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SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
Old Blarney Castle. 
 
 The most noted structure of its kind in the world. 
 Cannae McCarthy in 1446. 
 
 It was erected by 
 
SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 RAMBLE THROUGH IRELAND 
 
 BY 
 
 PLUMMER F. JONES 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY 
 
 1908 
 
Copyright, 1908, 631 
 
 MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 Published, September, 1908 
 
 
 
 I LIBRARY of CONGRESS I 
 
 Two 001 
 
 21 1808 1 
 
 
 «wtej 
 
 The Plimpton Press Norwood Mass. USA.. 
 
DeUicateQ to 
 MY PARENTS 
 
 FROM WHOM I INHERITED A LOVE FOR NATURE 
 
 AND A SYMPATHY FOR MY 
 
 FELLOW-MEN 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 I. First Glimpses of Ireland i 
 
 II. Old Cork and the Castle of Blarney . . 30 
 
 III. Walks and Talks with the People of Kil- 
 
 LARNEY 58 
 
 IV. A Ramble through the Golden Vale of Tip- 
 
 PERARY . 87 
 
 V. On a Jaunting-car in Tipperary .... 118 
 
 VI. With the Peat-cutters in Galway . . . 147 
 
 VII. Gal way's Tragedy — The First Lynching 175 
 
 VIII. In Quest of Goldsmith's Deserted Village . 198 
 
 IX. The Irish Woman — Aristocrat and Peasant 218 
 
 X. The Two Irelands — North and South . . 247 
 
 XI. Rural Ireland as it is To-day 282 
 
 XII. Sunset at the Giant's Causeway .... 313 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 FACING 
 PAGE 
 
 Old Blarney Castle Frontispiece ' 
 
 Queenstown and Her Harbor 10 
 
 An Irish Train, Primitive as all Irish Trains are ... 16 
 Round Tower and Village Street in Cloyne, near Cork Har- 
 bor 18' 
 
 Mardyke Walk, Cork 34 
 
 A Post-office, Three Miles from Cork 42 
 
 Blarney Castle, near Cork 48 
 
 On an Irish Road , 56 
 
 Old Weir Bridge — Killarney 64 
 
 Upper Lake — Killarney 66 
 
 A Lane in Killarney Town 72. 
 
 The Lower Lake, Killarney 80 
 
 Old Ross Castle on the Lower Lake, Killarney .... 86 
 
 In an Alley of an Inland Irish Town 102 
 
 A Cromlech, near Dundalk 106 
 
 Old Cross and Round Tower no 
 
 View from the Summit of the Rock of Cashel . . . . 116 
 
 The Irish Jaunting-car 118 
 
 A Typical Irish Landscape 124 
 
 A Road in Tipperary 128 
 
 "The Top o' the Morning to Ye" 136 
 
 An Irish Country Store 142 
 
 A Rural School 152 - 
 
 In Sight of the Grassy Fields 160 
 
 On His Knees in a Potato Patch 164 
 
x LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 FACING 
 PAGE 
 
 In a Galway Peat Bog 166 ' 
 
 Three Half-grown White Shoats Emerged from the Open 
 
 Doorway 172 < 
 
 "From that Window Walter Lynch was Flung" . . . 196, 
 
 Standing Bare-legged on a Rocky Irish Hillside . . . 202 / 
 "Glory to God! Amuriky will yet be th' Home of this 
 
 Ould Mon" 204' 
 
 Ruins of the Goldsmith Home 206 
 
 In the Heart of the Deserted Village — a Home that has 
 
 Survived 212 < 
 
 Ruins of the "Busy Mill," Goldsmith's Deserted Village . 214 
 
 Tavern — the Three Jolly Pigeons, the Deserted Village . 216^ 
 
 View from the Home of One of the Gentry 220 „ 
 
 Milking the Goat 226 . 
 
 An Old Timer Coming Home from the Wood .... 236^ 
 
 Peddling Turf — Twelve Sods a Penny 238 
 
 A Seller of Blackthorn Sticks 242 / 
 
 A Landscape View of North Ireland 264 / 
 
 Homes in Southwestern Ireland 270 - 
 
 Coragher's Farm, the Home of the Ancestry of President 
 
 McKinley 282' 
 
 Landscape — Western Ireland „ 284 ' 
 
 An Irish Interior , 292 
 
 The Vale of Glendalough, County Wicklow , 304 << 
 
 A Bit of Coast in North Ireland „ 318 
 
 Dunluce Castle, near the Giant's Causeway . 324 
 
 Sunset at the Giant's Causeway 332 f 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 This book is only an account of a summer 
 ramble through Ireland. I entered the coun- 
 try a total stranger, interested in the island 
 chiefly on account of what I had heard and 
 read of its people, its old ruins, its stories and 
 legends, and the reputed beauty of its land- 
 scapes. I traveled through sixteen of the 
 thirty-two counties, visiting each of the four 
 divisions of the island, North, East, South and 
 West, and coming in contact with all classes 
 and conditions of its citizens, from those who 
 lived in marble front houses in the cities to 
 the inhabitants of one-room mud huts in the 
 mountains of the West and the bogs of the 
 interior. When I sailed away from the port 
 of Larne for Scotland I felt that I had had a 
 remarkable experience. 
 
 In this book I have added to what I actually 
 saw and heard bits of Irish history gathered 
 from reliable sources and some interesting 
 legends which I had little difficulty in picking 
 
xii INTRODUCTION 
 
 up along the way. These additions may serve 
 to give to the reader a view-point similar to that 
 which I possessed when engaged in this pleas- 
 ant ramble. 
 
 I trust that no reader will hold me too strictly 
 to account for any apparent opinions which 
 may be directly or indirectly expressed in the 
 book. I have not intended to express opinions, 
 because I have such an imperfect knowledge 
 of Irish history, politics and character that I 
 do not feel competent to draw conclusions in 
 matters which have puzzled wise men for cen- 
 turies. Besides this, I have not the least desire 
 to change any one's views on the Irish ques- 
 tion. I myself have no definite views; and I 
 hope that however great my knowledge of Ire- 
 land or Irish affairs may in the future become, 
 I will never allow myself to be tied down to a 
 side. 
 
 Such impressions as were made upon me by 
 my contact with the Irish people in their own 
 country are altogether unprejudiced impres- 
 sions. There is no reason why they should be 
 otherwise. For I am an American citizen, 
 and my ancestors came to Virginia so long ago 
 that I do not hold the slightest allegiance to 
 
INTRODUCTION xiii 
 
 the several lands from which they came; least 
 of all have I any personal interest in Ireland's 
 troubles with England. 
 
 To me this summer trip through Ireland was 
 a delightful one; I shall never forget it. I was 
 altogether charmed with all that I saw — not 
 only with the scenery and the ruins of that 
 fascinating land, but with the people them- 
 selves, their manners, their quaint speech, their 
 wit, their pathos, and their unbounded hos- 
 pitality. If in this book I can convey to the 
 reader even in an imperfect way the impres- 
 sions which those things I saw and heard in 
 Ireland made upon me I shall feel amply re- 
 warded for my task. 
 
 While on this trip and after my return home 
 I wrote a number of articles and sketches, 
 recording impressions of the country and its 
 people, which were widely circulated. I would 
 like, therefore, to acknowledge my indebted- 
 ness to the following American magazines 
 and newspapers, in each of which appeared 
 one or more articles from which I have drawn 
 matter for use in this book: The American 
 Monthly Review of Reviews, The World To- 
 day, The Book News Monthly, The Interior, 
 
xiv INTRODUCTION 
 
 The National Home Journal, The Pittsburg 
 Dispatch, The Providence Journal, The Rich- 
 mond Times-Dispatch, and the Columbia (S. C.) 
 State. 
 
 Plummer F. Jones. 
 
SHAMROCK-LAND 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 FIRST GLIMPSES OF IRELAND 
 
 IT was the afternoon of a June day, and a 
 cold, biting wind swept the decks of the great 
 ocean steamship which a few days before had 
 set sail from America for Queenstown and 
 Liverpool. The day had dawned bright, and 
 clear, and cold, — just such a day as one who 
 was reared in a Middle Atlantic State is accus- 
 tomed to associate with early October, — the 
 opening of chestnut burrs, the jay's shrill cry, 
 and the tang of autumn fields. Yet before 
 noon, contrary to every American notion of 
 climatic virtue, the air began to fill with a blind- 
 ing, stinging mist which settled down over the 
 ocean like a pall. 
 
 The ocean chart, posted in the cabin at noon, 
 had indicated that we were within a hundred 
 and thirty miles of Queenstown. Eyes that had 
 grown tired of the gray monotony of the ocean 
 
2 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 now brightened as they peered through the 
 gloom for some sign of the journey's end. Land 
 could not be far away, for seagulls and swallows 
 had begun to follow behind our vessel, and far 
 off ahead in the misty distance steamers with 
 long trails of black smoke passed beyond our 
 range of vision bearing the commerce of a 
 foreign world. Out in front of us three naked 
 spars stood between our ship and the gloomy 
 sky. About this vessel, scattered here and 
 there upon the sea, little black specks rose and 
 fell with the waves. It was a fleet of dark- 
 sailed fishing craft, manned by fishermen of 
 swarthy complexion and the strong, firm fea- 
 tures of the Celt. They waved us a rough 
 welcome from their unsteady boats as we 
 passed. 
 
 A rift appeared in the storm-clouds and the 
 swirling waste of mist. The red sun struggled 
 out of the gloom, sending long lines of light 
 across the white-capped waves. Far away on 
 the north, peering through a melting cloud of 
 vapor, and swept with restless winds, arose — 
 ah! how wondrous in beauty! — an opaline 
 mountain of Ireland! What a significance that 
 thus through storm and darkness should have 
 
FIRST GLIMPSES OF IRELAND 3 
 
 come to us the first glimpse of this strange, sor- 
 rowful island of the sea! 
 
 It was Lord Beaconsfield who in the climax 
 of a great speech ascribed all the troubles of 
 Ireland to the fact that she is surrounded by a 
 melancholy ocean. And who indeed can resist 
 the thought that the minds of men are gov- 
 erned and their dispositions and temperaments 
 largely determined by the sky under which they 
 live and the horizon by which they are circum- 
 scribed ? 
 
 Picture, if you can, a jagged line of shore, 
 with mighty cliffs lifting themselves above the 
 gray waste of sea, the scarps and mountains 
 broken and bare, the crumbling boulders fretted 
 with the furious lashings of storm-waves which 
 have beaten in with dreadful monotony since 
 the very beginnings of time. Then think of 
 that sea stretched far, far out until its restless 
 infinitude becomes one with the sky of wind- 
 driven cloud and melting, twisting skeins of 
 streaming rain. And see the country behind, 
 rocky, worn, and bare, swept with the storm and 
 soaked with rain. And farther back still the 
 tall mountains rise, their sides breasting the 
 tempest, their tops enshrouded with fog which 
 
4 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 clings to the layer of wet snow. And think of 
 the bleak winters of this far northern land, 
 with short gray days and long, long nights of 
 gloom. 
 
 Then think of him and of her who dwell 
 within that stocky gray hut of stone at the base 
 of the cliff or in a hollow on the mountain side, 
 bending low over the peat-fire, dreaming and 
 crooning to the sound of the storm which howls 
 around the eaves of thatch or dashes in gusts 
 down the chimney and scatters the turf-embers 
 about the hearth. And when at last the gray 
 dawn comes, see them go quietly out and stand 
 on the rocky hillside and gaze across the check- 
 ered wind-swept fields. 
 
 Ah! what wonder that a soul, dwelling thus 
 in the shadow of storm, should drink in some- 
 thing of its strife, and take unto itself a portion 
 of its energy and unrest! And who but can 
 see, as an Irishman has recently pointed out, 
 that the sons who have drunken terror and 
 hatred of the sea with their mother's milk should 
 have gotten into their blood "some of its salt 
 bitterness, its mystery and melancholy," and 
 that the race upon the shore, though with sun- 
 shine hidden in the heart, should wear ever a 
 
FIRST GLIMPSES OF IRELAND 5 
 
 quiver upon the lip, and dwell always upon the 
 very borderland of tears ? 
 
 We passed Glandore Harbor and Ross Car- 
 bery Bay, and old Galley Head, dripping and 
 damp. Then came Clonakilty, and Seven Heads 
 and Courtmacsherry Bay, and the Old Head 
 of Kinsale, with lights ablaze, projecting far 
 out into the waves. Then the signals from our 
 ship, — red and blue and green, — and rapidly 
 passing lights upon the shore. An old Irish- 
 man, square-jawed, black-haired, blue-eyed, 
 stood for a long time with his hand upon the 
 rail weeping silently. His boyhood had been 
 spent upon one of those rocky hillsides in the 
 distance, under whose stones lay buried the 
 bones of the old ones he had long ago parted 
 from at the lowly cabin door. He had come 
 back at last to gather a sprig of shamrock from 
 their graves. 
 
 We sailed along the coast whose giant cliffs 
 reeked with greenness. Sometimes far in the 
 distance, along some mountain slope, we saw 
 white stone cottages sprinkled about; and as 
 we passed nearer we could discern through the 
 fog a network of gray stone fences which check- 
 ered the smooth grassy hills, dividing pasture 
 
6 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 from pasture, and separating sheepwalk from 
 sheepwalk. At nine o'clock the Irish twilight 
 gave way to darkness filled with fog and rain. 
 
 At midnight we reached the mouth of Queens- 
 town Harbor. A tender came alongside our 
 vessel, lashed to her sides, and began to take 
 on the passengers and the mail. The first genu- 
 ine product of Ireland which I saw at close 
 range in Irish territory was an old man with 
 turned-up coat collar, greasy vest, heavy brogan 
 shoes, and stove-in derby hat, selling pink and 
 green newspapers to the passengers at a penny 
 apiece. When he first stepped upon the gang- 
 plank he commenced vociferously to shout his 
 wares: "The Cor-r-k Examiner! The gra-a-te 
 newspaper! All the news of the worruld! Jist 
 wan pinny apiece !" He had come in so sud- 
 denly upon us, and his appearance was so lu- 
 dicrous that it seemed but natural he should 
 have aroused all the pent-up facetiousness of a 
 shipload of people. They plied him with all 
 kinds of foolish questions, offered absurd trades, 
 and made him the butt of innumerable jokes 
 and jests. But he was used, it seemed, to such 
 experiences. With a smile upon his face that 
 increased into a chuckle, then into a roar, as he 
 
FIRST GLIMPSES OF IRELAND 7 
 
 jostled those in his way, he scored every point 
 against a shipful of antagonists. In measuring 
 wit against this old son of Erin one might as 
 well have been opposing Gibraltar with a blun- 
 derbuss. Blackguarding and bantering was his 
 profession, newspaper selling only a pleasant 
 avocation. 
 
 We steamed five miles north into Queenstown 
 Harbor, our course for some distance being 
 almost overhung with hills that seemed to show 
 a touch of greenness in the semi-darkness. One 
 old Irishman on board, coming back to the 
 mother country on a visit after a residence of 
 thirty years in the United States, was fired with 
 enthusiasm at the sight of the old hills. The 
 Yankee twang left him. Every sentence he 
 uttered was in the richest Kilkenny brogue. 
 Pointing proudly to the hills on each side of the 
 rapidly-moving little tender, he said between 
 his teeth: "There's enough cannon under them 
 hills to blow ye all to flinders! We could sink 
 ivery ship in th' Yankee navy into Davy Jones' 
 locker in tin minutes by th' clock. Glory be 
 to God!" 
 
 A priest was standing by in the darkness and 
 heard the remark. "Ah! Dinnis, and did ye 
 
8 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 forget the ward fight in Pittsburg lahst year and 
 ye bearing the great brass American eagle in 
 front of the parade ? Blow the Yankees to 
 flinders, is it? Ah! Dinnis! Dinnis!" The old 
 fellow grinned and turned shamefacedly away, 
 but there were those in the crowd who found 
 it easy to forgive him for thus forgetting himself 
 in the shadow of the old home hills. 
 
 When we disembarked from the little steamer 
 a curious crowd of men and boys, packed closely 
 about the gang-plank, eyed us with unending 
 curiosity. But their mute inquisitiveness was 
 returned in kind by one member of our party at 
 least, for they could not have given the Ameri- 
 cans a more careful scrutiny than I gave them. 
 They were proper objects of study. Before 
 going into the custom house I made it a point to 
 go up and engage in conversation with a rather 
 strangely dressed youth of eighteen or twenty 
 years of age. The light of his piercing gray eye 
 and the round rich brogue remained with more 
 vividness in my memory than any other impres- 
 sion of the night. He was versed in everything 
 of local import, and he imparted information 
 with lightning-like rapidity. 
 
 In the custom house the usual formalities were 
 
FIRST GLIMPSES OF IRELAND 9 
 
 observed. The officers, though stolid and me- 
 chanical in the discharge of their duties, pos- 
 sessed that one characteristic of the Irish public 
 servant — kindness. 
 
 Down an ancient street, facing the water, 
 flickering lights revealed the door of a hostelry. 
 Assigned a room by a woman clerk, and led 
 circuitously thereto by a porter in livery, I was 
 soon buried in a wilderness of feathers and lost 
 in downy dreams. 
 
 The white sunshine, filtering through the 
 branches of a gnarled old elm-tree and falling 
 across the window-sill upon the wall at my head, 
 awakened me to the fact that it was morning in 
 Ireland! While dressing I looked out of the 
 window into a little court or yard enclosed with 
 a great stone wall, gray with age, and surmounted 
 with pickets of rusting iron. A cat with two 
 kittens played in the sunshine, and a string of 
 geese filed slowly past the iron gate. A little 
 cart, drawn by a brown donkey, and driven by a 
 boy with breeches extending half-way from his 
 knees to his ankles, went slowly up a sunny 
 lane. In the far distance I heard the hoarse 
 whistles of steamers, and nearer at hand the sub- 
 dued sound of movement in the streets outside. 
 
io SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 In the dining-room a waiter with a quizzical 
 Hibernian face served me with a pot of hot 
 cocoa and mutton chops. Then I went out 
 into the street. The day was clear and warm. 
 The rich June sunshine streamed down upon 
 the harbor shut in with smooth green hills. 
 Sails glistened in the distance. The whole 
 wide landscape dazzled one with its richness 
 and splendor. White roads wound up the slop- 
 ing hills in the distance. Old castles, gray with 
 age, lay half buried in the rich shade of trees 
 gnarled and bent with age. 
 
 Queenstown is built upon the hillside in ter- 
 races, its buildings gleaming like variegated 
 porcelain in full exposure to the southern sun. 
 The harbor is naturally one of the most beauti- 
 ful in the world, and the surroundings are rich 
 with history extending back to the earliest dawn 
 of Celtic life. The town itself was known as 
 'The Cove of Cork" until 1849, wnen i ts name 
 was changed to Queenstown in honor of a visit 
 paid it in that year by the Queen. Its popula- 
 tion is said to be about twelve thousand. I was 
 told that the immediate town is not an ancient 
 one, as towns go in Ireland, but it presents an 
 ancient appearance to a traveler fresh from 
 
o 
 
MRS! GLIMPSES OF IRELAND n 
 
 the west. John Wesley either visited or passed 
 through Queenstown, or Cove, in 1752, and he 
 recorded that "there was nothing to be bought 
 there — neither flesh, nor fish, nor butter, nor 
 cheese, so I was obliged to be well contented 
 with some eggs and bread." But since his 
 day a substantial little city with every modern 
 convenience for the traveler has been built. 
 Though many ancient castles and forts adorned 
 the hills centuries before this time, the town 
 itself is a product of the activities first in- 
 duced by the American Revolution, and con- 
 tinued by the departure of the emigrant vessels 
 which for the past three-quarters of a century 
 have been draining the richest life-blood from 
 Ireland. Emigration from Ireland received its 
 first great impetus at the time of the potato 
 famine in central, southern, and western Ireland, 
 about 1846, and has continued to this day. 
 Two or three times a week vessels sail away 
 from Cork Harbor, bearing the best of what is 
 left in the old island after six decades of unre- 
 mitting exodus. The population of the island 
 has been reduced from more than eight million 
 in 1845 t0 a little over f° ur million in 1901, the 
 time of the last census. Throughout Ireland 
 
12 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 those who are left behind speak of Queenstown 
 with subdued voices and sighs. It is safe to 
 say that there are not a dozen families in the 
 island who have not at some time lost a brother 
 or a sister or a child or a relative or a friend 
 through this port of tears. 
 
 I walked about the little city and observed 
 its strange sights. The houses were stolid and 
 squatty and strong, built of stone or stucco, 
 and, outside of the immediate town, were covered 
 with straw or thatch. The trees even were 
 gnarled, and bent, and old, and furnished the 
 densest shade. The grass, luscious and flourish- 
 ing, covered every portion of the land, except 
 the bare rocks, with a smooth and velvety green. 
 
 I wondered as I strolled along, immersed as I 
 was in a whirlpool of unusualness, whether 
 traveler ever entered a strange land with the 
 curiosity and interest with which I entered Ire- 
 land. Every rook that croaked and cawed from 
 beetling chimney-top engaged my attention; and 
 every ragged boy on his way to school was a 
 source of unending wonder and amusement. 
 
 Upon the corner of a street I saw my first 
 jaunting-car. It was a two-wheeled vehicle, 
 with a seat for the driver in the front and two 
 
FIRST GLIMPSES OF IRELAND 13 
 
 other seats, back to back, with footboards hung 
 over the wheels, for passengers. When there is 
 but one passenger the driver sits over the oppo- 
 site wheel to balance him. The driver of the 
 car which stood before me came up and en- 
 gaged me in conversation, and suggested that 
 I take a "dhrive" with him. I allowed him to 
 argue his case at full length, now and then 
 putting in a word to get him more thoroughly 
 into his subject. He told me of the many 
 sights which were to be seen around the harbor. 
 There were ancient castles along the way that 
 fairly reeked with the history of bloodshed and 
 cruelty in early feudal days. And there were 
 stones and crosses that had been erected at a 
 time when Ireland was covered with woods and 
 harassed with wild animals. Down at the 
 eastern end of the harbor was Rostellan Castle, 
 the ancient home of the O'Briens, and near by 
 the site of the castle of the Fitzgeralds, the an- 
 cient seneschals of Imokilly. Here also was to 
 be found a "cromlech," or collection of crudely- 
 shapen rough stones upon which the Druids are 
 supposed to have sacrificed human victims. And 
 at Castle Mary, near by, was another cromlech 
 of "grate beauty." Would I care to see these 
 
i 4 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 things ? Over there south of us near old Agha- 
 marta Castle was Drake's Pool, which sheltered 
 Sir Francis Drake "long years ago," when he 
 was pursued by the cruel Spaniards. And up at 
 Black Rock Castle on the River Lee, William 
 Penn embarked for America. Ah! I should stay 
 at Queenstown a long time and take a ride on a 
 jaunting-" cyar" every day. Down at Cloyne, 
 three miles east of the harbor was an "ould, 
 ould village strate," upon which was a cathedral 
 built in the thirteenth "cintury," and a round 
 tower, a hundred feet in height, built so long 
 ago that no one knew what it was built for any- 
 way. And oh! there was the grave of Rev. 
 Charles Wolfe, the author of "The Burial of 
 Sir John Moore," lying up there "jist over th* 
 hill in th' burial-ground of the ould ruined 
 chur-rch of Clonmel." Had I not read the 
 poem, 
 
 " Not a dhrum was hearrud, not a funeral note " ? 
 
