 said the Duke, ' I'm very sure Hicks wouldn't do a 
 thing like that.' The lady said she knew the 
 piano. The Duke explained it had not been in 
 Hicks' possession for long, but she wais uncon- 
 
HICKS, A MAN WITHOUT PRICE 105 
 
 vinced. The Duke said nothin' to me — he was too 
 much of a gintleman for that — but one of the 
 guests said, ' Hicks, I heard an aspersion on your 
 character the other evening,' and then she told me 
 the conversation. God knows, after all these 
 years, when nayther satinwood nor mahogany, nor 
 the best ould imitation I iver made — an' some of 
 thim's almost deceaved miself — have induced me 
 to imperil my immortal soul, I was boiling mad. 
 Maybe I'll deserve purgatory, but manny a dealer 
 in ould stuff won't even have a look in at that 
 place of purification, he'll go straight down, and 
 stay there sittin' and roastin' and squirmin', on his 
 red-hot bastard sofas and chairs. I wrote and 
 asked the lady, who had been to the Duke's dinner, 
 to come to the shop, and I showed her her cou- 
 sin's piano, and the mahogany stand, which the 
 two of them had forgot — I might have used it 
 after all, it was a grand piece of wood — and I says, 
 ' Please tell your cousin to pay me the twenty- 
 five shillin's ' — I showed her the book — ' and 
 to send for the piano at the same time, I can't 
 keep it any longer.' " 
 
 "And did she send for it?" I asked. 
 
 " Ah, sure, about a year after, it was hauled 
 away." 
 
 " And you got your twenty-five shillings, I 
 hope? " 
 
 "About that," said Hicks, "about that; maybe 
 
106 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 it was but twinty. Where are those good chairs 
 that another gintleman left with us seventeen 
 years ago? Show them to Mrs. O'Connor," he 
 called to Mrs. Hicks. 
 
 " They're in our own house now," said Mrs. 
 Hicks. 
 
 " I'm hopin' he won't come for them," said 
 Hicks. *'I've got to hke them." 
 
 " In Texas," I said, " after a man's squatted on 
 land for ten years, he gets a quit claim to it; 
 seven years desertion and silence give a woman 
 a divorce; I think there should be a law in Ire- 
 land about the abandonment of pianos and chairs. 
 When there is a ParUament on College Green, I'll 
 propose a bill." 
 
 " I'd rather have you a mimber than anny I 
 know," said Hicks, gallantly, although I doubt if 
 he beheves in Woman's Suffrage. 
 
 Hicks is an artist in the making of furniture. 
 The first thing that strikes the eye of the ordinary 
 observer is, of course, line. But an expert cabinet- 
 maker must have feeling, an appreciation for 
 design, an unerring eye for the colour of the wood, 
 both in the raw material and as a finished product. 
 He must not, if he is copying eighteenth century 
 furniture, add a hair's breadth to the inch. He 
 must understand mathematical precision. The 
 legs of a chair must approach the body as 
 close as wax. The carving must be sharp and 
 
HICKS, A MAN WITHOUT PRICE 107 
 
 bold. The inlay so smooth, that the finger of 
 a blind man passing over it is unable to detect 
 flower or scroll. All his my friend Hicks can 
 compass, and his copies of old furniture have 
 often puzzled experts. The Duke recommended 
 him to a gentleman who not only became a good 
 client, but appreciated Hicks' unerring eye for 
 genuine old pieces. Hicks was asked to his place 
 in the country for the purpose of passing judg- 
 ment on various treasures. When they came to the 
 drawing-room and Hicks loitered near a beautiful 
 French table, Sir Arthur jocosely said, " Don't 
 take the trouble. Hicks, to fix your copying eye 
 on that old table; it's beyond you. The green 
 inlay was only done to perfection in the time of 
 Marie Antoinette." 
 
 " No, Sir," said Hicks, running his hand affec- 
 tionately over the pale green ribands, set in 
 golden satinwood, " I made this table." 
 
 " Hicks, you're a liar! " 
 
 " I may be," said Hicks ; " but not about this 
 table. Sir. Thirty years ago a gintleman customer 
 of mine, who only owned respectable furniture — 
 by that I mean furniture that speaks for a man's 
 taste, knowledge, and breeding — believe me. Sir, 
 cabinets and chairs and tables can say a good deal 
 for a man, as china and prints can speak for a 
 woman, — came to me and said, ' Hicks, I want you 
 to cross to London to-night and buy a table for 
 
108 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 me that is to be sold in a few days at Christies'. 
 It's a genuine bit of Louis XVI, and was at one 
 time at Versailles, there's no doubt about that. 
 But I can only go to a certain figure. Photo- 
 graph it with your eyes, measure it with your 
 hands, drink in the beautiful colour of it, so that, 
 at least, I may have a reminder of the lost treas- 
 ure, if I don't get it.' That table certainly was 
 of the best, mellow in colour, lovely in hne, and 
 inlaid by the hand of a great artist. I knew the 
 moment I saw it, that I wouldn't be able to buy 
 it, so I set about photographing it with my eyes, 
 and luckily I knew one of the men at Christies'. 
 He allowed me to measure and to sketch it. I was 
 there as soon as the doors were open in the morn- 
 ing, and I stayed until after the sale. The table 
 fetched three times my price. Then I came back 
 to Dublin, and set to work, and made four of 
 these tables. One went to Germany, one to Lon- 
 don, one to my client, and you have the other." 
 
 " Well, I'm damned," said the owner. " Hicks, 
 I gave a lot of money for that table, a fancy 
 price, and bought it for the genuine thing. 
 Are you sure this isn't a fairy story, you 
 villain? " 
 
 " Turn it up, Sir, and you'll find a httle scrawly 
 * H ' in ebony, close to the right foreleg." 
 
 "It's here. Hicks, that betraying ' H,'" Sir 
 Arthur said, with the table turned upside down. 
 
HICKS, A MAN WITHOUT PRICE 109 
 
 " What a pity I didn't send for you before I 
 bought it." 
 
 " Yes, Sir, in one way it is ; but all the same, 
 in my own defence, I will say that it's a mighty 
 good table ; I never made a better ; the wood is old 
 and mellow, the colour is soft and deep, the 
 design is fine, the inlay is perfect, and the work is 
 a credit to me, and to the men who did their share 
 of it." 
 
 " And," said Sir Arthur, " as the firm I bought 
 it from have gone bankrupt, I must be satisfied 
 with a good table and a good story, that's about 
 it." 
 
 " And it might have been worse, Sir. I've seen 
 gintlemen done with a bad table, and no joke 
 either," said Hicks. 
 
 Hicks is very observant, and sympathetic 
 enough to be an almost unerring judge of char- 
 acter. A lady of England having bought various 
 valuable pieces of furniture from him, said, "If 
 you are ever in London, Mr. Hicks, come and 
 see me, I may find something in my house for 
 you to do." A day came when Hicks remem- 
 bered her words and went to London — being a 
 sportsman, he is always ready to take a fighting 
 chance — but this time Fate seemed against 
 him, for the butler said the lady had gone 
 abroad. 
 
 " Has she a sicretary? " asked Hicks. 
 
110 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 " She has," said the butler, " and I'll ask him 
 to see you." 
 
 When Hicks repeated the conversation between 
 the lady and himself the secretary said, " I have no 
 authority to give you an order to do any work." 
 But being already prepossessed in his favour, 
 when Hicks asked to be shown over the house, the 
 secretary opened the rooms to him. 
 
 Hicks stopped long at the door of the drawing- 
 room, tapped the walls, with his quick eye meas- 
 ured them, and said, " This room must be 
 panelled." 
 
 "What!" said the startled secretary. 
 
 " It cries out for panellin'," said Hicks. 
 
 *' But I can't give you an order to panel it," 
 said the secretary. 
 
 " How long will the lady be away? " ques- 
 tioned Hicks. 
 
 " Two or three months." 
 
 " Then I'll begin work to-morrow, an' if the 
 lady likes the room and the price she can pay for 
 it. If not I'll lose confidence in me pocket and 
 me judgment. That's fair enough, isn't it? " 
 
 *' Yes," said the secretary, who was a sportsman, 
 too ; " but first write me a letter which absolves 
 me from all responsibihty." 
 
 " I'll do that," said Hicks, " an' we'll give her 
 ladyship the pleasant surprise of her life." 
 
 When introduced to the room, the lady was 
 
HICKS, A MAN WITHOUT PRICE 111 
 
 first surprised, then delighted, then amused; and 
 she paid the bill of three hundred pounds without 
 a protest. And Hicks, with confidence in his 
 judgment, his pocket, and his lucky star, re- 
 turned to Ireland more than ever a Knight of 
 Chance. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 OLD IRELAND, AND THE LITTLE WHITE 
 FLOWER 
 
 I AM not only grateful to my friend Hicks for 
 a quite beautiful chest of drawers that he made 
 for me, but it was he who brought to my notice 
 the Georgian books. Those five valuable volumes, 
 compiled under the auspices of the Georgian So- 
 ciety, which contain the records of the noble 
 eighteenth century architecture of celebrated 
 houses in Dublin, and of historic country places 
 throughout Ireland. Rev. J. P. Mahaffy, Pro- 
 vost of Trinity College, who has contributed much 
 appreciative work to these books, was kind enough 
 to give me permission to use any of the beautiful 
 illustrations. Unfortunately for my purpose, the 
 plates have been destroyed. This is an advantage 
 to the limited number of volumes which have been 
 issued, making them each year increase in value; 
 but it seems a pity not to have sealed up the 
 plates and put them in some place of safety, 
 for the benefit of future generations. Not only 
 will these books give hours of delight to the idle 
 person, who amuses himself with picture books, 
 
 112 
 
OLD IRELAND 113 
 
 but they are satisfying to lovers of architecture, 
 full of suggestions to architects, and Pepys him- 
 self, in his gossiping Diary, is not more piquant 
 than a number of these records of the great 
 houses, and the great people of Ireland's pros- 
 perous past. 
 
 Lady Caroline Dawson, afterwards Countess of 
 Portarlington, in the autumn of 1778, writes to her 
 sister, Lady Louisa Stewart, in a sprightly fashion 
 of Carton, the family seat of the Duke of Leinster: 
 
 " You will be surprised, when I tell you there 
 are at present four generations in the house, the 
 Duchess having her mother, and grandmother pay- 
 ing her a visit, which with her children make up 
 four; and the great-grandmother is a very good- 
 looking woman, not older than most people's 
 mothers, and the Duchess' mother. Lady. St. 
 George, one would take to be fifteen. I must 
 describe her to you because she is so remarkable. 
 She has a very pretty little figure, with a face not 
 handsome but well enough, and her dress in the 
 afternoon is a polonaise trimmed with gauze; 
 upon recollection I am telling you wrong, for it 
 is a Circassian all over loops and tassels (like 
 the one Mrs. Stewart brought from Paris last 
 year), and a httle black Henri Quatre hat upon 
 her head, with her hair dressed up to it behind. 
 In the morning she wears an orange-coloured 
 habit, embroidered or rather embossed with gold. 
 
114 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 and a great rich gold stuff waistcoat, with broad 
 laced ruffles, and a little white beaver hat with 
 a bunch of white feathers upon the top, and a 
 black stock, so that she looks the finest French 
 figure you ever saw. Everything seems to go on 
 in great state here. The Duchess appears in a 
 sack, and hoop, and diamonds, at every meal, and 
 such quantities of plate, etc., that one would 
 imagine oneself in a palace; and there are servants 
 without end. One morning they drove us all over 
 the park, which is really fine, though all done 
 by the Duke's father — therefore no wood of 
 any growth — but there is a fine river with 
 rocks, etc. 
 
 "It is not the fashion at Carton to play at 
 cards. The ladies sit and work, and the gentle- 
 men lollop about, and go to sleep — at least the 
 Duke does, for he snored so loud the other night 
 that we all got into a great fit of laughing and 
 waked him. They asked me if I liked cards, and 
 I pretended I did, much more than I really do, 
 for the sake of getting a card-table, for when 
 there are a great many people sitting in that man- 
 ner it's very tiresome, so I had a party at whist 
 every night; but they seemed to think it very odd 
 that a young woman should like cards. Yesterday 
 before we set out, we went to church with them. 
 They have a very comfortable gallery with a good 
 fire. I forgot to mention to you the Duke's 
 
OLD IRELAND 115 
 
 chaplain lives in the house with them, and reads 
 prayers every morning, which all the ladies of 
 the house attend very devoutly, but I can't say so 
 much for the gentlemen. I think it a very proper 
 custom in a large family, but then I think the 
 master as well as the mistress should attend. Even 
 though there is a great deal of state, I could not 
 help admiring the great grown-up girls stealing 
 an opportunity, when they thought the company 
 did not mind them, to hug their father and mother, 
 with an appearance of affection that did one 
 good." 
 
 This agreeable letter shows that young grand- 
 mothers have existed in every century, and ap- 
 parently Lady St. George, " looking fifteen," was 
 quite equal to any of the present-day wonders. 
 "A face not handsome but well enough," sug- 
 gests what the French call " une jolie laide" I 
 have never seen a Circassian " all over loops and 
 tassels " but it sounds deliciously youthful and 
 coquettish, and " a polonaise trimmed with gauze " 
 is positively ravishing. The little lady in the morn- 
 ing must have rivalled an aureole in her orange- 
 coloured habit, embossed with gold, and " a great 
 rich gold stuff waistcoat, with broad laced ruf- 
 fles." I am sure the glossy white beaver hat, with 
 a bunch of white feathers on the top, and a black 
 stock, created havoc among the male sex, grand- 
 mother as she was. The privacy of their " com- 
 
116 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 fortable gallery with a good fire," must have been 
 an inducement to church attendance if not to piety. 
 Mr. Labouchere once told me that he had read all 
 of Sir Walter Scott's novels in the softly cushioned 
 gallery of a church, where his uncle, Lord Taunton, 
 did not go himself, but sent his nephews for the 
 good of their souls. And I hke the " great grown- 
 up girls, the daughters of the Duke, stealing an 
 opportunity of hugging their father and mother.'* 
 It might have been the history of one of the warm- 
 hearted aristocratic famihes of South Carolina or 
 Louisiana, and the following paragraph is even 
 more reminiscent of the South: 
 
 *' The house is crowded — a thousand comes and 
 goes. We have an immense table — chocolate — 
 honey — hot bread — cold bread — brown bread — 
 white bread — green bread," — was green bread rye, 
 I wonder — " and all-coloured breads and cakes. 
 After breakfast, Mr. Scott, the Duke's chaplain, 
 reads a few short prayers, and then we go as 
 we like — a back room for reading, a billiard- 
 room, a printing-room, a drawing-room, and 
 whole suites of rooms, not forgetting the music- 
 room. 
 
 " We dine at half -past four or five, courses 
 upon courses, which I believe takes up two full 
 hours. It is pretty late when we leave the par- 
 lour; we then go to tea, so to cards about nine, 
 play till supper-time — 'tis pretty late by the time 
 
OLD IRELAND 117 
 
 we go to bed. I forgot to tell you the part you 
 would like best — French horns playing at break- 
 fast and dinner. There are all sorts or amuse- 
 ments; the gentlemen are out hunting and shoot- 
 ing all the mornings." 
 
 Ireland, among all classes, and in all centuries, 
 seems to have indulged in opulent and picturesque 
 funerals. Four thousand pounds was spent upon 
 the funeral of the first Lady Blessington. She 
 died in Paris, and was brought back to Dublin by 
 a whole retinue of mutes and mourners. The 
 drawing-room in Blessington House had been con- 
 verted into a ckapelle ardente. The walls were 
 hung in purple silk, an altar was erected, upon 
 it stood gilt candlesticks holding lighted wax 
 candles, silver censers threw out clouds of in- 
 cense, and in the centre of the room the magnifi- 
 cent coffin was placed, draped in a black velvet 
 pall, glittering with gold embroidery. The mourn- 
 ers, six on either side, swathed in crepe with bands 
 of white silk across their breasts, sat beside the 
 coffin, and for eight days all of Dubhn poured in 
 to view this spectacular exhibition. And as 
 far back as 1786, the burial service of the Right 
 Hon. Lord Colooney, son and heir of the 
 Right Hon. the Earl of Bellamount, is thus 
 described : 
 
 " The remains lay in the saloon in the attick 
 storey three days, said time being necessary to 
 
118 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 give due notice to the gentlemen of the County, 
 who had expressed their intention of showing their 
 regard to the Earl and his family, by their at- 
 tendance at the interment from the most distant 
 parts. The saloon, which is supported by pillars 
 and lighted by a cupola, was hung with a black 
 cloth; as also the cupola, which was lighted with 
 tapers, and constantly attended by upper ser- 
 vants, appointed to succeed each other night and 
 day. 
 
 " On Wednesday, 10th inst., the remains were 
 removed in the following order from Bellamount 
 Forest, to the Earl's family vault in the parish 
 church in the town of Cootehill, amidst the 
 greatest concourse of spectators ever remembered 
 in the County on any occasion, who all testified 
 their concern and respect by the most solemn si- 
 lence and strict regularity throughout the whole 
 of the ceremony in which every affectation of 
 extraordinary parade was avoided. (?) 
 
 " The procession : 
 
 Twelve conductors, two and two, with black cloaks, and 
 
 white staves. 
 Physicians, surgeons, and apothecaries, two and two. 
 Clerk of the Parish. 
 
 Clergy of the Church of England, two and two. 
 Dissenting Clergy, two and two. 
 Seceding Clergy, two and two. 
 Moravian Clergy, two and two. 
 Clergy of the Church of Rome, two and two. 
 
End of Saloon, with Organ, at Carton, the 
 Family Seat of the Duke of Leinster 
 
OLD IRELAND 
 
 119 
 
 
 The Hearse 
 
 
 drawn by six horses, with 
 
 Three servants 
 
 plumes, escutcheons 
 
 in their full 
 liveries, scarfs 
 
 and streamers, carrying 
 
 and hat-bands, 
 
 the remains in a black 
 
 uncovered. 
 
 velvet coffin, enriched 
 
 
 with proper 
 
 
 emblems. 
 
 Three servants 
 
 in their full 
 
 liveries, scarfs 
 
 and bat-bands, 
 
 uncovered. 
 
 Bearers. 
 
 Charles Stuart, Esq., one of 
 the representatives of 
 
 the County. 
 
 Oliver Nugent, Esq. 
 
 Thomas Nesbit, Esq. 
 
 Member for the Borough of 
 
 Cavan. 
 
 Rev. Joseph Pratt. 
 
 The High Sheriff. 
 
 Robert Saunderson, Esq. 
 
 Richard Anketell, Esq. 
 
 Matthew Anketell, Esq. 
 
 Late High Sheriff of 
 
 the County. 
 
 Richard Adams, Esq. 
 
 John Moutray James, Esq. 
 
 Principal Gentlemen of the County, two and two. 
 
 Robert Mayne, Esq. 
 
 Ralph Downes, Esq. 
 
 The Gentlemen, Merchants, Traders, and others, com- 
 prising the Earl's principal Tenantry, 
 two and two. 
 
120 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 A mourning coach and four horses, with two women 
 
 servants in deep mourning, and white hoods. 
 
 A mourning coach and four horses with two upper men 
 
 servants, in deep mourning. 
 
 " The final ceremony was performed by the Rev. 
 Gustavus Hume, assisted by t*he Rev. Michael Lee, 
 who waited for the remains at the Earl's family 
 vault. The whole of the ceremony was conducted 
 by Mr. Kirchoffer of Dublin, who had prepared 
 the hearse, mourning coaches, and all other articles 
 expressly for the occasion. The only article in 
 which Mr. Kirchoffer failed was the number of 
 scarves, which fell far short of the number of 
 qualified persons and attendants." 
 
 The fashion of wearing wide white linen scarves, 
 instead of " lute string " scarves was in full favour 
 at this time, and the fashion obtains more or less 
 to the present day, for an Irish lady told me, 
 that her mother kept her family supplied in pil- 
 low-slips and toilet-covers, made from linen fu- 
 neral bands. And I heard of one economically 
 disposed young lady who fashioned a dress from a 
 collection of scarves. A witty friend called it her 
 "shroud," but, being a healthy-minded girl, free 
 from superstition, and impervious to ridicule, she 
 continued to wear it. 
 
 I interspersed reading the Georgian books with 
 Dublin newspapers and was much intrigued with 
 these advertisements: 
 
OLD IRELAND 121 
 
 In grateful thanksgiving to the Little Flower for many 
 favours received. M.L. 
 
 Thanksgiving to the Little Flower for request granted, 
 publication promised. J.G. 
 
 In triumphant thanksgiving to the Little Flower who 
 saved my life at the battle of the Somme. J.M. 
 
 To satisfy my curiosity I went into a bookshop 
 and asked for a book called The Little Flower. 
 The bookseller said he had only the story of 
 The Springtime of a Little White Flower, and 
 I bought the small book and read the history of 
 Marie-Fran9oise-Therese Martin. 
 
 She was born at Alencjons in France, in 1873, so 
 if she had lived she would stiU be a young woman. 
 Louis Martin, her father, in his early youth, had 
 presented himself at the Monastery of the Great 
 St. Bernard to become a priest. — I once spent 
 two days at the Hospice; never will I forget that 
 mountain honey, nor the beautiful young French- 
 man, whom I saw admitted into the priesthood. 
 Only the most zealous souls desire to serve in this 
 lonely place, as the climate is so severe, they rarely 
 live more than five years. The wise Priest of St. 
 Bernard found that Louis Martin had no vocation 
 for the priesthood, and he returned to France. 
 
 Zelie Guerin had made an equally fruitless 
 effort to be admitted amongst the Sisters of 
 Charity. She was not only pious but pretty and 
 
122 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 light-hearted, so the Mother Superior sent her into 
 the world again. A kind fate brought these two 
 young devout Catholics together, they loved each 
 other — married — and Madame Martin became the 
 mother of five daughters, who entered one or 
 another of the convents of France. 
 
 Therese was very like her mother, pretty, sweet, 
 wonderfully appealing and attractive, and from 
 babyhood she disclosed a most poetical nature, 
 loving to gather garlands of wild flowers, delight- 
 ing in magnificent sunsets and silvery moonlight, 
 appreciating musical language, and revealing an 
 exquisite spiritual nature. Beautiful, with an im- 
 perious little manner, she was called by her own 
 family "The Little Queen." Her mother died 
 when she was four years old, and she was brought 
 up by her father and her eldest sister. They 
 were an extremely devout family, going to church 
 every day, but Therese says with her proud and 
 ardent nature the world might have attracted her 
 if it had not been for her early surroundings, and 
 the example of her saintly family. " The Soul of 
 a Child," she says, " is like soft wax, upon which 
 any impression, good or bad, can be made," which 
 is only another variant of, " Give me a Child for 
 seven years, and I will set my seal upon his 
 future." 
 
 With her exalted nature, and the imagination of 
 a poet, it was natural that she should develop an 
 
OLD IRELAND 123 
 
 early ambition to do great and noble deeds. She 
 says in her Diary: 
 
 " After reading the Life of Jesus of Nazareth, 
 I too, was consumed with a desire for souls, and 
 was eager to save them from eternal flames at any 
 cost. Soon afterwards I heard of a great criminal, 
 whose paralysed conscience had no fear of eternal 
 damnation, being condemned to death for frightful 
 crimes. I prayed, fasting and without cessation, for 
 the hardness of his spirit to melt away, and the 
 murderer had a sudden conversion, and repented. 
 Since then my desire to save souls has grown 
 stronger every day." 
 
 Therese, with surprising wisdom, thought the 
 best preparation for her spiritual life should con- 
 sist in breaking her own will, in conquering her 
 temper, and in being unselfish to her family. 
 When she went to the Abbe Delator elle with the 
 request to become a nun, a lovely child of fifteen, 
 with shining hair and eyes, and a fairylike beauty 
 of form, he gave a decided no to her extraordinary 
 request; but he did not count on her gentle but 
 firm persistence. She persuaded her father to take 
 her to Rome, where she hoped to gain the consent 
 of the Pope. Leo XIII was much touched with 
 the holy desire of this wonderful young girl, who 
 wished permission at once to enter Carmel, but 
 refused to make an immediate decision, and she 
 returned to Lisieux bitterly disappointed. In a 
 
124 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 few months, however, the earnestly sought per- 
 mission was granted, and Therese received the 
 habit of a nun on the 10th of January. 
 
 She describes her spiritual life with great ardour 
 and simplicity, speaks with frankness of *' the 
 aridity of her soul," but that passed. She never 
 regretted the world, not even " the delight of ram- 
 bling through the meadows enamelled with the 
 treasures of spring." For nine years Therese 
 was a devout and inspiring little nun; even the 
 hohest of the Sisters considered her a saint. Her 
 life was directed by those most beautiful words, so 
 often forgotten, " A new commandment give I 
 unto you, that ye love one another; as I have 
 loved you." How any very young woman could 
 have been so instinctively wise is a mystery, except 
 that genius takes the place of experience, and 
 Therese had genius for spirituality. She was 
 only twenty-four when she died. Death came to 
 her at the threshold of womanhood. 
 
 In her Diary she says: 
 
 " It has ever been my desire to become a saint, 
 but, alas, I have always realised that when I com- 
 pare myself to a saint, there exists the same differ- 
 ence as in Nature between a mountain whose 
 summit is lost in the clouds, and the obscure 
 grain of sand trampled under foot by the 
 passerby." 
 
 Almost at the end of her Diary she writes: 
 
OLD IRELAND 125 
 
 " I feel that a change is coming, my mission on 
 earth is soon to begin. I will ask to spend my 
 heaven in doing good upon earth. Thus after my 
 death I will let fall a shower of roses." 
 
 How did so sinless a creature have such a 
 realisation of sin, how did she know the crying 
 need we have on earth of invisible angels to guide 
 our wayward footsteps? 
 
 The devotees of Therese are satisfied that since 
 her death she has been busy working on this 
 planet. Her modesty was great, she always in- 
 sisted that she was humble and unknown; for this 
 reason probably, it occurred to one who had re- 
 ceived her favours, that only by publicity could 
 her fame go abroad, and help those who desired 
 her intercession, and thus began these strange, 
 touching, and pathetic little advertisements. 
 
 Among the many humble acknowledgments of 
 her help, a lady writes that in June, 1911, her 
 little New Forest pony had an apparently fatal 
 attack of pneumonia. The groom and veterinary 
 surgeon had been up all night with him. In the 
 morning he was worse, at midday the groom called 
 her to see the struggling animal, who trembling 
 and quivering, was hoarsely gasping for breath, 
 while his head hung low, indicating collapse. The 
 lady, with tears running down her face, spoke to 
 him tenderly, and he turned his piteous and terror- 
 stricken eyes to her, but could not lift his droop- 
 
126 HERSELF—IRELAND 
 
 ing head. The groom said he had neither eaten 
 nor drunken anything for twenty-four hours, his 
 strength was going, and if his legs gave way, he 
 would lie down and die. His mistress told him 
 to make haste to the veterinary surgeon, and ask 
 for strong straps to support the pony's body 
 from the top of the stall. The groom ran off, and 
 the lady went outside to her two little daughters, 
 and called to them: 
 
 " Prince is dying. Pray, pray, quickly to the 
 Little Flower, and ask her to save your poor little 
 friend!" 
 
 On going back to the stall she lifted the pony's 
 head to her shoulder and said, " Don't give up, old 
 boy, you are not dead yet," and she too begged 
 the Little Flower to save the suffering animal. 
 Suddenly he raised his head from her shoulder 
 and slowly walked two or three paces. 
 
 The lady called to her little girl, " Eleanor, 
 Prince is better; bring him a bit of sugar." 
 
 There was some ground barley in his box and 
 a pail of water near by; before the little girl had 
 time to return with the sugar, he had taken a 
 long drink and had begun to munch his food. 
 When the veterinary surgeon and the groom ar- 
 rived with big leather belts, they were amazed at 
 the animal's miraculous recovery. 
 
 The Little Flower's pony is still alive, merry 
 and healthy, running about the lawn, with the 
 
OLD IRELAND 127 
 
 halter about his neck woven of flowers, and happy 
 children riding on his back. Perhaps one day his 
 patron saint will be known as the friend who will 
 plead for all dumb creatures who cannot plead 
 for themselves. 
 
 But from the roar of the guns comes the tender- 
 est of all the stories about the beloved friend of 
 Ireland. 
 
 One eventide, a doctor walking over the battle- 
 field was surprised to find many of the soldiers 
 holding little white flowers in their hands. And 
 he saw a young nun stooping over the dead. 
 When he spoke to her she lifted a lovely face, 
 and smiled but made no answer. He related the 
 incident to the Mother Superior of the hospital; 
 she said none of her sisters were out at that hour, 
 and as the doctor insisted he could not have been 
 mistaken, she called the nuns together, and asked 
 him if he recognised among them the sister whom 
 he had seen on the battlefield. 
 
 He said, " No, she is not here, but that is her 
 picture on the wall." 
 
 It was a portrait of the Little Flower. 
 
 And that is how I like best to imagine her. 
 On the dreadful field of battle, where mothers and 
 sisters and wives may not go, bending tenderly 
 over their solitary dead, and gently touching their 
 hands, as she fills them with the shining white 
 flowers of Paradise. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 IRISH WIT 
 
 " Come now, Pat," said a facetious bounder, " tell me the biggest 
 lie you ever told and I'll give you this glass of whiskey." 
 " Begorra, your honour's a perfect gintleman." 
 
 There is no Irish type, any more than there is 
 an American type, or an English type, but there 
 is Irish wit and character. It is almost unneces- 
 sary to say the people as a race are modest and 
 chaste. Statistics prove that a much smaller num- 
 ber of illegitimate children are born in Ireland 
 than in any part of the United Kingdom. And 
 the Irish are not greedy about either money pos- 
 sessions or food. Mr. Dooley has said that the 
 difference between a hungry Irishman and a hun- 
 gry Englishman is, that the hungry Irishman 
 dreams of a feast of the gods, with himself in one 
 of the front seats drinking mead and honey out 
 of golden goblets. But the hungry Englishman 
 is thinking, " If I only had that fine piece of 
 steaming hot tripe out of the cookshop round the 
 corner." And there is something to be said in 
 favour of the Englishman, for the tripe is obtain- 
 able, while the golden goblet and the mead are 
 only visions. 
 
 128 
 
IRISH WIT 129 
 
 The minds of the Irish have a spiritual quality 
 which you can see in their clear, thoughtful eyes. 
 
 An Irish girl in London was visiting me, and 
 I said to a friend, a Dutchman, with only a 
 limited vocabulary of English, " Hasn't Charlotte 
 lovely eyes? " 
 
 " Yes," he said ; " dere is something in." 
 
 I know women of different nationalities with 
 bright, handsome eyes, but they are just eyes 
 " there is nothing in," while Irish eyes speak of 
 beautiful aspirations, contemplations, tendernesses, 
 sorrows, dreams, and visions. You look and look, 
 and they reveal much, but not everything; there is 
 something always of mystery and reserve, of mer- 
 riment and pathos, which is yet unfathomed. 
 Form and features can be exquisite in modelhng 
 and colour, but nothing is so entirely fascinating 
 as the play of expression upon mobile features, in 
 other words, the revelation of the human soul. 
 How well Re jane understands this. She is not in 
 the least a pretty woman, her features are irregu- 
 lar, her face is too short, and her figure is not 
 especially good, but she does not hesitate to sur- 
 round herself with actresses of exceeding beauty. 
 When she is on the stage they are forgotten ; every 
 one is entranced by her little plain face, for upon 
 it you see revealed the soul, heart, and mind of the 
 woman whose story she portrays. Her changing 
 thought, her varying mood, her every emotion. 
 
130 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 The reposeful beauties in their exquisite French 
 clothes, come and go unnoticed, even the men in 
 the audience are engrossed in watching the sun- 
 shine or shadow on that queer little visage. 
 
 I said to an Irishman, " You are a very aston- 
 ishing people, there are so many unexpected de- 
 velopments in your character." 
 
 " To ourselves," he said, " they are unexpected 
 too. We do not surprise strangers any more than 
 we astonish ourselves. We never know what 
 depths, or heights, or desperations are slumbering 
 within us until they are called forth by an unex- 
 pected turn of Fate." 
 
 Mr. Parnell was considered cold and reserved, 
 but in reality the frigidity of his exterior covered 
 fiery emotions; and he had not only the power of 
 a noble desperation himself, but he could tempo- 
 rarily impress it upon the most cautious of his 
 followers. The men about him did not stop to 
 analyse his force; they simply felt it, absorbed it, 
 and yielded to it. In Ireland the outward and 
 visible man is by no means the sign of an inward 
 and spiritual grace. You will see a red-faced, 
 bright-eyed, white-whiskered personage dressed in 
 a heavy check suit, looking like a well-to-do rac- 
 ing character. You ask who he is, and are told 
 he is a serious-minded barrister and K.C., with 
 no sporting proclivities, who amuses himself by an 
 idiosyncracy of costume. You meet another man, 
 
IRISH WIT 131 
 
 tall, thin, pale, kind and gentle, with grey, spiritual 
 eyes and a soothing, pleasant voice. You ask who 
 he is, and are astonished to learn that he has been 
 a noted Fenian, and yet there is nothing about 
 him to suggest either daring courage or mad 
 chance. I said to a man of gentle manner, child- 
 like blue eyes, and a soft voice, " Were you pleased 
 to have General Maxwell leave Ireland? " " Yes," 
 he said, " it was nicessary for his own good." 
 "What do you mean by that?" I said. He an- 
 swered as frankly and simply as a child, "If he 
 had stayed he would have been shot." I laughed 
 aloud. "You don't mean it?" "Yes," he said 
 with a gentle sigh, " it was nicessary." 
 
 And who would suspect Professor MacNeill, 
 a contemplative scholar, one of the five men in 
 Ireland who understands Middle Irish — ^the almost 
 impossible language and literature of the eleventh 
 century — with being implicated in what led to the 
 wildest and most hopeless rebellion that Ireland 
 has ever suffered. Her children are too natural, 
 and, perhaps, too many-sided to stage their parts. 
 In England or America a statesman or sports- 
 man dresses to his profession. A United States 
 Senator feels it incumbent on him not only to 
 clothe himself as a grave and reverend body, but 
 to adopt a certain sort of portentous five-syllabled 
 manner that harmonises with an important frock- 
 coat and a black tie. These surprises are what 
 
132 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 make the Irish people so interesting, for here a 
 serious coat and black necktie might very well 
 clothe the wittiest, the most light-hearted, and the 
 gayest character. Take, for example. Father 
 Healy. He wore the garb of a priest, lived not 
 only a holy and self -sacrificing hfe, but was really 
 an ascetic giving himself very few corporeal in- 
 dulgences; and yet there was never a gayer spirit, 
 or wittier tongue than his. Dr. Mahaffy, the 
 Provost of Trinity College, a wit himself, and a 
 judge of wit, said one of the most beautiful things 
 of Father Healy that has ever been said of living 
 man: " He was never at a loss for a kindly word, 
 to meet him in the street was always Uke pass- 
 ing from shade into sunshine." How few there 
 are — no matter how widely travelled or how 
 large our circle of friends — who can say, " I have 
 a sunshine friend." And in the British Isles, 
 where the sun shines so little, to be sure that every 
 time you meet a man, no matter how grey the day 
 or lowering the sky you pass from shadow to 
 sunshine, makes him blessed, aye, thrice blessed, 
 among his fellows. 
 
 I never knew Father Healy, but Mr. La- 
 bouchere told me a great deal about him, and he 
 not only revelled in his wit, but he greatly admired 
 the simplicity, naturalness, and instinctive refine- 
 ment of this gentle parish priest. In spite of 
 going to the Viceroy's big parties, with the only 
 
IRISH WIT 133 
 
 addition to his toilet a pair of freshly blacked 
 shoes, he was nevertheless a true gentleman, for 
 inside, he was as fine as silk. Mr. Labouchere 
 was a wit, as all the world knows, and a very 
 natural and spontaneous one, but, unlike Father 
 Healy, he spared nobody; neither himself, nor his 
 friends, nor his family, if through them he could 
 contribute to the gaiety of nations. 
 
 One night he was in a particularly debonair and 
 mahcious mood, and we were indulging in frank 
 personalities, when I said, *' Do you know that 
 you look like a Jew? " 
 
 " Why not, why not? " his eyebrows going up 
 and his eyes dancing with mischief; " I remember 
 when I was an attache of the British Legation in 
 Vienna, walking one day on the Kolowrat Ring, 
 I met a very distinguished and patriarchal old 
 Jew. He beamed on me and said, ' Is this Henry 
 Labouchere?' I said, 'It is.' * Let me shake 
 you by the hand.' Looking at me most affection- 
 ately, he gave my hand an enveloping grip. 
 ' When I went to London as a very young man to 
 learn English, I spent every afternoon in the salon 
 of your dear and beautiful grandmother. Let me 
 shake you by the other hand.' And with that al- 
 most double embrace, it was suddenly borne upon 
 me that I was shaking hands with — my grand- 
 father!" 
 
 I am sure until I told Labby that he looked 
 
134 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 like a Jew, the patriarch had been non-existent, 
 and was created on the spur of the moment for my 
 delectation. He said I was his best audience, and 
 always made him confident that his most insipid 
 joke contained savour. 
 
 Father Healy, after a terribly racking day, be- 
 ginning with Mass at seven o'clock, a morning's 
 sick calls up and down rickety staircases, from 
 attic to cellar, and a very worrying afternoon, 
 came home jaded and tired, threw himself in a 
 chair and groaned audibly. 
 
 An old charwoman, who was polishing the grate, 
 looked up and said, " What is the matter with you 
 at all? " 
 
 " I believe I am in love," he said. 
 
 She answered, " Troth, and I wouldn't put it 
 apast ye," and continued her polishing. 
 
 A joke of this kind was particularly amusing, 
 as it formed a direct contrast to the common- 
 sense reality of Father Healy's pure life; and yet 
 he could, and did sometimes, pay a pretty com- 
 pliment. 
 
 One day he met two young ladies, the Countess 
 of Wicklow and a friend, going up a steep hill, 
 making vain efforts to urge on a reluctant donkey 
 harnessed to a little phaeton. 
 
 " Oh, Father Healy, we are so glad to see you. 
 What shall we do to make this beast move? " 
 
 "Go before him," said the Padre; "and he is 
 
IRISH WIT 135 
 
 a bigger donkey than I take him to be, if he 
 doesn't follow you." 
 
 An intellectual Peer in England was giving a 
 large house-party, and wrote to Father Healy in- 
 viting him to be one of the guests. Miss Bryce, 
 a very pretty girl, hearing of the invitation said, 
 
 " Oh, Father Healy, I wish you could take me 
 in your pocket." 
 
 "It is not in my pocket, but as a feather in my 
 cap you should come," he replied. Which is as 
 neat as Oscar Wilde's answer to the Customs 
 House officer in New York, who asked impor- 
 tantly, " What have you to declare, Mr. Wilde? " 
 
 " Nothing — except — my genius," he answered. 
 
 That so much ana exists about Father Healy's 
 wit shows how constant it was, for wit is an 
 evanescent quantity, born of the moment, and 
 quick to take flight from the most retentive 
 memory. Frederic Norton, the musical com- 
 poser, is perhaps, the wittiest man I know; he has 
 more than once made me laugh until I cried at the 
 description of some amusing experience, but at the 
 moment I can only recall a story of his childhood. 
 
 When he was five, and his little sister Emily 
 six years of age, they were awakened in the night 
 by a loud noise on the landing. Frederic was 
 frightened, but Emmie more courageously opened 
 the door, and went out to see what had happened. 
 Not daring to move, he called to her, " Em, if 
 
136 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 that's a burglar bring him to me." Even at that 
 early age his mind was capable of subtleties. 
 
 And only two or three stories remain in my 
 memory of my eldest aunt, who was very witty. 
 A pretty cousin was telling one day with smiles 
 and no blushes, of a young man's devotion, and 
 Aunt Betty said, " Molly, you're a fool, but you're 
 not a born fool; you're a made fool — by men." 
 
 In the early days of Texas, in the primitive 
 houses, instead of plaster, canvas was nailed on the 
 light wooden partitions, and it was possible to hear 
 every word of conversation from one room to the 
 other. My Aunt Betty, sitting sewing, heard my 
 father, who was desperately in love with my 
 mother, ask her to marry him. When she refused 
 there was a silence, a suppressed groan, and as he 
 rose from his chair he said, " Madam, to-morrow 
 morning you will find my body in the Colorado." 
 With this heart-broken threat he retired to his 
 room. The next morning Aunt Betty, always an 
 early riser, met him coming back, fresh and hand- 
 some, from the bath-house. " Good-morning, 
 Judge," she said, "I am surprised to see you; I 
 thought you were in the Colorado." But the sec- 
 ond or third time that my father proposed to my 
 mother, she must have accepted him, for here am I 
 to tell the tale. 
 
 Father Healy asked a friend, " Have you seen 
 McCarthy lately? " 
 
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IRISH WIT 137 
 
 " No," he said ; " he is pulling the devil by the 
 tail." 
 
 " Ah," said Father Healy, " there are a great 
 many doing that; the devil must have a very 
 strong tail." 
 
 Father Healy was once comparing notes with 
 the Rev. Dr. O'Fay about a recent journey 
 which they had both made to France. 
 
 " Of course you were au fait at the lingo," said 
 Dr. O'Fay. 
 
 " No ; I was only O'Healy at it," answered 
 Father Healy. 
 
 The wit of other people amused Father Healy 
 quite as much as his own. He once heard two 
 men preparing for a fight. " Come on," said the 
 smaller of the two; "come on. I never saw a 
 broth that was too hot for me, or the mait that was 
 too fat for me." 
 
 One day he was with Dr. Kenrick, who missed 
 his hat from the hall. They went into Plunket 
 Street, a famous market for old clothes, and found 
 a woman in the act of selling it. 
 
 " I only wanted it as a relic of your River- 
 ence," she said. 
 
 " You seemed very anxious to get rid of it," 
 said Dr. Kenrick. 
 
 " I was merely asking the value of it," said the 
 quick-witted crone. Her answer much delighted 
 Father Healy. 
 
138 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 When he was a boy, he saw a large pig squeez- 
 ing himself through a narrow gate. " Look," he 
 said to his father, " at Bacon's Essays." 
 
 When he went to school at Castleknock, a very 
 holy Father catechising a sailor's son said, " What 
 is cursing? " 
 
 " Wishing ill to one's neighbour." 
 
 " Can you give me a more comprehensive defini- 
 tion, my child? " 
 
 " Damn your eyes, holy Father." 
 
 Dr. Murray, a great preacher and a friend of 
 Father Healy, was preaching at Clones. The 
 chapel was packed to the door. Nearing the close 
 of the sermon he said, " One word more, and I 
 am done." 
 
 "Oh, my darlint! " exclaimed an old woman, 
 throwing up her hands ; " that you may never be 
 done." 
 
 These stories were amongst Father Healy's 
 varied repertoire, but his own continual quickness 
 of wit was like a stream that never runs dry. 
 Florence MacCarthy, a poet, said to Father Healy 
 he was going to the ancient territory of Desmond 
 for a grand celebration. 
 
 " All the MacCarthys will attend, including the 
 MacCarthy More." 
 
 " If all the MacCarthys attend, there cannot 
 be a MacCarthy more," said Father Healy. 
 One evening Father Healy was going to dine 
 
IRISH WIT 139 
 
 with Dr. Lee. He was a trifle late, and some one 
 said, " Father Healy is making his toilet." " Oh," 
 said Dr. Lee, " when Father Healy's hands are 
 washed his toilet is made." Immediately after- 
 wards the lively curate entered the room, and when 
 the remark was repeated to him. Dr. Lee tried to 
 disclaim it. " Oh, don't deny it, don't deny it," 
 said Father Healy gaily ; " it is the best thing 
 that you have ever said." 
 
 He was very popular for sick calls, and I do not 
 wonder at this, for his gay presence must have 
 been worth many bottles of physic. 
 
 A messenger came one day to beg him to hurry, 
 as a man near Bray had been shot, " when he was 
 fiddlin' with a gun it went off grazin' his toes, and 
 carry in' away his shoe." 
 
 " Don't tell me," said Father Healy, *' that it is 
 a case of shoeaside." 
 
 He was equally popular in the confessional, but 
 even there he could not eradicate his sense of hu- 
 mour. A little girl at a convent in Bray, making 
 her confession was in anguish; her words were ut- 
 tered in gasps, and with difficulty she implied that 
 she had called one of God's Anointed by a dis- 
 respectful nickname. 
 
 "If you mean me, my child, you are at full lib- 
 erty to call me anything you like, from a donkey 
 to an elephant," said her spiritual adviser. 
 
 An Irish friend told me that when she was a 
 
140 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 little girl, she went to confession, and the priest, 
 at the end of a long afternoon, sat with his eyes 
 closed and asked rather wearily, " Well, my child, 
 which one of the commandments have you 
 broken? " Thinking to make herself important, 
 she answered, " All of them. Father." And at 
 once he was wide awake, with much admonition 
 at his disposal, particularly that which related to 
 exaggeration. How Father Healy would have 
 enjoyed this unexpected confession. 
 
 Sir William Wilde was well known to be very 
 slovenly in his person. Judge Barry, dining with 
 Father Healy shortly after Sir William had been 
 knighted said, " I left Holyhead in a gale, and 
 
 came across the dirtiest night " " It must 
 
 have been Wilde," said Father Healy. 
 
 A man was describing the horrors of electro- 
 cution to Father Healy. " I only know one 
 thing more terrible," said Father Healy; 
 " elocution." 
 
 A popular doctor from Dublin made him a visit 
 at Bray. Father Healy gave him a rod, and sent 
 him to fish in the River Dargle. 
 
 The doctor returned at the end of the day and 
 said, " I have killed nothing except time." 
 
 " That is more than you could say if you were 
 at home," said Father Healy. 
 
 One evening he met at dinner a famous com- 
 poser whose name he had forgotten; shaking his 
 
IRISH WIT 141 
 
 hand he softly sang the tune of one of the mu- 
 sician's best-known works. The artist was deeply 
 gratified, and never found out that it was only his 
 music that remained in the good priest's memory. 
 
 Even in America we have lively wit ; very often, 
 as in the case of Daisy Gummery, it is due to 
 Irish ancestors. The wife of one of the Professors 
 of Princeton was giving an afternoon party. 
 She introduced a tall German to Mrs. Barker 
 Gummery. His name to her meant nothing. To 
 him it was the pivot of the world, for he was the 
 leader of various important orchestras, and a com- 
 poser of some eminence. Daisy's impression was 
 that her hostess had murmured, " Herr Stenke," 
 so in open-hearted American fashion, she began 
 her introductions, " Professor and Mrs. Meredith 
 — Herr Stenke; Professor Whiteside — Herr 
 Stenke; Mrs. Miller — Herr Stenke," but each 
 moment the glowering German's visage became 
 more sour and resentful. Finally, he lifted his 
 strong Teuton fist, and beating upon his breast, 
 in an increasing crescendo said, " Stengleburg! 
 Stengleburg!! Stengleburg!!!" At the third 
 beat, Daisy looked up and asked with reproach- 
 ful sweetness, "Not the great Stengleburg!" 
 " Ze zame — ze zame," he said belligerently. Not 
 even Father Healy could have done better than 
 that. 
 
 When living at Bray, Father Healy had for a 
 
142 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 parishoner a wonderful old lady, Mrs. Dease, who 
 lived to be ninety or more. She had a strong char- 
 acter, strong opinions, and a strong grey beard. 
 Father Healy sometimes read aloud to her. He 
 had a beautiful voice, fine elocution, and he was 
 reading the pathetic pages of Sterne. " God tem- 
 pers the wind to the shorn lamb," made the old 
 lady momentarily tender, he hesitated when he 
 came to an oath, but as he read further it was 
 merged in that beautiful well-known little pas- 
 sage, " The accusing Spirit which flew up to 
 Heaven's Chancery with the oath blushed as he 
 gave it in, and the Recording Angel as he wrote 
 it down dropped a tear upon the word, and blotted 
 it out for ever." Presently he stopped short and 
 cleared his throat. 
 
 " What is the hitch about? " said Mrs. Dease, 
 pulling off her spectacles. 
 
 " It was getting a little broad, Madam," re- 
 plied the Priest. 
 
 " Oh, well, we're not so narrow ourselves ; go 
 on," she said. 
 
 She was at this time between eighty and ninety 
 years of age, and still attracted her friends by 
 her caustic wit. 
 
 One day, on his arrival for an almost daily visit. 
 Father Healy said, " There is an old woman at the 
 door, Ma'am, soliciting alms." 
 
 " What do you call an old woman? " asked Mrs. 
 
IRISH WIT 143 
 
 Dease in a sharp voice, anticipating perhaps that 
 Father Healy would say sixty or seventy. 
 
 " One about a hundred and fifty, I should say." 
 
 The old lady was charmed with the prospect of 
 increased longevity and gave Father Healy a 
 hearty handshake. On another occasion to encour- 
 age her he said old Parr had lived to a hundred 
 and two years. Old Mrs. Dease said with a shrill 
 laugh, that she was very much below par. 
 
 At a clerical gathering at Ballybrack a party 
 of priests were discussing verse 14 of Psahn cxiii,, 
 " They have ears and they do not hear, they have 
 noses and they do not smell." Two priests came 
 from the end of the room and asked what their 
 confreres had been saying. " That you have 
 large noses, and do not hear," replied Father 
 Healy. Even though the priests had large noses, 
 they, with the others, laughed good-humouredly. 
 
 Father Healy was no pohtician, and whatever 
 his political views, he kept them to himself. One 
 evening a priest of decided opinions was discuss- 
 ing with him the question of tenant rights, and 
 began to interrogate Father Healy who, with the 
 gravest face, made ridiculous answers. 
 
 Finally the priest said, impatiently, " What are 
 your politics ? " 
 
 " I am of my Bishop's politics," gently an- 
 swered Father Healy, puffing away at his cigar. 
 
 " And what are your Bishop's politics? " 
 
144 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 " I do not know," said Father Healy, more 
 gently still; "I have never asked him." 
 
 Another time Dean Quirke, a fine old bluff 
 priest, and a very advanced politician, called to 
 see Father Healy. 
 
 "How goes the Landleague, Dean?" Father 
 Healy asked. 
 
 " Latterly I leave politics to my curate," dis- 
 creetly rephed the Dean. 
 
 " Quite right. Dean, it would never do for you 
 or me at our time of life, and in this moist climate, 
 to stay for hours on the bank of a ditch with a gun 
 in hand watching for a landlord." 
 
 Father Healy's friend, Charles Meehan, a won- 
 derful scholar and a very gifted writer, possessed 
 a sardonic wit, which was quite different from 
 Father Healy's sunny-tempered sallies. They 
 made a trip together in France. Father Meehan 
 suffered terribly from indigestion, and one day 
 without any farewell suddenly disappeared. Next 
 morning Father Healy received a curt note ask- 
 ing for his razor. Father Healy answered, " Dear 
 Meehan, I return the razor; if you should be 
 disposed to commit suicide, I advise you to get 
 it ground first." It was years before Meehan 
 forgave the razor episode. Finally Father Healy 
 wrote, " Life is too short for this sort of thing, let 
 us dismiss such folly, come and dine to-morrow." 
 There was never another breach in their friendship 
 
IRISH WIT 145 
 
 after that. An auctioneer when dying, left Mee- 
 han a small legacy, who announced it exultingly to 
 Father Healy. 
 
 " He left you that twenty pounds to prevent 
 you from cursing his memory," said Father 
 Healy. 
 
 One day when Father Healy called on Father 
 Meehan, the pain of rheumatism in the latter's 
 feet made him more than ordinarily cutting in his 
 remarks on all his friends. 
 
 Finally, Father Healy said, *' Meehan, I am 
 sorry to see you have got the foot-and-mouth 
 disease." 
 
 Father Healy had no fear of Meehan in spite 
 of his bitter tongue. Bishop Moran, a school- 
 fellow of theirs, had been living in New Zealand. 
 On his return the three friends met and were dis- 
 cussing a former student of Castleknock, at that 
 time an excellent priest. Father Meehan said, 
 "Did you ever see such a face as his? Even in 
 Madame Tussaud's Chamber of Horrors you could 
 not find one of worse expression, and I am sure 
 it is only the grace of God that has kept that man 
 from crime." The Bishop changed the conver- 
 sation and began to describe his life, mentioning 
 the fact that the natives gave great honour to 
 reptiles, and the more venomous they were the 
 more they worshipped them. 
 
 " That is the diocese for you, Meehan," smiled 
 
146 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 Father Healy ; " if you were to migrate there you 
 would be hailed as a Deity." 
 
 It was said after this pointed rebuke that 
 Father Meehan became milder in his conver- 
 sation. 
 
 One evening Father Healy talking to him about 
 a witty priest who had died, said, " What a pity 
 that many of the good things Kenyon said are 
 not preserved." 
 
 Father Meehan said, " They are preserved, by 
 me." 
 
 " In manuscript? " 
 
 " Yes, in manuscript." 
 
 " Then," said Father Healy, " my name must 
 often be in it." 
 
 Father Meehan said laconically, " Very likely." 
 
 Father Healy asked, " When do you mean to 
 have it published? " 
 
 " Oh, who knows? Perhaps when I am in 
 Heaven," replied Meehan. 
 
 " Then," said Father Healy, " if readers are to 
 wait for that, you may write about me whatever 
 you like." 
 
 Meehan, in spite of indigestion, and a very 
 churhsh temper, preserved a very youthful aspect. 
 One day he said laughingly to Father Healy, 
 " Time has writ no wrinkles on my brow." 
 
 " Possibly," answered Father Healy, " but he 
 has played the very deuce with your neck," point- 
 
IRISH WIT 147 
 
 ing to the withered skin of Father Meehan's thin 
 throat. 
 
 When his last ilhiess came, Father Healy asked 
 him if he had seen a priest. 
 
 "Yes," he said; "Father S.— a good fellow, 
 but a great ass." 
 
 Father Healy asked him if he had any message 
 for the Bishop. 
 
 " Yes ; you might tell him I am dying, and he 
 will be very glad to hear it. I am quite resigned," 
 he added, " and have made my will." 
 
 Father Healy said gaily, " Have you left me 
 anything? " 
 
 " The deuce a farthing," Father Meehan an- 
 swered vehemently, and then he began to mur- 
 mur, " Jesus have mercy upon me, Jesus have 
 mercy upon me," and he whispered those unfor- 
 gettable lines of his own beautiful translation of 
 the last words of Copernicus: 
 
 " Not the grace Thou gavest Paul, 
 Who saw Thy Stephen stoned ; 
 Not the grace that Peter won 
 When blinding tears his crime aton'd 
 But, ah, dear Saviour, give to me 
 The grace which Thou on Calvary 
 Didst give the thief who at Thy side 
 Repenting hung, repenting died." 
 
 Father Healy was sincerely grieved at the death 
 of Father Meehan, and brushed a tear from his 
 
148 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 rough cheek, " which," he afterwards said, " was 
 the only thing that had been brushed in the room 
 for years." 
 
 One day, Father Healy was caUing upon a 
 priest in the country, who although an Irishman, 
 had no sense of humour and was quite literal. 
 As they were going over his farm he pointed to a 
 heifer and said, " This is what we call a yearling, 
 although it is two years old." 
 
 "That is a bull," said Father Healy. 
 
 " Oh, no," said the priest, " the bull is in the 
 paddock." 
 
 A hypochondriacal priest in the country, stay- 
 ing at Bray, was walking along the beach with 
 Father Healy. 
 
 " I have really got relief from drinking a tum- 
 bler of salt water fresh from the tide. Do you 
 think I might venture to take a second? " he 
 asked. 
 
 Father Healy looked at the long rolling waves, 
 and said, " Well, I don't think a second would be 
 missed." 
 
 " I cannot conceive how Jonah could have lived 
 in the stomach of a whale," a student of natural 
 history said to Father Healy. 
 
 " Oh, that is nothing," he answered, " I saw Dr. 
 Meldon to-day, coming out of a fly." 
 
 A Protestant gentleman once said to him, " You 
 
IRISH WIT 149 
 
 know, Father Healy, our church is founded on a 
 rock." 
 
 " Yes," said Father Healy quickly, " a blasted 
 rock." 
 
 Father Healy, like all wits, had a horror of 
 monologue, which alas is one of the popular recre- 
 ations of my country. A brilliant Englishman who 
 travelled in America, said to me, " Do you know 
 there is no such thing as conversation in your 
 country; they indulge instead in a series of mono- 
 logues. One man takes the floor and talks for 
 ten minutes; he then yields it to another, and 
 so they proceed; but there is no give and take 
 as we have it in England." And I am obliged to 
 acknowledge that this accusation against us is more 
 or less true. Long-windedness is certainly a char- 
 acteristic of my country, and bores are to be found 
 galore. I have come to the conclusion that democ- 
 racy must produce bores. We are all free and 
 equal, the people in America are mostly polite, 
 kind-hearted, and endowed with fortitude; so we 
 have formed a habit of listening to bores with 
 exceeding patience, whereas in England they 
 would be ruthlessly squelched. 
 
 I remember years ago in London being on 
 the point of leaving a large gathering, when I was 
 stopped by an eminent American statesman, who 
 began our conversation with an anecdote of 1863, 
 and ambled through the intervening years until 
 
150 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 we arrived at 1905. When I reached the bottom 
 of the stairs, where a member of my family had 
 been waiting since 1863, I never saw a man in 
 a more towering rage. Human nature is ahke all 
 over the world, and there are in Ireland monolo- 
 gists as well as in America. 
 
 I went away once with a very dear Irish 
 friend, and she talked to me for a week. Being 
 her guest, I felt obliged to listen. We had charm- 
 ing apartments at the Beacon Hotel, Hind Head, 
 a sitting-room and two bedrooms. At nine o'clock 
 in the morning over our coffee she began and 
 talked until twelve, then I had my bath and 
 dressed myself for lunch. After a short walk, 
 when she talked again, we lunched. We after- 
 wards had a drive, and she talked until tea. She 
 talked all through tea, and then until we dressed 
 for dinner. When that meal was finished, she 
 began quite fresh and talked uninterruptedly until 
 eleven o'clock. On the seventh day I collapsed. 
 The doctor had to be sent for, and he said I was 
 suffering from symptoms of congestion of the 
 brain; ordered mustard for the soles of my feet, 
 the back of my neck, and perfect quiet for days 
 to come. And I will never forget the blessed 
 solitude and peace that followed. I can talk my- 
 self, and like to talk, and like to hear other peo- 
 ple talk, but I must have spaces of silence; my 
 powers of endurance are not limitless. 
 
IRISH WIT 151 
 
 Canon Pope was a talker of great endurance. 
 At one of Father Healy's famous dinners, when 
 flashes of wit had been playing across the table 
 there was a pause, and Canon Pope said: 
 
 " Language is one of the most interesting 
 studies; it may be arranged in distinguishing 
 classes of families, and the relationship existing 
 between the members is obvious," and thus he 
 ambled on for five minutes. . . . " Thus the 
 Indian Gothic family sends forth its dialectic 
 children in the Armenian, Zend, Lithuanian, 
 Sclavonian, Teuton, Sanscrit, and Celtic. Pri- 
 mary dialects are divided into respective dialects. 
 The brogue of Tipperary is an incipient dialect, 
 where by lengthening the vowels " 
 
 " Oh, Canon ! " said Father Healy, who had 
 been watching for an opportunity to interrupt this 
 ponderous monologue; "Tipperary is hardly the 
 place to lengthen your vowels, for there they think 
 nothing of knocking your two eyes into one." 
 
 Mrs. Bischoffsheim asked him his opinion of 
 Lord X. 
 
 " A charming fellow," said Father Healy, 
 " with plenty of the small change of social con- 
 versation, but I never yet found a sovereign or 
 five-pound note on the platter." 
 
 What an exact impression this gives one of con- 
 ventional amiability. 
 
 But even Father Healy's wit alone, constant 
 
152 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 bubbling fountain that it was, could not have 
 given him, a humble parish priest with an income 
 of not more than two hundred pounds a year, the 
 great social position in the world that he had, 
 without a wonderful personality to aid him. He 
 never said unkind things of anybody, and even his 
 criticisms were amusing and gentle. He was a 
 man of sturdy independence, not ashamed to enter- 
 tain the highest in the land — like the true gen- 
 tleman he was — in the simplest fashion possible. 
 Royalty, Dukes, Viceroys, litterateurs, poets, 
 musicians, writers, all were only too pleased to 
 dine with him; and the dinner was both cooked 
 and served by his general servant. He gave his 
 guests soup, roast, vegetables, a plain pudding, or 
 dessert. His many friends with splendid houses 
 often sent him grapes, melons, and peaches, or 
 a few dozen bottles of wine. He need not have 
 entertained at all, for he was a welcome and 
 sought for guest by the greatest in the land; but 
 he loved having people under his own roof. His 
 beautiful, simple, sincere, sweet, and tender na- 
 ture made him loved of all the world — Catholic 
 and Protestant, aristocrat and peasant, rich and 
 poor, Enghsh and Irish, all deplored Father 
 Healy's death, which he met in characteristic 
 fashion, whispering gaily to his sister, " Notice to 
 quit!" 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE IRISH TEMPERAMENT 
 
 Better Strife than Loneliness 
 
 (Irish Proverb) 
 
 After ten years of homeless wandering and con- 
 stant loneliness, I can shake hands with this 
 proverb. For Strife passes. But Loneliness 
 abides. My most forlorn moments are when, be- 
 fore unpacking, I enter a hotel bedroom. Why 
 must these temporary abodes be rendered so 
 detached, inhospitable, and lifeless? Why must 
 hotels be so hopelessly ugly? With not even the 
 smallest suggestion of that permanent habitation. 
 Home. If ever this mortal coil proves too much 
 for me, and I shuffle off, for my fell purpose I 
 will select a large hotel. 
 
 The truth is that women, and above all women 
 who are home-makers, should furnish hotels. Men 
 look upon hotel-keeping as a business, a profit not 
 a loss at the end of the year, no matter how the 
 profit is obtained. I once stayed in a hotel in 
 Harrogate which had been furnished by a lady. 
 The carpet on the floor was a quiet green, the 
 wall-paper a plain cream, there were flowered 
 chintz curtains lined with green to darken the 
 
 153 
 
154 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 windows, a pleasing engraving over the chimney- 
 piece, a wardrobe with a sufficiency of hooks, a 
 good-looking chest of drawers and dressing-table, 
 a washstand with flowered china, a green screen, 
 and, oh, wonder of wonders, a writing-table with 
 paper, pens, a blotter, and a useful bottle of ink. 
 I would like to furnish a hotel. Every room 
 should supply the reasonable wants of the occu- 
 pant, and a well-designed frame should contain 
 these words: 
 
 " Welcome, Friend. Make yourself at home. 
 Try not to be sick or sorry in this hotel. We wish 
 your stay to be a pleasant one. Because you are 
 under our roof you have claims upon us. Lone- 
 some questions answered by our Home Advisor." 
 — Who should be young, pretty, and optimistic. 
 
 Yes, certainly, when I consider life in all its 
 aspects, hotels and otherwise. Strife is a thousand 
 times better than Loneliness. 
 
 It is the successful combination of spiritual and 
 human attributes that accounts for the fascina- 
 tion of the Irish character. Spirituality in an 
 Irishman does not destroy his own humanity, or 
 the understanding of it in other people. He may 
 condemn shortcomings in his friends, but at the 
 same time he forgives them. And the Irish are 
 forgiving to each other. In Texas if two men 
 indulge in an insulting quarrel it means war to 
 the knife, and the death of one or both of them. 
 
THE IRISH TEMPERAMENT 155 
 
 In England if two men quarrel with bitterness, 
 it means a life-long estrangement. In Ireland 
 if the belligerents quarrel on Monday, it means 
 they dine together on Friday. And who shall 
 say they are not the wisest, the most philosophical 
 and civilised of the three? There is everything 
 in the day, the mood, the hour. Fever riots in 
 the blood on Monday, it boils and rushes to the 
 brain, inflaming view and vision. On Friday the 
 temperature has lowered, the pulse is quiet, the 
 brain normal, and the point of view calm and 
 friendly. And Irishmen, no matter how out- 
 rageously they quarrel, can afford to mend it, for 
 their most prejudiced enemies have never yet 
 called them cowards. Foes do not become friends 
 to avoid a fight; a subtle understanding, deeper 
 and more moving than an avalanche of words 
 binds them together. Forgiveness and Hope bear 
 their noble and yet human part in Ireland. Hell 
 is not so much considered as purgatory. In spite 
 of being mischievous sprites, turning the milk 
 sour, weaving spells, and, if crossed, being ex- 
 cessively spiteful, there is hope even for the fairies, 
 and they are affectionately called " the Good 
 People." They were once angels who, expelled 
 from Heaven, have not fallen further into Hell 
 than this unsatisfactory world. They still have 
 a sense of right and of justice, and befriend peo- 
 ple who are kind and generous, but punish those 
 
156 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 who are mean, miserly, and without consideration 
 for the fairies. To cut down a thorn tree always 
 brings disaster. 
 
 " Up the airy mountain, 
 
 Down the rushy glen, 
 We daren't go a-hunting 
 
 For fear of little men; 
 Wee folk, good folk, 
 
 Trooping all together; 
 Green jacket, red cap, 
 
 And white owl's feather ! 
 
 ** By the craggy hillside 
 
 Through the mosses bare, 
 They have planted thorn-trees 
 
 For pleasure here and there. 
 If any man so daring 
 
 As dig them up in spite. 
 He shall find their sharpest thorns 
 
 In his bed at night." 
 
 They are most worldly wise, the little people; it 
 was a fairy prince who gave a peasant these words 
 of wisdom: "What you don't spend yourself, 
 your enemies will spend for you." They speak 
 the most beautiful GaeHc, and sing the sweetest 
 songs, accompanied by silver flutes and trumpets, 
 and they love dancing and laughter. On the fifth 
 day of the week, which is Friday, they are free 
 to do mortals any harm in their power, therefore 
 this day is unlucky for weddings, or journeys, or 
 
THE IRISH TEMPERAMENT 157 
 
 even funerals. The Good People cannot avoid 
 being changeable and capricious, the fear and 
 doubt of finding forgiveness and mercy on Judg- 
 ment Day makes them reckless and maHcious. On 
 the other hand, remembrance of their original 
 blessed condition often influences them to benefi- 
 cent and helpful actions towards man. 
 
 We are ourselves singularly like the fairies. A 
 combination of good and evil, with a pitiful un- 
 certainty of our fate on the final great day. We 
 hope for mercy, but we have an active enemy in 
 the devil, against us. — ^What splendid scope the 
 War has given him! 
 
 The devil is not ignored in Ireland. He is con- 
 stantly spoken of, and recognised as a foe to be 
 outgeneraled, and even propitiated. He is not 
 like the old-fashioned frying-pan, Cromwellian 
 devil of Protestant countries, ever possessed by a 
 desire to broil and baste. His pursuits are more 
 diverse, and he has a sense of humour which 
 enables him to grin when a quick-witted sinner 
 eludes him. Purgatory, not being fatal, is his 
 worst stumbling-block. 
 
 The tram was striking sparks from its red-hot 
 tires on the main hne to hell, when it pulled up 
 at the last station, and the porters called out, 
 "Catholics, change here for Purgatory! Prot- 
 estants, keep your seats " 
 
 Good Catholics regard the devil with a kind of 
 
158 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 pity on account of his many failures. He works 
 so hard, so resourcefully, so intelhgently, his suc- 
 cess seems so sure, and then — defeat. 
 
 Doctor Damer, who lived near Tipperary, sold 
 his soul for a boot — a top-boot reaching above his 
 knee — to be filled with gold. On the day ap- 
 pointed, the devil arrived with a bag of sovereigns. 
 Meanwhile, the doctor had cut away the heel from 
 the boot, nailed it to the floor, and made an open- 
 ing through the ceiling to the room below. The 
 devil emptied the bag, and still the boot remained 
 unfilled. 
 
 " Confound it all," he said, telephoning to hell; 
 " send up imps with more gold." 
 
 Only at the end of a hard day's work was the 
 boot full of coins, and Doctor Damer the richest 
 man in the County. When he grew old, with ad- 
 mirable foresight, he gave his ill-gotten gains to 
 the sick and the poor. It was quite by accident 
 that the devil heard of his last illness. He at once 
 called for the ratification of their bargain, but 
 the doctor had departed the day before to work 
 out his salvation in Purgatory, duping the devil 
 for the second time. The " old boy " must be 
 quick-witted to gain an advantage over his Irish 
 antagonists. 
 
 Poor devil, it is only in Ireland that he ever 
 has a word of approval. In Trinity College his 
 signatiu'e is shown with fearlessness and pride. 
 
THE IRISH TEMPERAMENT 159 
 
 A great magician having invoked the devil to find 
 out the whereabouts of concealed treasure, found 
 his pen and paper suspended in mid-air, and 
 concealed by a black and fiery cloud, an invisible 
 hand wrote in Syrian characters and signed him- 
 self, E. Quid. In the Syrian language it may be 
 a portentous signature, but in the cold light of day, 
 in a glass case, it suggests a facetious and most 
 light-hearted devil. 
 
 A man, his ass and cart, were on a bridge with 
 a swollen, hungry river rushing madly beneath it. 
 The rotten timbers creaked ominously. The man 
 crossed himself and said, " God is good. God 
 is good." The creaking grew louder. " But," 
 he added, " the divil isn't bad — the divil isn't 
 bad." 
 
 A small farmer was showing an Englishman 
 the nearby country. " On the top of that pla- 
 teau," he said, " is the ' Devil's bed,' underneath 
 it is ' Devil's punchbowl,' and on the other side is 
 the ' Devil's glen.' " 
 
 " The devil seems to own a lot of places in 
 Ireland," said the Englishman. 
 
 " Yes, Sir, he does," said the Irishman, 
 " but he is an absentee landlord. He lives in 
 England." 
 
 " Great noise and httle wool," said the devil 
 with pointed sarcasm when shearing a pig, and 
 being deafened by the squeals. 
 
160 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 George Bernard Shaw in Man and Super- 
 man makes the devil encouragingly pohte to his 
 guests in hell. 
 
 The Statue. " This is metaphysics Juan, why 
 the devil should — (to the devil) I beg your 
 pardon." 
 
 The Devil. " Pray don't mention it. I have 
 always regarded the use of my name to secure ad- 
 ditional emphasis as a high comphment to me. It 
 is quite at your service, commander." 
 
 There are occasions when to say a man or ani- 
 mal will fight hke the devil is high praise. Dr. 
 Hyde makes the gossoon laud the pig by calling 
 him " a divil." 
 
 It is said that the Irish will not say yes or no. 
 Not because they cannot say yes or no, but be- 
 cause they are perfect adepts in evasion. It whets 
 their quick wits, and gives their tongues a neat 
 chance of thrust and parry. I do not know a 
 better example than " The Minister and the 
 Gossoon," in Dr. Hyde's Religious Songs of 
 Connaught. 
 
 " One day there was a poor little gossoon on the 
 side of the road, who was taking care of an old 
 sow of a pig and a litter of bonhams along with 
 her. 
 
 " A minister came the way, and he riding upon a 
 fine white horse, and he said to the gossoon, 
 * Where does this road bring you?'" 
 
Miss Kitty Gunning 
 
THE IRISH TEMPERAMENT 161 
 
 Gossoon. " I am here a fortnight, and it never 
 brought me anywhere yet." 
 
 Minister. " Now isn't it the wise httle boy you 
 are. Whose are those little pigs? " 
 
 Gossoon. " They are the old sow's." 
 
 Minister. " I know that, but I am asking you 
 who is the master of the bonhams? " 
 
 Gossoon. " That little black and white divil 
 that you see rooting. He is able to beat the whole 
 of them." 
 
 Minister. " That is not what I am asking you 
 at all. But who is your own master? " 
 
 Gossoon. " My mistress's husband, a man as 
 good as you'd get from here to himself." 
 
 Minister. " You don't understand me yet. 
 Who is your mistress? Perhaps you understand 
 that." 
 
 Gossoon. " I understand you well. She's my 
 master's wife. Everybody know's that." 
 
 Minister. " You are a wise little boy; and it is 
 good for me to let you be, but tell me do you know 
 where Patrick O'Donnell is living? " 
 
 Gossoon. " Yes, indeed. Follow this road 
 until you come to a boreen on the side of your 
 thumb-hand. Then follow your nose, and if you 
 go astray break the guide." 
 
 Minister. " Indeed and you're a ripe little lad. 
 What trade will you be when you'll be older? " 
 
 Gossoon. " Herding a pig. Don't you see that 
 
162 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 I am putting in my term. What is your own 
 trade?" 
 
 Minister. " A good trade. I am showing 
 people what is the way to Heaven.'* 
 
 Gossoon. " Oh, what a har; you cannot show 
 the way to any place. You don't know the way to 
 Patrick O'Donnell's, a man that everybody — big 
 and little — in this country knows, and I'm certain 
 sure that you have no knowledge of the road to 
 Heaven." 
 
 Minister. " I am beaten. Here's half-a-crown 
 for your cleverness. When I come again you'll 
 get another." 
 
 Gossoon. " Thank you ; it's a pity that a fool 
 like you doesn't come this way every day." 
 
 This is a very consistent httle study of Irish 
 character. The minister never loses his temper, 
 and is so amused with the boy's slipperiness and 
 quickness that he gives him a piece of money. 
 And even that fails to soften the lad's heart; he 
 is saucy and sparkling to the last. The gift of 
 speech is a most natural and not at all surprising 
 thing in Ireland. A solicitor told me of a deed 
 he had drawn up for an old peasant, who gave 
 the farm to his son on his marriage. " Now put 
 down as I say it, these words of mine," said he. 
 " I am to live with my son until my death, I am 
 to have free use of the fire without molestation. 
 I am to sleep in the four-post bed alone." How 
 
THE IRISH TEMPERAMENT 163 
 
 much is crowded into these few words, " free 
 use of the fire without molestation." It means 
 that none of the family are at liberty to 
 say, " Grandfather, please move and let me get 
 near the fire." He has provided against any 
 such contingency ; and no matter how many babies 
 come, or how crowded the cottage may be. 
 Grandpa will sleep comfortably alone in the four- 
 post bed. 'Not the most briUiant lawyer could put 
 more succinctly exactly what is meant than this 
 Irish peasant. All kinds and sorts of people 
 talk well. Literary people of course, it is expected 
 of them — although a famous authoress sat next 
 Mark Twain at a dinner-party, and never uttered 
 a syllable. At the end of the evening he turned 
 and said to her, " Why so boisterous, my child? " 
 And the people who are not literary, people of 
 leisure, and people who work, poets, priests, or 
 peasants can express themselves in the most pic- 
 turesque language. 
 
 A humble mother, at her son's wake, called 
 out, " Oh, women, look on me ! Look on me, 
 women. Have you ever seen the like of me in 
 my sorrow? Arrah, then my son, my son, 'tis 
 your mother that calls you. How long are you 
 sleeping? Do you see the people around you, my 
 darling, and I sorely weeping? Arrah, what is 
 this paleness on your face? Sure, there was no 
 equal to it in Erin for beauty and fairness. Your 
 
164 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 hair was heavy as the wing of a raven, and your 
 skin was whiter than the hand of a lady. It is the 
 stranger must carry me to the grave, and my son 
 lying here." 'No queen could have lamented her 
 son with more dignity. All emotions are tran- 
 scribed into words. The Irish minstrel improvises 
 beautiful songs. The Irish enemy improvises 
 amazing curses. Strangely enough curses seem to 
 be indigenous to the soil, but how grotesque an 
 Upper Tooting curse would be, or a Virginia 
 Water curse, or even for the matter of that, a 
 Washington, D.C. curse. On the other hand, a 
 Wexford curse is natural and not the least gro- 
 tesque, and a very nice, compact, comprehensive 
 curse it is: 
 
 " May the grass grow at your door and the fox 
 build his nest on your hearthstone. May the 
 light fade from your eyes, so that you never see 
 what you love. May your own blood rise against 
 you, and the sweetest drink you take be the bit- 
 terest cup of sorrow. May you die without benefit 
 of clergy; may there be none to shed a tear at 
 your grave, and may the hearthstone of hell be 
 your best bed for ever." 
 
 It is a little difficult to curse three enemies at 
 once, but in this instance of Bruader, Smith, and 
 Glinn it has been admirably done. The original 
 is a very long curse, but these verses serve to show 
 the style of malediction: 
 
THE IRISH TEMPERAMENT 165 
 
 " Bruader and Smith and Glinn 
 Amen, dear God I pray. 
 May they lie low in waves of woe, 
 And tortures slow each day ! 
 
 Amen! 
 
 " Glinn in a shaking ague, 
 
 Cancer on Bruader's tongue, 
 Amen, O King of the Heavens ! and Smith. 
 For ever stricken dumb. 
 
 Amen! 
 
 " Bruader with nerveless limbs. 
 
 Hemp strangling Glinn's last breath, 
 Amen, O King of the World's Light 
 And Smith in grips with death. 
 
 Amen ! " 
 
 Rafferty's curse, if it took effect, would be most 
 unpleasant, there are such a variety of diseases 
 embodied in it, while poisoned dragons' gall 
 sounds indeed a bitter potion. 
 
 " The feet may you lose from the knees down, 
 The sight of the eyes, and the movements of the hands, 
 The leprosy of Job may it come down upon you. 
 Farcy, erysipelas, and king's evil in the neck. 
 
 " A chest-boil, and a cold felon on you 
 A wheezing, a smothering, and a seile siadhain. 
 Dragons' gall and poison mixed through it. 
 May that be your sleeping draught at the hour of your 
 death." 
 
166 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 I thought, until I knew more about curses, that 
 even the curser could never take back his impreca- 
 tion, that once hurled forth it was out of his keep- 
 ing for ever; but there have been instances when 
 they have been called back, and sent forth again 
 as blessings. And because of this fluency with 
 words that is perhaps why there is not a finer 
 Irish literature. In speech beautiful thoughts and 
 sparkhng witticisms are lost and forgotten. It is 
 far easier for me to express myself in words than 
 by pen. I must read aloud all that I write, as my 
 ear and tongue are both quicker and more dis- 
 cerning than my eye, conversation is far more 
 stimulating to my creative faculties than quiet 
 meditation, and I can perfectly understand the 
 disinclination people who talk have to writing. 
 The very best talker I have ever heard is an 
 Irishman, George Russell, " A.E." The well-be- 
 loved, and the deservedly well-beloved, of Ireland. 
 He has half-a-dozen ways of expressing himself, 
 being a poet, a man of letters, a painter, a lecturer 
 — and the two things — to talk and to lecture — 
 do not necessarily go together. An agreeable 
 talker cannot always stand on his legs and speak 
 to an audience, but Mr. Russell can do both — and 
 his conversation has every grace. He illumines his 
 subjects without pedantry. He is instructive, and 
 at the same time amusing and witty. He has a 
 wonderful memory, and is master of a wide range 
 
THE IRISH TEMPERAMENT 167 
 
 of subjects; his facts, — for he is that unusual com- 
 bination, a practical poet, — are well marshalled 
 together. He can express himself in a voice of 
 many and varied tones, even the most insincere 
 listener would realise his sincerity, and can there 
 be a more rare sensation than to feel that a scin- 
 tillatingly brilliant conversationalist is sincere? 
 I have very often enjoyed and laughed at Oscar 
 Wilde's paradoxes, and listened to him talk with 
 delight, but invariably he gave me the impression 
 of a charming orator expressing other opinions 
 than his own. 
 
 Occasionally a silent Irishman is to be found. 
 I knew an Irish doctor living in London who was 
 perfectly inarticulate. A witty confrere, whose 
 wife he attended, said of him, " O'Grady may 
 know what is the matter with Herself, but he 
 can't tell anybody." 
 
 And there are also Irishmen quite devoid of any 
 sense of humour. But these are exceptions, for 
 usually not only do the Irish possess humour and 
 a ready tongue, but they possess a ready and 
 reckless courage where chance is concerned. The 
 Irish in America are rich, and they are poor. 
 They take a chance, and Fortune smiles, or she 
 frowns and runs away, but they do not grumble 
 at her humours. The Scandinavians, on the 
 other hand, take no chances, they work hard, make 
 a competence, and are satisfied. What would the 
 
168 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 world be without the hair-breadth escapes of the 
 Irish? A chance gives them the miUionth part of 
 an inch, they take it, and the goddess, shaking 
 her sides with laughter, claps her hands to applaud 
 as she sees them scramble to a breathless success. 
 
 A wild Irishman from Australia was in Paris 
 during the visit of the Tzar and Tzarina when 
 the whole city was mad with gaiety and excite- 
 ment. Every house was decorated with flowers 
 and flags, even the trees bloomed and blossomed 
 in paper roses, and very pretty if somewhat sur- 
 prising they looked peeping forth from the green 
 leaves. Joy and festivity was in the blood, bands 
 played, soldiers marched, and Pat O'Flynn said, 
 " I shall go to the ball with the Tzar." 
 
 "I'll bet you a hundred pounds you don't," said 
 the English friend to whom he made the remark. 
 
 "Done," said O'Flynn; "I'll go; notify your 
 banker that your account may not be overdrawn," 
 and my friend O'Flynn began his machinations. 
 He went to a costumer and hired a magnificent uni- 
 form of pale-blue cloth, braided in gold and silver, 
 epaulets rich with bullion, a scarlet sash, and a 
 glittering metal helmet. He then made in differ- 
 ent pawnshops selections of orders — Turkish, 
 Polish, Italian, Russian, Spanish, Portuguese — 
 he was prodigal as to nationality and catholic in 
 his taste — and these he pinned over the left breast 
 of his uniform, until they overlapped like the 
 
THE IRISH TEMPERAMENT 169 
 
 scales of a shining fish. The small interstices were 
 filled with little street medals, heads of the Tzar 
 and Tzarina, and the President of the Republic. 
 The night of the ball he covered himself with a 
 blue cloak lined with scarlet satin, and waited on 
 the outside of the crowd until the Tzar and 
 Tzarina and their suite passed up the steps to 
 enter the palace. Just as they disappeared he 
 threw back his long cloak and said to the excited 
 police, '^ Je suis en retard, mon Dieu! je suis en 
 retard! le Tzar! le Tzar!! Je suis General Irish- 
 offsky. General! le premier Irishoffshy." One 
 emotional Frenchman, impressed by his grandeur, 
 shouted out, "^ Vive Vlrishoffshy," the crowd gave 
 a cheer which they had not accorded to the 
 Tzar, and he entered the ballroom in a blaze of 
 glory. 
 
 His friend, the Englishman, standing well back 
 in the crowd, watched the brilliant figure disap- 
 pear, and said, " Well, I'm damned. He's the 
 
 h of a fellow," went off to his hotel, 
 
 and gamely wrote the cheque for a hundred 
 pounds. 
 
 Doctor Patrick Murphy, when in the medical 
 service in India, told me he was making a voyage 
 from Calcutta to Bombay. On the boat were a 
 number of Buddhist priests; they belonged to a 
 silent order and were all very devout. But even 
 buried in their habits and hoods, he thought he saw 
 
170 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 in a lean face, burnt a fine bronze, the intelligent 
 gleam of a dark-blue eye. And, for some reason 
 or other, it seemed to him a familiar Irish eye. At 
 first he dismissed the idea as impossible, but as he 
 closely regarded the broad-shouldered, long- 
 hmbed man at his prayers, and saw how much 
 more manly and free in action he was than is 
 usual to the Indian, he decided if the opportunity 
 arose to speak to him. When the boat arrived at 
 Bombay, the priests, not hurrying away, were the 
 last people to cross the gang-plank, and the blue- 
 eyed one lingered well in the rear. 
 
 Taking his chance, my friend said, " An' will 
 you have a drop of the craythur? " 
 
 The Buddhist priest raised his head like a war- 
 horse who hears a trumpet, and, speaking in a 
 low voice with a rich brogue said, " Faith an' I 
 will." 
 
 " Then follow me to the cabin," said Doctor 
 Murphy. 
 
 After a generous peg of whiskey, the doctor had 
 only time to say, "Where do you come from?" 
 
 The priest said, " The West's awake, from 
 Galway," he then hurried up the steps and Doctor 
 Murphy saw him no more. 
 
 What Arabian Nights' romance could be more 
 entertaining than the adventures of that West of 
 Ireland broth of a boy, until he becomes among 
 many other things, a priest of Buddha. Nothing 
 
THE IRISH TEMPERAMENT 171 
 
 that Kipling ever wrote would be half so thriUing 
 or so amusing as his experiences. The true and 
 natural soldier of fortune, the man at home in 
 every country, is always the Irishman, for it seems 
 that he alone can get into the skin of another 
 nationality. A constant reproach to the Irish is 
 that they are visionaries and dreamers. And if 
 they are — Joan of Arc saved France through a 
 vision. The dreams of Napoleon made him con- 
 queror of the world. I know the best, the sweet- 
 est, and the most worthy part of my life consists 
 of dreams and visions. How often in the wakeful 
 hours of the night have I endowed that home for 
 governesses, where they can have breakfast in bed, 
 tea at any hour of the afternoon, ari stay out as 
 long as they like at night. And the Judge Paschal 
 Law School, in my dear Father's name, where 
 men could become lawyers free of all expense. 
 And the bank where deserving young people very 
 much in love could borrow money when they 
 wanted to marry — I've tried to work out a system 
 of getting it back again, but it is very difficult. 
 And the Temple of Cleanliness where the dirtiest 
 could get kindly but at the same time tonic advice. 
 And the Temple of Cleanliness where the dirtiest 
 and the poorest would never be refused a clean 
 towel, soap, and a bath. If only the fairies would 
 tell me where to find gold, then I could prove to 
 my fellowman my love for him. Now, alas! I am 
 
172 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 limited to tonic advice, and it has not the weight 
 it would have if given in the House of Hope. 
 But, oh, of all things we must cherish our dreams 
 and our visions, for I am sure in them lies forgive- 
 ness for our omissions and our sins. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 A PERFORMING ZOO 
 
 I HAVE been to Zoological Gardens in America, 
 in England, in Germany, in France, in Holland, 
 in Italy, and nowhere in the world have I found 
 captive creatures so " domesticated " as in Dublin. 
 Probably it comes from the patience, tenderness, 
 understanding, and intimacy of the keepers with 
 the various animals. The Irish are, except where 
 patriotism is concerned, a philosophical race. They 
 expect fierceness from wild beasts, and only seek 
 preparedness in dealing with them. 
 
 A woman sits at the entrance of the Zoo, with 
 all the various grain of a zoological menu ar- 
 ranged on her stall. I bought a number of small 
 differently coloured packets, before entering the 
 gate. The birds recognised them from afar, and 
 came rapturously along the path towards me. 
 The peacock knew his own particular paper at a 
 glance, and ate out of my hand with sharp relish. 
 The ducks on the pond stopped swimming and 
 came with smiling beaks and wet-webbed feet, for 
 the grain contained in their familiar little red 
 bags. And all my way to the Lion House, I was 
 followed by a motley procession of the feathered 
 
 173 
 
174 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 tribe. Hearing that Flood, the keeper, has been 
 more successful in raising lions in captivity than 
 any other student of natural history in Europe, 
 I was greatly interested to make his acquaintance. 
 He is a good-looking, strong man of fifty or more, 
 with handsome blue, steady, unwinking eyes. He 
 says himself he has been so long among the lions 
 that he now rather resembles them, and indeed I 
 noticed a little soft yellow fur beginning to make 
 its appearance on his ears. 
 
 There were six or eight young lions to be seen, 
 two cubbies a fortnight old, four cubs of four 
 months with a dog in their cage to mind and tame 
 them, and two young lioness flappers, just begin- 
 ning to take notice, filled with female curiosity and 
 restlessly desirous of taking a promenade. Hugh, 
 a fine large irritable Irish lion — for he was born 
 in the Zoo — refused to be civil even to Flood. He 
 roared loudly when any one went near his cage, 
 and if a man stood at a respectable distance look- 
 ing at him, he gave ominous rumbles. Leo, an- 
 other lion born in the jungle, of much more ami- 
 able disposition, was evidently a seeker after popu- 
 larity, for he squatted on his haunches, pressed his 
 rough mane against the bars, and apparently 
 enjoyed having his head scratched by people of 
 sporting tendencies. Flood asked politely if I de- 
 sired to participate in this unusual amusement, but 
 I refused, fearing that, as many accidents have 
 
o 
 
 N 
 
 X 
 
 o 
 
A PERFORMING ZOO 175 
 
 befallen me, my hand might be left in the cage. 
 And, indeed, I did not feel so much sympathy 
 towards Leo as towards Hugh, who was after all, 
 the traditional lion, a savage captive. There were 
 some magnificent tigers in their cages, splendid 
 fellows in the very pink of condition. One of 
 them, by the commanding and persevering Flood, 
 had been taught a trick, which he loathes from the 
 very bottom of his tiger soul, but which for some 
 reason, best known to himself, he performs. 
 
 In the corner of the cage lies a large log of 
 wood. Flood, with a steady voice, says, " Straddle 
 your log!" The tiger's eyes blaze with green 
 fury, he snarls, showing all his dangerous white 
 fangs, and snorts with such rage that his whiskers 
 fly from his curling hp. Nevertheless, with drag- 
 ging pauses, he sidles up to the faggot. " Go on, 
 Sir, go on! " says Flood, and still breathing impre- 
 cations against his tormentor, and cursing with 
 every breath, he slowly straddles the log. " Now, 
 sit down," says Flood, and the sleek monster cat, 
 with a " damn you, damn you, if I could only slit 
 your weazand," slowly squats upon the log, dis- 
 playing his magnificent white chest, which heaves 
 stupendously. He is quiet for a moment, then, 
 with a roar of pent-up rage, he flings himself from 
 his seat, sails through the air, and grapples the 
 iron bars with his sharp claws, giving them a good, 
 ratthng shake. And I was very glad, indeed. 
 
176 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 that something strong stood between that monarch 
 of the jungle and his audience. 
 
 " Do you know," I said to Flood, looking at a 
 little velvety snub-nosed female lion cub and her 
 brother, who seemed less intelligent but more man- 
 ageable, " I have a theory that I could bring up a 
 lion on bread and milk and moral suasion, and he 
 would become a possible member of society." 
 
 " You might try moral suasion, but not bread 
 and milk; the lion is a carniverous animal and 
 must have meat. Theories are not successful when 
 applied to beasts of the jungle. Kipling has done 
 it in a book, and made them all talk; but a Hon, 
 as far as I know him," — I looked at Flood's 
 hands covered with scars — he knows him — " re- 
 mains a lion. No feline, except the domestic cat, 
 is ever tame while there is life in it." 
 
 " Have you ever known an amateur to try and 
 tame a lion? " 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Flood. " There was once a 
 gentleman who had even a greater ambition than 
 yours. Madam; he was not satisfied to bring up 
 one lion on moral suasion, but tried two." 
 
 " And what was the result? " 
 
 " Ah," said Flood, " the end was tragedy. Do 
 you see that young lioness sitting in the middle 
 cage? " 
 
 I looked; there was a large, fluffy, blond lion- 
 ess, with a self-satisfied kittenish expression, and 
 
A PERFORMING ZOO 177 
 
 a vixenish smile, regarding us attentively. I am 
 certain she understood every word of the conver- 
 sation. All female creatures understand conver- 
 sations that are a tribute to their vanity. 
 
 " Yes," I said, " I see the young lady you de- 
 scribe. Is she the heroine of the story? " 
 
 " She is," said Flood. " This gentleman gave 
 me a fair price for her and a good male cub. He 
 took them both down to his place — he owned many 
 wild acres in Connemara — and there he brought 
 the two of them up on affection and close com- 
 panionship. He fairly educated those lions, and 
 when he came to see me he said they both fol- 
 lowed him about like dogs, licking his hands, and 
 showing him every sign of affection. He had a 
 big hall with a stone floor, and they used to lie 
 down in front of the fireplace on winter evenings; 
 except for loud purrs, they might have been mis- 
 taken for monster poodles. When the male lion, 
 in the world of hons, was about seventeen, and the 
 lioness the same age, the gentleman made a visit 
 to Dublin and, as always, he came to the Zoo. 
 