 Other jaunting-car drivers came up, each 
 seeking with his eloquence to persuade me to 
 go for a drive. "Jist look at this hor-r-se!" 
 said one of them. "Ah!" said another, "the 
 cyar-springs is what counts." His "cyar" was 
 
FIRST GLIMPSES OF IRELAND 15 
 
 as smooth as an "owtomobile." It was rather 
 painful to have to make a selection from this 
 list of contestants and to see the look of dis- 
 appointment upon the faces of those who were 
 rejected, but after I had made up my mind one 
 of the disappointed ones took me aside and said, 
 "I feel sorry for ye, sorry indade. I hope ye'll 
 get back home aloive. Jist think of it! But 
 misshtakes will occur. Hiven help you, sir, 
 Hiven help you!" 
 
 One cannot forget the enchantment of a trip 
 on a swiftly-moving jaunting-car around Cork 
 Harbor. A tender beauty hangs over the whole 
 wide expanse of earth and sea; and the thoughts 
 that come to one as, flying over the white roads, 
 he feels in his face the fresh winds from the 
 ocean, and looks upon white sail, dank meadow, 
 thatched cottage, and crumbling castle wall, can- 
 not in human language be explained or expressed. 
 
 When leaving Queenstown, I determined to go 
 to Cork by train rather than by boat up the river 
 Lee. When I reported at my hotel to make a 
 settlement I found that my luggage had already 
 been taken to the station with that of some ship 
 acquaintances of mine who were leaving for 
 Cork. The hotel people had thought that I was 
 
16 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 a member of the party. I had not a moment to 
 spare, so I rushed into the station and called 
 for a ticket to Cork. "What clahss?" asked 
 the ticket agent. While I was trying to deter- 
 mine what I wanted an official standing by told 
 me that my friends had purchased second-class 
 tickets and had gone through the gates. I also 
 bought a second-class ticket and hurried into 
 the sheds where I found a boy with my baggage 
 standing at the door of a compartment in a 
 little railway coach where my acquaintances 
 had already seated themselves. They had per- 
 suaded the train officials to hold the train fully 
 five minutes for me! Such things can occur 
 only in Ireland where system always gives way 
 to courtesy and kindness. 
 
 I was locked into a compartment with a Balti- 
 more man, two American (former Irish) Catholic 
 priests, and a young Irish girl with blue eyes, 
 bright face, and coal-black hair. The priests 
 were on a summer visit to the old home, the 
 Baltimore man was getting a glimpse of Ireland 
 on his way to Liverpool, and the young girl was 
 going with her basket to Cork. I watched the 
 expression of this typical Celtic face as we 
 talked of America and drew comparisons. I 
 
< 
 
FIRST GLIMPSES OF IRELAND 17 
 
 afterwards thought that perhaps the intense in- 
 terest which she betrayed in what we said about 
 America was due to some hidden hope in her 
 heart that some day she too might go down to 
 the ship and follow the thousands she had seen 
 depart for homes beyond the Atlantic. 
 
 In Ireland one may travel first, second, or 
 third class, as he may elect. The first class 
 charges are about the Pullman rates in the 
 United States, the second class a little less than 
 our regular rates, and third class considerably 
 less. If one wishes to be alone when in Ire- 
 land he should travel first class. If he wishes 
 to see Ireland and the Irish people as they are 
 he should travel second and sometimes even 
 third class. What he sees and hears in third 
 class carriages will more than repay him for the 
 discomforts of the ride. In England the vast 
 majority of the people travel third class. In 
 Ireland and in France, if one is looking simply 
 for comfort, he should not travel that way. 
 
 Soon after our little train had squealed in 
 announcing its departure from Queenstown we 
 were out in the green fields speeding northwest- 
 ward towards the city of Cork. A rich country 
 lay about us. The fields did not appear to have 
 
1 8 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 that intensive cultivation which one sees in 
 England, or France, or Holland, except in small 
 garden patches here and there, but there was 
 luxuriancy visible everywhere. The meadows 
 and pastures were exquisite with their thick, 
 black-green growth of hay and grass. The fat- 
 test of cattle and sheep grazed on the sloping 
 hillsides. Wild flowers bloomed along the roads 
 and about the little village greens; old stone 
 walls enclosed every white limestone road, and 
 divided every hillside into little lots and fields. 
 Now and then some old building, a landmark, 
 hoary with age, came into view; and we often 
 caught glimpses of the river Lee, gleaming 
 through some dense grove, and flashing back 
 the rays of the June sun. Old Black Rock 
 Castle, in smooth gray stone, hung over the 
 river, standing waist-deep in its waves. And 
 along the banks were stone walls and smooth 
 white roads. 
 
 We passed solidly built cottages, or cabins, 
 of the peasantry, all of stone or a kind of mud 
 or stucco, whitewashed, without porches or 
 verandahs, with roofs of straw or thatch from 
 six inches to a foot in thickness. Around the 
 primitive doorways, worn smooth with the patter 
 
Round Tower and Village Street in Cloyne, near Cork Harbor. 
 
FIRST GLIMPSES OF IRELAND 19 
 
 of little Irish feet, were goats and pigs and 
 chickens, and sometimes long strings of geese. 
 These sights flew by us in bewildering con- 
 fusion all along the course of the twelve 
 delightful miles between Queenstown and 
 Cork. 
 
 Upon our arrival in Cork I hastened out of 
 the little train and looked about me. The first 
 thing that I saw was a railway freight yard 
 filled with numberless little black freight cars, 
 standing upon spoked wheels, without roofs, 
 capacity from seven to nine tons, a type of the 
 freight car that does the business of the British 
 Isles. 
 
 I sat beside the driver of the 'bus as we drove 
 into the city. He pointed out to me the prin- 
 cipal buildings as we passed them, and talked 
 volubly upon such things as were connected 
 with the history of the old Ireland. We passed 
 up King Street, thence along St. Patrick's quay 
 until we came to St. Patrick's bridge just south 
 of St. Patrick's Place and at the foot of St. 
 Patrick's hill; after crossing St. Patrick's bridge 
 we drove into St. Patrick's Street, the leading 
 thoroughfare of the city, and halted in front of 
 the hotel — by some outrageous and sacrilegious 
 
20 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 blunder called something else instead of "St. 
 Patrick's." 
 
 St. Patrick has a strong hold upon Ireland. 
 It would indeed be interesting to know just how 
 many churches, chapels, cathedrals, streets, 
 bridges, schools, friaries, chantries, orphanages, 
 convents, priories, parks, monasteries, driveways, 
 and reformatories, scattered over the country 
 from Kerry to the Giant's Causeway, bear to- 
 day the name of Ireland's patron saint. 
 
 But perhaps St. Patrick has a good claim to 
 the affections of the Irish people. He it was 
 who gave them their religion and laid the foun- 
 dation of a church life which for the undying 
 loyalty of its constituents has had no parallel 
 in history. 
 
 The early history of Ireland, known to the 
 Romans as Hibernia, is buried in obscurity. 
 The ancient Hibernians were a mixed race, but 
 prevailingly Celtic. Among the few things that 
 the modern historian knows about these people 
 is that they were divided into tribes ruled 
 by petty tyrants, proud, rapacious, and war- 
 like, who kept the island in perpetual strife. 
 Their religion was that of the Druids, with 
 human sacrifices, the ruins of whose altars 
 
FIRST GLIMPSES OF IRELAND 21 
 
 may be found in many parts of the island 
 to-day. 
 
 Patrick, or Patricius, most probably a native 
 of Scotland, or of Gaul, was captured about the 
 year 430 a.d., and taken to Ireland where he 
 was sold as a slave. Here he served his master 
 for six years as a shepherd, and learned to love 
 the Irish people. Escaping from the country, 
 he fled into France or England and became a 
 hard student for several years. About the year 
 440 he returned to Ireland and labored as a 
 missionary of Christianity until March 17, 493, 
 when he died and was buried at Downpatrick, 
 or Gabhul, as it was sometimes called, an an- 
 cient town in county Down, twenty-six miles 
 south of the modern commercial city of Belfast. 
 Here he had held his first mission, gained his 
 first converts, and spent his declining years. 
 But his missionary journeys had extended to the 
 remotest portions of the island, and his con- 
 verts had been taken from the most warlike 
 tribes. 
 
 A vast mass of tradition has grown up during 
 the course of the centuries around the name of 
 St. Patrick, much of which is interesting as folk- 
 lore though vague and unreliable as history. 
 
22 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 There are those to-day who are actually be- 
 ginning to doubt the reality of that great achieve- 
 ment ascribed to him, and expressed so forcibly 
 in the old Irish song: 
 
 "Upon the top of a tall green hill 
 St. Patrick preached a sarmint, 
 He drove the frogs into the bogs, 
 And banished all the varmint!" 
 
 But no one doubts that Patrick has an abiding 
 place in history, and that he was a man of lofty 
 character and untiring zeal. At his death he 
 left Ireland so strongly rooted in the Christian 
 faith that for many centuries the island was the 
 center of Christian learning and piety for all 
 western Europe. It is scarcely a wonder that 
 the Irish people, of that intense, emotional 
 Celtic temperament, should have become at- 
 tached to the memory of a man who turned their 
 ancestors from Druidism to Christianity. 
 
 Returning to our hotel in the heart of Cork, 
 on Patrick Street: I went in and registered, or, 
 at least, the young lady "dark" according to 
 custom, took my name and asked me some 
 questions as to my wants. She then handed me 
 a card containing the number of my room and 
 delivered to me a key of the St. Patrick pattern, 
 
FIRST GLIMPSES OF IRELAND 23 
 
 made of iron, a fac-simile of the kind our 
 Colonial great-grandmothers used to lock their 
 smoke-houses with a century and a half ago. 
 There was no tag attached to the key for its 
 identification in case it should be carried off 
 and lost, but I thought perhaps the pretty 
 young "dark" felt there was little danger of 
 this since I had no wheelbarrow with my lug- 
 gage. 
 
 The porter grasped a piece of my baggage in 
 each hand and beckoned me to follow him. 
 There was no elevator, or "lift," as they call it, 
 in the hotel, so we passed around through a 
 moldy passageway, went up a long and tortu- 
 ous flight of steps, then across the hall, then 
 down a short flight of steps, then around a corner, 
 then a sharp turn to the left, and three steps up, 
 and behold! we had reached our destination. 
 Such is Ireland! 
 
 I was told some time after this when sojourn- 
 ing in Dublin that the hotel at which I stopped 
 while in Cork was not the best one in the city. 
 I do not doubt that the statement was true, 
 though I did not know it at the time. But I 
 did not go to Ireland to enjoy luxuries, but 
 rather to live for a while the actual life of the 
 
24 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 Irish people. This hotel certainly afforded me 
 the means for doing that. 
 
 There are some excellent hotels in Ireland. 
 Dublin, Belfast, and all the more prominent 
 tourist resorts are provided with hostelries con- 
 taining all modern conveniences and comforts. 
 But in the Irish country-town hotel there are 
 few modern conveniences. Bath rooms are few 
 and primitive beyond belief. Many of the 
 smaller hotels are lighted with oil lamps or even 
 with the old-fashioned tallow candles. One 
 finds it difficult to have a fire kindled in one's 
 room, though it is often as cold and damp in 
 Ireland in midsummer as it is in our country in 
 April and November. 
 
 And naturally the service is slow. When the 
 young lady clerk sends the porter to your room 
 for information as *to what you wish for break- 
 fast, you send word back that you would like to 
 have a steak, some Irish bacon, potatoes, scram- 
 bled eggs on toast, and cocoa. Then you wash, 
 shave yourself (for there are few barbers in Ire- 
 land), dress in a leisurely manner, find your 
 way down through labyrinthian windings to the 
 street level, take a walk about town, make some 
 purchases of souvenirs, talk with country peas- 
 
FIRST GLIMPSES OF IRELAND 25 
 
 ants upon the street corners, come back to the 
 hotel office, write a letter or two, send off a batch 
 of souvenir post-cards, then repair to the dining- 
 room and open the morning newspaper and be- 
 gin to search therein for news. Continue this 
 search long enough and the good-natured waiter 
 will break into your labors with as good a break- 
 fast as any one could wish. The Irish pride 
 themselves upon their mutton, beef, and butter. 
 And all kinds of fowl may be had for a pittance. 
 There will be no pies upon the table, for the 
 Irish people do not care greatly for "sweets," 
 but no breakfast table is complete without a 
 big bowl of bitter orange marmalade, an excel- 
 lent appetizer and digestant. 
 
 I strolled about the streets of the old city of 
 Cork throughout the first evening of my arrival 
 there. To one who is accustomed to American 
 cities with their newness and bustle, Cork pre- 
 sents an ancient and time-worn appearance. 
 The goods in the shops are peculiarly arranged, 
 and the windows are strangely dressed. Every- 
 thing savors of the long distant past. 
 
 I met a ragged boy selling pink newspapers. 
 I bought one and eagerly searched its pages 
 for some bit of American news. But I was dis- 
 
26 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 appointed. The newspapers of Cork, though 
 fairly good as Irish newspapers go, are rather 
 gloomy sheets, the quality of paper being poor 
 and the print bad. And they are unusually 
 bare of news. The first page of the paper, 
 where display heads are wont to be made in 
 American papers, contains nothing but long, 
 legal notices, verbatim political and parliamen- 
 tary speeches and some unattractive advertise- 
 ments. The "news" is at length discovered 
 hidden away under one-line heads in the middle 
 of the paper. There are no display heads of 
 any kind, not even over the most important 
 news, and, with the exception of minute ac- 
 counts of deaths, funerals, wakes and " League" 
 meetings, local happenings appear to be dis- 
 regarded. The Irish press at this time, in me- 
 chanical make-up and in the treatment of news, 
 is about where the American press was six or 
 seven decades ago. One can easily verify this 
 by comparing the average newspaper of Cork, 
 Limerick, or Dublin with the files of American 
 newspapers to be found in any well-equipped 
 public library. An Irishman will tell you that 
 what we might term the primitive appearance 
 of the Irish newspaper is due to the conserva- 
 
FIRST GLIMPSES OF IRELAND 
 
 27 
 
 tism of the Irish people. This to a certain 
 extent is true; for however dull the Irish news- 
 paper may be, it is entirely free from a certain 
 kind of sensationalism which is one of the 
 gravest defects of the average American news- 
 paper. 
 
 There are barracks in Cork where large num- 
 bers of soldiers are stationed. These men in 
 uniform may be seen at all hours of the day, 
 singly, in pairs, or in groups, walking upon the 
 streets, smoking, chatting with each other, and 
 ogling the girls who may generally be found in 
 large numbers somewhere along the soldiers' 
 usual route. Many of the soldiers belong to 
 Scotch regiments, and right proudly do they 
 wear their kilts and plaids, with bare knees 
 made black by the rough Irish weather. 
 
 It was ten o'clock in the evening when I re- 
 turned to the hotel, but it was still light. Cork, 
 in Southern Ireland, is situated near the 52d 
 parallel on a latitude with the southern portion 
 of bleak Labrador in North America. The lati- 
 tude of the Giant's Causeway, in North Ireland, 
 is the same as that of Southern Alaska. In 
 midsummer the nights in Ireland are so short 
 that the flush of evening has hardly faded from 
 
28 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 the western sky before the morning light begins 
 to steal into the east. In the misty twilight I 
 saw a steamer acquaintance, standing with his 
 hands behind his back, looking up St. Patrick's 
 Street toward America, the very picture of 
 abject lonesomeness and homesickness. As I 
 walked up he turned to me and said: "Old 
 friend, I have been waiting here three hours for 
 night to come. I want to go to bed. I know 
 all this is picturesque enough, and all that, but, 
 well — Baltimore for me!" 
 
 After I had retired to my little stuffy room 
 and blown out the light I heard a brass band 
 pass down the street with clatter and cry. It 
 was the winding up of some big holiday athletic 
 event. And after the streets had become quiet 
 I thought I heard the strains of some gentler 
 music. I crept to my window and listened. 
 Far away, somewhere out in the darkness, some 
 one was strumming a guitar, and now and then 
 I heard snatches of a song which a clear Irish 
 voice was singing: 
 
 "When first I saw sweet Peggy, 
 'Twas on a market day; 
 A low-back car she drove, and sat 
 Upon a truss of hay; 
 
FIRST GLIMPSES OF IRELAND 29 
 
 And when that hay was blooming grass, 
 
 And filled with flowers of spring, 
 No flower was there that could compare 
 
 With the blooming girl I sing." 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 OLD CORK AND THE CASTLE OF BLARNEY 
 
 When I arose from the breakfast table I was 
 informed that a jaunting-car awaited me at the 
 hotel door. Equipped with camera and rain- 
 coat (the two indispensables in Ireland) I took 
 my seat over a wheel opposite the typical Hiber- 
 nian who had agreed to drive me out to Blarney 
 where I might see the ancient castle and kiss, if 
 I wished, the Blarney Stone. 
 
 We started off with a brisk trot down the old 
 city's street. All about us was Ireland. Even 
 here in the heart of Cork one could see those 
 marks which distinguish the Isle of Erin from 
 the rest of the world. Jaunting-cars moved 
 hither and thither through the busy morning 
 crowd; stout old women with short skirts, heavy 
 shoes, and somber black shawls drawn over their 
 heads, stood in and about the alley entrances; 
 ragged, barefoot boys shouted green-tinted news- 
 papers at "a pinny apiece"; and little low-back 
 
 donkey-cars from far out in the country, loaded 
 
 3 o 
 
CASTLE OF BLARNEY 
 
 3i 
 
 down with peat-turf, or butter, or gooseberries, 
 crawled slowly along towards the market-place. 
 
 Now and then snatches of rich Irish brogue 
 reached me where I sat perched upon my 
 jaunting-car. The faces in the street were un- 
 mistakably characteristic of Erin; and down an 
 alley which opened upon our street I caught a 
 hurried glimpse of children playing upon the 
 bare cobble-stones, with here and there a lean 
 cat or a stray dog that bore his share of the 
 penuriousness of his surroundings. Even the 
 air was Irish; and the whole scene about us was 
 such as Hibernia alone can furnish. 
 
 Cork is a city which delights the traveler's 
 heart. With the exception of Dublin, the capi- 
 tal, there is no other Irish city which so fully 
 reveals the marks of "the old Ireland." Within 
 it and about it are the evidences of centuries of 
 Celtic life. It is an ancient city. Its history 
 extends so far back into the past that the anti- 
 quarian studying its beginnings finds his chief 
 difficulty in separating fact from legend, truth 
 from a veritable wilderness of tradition and folk- 
 lore which has grown up through the centuries. 
 
 It is said, however, and possibly with truth, 
 that good St. Finn Barr, monk and scholar, 
 
32 
 
 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 established his cell in a little mound on the bank 
 of the river Lee about the year 650 a.d., and 
 that to him, on account of his piety and learning, 
 flocked monks from every part of the newly 
 awakened Ireland to receive instruction at his 
 school. Thus a settlement was made, and a 
 city grew up. For some centuries its history 
 was unmarked with event of interest save now 
 and then a bloody raid from a native chieftain; 
 but records show that along in the eighth and 
 ninth centuries the Danes, who in those transi- 
 tional times were ubiquitous in western Europe, 
 frequently sailed up the river Lee, leaped forth 
 from their vessels with fire and sword, plundered 
 the villagers shamefully, striking down such as 
 opposed them, and as hastily disappeared, taking 
 with them vast quantities of wool and butter and 
 other Irish products. Gradually, however, these 
 fierce northerners began to be more gentle in 
 their dealings, and they came upon fairer terms. 
 They even established trading-places along the 
 Lee, as they had done in other parts of Ireland 
 and in England; and at length they became so 
 friendly with the Irish that about a half century 
 before the Norman Conquest, or, to be exact, in 
 the year 1020, they laid the foundations of what 
 
CASTLE OF BLARNEY 33 
 
 they determined should be a permanent city on 
 a rich green island in the river Lee near St. Finn 
 Barr's old settlement. This place the Celtic 
 Erse-speaking Irish called "Corcach," which 
 literally means a marshy place. Subsequently 
 this bisyllabic guttural was Anglicized into 
 " Cork," but the Gaelic tongue has never 
 accepted the change. 
 
 The city grew rapidly in the Middle Ages, and 
 was for many centuries as well known to con- 
 tinental Europe as Dublin or Edinburgh. It 
 would take a volume to tell fully of its checkered 
 and bloody history. Yet we find Cork at the 
 summit of its prosperity during the early days 
 of the nineteenth century. Its decline in popu- 
 lation has dated from the great exodus from 
 Ireland which began in the forties. In 1845 the 
 population of Cork and environs was possibly 
 more than a hundred thousand. In 1861 there 
 were eighty thousand in the municipality. The 
 census of 1901 shows a population of 75,978. 
 
 Still there is much bustle in an Irish way 
 about the old city, and as a seaport it still ranks 
 well — sending forth vast quantities of fat cattle, 
 wool, bacon, and Tipperary butter to the mar- 
 kets of England and the continent. It also has 
 
34 
 
 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 many churches, certainly one first-class institu- 
 tion of learning, and a number of well-built 
 commercial streets and splendid stone quays. 
 
 As we drove along the old streets that sunny 
 June morning a glamour seemed to hang over the 
 ancient settlement. Everything seemed to tell 
 of the things of the long ago. Turning here and 
 there, we at length crossed a bridge into that 
 portion of the city north of the river, and after 
 a few more turns in picturesque lanes we arrived 
 at some steep steps leading up from the street 
 to a quiet, melancholy-looking graveyard which 
 surrounded an old church crowned with a square 
 black tower of stone. Tall grass and wild 
 flowers grew amid the graves. Off in the west, 
 beyond the city's limits, lay the rich valley of 
 the river Lee. The summer breeze which blew 
 in our faces brought us the odor of fresh earth, 
 blooming wild-flowers, and new-mown hay. 
 The church was old St. Anne's, and — "Hush, 
 hush," said my driver, "it is the hour! Listen 
 to the Shandon Bells!" And then the bells in 
 the black tower began their strange, gentle 
 chimes. So perfectly did the melancholy music 
 fit in with the beauty, the quiet, and the summer 
 bloom, that it was not hard to see how their 
 
Underwood & Underwood, New York. 
 
 Mardvke Walk — Cork. 
 
CASTLE OF BLARNEY 35 
 
 strains might have inspired an Irishman to pro- 
 duce one of the sweetest poems of English liter- 
 ature. My driver was quiet for a moment after 
 the bells had ceased to chime, and when he 
 looked up there was a tear in his eye. Then he 
 recited for me in his full rich brogue the exquisite 
 verses which had been written by Father Prout, 
 whose bones lay there at our feet in the shadow 
 of the old black tower where, still resonant with 
 the song that had gone forth, swung 
 
 THE SHANDON BELLS 
 
 With deep affection 
 And recollection 
 
 I often think of 
 Those Shandon bells, 
 Whose sounds so wild would 
 In the 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. 
 
36 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 When we drove away from the old church we 
 turned suddenly into a street where we came 
 face to face with a sight that made me wonder 
 whether indeed this was one of the much talked- 
 of "congested districts " of Ireland. It was 
 fairly teeming with inhabitants. There ap- 
 peared to be little or no traffic in the street, 
 with the exception of a donkey-car or two 
 trading about the doors, but a number of old 
 men, some of extreme age, hobbled along upon 
 their sticks or sat in chairs outside the doors in 
 the morning sunshine. And there were many 
 women to be seen, young, middle-aged, and old, 
 standing in or about the doorways or in groups 
 on the corners; and the whole street, particu- 
 larly at the alley entrances, swarmed with chil- 
 dren of every age, size, garb, complexion, and 
 state of griminess. 
 
 When our jaunting-car came upon the scene 
 with what seemed to them a tourist upon it, 
 there was one concerted movement in our direc- 
 tion. As an experiment I threw a half-penny 
 into a crowd of boys. There ensued a wild 
 scramble which attracted the attention of others 
 in the street and alleys near by, and in about a 
 minute we had a following whose picturesque- 
 
CASTLE OF BLARNEY 
 
 37 
 
 ness and marvelousness of dress and expression 
 of countenance our language has no words 
 adequately to describe. Some of the boys ap- 
 peared just to have come from ash barrels, and 
 others showed signs of having been scouring the 
 gutters with their backs and heads; and the 
 costumes of some of them would have made a 
 study for an artist. One little fellow with white, 
 flat face and a ragged cap upon the top of his 
 big round head had his visage literally bisected 
 with a heavy streak of dirt which extended from 
 the corners of his mouth unto and even behind 
 his ears; and another black-haired boy, without 
 any head-covering, who I thought for the pre- 
 carious manner in which he was dressed was 
 quite too active in his scramble for pennies, was 
 so scantily clothed that the accidental breakage 
 of a frayed string upon the shoulder would have 
 left him, there in the street, in a condition 
 approximating that in which he first made his 
 appearance in the world. 
 
 As I flung a penny here or there in the crowd 
 they rushed together and piled upon each other 
 until they formed a mound-like mass of writhing 
 and squirming humanity out of which often bare 
 legs, crowned with rusty-looking soles and wide- 
 
38 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 apart toes, extended high into the air. And it 
 was all accompanied with the most intense ear- 
 nestness. So eager and excited did the little 
 fellows become in their pursuit of the coins that 
 after they had been told that the supply of 
 copper upon the car had been exhausted, they 
 stretched their legs to the utmost as they followed 
 our vehicle, now traveling rapidly down the 
 street to avoid them, with wild eyes and wide- 
 open mouths, shouting, "Cop-p-e-r-r-s! Cop- 
 p-e-r-r-s! Cop-p-e-r-r-s!" with all the power 
 which their lungs could put forth. 
 
 This sight alone, though it was abundantly 
 supplemented by other experiences, was suffi- 
 cient proof that the beggar is still in Ireland. 
 Whatever force may have been expended in 
 making efficient the work-house system of the 
 old island, and however strong the sentiment 
 against mendicancy may have developed among 
 the Irish people, there are to-day in Ireland 
 still a large number of those who get their entire 
 living from unorganized charity. The only 
 difference between these and the old times is 
 that now the beggars are not so numerous and 
 by no means so persistent as they once were. 
 In olden days, say about the thirties or forties 
 
CASTLE OF BLARNEY 39 
 
 of the last century, when Ireland swarmed with 
 a population such as a strictly agricultural 
 country of its size could not well support, beg- 
 gars in a manner controlled the traveling situa- 
 tion. Many writers, but none more picturesquely 
 than the Irish themselves, have related most 
 ludicrous anecdotes of those interesting days. 
 
 A traveler with an eye to the picturesque 
 relates that on a trip through southern Ireland 
 in the days when beggars were numerous he 
 was sometimes fairly held up until his pocket 
 had been relieved of its superfluous change. If 
 he failed to show his liberality he was sometimes 
 roundly abused; and if perchance he showed 
 his temper at the importunities of the mendi- 
 cants he was even in danger of personal violence. 
 
 One day from his window in a south Irish 
 inn, this traveler saw a well-dressed young man 
 go up and knock loudly upon a door opening 
 upon the street. At the sound of the noise a 
 woman came out from somewhere and accosted 
 him: "Do, dear, honorable, handsome, darlint 
 young gintleman, bestow a ha'penny on a poor 
 lone widdy with siven small starvin' little childer 
 that haven't broke their fast this blissed day." 
 The young man kept on knocking without notic- 
 
4 o SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 ing her. She continued : " God kape the stringth 
 to your wrist to knock harder, sir, and the heart 
 in ye to lave the little token of a ha'penny with 
 the lone widdy and her siven fatherless childer." 
 "I have no silver about me," said the young 
 man with some impatience. "I did not ax ye 
 for silver or goold, but jist for one lone ha'penny 
 for the broken-hearted widdy and her siven poor 
 little naked fatherless childer." The young man 
 lost his temper. "I tell you, I have no ha'- 
 pence!" he shouted at her. 
 
 "Why, thin, bad luck to ye!" she hotly ex- 
 claimed, setting her arms a-kimbo and looking 
 a fury, "thin what the divil did ye bring me 
 from my comfortable sate across the strate for, 
 if ye had no money in yer pocket, — ye poor, 
 ugly, miserable, half-starved, whey-faced gos- 
 soon!" 
 
 Happily, Ireland has recovered from the pov- 
 erty of those days, and now the principal beggars 
 are the ragged boys in the slums of the cities — 
 a class of mendicants for whom the tourist is to 
 some degree responsible — and the importunate 
 souvenir-sellers at all of the leading tourist 
 resorts. 
 
 As our car speeded along through the alleys 
 
CASTLE OF BLARNEY 41 
 
 and streets, leaving the boys behind, we passed 
 numerous low-back donkey-cars, loaded down 
 with produce of one kind or another, on their 
 way into the city. These little carts, without 
 springs, and with only boards for seats, are 
 much used by the Irish peasantry to-day. They 
 are midway in point of evolution between the 
 old low-back drag car — a kind of basket or 
 box fastened to shafts whose ends were mere 
 runners upon the ground — and the modern 
 jaunting-car which is the public vehicle of 
 Ireland. 
 
 In getting out of the city we saw many other 
 interesting sights suggestive of Ireland; but in 
 making a sudden turn we came in full sight of 
 the broad open face of the country. What a 
 transformation! Behind us was a city, at best 
 old-fashioned, dingy, timeworn — in front lay 
 stretched out in the haze of a June day as fair 
 a country as the sunshine ever fell upon. This 
 is the paradox of Ireland — poverty and beauty 
 going hand in hand. 
 
 The drive from the suburbs of Cork to the 
 village of Blarney is considered by many to be 
 one of the most charming in the British Isles. 
 On every side the green fields lay about us — 
 
42 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 rolling, variegated, beautiful. There was no 
 raggedness or uneven growth of copse, or weed, 
 or briar; but every field was as smooth as velvet, 
 with no extraneous growth except the myriads 
 of minute sod-blossoms, and a larger growth of 
 field daisy and red wild poppy that grew in the 
 most obscure corners of the fields and upon the 
 brink of the streams. 
 
 Now and then we passed some old stone 
 bridge, or remnant of a castle, or, perchance, 
 an ancient marker at the turn of the highway. 
 The road on each side was walled in with gray 
 stone, out of the interstices of which grew stunted 
 white-thorn and wild roses. In the meadows 
 cattle and sheep grazed lazily, sometimes stand- 
 ing half a knee deep in the sweet lush grass. 
 
 My driver, being an Irishman, talked inces- 
 santly of the country — its traditions, its people, 
 its customs, and the landmarks which we passed. 
 He knew all the cross-roads, and was acquainted 
 with the occupant of every peasant's cottage. 
 He could relate the history of every mansion of 
 the "gintry" that we passed, and bring back to 
 life many a scene of violence and bloodshed in 
 the distant past. He knew of noted funerals 
 and wakes over the dead; and of these and many 
 
i£ 
 
 < 
 
CASTLE OF BLARNEY 43 
 
 other interesting things he talked to me on our 
 ride to Blarney that day. 
 
 Before I could realize that we had reached 
 our journey's end my driver drew up his horse 
 under the gnarled elms that shaded the street 
 of the village of Blarney. Rows of white cot- 
 tages lined the street. On one side was a long 
 one-story building which for many years had 
 been operated as a tweed mill. Here the fine 
 wool grown on the surrounding meadows is 
 converted into a handsome tweed which is much 
 sought after by the tourist. The operatives of 
 the mill lived in the houses which lined the 
 village street. 
 
 I paid a sixpence at the little gate-house 
 buried in the shade, crossed a rustic bridge, and 
 found myself within the broad shady grounds 
 that surrounded old Blarney Castle. The an- 
 cient building, like a mountain of gray stone, 
 loomed up in front of me in poetic beauty. A 
 few persons, apparently tourists, were strolling 
 about the grounds; and a number of children 
 were swinging under a tree. 
 
 Within the door, or cavern-like entrance, of 
 the castle, an old Irish woman had a stand 
 where she kept for sale an elaborate assortment 
 
44 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 of trinkets and souvenirs of Ireland. With 
 genuine good nature she pointed out to me the 
 portion of the castle which held the Blarney 
 Stone, and after exacting of me the customary 
 admission fee of a sixpence, she pointed me to 
 the stairways that led above. 
 
 Within the castle the air was damp and cool, 
 and heavy with musty odors of the past. I 
 groped my way up the great rambling stairways 
 of stone, passing through dungeons, and cuddies, 
 and strange old chambers, lighted only with a 
 slit of sunshine which came mysteriously through 
 the heavy walls of stone. More than once I 
 strayed off from my proper course and lost my- 
 self in some gloomy nook where it required little 
 effort to imagine many a bloody tragedy had 
 occurred in olden days. For many generations 
 ago this castle was the storm-center of Ireland, 
 and sometimes, they say, dead men were strewn 
 in heaps along these grewsome stairways. 
 
 At last I reached the top. The ancient roof 
 had fallen in, but enough of the former coverings 
 of the old pile remained to shut out the sunshine 
 and the rain. The walls, immensely thick, fur- 
 nished a good walk-way around the top of the 
 building. From this vantage-ground I looked 
 
CASTLE OF BLARNEY 45 
 
 about me at the landscape. As far as eye could 
 see there was a succession of green fields, and 
 white roads, and ancient manors, and thatched 
 cottages, and tiny lakes half-hidden by green 
 patches of wood where grew the most densely 
 foliaged trees. The scene was one of peculiar 
 tenderness and peace, — a contrast indeed to 
 some of the stormy times in the past history of 
 this fortress. 
 
 The castle was erected in the year 1446 by 
 Cormac MacCarthy, bishop and mighty warrior, 
 whose ancestors had been chieftains in Munster 
 Ireland from a period long antecedent to the 
 English invasion. He built the castle for a 
 military stronghold, and here he quartered a 
 large number of men, bold, quick, and watchful, 
 who kept at bay many an invading and hostile 
 army. 
 
 Cormac's descendants, the Lords of Muskerry 
 and Clancarty, retained possession of a large 
 portion of the vast surrounding estate until the 
 year 1689 when it was confiscated, and the last 
 earl became an exile. In 1702 when the castle, 
 village, mills, fairs, and customs of Blarney were 
 "set up by cant," Sir Richard Pyne bought the 
 entire estate of 1400 acres for the sum of £3000. 
 
46 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 The following year he disposed of it to Sir 
 James Jeffreys whose descendants or heirs held 
 the property for several generations, if, indeed, 
 they do not hold it to-day. 
 
 The present owner of the estate, including the 
 old castle, makes his home in a modern "castle" 
 — as the homes of the gentry are called in 
 Ireland — about half a mile from the ancient 
 building. Here he lives in the seclusiveness and 
 exclusiveness usual to the modern gentry of 
 Ireland. Visitors and tourists seldom see or 
 hear anything definite of these elusive aristocrats 
 who bury themselves in the center of a park 
 which is shut in from the highways by tall stone 
 walls. 
 
 Descendants of the original MacCarthy clan 
 may be found working, as day-laborers, around 
 the ruins of the castle where their forefathers 
 ruled so long. Tradition has it that the Earl of 
 Clancarty, who forfeited the castle at the time 
 of the Revolution, cast all his plate into a certain 
 part of Blarney Lake, near the castle, and that 
 three of the MacCarthys inherit the secret of 
 the hiding-place. When one of them dies he 
 communicates the secret to another one of the 
 family, and thus perpetuates the secret which is 
 
CASTLE OF BLARNEY 47 
 
 never to be openly revealed until a MacCarthy 
 is again Lord of Blarney. 
 
 Every step of ground within a mile of the 
 castle is hallowed by legend. According to local 
 report, which is faithfully believed by many, 
 enchanted cows on midsummer nights dispute 
 the pasture with those of the present possessor, 
 and many an earthly bull has been worsted in 
 the contest. And it is also said that fairy rings 
 are upon the grass from early summer to the 
 last week in harvest. 
 
 Blarney Castle obtained its present popularity 
 from a famous stone, still in the walls, around 
 which clusters much of romance and supersti- 
 tion. Tradition says that after Cormac Mac- 
 Carthy had built this castle he chanced one day 
 to save an old woman from drowning, and to 
 show her gratitude the old woman offered 
 Cormac a golden tongue which should have the 
 power of fluent persuasiveness — a tongue that 
 could influence men and women, friends and 
 foes, as he willed. To get this power, however, 
 Cormac must climb to the keep of the castle, let 
 himself down in some difficult way, and kiss a 
 certain stone in the walls situated about five feet 
 below the gallery running around the top. It is 
 
48 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 said the great warrior-churchman followed the 
 old woman's directions with great minuteness, 
 kissed the stone, and at once obtained all the 
 persuasive eloquence which had been promised 
 him. Soon the story was told throughout Ire- 
 land. It went also to other countries and made 
 Blarney one of the best known castles in the 
 world. 
 
 Walking around the top of the castle walls in 
 the warm sunshine, I began to look for the 
 noted stone, and at length found it held in place 
 by two iron bands suspended from the very top 
 of the stone battlements. A row of iron spikes 
 has been placed on the top of the battlements 
 above the stone to prevent foolhardy adventurers 
 from attempting to kiss the stone by being let 
 down over the walls by the heels as was the 
 custom at one time to do. Now the pilgrim to 
 this shrine of eloquence must get down on his 
 knees, or lie flat down on the stones, bend his 
 body at the waist and thrust his head and shoul- 
 ders down about three feet through a square 
 opening in the stones opposite the cornice, and 
 in this position turn his neck and kiss the stone 
 from the under side. An attendant with good 
 muscles must be at hand to hold the heels of 
 
Underwood & Underwood, New York. 
 
 Blarney Castle, near Cork. 
 The Stronghold of the McCarthys and the Shrine of Irish Wit. 
 
CASTLE OF BLARNEY 
 
 49 
 
 the one who attempts to kiss the stone, else, by 
 the law of gravitation, he will topple over and 
 go through the hole to the green turf a hundred 
 and twenty feet below. 
 
 It is said that this stone (provided this is the 
 genuine stone) formerly had a Latin inscription 
 carved upon it: 
 
 "Cormac MacCarthy fortis mi fieri 
 
 FECIT, I446. " 
 
 If true, time and multitudes of osculations have 
 served to wear all the Latin away; for the glimpse 
 which I got of the stone when I kissed it revealed 
 it as being as smooth and as greasy-looking as if 
 all Ireland had been kissing it for centuries. 
 
 At the time when I was upon the top of the 
 castle there were also present possibly a dozen 
 persons, most of them tourists, looking around 
 and speculating, as all visitors do, about the 
 Blarney Stone. None of them had kissed it, 
 owing to the difficulty and supposed danger of 
 getting to it. After due examination I decided 
 that the feat was not necessarily a dangerous 
 one, so I bargained with a young man whose 
 attire and accent showed that he was an Ameri- 
 can, each agreeing to hold the heels of the other 
 
5 o SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 while he bent down through the square opening 
 and kissed the stone. One or two other Ameri- 
 cans came up and helped me hold this young 
 man's heels while he went down to obtain the 
 eloquence. I followed him with some degree 
 of boldness, and then several others volunteered 
 to try the experiment. One young New Yorker 
 came forward enthusiastically and asked the 
 fellows standing by to hold his feet. Just as he 
 leaned over the square opening he happened to 
 get a glimpse of ground below, when he suddenly 
 decided that the whole thing was the rankest 
 kind of superstition and that the stone was not 
 worth kissing after all. 
 
 Most of the visitors had gone down when I 
 observed two handsome young ladies evidently 
 seriously perplexed about something. Then I 
 heard one of them say, "Oh, indeed, how 
 anxious / am to kiss the stone!" The ladies 
 were accompanied by a gentleman, a brother to 
 one and a cousin to the other, as I afterwards 
 learned, who was willing to oblige them, but he 
 needed some one to help him hold the heels of 
 the ladies as they bent over the dangerous open- 
 ing. The young man from America was oblig- 
 ing, so the rather more eager of the two young 
 
CASTLE OF BLARNEY 51 
 
 ladies soon swung down and kissed the stone. 
 Her companion, a rather timid and modest- 
 looking young girl, was more reluctant to accom- 
 plish her hidden desires, and it was only after 
 a great deal of persuasion that she consented to 
 kiss the stone. But when she did yield she 
 came up very red and very happy. 
 
 Armed with tourist license (something about 
 as vague and indefinite as poetic license), and 
 feeling compelled to say something pleasant, I 
 congratulated the young ladies upon their brav- 
 ery, at the same time assuring them that it was 
 my candid opinion none but Yankee girls would 
 attempt the difficult task. 
 
 With some amusement they assured me that 
 they were not Americans, but were both natives 
 of good county Cork. They had often visited 
 Blarney, but this was the first time that they 
 had ever attempted to kiss the Blarney Stone. 
 The gentleman who accompanied the young 
 ladies then formally introduced me to them, 
 and we had an extended conversation upon 
 many things Irish as we walked down the laby- 
 rinthian stairway of stone and even after we had 
 reached the grounds outside. Before I left them 
 they had registered in my traveler's book, and 
 
52 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 both had extended invitations to me to visit 
 them in their homes. One of them lived on a 
 residential street in Cork, and the other, her 
 cousin, lived in a village some miles outside of 
 the city. 
 
 "Ah," said the fair young Corkian, "you 
 should take tea to-morrow evening in our home 
 in Cork, and then you may visit Delia's home 
 where you will find the best cake to be had in 
 south Ireland. And, indeed, it is the product 
 of Delia's hands." 
 
 It was ever afterwards a source of regret that 
 circumstances did not allow me to go to Delia's 
 home and eat some of that cake for which the 
 girl had become so famous. 
 
 Whatever one may find to say against the 
 Irish, their splendid hospitality can never be 
 impeached. It extends through all grades of 
 society from the gentry to the lowliest peasants 
 in houses of thatch. And it is great because it 
 is so genuine. Sir Walter Scott visited Ireland 
 in 1825, traveling all through the island. He 
 remained several days at Cork and visited 
 Blarney Castle. In writing to his friend Morritt 
 he expressed himself as being greatly pleased 
 with the Irish hospitality. Said he: "Indeed, it 
 
CASTLE OF BLARNEY 53 
 
 is impossible to conceive the extent of this virtue 
 in all classes. I don't think even our Scottish 
 hospitality can match that of Ireland. Every- 
 thing seems to give way to the desire to accommo- 
 date a stranger, and I really believe the story of 
 the Irish harper who condemned his harp to the 
 flames for want of firewood to cook a guest's 
 supper." 
 
 In strolling about the grounds of the castle 
 after coming down from the keep, I was charmed 
 with the great beauty of the surroundings — the 
 grassy grounds, the great old trees, the rocky 
 glens, and the romantic nooks. ''The sweet 
 Rock-close," a part of the grounds of singular 
 beauty, was* made famous by a poem written in 
 1798 by Richard Alfred Millikin, an attorney 
 of Cork. The poem, catchy and musical, was 
 intended as a parody on "Sweet Castle Hyde," 
 a song-poem very popular in Ireland at that 
 time. Two of the verses were about as follows: 
 
 THE GROVES OF BLARNEY 
 
 The groves of Blarney they look so charming, 
 Down by the purling of sweet silent brooks — 
 
 All decked by posies that spontaneous grow there 
 Planted in order in the rocky nooks. 
 
 'Tis there the daisy, and the sweet carnation, 
 The blooming pink and the rose so fair, 
 
54 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 Likewise the lily, and the daffodilly — 
 All flowers that scent the sweet, silent air. 
 
 'Tis Lady Jeffers owns this plantation, 
 
 Like Alexander, or like Helen fair, 
 There's no commander in all the nation 
 
 For regulation can with her compare. 
 Such walls surround her, that no nine-pounder 
 
 Could ever plunder her place of strength; 
 But Oliver Cromwell, he did her pommel, 
 
 And made a breach in her battlement. 
 