 " ' Flood,' he said to me, ' you may be, and are, 
 a specialist in raising lion cubs, but you are all 
 wrong about their training; you are too strict a 
 master; my lions wouldn't harm me for the world; 
 you see I've brought them up by kindness. Now, 
 entirely on account of the complaints of the family 
 and servants, I have been obhged to put them into 
 
178 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 an enclosure of tall iron bars, but they are as play- 
 ful and gentle as cats.' 
 
 " * I beg of you, Sir,' I said, ' not to be deceived 
 by those lions. They may love you, but love has 
 never changed the nature of a beast nor of a man. 
 Love does not make a coward courageous, nor a 
 thief honest, nor an unfaithful man faithful. Ani 
 mals and man remain true to their instincts. That 
 young male lion is now just about ready to choose 
 his mate, and he will want to offer her the thing 
 he values most. It may be you. Sir. You say 
 he loves you, so I beg of you to be on your 
 guard. The psychological moment has arrived 
 and you can't be too watchful. Did you ever 
 hear of a Philadelphia family who had a young 
 lioness for a pet, very gentle, harmless, and play- 
 ful, but who broke out of her cage one night, at- 
 tacked her master on a balcony, and bit the fingers 
 off a policeman who came to the rescue? Put not 
 your trust in wild animals, Sir.' " 
 
 " And then," I said, " what happened? " 
 Flood sighed. " The gentleman went back to 
 Connemara; — it was in the warm spring. The 
 sap was flowing in the trees and plants, birds 
 were mating, and young animals were getting rest- 
 less. The lions' master went to the enclosure, 
 opened the gateway, and called to them. They 
 were named Paul and Virginia. There was an 
 instant's pause, then Paul sailed through the air 
 
A PERFORMING ZOO 179 
 
 like a projectile, and caught the man by the throat. 
 It was an instantaneous kill. Afterwards he 
 dragged the body into the enclosure and laid it at 
 the feet of Virginia." 
 
 At this moment I am sure Virginia, who had 
 been listening to him with her head coquettishly 
 turned to one side, grinned at me, and taking 
 warning, I said to Flood, " I don't think, after 
 all, I will bring up a lion on moral suasion; per- 
 haps it is better to leave you without foolhardy 
 rivals to your job." 
 
 Flood smiled. " Maybe you are right," he said. 
 
 " But there are civilised lions," I said. " Quite 
 lately a travelling circus was going through New 
 York, when a lion managed to loosen the bars of 
 his cage, slip out, and take a promenade on Broad- 
 way. I need scarcely say that those who met him 
 gave him the right of way. He was left to look 
 at the shop-windows unmolested. Proceeding 
 leisurely toward the Battery he paused before a 
 sign and read: 
 
 " ' The Best Free Lunch Counter in the World. 
 See For Yourself.' 
 
 " And he saw for himself. It was three o'clock 
 when he entered. The place was quite empty. 
 The barkeeper was reading The Sun. Hearing 
 footsteps, he reached for a bottle of Bourbon 
 whiskey, lifted his eyes from the paper, and paused 
 
180 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 to see a large, shaggy lion eating from ' left to 
 right.' Beef, chickens, hams, ducks, peach Melbas, 
 disappeared in the twinkling of an eye. When 
 the counter was cleared of food the lion, with ice 
 cream clinging to his whiskers, squatted on his 
 haunches and made full rumbles of grateful 
 thanks. The barkeeper, not understanding his 
 language, was petrified with fear, and his silence 
 was getting on the lion's nerves; who, between 
 the rumbles, began impatiently swishing his tail. 
 The distracted keepers, rushing down Broadway, 
 heard familiar sounds, followed that direction, and 
 with no difficulty captured the Free Lunch 
 Lion." 
 
 " The man was mighty lucky to have food be- 
 twixt him and the lion," said Flood. "I'm glad 
 they took him alive. I like the beasts." 
 
 " Tell me how it is that you are so successful 
 with your little cubs; it is wonderful how they 
 prosper in captivity." 
 
 " I have been at this business a long time, and 
 I make a specialty of baby lions and their diseases, 
 just as some doctors make a specialty of children's 
 diseases. The critical moment for a cub is when 
 he begins to eat meat ; then he must be looked after 
 with great care. Lions vary as much in constitu- 
 tion and character as human beings. One animal 
 is sulky and morbid, a second is stupid, a third is 
 subject to sudden fits of rage, a fourth is timid, 
 
A PERFORMING ZOO 181 
 
 and a fifth curious. There are hons and honesses 
 who can only be trained by a woman — others can 
 only be trained by a man. I've had lions of 
 exceptional intelligence and sold them to trainers, 
 but a cub from the jungle is more easily managed 
 than one born in captivity; accustomed to man 
 from the beginning, he has no respect or fear of 
 him — while to a wild feline, man is still a 
 mystery." 
 
 Then we discussed the insurrection and the War. 
 Flood told me that only a week before his eldest 
 son had been shot in the battle of the Somme. At 
 the beginning of the War he enlisted in the Army, 
 was on active service for many months in France, 
 had been granted a short leave, and immediately 
 after rejoining his regiment he had been killed. 
 
 " He was one of the finest young fellows you 
 could wish to see. Tall, over six feet, straight 
 as a pine tree, fresh-faced, as strong as a lion; 
 and there was nothing he was afraid of; neither 
 man, nor beast, nor gun," said Flood. " He's 
 gone; it's harder on his Mother than it is on me," 
 he sighed heavily. 
 
 Ireland has paid her toll. After the grand push 
 I met many mothers too poor to wear black 
 clothes, but they wore mourning in their eyes and 
 in their hearts. 
 
 If Flood has a rival in the Zoo, it is the keeper 
 of the elephants. " General " and " Captain " are 
 
182 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 as well trained as the usual performing animals 
 of a circus, the most amusing trick of their 
 repertoire being a musical number. The small 
 elephant plays the mouth-organ sweetly, the large 
 elephant plays it boldly. But they had only one 
 mouth-organ between them, that one unworthy of 
 their talent, and they were obliged to wait the 
 convenience of each other. Two instruments 
 would enable them to perform duets. I supplied 
 the deficiency with a fine large, resonant, red 
 Japanese mouth-organ, which Mr. Percy La- 
 bouchere found for me in Cork. On the day of 
 presentation, when I offered it to the large ele- 
 phant, he gave it a great blast, which sounded 
 quite a Wagnerian chord ; then quickly transferred 
 his attention to me, to see if I had concealed any 
 apples about my wearing apparel. Since that 
 day there have been many rehearsals, and now the 
 elephants are adepts in duets. 
 
 All animals can be taught tricks; a member of 
 my family owns a guinea-pig who sings. His 
 voice has not the full volume nor the thrilling 
 quality of Caruso's, but when his mistress says, 
 " Sing, Squeezel," he pipes a fairy rondeau to 
 carrots, and swells to twice his normal size at the 
 applause which follows. Sir John Lubbock 
 claimed to have a dog who could talk, and Lucian 
 made his animals in conversation both wise and 
 witty. 
 
-1 f= 
 
 3 K 
 
 
A PERFORMING ZOO 183 
 
 " Tell me," says Micyllus to the Cock, " when 
 you were a dog, a horse, or a fish, or a frog, how 
 did you like that life? " 
 
 " Every one of these lives is much more quiet 
 than that of man, as the hfe of animals is within 
 the bounds of natural desires and needs : for among 
 them you could never see a usurious horse, or a 
 backbiting frog, a sophisticated jay, a gormet 
 gnat, or a deceitful cock." 
 
 I will allow that a frog's face does not suggest 
 backbiting proclivities, it is too broad and genial; 
 and a horse is too honest for usury, but jay birds 
 — at least American jay birds — are gay birds, and 
 are more than sophisticated, for: 
 
 " De jay bird he 'loped wid de blue bird wife, 
 An' it almost took dat blue bird life." 
 
 And gormet gnats — I bear their scars still — are 
 certainly to be found during the summer months 
 in Ireland; and I've often seen a calculating and 
 deceitful cock, head held high, staring absent- 
 mindedly away from a worm, and when the atten- 
 tion of all the hens was distracted, he would swoop 
 down and swallow it. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE TREASURES OF IRELAND 
 
 While there is no capital that has given me 
 more pleasure than Dublin — the fine Georgian 
 houses, the picture galleries, the splendid libraries 
 — the museum has given me the greatest pleasure 
 of all. It was not originally designed for a pub- 
 lic building, but was a magnificent house built by 
 the first Duke of Leinster, the father of Sir 
 Edward FitzGerald, for his unusually large fa- 
 mily; the beautiful and charming Duchess being 
 the mother of eighteen children. Lady Leitrim 
 wrote of her when a widow, " The black is a set- 
 ting for the fair complexion. As she sat there, 
 a wax candle light upon her face, she was as proud 
 and graceful as a swan." 
 
 When his friends asked the Duke why he had 
 built his house in an unfashionable quarter, he 
 answered airily, " Oh, they will follow me wher- 
 ever I go," and he was quite right; being a Duke 
 they foUowed him. And it is the same to-day. 
 
 There were innumerable bedrooms, dressing- 
 rooms, nurseries, playrooms, and magnificent 
 suites of reception rooms. When the house was 
 young and filled with young voices and childlike 
 
 184 
 
THE TREASURES OF IRELAND 185 
 
 effervescence it must have been, in spite of its 
 dignity and size, a gay and cheerful place, al- 
 though Lord Edward FitzGerald wrote his 
 mother, " Leinster House does not inspire the 
 brightest ideas," but anywhere his reflections be- 
 fore the rebellion would have been sad and 
 anxious. The house must have been at one time 
 the scene of lively gaiety. The Duke of Leinster 
 was an actor and singer of more than ordinary 
 talent; there were theatricals and concerts, balls 
 and ridottos, when great ladies and gentlemen ill 
 masques and spangles brightened the rooms with 
 changing colour. And some subtle sentiment 
 seems yet to linger about the place. It is a 
 museum, but it is human. After the Union, when 
 so many great houses met with changes, Leinster 
 House passed into the hands of the Government, 
 and became the National Museum. 
 
 One of the rooms has been embelhshed by the 
 superb ceiling and finely proportioned panelling 
 and doors, the noble chimney-piece and fire-grate 
 from Tracton House — now demolished — in St. 
 Stephen's Green. The large rooms leading from 
 one to the other lend themselves to the display of 
 the collection, which is varied enough to suit the 
 most profound scholar, or a lady interested only 
 in jewels. An archaeologist might linger for days 
 among the stones, the arrowheads, the urns, and 
 utensils of ancient Ireland. An interesting speci- 
 
186 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 men is the stone covered with spirals, which stands 
 at the entrance of the tumulus of New Grange. 
 The deep carving has defied the wind and weather 
 of centuries. But that the Irish climate is kind is 
 proved by many treasures that have lain in the 
 earth eight or nine hundred years, and are still 
 in a fine state of preservation. A piece of fringe 
 made of horse-hair about four hundred years 
 before Christ was recently found in a County 
 Antrim bog, and in 1886, near the village of 
 Islandbridge, swords, spearheads, bosses of shields, 
 tongs, brooches, mantlepins, and helmet crests of 
 white metal were unearthed and proved to be rich 
 relics of Scandinavian chiefs engaged in battle 
 against the ancient Irish, "greatly to their dis- 
 advantage on account of the Danes' corslets, thin 
 and vahant swords, and their well rivetted long 
 spears." These ancient warriors with their primi- 
 tive implements fought with more manliness than 
 men of the present day. It was a fair field and no 
 quarter, but the air was clear of gas, and bombs 
 did not tear up the earth and demolish strong- 
 holds, which stood unimpaired even when they sur- 
 rendered through force of arms. The Danish vik- 
 ing sword-hilts of bronze, gilded and decorated 
 with insets of silver wire, are finely wrought, but 
 are not finer than ancient Irish work. The sword 
 from the cemetery of Kilmainham is said to be 
 one of the most perfect swords in any museum. 
 
THE TREASURES OF IRELAND 187 
 
 And the Irish brooches of silver, of bronze, of 
 silver gilt bronze, of enamel, and of gold and sil- 
 ver cunningly inlaid, are remarkable for delicate 
 handling. The most celebrated is the Tara brooch, 
 made about 700 Anno Domini, and discovered in 
 1850 on the strand at Betty stown near Drogheda. 
 The main body of this large ornament is bronze 
 decorated with fine gold filigree, and brilliant 
 enamel and settings of blue and purple glass and 
 of amber. The back of the brooch is probably 
 executed by another hand, for the ornamentation 
 of hard white bronze and cloisonne and red and 
 blue enamel is freer in style than the front. The 
 fineness of the work is exquisite; it was probably 
 made by a friend and pupil of the Great Man who 
 designed and illustrated the Book of Kells. Even 
 more ancient than the brooch of Tara is a small 
 collection of beads. Women of all ages have 
 loved beads. Ladies of 900 were satisfied with 
 glass. Ladies of 1917 demand pearls. That is the 
 expensive difference. The eleven glass beads 
 probably made in 800, and found in Kilmainham 
 with iron weapons, have as much character as 
 those manufactured to-day. Two of them are 
 dark blue, with lattice patterns of lighter blue. 
 A large one is of green glass studded with green 
 enamel. How history repeats itself even in the 
 combination of colour. Green and yellow as a 
 decoration for the artistic young ladies of 800, 
 
188 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 " Greenery yallery garments," according to Gil- 
 bert, for the artistic young ladies of 1877; so cen- 
 turies pass by, and there is nothing new under the 
 sun. 
 
 A jewel fit for a king. The Cross of Cong, 
 perhaps the greatest treasure of the museum, was 
 made for a King. Tur lough O' Conor, King of 
 Ireland in 1123, designed a shrine worthy to hold 
 a piece of the true Cross, and Irish artisans 
 fashioned this beautiful piece of work. The Cross 
 is made of oak as hard as a stone, encased with 
 copper plates, enriched by ornaments of gilt 
 bronze. The sides are framed in bands of silver, 
 and the whole is held together by nails finished in 
 the heads of animals, each nail a little work of art. 
 A crystal of quartz set in the front face of the 
 Cross covered the precious relic. The proportions 
 are beautiful, and the multiplicity of the designs 
 formed of gold filigree as fine as a spider's web, 
 show a fertile imagination, while the tenacious set- 
 ting of the stones displays enduring craftsmanship. 
 I have looked again and again at the Cross of 
 Cong so often described and pictured, and never 
 failed to discover some new or overlooked beauty. 
 
 Of great importance in the museum is the lovely 
 gold work. 
 
 " This," I said to Mr. Armstrong, as I stood 
 before a case filled with beautiful gold Brob- 
 dingnagian ornaments, pointing to a fine torque, 
 
THE TREASURES OF IRELAND 189 
 
 " is the collar of gold which Malachi won from the 
 proud invader." 
 
 " No, indeed," said this gentleman of knowl- 
 edgeable authority; " it is of a much later period." 
 
 " Will you please show me the collar of that 
 celebrated Red Branch Knight." 
 
 " It has not been discovered," said Mr. Arm- 
 strong. 
 
 " Then," I said, " I will have to select a large 
 beautiful torque and assign it to Malachi." 
 
 " Oh, you cannot do that," said Mr. Arm- 
 strong. " You really cannot." 
 
 How damping to enthusiasm and to fancy is a 
 museum conscience, where everything must be 
 verified by facts, dates, and evidence. Only a 
 high-minded and patient gentleman delighting in 
 research is endowed with this conscience. I 
 honour it, but for picturesque description, I de- 
 plore it. Still the influence is admirable. 
 
 A lady asked me recently if I knew anything 
 that would cure a liar. At the time I did not. 
 Now I am convinced that archaeological research 
 would do it. Though I regret that collar which 
 Erin would remember so much better if it could 
 see it at the museum — and nobody the wiser — 
 still it is some consolation to know that the 
 best and largest collection of gold ornaments in 
 Western Europe is to be seen in Dubhn. In the 
 early centuries Wicklow was rich in gold, and even 
 
190 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 yet in the mountain streams an occasional unim- 
 portant nugget has been found. There are many 
 beautiful specimens of almost unalloyed gold in 
 the cases: Tiaras, diadems, lunulse, hair plates and 
 ear-rings, necklaces, beads, gorgets, and torques 
 — I love torques because the Fairy Queen wears 
 one of diamond dewdrops around her lily-white 
 neck, and a golden lunula on her hair — bracelets, 
 brooches, fibulae, and torques large enough to en- 
 circle the waist, little trinkets and gorgeous gold 
 balls — some of them larger than golf balls — strung 
 together, and used by the Irish chiefs as collars 
 for their coal-black steeds on coronation days or 
 great festivals. Mr. Armstrong agreed cautiously 
 that this theory of mine might be the case, but I 
 could not get from him a definite admission. 
 
 As late as 1810, when little was known about 
 Irish antiquities, two beautiful torques were found 
 by workmen digging in the Hill of Tara. They 
 were evidently, from their unusual length — one 
 was over five and a half feet long, and the other 
 but an inch shorter — intended to be worn over 
 the shoulder and across the breast, holding in place 
 rich silk draperies. And these priceless treasures 
 were hawked about the streets of Navan, and 
 offered for three or four shillings as old brass, but 
 even at this price no one would buy them. Luckily 
 they were discovered by Lord Essex and later 
 acquired by the Academy. 
 
THE TREASURES OF IRELAND 191 
 
 What delightful object lessons are contained in 
 a museum; it is an unforgettable kindergarten for 
 grown-ups in the history of a people. Throughout 
 the centuries it is apparent to the most casual 
 observer that the Irish had, as they still have, 
 hands. 
 
 I asked Miss Carroll, a fashionable Fifth Ave- 
 nue dressmaker, who were the best fitters after the 
 French, and she said the Irish. Her head fitter 
 was a Miss McKenna, to whom she paid a salary 
 of fifteen pounds a week. And nowhere in the 
 world is there more beautiful lace or embroidery 
 made than in Ireland. The specimens in the mu- 
 seum are very complete. Needlepoint, of course, 
 is the richest and most difficult of the laces, and 
 is a correct copy of old Venetian point. I have 
 seen much lace in Venice, but never as beautiful a 
 piece as the exquisite apron made at the Presenta- 
 tion Convent of Youghal. It is a work of art, an 
 ornament that a Queen might envy. Aprons are 
 pretty things, and can be worn coquettishly or 
 demurely according to the spirit of the wearer. 
 The Baroness Burdett Coutts always wore a black 
 silk apron in the afternoon. My aunt Patty 
 Hynes wore one in the morning, and I remember 
 Marie Tempest in a costume play, wearing a short 
 velvet gown of grey and rose, and a lovely lace 
 apron. The lace schools at the Presentation Con- 
 vent and at Kenmare are both employing many 
 
192 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 workers. Limerick lace — needle run on net — is 
 not of great value, but it has a charming filminess, 
 the advantage of being flattering and becoming, 
 and is recently much improved by the use of cream 
 thread on cream net. There are various specimens 
 of this lace in the museum, both old and modern. 
 A flounce made in the middle of the nineteenth 
 century has an exquisite border with any number 
 of different stitches, and the Carrickmacross lace 
 of guipure and applique is very handsome. There 
 is an Irish cut work — an applique of muslin on 
 net — that is also extremely effective, and I am 
 very fond of tatting — frivolite they call it in New 
 Orleans — I remember as a child having an adora- 
 tion for " Miss Jenny," a pretty young lady with 
 thick brown hair, who made tatting with a mother- 
 of-pearl shuttle. And I have never seen more 
 lacey, exquisite frivolite than the many specimens 
 in the museum. 
 
 Irish crochet is said to be going out of fashion, 
 but in countries with a warm chmate, like America, 
 there is nothing that will take its place, withstand- 
 ing as it does the onslaughts of the most vigorous 
 washerwoman. I saw a new design, the Coxcomb 
 pattern, in Killarney on a collar and cuffs, and 
 they would have transformed the plainest linen 
 frock into a thing of beauty. 
 
 The old Irish needlework of the early nineteenth 
 century is a marvel of beautiful, honest, pains- 
 
THE TREASURES OF IRELAND 193 
 
 taking industry. It is solid enough to last cen- 
 turies. The most elaborate intricate patterns were 
 used, and the soft light cambric is made heavy with 
 raised thick embroidery. Mr. J. J. Buckley 
 showed me a number of blocks for handkerchiefs 
 — when handkerchiefs were worn rather large — 
 designed by an artist, and each handkerchief would 
 have taken an interminable time to complete. 
 Even yet with the modern Irish embroidery there 
 is small economy of time in any of the designs. 
 The Swiss are the people of all others whose 
 patterns in embroidery are both saving of time 
 and work. In all the centuries the Irish have 
 been adepts with the needle. The embroidery 
 dress of Cuclinlainn, who lived in the middle of the 
 nineteenth century, was that of an artist. He 
 wore a soft crimson tunic, with a gold-worked 
 brooch at his breast, a long-sleeved fair white 
 linen kirtle, and a white hood enriched with em- 
 broidery of gold. And I am sure he had blue 
 Irish eyes, raven-black hair, and was good to look 
 upon. 
 
 Old Irish musical instruments, harpsichords 
 with thick ivory keys and smooth inlays of brass, 
 graceful quaint guitars, and narrow violins display 
 the most exact and delicate workmanship; and 
 the Irish pipes, long and graceful with their ivory 
 and silver fittings are things of real beauty. I 
 have heard a blind piper play them, and they are 
 
194 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 wilder and yet more soft than the Scottish bag- 
 pipes. It was my good fortune to get a rare old 
 coloured print from Miss Eleanor Persse of an 
 Irish piper, and it was so exactly what I wanted 
 that it seems ahnost a gift from the fairies. 
 
 The form, ornamentation, design, and colour of 
 old Irish silver can all be studied at the museum. 
 Why is it that old silver has a more bluish tint, 
 and is not so fiercely brilHant and glossy in polish 
 as new silver? The potato — or dish rings — are 
 very distinctly Irish, and are so many and varied 
 in design that it would be difficult to choose a 
 reproduction of one among them. Johnson copies 
 them with exactitude. I like myself the one of 
 1770 ahnost better than any of them, with the man 
 in a tunic among the roses. A dish ring sur- 
 mounted by a black Wedgwood bowl filled with 
 yellow jonquils is a lovely combination of form 
 and colour. The loving-cups are also very beau- 
 tiful. Instead of the conventional christening-cup, 
 I have just sent Alma Lucy — my most recently 
 acquired God-daughter — a copy of an old Irish 
 loving-cup. She can comfortably grasp both han- 
 dles for drinking her milk, and later on she can 
 fill it with shamrocks. 
 
 Every day the good workmanship and fine de- 
 signs of old Irish silver are more appreciated, 
 and the commercial value increases. Mr. S. J. 
 Phillips of New Bond Street, London, whose 
 
< —I 
 
 ?! '^ 
 
 
 5Q 
 
 
THE TREASURES OF IRELAND 195 
 
 father and grandfather before him were experts 
 in silver, recently acquired four potato rings which 
 he valued at two hundred pounds each. He said 
 they were not the best specimens, and a few years 
 ago he could have sold them for a less price. 
 
 With Mr. Westropp, one of the first authorities 
 on glass in Europe, making additions to the speci- 
 mens of old glass — more particularly Irish glass — 
 the collection in the museum is very complete. 
 Glass was made in Ireland as early as 1525. In 
 1729 the Dublin Journal advertised, " At the 
 Round Glass-House in Mary's Lane, Dublin, are 
 made and sold all sorts of fine drinking glasses, 
 salvers, baskets with handles and feet for dessert, 
 fine salts ground and polished; all sorts of de- 
 canters; lamps, etc., and for the encouragement 
 of dealers it is proposed to sell them much cheaper 
 than they can import them from England or 
 elsewhere." Possibly the " baskets with feet " are 
 the salad bowls which are so rare and highly prized 
 to-day. 
 
 " Sold by Hector ye glassman to . . . Oct. 
 19, 1622. Bunches of glass at XXVs per case." 
 In 1781 Irish glass was exceedingly popular in 
 America. " Bunches of glass " from Waterford 
 and Cork were exported to New York — " decan- 
 ters " — I saw a decanter of Waterford glass in 
 Charleston, South Carolina — " tumblers, wine- 
 glasses, punch glasses, liqueur bottles, gerandoles, 
 
196 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 chandeliers, lustres " — my father bought a pair of 
 lustres made in Cork, in New Orleans — " celery- 
 bowls, salad and sugar bowls, butter coolers, cream 
 ewers, custard and jelly glasses, candlesticks, 
 pyramids " — we had a pyramid, whether it was 
 Irish glass I do not know; it consisted of three 
 tiers, the bottom one much larger than the top, 
 of plain glass cut in a thumb-nail design at the 
 edge. And each tier held glass cups of the same 
 fashion. This pyramid occupied the centre of the 
 table for parties. The cups, filled with custard, 
 were heaped high with whipped cream and jelly. 
 And we had a lovely large pickle urn, and a celery 
 glass with a square base and a lip turned over the 
 top, so I never see Irish glass that it does not 
 give me a picture of the Old South. My mother 
 seated at the head of her table, before a japaimed 
 tray gay with flowers and the cups of sprigged 
 china, a monster sugar bowl of cut glass, which a 
 negro handed to the family and guests that they 
 might generously sweeten their own tea; a dozen 
 different kinds of bread and cakes, and best of 
 all, open-hearted, lavish hospitahty — now, alas, 
 only a memory of the past. 
 
 In Miss Persse's lovely old shop across the 
 street, there is a certain salad bowl with a square 
 base. It greets me as I enter the door; I often 
 touch it with tenderness and my lips say, " Isn't 
 it lovely, I wish it were mine," but my heart 
 
THE TREASURES OF IRELAND 197 
 
 says, "It is a reminder of my childhood, of my 
 mother, of my Aunt Polly Hynes, of the old 
 dining-room with its six windows all open, and the 
 scent of roses and jessamine in the air; so can a 
 bit of glass conjure sweet memories. I wonder if 
 the tall candle shades, quite two feet in height, 
 of plain or cut glass, that were used on the bal- 
 conies to guard the lighted candles — they were 
 called oilindieres in New Orleans — could have been 
 made in Ireland. In form they curved inward at 
 top and bottom, and outward to the centre. Occa- 
 sionally a pair are to be found in the South but 
 they become more rare each year. A friend in 
 Georgia has eleven old Irish cut-glass syllabub 
 cups, handed down from her great-grandmother. 
 Syllabub can only have its proper flavour if 
 served in glass. I have never partaken of it in 
 England, but it is still popular in my beloved 
 South. Uncle Remus, the old darkey made im- 
 mortal by Joel Chandler Harris, said to the little 
 boy who brought him from " the big house " a 
 dainty supper sent by Miss Sally, " What's dis 
 here. Honey, is it sillybug? " 
 
 " Yes, Uncle Remus, I think it is." 
 " Den I don't lak it, my chile. When you 
 gimme foam gimme foam. When you gimme 
 whiskey gimme whiskey." 
 
 This is one of my favourite quotations; like 
 Uncle Remus, I desire the definite. Do not give 
 
198 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 me the froth of love or friendship ; give me the sub- 
 stance. 
 
 As happened so often, England with heavy 
 taxes killed the glass industries in Ireland, but 
 there is no reason why they should not be revived, 
 with Muckish Mountain mainly composed of beau- 
 tiful white sand, and white sand in Coalisland, and 
 in Donegal, any number of factories could be 
 started, and the beautiful models and drawings of 
 good old glass are at hand. The great glass manu- 
 factories in America should secure all of the old 
 Irish models possible and reproduce them. Miss 
 Persse, an authority on glass, always has lovely 
 pieces, and there are drawings of good decanters 
 and tumblers, bowls and other objects obtainable 
 at the Museum. I saw two American candle- 
 sticks on simple lines, at Mrs. Hanney's — the wife 
 of George Birmingham — they looked well on each 
 side of an old mirror. The specimens of Irish 
 tapestry in Dublin — which is being so well re- 
 vived by the Dun Emer Guild — are very well 
 preserved. The Defence of Londonderry, and the 
 Battle of the Boyne, in the Old Parliament house 
 — The Bank of Ireland — retain their smoothness 
 and brilliancy of colour, to a remarkable degree, 
 and there are probably existing a good many 
 pieces of Irish tapestry assigned to English and 
 French artists. There are two effective and suc- 
 cessful examples of the Dun Emer tapestry in the 
 
THE TREASURES OF IRELAND 199 
 
 museum. One is a copy of Flemish verdure of 
 the sixteenth century, and the other is a small 
 panel. The border of acorns and oak leaves is 
 broad and free, and the centre, a background of 
 trees with doves and an owl in the branches, a 
 peacock and a raven standing on either side of an 
 allegorical figure in rich robes, is a bold and deco- 
 rative piece of work. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE NATIONAL GALLERY 
 
 " You can catch more flies with a spoonful of 
 honey than with a quart of vinegar." This was the 
 much advocated proverb of William Dargan, the 
 son of a farmer, who became a great engineer, and 
 subsequently was one of the largest capitalists of 
 Ireland. It was through his munificent generosity 
 that the people of Dublin held the Exhibition of 
 1853. Queen Victoria offered him a baronetcy 
 which he refused; perhaps with wisdom, as in that 
 case the statue which stands at the entrance to the 
 National Gallery would have borne his title, Sir 
 William Dargan, instead of the one word, " Dar- 
 gan," which now excites interest and curiosity. 
 We would have been congenial spirits, this great 
 man and my humble self, for I too know that more 
 flies are to be caught with honey than with vinegar. 
 
 Going into a grocer's shop in Grafton Street 
 this morning with a very little honey I caught a 
 fly, and the wherewithal — a pound of sugar — to 
 catch more. 
 
 " Can you let me have a little sugar? " I asked 
 the salesman. 
 
 " Impossible, Madam, we have no sugar in the 
 
 200 
 
THE NATIONAL GALLERY 201 
 
 house. You must get it from your regular 
 grocer." 
 
 With great meekness I said, " You are my regu- 
 lar grocer; I have been getting biscuits and fruit 
 from you all the winter." 
 
 " You shall have a pound of sugar, Madam, and 
 more if you want it," he said. 
 
 And then I went to the National Gallery, and 
 stepped lightly on the grass, as I paused a mo- 
 ment to say good-morning to Dargan before 
 spending some hours with the pictures. 
 
 As I looked around the portrait gallery, it 
 seemed to me that people of the eighteenth and 
 nineteenth centuries were more beautiful than 
 people of the twentieth century. The features of 
 the faces were more regular, the expression was 
 agreeably contemplative, and there was an air of 
 refinement that is absent in the present-day por- 
 traits. Or were the portrait painters more willing 
 to subjugate themselves to their sitters? Now 
 individuahsm must be expressed at all costs. An 
 artist looks upon a portrait not so much as a like- 
 ness as a startling revelation of his own individu- 
 ality and that of his model. A sculptor moulds 
 the head of a distinguished man into a double- 
 chinned, tumouresque-eyed, somewhat human- 
 looking tortoise, and the world of art pronounces it 
 full of rugged strength and originality. To 
 accentuate the animal in grotesque protuberances 
 
202 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 of flesh or otherwise, is the refuge of the artist 
 who is unable to penetrate the divine spark in 
 man, the soul. This, Gilbert Stuart, our Ameri- 
 can artist, who painted a goodly niimber of ladies 
 and gentlemen when he made a stay in Ireland, 
 has aceompHshed in his revealing portrait of 
 Grattan. 
 
 There sits the man, distinguished in appearance 
 and in mind. The face is long, and the nose deli- 
 cate. The red-brown eyes of quick affection and 
 understanding look with a quiet humour upon the 
 world. The curhng hair is a russet grey, and he 
 wears a folded stock of white and a black velvet 
 coat with a high collar. He was then of middle 
 age, but clearly on the way " to learn the secret " 
 — although it was later that he wrote; 
 
 " Solitude is bad. I have tried Tinnahinch for 
 twenty years. It leads to a sort of madness. 
 You think of your vexations, your age. Society 
 should always be in your power. An old man can- 
 not enjoy solitude. He has learned the secret. 
 He has found out the rogueries of Fortune. Nor 
 will reading supply the want. I would Hve in a 
 house full of society that I might escape from 
 myself. I was called the Spirit of the Dargle. 
 I found out that a man's worst companion is him- 
 self." 
 
 And if a lonely man is a sad companion for 
 himself, it is a thousand times worse for a lonely 
 
THE NATIONAL GALLERY 203 
 
 woman — this I know — who has less independence 
 of mind and action than a man. 
 
 A second beautiful portrait by Gilbert Stuart is 
 William Burton Conyngham. The warm brown 
 and soft reds of the background, draperies, and 
 costume are the colours of an American forest be- 
 fore the trees of autumn shed their final leaves. 
 The portrait of Miss Dolly Munroe, by Angelica 
 Kauffman, dressed, as the novelists of the day 
 would describe, " in some soft, clinging white ma- 
 terial " — why always this uncertainty of stuff I 
 know not, as there are in clinging materials, 
 crepe de chene, chiffon, mousseline de soie, tissue. 
 Georgette, and satin to choose from. — Probably 
 Dolly's gown with a folded bodice, embroidered in 
 gold, was nothing more mysterious than paduasoy 
 or satin. With this she wore a blue scarf, and on 
 the table at her side is a bouquet of roses. The 
 young lady is a plump and pleasing person, with 
 dark hair and candid eyes, but her counterfeit 
 presentment by no means comes up to her own 
 reputation as a resplendent beauty, followed by 
 such hosts of admirers that she was obliged to walk 
 at six o'clock in the morning in St. Stephen's 
 Green to avoid them. 
 
 Peg WofRngton, whose reputation as a great 
 and moving actress has survised the centuries, 
 must have been more beautiful in expression and 
 animation than in regularity of feature, as the 
 
204 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 lower part of the face is too slenderly oval for 
 the broad brow. Dressed in black and silver, and 
 wearing a quaint hat, as the dashing Sir Harry 
 Wildairs — one of her favourite characters — her 
 portrait is arresting and improves with acquaint- 
 ance. Not far away the brilliant eyes of Gar- 
 rick, whom she loved, and who jilted her, seem to 
 look mockingly at her jaunty air. 
 
 Near by is a better friend, the Countess of 
 Coventry. A lovely woman, with soft black eyes, 
 an arch face, and dark hair turned back from a 
 pretty round forehead. She wears a gown of grey 
 taffetas trimmed in many little rosettelike bows of 
 pink satin. As the beautiful Maria Gunning, 
 when for want of a proper court dress she could 
 not be presented. Peg Woffington, noted for her 
 generous deeds, sent not only to her, but to her 
 sister, the regulation gowns. The beautiful Gun- 
 nings made a sensation, became the toasts of 
 Dublin, and from her many admirers Maria chose 
 the Earl of Coventry and married him. 
 
 Among the modern portraits the late Recorder, 
 Sir Frederick Falkiner, in wig and splendid gold- 
 laced gown, interested me; not so much pictorially, 
 but from the complexity of his character. With 
 an overwhelming desire to be sternly just, the 
 interference of his kind heart made him liable to 
 be more than merciful, and he was undone when 
 it came to a woman's tears. A case came before 
 
The Piping Boy 
 By Nathaniel Hone 
 
THE NATIONAL GALLERY 205 
 
 him of a man who was accused of being a gar- 
 rotter. The circumstantial evidence was going 
 against him, and the prisoner and his wife who 
 was in court, knew there was a possibihty of con- 
 viction and penal servitude, as the judge had 
 determined to put down the horrible crime. 
 When things were looking serious the wife turned 
 to an eminent barrister and said, " For the love of 
 God, say somethin' for him, your honour." 
 
 The barrister answered, " If a man in a wig 
 and gown were to address the Judge, my good 
 woman, he would probably be hanged." — Judge 
 Falkiner was extremely strict on such points. — 
 " Speak to him yourself. He won't hang you." 
 
 And the woman called out, " Judge darlint, 
 listen to me. He's the best of husbands, he's the 
 best of fathers, 'tis not him that's done the gar- 
 
 rottin', Judge dar " " Silence in the Court," 
 
 shouted the surprised clerk. The Judge, visibly 
 affected, looked kindly towards the woman, but 
 the next witness by very damaging evidence was 
 evidently alienating his sympathy, when the man's 
 wife whispered to the barrister, " Now, your hon- 
 our, what's to be done? " 
 
 " Sob," said the barrister, " and keep on sob- 
 bing." 
 
 " Did you see the prisoner that evening with 
 a cord in his hand?" questioned the opposing 
 counsel. 
 
206 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 A loud sob completely drowned the answer of 
 the witness, and the woman amidst alternate sobs 
 and groans called out, " If so be he had anny 
 cord, himself was bringin' it home for me laundry 
 wur-ruk. And now from that little kindness 
 what's to become of us all! " 
 
 The Judge's eyes filled with tears, he cleared 
 his throat, wiped his glasses with his pocket hand- 
 kerchief, and summed up the case, saying the 
 evidence only showed the prisoner had been led 
 astray, that it was not strong enough to convict 
 him, and with a caution the man was dismissed. 
 As they walked down the street the woman was 
 overheard saying to her husband, " Ach the poor 
 craythur, there should niver be a thrial before 
 him without a woman superintendin' it, an' if you 
 betray his trust, Michael, I'll take a hand in gar- 
 rottin' meself, an' 'twill not be far from home 
 naythur." 
 
 Sir Frederick Falkiner was not unlike a popu- 
 lar Governor of Texas who, at the end of his 
 term, was said to have completely emptied the 
 jails of prisoners through the tears of their women- 
 kind. 
 
 The portraits of Balfe, Maclise, and Lover 
 make them all very handsome men; the smaller 
 portrait of Lover as a youth is a mellow and 
 charming drawing by himself. A later one of an 
 aristocratic man of thirty-five or forty is when 
 
THE NATIONAL GALLERY 207 
 
 he had attained fame as a novehst, poet, painter, 
 and musician. A httle drawing of Mrs. Norton 
 with long eyelashes and a regular profile looks as 
 though she had stepped from a book of beauty. 
 A sketch made during the trial of Robert Emmet 
 bears a striking resemblance to Sir Henry Irving. 
 The death-mask above it looks more like Sir 
 Henry's gifted and lamented younger son, Law- 
 rence, who with his wife Mabel was drowned off 
 the Coast of Canada when the Empress of India 
 went down. Lady Irving is an Irishwoman, this 
 may account for the likeness of the Irving family 
 to Robert Emmet. The death-mask of Wolfe 
 Tone has the same fine aquiline features. There 
 is a certain Dante-esque type of face which be- 
 longs to the dreamer, the poet, the man of visions, 
 the man of sacrifice, and the fanatic. Lord Ed- 
 ward FitzGerald looks much too human and too 
 genial for the part he played. His sympathetic 
 eyes were a deep blue, his lips were full, as of one 
 who enjoyed laughter; but the dark Rosaleen 
 made him her own, and he died for her. 
 
 The drawing of James Clarence Mangan, by 
 Sir Frederick W. Burton, after his death, is of 
 touching and perfect beauty. The old adage, 
 " Beauty is but skin deep and ugly's to the bone," 
 is a plain way of saying that great beauty depends 
 upon correct bone structure. There are people 
 who in youth have the beauty of flesh, and colour, 
 
208 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 and skin; it passes, flesh sags, skin withers, colour 
 fades, and in old age there is nothing left to 
 attest to the rosy past. But a beautiful skull 
 endures to the end. The head of Mangan is 
 slightly raised, the curling hair has fallen back, 
 and every line of the face is revealed, the broad 
 brow, the fine nose, the lips apart — which retain 
 a little of their recent suffering — are softly 
 moulded, and the refined chin and thoughtful, 
 sunken temples surmount disease and death, and 
 still remain beautiful. What is more saddening 
 than beauty and tragedy linked together by the 
 iron hand of circumstance? 
 
 A more cheerful subject is Robert Jackson's 
 portrait of Thomas Moore, who looks clean, fresh, 
 and wonderfully well dressed for a poet. The 
 face, with a shortish nose, sympathetic eyes, a 
 handsome, humorous mouth, and a jovial dimple 
 in the chin, is most agreeable. Sir Martin Arthur 
 Shee has also painted a delightful portrait of 
 Moore, in a deep -red velvet coat and a high white 
 stock. 
 
 The portrait of William Carleton, a writer 
 who has given me infinite pleasure, is not unlike — 
 with his high, dome-like forehead, and ruddy coun- 
 tenance — that blunt cairl Sir Walter Scott. Sir 
 William Wilde with wide-awake, merry blue eyes 
 looks as if he might be enjoying a witty paradox 
 of his son, Oscar. 
 
THE NATIONAL GALLERY 209 
 
 A pleasing portrait of William Allingham, the 
 writer and poet, brought to memory: 
 
 " Four ducks on a pond, 
 A green bank beyond, 
 A blue sky of spring, 
 White clouds on the wing : 
 What a little thing 
 To remember for years — 
 To remember with tears ! " 
 
 I too have a green bank beyond, to remember 
 with tears. 
 
 The portraits of Stella, which hang by a hand- 
 some one of the Dean, are prim, with a forehead 
 so high that I am sure it was supplied by the 
 taste of the artist, and not by the unkindness of 
 nature. 
 
 A portrait of Sir Walter Raleigh shows him 
 more magnificently dressed than his Queen Eliza- 
 beth, who hangs by his side. He wears a corse- 
 let and trunks of grey velvet completely covered 
 in pearls. Years ago Bram Stoker described the 
 costume of Wilson Barrett in Nero as " a low- 
 necked, short-sleeved ' nighty ' made of emeralds." 
 
 In the very complete Dutch collection of pic- 
 tures there are any number of decorative por- 
 traits. One of a young, fresh-faced girl — with soft, 
 curling hair caught up at the back with pearls, 
 and a gown of rich green silk, and well-placed, 
 pretty hands — by an undiscovered artist is a 
 
210 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 hauntingly charming picture. Miereveld's portrait 
 of Elizabeth Brydges, painted about 1680, is as 
 brilliant in colour as if finished yesterday. The 
 face is coquettish and pleasing, the hair is dressed 
 in curls, and from a pearl comb floats a fine gauze 
 veil. The necklace and pearl-shaped ear-rings 
 are of pearls, and the costume, a thing of endur- 
 ing beauty, is of cream silk, brocaded in small 
 flowers of brown and red, with the large sleeves 
 spHt and bound in scarlet velvet to show the 
 richly embroidered muslin underbodice. The 
 scheme of colour is so gay and insistent that the 
 picture is pleasantly unforgettable. In the same 
 room hangs the head of a young white bull, by 
 Paul Potter; as yet he is only a mischievous and 
 sprightly young animal who has scarcely reached 
 the age of adolescence, and is quite pleased at a 
 delightfully decorative wreath of roses and jessa- 
 mine round his neck. When my beloved grand- 
 son was four years old he and my son were walk- 
 ing through a field. A surly, sour-looking, un- 
 decorated bull was in one end of it. 
 
 " If that bull attacked us, would you defend 
 me? " asked his father. 
 
 "I would," said my grandson; "but — what 
 about me? " 
 
 I am hoping from this pertinent answer that 
 logic will always be dominant in his mind. 
 
 George Moore admires and enthusiastically ex- 
 
THE NATIONAL GALLERY 211 
 
 plains his admiration of Nathaniel Hone's " Sleepy- 
 Pasture at Malahide," a lovely warm summer day, 
 of intense blue sky and drifting white clouds, with 
 cattle lying down in a lush green field, too lazy to 
 get in the shade of a long, still wood in the back- 
 ground. " The Piping Boy," like a little Pan, 
 with his flute and fur mantle, is the son of an 
 earlier Nathaniel Hone who died in 1784, a por- 
 trait painter of Dubhn who did much brilliant 
 work, but nothing better than this bright-eyed, 
 eager boy. Another picture which arouses the 
 enthusiasm and eloquence of George Moore — 
 and he has floods of it at his disposal — is Millais' 
 large canvas of " The Three Sisters." And as- 
 suredly it stamps him as a genius, this page from 
 the life of the handsome, comfortable, leisurely, 
 fashionable Englishwoman of the sixties. The 
 background is ablaze with flowers, the furniture 
 is fine, and the young ladies seated at a card-table 
 are elaborately coiffed, and more elaborately 
 dressed — all alike — as was then the fashion among 
 sisters. The faces of the two ladies looking up 
 are reserved and somewhat expressionless, as was 
 the mode of the well-bred young woman of the 
 day. The one who looks down at her cards might, 
 if she looked up, have " a mutinous smile." With 
 the change of fashion comes a change of smiles. 
 Girls of the present day " smile daringly." Crino- 
 lines required demureness, and there never were 
 
212 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 such wide-spreading, willowy, billowy crinolines 
 as the three sisters wear. They surge together 
 under the table like sea waves at high tide. And 
 the dresses of dove-grey silk, draped in a thousand 
 folds, and looped with deep rose-coloured ribands, 
 were evidently the chef d'oeuvre of " a Court dress- 
 maker " who lived in Hanover Square. It would 
 interest me to know just how many yards of silk 
 were used to clothe and drape those tall young 
 women. I am like Father Healy, who asked an 
 Evangehcal tailor, firm in the belief that no 
 Catholic read the Bible, how many yards it 
 would have taken to make a pair of breeches 
 for the big angel of the Resurrection, who 
 stood with one foot on sea and the other on 
 land. 
 
 A young woman of undoubted good looks was 
 making an excellent copy of Jan Steen's " Village 
 School." We had some talk together, and she said 
 it was a man's picture, as they so often stopped 
 to look at it. Only her candid, innocent eyes kept 
 me from smiling. Is there anything so attractive 
 as perfect unself -consciousness ? I am going back 
 before the picture is finished, for she looks so like 
 one I knew and loved; so sweet, gay and witty, a 
 painter, too, who died too young to make a name. 
 As I look at my catalogue, I see it was published 
 in 1914, when Sir Hugh Lane was director of 
 the Gallery. What a tragedy his death has been, 
 
THE NATIONAL GALLERY 213 
 
 not alone a loss to Ireland, but to the whole world. 
 His ambitions were exalted, but with his strong 
 will and power of self-sacrifice, he could have car- 
 ried them out. He had a steady goal to reach, 
 and neither extravagance nor self-indulgence 
 would have made him loiter by the way. He in- 
 tended making the National Gallery in Dublin 
 one of the first galleries in Europe, and the first 
 stones were laid with II Greco's great Francis 
 of Assisi, and the splendid portrait of a lady 
 dressed in rich red and gold brocade, by 
 Veronese. 
 