 To the six rollicking stanzas of this popular 
 parody, Francis S. Mahony, of Cork, better 
 known as Father Prout, added the following 
 lines which have served to carry the tradition of 
 the Blarney Stone to every part of the world: 
 
 "There is a stone there, 
 That whoever kisses, 
 Oh! he never misses 
 To grow eloquent. 
 'Tis he may clamber 
 To a lady's chamber 
 Or become a member 
 Of sweet Parliament. 
 
 "A clever spouter 
 
 He'll sure turn out, or 
 An out and outer, 
 To be let alone! 
 Don't hope to hinder him, 
 Or to bewilder him, 
 Sure he's a pilgrim 
 From the Blarney Stone." 
 
CASTLE OF BLARNEY 55 
 
 I found my jaunting-car ready for me on the 
 outside of the castle grounds. The driver was 
 contentedly smoking his pipe. Irish drivers do 
 not become impatient. Their temperaments 
 make it impossible. 
 
 We drove back to Cork by another and even 
 more picturesque route than the one by which 
 we came. All Irish roads are good, but those 
 roads were perfection. On each side was a 
 picture of rural prosperity; and when we reached 
 the hills overlooking the valley of the Lee a 
 broad prospect of intensive cultivation was dis- 
 closed. 
 
 There were houses of different kinds along the 
 road, some of them "castles" of the gentry, set 
 back in groves, and others, much the larger 
 number, were but huts of stone, plastered over 
 with mud and whitewashed. Some of them were 
 newly covered with slate (the result of agitation 
 on the part of reform societies), but many of 
 them were still roofed in with the old-time 
 thatch. Around the doorways moved the usual 
 objects of animal life, and little barefoot children 
 played and shouted just as other children are 
 wont to do. 
 
 We met or passed many vehicles in the road, 
 
56 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 some of them carrying representatives of what 
 might have been three or four generations of 
 the same family. Those in their prime sat in 
 front and drove, the old, with pipes, sat farther 
 back, and the children filled the cart's body 
 and clung to the tailboard, behind. And there 
 were pedestrians going hither and thither, their 
 dress too often corresponding but poorly with 
 the richness of the landscapes against which 
 they could be seen. For throughout this region 
 of south Ireland one gains the impression (which 
 I am not sure he ever succeeds in getting rid of) 
 that Ireland as a country is very rich, while 
 Ireland as a people is painfully poor. 
 
 And the faces we saw in the way! The im- 
 pression has gone forth, how or why no one 
 seems to know, that the Irish are a race of idle 
 buffoons whose thoughts go no deeper than the 
 mere surface of things, and whose speech is 
 made up of bulls, and burlesques, and blunders. 
 To be sure, the Irish are a quick-witted people, 
 and their sense of humor (not unusual with an 
 intensely emotional race) is particularly keen. 
 But the one who holds that they are thoughtless 
 is no less mistaken than he who believes them to 
 be a jovially contented people. Directly upon 
 
c 
 
CASTLE OF BLARNEY 57 
 
 the contrary in both instances, the Irish are 
 veritable artists in introspection, and their tem- 
 peraments are essentially melancholy. Almost 
 every native face shows, sometimes though it 
 be through smiles, a shade of unutterable 
 sadness. 
 
 It may be those bog-lands filled with mist; it 
 may be the old crumbling ruins; it may be the 
 gray lakes; or all, behind the quiet Irish face, 
 which cause every visitor to the isle of the 
 shamrock to bring back with him the impression 
 of having visited the saddest land of earth. 
 And the one who goes there and thinks and 
 feels knows that the "Irish question" is as deep 
 as Irish character, and as solemn, indeed, as 
 the gloomy mists which settle down every night 
 upon the ruins that crown the hilltops and bury 
 in darkness the hovels of thatch that nestle 
 pathetically in the valleys. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 WALKS AND TALKS WITH THE PEOPLE OF KIL- 
 LARNEY 
 
 The day I left the old city of Cork for 
 Killarney, out in the mountains of Kerry, the 
 rain fell incessantly, the thick, damp mists 
 blowing in from the sea and enveloping the 
 whole dank, luscious, green country in a melan- 
 choly gloom. Nature's tears fall freely over 
 Ireland. Not even June with her daisies, her 
 roses, and her red wild poppies, can claim for 
 her meadows more than fitful gleams of sun- 
 shine flashing down through swiftly-moving 
 clouds; or, at most, a gentle, hazy day shut in 
 on either side with long seasons of wind and 
 rain. 
 
 Perhaps the sadness and hopelessness seen on 
 
 so many Irish faces may in a measure be due 
 
 to the climate of that strange island of the sea. 
 
 Many thinkers assert that all the apparent 
 
 thriftlessness of this people at home results 
 
 58 
 
PEOPLE OF KILLARNEY 59 
 
 primarily from conditions which are more or less 
 climatic. Those who have studied deeply into 
 the racial characteristics of the Irish people and 
 are sufficiently familiar with ethnology to draw 
 broad conclusions, say the Irish were originally 
 a far southern people, and for thousands of 
 years lived in the sunshine of some mild Oriental 
 land. They had from the childhood of the race 
 the habit of living out-of-doors and breathing 
 the fresh air of the fields and woods. 
 
 Many thousands of years ago they found their 
 way into Europe, possibly overland, possibly 
 through Phoenician ports, and in the process of 
 time they were driven by encroaching tribes 
 farther and farther into the north and west, 
 until they reached Ireland, the ultimate island 
 of Europe, set in the path of the currents and 
 winds of the ocean that envelop the land for 
 most of the year in mist, and fog, and rain. 
 Here they have lived since that remote period, 
 holding in their hearts an inherited passion for 
 the sun, the fresh air, and the fields; and while 
 their environments are so cruel and harsh, their 
 instincts revert to that age when a long line of 
 progenitors lived under sunlit and star-bedecked 
 skies, Nature's wards, their food the milk of the 
 
60 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 goat, the fig and the olive, their home but the 
 flapping tent of wild asses' skins. And thus 
 the Irish peasant to-day, by nature a poet, by 
 inheritance a dreamer of dreams, lives in a 
 constant and unequal struggle with his en- 
 vironments, denied every requisite which his 
 sympathetic nature demands; and always re- 
 membering the old, and never adapting himself 
 to the new, the open air is still his home, that 
 cottage of stone on the hillside but his nightly 
 resting-place. 
 
 And so, they say, the Irish people can never 
 thrive so long as they remain in the island home, 
 but they need transplanting in some sunny cli- 
 mate where they can return to the habits of the 
 youth of their race and receive a fair share of 
 nature's smiles along with her necessary tears. 
 It may be this old call which has lured so many 
 of them to follow the sunset's line of light across 
 the Atlantic, to become so happy and so strong 
 in a land where, neither in nature nor among 
 men is the hand of a tyrant lifted against them. 
 
 But to return to that day in June. — It was 
 indeed a gloomy day without, but within my 
 compartment in an antique coach on an antique 
 railroad there was a plenty of sunshine. My 
 
PEOPLE OF KILLARNEY 61 
 
 fellow-travelers were a young man from county 
 Clare, a typical old Irish woman of Kerry, and 
 a black-haired, crimson-cheeked girl with a glint 
 in her gray-blue eye. The old woman talked 
 incessantly of her neighborhood and its affairs — 
 potato weeding, the fowls, haying, and this glori- 
 ous rain. The young man smoked his pipe, 
 now and then making a facetious remark at 
 which they all laughed; and the young girl, who 
 had remarkably pretty teeth, was a constant 
 smile. 
 
 At Mallow Junction in northern county Cork, 
 I was switched off on the westbound train for 
 Killarney, forty miles away, where I arrived 
 in the pouring rain at nine o'clock in the evening. 
 In the lobby of a well-appointed tourist hotel 
 I found a number of congenial American travelers 
 and not a few well-dressed Englishmen and 
 Irishmen who were there ostensibly to enjoy 
 the scenery of that most romantic district of 
 Ireland. 
 
 Killarney has long had the reputation of being 
 the most entrancing spot in the British Isles. 
 The charm of this region lies not only in a 
 natural beauty which is unsurpassed anywhere 
 else in the world, but also in a vast number of 
 
62 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 wonderful ruins which serve vividly to remind one 
 of the historic richness of the Celtic past. There 
 is a chain of lakes, overhung with precipitous 
 mountains, rising in dense blue lazulite to lofty 
 heights above the lapping waves. There are 
 long glens, shut in with green cliffs on either 
 side, where the sunlight barely enters at noon- 
 day, and where the evening shadows quickly 
 fall. There are islands scattered here and there 
 upon the lakes, ruin-clad, and rioting with dense 
 growths of holly and arbutus; and forests of 
 tangled beech and oak and larch and fir and elm, 
 almost tropical in growth, covering the mountain- 
 sides. And there are peasants' cottages every- 
 where to be seen; and a multitude of ancient 
 ruins, on the islands, down by the lake shores, 
 in the valleys, and up on the sides of the cliffs — 
 castles, towers, monasteries, priories, and abbeys 
 — vine-clad and yew-shaded, with histories ex- 
 tending back into the very early days of Irish 
 life. 
 
 The Lakes of Killarney proper are three in 
 number. The Upper Lake, the southernmost, 
 covering an area of only 430 acres, is overhung 
 with mountains, the Purple Mountain being 
 directly on the northern shore, and the Derry- 
 
PEOPLE OF KILLARNEY 63 
 
 cunihy ranges on the south. Upon this lake are 
 many romantic islands and some old ruins. The 
 Middle Lake, known also as Muckross or Tore 
 Lake, contains an area of 680 acres. Over it 
 hang Tore Mountain on the south, and Sheehy 
 Mountain on the west. Between these two 
 mountains flows the Long Range, a stream 
 which joins the lakes together. Above this 
 stream also hangs Eagle's Nest, whose cliffs rise 
 perpendicularly 1700 feet from the water's edge. 
 Where the Long Range joins Lake Muckross, 
 old Weir Bridge stands, and near by is the Meet- 
 ing of the Waters. The northernmost lake, 
 known as Lough Leane, has an area of 5,000 
 acres and is five miles long and about three 
 miles broad. Clustered around it are innumer- 
 able ruins. 
 
 On the west of the lakes rise tall mountains, 
 beyond which, extending from north to south 
 for five miles, is the famous Gap of Dunloe, one 
 of the curiosities of Ireland. Farther still to the 
 west are the MacGillicuddy Reeks, the tallest 
 mountains of Ireland. 
 
 North of the lakes are cottages, roads,streams, 
 villages, churches, and ruins of castles and round 
 towers. On the east is a rolling grassy country, 
 
64 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 with many white roads, the railway line, and 
 the well-known town of Killarney. 
 
 Early on the morning after my arrival, tourists 
 were getting ready for extended drives about 
 the lakes and through the famous Gap of Dunloe, 
 \vhere they might see the purpling of the hills 
 and the flashings of light above the gray waters 
 in the distance. I took my note-book and my 
 camera and determined that I would while my 
 first day away just walking and talking with 
 the people of the little town and the surrounding 
 countryside. 
 
 I strolled down the old densely shaded street 
 until I reached the town. And what a town 
 Killarney is! Its population is about five or six 
 thousand — the vast majority of the inhabitants 
 being real Irish of a type that charms and a 
 manner that enthralls a traveler's heart. The 
 main streets are fairly well kept, with some good 
 shops, and a handsome church or two, but the 
 byways and lanes are picturesque indeed. 
 Here dilapidated houses meet one at almost 
 every turn; thatched roofs line the cobbled 
 streets; strings of geese roam at sweet will from 
 doorway to doorway; crows and rooks chatter 
 and caw from every spire and beetling chimney- 
 
u 
 
PEOPLE OF KILLARNEY 65 
 
 top; grimy children play in front of bare stony 
 doorways; and low-backed cars from far out in 
 the mountains stand in the sunny open squares, 
 waiting for purchasers of their peat, their 
 feathers, and their gooseberries. 
 
 I soon found myself in a market square where 
 a line of low-backed donkey cars were standing, 
 all loaded and piled up with black, brick-shaped 
 blocks of turf or peat from the bogs somewhere 
 out in the country. Beside the miniature teams 
 were the drivers, either standing alone absorbed 
 in dreams, or in little groups talking with that 
 solemnity of manner peculiar to Ireland. When 
 I walked up I had no difficulty in engaging them 
 in conversation. Like most Irishmen, they were 
 willing to talk, and were happy to give me such 
 information as they could about such things as 
 I wished to know. They told me this peat, or 
 turf, as they called it, had been cut from bogs 
 out in the mountain passes and small valleys, 
 and that they had brought it to town to sell to 
 the villagers at two shillings the load. Their 
 dress was original and in some cases shabby, 
 but it was decidedly picturesque. The three or 
 four mountain girls among these peat-sellers were 
 dressed in the usual inland Irish costume — 
 
66 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 short skirts, heavy woolen stockings, and very 
 heavy, thick-bottomed shoes. And they all had 
 shawls over their heads drawn so closely that 
 their faces were hidden except from those who 
 stood immediately in front of them. 
 
 I wished to get a picture of the line of carts with 
 their drivers. So I asked one of the girls if she 
 objected to my taking the photograph. She 
 seemed embarrassed and pretended not to hear 
 what I said. I insisted, however, and brought 
 together a number of the turf-sellers, including 
 some peculiarly rustic-looking old fellows from 
 somewhere far out in the mountains. One of the 
 old men seemed at first rather undecided about 
 the matter, as though it were no trifling thing 
 thus to give away a privilege which might prove to 
 be a valuable one, so he stood aside and thought 
 it all over. Finally he took his pipe from his 
 mouth, looked deliberately at his companion, 
 and said: "Now, since we think, Michael, what 
 is the objection ? Can ye think of inny ? " 
 Michael stood for a moment scratching his head 
 in the most intensely thoughtful manner, then 
 he said, "No, dommed if I can!" And with this 
 decision reached they got in line and I photo- 
 graphed the entire group. 
 
Underwood & L'nderwood, New York. 
 
 Upper Lake — Killarney. 
 
PEOPLE OF KILLARNEY 67 
 
 Leaving the market square, I strolled leisurely 
 through the long main street of the town, past 
 the suburbs, and into the green fields of the 
 country. From the vantage ground of a high 
 grassy hill I looked over towards the south and 
 west where the tall blue mountains stood above 
 the Lakes of Killarney. It was a showery day, 
 and a mist now and then passed below the 
 mountains' summits, obscuring their green sides 
 with skeins of rain. 
 
 Somewhat below me stretched the broad 
 demesne of the Earl of Kenmare, the owner of 
 that whole vast countryside, including the lake 
 front, many extensive old ruins, and the entire town 
 of Killarney. The fine mansion of the Kenmare 
 estate, a very extensive castellated structure in 
 red sandstone, recently erected, is about a mile 
 from the center of the town. One may be ad- 
 mitted to the private demesne, which is shut out 
 from the public on every side by tall stone walls, 
 upon the payment of a sixpence at any one of 
 several gates. The grounds are handsomely 
 kept, and contain points where extensive views 
 of the lakes may be obtained. 
 
 It is said that about a hundred years ago the 
 town of Killarney was entirely rebuilt by the 
 
68 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 landlord who wished to make there a model 
 town. He left room behind every dwelling for 
 a garden, and provided other attractions for the 
 villagers. In the leases, however, he failed to 
 embody a clause prohibiting the use of the garden 
 spaces for other purposes, and as a consequence 
 the tenants, taking advantage of the liberty al- 
 lowed them, built cheaper houses, in some cases 
 mere hovels, upon the leased areas, and sublet 
 them to other tenants. This apparently is the 
 reason why there are so many poor cabin-like 
 structures on all the lanes and back streets of the 
 little town. 
 
 Coming back into the town, I stopped at a 
 little corner pharmacy, or "medical hall," as the 
 Irish would call it, and made a few minor pur- 
 chases. The proprietors were particularly kind 
 to me, and conversed with me for some time 
 upon Ireland, especially in its relation to England. 
 I asked if it were really true that the Irish hate 
 England at this time. "I suppose," said my 
 newly made acquaintance, "that the word which 
 you use is the proper one. Yes, we hate them!" 
 His statement reminded me of a conversation 
 which I had had not many days before with an 
 Irish priest. He said, "Yes, we hate them, and 
 
PEOPLE OF KILLARNEY 69 
 
 we thank God for the blessed privilege of hating 
 under the circumstances. There is such a thing 
 as a holy hatred — a hatred that edifies." 
 
 Just outside of the pharmacy stood two healthy, 
 strong young policemen, or constables. They 
 talked with me for some time about their duties, 
 and related some interesting experiences. They 
 were a part of a system which is bitterly dis- 
 tasteful to the average Irishman. The Govern- 
 ment of Britain maintains a small army of twelve 
 thousand constabulary in Ireland, their barracks 
 being established in all parts of the island, in- 
 cluding the most remote country districts. The 
 Irish bitterly resent this police supervision, and 
 in speaking of them prefer to characterize them 
 with the term, "Government military spies." 
 There are, however, comparatively few arrests 
 in recent years, and clashes between the con- 
 stabulary and the people are becoming less and 
 less frequent. 
 
 I moved across the street where a middle- 
 aged woman of pleasant face was presiding 
 over a provender stand and dispensing eatables 
 of various kinds to barefoot boys and young 
 men who happened to pass. I had no difficulty 
 in engaging this good-natured seller of goodies 
 
70 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 in conversation. Fully a dozen young men and 
 boys, most of them evidently village loafers, 
 stood about me listening to what I had to say 
 about America, now and then, in characteristic 
 Irish manner, putting in a telling question. It 
 seemed that most of them could tell at a glance 
 that I was an American; and they could not 
 let an American pass without notice. Like 
 most of the Irish, they appeared to love the 
 "grate counthry" across the Atlantic, and they 
 were willing to suffer many an inconvenience to 
 do a western traveler a good turn. 
 
 I noticed that every now and then a small 
 boy would come along, give the lady a farthing 
 or a ha'penny, get a handful of something out 
 of a round wooden box, stuff it in his pocket, 
 and go off chewing happily. The substance 
 looked like dried rose petals, but I was told 
 that it was a kind of a seaweed which was very 
 wholesome indeed. "Foine f'r the diegistion!" 
 explained one of the young men. "Virry salty 
 and good. Thry it at my expinse." They all, 
 including the old lady, insisted upon my tasting 
 this sea product, but I told them that I had just 
 had breakfast and seldom ate anything between 
 meals. 
 
PEOPLE OF KILLARNEY 71 
 
 Upon the stand also were turnips, carrots, 
 potatoes, and a great pan of extraordinarily large 
 gooseberries. I bought a pound of the berries 
 for a penny, and found them to be excellently 
 flavored. There was also upon the stand a box 
 containing about a peck of snails which were 
 selling rapidly, the small boys purchasing them 
 readily at a ha'penny for a handful. I asked 
 what they were, and the old woman called them 
 by a name which I could not catch, though it 
 was repeated to me several times, not only by 
 the old lady, but also by several of the obliging 
 bystanders. 
 
 "Jist think of it!" said the kind-hearted old 
 dispenser of goodies, "the gintleman has niver 
 tasted inny of this food. These is foine; jist 
 thry one!" And before I knew what she was 
 doing or could interpose an objection, she pulled 
 a hairpin out of her hair, twisted it into the snail 
 shell, pried the slimy creature out and had it 
 almost in my mouth as I dodged backwards. I 
 bade her a too hasty good day, at the risk of 
 sacrificing all my American manners; but I 
 simply had to do this, for I had not long before 
 had a most severe case of seasickness, and with- 
 out a change of scene and thought I could not 
 
72 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 have contained myself another minute if my life 
 had depended upon it. 
 
 I was afterwards informed by an Irishman 
 that what I took to be snails was a species of 
 snail-like shell fish brought in from the seashore. 
 It was considered in that section to be excellent 
 food. 
 
 Idly rambling about the town, talking to such 
 of the inhabitants as I met in the way, I entered 
 some of the small shops and even dwellings. On 
 the back streets of Killarney, as elsewhere in 
 rural Ireland, the front doors of the dwellings 
 open on a level with the street, and not one 
 house in a dozen has anything except a dirt or 
 rough stone floor. 
 
 It was a showery day — what day is not in 
 Ireland ? — and whenever a hard, cold shower 
 would come over, chickens, geese, ducks, cats, 
 dogs, and children would scramble over each 
 other to get into the house. When the shower 
 was over, they would come out again to wade 
 and wallow or scratch or play in the mud and 
 dirt of the gutters. 
 
 There was one long string of geese in Killarney 
 that appeared to be ubiquitous. They seemed 
 to have the freedom of the town. They moved 
 
PEOPLE OF KILLARNEY 73 
 
 swiftly, and did not seem to care particularly 
 where they went. These geese that day were 
 about the wettest and dirtiest that I saw any- 
 where about me, and I am sure their impudence 
 and boldness surpassed their dirtiness. They 
 seemed to be perfectly indifferent as to whose 
 house they entered and into whose dinner pots 
 they thrust their dirty heads. 
 
 I saw these geese diving and playing in a 
 gutter running with black filthy water just after 
 a shower, and then file suddenly into a house 
 where a number of fowls and animals of various 
 kinds had congregated. The old woman who 
 lived there could stand much, and she showed by 
 her countenance that she had gone through a 
 great deal of rough treatment, but there was a 
 limit to her endurance. I heard her mutter 
 something about "dirthy spalpeens" and "long- 
 nicked divils" as she grabbed hold of a broom- 
 stick; and for the next five minutes the air was 
 filled with goose feathers, cat yowls, table legs, 
 dirty water, peat ashes, mud, dog hair, skillet 
 tops, and bitter ejaculations, mixed in intricate 
 and unutterable confusion. When finally the 
 mists had cleared away I saw the string of geese, 
 with feathers awry, passing hastily around a 
 
74 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 corner, a dog was limping rapidly off, and a 
 barefoot boy, with breeches legs extending al- 
 most down to his ankles, stood just outside of 
 the doorway almost dying from laughter. 
 
 Still strolling around, I entered a very small 
 shop, somewhat below the level of the sidewalk, 
 on one of the principal streets of the town. In 
 the window were a few small packages of gro- 
 ceries and ordinary household necessities. I 
 wished to purchase a cake of chocolate, and I 
 used this as an excuse for entering the little 
 shop. Two middle-aged women of real Irish 
 stock sat on opposite sides of the rude counter, 
 apparently gossiping as all other women at 
 times are supposed to do. When I entered, they 
 asked me with characteristic Irish politeness of 
 manner what I wished to purchase and how 
 they might be able to serve me. They saw at a 
 glance, as they told me, that I was an American, 
 and this fact made them particularly anxious 
 to treat me kindly. Both of them had many rela- 
 tives and friends beyond the Atlantic; and while 
 I was talking to them about cities and places of 
 which they made inquiry, two little girls, a 
 daughter of each of the ladies, came into the 
 room from the back door, struggling fiercely with 
 
PEOPLE OF KILLARNEY 
 
 75 
 
 each other over some point of difference in their 
 play. The mothers were much disturbed that an 
 American gentleman should thus witness such a 
 display of Irish physical prowess in their home, 
 so they began to make all kinds of excuses for 
 the little tots. Finally they threatened to let the 
 gentleman take both of them across the ocean 
 with him unless they would at once discontinue 
 fighting. This threat had the desired effect, and 
 within five minutes they were in the very best of 
 humor, chatting with me and telling me all 
 kinds of wondrous things about their toys and 
 playthings. 
 
 The ladies wished me to see the picture of a 
 famous cow that had taken many medals and 
 prizes at cattle fairs and shows in various places. 
 They took me into an adjoining room, ap- 
 parently the dining-room, where there was a 
 table set with white bread and a plate of golden 
 Irish butter upon it. I noticed that a dead crow 
 was suspended by a string from some point 
 above, and allowed to swing immediately in front 
 of the window of the room. I inquired what 
 this meant, and was told that the crows were so 
 bad in Killarney that they would come even into 
 the house and steal unless they in this strange 
 
76 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 manner were frightened away. They could not 
 shoot them because they were prohibited by 
 law from keeping fire-arms in the house without 
 a permit and the payment of a heavy fee. For 
 this reason the crows and rooks had almost 
 taken possession of Ireland. 
 
 While we were still talking about "Amuriky," 
 an old Irishman, seemingly just from the pages 
 of a comic weekly, came into the room from the 
 street. He was almost a perfect specimen of 
 the real Irishmen of the remote inland districts. 
 He did not wait for the ladies to introduce him, 
 but introduced himself to me and told me in a 
 most cordial manner that I was particularly 
 welcome to the premises. He was father-in-law 
 of both of these ladies, his two sons having 
 married them some years before. He lived here 
 with them, picking up a stray penny wherever one 
 might be found. I told him that I was intensely 
 interested in the Irish people, particularly those 
 of the peasantry class; and he informed me that 
 he knew all that there was to be known about 
 them, as he himself happened to be one of them 
 and had lived for a good many years in intimate 
 contact with them. 
 
 He told me that it would be one of the pleasures 
 
PEOPLE OF KILLARNEY 77 
 
 of his life to go with me about the town and its 
 environs and show me the sights. The ladies 
 forthwith put in strenuous objection to this, 
 declaring that they would not consent to his 
 going with me unless I would promise faithfully 
 not to give him anything to drink. "Och! he 
 is a terrible dhrinker!" one of them said; and 
 the other added, "And he is that foolish whin 
 he gits a-dhrinkin' that we can't have any peace 
 about the primises." 
 
 I gave the ladies my faithful promise not to 
 give the old fellow anything to drink, and they 
 gave their consent to his going with me. As 
 soon as we had gotten out of the door he said in 
 a contemptuous way: "Yis, the women thinks 
 they know about all there is to know. Dhrink, 
 is it ? And I the greathest timp'rance worruker 
 in all county Kerry!" His nose indicated what 
 kind of "worruk" he was accustomed, when he 
 had the opportunity, to do. But he continued: 
 
 "Women is that shtrange I sometimes sit an* 
 wonder. Is it thrue in Amuriky that the gintle 
 six is of such a nature? Och! what mysteries! 
 And thin, more mysteries to thimsilves than 
 to innybody ilse." Then he grew quiet and 
 thoughtful as we walked along. Coming to 
 
78 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 himself again, he looked down at his old clothes 
 and began to excuse himself for his appearance. 
 His dress was indeed shabby, but his very face 
 showed that a kind heart had its home in his 
 bosom, and I felt sure that he had no grudge 
 against anybody or any living thing in all the 
 world. 
 
 We set out under his direction to walk down 
 towards the lakes, those sheets of gray water 
 lying in the shadows of the tall green moun- 
 tains. The road along which we walked was 
 smooth and clean, and densely shaded with wide- 
 spreading, gnarled old trees, bearing upon them 
 the weight of centuries. Now and then we 
 passed an old landmark — a stone set in the 
 ground, some old cottage buried under the trees, 
 or some reputed resort of the fairies. One tree, 
 immediately in the way, marked with stones set 
 about it, had witnessed a most tragic occurrence 
 under its branches. A tall stone wall, extend- 
 ing from the town to the lake, a distance of 
 nearly two miles, shut out completely from view 
 the mountains and the lakes. Over this wall 
 was the lordly demesne of the Earl of Kenmare. 
 My companion told me that the estate had with- 
 in recent years passed through financial stress, 
 
PEOPLE OF KILLARNEY 79 
 
 but that he hoped it would all come out right 
 in the end. Anyway, the people in and about 
 Killarney were living, and now and then they 
 got something good to eat and a drop to drink. 
 
 On our walk we met many semi-beggars — 
 men, women, and boys — who wished to sell us 
 shoestrings, cheap souvenirs, post cards, bog-oak 
 pipes and other trifling gewgaws hardly worth 
 the carrying away. My old companion did his 
 utmost to protect me from the most annoying 
 importunities of these people, and he even went 
 farther than my conscience would approve in his 
 efforts to befriend me. He told one of them on 
 the side that I was a famous nobleman traveling 
 incognito, and that too many words from him 
 would surely land him in a dungeon in the Tower 
 of London. The effect was magical. To an- 
 other he said I was "Prisident of New Yorruk," 
 and that I did not wish to be worried. To 
 several others he made the statement that I was 
 in a great hurry, and that I had to be at the 
 station within the next quarter of an hour. 
 This when I was two miles away and afoot! 
 
 At length we reached old Ross Castle, one of 
 the best preserved ruins of that entire region. 
 The castle is built immediately upon Lough 
 
80 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 Leane, or the Lower Lake, on an island which 
 is connected with the mainland by a very narrow 
 neck of land. The ancient building is a most 
 picturesque one, massive and strong, with a 
 growth of ivy covering it almost completely from 
 the foundations to the lofty tower. The castle 
 was erected several centuries ago by one of the 
 noted O'Donoghues, a chieftain and fighter, well 
 known in Irish history. In early days the castle 
 had a bloody history, but it is noted to-day because 
 it was the last stronghold in Munster Ireland 
 to surrender to the forces of the Commonwealth 
 in 1652 when Cromwell and his lieutenants over- 
 ran Ireland intent upon wholesale butchery. 
 
 A little distance away on the eastern shore of 
 the lake were the ruins of another old castle, and 
 a little farther still were the ruins of Muckross 
 Abbey, founded by the Franciscans in 1340. 
 These ruins are among the most famous in Ire- 
 land, and the spot itself is entrancingly beautiful. 
 In the opposite direction was the island of Innis- 
 fallen, noted in literature and history. From 
 the shore this little island appears to be but a 
 mass of evergreens, but when one approaches it 
 across the lake in a boat he sees that beneath the 
 trees there are glades, and lawns, and paths, and 
 
Underwood & Underwood, New York. 
 
 The Lower Lake, Killarney. 
 
 From Lord Kenmare's Mansion. 
 
PEOPLE OF KILLARNEY 81 
 
 ruins, that give the appearance of a veritable 
 fairyland. So rich is the soil that the arbutus 
 and hollies grow into great spreading trees. 
 Buried in a dense bower of immense, drooping 
 trees are the ruins of an old abbey founded in 
 the year 650 a.d., by St. Finian. Here in this 
 wonderful old building the Annals of Innisfallen 
 were written. This famous historical work gives 
 us much of what we know of early Irish history. 
 The Annals also state that in the year 1 180, when 
 this abbey held vast stores of riches, both silver 
 and gold, Mildwin, son of Daniel O'Donoghue, 
 plundered the treasuries and slayed many of the 
 keepers in the very cemetery of the McCarthys. 
 One is almost overwhelmed as he contem- 
 plates the wondrous beauty of this dank, shady 
 island with its ruins. It is scarcely a wonder 
 that it inspired the Irish poet Yeats to write 
 what Robert Louis Stevenson thought was the 
 most exquisite poem of modern times: 
 
 " 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. 
 
82 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 " I will arise and go now, 
 For always, night or day, 
 I hear lake water lapping, 
 With low sounds by the shore; 
 While I stand on the roadway, 
 Or on the pavements gray, 
 I hear it in the deep heart's core." 
 
 To Thackeray this spot was "quiet, innocent, 
 and tender." Perhaps the sunshine falling across 
 Purple Mountain upon the ruins remained the 
 longest in the memory of Thomas Moore. Said 
 he: 
 
 " Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell 
 
 In memory's dream that sunny smile 
 Which o'er thee on that evening fell 
 When first I saw thy fairy isle." 
 
 It was the view through the dense shade of 
 bending yew and holly, of the cliffs of the Eagle's 
 Nest, past Glena Wood and beyond the Meeting 
 of the Waters, which inspired Alfred Austin to 
 say: 
 
 "The first, the final, the deepest and most 
 enduring impression of Killarney is that of 
 beauty unspeakably tender, which puts on at 
 times a garb of grandeur and a look of awe, 
 only in order to heighten by passing contrast 
 the sense of soft, insinuating loveliness. How 
 the missel-thrushes sing, as well they may! How 
 
PEOPLE OF KILLARNEY 83 
 
 the streams and runnels gurgle and leap and 
 laugh! For the sound of journeying water is 
 never out of your ears; the feeling of the moist, 
 the fresh, the vernal is never out of your heart. 
 There is nothing in England or Scotland as 
 beautiful as Killarney; and if mountain, wood, 
 and water, harmoniously blent, constitute the 
 most perfect and adequate loveliness that nature 
 presents, it surely must be owned that it has, all 
 the world over, no superior." 
 
 The boatman sat for a long time on the shore 
 near the old Ross Castle and talked to me of 
 his life and his little mountain home. Ah! how 
 poorly he lived there! In summers he rowed 
 the tourists upon the lake, but och! how long the 
 dreary winters were when never a visitor came. 
 He would have gone to America long, long ago, 
 only he could never get enough money together 
 to take him and his little family. He supposed 
 he would have to live all his years here upon the 
 lakes. But he asked me many questions about 
 the great country beyond the Atlantic where so 
 many of his friends had gone. Indeed, was it 
 not the money which they sent back that paid 
 all the rents of Killarney ? Yes, and this was 
 
84 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 true all through Ireland. The old people would 
 starve if it were not for the help which they got 
 from the boys and girls in America. 
 
 And then my old Killarney guide wished also 
 to ask me some questions about America. He 
 had long had the curiosity to know what kind 
 of telephone poles they had over there. Were 
 the fences made of stone as in Ireland ? Were 
 the chickens mostly white ones or speckled ? 
 And he had heard the freight cars were very 
 large. But he was afraid he could not stand the 
 climate. He had heard it was "tremindously" 
 hot over there in summer, and too much heat 
 made him dizzy in the head. He said he had 
 heard the wages there were very high. In Kerry 
 they were low. A good, stout farmer's boy 
 would work a whole year for ten pounds and 
 board. The board ? Well, it v/as only fair, 
 mostly bread and a little butter, with "tay" in 
 the evenings. But meat was to be had some- 
 times, perhaps not oftener than once a week. 
 
 The lake water was lapping at our feet. The 
 old man looked down at his worn old shoes. Ah! 
 he hated to be seen out wearing such shoes, but 
 indeed they were the best he had. The truth 
 was he had buried his old wife not long before 
 
PEOPLE OF KILLARNEY 85 
 
 and it had taken all his money to pay the under- 
 taking expenses. Still he felt that he had done 
 his part. It was "a grate funeral and a moighty 
 wake." 
 
 Och! how he would like to get to a country 
 where there was a plenty of money! He had 
 heard that even the farm hands in America got 
 good wages. But what did they eat ? I told 
 him they could get meat three times a day. 
 
 "Glory be to God!" he said in amazement. 
 "And do they get tay to dhrink, and now and 
 then some ale and porther?" 
 
 I told him they usually had all the tea and 
 coffee they wished to drink, and they could gen- 
 erally get beer and porter when they wanted it. 
 
 "Glory be to God on high!" he exclaimed, 
 rising from his seat. But he turned sadly away 
 and sighed. "I've waited too long," he said. 
 'Tm too old!" 
 
 It was getting late. A gray mist was settling 
 over the lakes and burying the islands out of 
 sight. We passed the ivy-clad castle and walked 
 up the old roadway that reeked with the dense 
 perfume of flowers and breathed forth the odors 
 of the fresh showers of June. The sun had 
 sunken far down behind the mountains, but its 
 
SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 rays had turned the clouds into gold. Some 
 of the sheen fell athwart the summits of the 
 lofty blue mountains above us, and lighted them 
 up with a quiet, unspeakable glory. 
 
U 
 
 u 
 
 -a 
 O 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 A RAMBLE THROUGH THE GOLDEN VALE OF 
 TIPPERARY 
 
 I had heard much of the Golden Vale of 
 Tipperary. Guide-books say it is ''the most 
 fertile tract of Ireland"; travelers who have 
 seen that portion of the "ould sod" write of it 
 as a "prosperous and beautiful agricultural 
 region"; and those Irish people who have 
 found their way to America speak of it with a 
 sparkle in their eyes and a pride in their voices 
 as "the counthry God made afther His own 
 pathern." 
 
 I was led to believe, from what I had heard 
 and read, that that portion of south central 
 Ireland known as the "Golden Vale" occupies 
 a position of rural supremacy with regard to 
 the Emerald Isle comparable to that which the 
 Shenandoah Valley does to the State of Virginia 
 or the Blue Grass Region does to Kentucky. 
 
 I was on my way thither one cold, showery 
 
 June morning, and I expected to see before 
 
 87 
 
88 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 night something of a "foine counthry." In my 
 compartment of the train bound from south- 
 western Ireland to Dublin, the capital, on the 
 central eastern coast of the island, were two 
 married couples, apparently somewhat under 
 middle age. From the manner in which they 
 were dressed and the accent so noticeable in 
 their speech, I judged they were from Scotland. 
 
 One of the gentlemen, apparently a prosper- 
 ous business man, was somewhat overbold, I 
 thought, for he was actually talking politics 
 here in Munster Ireland. One does not have 
 to be an eavesdropper to hear many interest- 
 ing things on the trains of the British Isles. 
 Conversations are thrust upon one. This 
 Scotchman, red-faced and tweed-attired, was 
 descanting volubly upon political topics, and 
 seemed not to be loath to express his opinions 
 of Ireland and the Home Rule question. Said 
 he, sometimes speaking directly to his compan- 
 ions, sometimes apparently with more or less 
 introspection: 
 
 "If they had home rule what would the Irish 
 do with it ? Would it satisfy them ? Are they 
 ever satisfied with anything except fighting 
 somebody or something? Ah! right there's the 
 
GOLDEN VALE OF TIPPERARY 89 
 
 secret of it all. Fighting is in their blood, in- 
 herited from a thousand generations of fighters. 
 They've been fighting from history's very morn- 
 ing. Their first weapons were rough stones 
 and dead limbs from trees; then they learned 
 how to dress flints with which to mutilate each 
 other. From this they went to the short sword 
 and the spear, thence to the cross-bow, the 
 musket and the cannon, tapering off with the 
 kippeen and the shillalah. Now most of their 
 fighting is done with the tongue around the 
 ballot boxes, with the policeman's billy in alley 
 disturbances, or with the naked fist in the prize 
 rings! 
 
 "Oh! they are a great people in their way," 
 he was going on to say, "a wonderful people: 
 but constitutionally they are unable to govern 
 themselves. They are too visionary, too emo- 
 tional — quite too passionate." 
 
 Then he undertook to explain how all the 
 vast commercial interests of Protestant or Ulster 
 Ireland would suffer if the Irish Catholic major- 
 ity were given the upper hand, and concluded 
 by saying that he as a Scotchman had abso- 
 lutely no grudge against the Irish; upon the 
 contrary, he admired them greatly for a num- 
 
9° 
 
 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 ber of their traits, but personally he did not 
 think they should have home rule. It was 
 against common sense, and, indeed, contrary to 
 the teachings of history. 
 
 A few days before this I had heard a Catholic 
 priest say that no Irishman worth taking into 
 consideration would ever be satisfied with any- 
 thing less than total and complete home rule 
 for Ireland. The country would not prosper, 
 nor did the average Irishman wish it to prosper, 
 so long as it was connected under the present 
 arrangements with Great Britain. Let no one 
 labor under the delusion, he said, that Ireland 
 would ever give up the fight until she became 
 free. 
 
 Such conversations one may hear anywhere 
 in Ireland if he chooses to listen. Every Irish 
 newspaper is filled with discussions of the land 
 and tenure question, the Gaelic League, or 
 local Irish politics. The Irishman delights in 
 long verbatim speeches and page-long articles 
 dealing with the intricacies of the work of the 
 reform societies or the Congested Districts 
 Board. And he is ready at all times to discuss 
 any phase of the so-called "Irish question." 
 
 This "question" is not a new one. It dates 
 
GOLDEN VALE OF TIPPERARY 91 
 
 from the year 1171 when Ireland was conquered 
 by the Normans and brought under partial con- 
 trol of England. The years in between have 
 been filled with striving and fighting, the Irish- 
 men all admit; while perhaps the most noted 
 living Irishman insists that it was the Irish- 
 man's predisposition to strife which first brought 
 the island under the dominion of England. 
 
 Reliable Irish history relates that during the 
 early centuries of the Christian era Ireland was 
 divided into many tribes and small kingdoms 
 among which there was almost constant war. 
 But after the introduction of Christianity in 
 the fifth century the island became a center of 
 culture which far eclipsed England or any other 
 portion of western Europe. Its teachers are 
 said to have founded the University of Paris; 
 and learned men from its shores visited all north- 
 ern and semi-pagan Europe, giving religious 
 and secular instruction. But when the Danes 
 came in the ninth and tenth centuries, plunder- 
 ing, thieving, and murdering along the coasts, 
 the Irish were literally worn out in their attempts 
 to drive them from the country. Irish civiliza- 
 tion and culture declined greatly on account of 
 these disastrous wars. Finally, however, all 
 
92 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 the tribes of the island were united under the 
 leadership of Brian Boru, perhaps the most 
 brilliant organizer and leader of the Irish race, 
 and victory after victory was gained over the 
 Danes. At Clontarf, the last great victory, 
 Brian in returning to his tent was killed by a 
 concealed enemy. This was in the year 1014. 
 
 After Brian's death the island was again 
 divided into four kingdoms, Ulster in the north, 
 Leinster in the east, Munster in the south, and 
 Connaught in the west. These were subdivided 
 into innumerable kingdoms and principalities. 
 Then fighting again commenced among the 
 island kingdoms. It was the culmination of 
 these quarrels, relates Justin McCarthy, which 
 brought about union with England, the most 
 unfortunate event, average Irishmen think, of 
 all the unfortunate events of Irish history. It 
 happened in this wise: 
 
 The Lord or Chief of Brefni had a beautiful 
 wife who attracted the admiration of Dermot 
 Macmurragh, King of Leinster. Dermot, a 
 reckless warrior, lover of the chase, semi-sav- 
 age, and unscrupulous libertine, proceeded to 
 Brefni's castle and with little difficulty per- 
 suaded the fair Devorgilla to return home with 
 
GOLDEN VALE OF TIPPERARY 93 
 
 him and become queen of Leinster. Brefni 
 immediately took up arms to avenge the out- 
 rage, and the result was civil war. The King 
 of Connaught, the nominal supreme head of 
 the country, took sides with Brefni, and Der- 
 mot thought it best to escape the country. 
 Henry II of England received him at his court, 
 heard his story, and decided to invade Ireland 
 and restore its equilibrium. Sixteen years be- 
 fore this he had obtained from Pope Adrian IV 
 a Bull of Authority over Ireland, on the ground 
 of the alleged ignorance and immorality of the 
 people; and he was appar itly happy to have 
 this excuse for going over to possess the island. 
 
 Robert Fitz-Stephen, a Norman knight, with 
 Dermot as guide, crossed the channel with a 
 small army of knights, men-at-arms, and Welsh 
 archers. The Irish kernes found the English 
 arms and horses irresistible; Wexford was taken, 
 and a veritable slaughter ensued. Dermot 
 seized the severed head of a fallen Irish foeman 
 and with his teeth tore off its nose and its lips, 
 proving the brutal savage that he was. 
 
 Then came Richard of Clare, known as 
 "Strongbow," who married Dermot's daughter 
 Eva; and in 1171 Henry himself came with a 
 
94 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 large army and overwhelmed Irish forces in 
 different parts of the island. The Norman 
 conquest was partial, but from that day to 
 this England has ruled Ireland. This rule, 
 tremendously aggravated by the Cromwellian 
 massacres and the battles between the forces 
 of William and James, and more than all by 
 the Ulster dispossession and settlement, has 
 never been kindly accepted by the Irish people. 
 It is scarcely a wonder, then, that a grudge of 
 seven hundred and forty years' standing should 
 be considered a serious matter in Ireland. And 
 it is not strange t it a traveler should hear 
 discussion of the old question even in the grassy 
 vale of Tipperary. 
 
 We passed Mallow, in the Blackwater Valley, 
 not many miles above the charming village of 
 Lismore, whose castle, built by the Earl of 
 Montaigne, afterwards King John of England, 
 is now one of the twelve residences of the Duke 
 and Duchess of Devonshire. This splendid 
 castle, it may be noted, has for many years been 
 looked upon by a number of the ultra-sanguine 
 Irish people as a prospective royal residence in 
 case anything does happen to make Ireland 
 again a nation. 
 
GOLDEN VALE OF TIPPERARY 95 
 
 Traveling northeastward, we passed Butte- 
 vant, in northern county Cork, a town of much 
 former splendor, but which even in Edmund 
 Spenser's day was so old that the poet said in 
 respect to it, "the ragged ruins breed great 
 ruth and pittie." 
 