 The Gallery with its already fine collection and 
 his additions would have attracted visitors from 
 all nations, and their pilgrimage, extended to other 
 parts of Ireland, would have added material bene- 
 fit to the country. 
 
 The pity of his death! And yet the vital influ- 
 ence of Hugh Lane can never die, but will ever 
 abide to incite men to generous deeds and kindlier 
 actions. 
 
 There is no place in Ireland that seems to me 
 more historically interesting than Trinity College, 
 with its traditions, its atmosphere, and its impos- 
 ing appearance. The courts, which are equally 
 beautiful in the grey days of winter, or with their 
 noble outlines more defined by the clear skies of 
 summer. The students, crossing and re-crossing 
 the square, each man wearing his gown with a 
 
214 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 characteristic difference — jauntiness, studiousness, 
 carelessness, carefulness, gracefulness, awkward- 
 ness, courage, and shyness, a respect for habiliment, 
 and an utter indifference to it are all expressed by 
 the manner in which men wear their gowns. The 
 long, oak dining-hall, with portraits of great men 
 who have shed additional lustre on old Trinity by 
 their honourable careers. In one corner the little 
 pulpit from which Dean Swift preached his ser- 
 mons is now used by the Senior Scholar to say 
 grace before dinner. The theatre, so fine in pro- 
 portion, and such a pure and beautiful example 
 of Adam decoration, and the splendid library — 
 the long, lovely Queen Anne Room with its pun- 
 gent leathery odour from books upstairs and books 
 downstairs. Books on shelves standing away from 
 the walls. Books on shelves that are on the walls. 
 Books on screens. Books in cases which can be 
 seen through glass. Books so precious that not 
 only glass but curtains protect them. Books little 
 and books big, books old and books new, three 
 hundred and fifty thousand in number, and yet 
 people — mea culpa — continue to write them. To 
 vary the monotony there are other treasures, the 
 stoutly built Irish Harp of Brian Boru, the veri- 
 table, the well authenticated " Harp that once 
 through Tara's halls the soul of music shed " — 
 but no longer on Tara's walls — after many vicissi- 
 tudes is carefully preserved in a glass case and 
 
THE NATIONAL GALLERY 215 
 
 pointed out to visitors as, " 'is 'arp 'and with 
 hevidence that none can ginesay." 
 
 " From what part of London do you come? " I 
 asked. 
 
 " Battersea, Lidy, that was me 'ome but hi've 
 hved in h'lreland thirty years." 
 
 And not even Brian Boru has made any im- 
 pression on his accent. Heaven send that we may 
 not be in for a thirty years' war. Cockneys have 
 risen in my estimation since Irish soldiers declare 
 them to be among the best fighters at the 
 front. 
 
 Among other treasures of Trinity is the largest 
 gold fibula ever discovered; eight inches long, 
 and of great weight, it must have been worn by 
 a dressy Irish giant. But, after all, the most 
 wonderful of Trinity's treasures is " The most 
 beautiful book in the world." When I knew that 
 I was actually to have the curtain drawn aside, 
 the case unlocked, and to hold the Book of Kells 
 in my hands I set about making a ritual of the 
 occasion. My finger-nails had never been profes- 
 sionally manicured, that should be done; the most 
 expensive savon de parme procurable in Dublin 
 should be used with the lovely Dublin water to 
 wash them, and they should be covered with fair 
 white gloves ; for surely this one Book of the World 
 deserved much honour. The reasons of its being 
 the Book of Books are Inspiration — Design — ■ 
 
216 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 Colour — and Execution. The original and fruitful 
 designs embody much that is used in Celtic art. 
 The graceful trumpet pattern. The ingeniously- 
 interlaced curved bands, the intricate knot design 
 formed of eight lines, and quaint patterns derived 
 from angels, men, birds, blossoms, flowers, foliage, 
 fish, reptiles, serpents, and monstrous and imagina- 
 tive animals. All these illuminate and illustrate 
 the Four Gospels. The first thing that strikes the 
 eye is the daring combination and jewel-like depth 
 of colour. Black, blue, green, yellow, purple, sky- 
 blue, dull green, and lilac jostle each other, form 
 vivid contrasts, and yet seem to melt into a har- 
 monious whole, while the absence of gold, glitter- 
 ing in other missals, is never felt. The steadiness 
 of the hands who made these unrivalled wonders 
 was so unerring the design might almost have 
 been cut out of copper, filled in with colour, and 
 transferred to the vellum, for there is no slight- 
 est deviation in these numerous intricate and deli- 
 cate lines, and the sureness of touch is almost 
 superhuman. Well might Gerald Plunket write 
 of this treasure, " This work doth passe all men's 
 coyning, that now doth live in any place I doubt 
 not anything but that ye writer hath obtained 
 God's grace." And, indeed, the book seems not 
 only to have been written and illuminated by one 
 who obtained God's grace, but to have received 
 Divine protection in escaping destruction and 
 
The Village School 
 By Jan Steen 
 
THE NATIONAL GALLERY 217 
 
 mutilation during the unending incursions and pil- 
 lage of many centuries. This famous manuscript 
 was the property of the last Abbot of Kells, Rich- 
 ard Plunket, who surrendered the monastery to the 
 Crown in 1539. Shortly after that date Gerald 
 Plunket was evidently guardian of the book. 
 Bishop Usher acquired it in 1621, and after his 
 death it was transferred to the University Library, 
 Trinity College. 
 
 Besides the most elaborate caligraphy ever pro- 
 duced, there are Charters in the Irish language 
 giving grants of land from King Melaghlin of 
 Meath to the Abbey of Kells, between a.d. 1024 
 and the twelfth century. They are of special 
 interest, being the only deeds in the Irish lan- 
 guage dating from before the Norman Invasion. 
 Sad to relate, even this precious book, after escap- 
 ing the Norseman and Dane, has suffered from 
 an iconoclast of a bookbinder, who about a hun- 
 dred years ago actually " trimmed " many of the 
 beautiful margins out of existence, cutting the 
 priceless leaves of vellum ornamented with rare 
 and unique embellishments to a conventional size. 
 Knowledgeable authorities all differ as to whether 
 the book belongs to the sixth or the ninth century, 
 and neither the particular version of the scriptures, 
 orthography, pigments, ink, or wonderful illus- 
 trations have decided the vexed question. But, 
 except to a few scholars who devote themselves to 
 
218 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 these subjects, what does it matter? Among the 
 missing leaves, one of them probably contained the 
 name of the incomparable artist, v/ho is now only 
 known as " The Great Man." His work and pages 
 surpassing all the rest are of supreme value, and 
 even the loss of the colophon has its advantages 
 as it gives the imagination full play. 
 
 I have made for myself the picture of a young 
 monk with a noble head, his black hair grows on a 
 peak on his forehead, his face is lean with aquiline 
 features, his spiritual eyes are deeply blue, he has 
 the smile of a boy sweetening his stern lips, and 
 even with his extreme youth there is a look on his 
 face of quiet, determined patience. The patience 
 of one who loves his work. He wears a white 
 wool habit, girded about the waist with a cord of 
 emerald green, and he sits in the monastery by a 
 great window opening very wide, looking towards 
 the fair hills of Ireland. When he dips his brush 
 on his palette piled with rich colours — malachite, 
 lapis lazuli, velvet black, purple, orange, or sky- 
 blue — and begins to paint, the strokes are so 
 precise, so fine, so delicate, so daring, and yet so 
 marvellously sure, the work seems almost super- 
 human. His hands are a strange combination of 
 the artist and the athlete, possessing both muscu- 
 lar strength and suppleness. He is apart from 
 other men, this beautiful boy; almost a demi-god. 
 Perhaps his food is brought to him, as it was to 
 
THE NATIONAL GALLERY 219 
 
 Buddha, by a happy mother whose sweet voice 
 tells him it is: 
 
 " The milk of a hundred mothers, newly calved. 
 And with that milk I fed fifty white cows, 
 And with their milk twentj-five, and then 
 With theirs twelve more, and yet again with theirs 
 The six noblest and best of all our herds." 
 
 And nourished upon the poetry of curds and 
 cream, that is how The Great Man wrote the 
 Great Book of Kells. 
 
 It remains even to-day an inexhaustible inspi- 
 ration. And designs suggested by it are found 
 on the covers of books in every library in the 
 world. I saw it taken downstairs for the night, 
 and placed in a strong iron safe. And by walk- 
 ing quickly reached the Shelbourne in time for 
 tea with Captain Miracle, a trench mortar man 
 who has earned his title, brave lad, by being blown 
 up forty feet in the air and coming down alive 
 two fields distant from where he unconsciously 
 started. The men on either side of him were blown 
 to atoms; such are the accidents of war. 
 
 "Where have you been all day?" he asked. 
 
 " To Trinity College," and then I told him of 
 my little ritual, and he said, " Madam, allow a 
 Trinity man to thank you. I spent all my youth 
 at Old Trinity." 
 
 " Your youth! How old are you now? " 
 
220 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 " All of twenty-three, and maybe twenty-four 
 and maybe not. I go back to France to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh," I said, looking at his boyish face, and 
 a dimple that appeared and disappeared in his 
 cheek, " how sorry your mother must be to have 
 you go back." 
 
 " She is," he said; " so is my father, particularly 
 as I am an only son, but I've always taken 
 chances " 
 
 *' I can see that," I said; "your coat with its 
 devices seems to be a sort of map of the 
 War." 
 
 " Yes," he said. " Beginning with the Royal 
 Dublin Fusiliers, there's a lot of things on it." 
 
 "What's this, aD.S.O.?" 
 
 " Yes, that's it, in spite of our fellows threaten- 
 ing to kill me," he said, laughing. " You see a 
 trench mortar man is not popular. He sends off 
 a mortar, the Germans instantly retaliate with 
 another, which deals death and destruction. Our 
 men, when they see me coming, say, ' If you don't 
 take that damned thing away, we'll shoot you.' " 
 
 " And what do you do then? " 
 
 " Sometimes I move on and give the boys a 
 chance," he said, with a twinkle in his eye. " Per- 
 sonally I think condensed milk and army grub are 
 worse than bombs. Especially the milk. After a 
 week of it, I don't care whether I live or die, and 
 you can take it from me that many a man has won 
 
THE NATIONAL GALLERY 221 
 
 the Victoria Cross from the desperation engen- 
 dered in his soul by condensed milk." 
 
 How often since that gay, young, debonair, 
 devil-may-care, happy warrior went away I've 
 thought of him. And sometimes — for I am the 
 mother of an only son — I've prayed for him. 
 
 One can spend days in Trinity; it stirs the 
 imagination. But, after all, the pride and glory 
 of Dublin is her splendid Park. When the haw- 
 thorn is in bloom, and nearly two thousand acres 
 of trees white, pink, rose, and red are ablaze with 
 myriads of sweet flowers, then Phoenix Park is as 
 beautiful as cherry blossom time in Japan. Each 
 tree becomes a giant bouquet, vying with its next 
 door neighbour in extravagant loveliness. The 
 air is sweet with perfume, and the emerald green 
 grass is brilliant in patches of colour from the 
 fallen leaves. Its historical interest: the Fifteen 
 Acres — an Irishism as they are really two hundred 
 acres — where famous duels were fought, the Vice- 
 regal Lodge, the Wellington Memorial, the Maga- 
 zine Fort, even the " Furry Glen," a golden, gorse- 
 clad hollow earlier in the year, with its deep pool, 
 sink into insignificance in this lovely kingdom of 
 Flora. For the finest of man's deeds are as noth- 
 ing when nature makes a supreme effort, as she 
 does when hawthorn blooms in June. 
 
 When there was a lull in my sight-seeing and 
 I began to be lonely, Kitty and her trousseau 
 
222 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 arrived from London. It was not a wedding but 
 an " on leave " trousseau, prepared to dazzle the 
 eyes of William when he came from the front. 
 William is Kitty's fascinating, inconsequent, en- 
 thusiastic, optimistic, Australian husband of Irish 
 descent, and my friend, but he had not got his 
 leave. So Kitty gave her fetching frocks an air- 
 ing for my benefit. Nature has been kind in giv- 
 ing her a slim figure, a pretty face, and what is 
 of greater value even than beauty, individuality. 
 Her hair, eyes, and eye-lashes are velvet black ; her 
 skin is cream white, and she has a little impudent 
 nose which contradicts the softness of her eyes. 
 Her voice is soft, too. And she gives the impres- 
 sion of helplessness and leisure, but contrariwise 
 is capable and industrious, being an excellent 
 cook, — she learned her art in France, — and house- 
 wife. Since the war began she has been a faithful 
 V.A.D. doing any jobs assigned to her willing 
 hands, responsible for the big dining-room of a 
 Hospital, or, when necessary, changing about to 
 night nursing. With no leave for a year I 
 thought she ought to rest, but action rests the 
 young. An hour after her arrival we were career- 
 ing out to Donnybrook in a jaunting-car, and she 
 was using her patriotic, persuasive powers to get 
 the strong young jarvey to enlist. He told her that 
 he could not fight for England, that her English 
 heart could not understand his Irish heart. 
 
THE NATIONAL GALLERY 223 
 
 " But," she said, " I gave my heart to an 
 Irishman when I married him. He's in 
 France now, in the Great Push, fighting for 
 his country." 
 
 " He may be that, he may be one of thim Irish- 
 men — God help thim — with two countries. As for 
 me, I've only got wun; that's Ireland, and here I 
 stay wid her." 
 
 " Even so," said Kitty. " You are not a Sinn 
 Feiner, are you? " 
 
 " I will show you, Lady," said the young man, 
 and turning back his coat, we saw that he wore 
 the badge of green, yellow, and white on his 
 breast. 
 
 " Oh, dear," said Kitty when we went to our 
 rooms to dress for dinner ; " and I thought I could 
 do some recruiting over here." 
 
 " Wait," I said, " until we get into the country, 
 perhaps you will have better luck there, though I 
 fear not; it's too soon after the rebellion." 
 
 As the days went on, Kitty began to be 
 anxious about William. She got no letters, as he 
 may be described as a delightful but intermittent 
 correspondent. When a William look appeared 
 on her face to distract her attention I would say, 
 " don't regret the black and white lace gown," — 
 sometimes her conscience gave her pricks — " you 
 can always have it made over, and it's awfully 
 becoming." 
 
224 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 " I wish William would write," Kitty would 
 answer with a sigh. " Did you see the papers this 
 morning; the great push going on and Billy in 
 the thick of it." 
 
 " But you say yourself he's always lucky." 
 " He is, but why doesn't he write? " 
 " He is busy intriguing about his leave." 
 Kitty would smile. "And he'll get it; there's 
 nobody like Billy; he does whatever he undertakes, 
 and he makes every other man seem tame and 
 dull, but I do wish he would write." 
 
 When war was declared, William sailed for 
 Austraha, and got a commission in the Australian 
 Field Artillery. The statue of his father, born 
 in Australia of Irish parentage, has not been 
 placed in St. Paul's without reason, as the Right 
 Hon. W. B. Dalley was the creator of the system 
 by which Colonial troops take part in England's 
 wars. In 1884, following on the fall of Gordon 
 at Khartoum, he cabled an offer of Australian 
 troops to the Home Government. In the interval 
 between the issue of the offer and its acceptance 
 he was subjected to bitter criticism on the ground 
 that he was wantonly laying the colony open to the 
 humihation of a refusal. The conditions in those 
 days were vastly different to those which obtain 
 now. A large party in England held the view 
 that the colonies were an encumbrance to be got 
 rid of, and a liberal Government was in power at 
 
THE NATIONAL GALLERY 225 
 
 the time. Moreover, Dalley had made, with Irish 
 daring, the offer without even consulting his col- 
 leagues in the Ministry. There were proposals 
 that he should be impeached. But the offer was 
 accepted. A thrill of pride and delight surged 
 through the country at the knowledge that it was 
 to stand beside Britain in arms. Talk of im- 
 peachment dropped, the constitutional illegality of 
 the proceeding was ignored, and Dalley became the 
 most popular man in Australia, and was the first 
 Australian member of the Privy Council. 
 
 There was never a more gallant spirit than 
 Wilham's. He has enjoyed every moment of his 
 life. Even when luck has been against him his 
 optimism has never deserted him. His enthusiasms 
 are splendid, his appreciations are generous, his 
 interest in other people so absorbing that he is 
 never unhappy. He trusts fate, and considering 
 how often when she has talked common sense to 
 him he has tweaked her nose, she has been good 
 to him. For this reason he feels that he is not 
 only safe from the arrows of outrageous fortune, 
 but even from bullets. 
 
 One morning Kitty came to my room looking 
 radiant, and instead of " I wish Billy would write," 
 it was, " Billy has written ; shall I read you his 
 letter?" 
 
 " Of course," I said, laying down my paper, 
 which contained an overwhelming page of casual- 
 
226 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 ties. " Sit down and read me the longed-for 
 letter." 
 
 "In the Field^ 
 "" Wednesday 26.7.'16. 
 " My Dakling, 
 
 " I yesterday got yours of 19.7.'16. While I 
 remember it, will you tell me if you got my two 
 photographs by Lekegian, of Cairo? — one of them 
 displayed my beautiful field boots. Also, will you 
 tell me if you got a small bunch of six or eight 
 snapshots? In one of them I was about to dive 
 into the Little Bitter Lake at Ismalia, and there 
 was another with some Turkish prisoners. I sent 
 all these things ages ago from Egypt, but as noth- 
 ing seems to have got through the post then I fear 
 they were lost. 
 
 " I have asked for leave from August 5th, en- 
 closed is a copy of my application. I may get it. 
 I think rather more likely than not. I have also 
 asked for permission to have my batman with me. 
 He is Gunner Potts from Wagga Wagga, and he 
 is the most perfect thing in the entire army. We 
 will all stop at Holland's in Half Moon Street — 
 the place Ernest used to have. That at least is 
 my suggestion, unless you want to stay somewhere 
 else, in which case we will go where you like. You 
 talk of my coming over to Dublin, but you don't 
 seem to realise the time it would take, and that 
 one watches every second of one's leave as greedily 
 
THE NATIONAL GALLERY 227 
 
 as a miser watches his gold. Our time is taken 
 from the moment we leave Boulogne (or Le 
 Harve, as the case may be), and I shall be bitterly 
 grudging every second lost on the boat and in the 
 train. Why can't you get Mrs. T. P. to come 
 over? We will have a glorious week in London, 
 and she would love Potts. All meals will be at 
 the most expensive restaurants, and will consist 
 of the most costly foods obtainable. Theatres 
 every night and cabs everywhere. I am craving 
 to see the amusing people again — Derwent Wood, 
 Augustus John, Evelyn, and the rest. I see 
 Hugh Wright is playing at the Comedy, by the 
 way. 
 
 " Talking of your friend Barry O'Brien, I went 
 for a ride yesterday afternoon with the Padre, and 
 in a town hereabouts, the name of which I may 
 not give, he bought a book by O'Brien — The Life 
 of Lord Russell of Killowen. Just afterwards I 
 got your letter, and will show it to the Padre when 
 next we meet. The book, I beheve, is quite a 
 famous one. 
 
 " I had a glorious bit of shooting yesterday 
 morning — one of those beautifully finished pieces 
 of work that sometimes come off in sport and that 
 one always remembers. The sort of thing that 
 dear old E.G.M. would have loved. Nominally 
 I was doing what is known as ' registering a 
 target,' but actually I was conducting what in 
 
228 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 the old days would have been known as a heavy 
 bombardment. Thanks to the Daily Mail's cam- 
 paign and the consequent plethora of shell we can 
 do this kind of thing now, and thousands of lives 
 are thereby saved. One bit of trench that I was 
 dealing with lent itself to enfilade and — largely 
 no doubt by luck, but also partly by skill — I man- 
 aged to land an H.E. (high explosive) shell right 
 in the trench itself. Up in the air went great 
 masses of earth, timber, and sandbags, and if 
 somebody wasn't killed — well, the Bosh wasn't do- 
 ing his duty. The trench should have been well 
 filled, because he had no warning that it was going 
 to be fired on. It was simply a lucky shot which 
 had been carefully worked out with pencil and 
 paper beforehand, and that fact, plus the beau- 
 tiful laying of the Australian gunners, did the 
 trick. 
 
 " The worst of gunnery is that you rarely see 
 the results with your own eyes. In that respect it 
 resembles my practical joke on Horace Friend. 
 But in both cases the results were equally inevi- 
 table. As I couldn't actually see one dead Bosh I 
 didn't get the shell case for you, but you may 
 nevertheless regard yourself with reasonable certi- 
 tude as the possessor of more than one cadaver. 
 The case of the first shell I fired I have kept as 
 promised, and you shall have it when I come over. 
 It would make a very good gong. 
 
THE NATIONAL GALLERY 229 
 
 " I have heard some yarns of the Germans since 
 I have been here — my knowledge of French plus 
 my natural taste for talking to the peasantry have 
 been helpful in that respect. The Bryce Commis- 
 sion's report is only a modest statement of the 
 awful facts. When the original British Army 
 came through here the German, if he was able to 
 get hold of a wounded British soldier, used to 
 hury him alive. I have it from a perfectly re- 
 liable old peasant woman, who is so steeped in 
 horrors that she no longer detects sensational- 
 ism in her story, and who has seen the thing 
 done. 
 
 " One of the most amusing things I have heard 
 about them happened in a little humpy in which 
 I have been sleeping the last few days. In this 
 place they tried to bayonet a dove, and having 
 failed to spike him, one of them took him out of 
 his cage, and using him as a cricket ball threw 
 him at a tree trunk. The bird was removed in a 
 fainting condition by the old woman who owns 
 him, and is still alive. In fact he lives in a cage 
 just over my sleeping valise, and makes night so 
 intermittently hideous with his croonings, flirtings, 
 and gurglings, that I often feel as if I would like 
 to have a cut at him myself — you know perhaps 
 that these birds go on worst of all at night. Well, 
 these Boshes affected to regard the absurd bird as 
 a carrier pigeon, though, as the old woman help- 
 
230 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 lessly observes, ' il ne salt pas meme volerf which 
 is perfectly true, as the dove had never been out 
 of a cage in its hfe. These doves are all the go 
 hereabouts — practically every jeune fille has got 
 one, only one and never two, which is perhaps what 
 makes the birds so lonely and complaining; the 
 sight of them appears to have lashed the Boshes 
 to fury. 
 
 " I am saving up all the cash possible for a burst 
 in London, and then you can probably swindle 
 me out of all you want. By the way, there are 
 some things I must buy there for the winter fight- 
 ing: a stove, a bridle, a small quantity of port wine, 
 a brace of wire-haired fox terriers, a telescope, etc., 
 etc. Also I want to get one new uniform ordered 
 the day I land, as my present ones are getting 
 shabby. I think I shall go to Tanty, as he makes 
 the best breeches in the world. 
 
 " I am sending this off by means of the Brigade 
 Padre, who seems a reliable person to whom to 
 entrust a cheque. I can only say do not be anxious 
 about me for a moment. If ever safe and reliable 
 warfare existed, this is it. I cannot say any more, 
 of course, but you need not worry — believe me seri- 
 ously when I say this. I got a letter a few days 
 ago from dear old E. G. M. It was dated Febru- 
 ary 3rd. He said that he thought we had them 
 ' held safely ' here. As compared to the actual 
 facts, it seemed like a joke. The wretched Bosh 
 
THE NATIONAL GALLERY 231 
 
 is simply non est. He is, as Evelyn used to say, 
 ' augespielt.' No more now, darling, as the 
 Padre can't wait. I will really try and write 
 again to-morrow. I am afraid I may be unable 
 to get away first week in August. Read a beside- 
 the-leader article in the D.M. of August 7th, called 
 ' Hefty Annie.' It is about a gun, and although 
 it refers to a 15 -inch, it gives you some idea of 
 things in a general way. Tell E. G. M. I am com- 
 ing over, and persuade dear little Mrs. T. P. to 
 come to London. No more, sweetheart, except 
 best love in all the world, and do write often. 
 
 " From 
 " Bill." 
 
 '^'If ever safe and reliable warfare existed 
 this is it/ 
 
 " There speaks the unquenchable optimism of 
 the Irishman, and five columns of casualties in 
 to-day's paper! " 
 
 " That's William all over, and do you think," 
 said Kitty anxiously, " that we will have to take 
 Potts of Wagga Wagga to the theatre with us? " 
 
 " Not at all," I said; " Potts will probably much 
 prefer a boxing match, and being ' the most unique 
 thing in the Army ' doesn't make him eligible 
 socially. StiU, I am almost as sorry not to meet 
 Potts as to miss William." 
 
 " I'll write and tell you about him," said Kitty 
 
232 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 gaily. " And now that Billy will get his leave, I 
 think we should really be moving on. It would be 
 well to see something of Ireland, wouldn't it? " 
 
 " Yes," I said, " we had better leave Dublin to- 
 morrow for Cork and Killarney." 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 
 
 The weather was so perfect, with its long warm 
 days of sunshine and soft air, that we prolonged 
 our stay in Dublin, and even after we were packed 
 remained on, loath to go; but finally on a brilliant 
 afternoon we started for Cork. 
 
 Travellers will tell you everywhere in Ireland — 
 even people who practise economy — that it is im- 
 possible to travel third-class, but we did not find it 
 to be the case. What it might be in winter, with 
 the carriage windows all closed, I do not know ; but 
 occupants of third-class carriages are more amus- 
 ing than those who travel first-class, more natural 
 and communicative. They talk to each other, they 
 talk to you with greater frankness, and present a 
 better opportunity of studying character. 
 
 We had provided ourselves with books, but it 
 was not long before a pleasant faced young man 
 in Irish tweed and a gay necktie handed me the 
 evening paper and began a conversation. He was 
 a commercial traveller, and I am sure is worth his 
 weight in gold to his firm, for never in the whole 
 course of my life have I seen such tremendous 
 unself -conscious confidence. He had no more idea 
 
 233 
 
234 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 of class distinction than a kangaroo. I take it that 
 to those hopsome creatures a duke or a dustman 
 are ahke. At first the conversation was general 
 between Kitty, the young man, and myself, and it 
 concerned hotels. His manner was just as free, 
 and he was quite as much at ease, and as full of 
 personal questions, as if I had been Mrs. Moriarty 
 who kept a little vegetable shop in Camden Street, 
 and pretty, well-dressed Kitty my assistant. He 
 asked our names, our nationalities, our religion, our 
 occupations, our experiences in the past and plans 
 for the future, what we paid at the Shelbourne 
 Hotel for our rooms, what they furnished us with 
 for breakfast, dinner, and supper, to what hotel 
 we were going in Cork, and he strongly recom- 
 mended another for one-third of the price of the 
 Imperial. He gave us as an example of economy 
 a week of his life in London, where at one 
 time, when he was hard up, he had lived on five 
 shillings. 
 
 His questions reminded me of the paper served 
 to aliens on their way to America. Though an 
 American of many generations — my ancestors 
 fought in the war of Independence — having mar- 
 ried out of my country, in the eyes of the law I 
 am an alien. Crossing very often I have answered 
 these questions until they have become boring and 
 monotonous. My last voyage I neglected the 
 paper until the purser came to my stateroom and 
 
CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 235 
 
 said, " I must beg of you to answer these ques- 
 tions." 
 
 " I am not well enough," I said ; " will you 
 kindly answer them? " 
 
 " But I do not know your age? " 
 
 " You can politely guess at it," I said, and 
 nothing could have been more polite than his 
 reckoning. 
 
 "What is your height?" was his next ques- 
 tion. 
 
 " I have been," I said, " five feet three, but since 
 the day before yesterday, when Crippen was exe- 
 cuted and described as that height, I have changed 
 to five feet four." 
 
 " And your complexion? " 
 
 " Aquamarine. As the darkies say, I have been 
 * Splimmy Splammy ' ever since we left the dock 
 at Tilbury." 
 
 The purser gave up in despair, went off with the 
 paper, and filled it up with proper respect to Gov- 
 ernment rule. 
 
 This young man's questions were much of the 
 same order; by the time we reached Cork he could 
 have supplied a very intelligent descriptive paper 
 of Kitty and myself to the authorities there. 
 Finally, Kitty buried herself persistently in a 
 book, and he was left entirely to my tender mercies. 
 I think I bore with him on account of his generous 
 smile, and strong, even, white teeth. Good teeth 
 
236 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 are always a recommendation to my favour. I 
 remember years ago at the time of a general 
 election I warmly recommended to Mr. Par- 
 nell two young Irishmen for important con- 
 stituencies. 
 
 He turned gravely to Justin McCarthy and said, 
 " What especial qualification have these two gen- 
 tlemen for Parliament? " 
 
 " None," said Justin, " that I know of, except 
 they both have very fine sets of teeth." 
 
 And remembering strangely assorted, middle- 
 aged Parliamentary teeth, my recommendation 
 was not at all a bad one. 
 
 My young friend of the teeth asked a thousand 
 questions about America, and I strongly advised 
 him to go there without delay. In all my travels 
 I have never met any one so eminently suited to 
 my democratic country. He will need no introduc- 
 tions. He can never be snubbed. His genuine 
 interest would penetrate the strongest reserve. 
 His good humour is imperturbable. And his 
 smile will disarm the grumpiest pessimist that ever 
 lived. 
 
 We stopped at a wayside station, and Kitty 
 had barely ejaculated, " I have had enough of that 
 young man," when he appeared with his confident 
 smile, and a tray which bore two steaming cups 
 of hot tea, and plates of cake and bread and 
 butter. 
 
CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 237 
 
 " Here's some refreshment for you, ladies," he 
 said. 
 
 Then Kitty forgave him for putting her through 
 the third degree, and I was really quite sorry when 
 the time came to say good-bye. 
 
 It gave me a thrill to hear the porter call out 
 " Cork! " for what place in the world is more asso- 
 ciated with song and story? It was too late to 
 do anything but go at once to the hotel and dine. 
 The dinner was excellent, and the strawberries 
 were in perfection. The south of Ireland must be 
 particularly suited to the growth of fruit. The 
 waiter was a tall, thin man with a finely modelled 
 ascetic face, not unlike Sir Forbes Robertson. He 
 told us he had spent all his life in Killarney, but 
 had been forced by the war to come to Cork as 
 many of the hotels were closed, and that Southern 
 Ireland was almost destitute of visitors. He had 
 left his wife and eight children behind him, and 
 as soon as travel began he would return. We 
 afterwards went to the hotel in Killarney where 
 he had been employed for many years, and they 
 told us there he was one of the most notorious and 
 daring poachers in the country, having been ar- 
 rested several times. Anything more unlike a 
 preconceived idea of a poacher than this refined, 
 gentlemanly looking, soft-voiced, deferential waiter 
 it would be difficult to imagine. He was also a 
 famous dancer, and in the winter time had a 
 
238 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 class for teaching children the old Irish folk 
 dances. 
 
 About nine o'clock there was a rush of hurried 
 footsteps on the street, and cries of " Up with 
 the rebels! Up with the rebels!" but nothing 
 further occurred. Cork is indeed unafraid to call 
 herself a rebel city. In the centre of the town 
 we had passed a large monument called the Mar- 
 tyrs' Memorial. It is erected to the three Fenian 
 prisoners whose execution aroused the sympathy 
 of the whole civilised world, including many Eng- 
 lishmen. Allen, Larkin, and O'Brien were Cork 
 men who stopped a prison van and rescued two 
 leaders of the Fenian movement, and though 
 weighted with chains they got away and sailed 
 for America. But by mischance a police sergeant 
 who was in the inside of the van was shot. The 
 whole country at the moment was at fever heat; 
 five men were sentenced to be hanged, and others 
 condemned to penal servitude. Even a man who 
 was merely looking on at the fray was sentenced 
 by an outraged judge and jury to be hanged; 
 luckily the sentence was rescinded before the exe- 
 cution took place. 
 
 Captain Edward O'Meagher Condon, an 
 American citizen and an ex-officer of the Civil 
 War, would have been executed but for the pro- 
 tection of the United States. On his reprieve he 
 returned to America, and I met him several times 
 
CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 239 
 
 in New York. He seemed a quiet, cultivated 
 gentleman, and for a long time I knew nothing of 
 his sensational career. It was Captain Condon 
 who, when his comrades were hanged, sobbed out 
 in tones of deep tragedy, " God save Ireland ! 
 God save Ireland!" The crowd mechanically re- 
 peated the words, and finally they became the 
 slogan of the Irish Nationalists. The words in- 
 spired T. D. Sullivan to write the song " God 
 Save Ireland," which is now set to music and sung 
 all over the world. It is played as a march by 
 Irish bands, and many brave Irishmen have fought 
 and died for England, inspired by the strains of 
 that martial air. 
 
 The next morning was one of glorious sunshine, 
 so I suggested to Kitty that as Queenstown was 
 always described as a depressing place, to see it in 
 pleasant weather would be advisable, therefore we 
 had better take an early train and come back by 
 boat. The distance is so very short that Cork and 
 Queenstown are practically the same place. 
 
 The Lord Mayor of Cork is Admiral of Queens- 
 town, and there is an old and picturesque custom 
 connected with his office. Once in three years he 
 sails to Queenstown, and when the boat anchors 
 near the headlands, he flings a dart far, far out 
 to sea. This proclaims his Admiralty. 
 
 When we arrived the Cathedral's new chime of 
 bells were ringing silvery peals, and we stepped 
 
240 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 proudly to " Let Erin Remember," and more 
 sedately to " The Harp that Once Thro' Tara's 
 Halls." " The Last Rose of Summer " sounded 
 sweet high above our heads, and when we entered 
 the Cathedral, Gounod's " Ave Maria " helped us 
 to a reverent frame of mind. 
 
 God is never lonely in Ireland. He is never 
 neglected. Here abides His Kingdom, and His 
 subjects are ever in communion with Him. From 
 early morning, when the portals of the churches 
 are opened, until late evening, the people kneel, 
 and with full confidence, pour out their hearts to 
 Him. Joy, sorrow, success, defeat, doubt, despair, 
 or victory are all laid at His feet. God is not only 
 to be worshipped as a Divine Being, He is loved 
 and appealed to as a Father, and trusted as a 
 wise and helpful Friend. And if there are any 
 latter-day saints, they are to be found in Ireland. 
 While the subjects of the King, poor, cold, hun- 
 gry, broken-hearted, and despairing, with blanched 
 lips can whisper, " Thy will be done," it is not 
 difficult to believe in the beatification of the human 
 being of to-day. 
 
 It was almost midday and yet there were a num- 
 ber of people scattered over the church lost in 
 prayer, and we saw a small, dark, rough head pass 
 by, as a very small boy, not more than five, found 
 his way to the High Altar. He made the sign 
 of the Cross, remained for a time saying his inno- 
 
Harpischord, Mahogany, with Ornamental 
 Brass Mountings 
 
 Bv Ferdiimiid Weher, Duhlin. Tlie property of Robert W. Smythe, Ksq. 
 
CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 241 
 
 cent prayers, then turned and smiled. I think he 
 knew that we were strangers, and it was a little 
 smile of welcome. 
 
 After seeing the Cathedral, a triumph of Pu- 
 gin's architecture, we walked down the hill to the 
 Place of Embarkation, where millions of Ireland's 
 people have sailed for different ports. England 
 reproaches Ireland with a long memory, but how 
 can any country forget " State-aided Emigration," 
 when Great Britain offered five pounds a man to 
 banish her Irish subjects. And it was even worse 
 after the famine, when thousands of poor peasants 
 were transplanted to a land which required the 
 unbreakable spirit of the pioneer to wrest from 
 it any success. Many of them had never seen a 
 town of even nine thousand inhabitants. Some of 
 them only spoke Gaelic. A good many of them 
 could not read. They were simple, primitive, agri- 
 cultural tillers of the soil. What could they find 
 to do in New York, Montreal, or London, with 
 no money beyond the price of their passage? 
 Herded together in the lowest quarters of the big 
 towns, they were like lost sheep, and as easily influ- 
 enced as children, their sweet, simple, kind, and 
 generous natures were transformed and contami- 
 nated by vicious associations. It was not long 
 before they were contemptuously spoken of as 
 " the low Irish." In new, hurried, busy countries, 
 where every man is for himself, the cause of their 
 
242 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 tragic downfall was never considered. These poor 
 aliens no longer prayed that: 
 
 . " The merciful Word. 
 The singing word. 
 And the good Word. 
 Be for evermore the only heritage of men and women of 
 Erin." 
 
 They were far from the land of their birth, sepa- 
 rated from her for ever, and many of them were 
 rendered desperate by despair. Mr. Labouchere — 
 could he have been a relation of my friend Labby, 
 who was always a loyal friend to the Irish — plead 
 their cause in the House of Commons as early as 
 1848, and called the attention of England to their 
 horrible condition, and unfitness for transportation. 
 Carrying the plague with them, they died by thou- 
 sands, both on board the ship and after their 
 arrival. On the long voyage many families were 
 swept out of existence. Children arrived without 
 fathers and mothers, and numerous little babies 
 whose names were unknown were handed over to 
 the authorities. Altogether, seventeen thousand of 
 these poor emigrants perished in this dreadful 
 exodus. Since then emigration has never ceased, 
 until now the whole of Ireland has a trans- Atlantic 
 mind, and after the War, again Ireland's sons and 
 daughters will sail to new and freer lands. 
 
 There is no lovelier spot than Queenstown; it is 
 
CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 243 
 
 beautifully situated on the hills, with its feet 
 bathed in the blue river and the blue sea. But 
 there can be no sadder place in all the world than 
 the Place of Embarkation, saturated as it has been 
 with the tears of those who keened the departure 
 of their dear ones going to far-away lands. How 
 agonising must have been their heart-broken cry, 
 gathering force until it sounded far out to sea, as 
 the ship gradually faded out of sight. To those on 
 board, the Cathedral and its glittering spire pene- 
 trated even through the thick mist of their tears. 
 Did the fathers think of this when they built it, 
 and say we will raise a Tower of Faith even 
 though it be a Tower of Tears; but the Tower of 
 Faith will sweeten the Tower of Tears and keep 
 our people unforgetting. 
 
 The sloping hill and the little shops were more 
 cheerful. From one, a blue-eyed baby toddled 
 unsteadily but joyously towards us. 
 
 "Come back!" her mother called. "She's the 
 bouldest colleen in the town. Look at the bould 
 eye on her. Let go the lady's dress wid your fists, 
 you." 
 
 On the strength of the " bould eye " on her we 
 bought papers of lemon drops and molasses candy. 
 The young, dark, pretty, Italian-looking mother 
 said the baby was always laughing and gay, and 
 fearless and trusting of strangers. 
 
 " She do be takin' the hand of anny that comes 
 
244 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 along, and I'm afraid of me life that wun day some 
 one will be walkin' off wid the likes of her." 
 
 " I could walk off with her now," I said, " if 
 you'll give her to me." 
 
 *' Oh, no, lady, she's the first. I can't give 
 that bould wun away." 
 
 A little lower down the street was a shabby, 
 dusty, pell-mell, miscellaneous, crowded window 
 of various objects, where a treasure might be dis- 
 covered, and indeed was discovered. Only I did 
 not bear it away. I have taste and appreciation of 
 curios, but no really serviceable knowledge. The 
 find was an old glass vase, in shape something like 
 a Brobdingnagian tumbler; it was engraved by 
 the hand of an artist, in landscapes, little villages, 
 and churches with spires, and the price was only 
 ten shillings. Kitty, who has excellent taste, urged 
 me to take it; she even offered, and it was a bona 
 fide offer, to carry it herself back to Cork. 
 
 " It is lovely," I said, " and I daresay I'll regret 
 it afterwards." And I did, for later when stay- 
 ing with Nita Shannon we motored to Queens- 
 town, and I went back to the shop and the girl 
 priced the vase at three pounds. 
 
 "But when I was here before you told me it was 
 ten shillings." 
 
 " Yes," she said sweetly, " I know I did, but me 
 mother was away, an' I was only guessin' at the 
 price," 
 
CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 245 
 
 "What," I said, "are you guessing at to-day? 
 I will buy it." 
 
 She showed me various bits of china, but her 
 guesses were as extravagant as if she had been a 
 dealer in Wardour Street, and I left regretting my 
 lost opportunity. 
 
 Kitty, that memorable day, bought a valuable 
 copy of The Decameron with a good old binding, 
 and we looked over it on the boat. The little 
 steamer gurgled as she wheeled about, and we 
 began to sail by softly wooded slopes, and old 
 houses painted red, yellow, white, and blue, twin- 
 kled like jewels in the strong sunshine. They 
 appeared such pleasant, peaceful homes close to 
 the water, with flower-beds of roses. And such 
 roses — pink, and white, and cream, and yellow, 
 and scarlet, and wine-red, and little chmbing roses 
 of vaulting ambition reaching as high as the 
 roof. 
 
 When we left the boat, and for the last few 
 miles changed to the train, a nice little withered 
 old lady, like a healthy winter apple, got into our 
 carriage carrying a lovely bouquet of thick- 
 leaved roses, perfect specimens of the Queen 
 Mary, William Allen Richardson, and Abel Cha- 
 teney varieties. She was a stranger to us, we had 
 not even spoken to her, and yet my sixth sense, 
 which often surprises me, told me that those roses 
 would be ours. Presently she remarked amiably 
 
246 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 that it was *' a pleasant day," and Kitty, in a white 
 gown with an open neck, said " Glorious," and 
 the old lady admitted with proper clothes that it 
 might be, but the long spring had discouraged her 
 in providing a summer outfit, and now with sudden 
 tropical heat, much too warm in serge, she was 
 hoping to find a ready-to-wear frock at some of 
 the shops in Cork. A black mushn if possible, with 
 a pin spot of white. Her granddaughter would 
 meet her at the station, it was for her she had 
 gathered the roses. It seemed my sixth sense had 
 failed me, which it rarely does after an active 
 manifestation. 
 
 When we arrived at the station the lady solici- 
 tously pointed out our tram, and we thanked her 
 and said farewell. We loitered, looking in shop 
 windows before turning into St. Patrick Street. 
 
 " It is a fine street," I said to Kitty, " but I 
 cannot quite agree with the Cork man who said, 
 * St. Patrick Street is the finest thoroughfare in 
 all Europe, barrin' the bind in it.' " 
 
 And then who should we meet nearing " the 
 bind," but our trim old friend wearing a dotted 
 black and white mushn: not only had her desire 
 materiahsed, but she was arrayed in it. She 
 seemed pleased to see us again, nodded, smiled, 
 stopped, and held out the flowers to Kitty. 
 "Won't you ladies have these roses? My grand- 
 daughter did not meet me after all." Then my 
 
CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 247 
 
 sixth sense leaped for joy, and said, " Take that 
 pink blossom, leave the blush coloured one for 
 Kitty, it matches her beads, and never doubt me 
 again." 
 
 "We must now," I said, "find Father Ma- 
 hony," which was a trifle difficult as I had forgot- 
 ten the name of the church, and could only ask 
 where Father Mahony was buried. Several people 
 didn't know, and had never heard of him. 
 
 " Perhaps," I said, " we should have asked where 
 Father Prout is buried," for Father Mahony as- 
 sumed as a nom de plume the name of a quaint 
 old priest who once lived in the flesh, and was the 
 figure of many an amusing story. One of them 
 I am sure is true, for to this day the Irish are 
 particularly fond of statuary. 
 
 While Father Front's friend. Father Rufus, was 
 studying for the priesthood in Rome, Father 
 Prout made him a visit, and seized the occasion to 
 expend a subscription contributed by his parish- 
 ioners for an altarpiece. He spent days in going 
 to artists and dealers in marbles, but found noth- 
 ing that he liked, until one afternoon in a state 
 of great satisfaction he begged Father Rufus to 
 go with him and see his choice. 
 
 "Good heavens!" said Father Rufus; "that is 
 a Diana ; you can't have it." 
 
 "Yes, I can," said Father Prout. "I don't 
 care what it is, it's lovely, and I'll have it. Those 
 
248 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 chaps of mine at Ardnagehy will never know the 
 difference." 
 
 Father Mahony, better known as Father Prout, 
 was somewhat unconventional. The Jesuits at one 
 time repudiated him, they did not care for his 
 hght-hearted contributions to literature; but he 
 remained true to his rehgion, and died in a monas- 
 tery. There was a time when I thought " The 
 Bells of Shandon" poetry; people demand better 
 things these days, and smile in a superior manner 
 at: 
 
 *' With deep affection and recollection 
 
 I often think of the Shandon bells — 
 Whose sounds so wild would in days of childhood 
 
 Fling round my cradle their magic spells ; 
 On this I ponder, where'er I wander. 
 
 And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee ; 
 With thy bells of Shandon, 
 That sound so grand on 
 The pleasant waters of the river Lee." 
 
 Finally we did find St. Anne's, and an obliging 
 young woman insisted on our listening to " The 
 Bells of Shandon, that sound so grand on the 
 pleasant waters of the river Lee." And then we 
 climbed to the top of an adjacent hill to see the 
 panorama of Cork, and were rewarded by a very 
 beautiful view. The Lee runs through the fair 
 green valley, surrounded by softly rounded hills, 
 which are covered with roads, and built over with 
 
CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 249 
 
 houses. We walked along the Mardyke, the 
 afternoon was warm, and we were glad that it was 
 well shaded by trees. We saw no salmon leap, but 
 there were salmon in the river; and despite the 
 War there was a variety of shipping. The pic- 
 turesque quays lie through the town. 
 
 I had worn Cork serge in London; every thread 
 of it was wool, and it felt so pleasant and agree- 
 able to the touch that I wanted to see the woollen 
 mills at work. They seemed prosperous, and 
 have no difficulty in finding a market for their 
 wares. 
 
 Whenever we stopped to ask our way about, we 
 found the people most amiable and communicative. 
 Their speech is made benign by the hospitable, 
 soft, full, round brogue of Cork, and they struck 
 me as much more Irish than the people of Dublin. 
 They have the reputation of being quick-witted, 
 and quick at repartee, and the children in the 
 schools are said to be remarkably precocious. 
 