 Five miles northeast of the town, at the foot 
 of the strangely beautiful Ballyhoura Hills, is 
 Kilcolman Castle, the home of Spenser, where 
 the Faerie Queene was composed. Doneraile 
 Park, once the property of the poet, is a few 
 miles away on the south. 
 
 At Charleville we passed out of County Cork 
 into County Limerick. Here in the Valley of 
 the Aherlow we caught our first glimpse of the 
 Golden Vale. The Ballyhoura Hills and the 
 Galty Mountains lay upon our south, and about 
 us, blackish green, was a rolling country of 
 grass, stretched as far as eye could see into the 
 north, the east, and the west. Our next stop was 
 at Limerick Junction, a busy railroad station out 
 in the grassy meadows, twenty miles southeast 
 of Limerick, an ancient Irish city, noted for 
 its Treaty Stone and its fishing-hook factories. 
 At Limerick Junction I left the train with my 
 baggage and began to look about me at the sights. 
 
96 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 The railway station at Limerick Junction was 
 new and handsome, and was equipped with 
 every modern convenience. It was a type of 
 the buff-brick stations which within the past 
 few years have been erected in all the principal 
 towns and at important railway junctions in the 
 island. There were comfortable waiting-rooms, 
 lavatories, and news-stands, but by far the most 
 conspicuous feature of the building was the bar, 
 run in conjunction with the restaurant, which 
 was tended by a number of unusually hand- 
 some young girls. The bar was elaborately and 
 luxuriantly equipped, its full stock of choice 
 liquors, brandies and wines being in full view of 
 the passing multitudes. If one wished a cup of 
 hot chocolate or cocoa or a slight luncheon he 
 must have it served there in front of the bar. 
 To one with the slightest tendency in the direc- 
 tion of dissipation, I fancy this place of refresh- 
 ment would prove irresistible. 
 
 The willingness on the part of the Irish people 
 to allow bars in their railway stations is one proof 
 of the fact that the old Irish vice still exists in 
 the island. In olden days, historians and trav- 
 elers tell us, liquor was almost if not altogether 
 free of tax, and Ireland was given over to drunk- 
 
GOLDEN VALE OF TIPPERARY 97 
 
 enness. Indeed, in the seventeenth and eigh- 
 teenth centuries it was often considered a mark 
 of hospitality in a host to insist that his guests be 
 made drunk when under his rooftree. Ingenious 
 devices, it is said, were invented for compelling 
 intoxication. In some cases glasses and bottles 
 were provided which could not stand and 
 which therefore had to be emptied before they 
 could be laid upon the table. It was a trick 
 at dinner parties for hosts to keep the tea-kettle 
 filled with hot whisky in order that those who 
 attempted to weaken their punch would un- 
 wittingly strengthen it. A host was unmindful 
 of even the smaller courtesies if he allowed his 
 guests to get up from a festive table in the 
 usual manner. Most of , the men had to be 
 pulled out from underneath the board. An 
 Irishman drunk was an Irishman "all in his 
 glory." 
 
 Father Theobald Matthew, a Capuchin friar, 
 to whom a statue stands in Patrick Street, Cork, 
 originated a crusade against drunkenness in 
 1838, and by 1840 he had upon his total absti- 
 nence rolls a total of two million five hundred 
 and thirty thousand names. From that time an 
 improvement set in, and drunkenness became 
 
q8 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 much less frequent everywhere in the island. 
 Since Father Matthew's day, however, a reac- 
 tion has set in, and a traveler to-day in Ireland 
 will see much drunkenness. The attitude of 
 the church towards drinking is less favorable 
 than it once was, but efforts against the liquor 
 traffic are desultory and scattering, and accom- 
 plish little. It is said, however, that this is 
 to be expected since so many of the clergy 
 themselves drink regularly and sometimes to 
 excess. Many of the priests are sons of liquor 
 dealers, and it is something of a custom for the 
 Irish brewers or public-house keepers to give 
 one of their sons to be educated for the priest- 
 hood. 
 
 One of the most brilliant Catholic priests in 
 Ireland, himself, I believe, a total abstainer, 
 told me he had come to the conclusion that 
 his countrymen have little right to grumble 
 about their tax bill of £9,000,000, while they 
 cheerfully and hilariously allowed their drink 
 bill to total £14,000,000 a year, and this too 
 when Ireland of all countries in the world is 
 the least able to afford it. 
 
 Mr. T. P. O'Connor, talking to me about 
 this matter in the Houses of Parliament in Lon- 
 
GOLDEN VALE OF TIPPERARY 99 
 
 don, told me that while the drink bill of Ireland 
 was reported as being enormous there were 
 extenuating circumstances. "Drink/' he said, 
 "has been called 'the child of despondency,' 
 though it is also the child of hopeless poverty. 
 Give the Irish a brighter outlook and their 
 tendency to drink will no doubt be diminished." 
 
 But whatever arguments may be offered pro 
 and con, the disinterested and unprejudiced 
 traveler through Ireland would certainly feel 
 more comfortable in extending his sympathies 
 to the Irish people in their troubles if he did 
 not see so many elaborately equipped bars and 
 public-houses in such close juxtaposition to the 
 thatched-roofed, stone-floored cottages of those 
 who can in no possible manner afford the lux- 
 ury of drink. 
 
 At the suggestion of the courteous and kindly 
 station master, I decided to spend part of the 
 three hours which I must wait in visiting the 
 famous old town of Tipperary which was but 
 three miles away on the south. I boarded a 
 train bound for Waterford, and in less than ten 
 minutes I was in Tipperary town. When I 
 looked about me I felt sure that I was in Ire- 
 land indeed. Here all the marks were to be 
 
ioo SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 seen. Jaunting-cars were drawn up in line, 
 with drivers just begging one to go on a "glori- 
 ious dhrive": chickens and geese and even goats 
 appeared to roam about at will: "Patrick" 
 was there with his Hibernian lip and his pipe; 
 and stolid, thatched houses lined all the alley- 
 ways which extended out even into the grassy 
 meadows that surrounded the town on every 
 side. 
 
 I walked from the station up the walled-in 
 roadway to the old town. All along the way 
 were low-back donkey-cars, many of them 
 loaded down with tall cans of milk which they 
 were taking to the creameries. With the bare 
 exception of Cork, Tipperary is the largest 
 butter market of Ireland. The population of 
 the town at this time is about six thousand, 
 possibly three or four thousand less than it was 
 sixty years ago. It is situated at the foot of 
 the Slieve-na-muck hills in an undulating coun- 
 try of the densest green. Meadows of lush 
 grass extend in every direction as far as the eye 
 can see. 
 
 I explored one of the principal shops on a 
 corner of the main street in quest of an um- 
 brella. There seemed to be a full stock of 
 
GOLDEN VALE OF TIPPERARY 101 
 
 goods in the establishment, but the wares were 
 piled about and most unattractively displayed. 
 The windows were small, and the day was 
 cloudy and damp without, so there was gloom 
 indeed in the search which we made for the 
 umbrella. At length the young woman clerk 
 found the box containing the umbrellas and 
 laid them out for my inspection. They were 
 of the oldest and crudest pattern, though it 
 appeared that the fair young clerk did not 
 know that much better ones could be found 
 anywhere. 
 
 It was raining and cold without, but nobody 
 seemed to mind a little thing like that. I 
 stopped a picturesque group of children on their 
 way from school, and asked them if they ob- 
 jected to my making a small picture of them 
 with my kodak. They not only had no objec- 
 tion, but were almost wild with enthusiasm 
 over the project. Others came up, and in a 
 short while they were joined by several old men 
 and women who came up out of a neighboring 
 alley. As I moved away from this place the 
 crowd followed me, increasing as we went along. 
 The old women were poorly dressed, with the 
 usual somber shawl over the head, and heavy, 
 
102 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 though badly-worn, shoes. One old man who 
 hobbled up out of an alley with his cane was 
 quite remarkable in his attire. His coat was 
 cut according to a pattern that has long been 
 ruled out of fashionable society, and his shoes 
 were something enormous. The entire outfit 
 was crowned with a derby hat of some style of 
 the long ago, dented apparently with many an 
 unlucky stroke from a shillalah or fist, and ac- 
 tually green with a growth of damp Irish moss. 
 Feeling somewhat embarrassed on account 
 of the crowd which I had collected, I made an 
 effort to get away from them; but the farther 
 I went down the alley the larger the crowd be- 
 came. If the whole lugubrious contingent had 
 not furnished such a ludicrous scene, I believe 
 I would have lost my courage. One might 
 have thought, from the appearance of things, 
 that a circus had come to town and that I was 
 the parade. As soon, however, as I expressed 
 my willingness to be left alone most of the 
 crowd disappeared, but some of the schoolboys, 
 like Peter of old, insisted upon following afar 
 off, intent upon learning, if possible, just what 
 the man with an American raincoat and a 
 camera wished in Tipperary. 
 
< 
 
GOLDEN VALE OF TIPPERARY 103 
 
 I was fortunate in reaching Limerick Junc- 
 tion just in time for the train which took me 
 to Goold's Cross, a station in County Tippe- 
 rary, through which I had to pass on my way 
 to Cashel, in the heart of the Golden Vale. 
 When the train from Dublin reached Goold's 
 Cross I observed that there were a number of 
 what appeared to be excursion coaches attached, 
 and when the passengers began to pour out of 
 this train and board the train for Cashel I saw 
 that in a number of cases John Barleycorn had 
 done his work well. A guard of the Cashel 
 train was particularly kind in placing me in a 
 compartment all to myself, and thus in medita- 
 tion and introspection I traveled to Cashel, 
 listening to the boisterous songs that came forth 
 from the train behind me. 
 
 I was visiting Cashel not only because it is 
 in the heart of the richest section of Ireland, 
 but also because historically it is one of the most 
 noted small towns of the island, and possesses 
 some of the most famous ruins of the British 
 Isles. No one knows just when the town was 
 founded, or the noted Rock of Cashel first pos- 
 sessed by civilized man, but the earliest histor- 
 ical records indicate that it was an important 
 
104 
 
 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 settlement centuries before Christianity was 
 introduced into the island. 
 
 In those early days Ireland was covered with 
 dense forests. The trees were of enormous 
 size, and in the rich swampy places there were 
 veritable jungles. The inhabitants, about 
 whom very little is known, had built no bridges 
 except a few unsubstantial wooden structures, 
 and boats and barges had to be used in crossing 
 the streams. The houses were of wood — a 
 kind of wicker-work, enclosing in some cases 
 walls of clay, which were surmounted with 
 conical roofs with holes in the tops for the 
 escape of the smoke. The banqueting-halls 
 were sometimes made of rough, sawn boards, 
 and covered with boughs or with sedge-straw 
 now known as thatch. 
 
 Wild animals were abundant. The red deer, 
 the wild boar, the wolf, the fox, and the wild 
 goat, with many smaller animals, were every- 
 where to be found. In the woods and moun- 
 tains there were eagles and ravens, while on the 
 water-courses and along the seacoasts were 
 innumerable swans, gulls, choughs, and seals. 
 
 Even in the very early times the primitive 
 inhabitants raised flax, wheat, and oats, and indi- 
 
GOLDEN VALE OF TIPPERARY 105 
 
 cations are that they kept many hives of bees 
 that gathered honey from the myriads of blos- 
 soms of the wild-flowers of the island. With 
 the honey they made mead which they drank 
 freely, especially when they met together in 
 the banqueting-halls to celebrate some victory. 
 Traveling was done mostly afoot, but a kind 
 of a drag was used for hauling, as well as a cart 
 with solid disk wheels. From the very earliest 
 times they grazed and milked the cow, and 
 made her a standard of value, known as the 
 "set," with plural form "senti." The pig, 
 too, seems to have been with them from the 
 beginning. Pickled pig, acorn fed, was always 
 considered a great delicacy with the early 
 Irelanders. 
 
 So far as is known, the religion of the people 
 was Druidism. Their places of worship were 
 the stone cairns or " cromlechs " which may be 
 found in parts of Ireland to-day. 
 
 In those early days Cashel was founded. 
 Tradition says its first settlement was in the 
 reign of Core, son of Loo-ee. Immense forests 
 then stretched over this vast limestone plain, and 
 here two swineherds — Killarn, herdsman to 
 the King of Ely, and Doordry, herdsman to 
 
106 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 the King of Muskerry — came to feed their pigs 
 upon the acorns in the woods. They continued 
 in these woods about a quarter of a year, mak- 
 ing their home on an immense limestone rock, 
 three hundred feet high, in the very heart of 
 the woods. Here it is said they had a vision, 
 when a brilliant figure announced that this 
 hill was consecrated on account of the future 
 coming of a certain Patrick who should Chris- 
 tianize Ireland. The masters of the swineherds, 
 hearing their remarkable story of the vision, 
 repaired to the spot and on the very top of the 
 vast rock they built a palace called "Lis-na- 
 cree," or the fort of heroes. Here the King of 
 Munster received royal tribute, and the rock 
 was thereafter called Cashel, from "Cios ail," 
 the Rock of Tribute. Others, however, say 
 the word is derived from "Cashiol," which in 
 Celtic means the same as the Latin word cas- 
 tellum. 
 
 The train reached Cashel at sunset. Mount- 
 ing a jaunting-car, I drove into the little town, 
 or "city," one should call it, for- it was char- 
 tered as a city by the King of England more 
 than five hundred years ago. Rolling away on 
 every side were meadows of grass, almost tree- 
 
Underwood & Underwood, New York. 
 
 A Cromlech, near Dundalk. 
 
GOLDEN VALE OF TIPPER ARY 107 
 
 less, with white roads and stone walls. The 
 great Rock of Cashel, crowned with ruins, 
 towered above us, and the town of three 
 thousand people lay at its base as if asleep 
 in the gathering twilight. 
 
 I was hospitably received at a little stone inn, 
 and after supper I was taken to a number of 
 the shops and other places of business and in- 
 troduced to some of the leading men of the town. 
 I found these gentlemen to be thoroughly in- 
 formed upon all subjects relating to America, 
 and invariably they were deeply interested in 
 American affairs. They subscribed for the 
 American newspapers and knew numbers of 
 Irish people in the principal American cities. 
 One of them was agent for a number of the 
 transatlantic steamship lines, and he said that 
 in the course of a year he generally sold hun- 
 dreds of tickets to emigrants bound for 
 New York and Boston. One gentleman, the 
 proprietor of a hardware store, talked to me 
 volubly about New York and other American 
 cities, naming even obscure streets and describ- 
 ing the leading places of interest. Upon my 
 asking him when he had last visited the United 
 States, he told me, with a smile upon his face, 
 
108 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 that his feet had never rested upon American 
 soil, but that he was so much interested in our 
 great free country he almost knew it by heart. 
 I could not have been more kindly and hos- 
 pitably received anywhere than I was in this 
 little Irish hamlet, shut out from the noise and 
 bustle of the world. 
 
 Early the next morning I set out in company 
 with a most agreeable and kindly acquaint- 
 ance, a citizen of Cashel, with the purpose of 
 seeing the old town and exploring the hoary 
 ruins. As we walked here and there in the 
 streets, I saw many sights that interested and 
 amused me. One old woman, who drove a 
 very small donkey-cart from house to house, 
 distributing milk, seemed to meet us at every 
 turn. Her costume was decidedly picturesque. 
 And in one case we saw an extremely old man 
 sitting out in front of his doorway. I was told 
 by my companion that he was over a hundred 
 years old. He would never consent to having 
 his picture made, and whenever he saw any one 
 approaching with a camera or kodak he went 
 into his house and shut the door. 
 
 At length we reached the foot of the Rock 
 of Cashel, and climbed slowly up the steep 
 
GOLDEN VALE OF TIPPERARY 109 
 
 incline until we reached the summit. It was 
 clear and windy and cold, and we kept our 
 overcoats buttoned up closely about our ears. 
 That same day the thermometer registered 
 above ninety degrees in all parts of the United 
 States. As we reached the top we met a genial 
 old gate-keeper who, after passing courtesies, 
 gave us an immense key which opened a gate 
 leading into the ruins. A veritable wilderness 
 of masonry lay about us. 
 
 Upon this rock are ruins unsurpassed for 
 interest anywhere in Europe. They consist 
 of a cathedral, a richly decorated chapel, known 
 as Cormac's chapel, interesting remains of 
 immense monastic buildings, a round tower, 
 and a great stone cross, in addition to the very 
 old wall which surrounds the rock's summit. 
 Perhaps all of these ruins belong to the Christian 
 era, though undoubtedly the rock had been a 
 heathen shrine long before Christianity was intro- 
 duced into Ireland. Authorities assure us that 
 there are records indicating that a synod was held 
 upon the rock by St. Patrick, St. Declan, and 
 St. Ailbe about the middle of the fifth century. 
 Oengus, the king, at that time erected a church 
 upon the rock to commemorate his conversion. 
 
no SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 If we except the round tower, about which 
 we know too little, the oldest building upon 
 the rock is Cormac's Chapel, supposed to have 
 been erected by Cormac MacCulinan, King 
 of Munster, who died in 908; or, more prob- 
 ably, by Cormac MacCarthy, an ancestor of the 
 builder of Blarney Castle, who was king and 
 bishop about 1127. The cathedral was fin- 
 ished about 1 1 69 by Donald O'Brien, King of 
 Limerick. This building, except the wood- 
 work, remains intact, and is very handsome 
 with its lofty arches and groined roof. It is 
 said that in 1495 the Earl of Kildare with his 
 own hands set fire to the interior wood-work of 
 this vast pile and reduced it to ashes. At his 
 trial before the King of England he readily 
 confessed his guilt, but said he would not have 
 applied the torch to the sacred edifice if he had 
 not been firmly of the opinion that his deadly 
 enemy, Archbishop Creagh, was within at the 
 time. Bishop Meath concluded his impeach- 
 ment with the words, "Your Majesty, you see 
 all Ireland cannot rule this gentleman!" King 
 Henry replied, "Then he shall rule all Ireland!" 
 And he forthwith appointed him to the lord- 
 lieutenancy of the kingdom. 
 
Underwood & Underwood, New York. 
 
 Old Cross and Round Tower. 
 
GOLDEN VALE OF TIPPERARY in 
 
 Close beside and built into the cathedral is 
 Cormac's Chapel. Its carvings are exquisite, 
 though black with extreme age. Wonderful 
 old tombs, with strange inscriptions in Latin 
 and Gaelic, and fanciful carvings representing 
 strange beings and gods and goddesses, almost 
 heathen in character, would almost lead one 
 to believe it was formerly a heathen shrine. 
 These carvings and tombs are upon all sides of 
 the chapel. The tomb of Cormac MacCarthy, 
 lying there in the quiet of the mighty moun- 
 tain, overlooking the Golden Vale, almost 
 startles one with its strange impressiveness. 
 
 The ruins of the monastic buildings remain 
 near the cathedral; and in the same enclosure 
 is the ancient cross, carved probably more than 
 a thousand years ago. Below it is the corona- 
 tion stone of the kings of Munster, the "Lia 
 fail" of the south. Upon the stone are carvings 
 in concentric circles, indicating that it was 
 probably a Druid's altar. It is said to be the 
 oldest stone-work of the place and certainly 
 one of the most ancient carvings in Ireland. 
 
 Beside the ruins, and crowning them all, is 
 the round tower. This remains in a perfect 
 state of preservation. The other buildings are 
 
1 1 2 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 of limestone, but this is built of sandstone or 
 granite. This tower is fifty-six feet in circum- 
 ference and ninety feet in height. It has four 
 apertures at the top, opening to the four points 
 of the compass, and windows upon the sides, 
 indicating that it was originally divided into 
 five stories. The entrance to the tower is a 
 doorway cut through the thick walls, twelve 
 feet from the ground. 
 
 It is not known when this tower was erected, 
 as authorities upon archeology cannot agree 
 upon the dates when these peculiar buildings 
 arose throughout Ireland. At the present time 
 there are about a hundred and eighteen round 
 towers upon the island, of which many are in 
 ruins. Only twenty are entire from founda- 
 tion to conical roof. 
 
 There has been utter disagreement in the 
 conclusions of scholars as to the purpose for 
 which these towers were built. Volumes have 
 been written upon the subject, but it is not 
 known even yet whether these strange buildings 
 belong to the Christian era or are relics of 
 paganism. Some writers strenuously insist that 
 they were built long before Christianity was 
 introduced into Ireland, and that they were 
 
GOLDEN VALE OF TIPPERARY 113 
 
 erected to commemorate victories, or as monu- 
 ments, and were used as places of retreat in 
 times of danger. Some think they were erected 
 during the early days of Irish Christianity, and 
 were used as watch or bell towers by the monks. 
 Excavations in a number of cases have revealed 
 skeletons and charcoal beneath the towers, 
 showing that possibly some of the towers were 
 built over the graves of chieftains. 
 
 For whatever purpose the towers were built, 
 they were admirably adapted for places of re- 
 treat at times of attack. Entrance to the tower 
 was gained through the door usually situated 
 from six to sixteen feet from the ground. The 
 ladder was then drawn up into the tower, and 
 as each successive floor or landing was reached, 
 the ladder was taken up higher. The floors in 
 some of the towers were constructed of wood; 
 in others, of stone. Those besieged could rain 
 rocks down upon the heads of the enemy at 
 the foot of the tower and thus effectually pre- 
 vent an entrance. There were no weapons in 
 those days that could reach to the top of the 
 tower. 
 
 I examined the Cashel round tower as care- 
 fully as I could, and through the door looked 
 
1 1 4 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 up into the interior of the building. There 
 was no sign of life anywhere except the chatter- 
 ing of the jackdaws that had made their home 
 in the very summit of the tower. 
 
 After examining the strange cuddies, the 
 damp, cool rooms, and the mysterious passage- 
 ways in the lower part of the ruins, my com- 
 panion and I sought the winding stairways of 
 stone built spirally in the wall of the cathedral. 
 I noticed the perfect fittings of the spiral steps, 
 so skilfully cut in the dark ages. After many 
 turns we came out upon the top of the walls. The 
 flaming sunshine bathed the whole mass of ruins 
 in yellow gold. I shall never forget the sight. 
 
 The view from Eiffel Tower over Paris and 
 the valley of the Seine reveals much of man's 
 skill and suggests power; the panorama of 
 mountain, valley, and battlefield from Stirling 
 Castle in Scotland is one of boldness and 
 majesty; but this prospect of the Golden Vale of 
 Tipperary from the summit of the Rock of 
 Cashel is a picture of infinite peace. 
 
 To me it was glorious that June day to see 
 the sunshine rest upon the earth. For twenty 
 miles in every direction lay the valley, luscious 
 and green beyond all that can be imagined. 
 
GOLDEN VALE OF TIPPERARY 115 
 
 In the distance, and far away towards the north, 
 and south, and west, lay mountains, blue as 
 lazulite in the golden sunshine. Field beyond 
 field, meadow against meadow, stone wall join- 
 ing stone wall, hedge following hedge — a 
 panorama it was of all that is fair on earth to 
 look upon. The lush grass and the shamrock 
 covered the earth like a carpet, while bloom- 
 ing flowers, daisies, white clover, heather, haw- 
 thorn, poppies, and pink wild roses breathed 
 out their fragrance into the soft air that blew 
 about us from the western hills. 
 
 Sheep and cattle, like tiny specks in the dis- 
 tance, grazed lazily on the sunny hillsides. 
 Placid streams, glittering in the morning sun- 
 shine, wound between the hills and circled 
 about the villages and hamlets; and the white 
 roads, lined with gray stone walls, stretched 
 themselves over the hills and across the val- 
 leys until they appeared like white ribbons in 
 the hazy distance. Even here on the top of the 
 lofty ruins, moss-covered and vine-clad, the 
 scent of clover-blooms and myriads of sod- 
 blossoms came: and the far-away tinkling of 
 sheep-bells and the songs of building linnets 
 told a story of infinite tenderness. 
 
u6 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 Many miles away, towards the northeast, 
 were the Devil's Bit Mountains which have a 
 peculiar formation — a depression in a long, 
 lofty range which appears to have been cut or 
 bitten out by the teeth of some gigantic mouth. 
 The legend current in that country is that the 
 devil, in days of old, was passing those moun- 
 tains, and becoming offended at the general 
 perversity of mankind, took his spite out by 
 biting a piece out of the top of the mountains 
 and dropping it in the heart of the valley, leav- 
 ing it there to be known as the Rock of Cashel. 
 The driver who told me this story insisted 
 that many of the old folks still believe this tale, 
 but, said he, "Don't mintion it as coming from 
 me, but I've always had my doubts about it." 
 
 Coming down from the rock, I was pointed 
 to Hore Abbey, an immense ruin a quarter of 
 a mile away. Here David MacCarvill, dream- 
 ing that the Benedictines wished to cut off his 
 head, changed it into an abbey for the Cis- 
 tercian order. This was done in 1272. To- 
 day the pile of ruins is surrounded by fields of 
 grass. 
 
 I stood upon the spot where tradition says 
 St. Patrick stood when he baptized Oengus, 
 
> 
 
 o 
 
 3 > 
 
GOLDEN VALE OF TIPPERARY 117 
 
 son of King Natfraitch, nearly fifteen hundred 
 years ago. This was the first conversion from 
 heathendom in south Ireland. They say that 
 when the baptism took place, after the young 
 man had renounced heathenism and signified 
 his desire to embrace the Christian faith, the 
 spike of St. Patrick's crozier passed through 
 Oengus' foot and remained there through the 
 long ceremony. The good saint at length 
 completed the rite, looked down and discov- 
 ered the painful condition of his friend and royal 
 convert, and was much distressed that the acci- 
 dent should have happened. "Why didst thou 
 not tell me?" he asked the young man. "Ah! 
 father," he replied, "I thought it was a part of 
 the holy rite!" "Then," said the good saint, 
 "thou shalt have thy reward. Not one of thy 
 successors to the throne of Cashel shall die of 
 a wound from to-day forever!" And it is said 
 to this day in Cashel that twenty-seven kings 
 in succession ruled over Cashel, all of them 
 "belonging to the race of Ailill and Oengus 
 until the time of Cenn-gecan, slain a.d. 897." 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 ON A JAUNTING-CAR IN TIPPERARY 
 
 My driver smoked his pipe and gazed dream- 
 ily across the fields. Just over the stone walls, 
 in cottage yards, little barefoot children played 
 in the morning sunshine, and chickens, wallow- 
 ing and stretching their wings, scratched the 
 warm, damp earth up into their feathers. Pigs 
 nosed about the chimney-corners and the low 
 open doorways. Out on the roadside strings 
 of geese grazed the fresh green grass, resenting, 
 with protruding necks, the too familiar ap- 
 proach of a stray dog or a wandering goat. The 
 warm sunshine clung to the damp, steaming 
 earth. Cattle and sheep grazed lazily in the 
 meadows, and low-back donkey-cars crawled 
 slowly along the old gray roadways. From 
 the tree-tops came the chatter of jackdaws 
 and the cawing of crows, and linnets sang in 
 the hawthorn hedges which divided the fields. 
 
 Far away in the south lay the Comeragh 
 Mountains, half-covered with summer haze; 
 
 nS 
 
H 
 
ON A JAUNTING-CAR IN TIPPERARY 119 
 
 on the west, and in the distance, was the Galtee 
 range; and far, far beyond, revealing a faint 
 outline of opaline blue, lay the round, grass- 
 covered Ballyhoura Hills. About us on every 
 side was the rich lusciousness of the Golden 
 Vale of Tipperary. 
 
 "Why so silent ?" I asked my driver. "Tell 
 me about those dreams." 
 
 "Och!" said he, drawing himself up, "I'm 
 draming of the olden days whin this counthry 
 was a land fit to live in. They were happy 
 days! People lived here in dhroves. All these 
 grassy fields were planted in potatoes, and wheat, 
 and oats, and there was work a-plinty for all 
 to do. Men and women worked together in 
 the fields, weeding and spading potatoes or 
 reaping and binding the grain. Tremindous 
 crops were raised, and there were grate crowds 
 of men and women to do the work. 
 
 "Miny the summer Sunday have I sat in 
 front of Patrick Millikin's in Cashel and 
 watched the crowds coming in from the sur- 
 rounding countryside to be hired. For Sunday, 
 you know, is hiring-day in Ireland. Mass first, 
 then hiring in the market-place. They came 
 in from iverywhere, grate crowds of men and 
 
120 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 women and boys. They brought with them 
 their spades for working and digging potatoes 
 and reap-hooks for the harvest fields. 
 
 "The farmers, miny of them very rich gintle- 
 men, stood upon an elevation or sat upon their 
 horses and called aloud their needs and the 
 wages they would pay; and hundreds of voices 
 answered from the crowds. Upon the day 
 appointed the laborers would report for duty 
 in the fields. 
 
 "Och! wirrasthrue! but those good old days 
 are gone. Now there is stagnation iverywhere 
 throughout the Golden Vale. The crops are 
 small indade, the boys and girls have gone off 
 to Amuriky, and in ivery direction you turn 
 there is nothing but grass, grass, grass!" 
 
 I questioned him further in regard to the 
 hiring days and the great crowds that came to- 
 gether to make contracts for work. Much of 
 the hiring, he told me, was done in March, at 
 the first breaking of spring, before the crops 
 had been planted; but in general every Sunday 
 was a hiring day. When such crowds got to- 
 gether fights would almost invariably occur, 
 many of them strenuous in the extreme, though 
 there resulted but few fatalities. The public 
 
ON A JAUNTING-CAR IN TIPPERARY 121 
 
 houses were kept wide open, and all who had 
 the price could get what they wanted to drink. 
 Village champions would come prepared for 
 conflict. No gathering of the kind was com- 
 plete without one or more "good, shtrong 
 fights." Seldom were firearms or metallic 
 weapons used; and 'whenever a fight occurred 
 in the crowd reap-hooks were held high in the 
 air and carried swiftly out of the melee so that 
 no one might either accidentally or intention- 
 ally be cut to pieces. 
 
 The weapon which was most used in such 
 fights was the hard, naked fist; but nearly 
 every Irishman possessed a "shillalah," a wooden 
 staff or club which was capable of doing con- 
 siderable execution. This stick might almost 
 be termed the national weapon of Ireland. It 
 derives its name from a famous body of woods 
 near Arklow in county Wickiow, where the 
 best oaks and blackthorns grew. The "shil- 
 lalah" proper is a club about three feet in length, 
 but there is a shorter and stouter weapon with 
 a rough knot or an enlarged root on the end 
 called the "kippeen"; and there is a still larger 
 one, sometimes even eight or ten feet in length, 
 known as the "wattle." 
 
122 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 The "kippeen" or "shillalah" was carefully 
 made and fondly tempered by the owner, who 
 was as careful to have it "fit the hand" as a 
 tennis player is to have the right "hang" or 
 "balance" in his racket. In tempering his 
 weapon the owner sometimes used slaked lime, 
 or he rubbed it over repeatedly with butter and 
 placed it "up the chimney" where it was 
 allowed to hang in the peat-smoke for several 
 months. After tempering it well the owner 
 often carved lucky signs or Hibernian emblems 
 upon his weapon, and he took care to make it 
 his constant companion at every fair, market- 
 day concourse, or political gathering. These 
 picturesque clubs are not infrequently found 
 throughout rural Ireland to-day; and when the 
 occasion justifies it, the owners can use them 
 with all the strength and skill which charac- 
 terized the fights of the olden days. 
 
 In the village fights on fair or market days in 
 olden times the women frequently took a more or 
 less active part, more often as the instigator, 
 but sometimes actually as a combatant. Some 
 of the more pugnacious kinds would use a long 
 and heavy woolen stocking with a rough stone 
 in the foot which was flung right and left in a 
 
ON A JAUNTING-CAR IN TIPPERARY 123 
 
 hostile crowd with great effectiveness. Men 
 were supposed never to strike the women ex- 
 cept by accident, though when a stout woman, 
 armed with a stoned stocking, made herself 
 rather objectionable by the promiscuous use 
 of her unusual weapon in a crowd, sometimes 
 an "accident" would happen to her in the na- 
 ture of a back-handed shillalah stroke which 
 would place her hors de combat. 
 
 More often the women stirred up the men to 
 fight, and urged them on. Sometimes a frac- 
 tious old hag would exert herself to the utmost 
 to bring about a fight between her party and 
 the rival faction, even going so far as to go up 
 and call each enemy a coward or a poltroon in 
 his very teeth, and if this did not have the de- 
 sired effect, she spit in their faces and threw 
 dirt in their eyes. 
 
 Factional fights have been uncommon in 
 Ireland for many years. An Irishman explain- 
 ing this said: "The boys are beginning to talk 
 about them as things they have seen — like a 
 show or a giant. We ask each other how we 
 were ever drawn into them, and what brought 
 them about, and the one answer is, whisky! 
 No gun will go off until it is primed, and sure 
 
124 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 in fights whisky is the priming. That made 
 more orphans and widows than the fever and 
 starvation." 
 
 My driver became quiet and gloomy when- 
 ever he spoke of the great numbers of young 
 men and women who had left Tipperary, Kil- 
 kenny, Limerick, and Kerry for America. The 
 rich lands which they had worked, and upon 
 which they had raised great crops of wheat, 
 oats, barley, potatoes, and turnips, were now 
 turned out in pastures and hay-fields. The 
 people had gone out and the cattle and sheep 
 had taken their places. 
 
 His observations agreed with the facts as 
 given by the official census. In the year 1831 
 county Tipperary had a population of 402,363. 
 By 1 87 1 the number of the county's inhabitants 
 had decreased to 216,713; and the census of 
 1 901 revealed a population of 159,754. In 
 other words, the population in 1831 was 254 
 to the square mile; in 1901 it was 100. It is 
 scarcely a wonder that such a tremendous de- 
 crease in population in three quarters of a 
 century should have brought about stagnation 
 in agriculture and every other pursuit requiring 
 labor. 
 
hJ 
 
 < 
 
ON A JAUNTING-CAR IN TIPPER ARY 125 
 
 That section of Ireland generally known as 
 the Golden Vale comprises a large part of county 
 Tipperary, extends westwardly through the 
 center of county Limerick, and continues itself 
 through northern county Kerry to the Atlantic 
 Ocean. Limerick, therefore, is in soil one of 
 the richest counties in Ireland. All kinds of 
 crops may be raised, and the land lies well for 
 cultivation. Yet the county has in seventy years 
 decreased greatly in population. In 1831 there 
 were 248,000 people in the county; in 1901 the 
 census returned only 145,018. So Kerry also 
 decreased from 250,000 in 1831 to 165,000 in 
 1901. 
 
 Thus all through south Ireland the people 
 have been emigrating by the thousands, leaving 
 the affairs of the country in the hands of those 
 who for one reason or another have been actu- 
 ally unable to get away. 
 
 The depopulation of south Ireland has had 
 a rather remarkable effect upon the outward 
 appearance of the country. In some countries, 
 certainly in many parts of the United States, 
 land formerly cultivated and abandoned reverts 
 to a production of useless scrubby undergrowth, 
 pines and broomsedge. In south Ireland, with 
 
126 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 its rich limestone soil, luscious grass takes pos- 
 session of every uncultivated field. There is 
 no extraneous growth whatever, except perhaps 
 some sedge in the marshes and bracken upon 
 the mountains. Thus, while the depopulation 
 continues, agricultural statistics reveal a yearly 
 increase in the number of sheep and cattle in 
 this country. And in some respects the coun- 
 try becomes more beautiful as the grass covers 
 all the hills and valleys. 
 
 It is the object of nearly all the reform soci- 
 eties, more especially the Congested Districts 
 Board, to induce the people to resume the in- 
 tensive cultivation of the soil by modern methods, 
 and to check the tendency towards the aban- 
 donment of the land to the cattle and sheep. 
 For over half a century the Government of the 
 United Kingdom has been trying to introduce 
 methods for the improvement of the Irish peas- 
 ant's conditions. Some of the projects have 
 succeeded fairly well, though some of them have 
 failed. The Irish themselves have not always 
 kindly accepted these belated offers of help 
 from the Government, but have been disposed 
 to resent innovations and reforms as interfer- 
 ences with their customs and invasions of their 
 
ON A JAUNTING-CAR IN TIPPERARY 127 
 
 rights. Nevertheless, the indefatigable efforts 
 of these societies have resulted in much im- 
 provement in the Irish peasant's condition. 
 
 That June day as we drove along the Tip- 
 perary roads the rich grassy fields lay in all their 
 luxuriancy about us. Now and then we passed 
 on the roadside a thatched cottage of the usual 
 type — bare of all ornament without and devoid 
 of any means of comfort within. One of the 
 truly remarkable things in south Ireland is the 
 neglected home. Even when the laborer or 
 farmer or workman, as the case may be, can 
 afford it, he never thinks of making his home a 
 more attractive place, but allows it to remain 
 gloomy and uncomfortable within and without. 
 This peculiarity of the native Irishman causes 
 travelers to characterize him as thriftless or 
 lazy. As a matter of fact, the houses are of a 
 type that existed almost everywhere in the Brit- 
 ish Isles a century or more ago. Changes and 
 reforms proceed but slowly in Ireland. The 
 Irishman's peculiarity of temperament no doubt 
 has much to do with this. 
 
 In his charming book of sketches, entitled, 
 " To-day and To-morrow in Ireland," Mr. 
 Stephen Gwynn says: "Workers agree that 
 
i 2 8 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 the task of getting the Irish peasant to make a 
 new departure by himself is all but hopeless; 
 he will do what his father did before him and 
 his neighbors do beside him. The deterrent 
 is not idleness, but the fear of ridicule which 
 has been a power in the land since the days — 
 fifteen centuries ago — when the order of bards 
 exercised all but a tyranny in the country by the 
 gift of satire. On the other hand, the Irish 
 nation seems to lend itself strangely to innova- 
 tions by groups, and there is no part of the Brit- 
 ish Isles where co-operation can show such 
 surprising results. But these results have been 
 attained by men who realize that you can do 
 nothing with the Irish by laughing at them, 
 nor by scolding them, nor can you radically 
 change their nature. What they have done 
 has been to develop the Irish quickness on its 
 own lines, making full allowance for the pre- 
 judices and superstitions of the people, and 
 realizing that with all these drawbacks — if 
 one must call them drawbacks — the people 
 are the most valuable belonging of the country." 
 Mr. Michael J. F. McCarthy, in a lecture 
 which he delivered frequently in Ireland, en- 
 titled, "North and South; Contrasts in Char- 
 
ON A JAUNTING-CAR IN TIPPER ARY 129 
 
 acter," corroborates the statement that the 
 Irish are abnormally afraid of ridicule and a 
 certain kind of " public opinion." Says he: "A 
 point of contrast between the North and the 
 South is to be found in the sensitiveness of the 
 people to what is called 'public opinion.' . . . 
 I have known hundreds of people who were 
 driven to distraction at various periods of their 
 lives by the gossip of their neighbors, or, as it 
 is more commonly called, public opinion. . . . 
 There is, perhaps, nothing which so disturbs 
 the southern Irishman as ridicule or disap- 
 proval. " 
 
 One should not forget, however, that sensi- 
 tiveness is usually a characteristic of emotional 
 people, and is more often than not a mark of 
 refinement and tenderness of heart. There are 
 few who dispute that, despite some belligerent 
 tendencies, the Irish are among the kindest and 
 sweetest tempered people in the world. 
 
 Whenever the opportunity was presented to 
 me I talked to Irishmen about the fairies that 
 are supposed still to inhabit all parts of Ireland. 
 My driver laughed when I asked him about 
 the fairies, but admitted that there were many 
 in Ireland who still believe in "the good people." 
 
130 
 
 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 Sometimes, he told me, a whitethorn bush is 
 allowed to grow immediately in front of a cot- 
 tage doorway, actually blocking the entrance, 
 yet no one would dare interfere with it. The 
 occupants of the cottage believed it was a 
 "gentle bush," and belonged to the fairies, 
 and the one who harmed it would himself be 
 destroyed. In western Ireland belief in the 
 fairies was rather more prevalent than else- 
 where in the country, but still there were many 
 in Tipperary who would not dare cut down a 
 gentle bush or block up a fairy path. There 
 were paths through the grass of the meadows 
 over which fairies traveled, and wo to those 
 who were sacrilegious enough to get in the 
 way of these good little people. Some houses 
 had been built by a landlord almost directly 
 in the way of a well-known fairy path, and as 
 soon as the houses were occupied by tenants 
 they were visited with sickness and a number 
 of deaths occurred. The houses at length 
 became tenantless. 
 
 Most of the Irish, even though still believing 
 in fairies to a certain extent, are rather reluc- 
 tant to impart these tales to a stranger; for it 
 is considered unlucky to talk about the "good 
 
ON A JAUNTING-CAR IN TIPPERARY 131 
 
 people" without due respect; and the fear of 
 ridicule is implanted deeply in every Irishman's 
 mind. But in all parts of Ireland where the 
 old Irish or Gaelic is spoken, and in some 
 parts where it has long been superseded by 
 English, every man, woman, and child believes 
 in the existence of a fairy folk. The soil is 
 peopled by wizards and goblins and fantastic 
 creatures of all kinds who have nothing to do 
 with the common laws of existence. Every 
 stream, gnarled old tree, lake, or mountain 
 peak, has its stories and memories of mysterious 
 beings who do not belong to earth. The Irish 
 peasant delights to talk about the natural ob- 
 jects near his home, and he can relate strings 
 of legends about the stream which flows near 
 by, or the lake in his neighborhood, or the steep 
 hillside behind his cottage. 
 
 The old forts, or "raths," are invariably asso- 
 ciated in the Irishman's mind with fairies. 
 These ancient raths were built of earth upon 
 hilltops, and were surrounded with deep fosses 
 and ramparts. Their history is lost in the clouds 
 and mists of the remote past, but wherever such 
 an old remain exists to-day it is a source of 
 unending strings of legends. There is nothing 
 
132 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 which an Irishman regards with more super- 
 stitious dread than the rath. He believes it 
 is the special property of the fairies, and it 
 would be impossible to find a laborer who 
 would be tempted to thrust his spade into such 
 a spirit nest. As a consequence of this super- 
 stition, the raths exist in their entirety in many 
 parts of Ireland to-day; and sometimes one may 
 be found even in the center of a rich meadow. 
 Many stories are told of punishments which 
 have followed attempts to open or level these 
 raths, and of scenes and objects witnessed by 
 persons who have unconsciously slept beside 
 them or passed them in the dead of night. 
 
 Sometimes the Irish fairies are useful and 
 helpful, sometimes harmful; but they must all 
 in some way be propitiated. For instance, 
 when a cow is milked, the first few drains must 
 be spilled upon the ground for the fairies, else 
 the wrath of the "good people" is incurred. 
 Many is the story of the peasantry as to how 
 this man was beaten or that man warned, or 
 of how another "saw the gentry" and "never 
 did good after," but pined away in a dream. 
 
 Students of racial characteristics and of folk- 
 lore say the remarkable belief in fairies in Ire- 
 
ON A JAUNTING-CAR IN TIPPERARY 133 
 
 land is due not only to the intensely emotional 
 and imaginative natures of the Irish, but also 
 to the fact that it is a very misty land, and 
 almost every day and night the clouds and fogs 
 and mists cling to the earth and assume strange 
 forms which are easily misinterpreted by an 
 imaginative and primitive people. 
 
 I asked my driver where the fairies were sup- 
 posed chiefly to dwell. He said they lived 
 amongst the rocks in the woods, upon the sum- 
 mits of the hills, in the whitethorn bushes, 
 beside and under the old bridges of stone, and 
 even in the "wather of the strames." He 
 asked me if I had ever heard the story of the 
 Leprahawn, or the Clericaune, as some people 
 called him. I told him I had not. 
 
 "Hush!" said he. "See yonder dense little 
 wood before us, tangled with birch, and holly 
 and spruce ? They say he lives there in the 
 deep shades, though few there be who go there 
 to search for him. Some of the ould people 
 say they have seen him there at work. He 
 makes shoes for the fairies, and he is also their 
 miller. They say ye can hear his hammer 
 ringing against his lapstone as he nails soles 
 upon the shoes. He comes out on foine aven- 
 
134 
 
 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 ings at sunset and bathes himself in the sunshine 
 which falls on the western grassy hillside. Ah! 
 he is rich, far richer than the American mil- 
 lionaires!" 
 
 If one caught this little fairy miller and shoe- 
 maker and held him fast, he said he would 
 reveal the situation of his treasure-house. But 
 those who had caught him — and he had at 
 times been caught — had always allowed him 
 to get away. One must always keep his eyes 
 upon the Clericaune, for if he removes his eyes 
 from him for a moment he is gone. If, however, 
 he is caught and held firmly for a long time he 
 will ask what is desired of him, "the penny 
 purse, the shilling purse, or the two thousand 
 purse." If one says "the penny purse," the 
 Clericaune will conduct him to the spot where 
 the treasure lies. But no one as yet has ever 
 found the treasure. 
 