 Cork is proud, and justly so, of the number of 
 eminent writers, artists, and composers whom she 
 has sent into the world. Fraser's, Blackwood's, 
 and Bentley's, the three leading magazines of 
 their day, owed much of their success to the bril- 
 Hant articles of Doctor Maginn, Francis Mahony 
 (Father Prout), and Machse, who was not only an 
 illustrator, but wrote clever verse and prose. 
 Sheridan Knowles, the dramatist, was the author 
 
250 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 of a number of plays. I saw The Hunchback, 
 when a little girl, in New Orleans; and John Mc- 
 Cullough thrilled my young heart and touched me 
 to tears in Virginius. It is a fine dramatic play 
 for a robust actor, and would do well on the 
 cinematograph. Thomas Crofton Croker has 
 written many books of charming Irish fairy lore. 
 Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South have 
 been translated both into German and French. I 
 saw a prettily illustrated volume years ago in 
 Baden-Baden. Richard Alfred Milhkin was a 
 musician, painter, and writer, but he never left 
 Cork. John Augustus Shea was a writer and poet 
 of note. John Francis Maguire, a prolific writer, 
 was editor of the Cork Examiner, William 
 O'Brien's novel. When We Were Boys, was of 
 such absorbing interest that I sat up until two 
 o'clock in the morning reading it. And he has 
 written other novels, reviews, articles, essays, and 
 verses. 
 
 And dear Justin McCarthy, what a splendid 
 literary career he left behind him. A long list of 
 novels, delightful books of history — what can be 
 more entertaining than The History of the Four 
 Georges and A History of Our Own Times. And 
 no novel ever gave me more pleasure than Dear 
 Lady Disdain. I was very young when it ap- 
 peared in monthly instalments in The Galaxy, an 
 American magazine, long since dead. I did not 
 
CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 251 
 
 dream that in the future the author would prove 
 one of my most valued friends, and stand in place 
 of my own father, when I married T. P. in St. 
 Mary's, Father S cole's little church in Horse- 
 ferry Road, now demolished, and the parish trans- 
 ferred to the Cathedral. 
 
 Stephen Foreman, who belongs to a later gen- 
 eration, is a versatile writer of prose and poetry. 
 " The City of the Crimson Walls " is a fine poem, 
 and The Errors of Comedy is a good novel. T. C. 
 Murray, the dramatist, is a still younger man, and 
 has undoubtedly a promising career before him. 
 Birthright is almost too sincere a tragedy; it car- 
 ries with it such sad and bitter conviction. Mrs. 
 L. T. Meade, the author of Scamp and I, The 
 Medicine Lady, and many other novels, sheds 
 lustre on Cork. 
 
 Beautiful Kathleen Cecil Thurston, best known 
 by her novel of John Chilcote, M.P., was a Cork 
 lady. The Rev. Lewis Macnamara wrote Blind 
 Larry, and Other Tales — beautiful little studies of 
 Irish peasant hfe. And there was John Paul 
 Dalton, who wrote a highly dramatic poem, " Sars- 
 field at Limerick," and other poems and various 
 essays. William Buckley is an author of note. 
 Croppies Lie Down was exceedingly clever; and 
 Mrs. Hungerford, the author of Molly Bawn, 
 April's Lady, and a large number of spirited 
 novels has won for herself a world-wide reputation. 
 
252 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 S. Lennox Robinson, the author of The Cross 
 Roads and other plays, is a young and clever play- 
 wright. The late Rev. Patrick Sheehan has 
 written a number of very popular and original 
 novels. Then there was John Fitzgerald, Bard 
 of Lee, and various minor poets and writers who 
 have shed a milder but no less pleasant lustre on 
 Cork. 
 
 Among the artists from Cork there are James 
 Barry, Daniel MacHse, R.A., Alfred Elinore, 
 R.A., Samuel Ford, who gave great promise but 
 unfortunately died at the early age of twenty- 
 three. Richard Lyster, a musician as well as 
 artist. James Cavanagh Murphy, who wrote bril- 
 liantly on architecture. Albert Hartland, a beau- 
 tiful landscape and water-colour painter, entirely 
 self-taught; and Wilham Linden Casey, a water- 
 colour artist of great merit, admired by Ruskin, 
 taught King Edward VII drawing. Thomas 
 Hovenden is a Cork man, whom America partly 
 claims as he began his art career in New York, and 
 almost all his subjects are of life in America; 
 and WiUiam Magrath, though born in Cork, has 
 also made his career in America. Thaddeus, a 
 handsome and agreeable man, is a distinguished 
 portrait painter and has painted many Royalties. 
 Charles Mclvor Grierson was born in Queenstown, 
 and there are Eugene McSwiney, James Griffen, 
 Samuel Wright, Hugh Charde, and Sir Egerton 
 
CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 253 
 
 Coghill. Seamus O'Brien, a young sculptor of 
 decided promise and a playwright as well, has 
 chosen San Francisco as his place of abode; and 
 William Barry, a successful portrait painter, is 
 now claimed by America. 
 
 A number of well-known musical composers 
 were born in Cork. Almost every Southern girl 
 has sung, " We May Never Meet Again," by 
 Louis Blake, who lived in New Orleans, and 
 "Maid of Athens," and "When We Two 
 Parted," by Henry Robinson Allen. I heard 
 Sims Reeves sing " I Watch for Thee in Star- 
 less Night," by Alexander Roche, at several con- 
 certs in London. And Matthew O'Riordan wrote 
 a great number of ballads that were extremely 
 popular in America. When I was a gay uncon- 
 scious seventeen, with all of love before me, I used 
 to sing with — possibly — heart-breaking pathos, 
 " My Dream of Love Is O'er," and now indeed 
 that it is o'er, I haven't the voice to sing about 
 it. Poor young man, he was said to have written 
 the appealing ballad to a faithless sweetheart, 
 which only made it more fascinating. Louis Gar- 
 ret, the organist of St. Luke's, Cork, is a very 
 gifted musician and composer. I heard a lovely 
 song of his at one of the popular concerts in 
 London. 
 
 So with writers, artists, and musicians, Cork has 
 indeed a goodly roll of honour, and there are, as 
 
254 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 always in Ireland, invisible claims connecting them 
 with America. 
 
 The old curiosity shops of Cork are filled with 
 objects of interest. At one of them I was lucky 
 enough to find a charming coloured print of Mrs. 
 Jordan, who made her first appearance in Dublin 
 in 1777, in the part of " Phoebe " in As You Like 
 It. She was a beautiful Irish girl with blue eyes 
 and a dewy skin, who captured the heart of the 
 Duke of Clarence, heir to the throne and after- 
 wards William IV. Mrs. Jordan bore the King 
 ten children, who were known by the names of 
 Fitzclarence. Her five daughters married two 
 earls, the youngest son of a duke, a general in the 
 British Army, and a baronet. The King, who 
 loved his children, gave Colonel Fitzclarence, his 
 eldest son, one of his own titles, the Earl of 
 Munster. 
 
 William's memory would have been held in 
 greater respect if after a life of simple domesticity, 
 which lasted for so many years, he had upheld his 
 morganatic marriage with the faithful companion 
 of his youth and the mother of his children. At 
 the end of twenty years he tired of her, and at his 
 request she left him. He married the Princess 
 Adelaide in 1818. 
 
 The Chapel of Saint Finn Barr attached to the 
 Honan Hostle, Cork, built under the cultured 
 supervision of Sir John O'Connell, is one of the 
 
CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 255 
 
 most interesting, if not the most interesting, church 
 in Ireland, being not only perfect in taste but 
 a comprehensive example of national art. The 
 architect, the builder, carvers of stone, the design- 
 ers, and makers of the stained glass windows, the 
 weavers and workers of the tapestries, and binder 
 of the missals, and the artist who made and 
 enamelled the beautiful monstrance are all Irish 
 men and women living in the country, and under 
 the influence of Irish tradition in history and in 
 art. The little church, a model of the best skill, 
 craftsmanship, and resource of Ireland, is built of 
 Irish limestone, in the Hiberno-Romanesque style 
 of a thousand years ago. It is suggestive of the 
 Irish and is purely Celtic in character. 
 
 The outside of the building is dignified and sim- 
 ple, the west doorway has been adapted from the 
 chapel of St. Cronan of Roscrea; over it is placed 
 the statue of St. Finn Barr, the work of Mr. 
 Oliver Shepherd, R.H.A., and the interior deco- 
 ration is impressive and harmonious. The altar 
 possesses a simple satisfying dignity, being com- 
 posed of one great slab of Irish limestone. Mr. 
 Oswald Reeves, a master of his art, has contributed 
 a most brilliant piece of enamelling for the altar, 
 and the art of enamelling is nowhere better exe- 
 cuted than in Ireland. The design of the floor, 
 which is original in conception and warm in colour- 
 ing, is a connecting note with the brilliant stained- 
 
256 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 glass windows, and the Stations of the Cross. I 
 could linger long before those glowing windows, 
 the work of Mr. Harry Clarke (whom Canon 
 Hanney declares a genius in stained glass) and 
 Miss Sarah Purser, for they are not only fine in 
 design and execution, but they picture the poetic 
 miracles in the hfe of many Irish saints. 
 
 St. Patrick, imposing in mitre and crozier, holds 
 leaves of shamrock in his right hand, and his lips, 
 slightly apart, seem to whisper his inspired prayer, 
 those vigorous lines that embody all of Christianity 
 in their strong appeal: 
 
 At Tara to-day may the strength of God pilot me, 
 
 May the Power of God preserve me, 
 
 May the Wisdom of God instruct me, 
 
 May the Eye of God behold me. 
 
 May the Ear of God hear me, 
 
 May the Word of God make me eloquent, 
 
 May the Hand of God protect me. 
 
 May the Way of God direct me. 
 
 May the Shield of God defend me. 
 
 May the Heart of God guard me. 
 
 Against the snares of demons, the temptations of vices. 
 
 The inclinations of the mind, 
 Against every man who meditates evil towards me, 
 Far or nigh, alone or with others. 
 
 St. Brigid, that humble, chaste friend of the 
 poor, but, nevertheless, a woman of capacity and 
 energy, as the founder of a cathedral church at 
 Kildare, bears her church in her hand. The caK 
 
CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 257 
 
 which she succoured leans its little head against 
 her arm, and there are suggestions of her many 
 charities and miracles in the details of the win- 
 dow. St. Finn Barr gives a fine note of colour 
 robed in his splendid red chasuble, his uplifted 
 right hand which has once touched the Saviour is 
 reverently covered by a glove, but the radiance 
 pierces through it. The beautiful border of this 
 window is suggested by the hazel tree, which 
 when blessed by the saint bore leaves, nuts, and 
 fruit in mid-winter. 
 
 St. Ita, a noble royal lady, the St. Brigid of 
 Munster, is being presented by an angel with three 
 jewels of great price, in appreciation of her love 
 of the Trinity. 
 
 St. Columcille, " the Dove of the Churches," is 
 surrounded by the doves who brought him mes- 
 sages of love from Derry to lona, the angel who 
 daily whispered counsel in his ear is beside him, 
 and his white horse nestles his head on the saint's 
 shoulder. 
 
 St. Fachtna, St. Declan and his miraculous bell, 
 St. Ailbe who found a royal babe, the foster son 
 of a tender-hearted mother wolf, St. Gobnet the 
 patron saint of the bees, St. Carthage, St. Flan- 
 nan, St. Colman, St. Brendan, and St. Mungret, 
 all have beautiful commemorative windows of their 
 lives and miraculous deeds in the hostel of St. 
 Finn Barr. 
 
258 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 The dominant note of colour in the furnishing of 
 the church is a rich crimson. Miss Evelyn Glee- 
 son, the founder of the Dun Emer Guild, has 
 woven a dossal divided into four panels, each of 
 them containing Celtic symbols of the four evan- 
 gelists from the Book of Durrow. The background 
 is a splendid red, and a beautiful border of Celtic 
 work divides the panels and frames the dossal on 
 the top and sides. Miss Gleeson is also responsible 
 for an antependium of great beauty. The ground- 
 work is dull gold embroidery, and the various 
 sacred figures have been raised in thick embroidery 
 in rich colours from the background. The vest- 
 ments, among them a cloth of gold cope, chasuble 
 and dalmatics, have been embroidered in the work- 
 shop of Mr. Barry Egan in Cork. The other sets 
 of vestments are made of the richest Irish pophns, 
 and embroidered in Celtic designs. Miss Kelly's 
 missal, a labour of love, is bound in scarlet mo- 
 rocco, the vivid hue being controlled and softened 
 by a border of soft olive greens outlined with gold. 
 The high lights of the design are pin-pricks of 
 gold and tiny pearls, which on close inspection 
 prove to be the careful art of the designer ex- 
 pressed in a cunning inlay of white leather. The 
 Celtic cross in the centre of the cover unites and 
 forms part of the border, and flashes of semi- 
 precious stones, topaz, amethyst, and aquamarine 
 in the centre of the Cross, give brilliance and finish 
 
CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 259 
 
 to the completed design of a perfect piece of book- 
 binding. 
 
 Mr. William A. Scoti, Professor of Architec- 
 ture in the National University of Ireland, fur- 
 nished drawings for the Celtic designs of all the 
 altar plate to Edmund Johnston, who has a well- 
 deserved reputation for the reproduction of antique 
 Irish silver. The monstrance of silver plated in 
 gold and enriched with large cabochons of sapphire 
 enamel is a remarkable piece of work. 
 
 The creations of a nation reveal their character, 
 and the Chapel of St. Finn Barr speaks more elo- 
 quently than a hundred books for the artistic 
 ability of the Irish people. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 KILLARNEY 
 
 A small share of anything is not worth much 
 But a small share of sense is worth much. 
 
 Old Gaelic Proverb 
 
 I don't like martial law in summer. Particularly 
 on a hot day when it has nothing to do but shoulder 
 a rifle, look in my window, and make the lowering 
 of my blind a sweltering necessity. Kitty and I 
 had pleasant rooms at the Royal Victoria Hotel, 
 " by Killarney's Lakes and Fells," but numerous 
 tents and soldiers occupied the sweet green field 
 enamelled with wild flowers, between the hotel and 
 the lake. Troops were stationed at Killarney on 
 account of its being a very dangerous part of the 
 country, an incipient rising had been quelled and 
 was still held at bay. As a matter of fact not 
 a single shot had been fired. Not even a youthful 
 Sinn Feiner had defiantly let off a fire-cracker. 
 A woman who made beautiful crochet, of a design 
 called the coxcomb pattern, said she hoped the 
 Irish in America would send no more money to 
 John Redmond and his followers, otherwise all 
 was in order. But there was a large party of 
 happy officers and men enjoying a timely hohday. 
 Very likely a young officer with bathing, boat- 
 
 260 
 
KILLARNEY 261 
 
 ing, and fishing tendencies had bethought him of 
 reporting an official riot, which included " explo- 
 sions, detonations, and pistol shots," altogether a 
 different thing from the real riot, and his vivid 
 report necessitated troops. Real jolly playboys 
 of the Army they were. Bathing in the early 
 morning, and at odd times during the day. Play- 
 ing cards and games in the afternoon. Singing 
 " Tipperary," " Keep the Home Fires Burning," 
 and " My Little Grey Home in the West," in the 
 evening, and guarding with vigilance a lonely stile, 
 which separated the adjoining field, where father 
 donkeys recuperated from overwork, and mother 
 donkeys looked after donkeens. 
 
 The only really martial act I witnessed was 
 an alert soldier prodding with his bayonet an 
 ancient and obstinate ass, with no respect for 
 martial law or military discipline, who would hang 
 his head over that Sinn Fein stile. Naturally the 
 windows of a hotel were more interesting than 
 donkeys, especially when pretty Kitty was comb- 
 ing her long black hair, so we had often to shut 
 out the lovely view and cool air for modesty's 
 sake. 
 
 The officers were no less cheerful than the sol- 
 diers. They were accompanied by their wives, 
 who knitted and read novels during the day, looked 
 pretty, and wore dressy blouses for dinner. One 
 young bachelor, a good pianist, singled out the 
 
262 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 best musical talent among the soldiers, reinforced 
 it with local singers, and we had several open- 
 air concerts which were appreciated except by the 
 old donkey, who lifted up his voice in a pitiful 
 wheezing bray of protest at the shrillness of the 
 soprano and the die-away tones of the tenor. 
 
 A very well-dressed young person imposed upon 
 my inexhaustible well of creduhty by calling a 
 young captain " Poppa." I naturally inferred 
 that she was " Mrs. Poppa," and we became quite 
 friendly. The relationship of " Uncle " fills me 
 with suspicion. I have been deceived by several 
 benign uncles with showy nieces, but the American 
 " Poppa " — the lady was a hyphenated American 
 — suggests the domestic husband and loving father, 
 and only that the captain continually sought to 
 talk to us — and preferably to Kitty — thus arousing 
 the jealousy of the lady, who told me he was her 
 " man," and they were to be married after the 
 war, I should never have known they were not 
 married already. Captain " Poppa " did not men- 
 tion marriage to me, he only said he was going to 
 the front and was certain to be killed. However, 
 if he escapes shrapnel and bullet, he certainly will 
 not escape matrimony. The lady's unintermittent 
 will and silent perseverance are certain to con- 
 quer his intermittent will and loquacious indecision. 
 
 Sunday, a magnificent day of steady brilhant 
 sunshine, turned the lake into a sheet of gold; and 
 
KILLARNEY 263 
 
 I said to Kitty, who was always amiable and 
 open to any suggestion, that it would be well to 
 make the Grand Tour. The little low Victoria 
 was quite comfortable, we saw the ruins of 
 Killalee Church and Killalee House, and crossed 
 the winding Laun at Beaufort Bridge. Even on a 
 Sunday there were one or two fishermen there, 
 though it was late for salmon, but trout are always 
 to be had. We diverged a little to obtain a view 
 of Dunloe Castle, a mountain stronghold of O'Sul- 
 livan Mor which has been restored and made into 
 a convenient residence. 
 
 There are beautiful views of the lake from the 
 Castle, but lovely as the day and the drive were, 
 we looked forward eagerly to the Gap of Dunloe. 
 How many pictures we had seen of it. Irish 
 artists love its threatening gloom and shadows, its 
 shifting clouds and changing atmosphere. My 
 enthusiasm somewhat subsided, when I saw " the 
 ponies " which turned out to be tall, raw-boned 
 horses; but Kitty told me to " be a sport " and the 
 guide to " lep up," so I mounted my roan, which 
 was ambitious and insisted on keeping a little in 
 advance of Kitty's large bay mare. And I found 
 it distinctly trying when my animal decided, as he 
 often did, on violent trotting. We soon left gentle 
 and domestic scenery behind us, and although the 
 sunshine continued uninterruptedly brilliant, the 
 sombre and wild hillsides cast dark and heavy 
 
264 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 shadows. We looked into the purple tarns and 
 indigo-blue lakelets, and up at frowning precipi- 
 tous mountains, and down fragrant precipices 
 blooming in wild flowers. It was magnificent 
 scenery, towering mountains and steep hills, for- 
 ests and woods, streams and lakes; but it was all 
 lonely. The silence environed us and shut us 
 away from the world. 
 
 Our first stopping-place was Kate Kearney's 
 cottage, who was said to be a great beauty, and 
 in the last century made and sold celebrated 
 poteen. We refused to hear the echo, nevertheless 
 we did hear it, and as long as soft-hearted Kitty 
 dispensed at intervals various small coin it re- 
 echoed. St. Patrick is supposed to have planted 
 a plot of grass near one of the little lakes, and 
 it is the greenest green grass and the most velvety 
 that was ever seen, and almost miraculously, even 
 in the coldest weather, its intense emerald hue re- 
 mains unchanged. The black of the lake and the 
 green of the sward, with the purple mountains 
 above it, and the deep blue sky, made colour con- 
 trasts so striking they would have satisfied even 
 the most daring futurist. Our guides not only 
 gave us a picturesque account of Kate Kearney, 
 but beyond the two lakes of Cushvalley and 
 Augher they singled out a little white cottage with 
 a freshly thatched roof, described it as the former 
 abode of the beautiful Colleen Bawn, " The Lily 
 
KILLARNEY 265 
 
 of Killarney," and relying on our ignorance gave 
 an optimistic history of the unfortunate girl, end- 
 ing with her happy marriage to a princely gentle- 
 man, and subsequent career as a lady of rank and 
 fashion. The real story of John Scanlan, the son 
 of William Scanlan of Ballycahane, a well-con- 
 nected and well-to-do country squire, and the Col- 
 leen Bawn was much more thrilhng and melo- 
 dramatic. 
 
 The young man had been an officer in the Royal 
 Navy, was dashing and handsome with ingratiating 
 manners, and he easily won the heart of Ellen 
 Hanley, a peasant girl of sixteen, who, on account 
 of her exceeding beauty, her lily-white fairness, 
 and her braids of shining golden hair, was known 
 as the Colleen Bawn. 
 
 One evening in July Scanlan, Ellen, and 
 Michael O'Sulhvan were out in a boat, and they 
 offered to ferry Nelly Walsh and three young men 
 across the Shannon, from Kilrush to Glin. A 
 terrible storm arose, and they all remained the 
 night at Carrigafoyle, an island on the coast of 
 the county of Kerry. Ellen Hanley wore a long 
 grey cloak, a gold ring on her finger, and she car- 
 ried a little round trunk filled with fine wearing 
 apparel. The next morning the young men of 
 Nelly Walsh's party went to Glin, but Nelly re- 
 mained with Ellen Hanley. Later in the day 
 Nelly was rowed across to Glin, leaving Ellen 
 
266 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 Hanley with John Scanlan and Michael Sul- 
 livan, his servant and boatman. They had played 
 together as boys, and so great was Michael's 
 love and admiration for his young master, that 
 he was ready to go even to the gallows for 
 him. 
 
 The next morning when Nelly Walsh met Scan- 
 lan and O'SuUivan, on being questioned, they told 
 her different stories of the absent Colleen Bawn. 
 One said she had remained at Kilkee, the other 
 that she was in Kilrush, and both told the story 
 later that she had gone away with the captain of 
 a ship. The grey cloak and the beautiful clothes 
 from the little round trunk were given by Michael 
 O 'Sullivan to his sister, while he himself wore the 
 plain gold wedding-ring on his finger, which Ellen 
 Hanley had displayed with such pride to Nelly 
 Walsh. 
 
 Certainly the evidence of foul play seemed 
 against the two young men, but though suspected 
 they were not arrested until two months later, 
 when the body of the Colleen Bawn was dis- 
 covered on a small and lonely estuary of the 
 Shannon, under a mound of stones and slimy 
 weeds. There was only a little bodice to identify 
 her, and her perfect teeth, sound and milk-white 
 as pearls. A rope was tightly knotted about her 
 slender neck, showing that she had been first 
 strangled; and a loop at the end suggested that a 
 
KILLARNEY 267 
 
 stone had been attached to it, and after the murder 
 her body dropped in the water. 
 
 It was proved that Ellen Hanley had been liv- 
 ing with her uncle, a well-to-do ropemaker in 
 Limerick, and while there she had contracted a 
 secret marriage with Scanlan; afterwards he had 
 tired of her, and she had been foully dealt with. 
 When the river gave up its dead, Scanlan, sure 
 of his safety, was visiting at one of the great 
 houses in Ireland. He was arrested, committed to 
 the gaol in Limerick, and the trial was begun with 
 as little delay as possible. The great O'Connell, 
 employed for his defence, did all that he could 
 for the distinguished young prisoner, but the wit- 
 nesses stood the cross-fire of his brilliant exami- 
 nation without a single contradiction. 
 
 The jury made no delay in finding the prisoner 
 guilty, and the judge sentenced him to be hanged 
 in twenty-four hours. Immediately after the 
 sentence one of his family, a good horseman, 
 travelled over the country to procure names of 
 men of influence to a petition for mercy. A depu- 
 tation of distinguished gentlemen presented the 
 paper, but the judge said he had just sentenced 
 an illiterate man to death for a murder less ter- 
 rible, therefore he could not grant a respite to 
 Scanlan, an intelligent gentleman, whose crime was 
 far greater in enormity. The law must take its 
 course. As a last favour Scanlan was allowed to 
 
268 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 drive in the family coach to Gallows' Green, but 
 the horses neighing pitifully refused to stir. 
 Neither blows nor threats would induce them to 
 draw their unfortunate young master to the place 
 of execution. He was obliged to walk in the 
 sad procession to the gibbet, and to the last pro- 
 tested his innocence, saying: " I suffer for a crime 
 in which I did not participate." 
 
 Later, Michael O'Sullivan was found, arrested, 
 confessed his guilt, and he, too, was executed. 
 
 Even the unique gifts of O'Connell could not 
 save these two unfortunate young men. At this 
 time he had gained the reputation of being the 
 greatest criminal lawyer in Europe. Nature 
 seemed to have given him every physical, personal, 
 and intellectual advantage. He was tall, with a 
 straight, muscular figure, a fine expressive face, 
 deep blue eyes, and a voice of sweetness and 
 tremendous power. It could roll Hke the thunder 
 of a splendid organ, or in tender tones of irresist- 
 ible pathos bring tears to the eyes of his hearers; 
 and great as were his gifts of oratory, his intellec- 
 tual gifts were still greater. He had a wonderful 
 sense of humour, a razor-like power of sarcasm, 
 and with this unusual combination of quahties he 
 was still more unusual in knowing the letter of 
 the law. 
 
 Even the most sensational murder cases are for- 
 gotten, but the Colleen Bawn has been made im- 
 
Scenes in the Lake Country 
 
KILLARNEY 269 
 
 mortal, first by Gerald Griffin's story of The Col- 
 legians and later by Dion Boucicault's thrilling 
 drama of The Colleen Bawn. Mrs. Boucicault 
 told me that her husband was so moved and in- 
 spired by The Collegians^ although the play dif- 
 fered from the book, that at the end of three weeks 
 he had finished the four acts, and on Saturday they 
 had begun rehearsals. It was in The Colleen 
 Bawn that I first saw this greatly gifted Irish 
 actor, and with an ear attuned to sound, I have 
 never forgotten his wonderful voice. Like Sarah 
 Bernhardt's, it could be described as a voice of 
 gold. Every human emotion: scorn, pride, rage, 
 fear, despair, love, tenderness — oh, such exquisite 
 melting tenderness — were conveyed in its myriad 
 tones. And Dion Boucicault was not only an 
 actor but a literary man as well. He wrote many 
 thrilling plays beside The Colleen Bawn, and the 
 libretto and the lyrics of that popular opera The 
 Lily of Killarney. So perhaps after all, with a 
 book, and a play, and an opera to keep her mem- 
 ory green, the beautiful Colleen Bawn did not 
 meet her tragic death in vain. 
 
 When we reached the second black rock, cleft 
 by the sword of the great Finn McCoul, our 
 horses were stopped, and the guide told us to make 
 a wish, which was certain to come true. I have 
 a thirty years' wish on tap, so it was not necessary 
 for me to hnger long by the lake, where, according 
 
270 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 to history, St. Patrick drowned the last serpent, 
 but according to legend the serpent still Hves, and 
 is imprisoned in a copper chest which is lodged in 
 the bottom of the lake, waiting for the last great 
 day, when he will emerge for judgment. But until 
 then he remains solitary, for no self-respecting 
 fish would associate with him or keep him 
 company. 
 
 The mountains, awe-inspiring, rose on either 
 side to enormous heights above us. We saw an 
 eagle soar and wild deer disappear, and the sun 
 seemed to be less bright in the deep valley, it was 
 so obscured by black and purple shadows. When- 
 ever I was particularly enjoying the view, and 
 drifting into a sentimental and romantic mood, my 
 large red horse started off on a fierce disturbing 
 trot, and by the time I reached the lovely lake I 
 felt rather hke a bruised jelly. We had a little 
 anxious excitement when Kitty's mare galloped 
 and her rider cast a neat brown shoe. There was 
 some difficulty in finding it, but eventually the 
 guide discovered a high suede heel under a spread- 
 ing fern, and we left the splendid gloom of the 
 Gap and stepped into the broad boat awaiting us 
 on the Upper Lake. The younger of the boatmen 
 was rather silent, but the middle-aged captain of 
 the craft, who was a strong swift oarsman, was 
 full of information and stories. 
 
 I was interested to see the islands of the Upper 
 
KILLARNEY 271 
 
 Lake, particularly Arbutus Island, as I expected 
 to find the beautiful pink American arbutus; but 
 it is quite a different plant, much larger and 
 finer than ours, though the flowers are far less 
 fragrant. 
 
 It is impossible to describe the beauty of the 
 lakes on that lovely day, the strong lights and 
 shadows from the surrounding hills, the intense 
 blue of the sky and water, the glossy green of 
 the varied verdure, the sweetness of the sound of 
 running water from the httle streams that whisper 
 to the lakes. But how strange the loneliness and 
 the want of summer houses seem to an American. 
 Killarney is more beautiful than our American 
 lakes, and yet they are fringed with gay hos- 
 pitable villas and cottages, while these sweet 
 waters of Ireland are left undisturbed to silence 
 and to loneliness. Lovely wild flowers bloom to 
 the very water's edge — Water Germander, Heal- 
 all and Bugle, Bluebottle and Adder's Tongue, 
 and ferns were crowding forward to absorb the 
 moisture, while deeper in the woods we got a 
 glimpse of Foxglove, blackberry vines, and Sweet 
 Woodruff, and near us a ruin was completely 
 surrounded by Elecampane. There is everything 
 to make Killarney beautiful — water, hills, woods, 
 sky, for even when it rains the sky is silvery and 
 clear. Brilhant patches of colour, fields of golden 
 red, and headlands and rocks covered in the beau- 
 
272 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 tiful magenta heather, that is never seen except 
 in Ireland. 
 
 As we glided over the lake, Kitty called out 
 excitedly, " I saw a snow-white silver trout." 
 
 The boatman said, " Did she have a rosy mark 
 on her side ? " 
 
 And Kitty, who was trailing her hand in the 
 water said, " I don't know, it glided quickly under 
 my hand, and looked like a fish carved from 
 mother-of-pearl." 
 
 "Ah, 'twas her right enough," said the boat- 
 man; "'twas the Princess; she would be out late 
 on a day like this, she loves the sunshine." 
 
 " The Princess," said Kitty, " is it a fairy fish? " 
 
 The boatman was slow to answer. " You Amer- 
 icans have no good people in your country, and 
 don't believe in thim. I won't bother you with 
 this tale." 
 
 "Oh, yes we have," I said; "and our fairies 
 have wept real tears." 
 
 " That cannot be, lady," said the boatman; 
 " the good people are too gay to weep. Thim 
 mischievous crathurs have no tears in their little 
 hearts." 
 
 " We have proof of the Virginia fairies weeping 
 tears," I said. " It was ages ago when a breath- 
 less Puck came to the Happy Valley, and found 
 all the fairies dancing at a great festival to the full 
 moon of midsummer. His dress was made from a 
 
KILLARNEY 273 
 
 black Iris, his wings were grey and drooping, and 
 he looked sorrowful and broken-hearted. The 
 pretty little rainbow creatures crowded round him 
 and called out, ' Join the dance ! Join the dance ! ' 
 And he said, ' No, my heavy grief makes my feet 
 like drops of lead. I have seen a horrible thing, 
 a thing that has pierced my heart. The gentle 
 Christ has been crucified. I was there, but could 
 not help Him.* And he described to the good 
 people that dreadful day in Jerusalem, and they 
 all wept, and wept, and wept. And each fairy 
 tear became a little rude stone cross, and if you 
 go to that valley — it is no longer called the Happy 
 Valley, but the Valley of Tears — you can pick up 
 little fairy crosses to this day." 
 
 The boatman said, "God save us all, lady; I do 
 belave on that awful day the fairies did let fall 
 their tears, sure an' how could they help it; an' 
 I would like to see wun of thim crosses." 
 
 I wore one on a bracelet, and showed it to him. 
 
 " Then," he said, " as you have the good people 
 in your country, I will tell you about the silver 
 throut. 
 
 " In the ould ancient times, a King had a beau- 
 tiful daughter, who was to marry a Prince as 
 beautiful as herself. But a dark Prince loved the 
 lady, an' wun day he up wid his sword an' 
 killed the fair Prince that was beloved by the 
 Princess, an' threw his body into the lake. An' 
 
274 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 whin the Princess heard about the murder she 
 refused to ate, an' she couldn't slape, an' was al- 
 ways wander in' be the edge of the lake. They 
 tried and tried to find the Prince and dragged the 
 lake and wanted to give his poor body Christian 
 burial, but he was niver more to be found. An' 
 the Princess pined and pined, an' got white an' 
 still more white, an' wun day she didn't die, she 
 just disappeared. An' the very same day, in the 
 avenin', a boatman saw a white throut swimmin' 
 up the lake at night, an' down the lake the next 
 mornin'. An' that throut had blue eyes like the 
 grievin' colleen, an' he says, * Sure, 'tis the Princess 
 been turned into a fish by a kind fairy to find her 
 thrue luv.' An' from that day to this, hundreds 
 of years, that silver throut swims up the lake in 
 the avenin', an' down the lake in the mornin' — 
 always, but wunce. 
 
 " Wun afthernoon an Enghsh soldier, who 
 didn't belave in the Good People or silver throuts, 
 whin she was dramin' caught her an' took her 
 home, and put her in a pan with grase an' tried 
 to fry her. But, glory be to God, she wouldn't 
 fry. He turned her on this side and on that side, 
 an' there she was as fresh as whin she came out 
 of the wather. Suddonly he lost his timper, an' 
 says, ' 'Ave you force me to it I'll ate ye alive, but 
 ate ye I will.' Wid this he stuck his strong Eng- 
 lish fork into the unfortunate throut. Wid that 
 
KILLARNEY 275 
 
 she gives a scrame like a Banshee, an' leps out 
 av the fryin'-pan, hghts on her httle feet a lovely- 
 Princess in a long silver robe, her golden hair 
 stramin' all over it, an' blood eomin' out av her 
 side. She looked at the soldier wid her big blue 
 eyes an' says, ' You cruel murtherer, see what you 
 have done. You tuk me out av me nice cool clane 
 wather, where I was lukin' for me thrue love, who 
 wun day will surely find me, an' you thried to fry 
 me in hot soft grase. You were too stupid to see 
 I wouldn't fry, an' while I am talkin' to you an' 
 puttin' a thousand curses on to you, notwith- 
 standin' these hundreds of years I have been thry- 
 in' to find me own thrue love; he may be swim- 
 min' afther me this blessed minute, an' I will lose 
 him yet. If I do, I'll grow to the size of a whale, 
 an' I'll come out av the wather an' swallow ye 
 whole.' 
 
 " The English soldier remimbered Jonah and 
 his whale, an' he trimbled like an aspen lafe, an' 
 whin the Princess subsided into a bleedin' fish agin, 
 he quickly placed the throut on a clean china plate, 
 dashed down to the lake an' put her back agin 
 an' saw her swim away. An' iver since thin she 
 has a rosy blush on her side, where that murtherous 
 English fork wint into her." 
 
 " Oh, I wish I had caught that fish," said Kitty; 
 " perhaps she would have become a beautiful 
 Princess for me. Maybe now she would be sitting 
 
276 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 in this boat in her shining silver dress, with her 
 golden hair flowing about her like a golden 
 mantle." 
 
 " I thought," I said to the boatman, " that was 
 a story of Cong? " 
 
 " I don't know if they claim it in another part 
 of Ireland," said the boatman, frowning, " but 
 I have been on this lake over forty years, an' 
 always I have seen that silver throut swimmin' 
 up in the mornin' an' down in the avenin', an' 
 always I hear the same tale about her." 
 
 " I am sure," I said, " it is the very same silver 
 fish that inspired Yeats to those charming verses: 
 
 " I went out to the hazel wood, 
 Because a fire was in my head. 
 And cut and peeled a hazel wand. 
 And hooked a berry to a thread; 
 And when white moths were on the wing, 
 And moth-like stars were flickering out, 
 I dropped the berry in a stream 
 And caught a little silver trout. 
 
 " When I had laid it on the floor 
 I went to blow the fire a-flame. 
 But something rustled on the floor. 
 And something called me by my name: 
 It had become a glimmering girl 
 With apple blossom in her hair. 
 Who called me by my name and ran 
 And faded through the brightening air. 
 
KILLARNEY 277 
 
 " Though I am old with wandering 
 Through hollow lands and hilly lands, 
 I will find out where she has gone, 
 And kiss her lips and take her hands. 
 And walk among long dappled grass. 
 And pluck till time and times are done 
 The silver apples of the moon. 
 The golden apples of the sun. 
 
 " I heard Yeats read that poem in America, and 
 I could not resist saying to him afterwards, ' I 
 would have done it better myself.' Perhaps he 
 does not appreciate its beauties as I do. George 
 Moore says he is no judge of his own books, as 
 he has never read them, and that when he has 
 leisure he intends to take a course of George 
 Moore." 
 
 It had been a heavenly day, and the tempta- 
 tion to remain on the lake until the last possible 
 moment was so great, that we were late for din- 
 ner. But not so late as a humble bride and groom, 
 who were spending their honeymoon at the Killar- 
 ney Hotel, and were evidently quite new to the 
 usages of polite hotels. For the waiter said that 
 when he asked them whether they would have 
 diner table dfhote or a la carte as it was so late, 
 the bridegroom looked for help towards the bride, 
 and when she gave him none he said generously, 
 " We will take a httle of both — and plenty of 
 gravy." That young man could not have given 
 a better augury for the life's happiness of his 
 
278 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 wife, than wanting not only gravy, but plenty 
 of it. 
 
 I find that simple, artless, straightforward, 
 kindhearted men and women, with hearty appe- 
 tites and good digestions, like plenty of gravy. 
 It is an indication of mental and physical well- 
 being. But the more complicated part of human- 
 ity, those who are emotional and capricious of 
 health, do not like gravy. It so soon gets cold, and 
 resolves itself into a grey solidity. Gravy seems to 
 me a defiance to digestion unless you have an un- 
 hesitating appetite, and can eat without dalliance. 
 I am too complex in temperament, indifferent of 
 digestion, and dally too long over my food for 
 gravy. I remember at quite an early age, when 
 my parents implored me to eat meat, and I much 
 preferred rice, that I would say, " A little piece 
 of roast beef, but" (unhke the bridegroom of 
 Killarney) "no gravy." And since that '^'^ table 
 d'hote, a la carte, and plenty of gravy," I can 
 invariably tell by looking at people whether they 
 hke gravy. 
 
 The yoimg, straightforward, hearty, burly, 
 manly; the joyous, the frank, the healthy, the 
 strenuous, the up-early big breakfast people, all 
 dehght in gravy, " and plenty of it." But the 
 sad, the sorrowful, the uncertain, the analytic, 
 the disillusioned, the doubting and the dehcate, all 
 eschew gravy. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 LIMERICK 
 
 A STORY of Limerick is of two English ladies who 
 were talking in loud tones in the street. One of 
 them said to the other, " I've travelled all over 
 Europe, in many countries, and" — looking about 
 her — " I've never seen such dirty people as the 
 Irish." 
 
 An old fisherwoman following behind with her 
 basket overtook them and said with her eyes flash- 
 ing, " Maybe 'tis thrue yez have thravelled the 
 wurrld over, but whin yez thravel down to hell 
 ye'll find no dirty Irish there." 
 
 Kitty and I stopped at a more than question- 
 ably clean hotel in Limerick, but the principles 
 advocated by the proprietor were not only clean, 
 but almost obsolete in chaste purity. 
 
 Lamenting the more recent history of Ireland, 
 he said, " I wint to school with Charley Parnell," — 
 it was the first time I had ever heard that stern 
 personahty spoken of as " Charley," — " and his 
 thruble was as if me own brother had made a 
 mistake. Ah, 'twas the greatest pity in the 
 wurrld, for Charley was, from the time he was a 
 bhoy, wun of thim who could make you do what- 
 
 279 
 
280 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 iver he wanted. He carried power in his eye. 
 And to think that in the end he was entirely put 
 under by a woman. I stood by him, but 'twas for 
 the sake of Ireland, I don't hould with thim 
 things " — he waved his arm comprehensively 
 around the shabby, disordered, dusty room, as if it 
 was sacrosant — " and — I don't have anny of thim 
 things goin' on here. It's thrue 'tis a hotel, but 
 'tis also thrue that I kape it unpolluted. And 
 while I live 'twill be clane, 'twill be dacint. 
 
 "A little time ago two min and wun woman 
 came to the hotel — I niver like thim Threes. Two 
 women and wun man, or two min and wun woman 
 — and whin I see thim, I take notice. Well, this 
 last Three was unasyly gay, an' she with a skirt 
 unchristian short, an' a bodice unchristian low, an' 
 they was laughin' and talkin' an' pretindin' to be so 
 friendly together, an' there was plenty of drink to 
 the fore, with champagne corks poppin'. But 
 the laughin' was too bould, 'twasn't natural, an' 
 both the min looked hard whin they looked at each 
 other, an' the woman looked soft at wun an' sly 
 at the other, an' 'twas him that was her husband. 
 
 " An' thin come the avenin' when I tuk part. 
 ' Twas after the make-believe merriment the three 
 began to yawn, an' twasn't long before the two 
 min wint upstairs to their bedrooms. An' thin 
 the lady wint to hers, an' I follyed her, an' found 
 her standin' with her hand on the knob of a door. 
 
LIMERICK 281 
 
 An' God save us all it wasn't her own door knob, 
 nor yit her husband's, so I stepped close to her, an' 
 I brought down the flat of my hand, an' I slapped 
 her. I slapped that painted hussy as she had not 
 been slapped since she was a bad little gur-rle. 
 Thin the doors opened, an' the two min an' me an' 
 the woman all stood lukin' at each other. An' 
 thim two min didn't dare ax me why. I was so 
 burstin' to tell thim I breathed like a man snorin', 
 an' that was the only sound. Whin I found the 
 talkin' was to be left to me, I said, ' I kape a 
 dacint roof over my head, an' over the heads of 
 thim that stays under it, an' if they are not dacint 
 so much the worse for thim.' I luked at the 
 woman, one cheek was blazin' red, an' the other 
 snow white. Thin I tuk her by the arm an' handed 
 her to her husband, who was the poorest spirited 
 of the lot, an' I pointed to her reproved cheek, an' 
 I said to the likes of him, ' If you had been half a 
 man you'd have done it yourself, but I done it 
 for you.' An' thin I told the wun who was not her 
 husband, I could part with his company that min- 
 ute, an' maybe I done a good job for I shnmed 
 that lot of Threes annyway. They was high up 
 in the wur-rld, but high or low thim things don't 
 go on in this hotel." 
 
 An arrival interrupted this thrilling conversa- 
 tion, and I said to Kitty, " That militant defender 
 of virtue doesn't know it, but his methods are 
 
282 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 Biblical. The woman was not stoned. She was 
 slapped." 
 
 Kitty laughed. " Poor woman, she was not only 
 slapped but she lost her admirer; he could never 
 forget that sordid episode, it killed all romance — 
 you may be sure of that." 
 
 We were much struck with the beauty of the 
 women of Limerick. The fashionably dressed, and 
 the poor, with shawls over their heads and bare 
 feet, were equally good-looking. In the hot sum- 
 mer weather these thick blankety shawls which 
 envelope them must be extremely uncomfortable. 
 I wonder that some Manchester manufacturer does 
 not make large cheap cotton shawls for the Irish 
 market; they would be certain to have a quick 
 sale. Both the women and men have a curiously 
 southern appearance. They are tall and grace- 
 ful, and the men particularly have a good length 
 of limb, flat backs, and supple waists, like my 
 own Texas cowboys. Their speech is soft, with a 
 little drawl, and a comforting kindly intonation. 
 The tallest policemen in Ireland are said to come 
 from the South and West, and many of them are 
 Limerick boys. 
 
 We passed an old man in a donkey car driven by 
 a young peasant girl, who was as vividly coloured 
 as a humming-bird. Her skin was starthngly red 
 and white, her eyes dark blue with black lashes. 
 She was smihng, and her teeth were strong and 
 
LIMERICK 283 
 
 white — an unusual beauty in Ireland — her shawl 
 had fallen off her shoulders, and her little head 
 was covered in thick plaits of glossy black hair. 
 The Limerick women have a good upright car- 
 riage, as if they carried buckets of water on 
 their heads like the women of the Canary Islands. 
 
 There is no town in Ireland that has a more 
 interesting history than that of Limerick, con- 
 nected as it is with Sarsfield, Cornwall, and the 
 celebrated Treaty, which after Sarsfield with his 
 12,000 good men and true had left the country, 
 was broken by England — alas! if it had been the 
 only broken treaty — the situation is beautiful, be- 
 ing surrounded on all sides with splendid moun- 
 tains which shelter it from cold winds, and the 
 Golden Vale — said to be one of the most fertile 
 districts in Ireland — dips down between the lovely 
 hills, and provides fine grazing ground for 
 cattle. 
 
 The broad Shannon on its way to the sea be- 
 comes, near the town, a series of lakes, gloriously 
 reflecting clouds and sky. There has evidently 
 been no plan in building the city, it has developed 
 from a village; and there are pleasant curves and 
 unexpected winding streets, and old gabled houses, 
 suggestive of those in Flemish Belgium. 
 
 The Cathedral of St. Mary's was built in the 
 twelfth century; it still stands, and the interior 
 contains memorials of interest. In the chancel 
 
284 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 is a monument to Donagh O'Brien, Earl of 
 Thomond. It was restored by the Earl of Lim- 
 erick, and is now rich in the coloured marbles of 
 Ireland. The bells, said to rival those of Shan- 
 don in sweetness of tone, were made by an Italian 
 for a convent in the Appenines, and he loved them 
 so he lived within sound of their chimes. Money 
 difficulties arose, and to meet them the Mother 
 Abbess sold the bells. 
 
 The maker also had suffered in fortune, and, 
 broken-hearted, he became a wanderer over the 
 world. The law of coincidence brought him to 
 Ireland, and as he sailed up the broad Shannon in 
 the twilight of a golden day, the air was filled 
 with music, and he heard once again his beloved 
 bells. Ireland faded away; he was in Italy 
 again, at the entrance of the long white convent. 
 The scent of ohve trees was in the air. The joy of 
 his youth returned. The bells rang out the An- 
 gelus with a divine sweetness, and on their delicate 
 chime his soul floated aloft. When they landed he 
 was found dead. 
 
 King John's Castle is another landmark, having 
 been built in 1210. It is a wonderfully picturesque 
 Norman fortress, flanked by two drum towers. 
 The walls are ten feet thick, cannonades having 
 made superficial indentations, and through all the 
 centuries it has been used as a garrison. Thomond 
 Bridge springs from its gate, and connects the 
 
< 
 O 
 
 W 
 
 O 
 
LIMERICK 285 
 
 English town with County Clare. In 1839 it was 
 rebuilt with splendid broad spans, which are now 
 daily traversed. At the west end of the bridge the 
 famous Treaty Stone of 1691 was set upon its 
 present pedestal in 1865, the year that ended our 
 great Civil War in America — and it bears the 
 inscription applied to Carthage: 
 
 " Urbs antiqua fuit studiiesque asperrima belli." 
 
 The lovely little Castle of the Lax Weir, all 
 overgrown with golden lichen and pale moss, is in 
 the centre of the trap for salmon and eels, and a 
 very ancient regulation connected with it still 
 exists. At night a boat dimly lighted is moored 
 below the Castle Weir, and from it watchmen call 
 every hour of the night. In the eighteenth cen- 
 tury there were famous gardens in Limerick, and 
 even yet the flowers bloom with luxuriance, and 
 the raspberries of a monster size have a flavour 
 like that of a juicy flower. 
 
 Limerick lace is known all over the world, and 
 of late there has been a revival of the tambour 
 and run lace. Old Limerick lace was white until 
 time turned it yellow, but now that a cream net 
 and thread are used in the making, it is far more 
 becoming. If a few ladies of influence would get 
 Parisian dressmakers to recognise its flattering 
 quahties this lace would have a fasl^Jonable and 
 
286 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 prosperous future. There is no more charming 
 veil for a bride than a full, clinging, soft diaphan- 
 ous square of Limerick lace. 
 
 Besides lace-making there are other industries. 
 Limerick hams are celebrated all over the world. 
 Limerick butter, made from the cows that feed 
 in the Golden Vale, is unequalled; and Limerick 
 bacon is celebrated for the manner in which it fries 
 with a crisp dryness. That is the test of all others 
 of good bacon. The longer the war lasts, the 
 wetter the bacon seems to be. A good deal of 
 inferior bacon masquerades under the name of 
 Limerick, but the genuine article is really the 
 best in the world. 
 
 With its splendid situation on the Shannon 
 Limerick at one time commanded a prosperous 
 trade; it is close to the broad Atlantic, and some 
 future day it should become a port to America. 
 That is part of my vision and dream for Ireland. 
 
 The old shops with their prints, glass, china, bits 
 of jeweby, silver snuff-boxes, and furniture are 
 seductive. A persuasive salesman very nearly in- 
 duced Kitty to buy a hospitable silver teapot, 
 suitable in size for a small garden party. It 
 seemed to me this large object, stored away in 
 the limited kit of a V.A.D., was an unnecessary 
 possession, so I intervened. The quaint little man 
 then exhibited various articles for my delectation, 
 a piping Pan of bronze, Indian silver, Nankin 
 
LIMERICK 287 
 
 ware, and as a last hope he dangled the locket 
 of a queen to dazzle me. 
 
 " No," I said, " none of these things tempt me." 
 
 " You never can tell," he said, " what will take 
 the fancy of people who like old stuff." 
 
 " Quite true; my friend Hicks, of Dublin, goes 
 so far as to say that people who buy curios are not 
 responsible for their actions." What an eerie hit- 
 the-nail-on-the-head laugh that man gave; he had 
 so often to his own advantage proved Hicks' 
 theory. 
 
 In another musty, dusty shop we found an 
 amazingly interesting human document. It was 
 an old scrapbook of the O 'Grady family, collected 
 and edited by an unusually talented amateur 
 artist. Miss Louisa O'Grady. Her water-colours, 
 — I bought one — a fair-haired little girl holding 
 a grey-eyed little kitten — painted with a touch as 
 light as a butterfly, were finished with exquisite 
 care, and somehow she had managed to convey 
 in her work her own personality, that of a gentle- 
 woman of taste and refinement. I imagine her 
 with a sweet oval face framed in pale-brown silky 
 hair, a slim figure, and slender hands; a dress of 
 lavender muslin finished at neck and wrists with 
 frills of English thread lace, a lavender ribbon 
 around her waist fastened by a flat bow, and long 
 flowing ends. 
 
 In this honoured book of the O'Gradys there 
 
288 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 were letters from Kings and Queens, Statesmen 
 and Ambassadors, poets and opera singers, a neat 
 missive and a very beautiful youthful photograph 
 of Patti. A lovely signed photograph — showing 
 her splendid coronet of braids, more beautiful than 
 any jewelled coronet she ever wore — of the un- 
 fortunate Elizabeth of Austria, who loved Ireland, 
 Irish people, and above all Irish horses. Letters 
 and a photograph of Garibaldi. Little sketches of 
 famous artists. Lovely portraits of her family and 
 friends by Louisa O 'Grady, caricatures sent her 
 by the artists of Punch. Letters from great 
 actors. A little verse by Alfred Tennyson, and a 
 long and well-written letter from Arthur Mac- 
 Murrough Kavanagh — one of the heroes of my, 
 youth who remains a hero still. 
 
 Admiring as I do bodily perfection, having seen 
 the power of beauty, and the supreme advantage 
 that a handsome appearance gives a man or a 
 woman, — even the genius of the greatest artist is 
 enhanced by a lovely exterior, — there is but one 
 thing I admire more. The triumph of mind over 
 matter. Spirit and intelligence rising superior to 
 its cramped and imperfect abode. There must be 
 such an array of fine qualities to do this. A great 
 sweetness of nature to be reconciled to deformity; 
 unintermittent courage to go forward and meet 
 life as those well equipped for the fray; humility 
 that can say, *' Why not I as well as another? " 
 
LIMERICK 289 
 
 and a splendid pride to conquer in spite of being 
 different from other men. 
 
 Arthur MacMurrough Kavanagh possessed all 
 these qualities, and more. It is true that he had 
 blue blood in his veins, and could trace his parent- 
 age to the Kings of Leinster, but even the fighting 
 heritage of his ancestors must have quailed at a 
 misfortune such as his, for he was born with only 
 the rudiments of arms and legs. And yet, with 
 never-flagging courage and ingenious perseverance 
 he did all, and much more than many normal men. 
 His body was vigorous, and by athletic exercises 
 he developed his stumps of arms, until they be- 
 came as strong as steel, and lightning quick in 
 movement. Strapped in a basket-chair, with the 
 reins twined about his wrists, the whip held close 
 to his side, he rode to hounds and took fences 
 and walls with the boldest riders. On one occa- 
 sion his chair seat slipped and he was dragged 
 head downwards along the ground, but this dan- 
 gerous accident did not prevent his riding again. 
 
 He was an expert fisherman, supplying the 
 play of the wrist by dexterous and well-timed 
 jerks with his stumps of arms. He was a good 
 shot both in cover and in the open, resting the gun 
 upon his left arm stump and jerking the trigger 
 with his right. He was an experienced yachtsman, 
 and wrote an account of a cruise off the coast of 
 Albania; and he became a fair amateur draughts- 
 
290 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 man and water-colour painter, while his writing — 
 it cannot be called handwriting, as he had no 
 hands — was round, legible, and full of character. 
 
 He was educated by private tutors in Ireland, 
 France, and Rome, and in his youth travelled to 
 Egypt, to Asia Minor, to Sinai, Jerusalem, and 
 Beyrout. Returning to Ireland in 1848 while 
 Smith O'Brien's rebellion was in progress, he 
 joined the Volunteer Scouts, and was on active 
 service, riding alone oftentimes all night. His 
 physical disadvantages for him had ceased to exist. 
 He not only lived as other men, but as an active 
 and vigorous man. He could wheel himself about 
 the house in a chair, but for walking he used the 
 legs of his servant, who carried him on his back. 
 
 At the end of the rebellion he started with his 
 eldest brother to India, by way of Russia, Persia, 
 and Mosul. Visiting Nineveh on to Bagdad, and 
 riding through a perilous pass to Shirez he saw the 
 mule before him tumble over a precipice, but his 
 wonderful nerve did not fail him, and by a quick 
 jerk he reined his animal to hug the mountain 
 pass and thus saved his life. 
 
 In India he hunted big game and killed a tiger, 
 carried despatches in the Arungbad district, and 
 held a post in Poonah. The death of his eldest 
 brother made it necessary for him to return to 
 Ireland. There is an ancient unwritten law that 
 no head of a clan must be imperfect in body, but 
 
LIMERICK 291 
 
 the dominant courage and indomitable manliness 
 of Kavanagh made him acceptable to the Ka- 
 vanaghs, and he proved a more than creditable 
 chief to the old traditions He was not without 
 the love of women. His mother had been his 
 constant companion and friend, and his cousin, 
 Frances Mary, a beautiful girl who had other 
 suitors refused them to marry him. They had sons 
 and daughters, and he settled down to the hfe of 
 a landlord with a high sense of responsibility to 
 his tenants and to his country. He rebuilt the 
 villages of B orris and Ballyragget on plans drawn 
 out by himself, which were of such excellence they 
 won the Royal Dublin Society's Medal. As a Jus- 
 tice of the Peace he administered justice in the 
 courtyard of Borris House, sitting in his chair, 
 and there he mended quarrels, made up differences 
 between neighbours and smoothed away obstacles 
 to wavering marriages. After his election to Par- 
 liament, when the House was in session he was 
 always in his seat, and though he spoke rarely it 
 was to the point, and he was a valued and ener- 
 getic member of the Conservative Party. 
 
 His active spirit urging him to unceasing work 
 was too much for his incomplete physique, and he 
 did not live beyond middle-age. But what matter? 
 He lived long enough to show what a completely 
 intrepid spirit can accomplish. Without arms or 
 legs, or feet or hands, he was sportsman, fisher- 
 
292 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 man, draughtsman, traveller, writer, and a broad- 
 spirited man of public affairs. 
 
 His sanity must have been perfect, his intelli- 
 gence normal, and his self -consciousness small to 
 enable him to live — cruelly hampered by circum- 
 stance — as though he were equal to other men. 
 He was never spectacular or dramatic, but his 
 life, sincere and simple, called forth the highest 
 moral and physical courage possible to man. And 
 though many Irish heroes have won laurels as 
 statesmen, patriots, and soldiers, none have de- 
 served a crown more than this valiant warrior 
 who so gallantly carried his cross of defeat under 
 the banner of Victory. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 A PLEASANT TOUR 
 
 We left Limerick on a pleasant warm day, 
 travelled third-class to Parknasilla, and happened 
 on an entertaining company. An amiable old 
 priest, two farmers, and later a third entered the 
 carriage. Greeted with enthusiasm, he was evi- 
 dently a well-known wit. 
 
 *' And have you paid your rint yet? " asked one 
 of his friends. 
 
 " Begob an' I have not, an' 'tis me Christian 
 duty to me neighbour an' me landlord not to do it. 
 Shure an' if I paid him his rint wouldn't he be 
 off to London to spind it, and then he moight run 
 away with a London beauty, an' get himself into 
 the divorce court. Do you think I am goin' to 
 be exposin' a man with siven childer an' a wife to 
 such timptation? " 
 
 The priest, who took snuff, said, " Don't you 
 think you are taking too much time by the fore- 
 lock, Jerry? " 
 
 " Ah, Father, 'tis foresight distinguishes the 
 white man from the savage, an' ' 'tis foresight is 
 keepin' me landlord from ruin," 
 
 293 
 
294. HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 Our tender-hearted tenant and his friends, to 
 our regret, left us at the next station. The motor 
 drive from the village of Parknasilla to the sea- 
 shore, through beautiful country, was delightful, 
 rain had laid the dust, the trees were dripping 
 diamond drops, and the shadows were lengthen- 
 ing, but the sun shone brilliantly. We passed a 
 cottage which seemed to have stepped out of a 
 highly coloured picture postcard. It was freshly 
 whitewashed, with a thatched roof of golden straw, 
 two tall fuchsias, red and purple, grew on either 
 side of the green door, and down the flagged 
 path were rows of poppies and white lilies. 
 Daisies besprinkled the vivid green grass in the 
 little garden, and the low white wall was over- 
 grown with scarlet runners and passion flowers. 
 With the sunshine intensifying the brilliant colour 
 scheme of scarlet, white and green, it was amaz- 
 ingly pretty. 
 
 Parknasilla itself is a perfect beauty spot. The 
 hotel, originally the house of a bishop, has been 
 enlarged and converted into a most comfortable 
 abode. It is situated on a low cHff softly rolling 
 down to an inlet from the sea. The various islands 
 dotted about, and the gently lapping waves of blue 
 water give the impression of a lake. In the dis- 
 tance is a long line of opalescent mountains, and 
 there are many acres of lovely woods, winding 
 walks, and little rustic bridges thrown across unex- 
 
A PLEASANT TOUR 295 
 
 pected channels of sea water. The vegetation is 
 boldly luxurious; with proper care even tropical 
 shrubs and trees would grow in this rich and fertile 
 country. The green of the trees, the blue of 
 the sky, the pink and mauve of the moun- 
 tains, and the flowers opulent in size and vivid 
 in colour fill the eye continually with surprising 
 beauty. 
 
 While we were there an officer from the Front 
 arrived suffering from shattered nerves, the result 
 of shell-shock. As a boy he had visited the Bishop, 
 fished from the islands, and sailed a boat as far 
 as Valentia, and his first consciousness after being 
 blown up was an intense longing for the stillness 
 and greenness of the scenes of his boyhood. When 
 he got to London he said to his wife, " If I am 
 ever to get well it will only be in that soft, kind, 
 healing air." Expecting to be in Ireland for some 
 months, they had looked at two or three houses 
 which were to be let on the way. A picturesque 
 place had the bathroom at the top of the house. 
 Captain Magilhcuddy noticed a tap for cold water, 
 but no outlet for it, and he asked the butler left in 
 charge, " After letting in the water and taking a 
 bath, how is it emptied? " 
 
 " Sure the master used to toss it out of 
 the window, he said the water was good for 
 the flowers, and the exercise was good for 
 him." 
 
296 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 Mrs. Magillicuddy thought a man must be in 
 the pink of condition to daily empty a bath-tub, so 
 they decided not to take the house. 
 
 At the end of a pleasant lazy walk at Parkna- 
 silla we thought to try a more vigorous climate 
 and moved on to Mallaranny. It was not so 
 beautiful as Parknasilla, although any place where 
 there are mountains and sea, and a wide open 
 view, and thick hedges of fuchsia, and fields of 
 magenta heather must be beautiful. The air is 
 invigorating, and there were pleasant walks, and a 
 recruiting office where they had not recruited any- 
 thing except a snow-white parrot with a pale 
 yellow lining to his tail, a crescent of blue feathers 
 around his eyes, and a pink top-knot. He was 
 called James, and said with cutting distinctness, 
 " Give James bread and but-ter." Two puppies, 
 a kitten, and a bachelor guinea-pig finished the 
 innocent recruits. 
 
 The beautiful island of Achill is not many miles 
 away, and we spent a glorious day there. Many 
 jarveys beset us at the station, there were several 
 younger drivers and faster horses that we might 
 have taken for our long drive, but we could not 
 resist the blue eyes of an old man, who assured 
 us that his horse was good for any number of 
 miles. So we mounted the car and started for the 
 grand tour. The strong sunshine and the crystal- 
 line air revealed all the wild beauty of Achill. The 
 
A PLEASANT TOUR 297 
 
 undulating shore, the white cliffs, the blue Atlantic 
 with its — that day — kind waves and white caps 
 rolling over the yellow sands. The fisherwomen 
 in blue bodices and scarlet homespun skirts — in 
 future, unfortunately they will be white, as the red 
 dye came from Germany — gathering Carrigean 
 moss, which makes the best gelatine, and latterly 
 the soft, clean, jelly-like substance impregnated 
 with salt has been found a valuable antiseptic for 
 wounds. 
 
 "Isn't it wonderful?" said Kitty. "I would 
 like every artist I know to come to Achill. Did 
 you ever see so much sea, and mountain, and sky 
 before? It looks as if all the doors of the world 
 were open." 
 
 " To-day," I said, " it is heavenly, but the sea 
 can be terrible here. It was off the coast of Achill 
 that the Children of Lir, when they were swans, 
 suffered their worst hardships, and Katherine 
 Tynan wrote her beautiful maternal poem of that 
 period of their lives: 
 
 " But alas ! for my swans, with the human nature, 
 
 Sick with human longings, starved with human ties. 
 With their hearts all human, cramped in a bird's stature, 
 
 And the human weeping in the bird's soft eyes. 
 Never shall my swans build nests in some green river, 
 
 Never fly to southward in the autumn grey, 
 Rear no tender children, love no mates for ever, 
 
 Robbed alike of birds' joys and of man's are they. 
 
298 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 " Dews are in the clear air, and the roselight paling. 
 
 Over sands and sedges shines the evening star, 
 And the moon's disk high in heaven is sailing, 
 
 Silvered all the spear-heads of the rushes are — 
 Housed warm are all things as the night grows colder, 
 
 Water-fowl and sky-fowl dreamless in the nest. 
 But the swans go drifting, drooping wings and shoulder 
 
 Cleaving the still waters where the fishes rest." 
 
 "Look!" said Kitty, "there are swans, per- 
 haps you have called back the Children of 
 Lir." 
 
 " No," said the old man, " those are big gulls 
 floating on the sea. It is quiet now, but in the 
 winter when a strong wind blows over the Atlantic, 
 the waves rise so high they look like blue moun- 
 tains capped with snow." 
 
 "Did you ever see such colour?" asked Kitty. 
 " Look at those black cliffs standing with their 
 feet in blue water, the green grass on the 
 level above them, the hollows full of purple 
 shadows, tke brown road like a ribbon winding 
 along, and that donkey-cart of velvet turf driven 
 by a woman in a scarlet skirt. What a picture! " 
 
 We had been sitting by the sea eating our lunch, 
 and when we mounted the car again the old jarvey 
 turned his head and asked if I was an American 
 lady. 
 
 "Yes," I said; "I am from the South." 
 
 " Then you will like to know there's not a cot- 
 
In Hotki (iARDEN, Parknasilla 
 
A PLEASANT TOUR 299 
 
 tage in Achill Island but gets silver from your 
 country. Some of thim more, some of thim less, 
 but all of thim gets it, an' if they didn't wirristhrue 
 they would starve in the winter. There's not often 
 an empty letther from across the sea, not often, an' 
 how they do be looked for. This horse was bought 
 with American money. Annie O'Brien sint it to 
 me." 
 
 " And who is Annie O'Brien? " 
 
 " She's my daughter. All my childer is in 
 America, ivery wun, only me an' herself 's left in 
 Achill now." 
 
 " And the horse," I said; " she's homefolks." 
 
 " Ach sure an' she is that, an' the wise wun she 
 is. There isn't a craythur in Achill that she don't 
 be on spakin' terms wid. An' well — as she's a 
 lady I won't tell her age. Annyhow, she's as 
 active and sure on her feet as a goat." 
 
 " Where is Annie O'Brien? " I asked. 
 
 "She is in wun of thim great hotels in the 
 town of Cleveland. She ain't just a chambermaid 
 you know, she's away beyant that. She's some 
 kind of a manager an' she makes good money. It 
 was she sint for the next wun, an' so wun by wun 
 they left us. But for the war two of thim did 
 be comin' back this summer. Achill looks bare an' 
 lonely to you maybe, but people born to it drame 
 of it; whin they go away, a sickness for it comes 
 over thim, an' they do be comin' back. You see 
 
300 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 that house we are passin', that's a Yankee 
 house." 
 
 "A real Yankee?" I asked. 
 
 "Well, half and half," the jarvey said. "He 
 played about here till he was ten. The best swim- 
 mer among the lads, an' beginnin' to be a hurler, 
 too, young as he was. Thin his father tuk his 
 family an' wint to America. The boy had a likin' 
 for machinery, an' he invinted an' improved some 
 cog to a wheel, an' as soon as he made enough he 
 did come back to Achill an' brought a Yankee wife 
 an' a Yankee bath-tub wid him." 
 
 " And did he build his house with two stories 
 and plant those nice hollyhocks? " 
 
 " He did that, an' it's him that's got the hands 
 on him, for he can do about annything, an' his 
 wife, too. They got all the furniture up from 
 Dubhn. Oh, it's a grand Yankee house, an' thim 
 two does be very kind to the poor." 
 
 " Don't they ever want to go back to America? " 
 
 " Divil a bit, lady, for herself lives for himself, 
 an' he lives for the swimmin', an' hurlin', an' 
 fishin'. The surf must be mountains high for him 
 not to ride it." 
 
 A little further on we passed a freshly white- 
 washed cottage with sunflowers, gillyflowers, and 
 white pinks growing in the patch of ground in 
 front of the door. A woman with a broad face and 
 bright dark eyes, dressed in a blue bodice and the 
 
A PLEASANT TOUR 301 
 
 red skirt of the island, was weeding the garden. 
 She looked up with a pleasant smile, and the old 
 man stopped for a friendly chat with her in 
 Irish. 
 
 " That wun," he said, when we finally trotted 
 down the road, " has been to America, but it was 
 just to see the land an' no more, then they sint 
 her back, the pore craythur." 
 
 "Oh, but what a pity," I said; "she looks a 
 strong, healthy woman." 
 
 " She do be all of that," the old driver said, 
 " there's many a young wun couldn't do the like 
 of her work. But it wuzn't her, 'twas Bridgit, her 
 daughter, that sint thim back. Noreen Flanagan's 
 son John wint to New York, him that lost his 
 wife. He was restless an' couldn't settle to his 
 work afther she wint, an' he left the two childer 
 wid Noreen and Bridgit, an' if he done well they 
 wuz all to follow him. He done better than he 
 thought, an' he sint money for thim to come 
 to him, an' money for the warm things they would 
 want on the say. The baby had a red coat, an' 
 the boy ivery thing of good Irish frieze, includin' 
 a cap. An' Noreen an' Bridgit had grand cloaks, 
 an' hats wid feathers in thim, an' they crossed to 
 Liverpool an' sailed from there, an' John met 
 thim, an' Bridgit niver said a wurd. The examin- 
 ers axed if she was dumb or wantin', an' John 
 said no, she chirped like a bird at Achill; but divil 
 
302 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 a chirp or a cheep would she give in New York. 
 They spoke to her in Enghsh, an' they spoke to 
 her in Irish, an' they spoke to her in American, 
 but nayther a wurd would she say in anny lan- 
 guage. The craythur was struck dumb. An' the 
 examiner said she must talk if she was goin' to be 
 an American, but niver a wurd would she say, so 
 Noreen brought her back to Achill." 
 
 " And can she talk now? " 
 
 " The same as iver — just the same as iver," the 
 man said. " Maybe 'twas the noise. Maybe 'twas 
 the strangeness. But annyhow, in America she 
 would not spake." 
 
 We were nearing the end of our drive. To the 
 right was a convent where the Sisters teach the 
 peasants lace-making. In their dark-blue habits 
 and white-winged bonnets, clustered on the steps 
 and in the garden, they were lils:e a flock of doves. 
 I looked back at the far-away little cottages, all of 
 them connected by those chains of silver that 
 stretch invisibly across the Atlantic, and link 
 America and Ireland together. And the golden 
 chains are tender memories of the old country, 
 and, above all, of unforgetting love. 
 
 It was at Mallaranny that Kitty left me in 
 answer to Wilham's letter, for, as she predicted, 
 he had succeeded in getting his leave. 
 
 " Darling," he wrote, " I am now attached to 
 
A PLEASANT TOUR 303 
 
 Brigade and Divisional Headquarters as Billeting 
 Officer and Interpreter and have been driving 
 through one village after another accompanied 
 by Mayors, Gardes Champetres, or Town Mayors, 
 searching out des logments pour la troupe. Also 
 at each place I used to have to arrange a hon 
 petit diner for Headquarters. I always managed 
 to get a good dinner even in the most paralysing 
 sort of places, in spite of a shortage in the ordi- 
 nary necessaries which increased in acuteness as 
 we reached our destination, and have made quite 
 a name for myself in that direction. A sample of 
 such a meal would be a Soupe aux Legumes, a 
 Homard (tinned). Sauce Mayonnaise, a gigot, 
 bought in some town we were passing, or a couple 
 of fowls which had to be persuaded out of the 
 fermiere by the most urgent arguments — the 
 peasants think almost as much of egg-layers now- 
 adays as the man in Beranger's verses did of his 
 deUiV hceufs blancs. 
 
 *' A Hun plane was brought down just in front 
 of the battery this morning before I started out, 
 and I will get a bit of it as a souvenir for you. 
 I am sorry I can't get you the clock I told you 
 of. Price, one of our officers, had a prior claim 
 on it as I found out when I tried to take it 
 stealthily from the wall. There are also two cats, 
 one of which Price is taking home when he gets his 
 leave as a souvenir, together with the clock. I 
 
304 HERSELF- IRELAND 
 
 never did like cats, and never understood them, 
 but these two I simply abominate. They are of a 
 colossal and unnatural size. The Padre says that 
 it is because they have been feeding on the battle- 
 field. They are savagely wild and distrustful — 
 not that I invite their confidences. One of them 
 has been gassed, and periodically he coughs up 
 foam. He has also had part of his tail blown 
 off. Though one is a female and the other a male 
 they are bitter enemies, and spit and snarl in com- 
 pany. Needless to say, they have lost their home; 
 it may have once existed over the rubbish heap 
 which crowns the dug-out. 
 
 " I stumbled across an Australian infantryman 
 yesterday. He was washing a Hun helmet — one 
 of those Imperial objects with gold on it. They 
 are the most recherche of trophies amongst both 
 the Tommies and our chaps, and I never could 
 make out why. This chap was as proud as Presi- 
 dent Roosevelt after a right and left at lions. It 
 appears that these helmets are very rare, as they 
 are worn by those German soldiers who are so 
 proud, daring, and enamoured of tradition that 
 they disdain the new-fangled steel helmets. When 
 one such is sighted there is a blackguard rush by 
 all hands, as my infantry friend said, ' They kill 
 him for the hat.' 
 
 " Hurrah! Rah — Rah! as they say in the States, 
 I've got my leave, it begins next week, and you 
 
A PLEASANT TOUR 305 
 
 had better start for London at once. We'll go to 
 the Savoy and pretend it's Paris. 
 
 " A brief good-bye, 
 
 "Your devoted Bill." 
 
 I was lonely and could not sleep the night that 
 Kitty left me, but the dawn was glorious, and I 
 got up early and went down to the sea. The grass 
 was covered with threads of gossamer, so fine 
 they were suggested rather than seen, the dew- 
 drops upon them separated by little spaces, glit- 
 tered hke rainbow rosaries, and whole decades 
 were strung from bush to tree. As the sun rose 
 I left the sands, walked through a wood, and 
 reached a field where I saw a hving illustration 
 of Lycett's descriptive poem: 
 
 " Gracefully, steadily, easily 
 Three men are mowing, 
 Bending and rising, they capture the 
 Rhythm of rowing. 
 
 " Swish goes the cut of the scythes as they 
 Glide all together 
 Through the cool stems of the river hay, 
 In the hot weather. 
 
 " Then at the end of the swath comes the 
 Sound of honing, 
 Grating but ringing melodiously 
 Like a bee droning. 
 
306 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 " Morning and noon-tide and evening 
 Comes a young maiden, 
 Porter and buttermilk carrying 
 Willingly laden. 
 
 " And while they drink under shadowy 
 Willows eternal, 
 The meadow distils for them heavenly 
 Scent of sweet vernal." 
 
 My mowers glided all together through the cool 
 stems of the river hay, and there was the scent 
 of sweet vernal, but to my regret no maiden came 
 bringing buttermilk — my favourite beverage. I 
 asked for it on my return to the hotel, but there 
 never seems to be any buttermilk in the country, 
 it is all sent to town. 
 
 When Katherine and Alfred who were to be my 
 companions on a further tour arrived, being cheer- 
 ful people my depression vanished. They have 
 both developed great alertness of mind since Al- 
 fred meeting Katherine for the second time, on 
 the House of Commons' Terrace, asked her to 
 marry him. 
 
 Not allowing for love at first sight, and her 
 charm and handsome appearance, Katherine said, 
 "Marry you! Impossible! You know nothing 
 about me, and I know nothing about you." 
 
 " That is why," Alfred said, " I have asked you 
 to marry me. I thought it safer while you did 
 know nothing about me." 
 
A PLEASANT TOUR 307 
 
 Then began spirited arguments which did not 
 end at the door of the church nor afterwards. 
 They have filled each other's hearts, but at the 
 same time they whet each other's intellects. And 
 they make very stimulating and agreeable com- 
 panions. Katherine being an American lady of 
 independent thought and action, and Alfred being 
 English and conventional to the finger-tips — al- 
 though he thinks he's a Radical — there will always 
 be subjects upon which they can differ. Occa- 
 sionally Katherine feels that she would like a 
 calm uncontradicted existence, and takes a week's 
 holiday, but on the third day Alfred invariably 
 follows her, that her mind may not become torpid. 
 
 Our first stop was at Sligo, an old seaport town, 
 with its fine ruin of an Abbey founded in 1252 by 
 a Dominican Order. Katherine is by instinct an 
 archaeologist, and Alfred and I, at her command, 
 went over every inch of that ruin; through clois- 
 ters, arches, nave, and choir, but being two to one 
 we finally got her to walk in the town, which is 
 beautifully situated and surrounded by mountains, 
 woods, and water. 
 
 The next day we spent sailing on Lough Gill, 
 and agreed that in a different way, a more gentle, 
 soft, and friendly way, it was no less beautiful 
 than Killarney. The little white electric launch 
 glided carefully through shallow water, passed 
 pretty old houses, long settled on a grassy bank. 
 
308 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 halted entangled for a moment in long-stemmed 
 reeds, and looking down I saw hundreds of min- 
 nows wildly swimming about, agonised with fright 
 by the sound of our slowly rotating wheel. Then 
 wild ducks dived away from us, swam under water 
 to the middle of the blue lake, and emerged with 
 peevish protests, shaking a thousand sparkling 
 drops from iridescent wings. 
 
 When we neared the middle of the lake, the deep 
 blue of the water — the reflection of a cloudless 
 mid summer sky — was broken by long sheets of 
 vivid pink and yellow water-hlies, like yards of 
 rose and daffodil velvet thrown upon a monster 
 mirror. Little brown ducks, when we came too 
 near, splashed away from us, leaving lines of white 
 bubbles in their wake; and something from the 
 bank, big and soft, slipped into the water and 
 dived far up the stream; it might have been a 
 furry beaver — the boatman told us they were 
 seen now and then. The fohage was lush and 
 green, and wild single-leaved roses, generous 
 daisies, and coral fuchsias grew to the water's edge. 
 
 A charming little house with " To Let " was on 
 the opposite shore; the boatman said the last peo- 
 ple who lived there had been very old; now they 
 were dead, and the house had been vacant two 
 years. There were beds of flowers about it, old 
 apple trees near the windows, and a little stable 
 in the rear. Always dreaming of a home, I pro- 
 
A PLEASANT TOUR 309 
 
 posed to Alfred and Katherine that we should 
 drive out to see it. They agreed the place looked 
 delightful; then manlike, Alfred began to think of 
 the future dark days, dampness, winter, and 
 loneliness. "It is not for you, you must be near 
 your friends." We sailed across the lake near 
 the house; it might have been a white cottage — 
 except for the loneliness — on Lake George. And 
 the kittiwakes, not swimming, but letting the gen- 
 tle little waves carry them along not too near the 
 boat, followed in our wake. The lake at this point 
 began to broaden and widen out, and here and 
 there were islands. The boatman pointed to one, 
 round and well wooded, where he said a young girl 
 lived in a little house, " with a dog, two cows, and 
 some bins to kape her company, but except for 
 thim she do be all alone. And in the winter 
 whin the weather's at the roughest, maybe she 
 don't see annybody for weeks." 
 
 "Hug the shore," said Alfred; "we want a 
 glimpse of the fair hermit." 
 
 As we approached, a dabchick dived from the 
 root of a gnarled oak, and left a yard of bubbles 
 behind him. We saw in a small cleared space a 
 freshly whitewashed cottage, and heard a dog bark, 
 but the girl was probably on shore working for a 
 farmer. There was a sweet httle bay tucked in 
 a curve for landing; the boatman said before the 
 war he had conveyed many picnic parties there; 
 
310 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 now all the young men of Sligo had gone to the 
 war. 
 
 How sweet and restful, pure and gentle, the 
 thoughts must be of a woman who can live for 
 weeks and months entirely alone. What a calm, 
 sensible, satisfactory companion she must be to 
 herself. I know of an Irish girl who lived by 
 herself on a little island in the St. Lawrence River. 
 In the summer, for the fishing, she let lodgings 
 to a weary, sick-hearted, disillusioned man, and 
 she gave him back faith in the sweetness and mod- 
 esty of womanhood, and he fell in love with her 
 and married her, but that is another story. 
 
 From Sligo to Bundoran we motored through 
 lovely country, drank long draughts of the pure 
 mountain air, until we reached the sea again, and — 
 
 "Bundoran ! and your summer crowds that run 
 From inland homes to see with joy th' Atlantic setting sun ; 
 To breathe the buoyant salted air, and sport among the 
 
 waves ; 
 To gather shells on sandy beach, and tempt the gloomy 
 
 caves ; 
 To watch the flowing, ebbing tide, the boats, the crabs, 
 
 the fish, 
 Young men and maids to meet and smile, and form a 
 
 tender wish. 
 And if the Lord allows me, I surely will return." 
 
 One reason I should like to return is that I saw 
 s. remarkably pretty, old, black and white china 
 
H 
 
 Q 
 I? 
 
 ;?: 
 
 O 
 
 a 
 
 •A 
 
 O 
 
A PLEASANT TOUR 311 
 
 tea-set in a window, which I have been wanting 
 ever since. As the summer crowds that run from 
 inland homes filled the hotel to overflowing, and 
 our rooms had been engaged days ahead, we only 
 remained one night, and dashed off by motor to 
 Gweedore, stopping on our way at Ballyshannon, 
 where there is a castle, a famous salmon leap, and 
 it is the birthplace of Wilham Allingham, the 
 essayist and poet who, like so many brilhant Irish- 
 men, left it for England, and then wrote of its 
 joys: 
 
 " I leave my warm heart with you, tho' my back I'm forced 
 
 to turn — 
 So adieu to Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne! 
 No more on pleasant evenings we'll saunter down the 
 
 Mall, 
 When the trout is rising to the fly, the salmon to the fall. 
 The boat comes straining on her net, and heavily she 
 
 creeps. 
 Cast off, cast off — she feels the oars, and to her berth 
 
 she sweeps ; 
 Now fore and aft keep hauling, and gathering up the 
 
 clew. 
 Till a silver wave of salmon rolls in among the crew." 
 
 The fishing in Gweedore is quite as good as that 
 of Ballyshannon, the hotel is comfortable, and the 
 people who keep it most obliging, as I know from 
 a little instantaneous laundry work they did for 
 me. My bag had not arrived, and by going to 
 
312 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 bed at nine o'clock — the only time in many years — 
 my underlinen and blouse were washed, ironed, 
 and brought to my room the next morning at eight 
 o'clock. I venture to say that, with all the com- 
 plaints of Irish hotels, this willingness to oblige 
 would not have happened in any other country. 
 There were fishermen who brought back trout and 
 salmon for breakfast and dinner, but the war has 
 affected that sport; as we were none of us enthusi- 
 astic fishermen we made a short stay, and again 
 travelled by motor to Leitrim through the Donegal 
 Highlands, which were indescribably beautiful. 
 They are without trees, but, like all of Ireland, 
 carpeted in green. 
 
 The wide undulations of the lofty rolling val- 
 leys and hills made rich purple shadows, and the 
 little white houses clung like swallows' nests to 
 the sides of the steep hills, or burrowed behind a 
 rising of the land. The mountains around us were 
 over a thousand feet high, many of them green 
 with indigenous forests, and finally we skirted the 
 border of a still, blue, lonely water, Glen Veigh — 
 the Glen of the Silver Birches. 
 
 This region has a tragic history connected in a 
 manner with my own state, Texas, for the Adairs 
 own cattle ranches there, and the wholesale evic- 
 tions from his estate by Mr. John George Adair 
 even stirred the people of my far-away land to 
 sympathy. From the beginning of his purchase of 
 
A PLEASANT TOUR 313 
 
 the estate he had been unpopular and wanting in 
 understanding of the peasants. Emerson says in 
 every condition of hfe there is compensation, so the 
 mountaineer has a greater love for the hard, un- 
 yielding land than the man who lives in a smiling 
 valley. The poor people when evicted were help- 
 less for utter despair. A number of emigrants 
 from this part of Donegal, having gone to Aus- 
 tralia, when they heard of the bitter plight of their 
 countrymen sent means for their transportation to 
 Australia, and a few of them emigrated to 
 Texas. 
 
 Peter Smith, our head gardener, was a Donegal 
 man. He saved his wages, set up a greengrocer's 
 shop in Austin, and soon became very well off. 
 His sister, Mary Smith, a sweet and gentle 
 woman, was my nurse. She married Miles Burns, 
 a carpenter — how I did resent his taking her 
 away from me — but her heavenly twins compen- 
 sated me for her loss. They were flesh-and-blood 
 doll babies, who could laugh and cry when they 
 were bathed, and stretch out their hands and smile 
 when they saw me. Miles was a sober and indus- 
 trious man, and they lived in a little white cottage 
 on the top of a hill, just a stone's throw from 
 our house. In the gloaming I used to watch a 
 light twinkhng in their window, and a daily plead- 
 ing question was, " Mama, can I go and see 
 Mary? " There has never been in the whole of 
 
314, HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 my life a dearer delight than those visits, for 
 Mary, who had always spoiled me, allowed me free 
 scope with the twins. I was permitted to nurse 
 them, and feed them and undress them, and set 
 them side by side in a little bath-tub. At the early 
 age of six I couldn't have been an altogether safe 
 nurse, and one day I had the misfortune to trip 
 and fall with Tommy in my arms. My mother, 
 who was coming in through the gate, said, *' Mary, 
 I know you are going to make this child of mine a 
 murderer; one day she will kill both of the 
 twins." 
 
 " Oh, no," said Mary, " they are strong, and 
 this is Betty's first accident. She washes them a 
 good deal, but I haven't the heart to stop her, 
 she seems to enjoy herself so much." 
 
 Miles from a carpenter became a builder, and a 
 rich man, and was able to give his children every 
 educational advantage. So this beautiful, wild 
 mountain district brought back many tender, long- 
 forgotten memories to me. 
 
 " There's an old ruined castle down that road," 
 said the chauffeur. 
 
 "A ruin!" said Katherine exultantly; "then 
 we must see it." How happy it would make her 
 to expend her superabundant energy and ex- 
 traordinary powers of organisation in restoring 
 one. 
 
 " Is the road safe for a motor? " asked Alfred. 
 
A PLEASANT TOUR 315 
 
 " The road is good enough," I said, " and the 
 ruin must be an important one." 
 
 So we backed and turned and travelled along 
 by the lake. A flag was flying on the Castle, 
 and Katherine enquired of the chauffeur the name 
 of the ruin. 
 
 " I don't know," he said, " it belonged to wun 
 of thim ould ancient Kings, or maybe 'twas Saint 
 Columkill himself; 'twas him that loved the water." 
 
 By this time we were fast nearing the fortress, 
 and said I, " Well, Saint or King, he had lovely 
 taste in curtains, and apparently they were made 
 of everlasting brocade." 
 
 And then we drew up before the portals of Glen 
 Veigh, the fine modern castle built by Mr. Adair. 
 It stands on a little promontory, jutting out into 
 the lake, under the shadow of a mountain which is 
 thickly wooded to the top. And it has the sur- 
 prise and charm of an oasis in the desert. About 
 it nature looms in sohtary grandeur. Lake, forest, 
 and hill are primeval, but they surround splendid 
 blossoming flower-beds, a rich rose garden, and 
 large houses of glass, which give shelter to tropical 
 plants, fruit trees, and vines heavy with grapes. 
 
 " I am disappointed," said Katherine, " I ex- 
 pected a ruin." 
 
 " I am hungry," said Alfred; " very hungry." 
 
 And we made a great spurt to the Leitrim 
 Hotel, an ideal summer inn, built of Norwegian 
 
316 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 pine, with numerous bathrooms, and many large, 
 airy bedrooms furnished in excellent taste, and 
 Alfred, who loves the sea, found the bathing in 
 the Atlantic " glorious." 
 
 Our next little journey from Rosapenna to Port 
 Salon, by open car and ferries, was pleasantly 
 primitive; we failed to make connections, and 
 occasionally sat for a time on the roadside, but our 
 cheerfulness was unimpaired by the dampness of a 
 grey day. The gay hotel and surroundings give it 
 something of a foreign atmosphere. It might be 
 a Swiss hotel, the colours are so definite, with blue 
 sea, green hills, and salmon-coloured sands. The 
 golf-links are divided by a httle river which 
 empties into the bay. Everything looked clean 
 and fresh, and the air was agreeably exhila- 
 rating. 
 
 And then a pleasant motor drive to Cushendall, 
 the little, quaint, straggling village which aroused 
 Thackeray's admiration to extol its loveliness. 
 We walked by the curfew tower, which still rings 
 the curfew hour, and through a beautiful avenue of 
 trees, to high cliffs that overlook the sea. Destroy- 
 ers are anchored there, and sunburnt sailors come 
 ashore to cheer the wounded Tommies who are sent 
 for convalescence to the cheerful hospital sur- 
 rounded by a shady garden. The drive by Cushen- 
 dall to Letterkenny around the coast, beneath 
 splendid cliffs and close to the sea is something 
 
A PLEASANT TOUR 317 
 
 to be remembered. A number of carriages were 
 waiting about the station, and Katherine wanted 
 to operate at once upon a wart, the size of an egg^ 
 which stood out from a white-eyed roan horse's 
 nose. But on closer examination it proved to 
 be part of his lip tied tightly with pink cord to 
 discourage him from nipping the passer-by. 
 
 Our time was so limited in Letterkenny it did 
 not allow us to drive to Lacknacar to see the flag- 
 stone upon which St. Columba was born. The 
 peasants say whoever sleeps upon it will never 
 suffer from homesickness, and many poor emi- 
 grants have spent their last night upon that hard 
 bed before leaving Erin, to render their hearts 
 stout and unregretful in a strange land. 
 
 No scout on a prairie looking for Indians has a 
 better eye for fruit than Katherine, she even found 
 strawberries and cherries in Letterkenny, and 
 added the basket to our luggage for Derry. It 
 must always be Derry for the Irish or those who 
 love Ireland — never Londonderry — London being 
 superimposed only after English intrigue had pau- 
 perised and ruined the little town. There was 
 an odour in the hall of the hotel altogether too 
 pungent, and even more evident in my room, where 
 it proved to be an over-ripe box of melons and 
 peaches, a tribute of affection from Kitty, which 
 had been waiting our arrival too long. 
 , After leaving my bag — but alas! not my um- 
 
318 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 brella — that had been taken from me at Rosa- 
 penna, a young, strong, sleek umbrella, in the very 
 beginning of its career — it had scarcely been with 
 me a month — while the one left in its place, old, 
 weak and worn had been with its owner many 
 years — I called Katherine, and we saUied forth 
 to see the ancient walled town. It has a very beau- 
 tiful situation, built on ground that slopes to a hill 
 and overlooks the broad river Foyle. The walls 
 still stand, and there are evidences of the siege, 
 Ferryquay Gate, and " Roaring Meg," in an angle 
 of the wall, and the post office is built over the 
 place where Murray and Maumont had a hand-to- 
 hand encounter, and the Frenchman was slain. 
 But there is no monastery or ruin of one, in mem- 
 ory of Derry's greatest man, St. Columba, who 
 was not only a great saint and scholar, but a man 
 of great family, the well-beloved cousin of Prince 
 Ainmore, through whose generosity he was able to 
 found Durrow and Kells, those wonderful seats 
 of learning and of artistic craft. Probably he has 
 often turned the pages of the Book of Durrow, 
 when he sat under the spreading branches of his 
 oak trees, which he loved too well to cut down, 
 even for the building of his monastery. It had to 
 be fitted in among them. 
 
 I have been taught to love trees. When my 
 father built our house in Texas a noble elm inter- 
 fered with the balconies at the back of the house. 
 
A PLEASANT TOUR 319 
 
 and rather than cut it down, both the upper and 
 lower balcony were built around it. 
 
 St. Columba was priest, poet, and warrior, pay- 
 ing dearly for his valour, as after he had lost a 
 battle against the King at Tara — probably if he 
 had gained a victory it might have been different— 
 St. Malaise sent him out of the country to preach 
 a repentant Gospel in Scotland. 
 
 We looked in the shops to find a picture or 
 statue of St. Columba, but there were none. 
 Katherine bought a dozen — so-called — ^Waterford 
 tumblers; they might have been made in Belfast, 
 but they were undoubtedly old, of generous pro- 
 portions, a good colour, and well cut. Alfred 
 when he saw a basket of precious glass which had 
 to be carefully handled, was, to put it mildly, 
 restive. He made a few pertinent remarks about 
 the ways of American women, but what was more 
 to the point, he carried the basket. It is not 
 difficult for an Englishman to be persuaded by 
 his American wife to American ways, but Kath- 
 erine has actually persuaded Alfred to look like an 
 American. Any stranger would take him to be a 
 good-looking, well-set-up New Yorker. 
 
 There are good shops in Derry, and it is clean 
 and prosperous looking, a much pleasanter town 
 than Belfast, but there are no manufactures, ex- 
 cept the making of shirts, which only employs a 
 limited number of women. The chief interest of 
 
320 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 Derry lies in the decades of the picturesque past 
 rather than in her present, and perhaps in her 
 future, if Ireland awakes to the prosperity which is 
 her due. 
 
 The world points to Belfast as an example of 
 what shipbuilding and trade can accomplish in Ire- 
 land, but to me Belfast was a great disappoint- 
 ment. It has a large and ornate city hall, a very 
 fine technical college, and unequalled — so they told 
 me — linen manufactories. Almost the first thing 
 I noticed was " Lyons," being woven on a satin- 
 smooth tablecloth — but the wages, the hours, and 
 the housing of the workers excited my profound 
 sympathy. The lads were pale, with thin, round 
 shoulders, and the girls looked tired, underfed, and 
 dispirited. 
 
 The highest wages earned by a woman are 
 twenty-five shillings a week, but few ever attain 
 this princely sum. The little girls of thirteen and 
 fourteen earn perhaps half a crown a week, and 
 running between school in the morning and to a 
 factory in the afternoon makes them an easy prey 
 during the winter to pneumonia and bronchitis. 
 All day the girls are standing bare-footed in the 
 over-heated factories on wet tiles, and they catch 
 cold going home. And they are even worse off in 
 the dry-spinning rooms, where they breathe a fluff 
 called pouce. The throat and lungs are often 
 affected by it, and many of the women die of con- 
 
A PLEASANT TOUR 321 
 
 sumption. The average woman worker dies under 
 forty. Many of the houses where these poor peo- 
 ple live are condemned, but the Corporation re- 
 mains indifferent to their demolishment. The 
 mortality of babies is very high, and the little chil- 
 dren are ragged, dirty, and ill cared for, as must 
 be the case with their mothers all day in the 
 factories. 
 
 The prosperity of a community built up through 
 starvation wages, misery, disease, and death is not 
 prosperity to me. And the outworker is scarcely 
 an improvement upon the factory girl. I always 
 loved dots until I went to Belfast, then I saw 
 many dozens of pocket-handkerchiefs embroidered 
 in dots above the hem, and for three days' work an 
 experienced embroideress received two shillings. 
 Even the most persevering worker, not shirking 
 early or late hours, cannot make more than nine 
 shillings a week. These are fine, free Protestants, 
 not under the domination of the priests, but con- 
 trast them with Cathohc girls employed by the 
 Sisters, who receive a living wage, have healthy, 
 bright rooms to work in, and hours possible to the 
 maintenance of health. No, to me Belfast is a 
 living argument against wealth made through the 
 bitter necessity of a people unable to cope with the 
 Capitahst. It smacks of smugness and self-satis- 
 faction, and a want of Christian charity. Some- 
 thing of the hard, unrelenting character of Chi- 
 
322 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 Chester, who wrote in 1609 of the native Irish, " I 
 spare neither house, corn, nor creature, none of 
 any quahty, age, or sex whatsoever, beside many 
 being burned to death, we kill men, women, horse, 
 beast, or whatsoever we find," still obtains. 
 
 Curiously enough Belfast, whose sympathy was 
 active for Republican America and Republican 
 France, is devoid of sympathy for Republican 
 Ireland. Katherine's grandfather was a North of 
 Ireland gentleman who went to America for 
 greater freedom. And in spite of the prosperity of 
 the North and of Belfast, emigration continues to 
 America. All the people to whom I talked, man- 
 agers, foremen in the factories, and factory hands 
 had relations in the United States. I did not see 
 the great factory for mineral waters, or tobacco, 
 where things may be better managed than in the 
 linen factories, and women for some reason or 
 other are no longer allowed to enter the shipping 
 yards, but it was as well; we were not sorry to 
 leave Belfast. 
 
 I carried the pleasantest memory of it away with 
 a giant bouquet of roses, tied by green ribbons dan- 
 ghng a little black pig for good luck. It was given 
 me by a charming, warm-hearted Irish girl, who 
 had heard a glorified account of my character from 
 a nurse in London, who applied radium to my face 
 in the Radium Institute where I was treated for a 
 burn. And the accident happened me in Buffalo, 
 
A PLEASANT TOUR 323 
 
 New York — consequences — consequences — all the 
 way across the sea to flowers and a bog-oak 
 
 pig- 
 How intoxicating the fresh air of Portrush and 
 
 the Giant's Causeway is after Belfast, but even 
 among the wonders of the world Alfred was at- 
 tacked with a sudden desire for home. He and 
 Katherine turned their steps Londonward, and I 
 crossed country to Claremorris and Katherine Ty- 
 nan, stopping for a night and a day to see Ennis- 
 killen, a very pretty, picturesque, hilly town on 
 the lovely green banks of Lough Neagh. My 
 room in a clean country hotel looked on the waters 
 of the lake. 
 
 The night was bright with moonlight, but the 
 next morning I awoke to find it raining — Irish 
 fashion — clear, clean drops from a silvery sky, and 
 I ventured forth to the fair, which had that morn- 
 ing been opened. There were good horses, a red 
 roan with brown eyes was an enviable animal, fine 
 cows, fat sheep, a collection of adorable collie pup- 
 pies, and in the exhibition rooms, some beautiful 
 embroidery, one collar was equal to the best 
 French needlework, and an interesting show of 
 flowers. I lingered near a pot of Helenium Cu- 
 preum — nigger heads it is called in Texas, where 
 acres of it grow — and memory obliterated the 
 scene around me. I was a little girl again riding a 
 stout mustang pony over a wide Texas prairie, the 
 
324 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 warm summer wind bending the grass like waves 
 of the sea, and my father off his horse gathering 
 armfuls of " nigger heads " and blue bonnets, bind- 
 ing them together with ribbons of grass and sling- 
 ing them at the back of my saddle — so long ago — 
 
 so far away, and here to-day in Ireland The 
 
 silvery sky had darkened to grey and it poured in 
 torrents; there was nothing for me to do but get 
 back to the hotel and read Douglas Hyde's Love 
 Songs of ConnacTit, a light, convenient, paper- 
 bound book to carry in one's bag. Moorneen of 
 the Fair Hair lived in Enniskillen, 
 
 *' My grief that I and thou 
 
 Oh young maiden without melancholy 
 Are not in the dark island of Lough Erne, 
 
 Or beneath the dark woods of the rods. 
 
 Where the birds make their nests 
 And (there is) growth to the top of the boughs. 
 
 Or in a little valley beside a bay 
 
 Where the cuckoo speaks. 
 And the sea from the north to be beside us 
 
 Myself and my secret 
 
 Without sleep or slumber. 
 But playing in a corner together. 
 
 " My grief that I am not in the churchyard 
 
 Along with my kindred friends. 
 Or on the top of a hill making a dwelling, 
 
 Before you chanced into my net 
 
 Doubling the wounds in my heart, 
 
A PLEASANT TOUR 325 
 
 And you turned my locks like a sloe-berry. 
 
 Short affection from a woman, 
 
 It only lasts a month; 
 But it is like a whiff of the March wind. 
 
 Oh treasure, it were not right to sell me 
 
 On account of a little riches 
 And in the future let your mind be satisfied with me." 
 
 What a distinguished song of love, and how 
 redolent of the Irish woods, and sky, and sea. 
 
 *' O ! dear little mother, give him myself ; 
 Give him the cows and the sheep altogether. 
 Go yourself a-begging for alms, 
 And go not west or east to look for me." 
 
 Isn't this charming verse the quintessence of 
 love's selfishness? To make me happy, give all 
 you have to my darling even if it leaves you a 
 beggar. Barry Pain makes his charwoman ex- 
 plain the same sentiment in a different manner. 
 
 " If," says Mrs. Murphy, " a girl's really in 
 love, and you say to her, ' Your young man 
 poisoned his mother,' she says, ' Well, I've no 
 doubt there were faults on both sides.' " 
 
 It rained all night, and the next morning I 
 started early on my long journey to Claremorris, 
 to make and to enjoy a visit to Katherine Tynan 
 Hinkson, a delightful woman, happy in her reli- 
 gion, her husband, her children, and her work. 
 When the Hmksons lived in London, she and 
 
326 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 her husband in the early days of spring were 
 taking a walk in Hyde Park, being the best of 
 friends it gives them pleasure to do many things 
 together. The air was mild, the sun shone, and the 
 Park was full of people, but they succeeded in 
 finding a seat unoccupied except for a very shabby, 
 grease-bespattered coat forgotten by its owner. 
 Katherine Tynan pushed it aside, but her husband 
 said, " I must try and find the owner of that coat." 
 
 " Don't do anything of the kind," said K. T., 
 " sit yourself down and enjoy this enchanting 
 weather." 
 
 "K. T.," her husband said, "I don't know 
 whether it's that you are an Irish Catholic, or 
 whether it is natural to you, but you have a lax 
 conscience. Isn't it my duty to try and find the 
 owner of this top-coat? " 
 
 " No," said K. T., " I don't think it is, it doesn't 
 look at all as if it belonged to a nice man; your 
 duty is to let it alone, and amuse me." 
 
 " There," he said, *' is the Irish Cathohc again, 
 pleasure before business always," and with that he 
 put the coat over his arm and started down the 
 path, meeting at a few paces a red-nosed, unpre- 
 possessing individual, who said to him sharply, 
 " Here, where are you going with that there 
 coat? " 
 
 " Oh," said Mr. Hinkson, as befitted a courteous 
 Irish Protestant, " I was just in the act of try- 
 
A PLEASANT TOUR 327 
 
 ing to find the owner, allow me to restore it to 
 
 you." 
 
 " That's a pretty tale, that is," said the man, " if 
 you didn't intend pinchin' that coat why didn't 
 you leave it be on the seat? You was tryin' to 
 make away with my coat, that's what you was, an' 
 only for me hurry in' to catch a train, I'd report 
 you an' your fine manners to the p'leece, that's 
 what I would." 
 
 And then the Irish Catholic laughed long and 
 heartily, and the Irish Protestant sat down and 
 was silent. 
 
 I smiled as I remembered how well " K. T." had 
 told this story. What a true poet she is, and how 
 many wise and tender things she has said, and 
 none of them wiser than: "With congenial work 
 one is always happy. When Pandora let all the 
 evils fly into the world out of that unlucky box, 
 it was not hope that stayed at the bottom but 
 work." And when a moment comes of devastating 
 despair there is nothing so helpful as bodily effort. 
 I can understand the poor mother who said, when 
 news was brought of her only son being killed in 
 battle, " Take me into my garden and let me dig. 
 Oh, my God, let me dig." A spring cleaning, tak- 
 ing up carpets, putting them down, washing china, 
 and pohshing furniture can be a solace to the 
 heaviest heart, I know — for I have tried it. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 GAL WAY, AN OLD CITY OF THE WEST 
 
 Roger Casement said of Galway, " Its ruin and 
 decay appal me, and its trans-Atlantic mind," but 
 in spite of the look, that it has been bombed, there 
 are so many houses with tumbling walls and gap- 
 ing windows, guiltless of glass or sash — my memo- 
 ries of the days spent in Galway are cheerful. 
 
 For one thing, the sun shone with long, level 
 brilliant rays, as if they came all the way from 
 America, and, indeed, there is no place in Ireland 
 so connected with my own land by thousands of 
 invisible chains as Galway. For centuries emi- 
 grants from the west of Ireland have steadily 
 poured into the port of New York, and every 
 young man and young woman with whom I talked 
 told me they were only waiting for the end of the 
 war to sail for America. Some of the youths had 
 been already turned back from Liverpool, and I 
 remembered that since 1851, when statistics were 
 last collected, to September, 1916, 4,314,781 per- 
 sons had left Ireland — over two million of them 
 were men; and deplorable as it is to be compelled 
 to leave their country, in our friendly and gener- 
 ous land, many sad and embittered hearts have 
 
 328 
 
GALWAY 329 
 
 found compensation in hope, contentment, and 
 prosperity. To some we have given even more. 
 
 There are few Irishmen at home or abroad who 
 do not know of the existence and influence of that 
 chivalrous paper Tlie Boston Pilot. It has, for the 
 honour of humanity, espoused many a weak but 
 deserving cause, and it rose to importance and 
 influence under the editorship of John Boyle 
 O'Reilly, a Fenian who had been sent to penal 
 servitude in Austraha, but escaped with the help 
 of the jailor's daughter, took an open boat to sea, 
 was picked up by a whaling ship from Massa- 
 chusetts, and landed at Boston. After a life of 
 splendid endeavour, when he died the brief epitaph, 
 " Ireland gave him birth, England gave him exile, 
 America gave him fame," was as great a tribute to 
 the land of his adoption as to his genius. Much 
 as he loved Ireland, and greatly as he had suffered 
 for her, he must have loved his healing foster- 
 mother more. Men desire above all things fame; 
 and his wreath of laurel had been woven and given 
 him by America. 
 
 Many of the signers of the Declaration of Inde- 
 pendence, that great triumphant paper of Liberty, 
 were Irishmen. Charles Thompson, the reader of 
 those immortal words that thrilled the world on the 
 4th of July, 1776, was born in Ireland, so was 
 Matthew Thornton, James Smith, George Taylor, 
 and George Read ; while Thomas McKean, Charles 
 
330 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 Carroll, Edward Rutledge, and Thomas Lynch 
 were of Irish extraction; therefore it is natural 
 that our country is regarded by Irishmen as a land 
 of promise, flowing with milk and honey. But 
 their prowess and success in other lands drain the 
 very life blood from Ireland. And never can she 
 have real prosperity until two things happen — an 
 Irish Government formed of Irish people to gov- 
 ern Irish people, and a law, even if it should 
 create a revolution, to close all public-houses. 
 ' How can any country hope to succeed with, as 
 an eminent divine told me, eighty-six public-houses 
 in a village of one thousand five hundred inhabi- 
 tants. And never have I seen human beings more 
 sodden with drink than in Galway. Faces a deep 
 purple red, bloated and dropsical, and hands that 
 trembled as if they suffered from shell-shock. 
 These were middle-aged and old men and women, 
 for drink is not so easily discerned in the young. 
 And this picturesque and interesting old town 
 swarms with public-houses. 
 
 There was a popular bar in my hotel, con- 
 veniently situated for its numerous patrons. While 
 I waited for a jaunting-car a woman came in to 
 beg. Tall and straight as a young sapling, her 
 hair was a dusty black, and her skin was dried 
 and tanned by sun and wind, but the bone struc- 
 ture of her face was beautiful. The forehead low 
 and broad, the delicate nose straight, and the chin 
 
GALWAY 331 
 
 slightly tilted was round and pure in outline. 
 Her eyes were sullen and mysterious, and they 
 were swollen underneath by drink. She had a 
 child by the hand, a veritable Cinderella, who if 
 dressed in muslin and lace might have been mis- 
 taken for a fairy princess, so perfect was her little 
 figure and her little dark face. Like her mother, 
 she held her body erect, and her ragged dress 
 reaching barely to her knees, showed straight, 
 brown legs, slim ankles, and narrow feet with in- 
 dications of well-arched insteps. The sleeves of 
 her frock were torn away above the elbows, and 
 her round forearms, thin hands, and taper fingers 
 were charmingly perfect. Her wavy hair was 
 black and her serious, unchildlike eyes a clear grey, 
 darkened by black lashes. I gave the mother a 
 trifle, and this encouraged her to importune other 
 visitors. When the manager came to tell me my 
 car was on the way, he bade her go; but she 
 lingered until he spoke to her with some severity, 
 the child looking up at him all the time with her 
 wondering, patient, accusing eyes. 
 
 When the woman finally departed I said to him, 
 " Do you think that beggar would give me her 
 lovely little girl? " 
 
 " Glory be to God, no! " said he. " If so be you 
 but mintioned such a thing to her she would call 
 down curses on your head, and on the hotel, and 
 we might have to get in the p'leece." 
 
332 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 My jarvey was young and talkative; he told me 
 he had got as far as Liverpool, had been turned 
 back, and was only waiting for the war to end be- 
 fore he sailed to join two brothers and three sis- 
 ters, who had all preceded him. 
 
 " That," he said, " will lave me mother and 
 father alone, but thim in America do be sendin' 
 every week money to kape thim, an' they have 
 enough, an' somethin' now and thin to spare for a 
 neighbour. An' besides what comes fro^ the 
 States, me mother has the understanding hand on 
 her for bins. They will lay for her, whin they 
 won't for annybody else in the County Galway. 
 A young lady came to see her once, she was from 
 the Agricultural Department, where they learn 
 things out of books, an' she told herself to buy 
 some hard English eggs, an' they would hatch out 
 feather-legged yeller chickens called Buff Orping- 
 tons. The grandest layers that iver was. An' me 
 mother bought six, an' Betty, that's the little black 
 bin that does be doin' all me mother bids her, set 
 on the eggs an' scraped thim great things to her 
 thin body wid her wings, an' wun day thim eggs 
 was hatched, an' six tall p'leecemen of chickens 
 kept poor Betty busy findin' food for thim. One 
 of thim baby Buffs — they had regular John Bull 
 appetites — ate as much as three Irish chicks, an' 
 me mother had to put double the meal in the pan, 
 but she said whin they began to lay thim big sohd 
 
GALWAY 333 
 
 eggs it would be grand. At first, whin they was 
 so greedy an' gawky, we thought all of thim was 
 cocks, but four of thim was preparin' to be bins. 
 An' little good did that be doin', for divil of an egg 
 did they lay whin they was bins. Day after day 
 they threatened, but it was like the English Par- 
 liament givin' the Irish People Home Rule, they 
 only give hope. An' thim bins didn't give eggs to 
 me mother, they only give her hope. If you'll 
 belave it, in two years all thim bins bechune thim 
 only give one egg.^^ 
 
 " Then the common or garden chickens are the 
 best?" 
 
 " Common Irish garden or backyard chickens is 
 certainly the best. Whin the lady come agin, me 
 mother complained of the Buffs, an' the lady said 
 it was the climate of Galway, it didn't suit thim. 
 So now me mother keeps to the ones she knows 
 likes Galway. Betty had a fine brood this year, 
 twelve of her own an' two she foster-mothered, an' 
 the old grey bin has siven." 
 
 " Is this Salthill? " I asked, as the tonic, invigo- 
 rating air blew across my face. 
 
 " 'Tis the same, lady." 
 
 " Then if you please I'll get down and walk." 
 
 I passed humble hotels and lodging-houses filled 
 with people a-holidaying ; they bathe at all hours 
 of the day, and drink salt water as a tonic, and 
 they looked fine specimens of humanity. Tall 
 
334 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 young fathers, and rosy-cheeked mothers and 
 babies. Vigorous old men and women, and strong, 
 clean-skinned girls chatted on balconies and door- 
 steps, or loitered on the sidewalk. One girl with- 
 out a hat came towards me, her little sister bal- 
 anced on her broad shoulders, the baby hands 
 clinging to her massive braids of hair; she smiled 
 as our paths crossed, and I thought: 
 
 " I do not find a treasury 
 Of perfect features, perfectly 
 Planned with a sculptor's symmetry, 
 But a face that is full of energy 
 Yet soft like an old-time melody 
 In the haunting Celtic minor key." 
 
 There must be something in the climate productive 
 of hair and eyelashes, for they both grow to an 
 abnormal length in the county of Galway. I saw 
 perfect manes of splendid red hair and black hair, 
 and silvery fair hair, and nut-brown hair, and 
 black-brown hair. They brought to memory the 
 description a friend who lives in Smyrna gave me 
 of the women who once a year stand in rows in the 
 market-place, exhibiting and offering their wares 
 for sale. They come from a certain province in 
 Asia Minor, where the climate and water are all 
 conducive to the growth of hair ; and these peasant 
 women count upon selling their long braids at least 
 thrice in a lifetime. 
 
GALWAY 335 
 
 I said to the chambermaid who was preparing 
 my bath in the evening, " What thick hair you 
 have! " 
 
 " It's been thicker," she said, " 'Tis long still, 
 not far from my knees, but sure 'tis nothing to me 
 cousin Noreen, she that wint to America; the ends 
 struck her ankles, an' 'twas six fair plaits she had, 
 three of them on ayther side of her head, an' the 
 American lady she wint to live wid was so sthruck 
 wid it, she had her let the plaits go free, an' her 
 photograph tuk like that. I was offered in Belfast 
 tin shillings a week to sit three days wid me hair 
 hangin' down over a chair in a windy." 
 
 "And did you do it?" 
 
 " No, indade, I'd been ashamed of me life sittin' 
 there, an' every man jack in the town lukin' at me 
 loose hair." 
 
 " Splendid hair is a great beauty," I said. 
 
 "I think more depinds on the nose," she said; 
 " you can twist bits into your hair, but you can't 
 twist a bit on to your nose, nor take it off nayther. 
 We've all got hair, me mother an' father an' all. 
 Me aunt's is well below her knees, an' not a grey 
 hair, though she is sixty an' more. It's black yet. 
 An' me father had a fine crop whin he died, an' 
 him one hundred and two." 
 
 " What! " I said; " he was more than a hundred 
 years old? " 
 
 *' An' the priest said if he had been rightly 
 
336 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 counted up, he'd have a hundred an' four. Sure 
 these men in the west do be Hvin' a great while. 
 Me father was sixty whin he married me mother; 
 she said he didn't look it, she was twinty, an' they 
 was married forty-two years whin he died, but the 
 priest said as me mother was so young, me father 
 tuk off a little." 
 
 " And were they happy? " 
 
 " Sure as happy as the day was long, an* me 
 mother had sivin childer. I have five brothers scat- 
 tered about the world. Two in the Army, an' sure 
 if the Germans don't shoot thim I'll shoot thim 
 meself whin they come home, I'm that disgusted 
 wid thim for jinin' up." 
 
 " Then you're a Sinn Feiner? " I said. 
 
 Her eyes flashed. 
 
 ** It matters not what I am. I don't hould 
 wid the English, an* 'tis their war, an' they wid 
 no family feelin' fightin' their own flesh an' blood. 
 Sure ain't the German Imp'ror first cousin to 
 George, an' him first cousin to the Russian Im- 
 p'ror. An' what's it all about annyway, this cruel 
 war? I've got two sinsible brothers in America, an' 
 one in Australia, an' me sister married, an' me 
 hotellin'. Did ye ever hear of SHeve Donagh? 
 I was there two years. It's a grand place by the 
 sea, an' the golf links all around it, an' flowers 
 an' grass growin' just outside the windy s. 
 
 " Quare things can happen in hotels. The last 
 
GALWAY 337 
 
 summer I was there a young gintleman come wid 
 his sweetheart an' her sister, an' they tuk rooms 
 on my floor. She was a fine, handsome girl, but 
 his father had tried to break off the match and 
 couldn't. One evenin' there was a dance, an' she 
 said she had a headache an' left the ballroom, an' 
 made him stay wid her sister. The next mornin' 
 he reported to the office he had lost tin pounds, an* 
 I was that upset — oh, I couldn't slape — 'twas my 
 rooms ye see. They got a detective from Belfast, 
 an' he asked me manny and manny a question^ 
 * Where was I that evenin', and was the door 
 locked, an' did I notice anny strangers in the hall 
 or near the gintleman's door ? ' An' I said, * No, 
 not a one but the young lady he was goin* to 
 marry; I didn't know if she was comin* from his 
 room, but she was near his door,* an* thin the de- 
 tective frowned that deep, an' said that was 
 enough. An' after that he questioned the young 
 lady; he had eyes that wint to the back of your 
 head, until she got so nervous she broke down, an' 
 said, * I won't betray meself, I won't, I won't, you 
 can't make me.' 
 
 " The detective called the young man then and 
 said, * This young lady has the money, and will 
 return it to you.' The young man turned white 
 and said, * I don't want it ; leave us, please.' An' 
 no one knows what passed between thim two, but 
 that afternoon he left the hotel, an* I heard he 
 
338 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 wint home, an' *twas for iver over between 
 thim." 
 
 "Why did she steal from the man she was 
 going to marry ? '* I asked. 
 
 ** It come out that she was extravagant, an* 
 wanted the money, an' she knew he had it, an' she 
 was too proud to ask for it so she tuk it." 
 
 This indeed was a case of grotesque false pride, 
 but what a lucky man to find out the character of 
 the woman he loved before, instead of after, mar- 
 riage. The next day of brilliant sunshine, I set to 
 work in industrious earnest to become acquainted 
 with Galway. An open car conveyed me to the 
 splendid harbour. On our way we passed two 
 tall, fair men walking rapidly, and my jarvey told 
 me they were the Squires Burke. After all these 
 generations they looked hardy Normans, showing 
 their right to be called, in 1170, de Burgo. 
 
 In Ireland, even the peasants make mention of 
 the twelfth or thirteenth century as if it were 
 yesterday; and why not, speaking as they do the 
 language of the demigods, and of the first man 
 and the first woman? There are archaeologists 
 who claim that Adam and Eve, and that persua- 
 sive and meddlesome serpent, of course, spoke in 
 Gaelic to each other in the Garden of Eden. 
 
 The most interesting part of Galway is the 
 Claddagh, a picturesque little white straw- 
 thatched, irregular village, where the hardy fishing 
 
X 
 
GALWAY 339 
 
 people speak Irish, and have their own laws and 
 by-laws, and are remarkably free from crime. The 
 old Claddagh marriage rings are much sought 
 after, and are not only interesting as curios, but 
 are beautiful in themselves ; being hand-carved out 
 of pure gold; the hard edges are worn away, and 
 the model is a little heart held by two hands, the 
 whole device being surmounted by a crown. And 
 these rings have slight differences according to 
 the taste and the hand of the artisan. The white 
 hamlet which sparkled in the sunshine is said to be 
 just outside the city proper, but with the ancient 
 walls crumbled and destroyed, the line is in- 
 visible. There were two picturesque old-fashioned 
 craft in the harbour, their strong patched terra- 
 cotta sails set for a voyage to Arran. 
 
 It was not far to drive from the Claddagh to 
 Queen's College. The grounds were pleasant and 
 the custodian gathered me a little sweet-smelling 
 bouquet of pinks, verbena, and geranium. There 
 were no students as it was in August, and though 
 the College was a fine quadrangular building, in 
 fair condition, it gave me the impression of sad- 
 ness. The newer diocesan College built on a hill 
 is more cheerful, commanding a view of the water. 
 
 We drove through the town to the Church of St. 
 Nicholas — the patron saint of the children of all 
 nationalities, Santa Claus, or Kris Kringle, as the 
 case may be — it is of architecture to the taste 
 
340 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 of the generous Saint, low, broad, and inviting; 
 although the doors are locked on week days since 
 it fell into the hands of the Protestants. How 
 beautiful it must look at Christmas, dressed with 
 the beloved pine trees of the Saint of Gifts, 
 blazing with candles, and twinkling with stars. 
 Although it was erected in 1320, it is undefaced 
 by the many centuries that have crumbled so 
 much else in Ireland. 
 
 In the inside of the church the tombs are lightly 
 carved, and reminiscent of Spain — probably a 
 Spanish artist carved them, as in the twelfth and 
 thirteenth centuries there was constant traffic be- 
 tween Galway, Spain, and Portugal, which ac- 
 counts for the decidedly Spanish type of many of 
 the people. Another indication of their descent 
 is the popularity of yellow; a colour whose decora- 
 tive qualities are not properly understood save in 
 Spanish countries. 
 
 It was midday when we drove close to the weir; 
 the hands were coming out of the woollen mills, 
 and a number of the girls and even the men, wore 
 a touch of yellow. Always interested in manufac- 
 tures, I appreciated the honest stuffs woven in 
 this prosperous mill. Not a thread is used except 
 pure wool, which is sheared from the mountain 
 sheep in Connaught. And the material, when 
 made up into garments for men and women, will 
 stand any amount of hard wear, and neither 
 
GALWAY 341 
 
 lose their colour nor shape. If one or two of the 
 fashionable Paris houses would place these cloths 
 and tweeds advantageously upon the market, the 
 industry would at once leap into wide popularity. 
 There are other and more primitive industries at 
 work, and I saw a quaint establishment that would 
 have delighted an artist. It was a combination of 
 power-looms, hand-looms, spinning- jennies, and a 
 flour mill, and was a most homely, floury, ram- 
 shackle, cheerful place. 
 
 A never-to-be-forgotten tragic link between 
 Galway and Spain is the story of James Lynch 
 Fitzstephen, another Irish Spartan father, and his 
 son. In 1493 ships sailed from Spain to Galway 
 laden with fine cargoes; silks and laces, fans and 
 wine, fair linen cloths, keen swords of damascened 
 steel, and green and ruby heavy-stemmed wine- 
 glasses. In exchange they were loaded with great 
 bales of soft, thick Irish cloth of wool, skins cured 
 and uncured, wolf -skins, and wild-cat skins, Irish 
 flannel, and salted salmon and pickled eels, and 
 in the winter, cargoes of mutton and lamb. 
 
 To encourage and better the understanding be- 
 tween the two countries, James Lynch, the Mayor 
 of Galway, made a voyage to Spain. He received 
 lavish hospitahty from the rich merchants, but 
 especially from Senor Gomez of Cadiz; and, in 
 reciprocation of his kindness, he begged to take 
 back to Ireland his host's son, a young Spanish 
 
342 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 grandee about the age of his own boy. The visit 
 at first proved a happy inspiration, for the two 
 young men became as brothers, riding together, 
 playing games together, choosing the same friends, 
 and, also, the same inamorata. 
 
 The lady was doubtless beautiful, and a co- 
 quette, leaving both men in doubt, or perhaps giv- 
 ing encouragement first to one and then to the 
 other. At the moment when she was lavishing her 
 sweetness on Gomez, Lynch, in a wild passion of 
 jealousy, slew his rival and threw his body into 
 the sea. With remorse quickly gnawing at his 
 vitals, he fled into the woods, remained there all 
 night, but when morning came determined to con- 
 fess his crime and give himself up to justice. 
 
 As he walked towards the town he met his 
 father, James Lynch, stern as an implacable Fate, 
 commanding a squad of armed men. He was ar- 
 rested, his hands bound behind him, and marched 
 to the prison, which stood just opposite the 
 Mayor's house. His agonised mother and his two 
 younger sisters saw him enter the jail and leave 
 it the next morning to suffer his summary trial. 
 
 It only occupied one day, for the broken-hearted 
 boy fully confessed everything. With his blood 
 turned to ice, his father pronounced him guilty and 
 sentenced him to be hanged. But the mother's 
 heart, the one human refuge that never fails in 
 time of stress or trouble, and only becomes more 
 
GALWAY 343 
 
 tender and protecting in sorrow or disgrace, rose 
 up in revolt. 
 
 Madame Lynch belonged to the Blakes, a 
 powerful faction, who came to her rescue and 
 added their entreaties with hers to her husband for 
 mercy. When the stern father proved adamant, 
 they forbade any man to ex:ecute the boy. Even 
 though he had outraged hospitality, a more sacred 
 thing in those far-off days than now, he was their 
 townsman, their kinsman, and they were relieved to 
 obey this order. 
 
 But they had not counted on the misguided 
 sense of justice of James Lynch himself, who, 
 when he accompanied his son from prison, and was 
 deprived of his armed escort by the howling mob, 
 seized the boy with iron grasp, led him up the 
 stairs from the street, and, in full sight of the 
 momentarily paralysed crowd, executed him. He 
 stood afterwards waiting — perhaps hoping — who 
 knows, that his own life would be taken, but a 
 cold horror had numbed the hearts and even the 
 hands of the tempestuous crowd who had witnessed 
 the dreadful deed. In a pitiful silence, like a tor- 
 tured spirit, this strange and unaccountable man 
 disappeared into his house, never to cross the door- 
 step again. And I daresay he was left unmolested 
 in his seclusion, for who wishes to invite a hang- 
 man, and such a unique hangman, to rout or 
 festive gathering? Some member of the Lynch 
 
344 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 family, six generations later, erected on the place 
 of execution a death's head and crossbones in 
 black marble. But no monument was necessary 
 to keep this tragedy from being forgotten. 
 
 Curiously enough, " Lynch law " expresses the 
 lightning-quick execution of the mob regardless of 
 law, whereas the man from whom it derived its 
 name sacrificed his own flesh and blood to Consti- 
 tutional law. The French seem to me to be much 
 more understanding in dealing with a crime pas- 
 sional. Jealousy makes the noblest men and 
 women temporarily insane ; we all admire and weep 
 over Othello, and yet an English jury will con- 
 vict a man who slays his rival, when in all such 
 cases, justice should be tempered with mercy. But 
 all capital punishment is, and has ever been, a blot 
 upon civilisation. It gives the criminal no time 
 for repentance, and it brutalises the minions of 
 the law who execute him. The very contemplation 
 of it is depressing. 
 
 There is nothing so good for the darkness of the 
 spirit as the brightness of the sun, so I struck out 
 for a good long walk in the country. A little 
 green boreen tempted me from the main road, and 
 I had not gone far when I noticed a new little 
 cottage partly finished. It looked comfortable, ex- 
 cept for the windows, which were much too small. 
 The hall was fairly wide, with a door at the end 
 which opened out to what would be in the future a 
 
GALWAY 345 
 
 garden. There were two rooms, one quite a good 
 size, and a nice little kitchen with hot and cold 
 water-taps, and a practical-looking range stamped 
 with an American Eagle. I went upstairs, there 
 were three bedrooms and, to my great astonish- 
 ment, a bathroom with an enamelled iron bath, a 
 stationary washstand, and a medicine cupboard 
 painted white with a looking-glass in the door. As 
 I left the houGe I saw a middle-aged man standing 
 in the boreen smoking a pipe. 
 
 "What a nice little house," I said; "do you 
 know anything about it? " 
 
 " It's a grand house, a grand house, indeed, and 
 I know all about it." 
 
 "Then," I said, "it's your house?" 
 
 " In a manner of spakin' it is, for Herself and 
 Meself will live there, but 'tis Maggie's house in 
 the law. We wanted it like that on account of the 
 other childer, so Maggie won't have anny trouble 
 whin we're gone." 
 
 " Maggie's in America? " I said. 
 
 " Thrue for you an' she is; but how did ye know 
 that? " 
 
 " I saw an American bath-tub and range," I 
 said. " I am an American, and know my country's 
 manufactures. Did Maggie send them over? " 
 
 " 'Twas she that done the same, an' whin Tom 
 Murphy — ^he it is that's buildin' the house — first 
 saw the like, he said he'd build no house with such 
 
346 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 tomfoolery in it. But Maggie wrote him a sooth- 
 erin' letter — she can put the comether on anny- 
 body, Maggie can — an* thin he give in, an' got a 
 plumber from Galway; an' Maggie was plazed 
 whin we wrote her that." 
 
 " Does Maggie know how small the windows 
 are? " I asked. " People in America love big win- 
 dows, they wouldn't put up with Tom Murphy's 
 four little panes of glass for a minute." 
 
 " They would," said the old man, " if they 
 knew Tom Murphy. He's a grand carpenter, an' 
 he does grand work, but he must have his own way 
 an' take his own time. We was boys together." 
 
 " All the more reason why he should do what 
 you want. In the large room downstairs and in 
 Maggie's room, ask him to make the windows 
 larger. I know Maggie loves sunshine and air." 
 
 " Thrue for you," said the man, " perhaps one 
 might, over a glass — but Tom Murphy likes thim 
 windys. Herself wanted thim larger, but he was 
 so put about over the bath-tub she said, ' Let the 
 crathur be.' " 
 
 " Maggie must like space, and new ways, and 
 new things," I said, " or she wouldn't have sent the 
 bath-tub." 
 
 *' She would not," said her father, " she would 
 not. And we must think of Maggie ; she's a credit 
 to Oireland and to America. She calls herself a 
 Yankee now." 
 
GALWAY 347 
 
 "What does Maggie do?" I asked. 
 
 "She's a writer," said her father. 
 
 " You mean, she writes on a machine? '* 
 
 " That's it, it's on wun of thim machines, an' 
 she says there's none better in Chicago than her- 
 self. Even the min can't kape up wid her. She's 
 wid a big firrum; 'tis thim made the bath-tub and 
 the range they give her, whin they found out she 
 was buildin' a house for her mother. The man 
 what owns the business is Irish too; he's a Cork 
 man." 
 
 " How did Maggie happen to go to America? " 
 I asked. 
 
 " I think she was born to it," her father said. 
 " She was always quick, Maggie was, * Nimble 
 Feet ' her mother used to call her whin she was 
 almost a baby. An' soon she had nimble fingers, 
 an' cud milk the cow, an' sew, an' she learned to 
 write before anny of the childer her own age. 
 An' thin her sister, who was fifteen years older 
 than Maggie, got married and went to Chicago. 
 Her husband is doin' grand, but they have eight 
 childer, an' all they cud do for Maggie was to 
 give her a home," — eight mouths to feed, and yet 
 they welcomed gladly their kin from across the 
 sea, these generous Irish hearts. — " Our three 
 bhoys wais all in America, they are all married, an' 
 it was HerseK thought she couldn't give Maggie 
 up. She was the last an' we clung to her, but the 
 
348 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 colleen longed to go. She learned the machine in 
 Galway, an' she cud make marks on paper an' 
 write it out afterwards " 
 
 " Shorthand," I said. 
 
 " That's it," he said. " Before she wint there 
 was a place waitin' for her. An' now she writes 
 an' says she has a great speed on the machine, an' 
 often she can answer the letters for the firrum 
 widouth a wor-rd from the boss. An' she is rich, 
 Maggie is, wid five pound a week. Whin a neigh- 
 bour wrote an' said the roof was laking on her 
 mother, 'twas she sint a letter to Tom Murphy, 
 an' it was not impty. That letter had sixty 
 pounds; more was to come, an' she told Tom 
 Murphy to build a house." 
 
 " Right away," I said. 
 
 " 'Twas that, what the Yankees say, an' Tom 
 Murphy he understood an' begun the house, 'twas 
 last May." 
 
 " Fourteen months ago," I said; " Tom Murphy 
 doesn't follow Maggie's example in speed. Poor 
 little Maggie tearing away on her machine, and 
 Tom Murphy dawdhng about. I don't like Tom 
 Murphy." 
 
 " Ah, well," philosophically said the old man, 
 " 'tis a grand house, an' sure we'll be in it before 
 Christmas. Maggie has made some extra money 
 by workin' at night. Thim fingers of hers is like 
 lightnin'. 1*11 go an' bring you Maggie's photo- 
 
GALWAY 349 
 
 graph. Herself has gone into Galway or she 
 would make you a cup of tay; we have tay an' 
 somethin' else for thim that's thirsty. The three 
 bhoys an' the sister sinds so much a week, an' 
 Maggie gives the house, an' we be intirely com- 
 fortable. There's nothin' we want but the childer 
 — the childer, we do be wantin' thim," and he 
 sighed heavily. 
 
 " Why don't you go to America? " I asked. 
 
 ** Maybe wun day, but 'tis the mother of Herself 
 we can't lave. She's an' ould ancient one, but 
 Herself does be doin' what she is tould even now, 
 an' she wouldn't be let to go to America. One 
 of the bhoys has been home wunce, an' Maggie is 
 comin' whin the war is over, an' bringin' our 
 Mary's child. She is siventeen, an' has niver seen 
 Oireland." 
 
 " What joyous days those will be," I said. 
 " You look a young man to have big grand- 
 children." 
 
 " How old do you think I am, lady? " 
 
 I looked at him standing in the sunlight, tall, 
 straight, fresh-skinned, bright-eyed, and said, 
 " Fifty— fifty-two." 
 
 " Sivinty-wun," he said, " an' nivir a day's sick- 
 ness in me life. Wait, lady, an' I'll bring you my 
 little Yankee Maggie." 
 
 Presently he returned with a picture in a blue 
 plush frame, and I was introduced to Maggie. 
 
350 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 She looked very American, dressed in a well- 
 fitting tailored skirt and jacket, a soft blouse open 
 at the neck, a straw hat simply trimmed, and 
 neat, well-cut shoes. The face was honest and 
 frank, the dark eyes wide apart, the nose not too 
 large, the mouth firm, and the chin square. Her 
 character was all expressed in the photograph. 
 Capability, adaptability, quickness, perseverance, 
 and rehability. Well done little Maggie across 
 the sea! Your silver chain unites Ireland and 
 America to your credit — and to theirs. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 EVERGREEN FRIENDSHIP 
 
 There are friendships like delicate flowers, that 
 call for constant care and attention to keep them 
 in leaf and blossom. There are other friendships 
 that belong to a hardier order of plant, and by 
 their own sturdy lives remain perpetual ever- 
 greens. Neither silence nor absence wither their 
 leaves, nor prevent their buds from blooming. 
 Such a friendship is mine with Nita Shannon. 
 Whether we see each other or not for years, 
 whether we write constantly or lapse into silence, 
 we are sure of each other. 
 
 When I came to Ireland Nita at once bade me 
 welcome to Oldcourt. Before I ever saw her I 
 loved her as " Cissy's schoolgirl sister," and I 
 chaperoned Cissy, a rosy, satin-skinned eighteen, in 
 a cloud of white tulle and hlies of the valley, to 
 her first ball. Her uncle, William Creagh, an 
 agreeable bachelor and an indefatigable dancer, 
 saw that we both enjoyed the evening, and Cissy, 
 of a dewy freshness, was greatly admired, particu- 
 larly by a dark-haired tall youth, who might have 
 had a chance for her favour, but for a little con- 
 tretemps which made us merry at his expense. 
 
 After bringing Cissy back from the fifth dance 
 
 351 
 
^52 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 to my protecting wing, he seated himself a little 
 distance away from us, began talking to another 
 debutante, and nervously raised his heel from his 
 dancing shoe. And that nice, broad young heel 
 was quite bare. Probably his poor bachelor's sock 
 suffered from a hole when he put it on, and every 
 strand of black silk had been destroyed by his 
 vigorous dancing. In the brilliantly lighted room 
 his heel shone pink and glossy like a round, 
 enamelled shell. When a young girl has laughed 
 heartily at a young man romance is destroyed. 
 But even with his socks quite new and whole, and 
 every advantage of face and fortune. Cissy would 
 have remained heart whole; for she had already 
 divined her vocation to become a Run, and only 
 waited to fulfil it. She thought it fair to her 
 mother and to herself to see the world, and she 
 did see it and enjoyed it. But an exalted duty 
 called her and she left it. Not from disillusion or 
 dissatisfaction in life; her surroundings were all 
 happy and fortunate, and she herself was healthy 
 minded, cheerful, and gay. She loved people and 
 movement, and dances and balls, and theatres and 
 operas; but she valued a life of holiness and self- 
 abnegation and self-sacrifice more. And she gave 
 the most beautiful and touching thing in the 
 world, a pure, young, clean, joyous heart, to her 
 self -forgetful calling. 
 
 Nita has the same joyous nature, united to a 
 
EVERGREEN FRIENDSHIP 353 
 
 rare sympathy and unselfishness, and enlivened by 
 the daring and courage of the Irish temperament. 
 The first time she mounted a horse she rode to 
 hounds without losing her seat; and when Mrs. 
 Morrough, her great-aunt, left her a valuable lace 
 flounce, a centenarian donkey, Oldcourt, one of 
 the historic places in Doneraile, and no income to 
 keep up the large house and many acres, Nita said 
 gaily to her mother, " Oh, we'll manage somehow," 
 and she has managed, not only to keep up the 
 place but to dispense constant hospitality. 
 
 She sent " Jerry the Jarvey " to the station to 
 meet me, a car-driver whose constant flow of wit 
 inspired his friend Alexis Roche to make him the 
 hero of a book. But Mr. Roche has filled the book 
 with stories of horseplay, and not given enough of 
 Jerry's reflections to do justice to his character. 
 There are one or two worth remembering. 
 
 " There's many a thing I'd say to your honour 
 alone, that I wouldn't say before a witness." 
 
 And there Jerry is not different from the rest 
 of the world, for we aU say things to one another 
 we would hesitate to say before a witness. 
 
 And he shrewdly observes, " There's times when 
 the truth might do better for you than any other 
 thing you could lay your tongue to," and well for 
 us when we realise " the time." When a woman 
 speaks the truth, he might have added, it often 
 passes for wit. 
 
354 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 Miss Gladstone asked Parnell to name the 
 best actor he had ever seen, and he said, " Your 
 father." This was a witty answer, and quite true. 
 All politicians are actors, and need to be more 
 accomplished than those on the stage; for actors 
 exploit mock emotions only, while politicians must 
 constantly disguise their real opinions and feelings. 
 I remember at the St. James' Theatre, when Guy 
 Domville was produced, a play by Henry James, 
 full of delicate suggestions and subtleties far above 
 the heads of the gallery gods; and amidst hisses, 
 catcalls, and boos, Sir George Alexander stepped 
 to the footlights and said: 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry the play 
 has not pleased you " — his voice quivered with pain 
 — " but beheve me when I say, that you have hurt 
 me to the heart." 
 
 The very Irish Member of Parliament and 
 unrivalled actor sitting by my side shook his head, 
 and said, " Poor Alexander, it's plain to be seen 
 he's not a politician or he never would have made 
 that admission." 
 
 " And this is Doneraile," I said, as we neared the 
 pretty little town in the northern part of Cork. 
 
 " There's Canon Sheehan's house," said the jar- 
 vey, pointing to a pleasant cream-coloured cot- 
 tage; " he was a good man if ever there was one, 
 as good as his books; and we have a thousand 
 pounds for his memorial, three hundred pounds 
 
EVERGREEN FRIENDSHIP 355 
 
 was sint from America, but by this and by that, 
 they can't agree to it. Some wants one thing, 
 and some wants another." 
 
 Remembering General John Regan I asked 
 " if they wanted a statue? " 
 
 "That's just what the farmers do want; a 
 statue of the Canon standin' wid a wise luk on his 
 face, an' a book in his hand. But the priests and 
 the people closer at home would like stained-glass 
 windys for the chapel. Sure the sunlight comes 
 pourin' in on the altar, an' 'twould be well for 
 the light to be more subdued, an' I'm thinkin' 
 'twould be windys Himself would have wanted." 
 
 " And what do you suppose will happen? " 
 
 "That's past all tellin'," said Jerry; " thim 
 farmers do be set on an image, but the wuns for 
 the windys do be very fir-rum." 
 
 I only got a flying glimpse of Doneraile Court. 
 There are many interesting country seats of 
 county families scattered about Doneraile, and 
 before the war fox-hunting, steeplechasing, riding, 
 and soldiers from the little garrison town of 
 Buttevant, a short distance away, made the little 
 town gay. 
 
 Nita and her mother were on the steps to give 
 me warm welcome, and I felt at home at once in 
 the cheerful mansion, which was so like many of 
 the old Colonial houses in Virginia. What a vast 
 difference there is in houses. Those that are low- 
 
356 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 lying, damp, and closed in with dark shrubbery, 
 seem to hold all the tragedies and unhappiness of 
 the former owners, while those open to the air 
 and light are cheerful, and seem to be impressed 
 with the gaiety and happiness of past generations. 
 The gardens of Oldcourt lie to the right, and the 
 climate is so mild in that part of the country, that 
 flowers bloom late in the autumn and early in the 
 spring. In front of the house is a wide open 
 sweep of lawn, which invites every ray of sun- 
 shine and ensures a cheerful distance between the 
 splendid trees and woods which surround the place. 
 It was a fragrant, lovely, midsummer moon- 
 light night, and after dinner we sat on the porch. 
 The lawn had been mown, and there was a scent of 
 sweet vernal in the air from a small haystack not 
 far away. From it apparently proceeded a long, 
 gentle whistling, not unmusical, snore. Nita said 
 she thought a drunken tramp had gone to sleep 
 under the fresh straw, and she must go down to 
 the lodge and get Murphy to rouse him up and 
 persuade him away. I assured her it was only a 
 cow with adenoids, but that theory was unsatis- 
 factory, and finally we both tip-toed gently over to 
 the haystack, circled around it, and there was 
 neither man nor beast to be seen. The sound 
 ceased, and only recommenced when we were in 
 our bedrooms. After dinner the next evening the 
 same whistling snore began again, and Philip 
 
« 
 O 
 
 O 
 
EVERGREEN FRIENDSHIP 357 
 
 Barry, who was dining with us, said it was an 
 owl and proved it by going to an old oak tree at 
 the right of the haystack and rousing up a big 
 horned owl, who uttered a sharp protesting note at 
 being disturbed from his whisthng slumbers and 
 flew away. 
 
 I looked in vain for the most cheerful ghost in 
 all the ghost world — " The Radiant Boy " — who, 
 clothed in dark blue, is bright with stars and sits 
 on an old iron gate on the Mallow Road, threaten- 
 ing to throw a brilliant missile at the passer-by. 
 He was not always an open-air ghost, for about 
 a hundred years ago, which is no time at all in 
 Ireland, Captain Stuart came to Fort Lewis, now 
 called " Wilkinson's Lawn," and having lost his 
 way craved the hospitality of Colonel Wilkinson 
 for the night, who made him welcome, but, as his 
 house was overflowing with guests, gave him a 
 room which was rarely used. A bright fire of 
 logs blazed on the hearth and a good mattress and 
 clean bedclothes had been placed not far from it. 
 Tired from the day's shooting and wandering in 
 unknown country, he soon slept soundly. But 
 at twelve o'clock he awoke; the roaring fire was 
 blackened ashes and a Boy luminous with silver 
 stars stood before him. He was terribly frightened 
 and hid his head under the bedclothes, but the light 
 seemed to penetrate through the blankets, and 
 when he looked out the Boy was still there. In 
 
358 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 the morning he told his experience to Colonel 
 Wilkinson, who said with the house full he had 
 been obliged to put him in the " Boy's Room," but 
 he hoped a blazing fire would discourage the ap- 
 parition — evidently it had not. 
 
 When Fort Lewis was burnt down, it was then 
 the Boy appeared sitting on the old iron entrance 
 gate of Ballydineen House. He only makes rare 
 appearances now, which is a pity as he must be a 
 lovely shining apparition. And he is only one of 
 the many Doneraile ghosts of decided originality. 
 
 Nine green cats continually march up and down 
 the Glen that begins at Byblox and ends at Bally- 
 dineen. They cry out in hollow voices, " Ohee — 
 Ahyeh ! " Perhaps these green ghosts were starved 
 for milk, as they often run up and overturn the 
 milk cans of maids or men milking in the morn- 
 ing. An ovoid-shaped ball of soft yellow light 
 keeps about three feet from the ground and travels 
 from Ballyandrew into Doneraile Park. But if 
 any one comes near it, a semi-transparent racing 
 skeleton is seen to hold the ball in bis hands. The 
 Far Dharrig seems to be a most attractive ghost, 
 as he answers the description of a favourite china 
 figure, being a rosy-faced little man about three 
 feet high, dressed in green breeches, a gay red 
 coat, and a black sugar-loaf hat. He never wan- 
 ders, but confines himself to Ballydineen. 
 
 I went as late as I could to Doneraile Bridge, 
 
EVERGREEN FRIENDSHIP 359 
 
 hoping to meet the flying yellow dog which 
 watches the road at the turnpike, waiting for a 
 black ram. When he appears they both proceed 
 to other interesting friends in Oldcourt church- 
 yard. Probably they confine themselves to the 
 orthodox midnight appearance, and I, not late 
 enough for that, missed them. A man dressed in 
 a tall hat, knee-breeches, and frieze coat also walks 
 Oldcourt Bridge at midnight. Another attractive 
 ghost connected with Doneraile Park is the Pooka, 
 a shaggy, black colt with mild eyes, who now and 
 again is seen trotting into the Park. The first 
 Viscount Doneraile occasionally rides in the Park 
 himself with a full pack of hounds in pursuit of 
 a stag. Many people have heard the horn, and cry 
 of the dogs, and the hoofs of the horses as they 
 rush past. 
 
 The night that the fourth Viscount Doneraile 
 died, in the month of August, a farmer from 
 Sycamore was going to Mallow driving a mare 
 and cart. Just outside Doneraile on the Mallow 
 Road, near the Kennels, a shaggy monster hound 
 bounded over the wall and preceded a great 
 coach drawn by four headless horses. Rushing 
 out of the Kennel gate they were followed by a 
 second great hound, and they all ran in the direc- 
 tion of Doneraile. The eyes of the farmer's mare 
 started out of her head, she sprang forward as if 
 she had received a cut from a whip, and ran until 
 
360 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 she was white with foam, and he had to go back 
 with her to Sycamore. 
 
 A romantic Doneraile ghost is a daughter of 
 Wilham St. Leger, who about 1573 fell in love 
 with a young Irish chieftain. Her father set his 
 stern face against this union of hearts, and Roche 
 was killed at Crognaru by the followers of Sir 
 William. The young lady went into a decline and 
 was found dead near a wall between Crognaru and 
 Ballyandrew; and to this day, when night falls, 
 like a big whire moth she drops over the wall and 
 waits in the same trysting-place to meet her 
 ghostly lover. The second Viscount Doneraile is 
 also restless, as he is frequently met, dressed in 
 leggings and hunting costume, riding a powerful 
 black horse toward Richardstown. 
 
 Doneraile Court has many interesting stories 
 connected with it, but none better known than the 
 history of the Hon. Elizabeth St. Leger, who in 
 1713 was initiated into the mysteries of Free- 
 masonry. 
 
 The Lodge at that time was held in a room to 
 the west side of the entrance hall. The partition 
 was undergoing repair, and one of the bricks had 
 tumbled down near the chair where Miss St. Leger 
 had been reading a somnolent book which had put 
 her to sleep. When she awakened she heard voices 
 in the next room, saw the proceedings of the 
 Lodge, and becoming agitated opened the door 
 
EVERGREEN FRIENDSHIP 361 
 
 to enter the hall and met Tyler, Lord Doneraile's 
 butler, who was evidently a Mason, for he at once 
 called his master. After a consultation of the 
 members, they decided the best way out of the diffi- 
 culty was to make the eavesdropper a Freemason. 
 Doubtless she made a very creditable one, for her 
 portrait represents a strong-minded lady, painted 
 in a Freemason's apron, with her hand resting on 
 the open page of the Book of Mysteries, and her 
 finger pointing to an important chapter. Lady 
 Castletown has one of the jewels she wore, and the 
 other is in the Lodge at Cork. 
 
 I knew a Southern lady who was a Freemason. 
 She was a young, beautiful bride, the wife of a 
 distinguished Confederate officer, and her planta- 
 tion lay directly in the route of Sherman's march 
 to the sea. All houses were to be burned, she was 
 alone, the fate of the women was uncertain ; to give 
 her protection her husband asked that she should 
 receive the first degree of the order of Freemasons. 
 This is probably the only instance of a woman 
 Freemason in America. 
 
 The Right Hon. Lord Doneraile raised a Volun- 
 teer Corps called the Doneraile Rangers in 1779. 
 It consisted of a cavalry corps of light dragoons. 
 They were magnificent in scarlet uniform faced 
 with green and edged with white, and gold epau- 
 lets, buttons, and helmets. The March of the 
 Doneraile Rangers was so inspiring, that when one 
 
362 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 of the soldiers was sentenced to death in Dubhn, 
 he asked the Sheriff to allow him as a last favour 
 to dance on the scaffold to this lively tune. To see 
 a dance of death attracted a large crowd. Lady 
 Doneraile driving in her carriage asked why they 
 had assembled, and was told the circumstances. 
 She bade the coachman whip the horses to Dublin 
 Castle, and got a reprieve. It would have been 
 a crime against gaiety to execute a man with so 
 irresponsible a temperament that he could nimbly 
 caper on the scaffold with a rope around his neck. 
 Doneraile Court dates back to 1636, when Sir 
 WiUiam St. Leger bought various lands. The 
 house, which faces the River Awbeg (Spenser's 
 MuUa), is surrounded by many beautiful acres; 
 the extensive gardens include a wilderness, a laby- 
 rinth, and a canal; at the end of the demesne the 
 river is broad and deep. In the fine deer park the 
 trees — tall elms, ash, birch, Spanish chestnuts, 
 gnarled oaks and beautiful fir trees — grow to a 
 magnificent height. The elaborate and exquisite 
 gardens, so beloved by Lady Castletown, with their 
 thickets of herbaceous borders and great beds of 
 flowers — which include almost every plant that 
 blooms — with all their loveliness, are of less inter- 
 est to me than the many legends connected with 
 the place. I do not know whether Lord Castle- 
 town has ever seen any of the Good People, but 
 he believes in them; and I imagine in that fra- 
 
EVERGREEN FRIENDSHIP 363 
 
 grant, friendly old garden they often dance until 
 the break of day. 
 
 There is a famous curse connected with Done- 
 raile, which is of more than usual interest, as it 
 afterwards was changed into a blessing: 
 
 " Alas ! how dismal is my 
 
 tale 
 I lost my watch in 
 
 Doneraile. 
 My Dublin watch, my 
 
 chain and seal 
 Pilfer'd at once in 
 
 Doneraile. 
 May fire and brimstone 
 
 never fail, 
 To fall in showers on 
 
 Doneraile, 
 May all the deadly fiends 
 
 assail 
 The thieving town of 
 
 Doneraile. 
 As lightnings flash across 
 
 the vale 
 So down to Hell with 
 
 Doneraile. 
 The fate of Pompey at 
 
 Pharsale, 
 Be that the curse of 
 
 Doneraile." 
 
 " How vastly pleasing is 
 
 my tale, 
 I found my watch at 
 
 Doneraile. 
 My Dublin watch, my 
 
 chain and seal. 
 Were all restored at 
 
 Doneraile. 
 May fire and brimstone 
 
 ever fail, 
 To hurt or injure 
 
 Doneraile. 
 May neither fire nor foe 
 
 assail 
 The generous town of 
 
 Doneraile. 
 May hghtnings never 
 
 singe the vale 
 That leads to darling 
 
 Doneraile. 
 May Pompey's fate at 
 
 old Pharsale, 
 Be still reversed at 
 
 Doneraile." 
 
 In 1829 there was a conspiracy at Doneraile, 
 and the men suspected were in great danger of 
 
364 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 their lives, until the eleventh hour when O'Con- 
 nell was employed to defend them. After travel- 
 ling all night he arrived at Cork and proceeded 
 to the Court where a simple breakfast was served 
 him. On hearing the legal proposition unguard- 
 edly stated by the Solicitor-General, O'Connell, 
 with his mouth full of bread and milk, spluttered 
 out, " That is not law." The Solicitor-General 
 insisted it was, and the Court was appealed to ; the 
 decision rested in O'Connell's favour. Rather 
 crestfallen, the Solicitor-General was soon pulled 
 up again for referring to an Act of Parliament 
 which O'Connell knew was only passed for a 
 limited time. " That Act has expired," he called 
 out. This was the second blow, and all through 
 the trial he hectored the Solicitor-General; and, 
 not content with browbeating the witnesses, he 
 finally succeeded in browbeating the Solicitor- 
 General himself. During the proceedings he 
 threatened him with impeachment in the House of 
 Commons for his unfair mode of conducting the 
 prosecution. 
 
 " The allegation is made on false facts," the 
 Solicitor-General said. 
 
 "False facts, Mr. Solicitor," said O'Connell 
 jeeringly. " How can facts be false? " 
 
 The end of the Doneraile trial was that O'Con- 
 nell succeeded in getting the witnesses in such a 
 tangle, and made them contradict themselves so 
 
EVERGREEN FRIENDSHIP 365 
 
 often, that the jury in five minutes brought in a 
 verdict of "Not guilty." 
 
 With his nimble mind and appreciation of the 
 many sides of life, O'Connell disdained no means 
 of winning a case; he even employed, if the occa- 
 sion demanded, what actors would call " stage 
 properties." 
 
 At the Clare Assizes in Ennis two brothers 
 named Hourigan were indicted for mahciously set- 
 ting fire to a police barracks, and it was stated that 
 the barracks had been ignited by means of a jar 
 of pitch. O'Connell, who was employed for the 
 defence, had a skillet containing pitch secretly 
 placed under the chair of the chief witness, and 
 over this he placed his own broad-brimmed hat so 
 effectually as to conceal it. Bennett swore that 
 he had observed the barrack on fire, and knew it 
 was set on fire by pitch, for he smelt it. He was 
 then cross-examined by O'Connell. 
 
 " You know the smell of pitch then? " said 
 O'Connell. 
 
 " I do well," replied the witness. 
 
 " You can smell pitch anywhere? " said O'Con- 
 nell. 
 
 " Yes, anywhere." 
 
 "Even in this Courthouse, if it was here?" 
 
 " Without doubt I would." 
 
 " And do you swear you do not get the smell of 
 pitch here?" asked O'Connell. 
 
366 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 " I do solemnly swear it," replied the witness ; 
 " if it was here I'd smell it." 
 
 Then O'Connell taking his hat off the skillet of 
 pitch, which was placed underneath the witness's 
 chair, cried, " Now go down you pitch-perjured 
 rascal. Go down." 
 
 This saved his client, for the jury in high good- 
 humour discredited the witness. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 MITCHELSTOWN CASTLE AND AN IRISH 
 ROMANCE 
 
 Among other pleasant experiences in Doneraile, 
 Philip Barry motored us to Mitchelstown. The 
 day was perfect. An Italian sky flecked with 
 silver clouds, the air balmy, and yet with a hint of 
 the coolness of autumn underlying the warm sun- 
 shine. We travelled through the county of Cork, 
 which was as brilliantly green as if a June sun 
 shone upon the grass and late blooming flowers. 
 There were many points of interest on our way. 
 Kindly looking old houses with porticos of Greek 
 design, picturesque cottages with thatched roofs, 
 and country seats surrounded by many acres. 
 
 "We will see," said our kind host, "midway 
 between Doneraile and Buttevant, Spenser's Cas- 
 tle of Kilcolman, now an ivy -grown ruin ; but it is 
 possible still to climb the moss-grown staircase, 
 and to view the wide and beautiful country stretch- 
 ing to far-away green plains. It was on this spot 
 that Spenser wrote his immortal poem of the 
 * Faerie Queen,' and Sir Walter Raleigh when he 
 came to visit him was welcomed by ' Colin Clout's 
 Come Home Agagn.' Although the charm and 
 
 367 
 
368 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 beauty of Ireland has been his inspiration, Spenser 
 was traitorously ungrateful to her, for he wrote a 
 paper, published in 1635, advocating the abolition 
 of the inhabitants." 
 
 *' He did not realise," I said, " that though the 
 Irish of that day might have suffered wholesale 
 butchery, the future generation of children born in 
 Ireland would have been Irish — for human beings 
 are as much a product of the soil as flowers and 
 plants. Nature takes aliens to her absorbing 
 breast and re-nationalises them. The Pole of to- 
 day is the American of to-morrow. The Eng- 
 lishman of to-day is the Irishman of to-morrow. 
 The great scheme of creation permits no inter- 
 ference with her plans and products. It is 
 impossible to circumvent her. Crepe myrtle or 
 yellow jessamine will not grow out of the South. 
 Edelweiss will only grow on the top of a moun- 
 tain." 
 
 " Yes," said Philip Barry, " the descendants of 
 English Protestants in Ireland may re-echo Eng- 
 lish opinion and sentiment, but their hearts and 
 natures, and the very fibres of their being, are 
 Irish. They cannot change what Irish soil, and 
 clouds, and sun, and rain, and dew have made 
 them. There are differences in Ireland, of course, 
 between the North and the South, as there are in 
 every country between the North and the South, 
 but in essential points they are the same people. 
 
MITCHELSTOWN CASTLE 369 
 
 " A Northerner was trying to explain to an 
 Irishman in Cork that, geographically, Ulster was 
 a different part of Ireland, and the man from 
 Cork said, ' Whist man ! is your nose a different 
 part of your face? or your arm a different part of 
 your body?' And whatever the future contains 
 for Ireland, certainly Ulster is an integral part of 
 it, and, contrariwise, nothing is more convincing of 
 the unity of the Irish people than their diverse 
 religions. The zealous Faith of the Catholics, and 
 their strenuous example, have made Protestants 
 almost equally deyout in the practise of their re- 
 ligion." 
 
 " Both Protestants and Catholics," I said, 
 *' seem to me simple people, easily influenced and 
 led by their leaders, politicians, who for the most 
 part of all classes, creeds, and countries are look- 
 ing to their own interests. Spenser, though a poet, 
 was a politician, and he paid dearly, if I remember, 
 for his bitter advocacy of Irish race annihilation. 
 His castle was burned, and he and his family 
 escaped with difficulty to England, where, having 
 contracted pneumonia on his perilous voyage, he 
 died almost penniless. But tell me about Mitchels- 
 town, is it an old castle? " 
 
 " No, the castle is modern, but the ancestry of 
 the Kingston family goes back to FitzGibbon the 
 White Knight, a man who betrayed his kinsman 
 Desmond at the instigation of Sir Walter Raleigh, 
 
370 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 and thus kept his four hundred thousand acres — 
 a splendid estate once upon a time, but now poor 
 and heavily encumbered. I've got a book in my 
 pocket with a description by an Englishman, who 
 wrote seventy years ago, of Mitchelstown ; it an- 
 swers to-day. Perhaps you will read it to us." 
 
 " From afar off, as soon as the traveler enters 
 the beautiful valley which bears its name, the tower 
 and battlements of Mitchelstown are distinguished 
 rising above the surrounding woods. The gates 
 are at all hours open to the public; it is said that 
 nothing delights Lord Kingston so much as to see 
 people enjoying themselves in his demesne. In 
 England the passage of vehicles through the Park 
 would be considered by most squires an annoyance, 
 but at Mitchelstown Lord Kingston would scarcely 
 permit a carriage to enter without rushing out to 
 greet the occupants and inviting them to make a 
 survey of his castle and its grounds. 
 
 " 'No long, chilling avenue depresses the visitor 
 before the lawn and pleasure-grounds are reached, 
 and the Castle stands before you, a pile of cas- 
 tellated buildings, extensively and elegantly pro- 
 portioned, and built of stone of the purest white, 
 quarried from the hills of the estate. 
 
 " Nothing can be more simple in arrangement 
 than the interior. A noble flight of steps leads 
 from the entrance-doors into the gallery, 150 feet 
 in length. At the other end of this gallery a cor- 
 
MITCHELSTOWN CASTLE 371 
 
 responding flight of stairs leads to the upper 
 chambers. The gallery is lighted by many oriel 
 windows, the fire-places are of knightly character 
 and blazon, designed expressedly for the Castle. 
 Doorsteps from the gallery open into the noble 
 reception-rooms, and overhead are two ranges of 
 bed-chambers, sixty principal and twenty inferior 
 bedrooms. In an emergency as many as a hundred 
 persons have been accommodated with chambers 
 in the mansion. 
 
 " The stables of the Douglases, made famous by 
 Sir Walter Scott, did not boast more ample ac- 
 commodation. Four-and- twenty steeds may here 
 be kept ready for war or chase. 
 
 " The gardens of Mitchelstown have long been 
 celebrated; the noble Earl himself took special 
 pleasure in them. It is indeed a remarkable sight 
 to see, as far as the eye can reach, festoons and 
 bunches of grapes; some of them are the black 
 Hamburgh variety brought to the utmost per- 
 fection here, and there is one vine said to rival in 
 size and fruit the famous vine of Hampton Court. 
 There is a lodge for the reception of picnic parties, 
 who from time immemorial have been permitted 
 the free range of grounds and gardens, and to 
 inspect the castle on application at the door. 
 Many a family fault and failing may be con- 
 sidered amply remedied by this attention to the 
 Stranger, 
 
372 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 " When English people hear of a nobleman's 
 seat which there is difficulty in visiting, they can 
 contrast it with Mitchelstown, where every visitor 
 of whatever station is provided for, welcomed, and 
 even invited to return. Lord Kingston does that 
 which the well-br^d noblemen of England are far 
 too slow to do; invites to Mitchelstown, without 
 distinction of rank or title, all who can derive 
 enjoyment from it. 
 
 " ' If you are a scholar,' says the noble lord, 
 writing a friend, * you shall be conducted to scenes 
 recounted in history; if you are a lover of the pic- 
 turesque, you shall have a room with a dozen beau- 
 tiful prospects; if you are a sportsman, the horse 
 and hounds invite you to follow them; and there 
 are hills abounding with grouse, and streams alive 
 with trout. Bring your gun, or rod, or pencil, or 
 your book, you shall be equally welcome and 
 equally gratified.' " 
 
 " There," I said. " Isn't that a splendid de- 
 scription of a castle and Irish hospitality?" 
 
 " Naturally," said Philip Barry, " with this 
 open-hearted and exhaustless hospitality, the Earl 
 of Kingston got into money difficulties. A mort- 
 gage was to be foreclosed, writs were issued. For 
 a time the martial spirit of his ancestors asserted 
 itself, Lord Kingston and his friends held a sort of 
 siege against the Sheriff and his men, but eventu- 
 ally the Castle doors were opened, the Earl of 
 
MITCHELSTOWN CASTLE 373 
 
 Kingston drove away, and the men took possession 
 of the Castle and its property." 
 
 " And are we to meet the present Earl of 
 Kingston? " 
 
 " No, the Castle has passed into the hands of Mr. 
 William Downes Webber, through the death of his 
 wife, a Countess of Kingston." 
 
 Meanwhile we had neared the little town of 
 Mitchelstown and asked a fresh-faced young coun- 
 tryman whether to turn to the right or the left, and 
 he answered in a manner characteristically Irish — 
 " Go to the right, it will take you through the 
 town and you will come to a little round square; 
 pass to the left of the round square, then take the 
 road straight on, and that will lead you to 
 Mitchelstown Castle." He made a gesture of a 
 half -circle with one arm, and cut an angle with the 
 hand and wrist of the other, to indicate the topog- 
 raphy of a round square. We followed his direc- 
 tions and found the " square " but not the 
 " round." A few minutes later the Castle was 
 disclosed to us. It was built by the Earl of King- 
 ston in anticipation of a visit of George IV, who 
 said on his arrival at Howth, " Kingston, King- 
 ston, you black-whiskered, good-natured fellow, I 
 am delighted to see you in this hospitable country.'* 
 
 *' The Irish are not snobs," said Nita, " but 
 being instinctively gentlefolk — they have tradition 
 behind them to make them so — they appreciate 
 
374 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 other gentlefolk. If a Royalty had lived among us, 
 had appealed to our loyalty, had encouraged our 
 industries, and had appreciated our exalted ideal 
 of nationality. The Irish Question would have 
 been settled long ago. But the Royalties have 
 been afraid of Ireland. They have believed every- 
 thing which has been told them by interested poli- 
 ticians, and Ireland has been, and is, a victim to 
 ignorance and misrepresentation." 
 
 The door opened and disclosed a fine wide hall, 
 splendidly lighted and hospitable in atmosphere. 
 In spite of its great size Michelstown is all that a 
 castle should be, and usually is not. The windows 
 are large enough to let in plenty of light and air, 
 and the huge house is easily heated. The rooms 
 are magnificently spacious, and the bedroom fur- 
 nished for King George is solidly impressive and 
 pleasingly luxurious. The wall is hung in a 
 French paper, that one often sees in the chateaux 
 of France; it gives the impression of old-rose bro- 
 cade drapery; the windows are warm with rich silk 
 hangings, and the view of the distant mountains is 
 enchanting. The carpet is thick enough to render 
 the heaviest footsteps noiseless. The fine old bed 
 is of noble size, with unfaded hangings, and 
 George Rex missed some delightful nights' rest 
 in it. 
 
 We were cordially welcomed by Mr. Webber: 
 the name sounds German but, as a matter of fact, 
 
^ 
 
 o 
 
 H 
 
MITCHELSTOWN CASTLE 375 
 
 this gentleman is the scion of an old Irish family. 
 Charles Lever has not created a more amusing 
 character than Frank Webber in Charles O'Mal- 
 ley. Mr. Wilham Downes Webber has a pretty- 
 taste himself in literature, and possesses a large 
 library and an unique history of Mexico. He has 
 been a traveller in many lands, has collected many 
 mementos, and is a remarkably vigorous gentle- 
 man, rising eighty, but still walking vigorously and 
 riding on horseback in the early morning. He 
 showed us through the rooms and even the base- 
 ment which, in spite of the humid climate of Ire- 
 land, is perfectly dry and light. There are in- 
 numerable kitchens, still-rooms, sculleries, wine- 
 cellars, laundries, drying-rooms, plate-rooms, and, 
 in fact, space for every conceivable convenience in 
 keeping a great house clean and in order. 
 
 I remember when visiting Ashburnham Place, 
 Lord Ashburnham spoke of his need of small 
 rooms. There was no place for a lonely man to 
 sit and be cosy; for the library, dining-room, 
 drawing-rooms, and billiard-room were all of such 
 vast proportions that the shadows in the corners 
 gave one quite an eerie feeling. The Earl of 
 Kingston has provided just such a small, com- 
 plete house in one wing of the Castle ; it comprises 
 a moderate-sized dining-room and library, a small 
 boudoir, cosy bedrooms, and a good kitchen and 
 accommodation for a limited stajff of servants. 
 
376 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 Mr. Webber prefers himself to live in the Castle, 
 but he sometimes lends this suite of apartments 
 to friends for the summer. 
 
 The Castle is built upon the site of the man- 
 sion, which was once surrounded by the present 
 beautiful grounds; the high wall has disappeared. 
 There are many romantic stories connected with 
 all the old Irish families, but none more thrilling 
 than the elopement of Mary King. Her father 
 was Robert, second Earl of Kingston, and he mar- 
 ried in 1769 the only daughter of Richard Fitz- 
 gerald, the Squire of Mount O'Phaly, County 
 Kildare. 
 
 It was discovered after the death of a young 
 brother of Lady Kingston, that he had left an 
 illegitimate son, who was called Henry Fitzgerald. 
 The boy was so beautiful and winning that when 
 his aunt saw him she constituted herself his guard- 
 ian and decided to bring him up with her own 
 children. And he not only won her heart, but, by 
 his persuasive and singular charm, he conquered 
 the affections of the whole Kingston family, par- 
 ticularly of his little cousin Mary, a child who 
 gave promise of being a great beauty. And, be- 
 side his power of fascination, Henry Fitzgerald 
 had more than the average intellect. Passing 
 his examinations well, he entered the Army at the 
 age of nineteen, and by dash and courage quickly 
 rose to the rank of Colonel. With a tall, hand- 
 
MITCHELSTOWN CASTLE 377 
 
 some figure, flashing blue eyes, regular features, 
 and a witty Irish tongue, he captured the heart of 
 an heiress, married her, and became very popular 
 in London Society. 
 
 In the meantime his little cousin, Mary King, 
 had grown up a remarkably beautiful girl of six- 
 teen. She could have been cast for the part of 
 Lady Godiva, for her splendid curling red hair, 
 reaching below her ankles, covered her like a royal 
 mantle. Her eyes were black, her teeth were 
 pearl-white, her figure was charming, and her 
 smile was said to be enchanting. Her cousin, re- 
 garded by the family as a son and brother, had 
 ample opportunity of intimate intercourse with 
 this lovely maiden, who, like a goddess, was the 
 personification of health, strength, and beauty, and 
 like a goddess she as mysteriously disappeared. 
 Going out to walk upon the lawn one morning she 
 was seen no more. 
 
 There were a thousand theories as to her dis- 
 appearance; gipsies had been seen in the neigh- 
 bourhood, and it was thought she might have been 
 abducted and forcibly carried away to be a gipsy 
 queen. But the gipsies were watched, and they 
 seemed quite satisfied with their own swarthy 
 ruler. The country and London were searched by 
 the Earl and his friends, but nothing was discov- 
 ered. The little river near Mitchelstown and even 
 the Thames was dragged. A small fortune was 
 
378 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 offered in reward for information which would 
 lead to the discovery, in life or death, of the beau- 
 tiful young girl, " tall and slim, with brilliant com- 
 plexion, dark eyes, and thick braids of red hair; " 
 so the bills described her. 
 
 But not even a rumour reached the distracted 
 parents ; it seemed as if she had been spirited away 
 by black magic, so complete was the silence. The 
 Countess of Kingston grew pale and thin, mourn- 
 ing her missing daughter; the Earl of Kingston 
 became nervous and irritable under the constant 
 speculation and strain. Finally, the family left 
 Mitchelstown and moved nearer London. The 
 police came and went almost daily to the house to 
 try and obtain a fresh clue. 
 
 During all this time Henry Fitzgerald was un- 
 remitting in his efforts to find his cousin. He was 
 constantly with her father. He helped to drag the 
 Thames. He continually interviewed the detec- 
 tives. He was always hopeful of finding the girl, 
 and he was a source of consolation and strength to 
 the anguished mother. 
 
 At length some uncertain information reached 
 Lord Kingston which made him hope that his 
 daughter was still alive. The post-boy one day 
 informed him that he was employed by a stranger, 
 a handsome gentleman, to drive him the week 
 before to London. As they were about a mile 
 from the city, they overtook a beautiful young 
 
MITCHELSTOWN CASTLE 379 
 
 lady walking on the road, she was tall, with dark 
 eyes, and splendid braids of hair which stood out 
 like a halo from either side of her head. The 
 gentleman, who was driving, asked if she was going 
 to London, and she said yes. The gentleman was 
 then mighty civil, and said, " If you will take a 
 seat, Madam, I will put you down at your own 
 door." She thanked him, and entered the car- 
 riage. When they got as far as Temple Bar he 
 put them down and they seemed quite friendly and 
 went away together. The gentleman paid him 
 very well. The description answered so accurately 
 to Mary King's appearance that Lord Kingston 
 put forth fresh efforts to find his daughter. He 
 spoke to Colonel Fitzgerald, who seemed deeply 
 impressed by the information, but there was no 
 further news of her, and but for her singularly 
 beautiful rich hair, the mystery might have re- 
 mained for ever unsolved. 
 
 In those days maidservants read very little. 
 And some of them could not read at all. But in 
 the lodging-house where Mary King lived one of 
 them seems to have been the usual sharp, observant 
 London slavey. She placed the Honourable Mary 
 under observation, and one day, unexpectedly 
 entering the young lady's room, she saw a pair of 
 sharp scissors and a great mantle of lovely waving 
 red hair lying on the counterpane, and Mary King 
 in short curls stood weeping by the bed. The maid 
 
380 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 managed to secure a lock of this wonderful hair, 
 and with it she journeyed to the house occupied 
 by the Kingstons. When she asked for the 
 Countess of Kingston it was with such mysterious 
 assurance that the butler unhesitatingly led her 
 to the Countess, saying the young woman wanted 
 to see her on a matter of great importance. After 
 the door of the boudoir was closed, she told the 
 story of the beautiful young lady who lived in a 
 lodging-house in Clayton Street, Kennington, with 
 her husband, a very handsome and distinguished 
 gentleman. He had brought her there about three 
 weeks before, and he was very loving to her, but 
 was sometimes absent. The young lady would 
 then stand looking out of the window for hours, 
 weeping, and one day she had sobbed aloud and 
 cut off all her beautiful hair. The girl then handed 
 the long red curl to Lady Kingston, who pressed it 
 to her heart, almost fainting. 
 
 At this moment Colonel Fitzgerald opened the 
 door and entered the room. He had arrived for 
 one of his usual visits of sympathy and condolence. 
 When the servant-maid saw him she divined a 
 tragedy, and rising to her feet made a dramatic 
 gesture, saying, " That is the man, my lady." 
 " No ! Oh, my God, no ! " said Lady Kingston, 
 and fainted. Frightened and confounded, Colonel 
 Fitzgerald rushed from the house. He was 
 quickly followed by Lord and Lady Kingston, 
 
MITCHELSTOWN CASTLE 381 
 
 who found their daughter in Kennington. They 
 were able to persuade her to start at once with 
 them to Mitchelstown. The girl had been brought 
 up in the shadow of the beautiful Galtee Moun- 
 tains and was homesick for the open-air life of 
 Ireland. She was only sixteen, and no young girl 
 of that age has a realisation of the grand passion. 
 Romance, adventure, many things may appeal to 
 her, but not an abiding love. I daresay that in a 
 short time she was forgetful, quite happy, and 
 properly repentant, but according to the manner of 
 the times, the outraged family honour required 
 vindication. Girls of the present day protect their 
 own honour. In the eighteenth century men did it 
 for them. 
 
 Robert King, Mary's brother, challenged 
 Colonel Fitzgerald to a duel, and it was fought in 
 Hyde Park — probably near the Serpentine, in the 
 early morning in October, 1797. The two young 
 men stood under the splendid trees, only ten paces 
 away from each other. Colonel Fitzgerald was 
 alone, as he had not been able to find, among all 
 his fashionable friends, any man who would act 
 as his second. His conduct in their eyes, and in 
 the eyes of the whole world, had debarred him to 
 all claim of gentlemanhood. These cousins, who 
 had been brought up as brothers, no doubt were 
 both filled with emotion, and their hands were 
 unsteady, for no less than four shots were fired 
 
382 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 without effect. Perhaps, in spite of all that had 
 happened, neither wished to kill the other. When 
 the last shot went astray. Colonel Fitzgerald said 
 quite humbly: 
 
 " May I ask advice from you, Major Wood, as 
 a friend?" Major Wood said, "I disclaim any 
 friendship now and for ever with you. Colonel 
 Fitzgerald, but if you acknowledge your base 
 conduct, the affair is at an end." Colonel Fitz- 
 gerald replied, " I am willing to admit that I have 
 acted wrongly." Major Wood was not satisfied 
 with so tepid an apology. The duel was renewed, 
 and two more shots were exchanged without injury 
 to the combatants. Colonel Fitzgerald, having 
 fired all the powder he had brought, asked Major 
 Wood to supply him with more, or to allow him 
 the use of one of Robert King's pistols. Major 
 Wood declined both of these proposals, and said 
 the duel would have to be renewed the next morn- 
 ing; but the police got wind of it and arrested both 
 the young men. When they were set at liberty. 
 Colonel Fitzgerald travelled incognito to Ireland, 
 with the intention of persuading Mary King to a 
 second elopement, and he went to live in the httle 
 town of Mitchelstown, which is not far from the 
 Castle. Probably the hotel that stands there now 
 was the veritable inn that gave him hospitality. 
 
 The innkeeper was both curious and suspicious 
 about his distinguished and solitary guest, a gen- 
 
MITCHELSTOWN CASTLE 383 
 
 tieman in manner and bearing, who knew nobody 
 in the neighbourhood, and, both strong and active, 
 shut himself up in his room by day and only ven- 
 tured out by night. 
 
 At this time the Kilworth Mountains were the 
 hiding-place of a very well-known band of high- 
 way robbers. Captain Brennan, a handsome, reck- 
 less dare-devil, was not unlike Colonel Fitzgerald 
 in appearance ; and it was a natural mistake of the 
 innkeeper to tell Lord Kingston that he was sure 
 he harboured under his roof the veritable highway- 
 man, for whom Lord Kingston in command of the 
 Yeomanry was searching. The anxious father in- 
 stantly suspected a case of mistaken identity, and 
 he resolved that if another duel was fought, it 
 should not be a bloodless encounter. Seeing Lord 
 Kingston's rage, and not being able to define the 
 reason, the innkeeper betrayed his nervousness to 
 Colonel Fitzgerald, who took alarm and left 
 Mitchelstown for Kilworth. 
 
 It was evening when Lord Kingston and his 
 son. Colonel King, arrived at the hotel in Kil- 
 worth. He asked whether a guest had arrived 
 there that day, and was told that a handsome gen- 
 tleman had just gone to his room. Lord King- 
 ston sent the waiter with his compliments to the 
 unknown guest, and said he wished to see him on a 
 matter of business. The door was locked, and 
 Colonel Fitzgerald did not open it, but called out 
 
384 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 that owing to the late hour he could not attend to 
 any business. Lord Kingston recognised the 
 seductive voice of his ungrateful nephew, and he 
 and his son went to the door and loudly knocked, 
 demanding entrance. There was silence, but the 
 lock was weak, it yielded to pressure; and they 
 rushed into the bedroom to find Colonel Fitz- 
 gerald dressed and armed with a brace of pistols. 
 
 Robert King seized and tried to disarm him. 
 The two men were clasped in a silent, death-like 
 grip, when Lord Kingston, trembling with ex- 
 citement, fired, and Fitzgerald fell. Dr. Pigot, 
 of Kilworth, was sent for, but could do nothing. 
 And Henry Fitzgerald only lived a few minutes. 
 When he ceased to breathe Lord Kingston rode 
 like the wind to More Park, dismounted, and 
 sought his brother-in-law, saying, " My God, I've 
 killed him! I don't know how I did it. But — 
 oh, I most sincerely wish it had been by another 
 hand than mine." He then offered to take his 
 trial. 
 
 Bills of indictment were prepared and put be- 
 fore a grand jury, which was composed of gentle- 
 men of the highest rank. The Earl of Kingston 
 and his son Robert were charged with the crime of 
 murder. Subsequently, the Indictment formed at 
 the Cork Spring Assizes was moved by certiorari 
 to the High Court of Parliament, in order that the 
 Earl should be tried by his Peers. On the 18th 
 
MITCHELSTOWN CASTLE 385 
 
 of May, 1798, the House of Lords in Dublin ac- 
 quitted him, there being no evidence to sustain 
 the Indictment. Robert King and John Harvey, 
 a friend, who were with him the night of the mur- 
 der, were tried by Petty Jury. They were ac- 
 quitted, for no witnesses could be brought forward 
 to sustain the prosecution. 
 
 Probably Colonel Henry Fitzgerald's friends 
 could more easily have forgiven his elopement with 
 Mary King of the beautiful hair — for well could 
 the reckless man have said, "And she strangled 
 my soul in a mesh of her gold-coloured hair " — 
 than his unforgivable sin, black hypocrisy. 
 
 When one thinks of his daily visits to the 
 Countess ; his frank demeanour to Lord Kingston, 
 and his constant interviews with the detectives, 
 shooting seems too good for him. 
 
 His wife, who apparently sank into an early 
 insignificance, I hope was consoled by a more 
 honourably minded gentleman, after her husband's 
 timely death. 
 
 Mary King's story had an unexpected and con- 
 ventional ending, not at all in accord with her 
 dramatic debut. For she neither ran away a 
 second time, nor did she go on the stage. She went 
 instead to England, under the name of one of the 
 collateral branches of her family, and lived with 
 the widow of a clergyman of the established 
 Church of Wales. This lady was the head of the 
 
386 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 house of her son, a young clergyman, who must 
 have been a man of parts, as he possessed a com- 
 fortable living. He seems conveniently devoid of 
 curiosity, for he knew nothing, nor did he ask 
 anything, about the enchanting being, gifted with 
 charm, a lovely person, and an eloquent Irish 
 tongue, who was living under his roof. 
 
 Mary King missed her true vocation in not 
 becoming an actress, as her sense of drama is 
 undeniable. Like Wilkie CoUins's New Magdalen, 
 she was moved to make a thrilling confession, say- 
 ing that she had been reading a book — she did not 
 add that it was a book of life — and in appealing 
 tones, with suppressed emotion, she revealed her 
 wrong, her flight, her discovery, her return to her 
 beloved mountains, and her final repentance. The 
 cleric was deeply moved at her convincing recital, 
 and at the psychological moment she fervently ex- 
 claimed, " Behold, I am the Woman." — And a 
 very considerable woman she was, especially for a 
 clergyman to tackle. However, he must have felt 
 himself equal to the task, although at the moment, 
 he is described as being naturally shocked. But 
 Mary King had been a very young Magdalen. 
 Her eyes were very bright, and her voice was very 
 sweet. He said, what man has said from time 
 immemorial to beautiful woman under like cir- 
 cumstances, — and what he will say ever again, 
 — that, " She was more sinned against than 
 
MITCHELSTOWN CASTLE 387 
 
 sinning." Long red hair is a valuable asset for 
 a sinner. 
 
 Her spiritual adviser so greatly pitied that it 
 did not take him long to forgive, — nor to love 
 her. He desired to compensate her for all she 
 had suffered, and, as an honourable gentleman, 
 offered her the protection of his hand, which she 
 gratefully accepted, and became after marriage a 
 most devoted wife and mother, and an exemplary 
 parson's lady. Thus the thrilling romance of a 
 three-volume novel ended unexpectedly in a peace- 
 ful rectory in Wales. 
 
MY IRISH YEAR 
 
 The Irish say, " The first thread is not of the 
 piece," so I have given myself time enough 
 in Ireland for the weaving of threads. Three 
 American naval officers stationed in Queenstown, 
 were talking to me to-day. One of them said the 
 best book on China was written by a man who had 
 never been in it. This may be possible of China, 
 but it could not be true of Ireland. There are so 
 many misrepresentations of the country, the cli- 
 mate, and the people, that to form a correct judg- 
 ment each individual must see for himself. I 
 have lived in Ireland considerably over a year now, 
 and I can only speak of the people as I have 
 found them: agreeable, obliging, and easy to get 
 along with. And reHable? Quite as rehable as 
 any other nationahty, for as Josh Billings said, 
 when some one asked him what he thought of the 
 French people, " Human nature generally pre- 
 vails." Sometimes it is more, sometimes it is less, 
 and in a different manner — but it prevails, until 
 we go Up or Down, as the case may be. 
 
 I have travelled a good deal, and in my opinion 
 the two nations the least greedy for money are the 
 Norwegians and the Irish. And Ireland offers to 
 those of moderate income almost every advantage. 
 
 388 
 
MY IRISH YEAR 389 
 
 Life in the country is most agreeable. Horses 
 are good; labour is cheap; vegetables and flowers 
 are easily raised; and people are not straining 
 every nerve to dress fashionably and live with 
 extravagance of detail; health, neighbourliness, 
 an outing now and then, this constitutes their 
 happiness. 
 
 And Dublin is pre-eminently a comfortable 
 place to live. Large enough for independence of 
 thought and action, and small enough to have peo- 
 ple humanly interested in one's welfare. The old 
 Georgian houses with their beautiful front doors, 
 fanlights, stucco, ornamentations, and fine mantel- 
 pieces are to be had at a low rental, or there are 
 small houses in Rathmines or elsewhere of de- 
 cided prepossessing individuahty. A httle grey 
 house in Wellington Place, with two tall chim- 
 neys, looks like a fairy godmother's house; there 
 are raspberry bushes and a cherry tree in the gar- 
 den, and I envy the occupants of it. The wages of 
 servants are very moderate. The markets are 
 good. " Little dressmakers " are excellent, and 
 the Sisters of Charity do exquisite needlework and 
 embroidery. If fashionable, smart society is de- 
 sired there is the Castle, the Viceroy, the officials 
 about him, and the "Castle set"; if literary so- 
 ciety is the preference, there are the intellectuals 
 who talk brilliantly and write brilliant books. 
 Dublin is small enough to avoid fatigue, as the 11- 
 
390 HERSELF— IRELAND 
 
 braries, the picture galleries, and the shops are 
 within walking distance of each other. It rains 
 a good deal, but the rain from silvery skies is 
 light and soft; the air is pure, and there are no 
 fogs. During the whole of last winter it was never 
 necessary to resort to artificial light during the 
 day. The blackness and gloom of London are quite 
 unknown here. 
 
 And any one with a liking for pictures, old 
 mirrors and glass, enamels and china, old furni- 
 ture, and old prints can make a collection in Dub- 
 lin to better financial advantage than in London. 
 Ireland is by no means exhausted of treasures in 
 art. Quite recently a picture was sold in Galway 
 for a few pounds which afterwards reahsed three 
 thousand in the English market. At the sale of an 
 unpretentious country mansion, the old silver, and 
 Waterford glass on a moderate sized dining-table 
 was estimated at being worth six thousand pounds. 
 In Irish country houses there are pictures by 
 Romney, Reynolds, and Hugh Hamilton — the dis- 
 tinguished Irish artist — Gainsborough, Battoni, 
 Kneller, Amigoni, Van Scorel, Mignard, and other 
 of the immortals. 
 
 Professor William Magennis has made his fine 
 collection entirely in Dublin; among his pictures 
 are examples of Lely, Rubens, Fran9ois, Boucher, 
 Carlo Dulci, Caspar, Poussin, Van Artois, Van 
 Uden, Teniers, Jannsen, and a number of the 
 
MY IRISH YEAR 391 
 
 best-known Irish painters, among them Bingham 
 Guinness, who is popular in America, Edwin 
 Hayes, and Collis Watkins. If after buying an 
 old picture restoration is necessary, Sir Hugh Lane 
 said there was no one better than Nairn, whose 
 father and grandfather were artists before him. 
 Personally, my Irish year has been a pleasant 
 and profitable one; the friends I have made have 
 been kind — I could not have written Herself — 
 Ireland without their help. The extraordinary 
 memory and intelligent suggestions of Professor 
 Wilham Magennis have been of especial value to 
 me. And I have tested the worth of friendship 
 by last winter getting a poisonous attack of com- 
 municable influenza and lavishly distributing it to 
 my visitors, but they generously forgave me. I 
 was rather ill for some weeks, and found it possible 
 to do without a nurse, from the constant care and 
 attention which was ungrudgingly given me in the 
 Shelbourne Hotel. When I go away from Ireland 
 I shall be sorry to say good-bye, and it will warm 
 my heart to return again to these kindly people 
 and green shores. But — who knows — perhaps I 
 shall not say good-bye! 
 
 The Shelboubne Hotel, 
 August \st, 1917. 
 
 THE END 
 
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