 And how exceedingly rich he was! "Grate 
 crocks of gold!" all buried there in the raths, 
 with nothing but the ghosts keeping guard 
 over them. Yet if one could but dream about 
 the treasure three nights in succession, and tell 
 no one about it, he could walk "shtrait to the 
 shpot" and get the gold and diamonds. 
 
ON A JAUNTING-CAR IN TIPPERARY 135 
 
 "Did you ever have three successive dreams 
 of the buried riches?" I asked him. 
 
 He laughed and told me he had not; but 
 once when he was a child and "raally belaved" 
 in fairies he had "two splindid drames" of it. 
 In his dreams there were long rows of heavy 
 black pots full of gold coins and all kinds of 
 strange-looking golden cups and plates; and 
 diamonds and pearls hung glistening on golden 
 strings. After the second dream, which was 
 the exact counterpart of the first, he thought 
 surely the treasure was his, but he took care to 
 say nothing about it to anybody. On the third 
 night shortly after he went to bed a storm arose 
 in the southwest and swept up from the Kerry 
 coast. The wind howled down the chimney, 
 scattering the smoldering turf about the hearth 
 and all night long he "dramed and dramed and 
 dramed like a spalpeen" that a Banshee was 
 wailing out in the howling storm. "Niver 
 wanst came a vision of the jewels and gold!" 
 
 Besides the Leprahawn, or Clericaune, or 
 Luracawn, as he is variously called, there are 
 two other "spirits" peculiar to Ireland, the 
 Pooka and the Banshee. The Pooka is a wild 
 mule or horse which flies about at night search- 
 
136 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 ing for a rider. Overtaking one who has been 
 out dissipating, the Pooka in some manner gets 
 him upon his back and carries him like light- 
 ning over miles and miles of strange territory, 
 dropping him at morning at some spot near 
 the starting-point decidedly more dead than 
 alive. The Pooka is also supposed to play 
 many tricks, one of which is to spoil all the 
 blackberries on Michaelmas night, the twenty- 
 ninth of September, after which date no Irish 
 boy will dare eat a berry, however fresh or 
 tempting the fruit may look or however hungry 
 he may be. 
 
 The Banshee is the most noted of all the Irish 
 superstitions. This spirit is supposed to be in 
 the form of an old woman, thinly attired in 
 white, with ragged white locks, and unmistak- 
 able voice, who with her strange unearthly 
 screams announces to a family the approach- 
 ing death of one of its members. The pecul- 
 iarly mournful wail is always given at night, 
 and while it somewhat resembles the wind it is 
 distinctly a supernatural voice which cannot 
 be mistaken by one who hears it. Some of the 
 weird stories of the Banshee which are told by 
 the Irish peasants are enough to make one 
 
Underwood & Underwood, New York. 
 
 "The Top o' the Morning to Ye, Sir, and Welcome." 
 
ON A JAUNTING-CAR IN TIPPERARY 137 
 
 shudder. This strange spirit follows all the 
 older Irish families, and it is strongly asserted 
 that no death has ever occurred in those fam- 
 ilies which have descended from Brian Boru 
 without a previous announcement of the Ban- 
 shee. 
 
 Among the educated Irish such superstitions 
 are no longer believed, still there are those who 
 declare that the older belief in fairies and the 
 supernatural has had a further development in 
 the average southern Irishman's slavish obedi- 
 ence to the priest whom he is said to follow with 
 genuinely superstitious dread. The power of 
 the priest has undoubtedly been grossly exag- 
 gerated by hostile and partisan writers, though 
 it is unquestionably true that the parish priest 
 still has a great influence over his parishioners. 
 Some of the more ignorant and superstitious 
 believe the priest can do anything — even per- 
 form miracles and send souls to hell. 
 
 An Irish story, told by the Irish themselves, 
 will illustrate how at least some of the peas- 
 antry still estimate the power and ability of the 
 priests. 
 
 Patrick Mulligan had been drinking heavily. 
 His family had been reduced to crusts and rags, 
 
138 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 and his parish dues had for a long time remained 
 in arrears. The priest visited his untidy cot- 
 tage one day and admonished him severely: 
 
 "Patrick, this must stop! Too much drink 
 will ruin any man. Here your family is in 
 poverty and your dues unpaid. Get drunk 
 just one more time and I'll turn ye into a rat!" 
 The priest went away chuckling, but the threat 
 had an immediate effect upon Patrick. For 
 three weeks he was the soberest and the most 
 industrious man in the parish. Not one drop 
 did he touch — not even of porter — but worked 
 every day from the rising to the setting of the 
 sun, weeding potatoes and mowing hay. 
 
 When the Tipperary pig fair came off Pat- 
 rick went down with some pigs, and after making 
 a successful trade he was induced by an old 
 companion to take " jist a dhrop f'r th' sake of 
 ould toimes." It proved his undoing. He went 
 home drunk; but before he reached his door- 
 way remorse had smitten him. He remem- 
 bered the priest's threat to turn him into a rat. 
 
 "Och! Biddy," he said, as he entered the 
 door, "I've gone and done it! I've brought it 
 upon me! Father O'Flaherty tould me he would 
 turn me into a rat! Biddy, I feel th* change 
 
ON A JAUNTING-CAR IN TIPPER ARY 139 
 
 a-coming now! I feel my eyes a-getting beady 
 and my nose a-getting sharp! Yis, and I be- 
 lave the long side-whiskers are a-coming, too! 
 
 Biddy, f'r th' sake of Hiven, if ye love me, 
 kape yer eyes on th' cat!" 
 
 Driving westward, we came in sight of a 
 singular elevation, an artificial mound of earth, 
 turf-covered, rising perhaps seventy feet above 
 the summit of the hill upon which it was 
 constructed. I was told it was the Moat of 
 Knockgraffon, one of the most noted raths in 
 all Ireland. This ancient fort is a treasury of 
 legendary lore. The ancient castle which for- 
 merly stood at its base was erected in the year 
 1 1 08; tradition says that eighteen of the early 
 kings of Munster were born and reared within 
 its walls. From the remarkable appearance of 
 the earthworks and the ruins of the old castle 
 
 1 thought it scarcely strange that the peasants 
 throughout that portion of Tipperary should 
 have connected the place with weird stories 
 and strange legends. 
 
 We passed innumerable meadows where cattle 
 and sheep grazed in the sunshine. The roads 
 were unusually bare of travelers. Perhaps it 
 was a good day for labor in the fields and all 
 
1 4 o SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 the farmers and laborers were at work. Now 
 and then we met a donkey-cart in the road with 
 its driver dreaming and smoking his pipe. 
 Thatched cottages of stone and mud, white- 
 washed, were scattered irregularly all over the 
 face of the country. A thin line of smoke came 
 from some of the chimneys, showing that per- 
 haps a meal was preparing within. 
 
 We came at length to a little village stretched 
 along on both sides of the road, and, indeed, 
 on both sides of the river Suir, which the road 
 crosses at this point. The bridge across the 
 Suir is very old and replete with legend and 
 history. Upon it William III is said to have 
 signed the charter of the "City of Cashel" in 
 the year 1690. My driver said the village was 
 called Golden, and the bridge was known as 
 the Golden Bridge. Near by we saw the remains 
 of an old round tower. 
 
 After crossing the bridge we turned northward, 
 and after traveling for some time we came to 
 an arched gateway of stone, covered with ivy 
 from the ground to the summit, perhaps sixty 
 or seventy feet in the air. I was told that this 
 was once the entrance to a great and rich estate 
 which had gone down to decay. Although the 
 
ON A JAUNTING-CAR IN TIPPERARY 141 
 
 soil appeared to be unusually fertile, most of 
 the old places which we passed had degenerated 
 quite into ruins. One old castle which I wished 
 to examine had to be approached between the 
 barbed wires of a newly stretched fence; and 
 the next great house, which we had to go some 
 distance out of our course to see, was situated 
 out in the center of a grassy field where large 
 numbers of cattle and sheep grazed the rich 
 grass. 
 
 On the roadside we saw a man apparently 
 thirty years of age with a crude hammer break- 
 ing limestone rocks for mending the road. We 
 stopped and engaged him in conversation. He 
 was in his shirt sleeves, with open vest, and a 
 much-battered derby hat upon his head. While 
 we talked about the roads and the stones and 
 other subjects which I was able immediately 
 to introduce, a tall, lanky youth of listless man- 
 ner strolled out from behind a dwindling hay- 
 stack near by, and stood with hands behind 
 him listening to what we said. He wore a cap 
 and an exceedingly ill-fitting suit of clothes, and 
 very coarse, heavy shoes. Very soon a quiet 
 old woman, with a black cloth over her head, 
 came out of her little cottage or hut near by, 
 
142 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 and also began to talk with us. I judged that 
 the three lived there alone, and that the old 
 woman was the mother of the two men. All 
 of the three were listless and apathetic, though 
 they were kindly disposed, and appeared to be 
 much interested in me because I was an Amer- 
 ican. 
 
 The older of the two men asked me a number 
 of questions about the United States, saying 
 that he had long wished to cross the ocean, but 
 that he had not up to that time been able to do 
 so. He supposed he would be able to get better 
 wages in America than he was getting on a Tip- 
 perary roadside breaking limestone rocks. He 
 was constantly hoping that something would 
 turn up yet and give him a chance to go. I 
 noticed the pained expression upon the old 
 woman's face as her son talked about leaving 
 the old home. She was not quite so stout and 
 large as the average Irish peasant woman, and 
 there was a trace of refinement in her timid old 
 face. 
 
 The hut in which they lived was but a short 
 distance away in a little yard enclosed with 
 loosely piled walls of stone. A dog, apparently 
 a cur, had followed the old woman out to the 
 
Underwood & Underwood, New York. 
 
 An Irish Country Store. 
 
ON A JAUNTING-CAR IN TIPPERARY 143 
 
 roadside, and while we were talking the family 
 goat came up. I asked if they would allow me 
 to make a small picture with my kodak of the 
 home and its family. They readily assented, 
 and we all went around to the front of the little 
 home where they all, the two men, the old lady, 
 the dog and the goat, posed in a group for me. 
 It was all done with the gravity and seriousness 
 which attends a funeral, and to me the whole 
 scene was pathetic in the extreme. 
 
 The surroundings were pitifully and painfully 
 bare. The little hut was of the usual type — 
 walls of mixed mud and stone, white-washed, a 
 roof of straw or thatch four or five inches thick, 
 tied down with ropes of grass. The eaves were 
 not more than five or six feet from the ground. 
 There was no porch nor awning, but the door 
 was a bare opening through the walls of mud 
 and stone, on a level with the ground. In front 
 of the door were some rough flat stones, lying 
 loose upon the top of the ground ; and on each 
 side of the door was a window of four panes of 
 glass, each eight by ten inches in size. Within 
 the hut it was damp and gloomy, only a few 
 rays of light finding their way through the small 
 windows. The floor was of rough stones. The 
 
i 4 4 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 furniture was scanty and very old. A large old 
 pot hung suspended from hooks in a wide- 
 mouthed chimney above a smoldering fire of turf. 
 A flitch of bacon hung from a bare rafter; and a 
 hen with one or two half-naked chickens picked 
 about the floor. The goat and the dog had 
 ready access to the room, and roamed in and 
 out as they pleased. 
 
 I bade the gloomy-faced old woman good-by 
 and spoke a word of cheer to her two sons, 
 barely being able to keep back a tear at the 
 thought of their pitiful lot in life. And yet, I 
 thought, they had never known anything better; 
 and there were thousands of others there in 
 the rich Golden Vale who lived, like them, in 
 hopeless poverty. 
 
 It was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon 
 when we reached the woods which surrounded 
 the station at Dundrum, on the Great South 
 and Western Railroad. There was no one in 
 sight in any direction when I bade my driver 
 good-by on the little platform. Going inside, 
 I found the agent, an intelligent young man, in 
 his office. He was kindly in his manners, and 
 disposed to be talkative. He asked me many 
 questions about America, and wished to know 
 
ON A JAUNTING-CAR IN TIPPERARY 145 
 
 more than I was able to tell him of the opera- 
 tions of the American railroads. He rather de- 
 plored the Irish rush to America, and expressed 
 the opinion that the American climate did not 
 altogether agree with the Irish people. He had 
 observed that the girls who went over with heavy 
 shoes and shawled heads had stout forms and 
 rosy cheeks, but when four or five years later 
 t'hey came back to visit the old home they had 
 their hair done up high on their heads, wore a 
 hat with plumes, and walked upon high-heeled 
 shoes, and sometimes even wore long kid gloves. 
 But nevertheless, that bloom upon the face was 
 lacking, and they were invariably pale and 
 sallow as though they had come from a bed of 
 sickness. There was something about Amer- 
 ica, he thought, that took the color from the 
 face. 
 
 He booked me for the next train which he 
 assured me would be decidedly to my liking, 
 for it was the "American Express," composed 
 of corridor cars entirely. When I boarded the 
 train he was at hand to help me with my bag- 
 gage. When I glanced back he waved me a 
 farewell from the cleanly-swept concrete plat- 
 form. 
 
i 4 6 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 Though it was in a sense a corridor train, en- 
 trance to the coaches had to be made from the 
 sides, and the cars were small and the seats hard 
 and uncomfortable. The passengers within, 
 however, were interesting, and even before I 
 desired it we had reached Limerick Junction, 
 where I boarded another train for the ancient 
 city of Limerick. When I went from the train 
 and looked about me for an omnibus or a jaunt- 
 ing-car I found that the rain was falling steadily, 
 and by the time I had become settled in a hotel 
 a great gloom of mist had settled down over 
 the "City of the Violated Treaty." 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 WITH THE PEAT-CUTTERS IN GALWAY 
 
 Rap! Rap! Rap! It sounded faintly at first 
 — something vague and mysterious and far 
 away. Rap! Rap! Rap! It was louder this 
 time and had become more tangible and real. 
 Rap! Rap! Rap! Rap! Rap! This time it was 
 unmistakable; for consciousness had returned, 
 and I managed in some way to look out from 
 some great billows of loosely enclosed feathers 
 just as a quizzical face set upon a pair of heavy 
 square shoulders peered in at the door. 
 
 "Och! sir, and here ye are shtill abed, and you, 
 too, who wished to shmell the dew frish upon 
 the shamrocks! Bedad, sir, and the morning 
 is foine and broight, the wind from the south, 
 and not a cloud in the sky! Indade, sir, and 
 ye don't know what ye're missing!" 
 
 It was Boots; and I remembered distinctly 
 just then that I had told him the night before, 
 the very last thing before blowing out the tallow 
 
 dip, that I would like to be awakened early so 
 
 147 
 
148 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 that I might have a morning walk across the 
 Irish hills. 
 
 Boots was just as obliging and as agreeable 
 as it is possible for a kind-hearted Irishman to 
 be; and that is saying much indeed. Boots was 
 not only "boots" in the little stone inn with 
 which he was identified, he was also porter, 
 and not infrequently waiter, and sometimes, 
 though he confessed he knew very little about 
 horses, he was actually called upon to be jaunt- 
 ing-car driver. That suit of green livery which 
 he wore was one of the landmarks of the little 
 inland Irish town; and, though somewhat frayed 
 and faded from long usage, it agreed with him 
 to a nicety. In fact, one could hardly have 
 decided, in gazing upon the pleasing combina- 
 tion, whether the clothes had been made for 
 Boots or Boots for the clothes. And that face 
 of his was fortune enough for any ordinary 
 country-town hotel. 
 
 After Boots, at my solicitation, had talked to 
 me awhile about the weather, and the coming 
 pig-fair, and had expressed himself upon several 
 matters of local gossip, he hurried down-stairs 
 to attend to some of his multiform duties about 
 the little inn with which he had been connected 
 
PEAT-CUTTERS IN GALWAY 149 
 
 from childhood: I was left to dress and come 
 down when I pleased. 
 
 My room was very old-fashioned in arrange- 
 ment as well as in appointment. Pictures of 
 Grattan and Parnell hung on one side, and on 
 the other were fanciful engravings of St. Patrick 
 and St. Bridget. An old rosewood dresser stood 
 in one corner of the room, and in the corner 
 near the window there was a queer little wash- 
 stand upon which there was a great washbowl 
 decorated with green shamrocks, and a pitcher, 
 or "joog" as Boots called it, filled with cool 
 water just from the well. 
 
 While washing I looked out of the little win- 
 dow into the yard which was shaded by a single 
 bending yew-tree. Close by ran the village 
 street. There were already signs of life to be 
 observed, for donkey-cars were moving hither 
 and thither, delivering produce and turf, and 
 there were some pedestrians upon the smooth 
 slick sidewalks. A long string of geese, chatter- 
 ing in genuine goose fashion, were on their 
 way to a near-by grassy hillside which rose 
 abruptly from a little cross street, and upon 
 which a donkey and some calves were already 
 grazing contentedly in the morning sunshine. 
 
150 SHAMROCK LAND 
 
 When at length I reached the dining-room 
 my hostess, a hale and hearty old lady with a 
 lace cap upon her head, sat knitting by the open 
 fireplace. A table that would give accommo- 
 dation to perhaps ten or twelve persons was set 
 in the middle of the room. Upon it was a snowy 
 table-cloth, a great loaf of white bread, two rolls 
 of rich yellow butter, a big bowl of orange mar- 
 malade, and two crisply roasted ducks lying 
 upon a platter. On one side of the table sat 
 a girl of perhaps twenty-two years of age, rosy- 
 cheeked, blue-eyed, red-mouthed, with a pair of 
 glasses fastened rather saucily upon her well- 
 shaped nose. She was talking and laughing in 
 the best of humor, and did not appear at all 
 to resent the intrusion of a stranger even though 
 he might be an American. 
 
 In a few minutes two young men came in and 
 took their seats at the table, bubbling over the 
 while with good-natured conversation. They 
 wished the landlady a good morning, and bowed 
 chivalrously to the good-looking young lady, who 
 sat waiting for her breakfast to come in. 
 
 Still another red-cheeked young lady came in 
 and was seated beside her companion. She too 
 wore glasses and carried a rather commanding 
 
PEAT-CUTTERS IN GALWAY 151 
 
 chin. Immediately the two girls plunged into 
 conversation. Oh! it was such a fine day with- 
 out, and this was the day when Agnes should 
 come. Indeed, indeed, it had seemed so long 
 waiting for her. But then, possibly the reason 
 why we appreciate things in this world so much 
 is because we sometimes lose sight of them for 
 a while. It's the elusive that we long most 
 for. Thus speculated one of the pretty young 
 philosophers. 
 
 It is scarcely a marvel that over those rich 
 roast ducks and juicy mutton chops and steaks 
 and cocoa, with morning sunshine filtering into 
 the room, we should have disregarded the fact 
 that we were strangers to each other; nor was 
 it unusual that our thoughts and our words, 
 mingling together, should have centered upon 
 sunshine, and shamrocks, and daisies, and green 
 meadows, and clear running water, and blue 
 skies, and Ireland, and everything else in the 
 world that is truly delightful to dwell upon. 
 
 The young ladies were teachers in the Na- 
 tional School in the little town, and the summer 
 vacation was near at hand. They liked the 
 work, and oh! the children were so good, but 
 nevertheless they were happy that the session 
 
152 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 was drawing to a close. They expected soon 
 to visit friends away up in county Monaghan, 
 and while there they were going to take a trip 
 to Portrush, in county Antrim, where they were 
 going bathing in the ocean ; and they hoped they 
 would be able to learn how to swim. Swimming 
 was quite an accomplishment. But just now 
 they wanted Agnes to come, and they could 
 hardly wait until the arrival of the train which 
 was to bring her. 
 
 Our thoughts left the Emerald Isle and wan- 
 dered as far away as South Africa, and Chicago, 
 and Manitoba — to all of which distant places 
 Connaught people had gone — but we came 
 back again to Ireland. One of the young men 
 delivered himself of the opinion that Ireland 
 would always be good enough for him. He 
 made his living, and it was a fairly good living, 
 too, traveling about in her thirty-two counties. 
 "But," said he, "in order truly and really to see 
 Ireland, though it would pain my heart" — 
 turning with a gesture of gallantry to the ladies 
 — "to say a word against Munster or Con- 
 naught, one should visit the city of Belfast up 
 in the northeastern part of the island. Oh! it 
 is a grate city. Shipbuilding and linen manu- 
 
Underwood & Underwood, New York. 
 
 A Country School. 
 
PEAT-CUTTERS IN GALWAY 153 
 
 facturing and whisky distilling reach their sub- 
 lime heights there! And while you are there, 
 sir," — turning to me — "you simply must make 
 your home at the Badoque House, my head- 
 quarters when in the city. We have a foine 
 company of young men there, some who work 
 in Belfast and some who travel out of the city. 
 Oh! such company as they furnish! And the 
 landlady! Well, she is simply deloightful ! Ah! 
 what a place!" 
 
 The kindly old lady knitted away, now and 
 then making a remark full of good humor. She 
 was truly and really glad I was not an English- 
 man. Not that the Irish wished to perpetuate 
 old hatreds, but the English did not seem to be 
 at all anxious to have the Irish like them. For 
 instance, not long before she had read an ad- 
 vertisement for a servant in the want columns 
 of a Liverpool newspaper. A clause of it was, 
 "No Irish need apply!" Och! what did I 
 think of that ? Wasn't it insulting to the whole 
 Irish race ? And a prominent Englishman had 
 been approached and his aid solicited in redu- 
 cing Irish rents. He was told the Irish had noth- 
 ing to eat. "Then," said he, "let them eat that 
 rich Irish grass!" What, indeed, was one to 
 
154 
 
 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 think of such an outrage as that ? No, she did 
 not feel under any special obligations to love 
 the English people. She wanted me to make 
 myself at home in her house and remember that 
 Americans were always welcome. 
 
 I had spoken of visiting Galway on my trip 
 through western Ireland. The young man from 
 Belfast wished to know where I expected to 
 make my headquarters while there. I gave him 
 the name of the hotel, whereupon he grew enthu- 
 siastic. 
 
 "Well, sir," said he, "it was the very place 
 I was going to recommend. It is the best in 
 western Ireland! Foine, sir, simply foine! Ele- 
 gant table, decent attention! No better any- 
 where!" 
 
 After good-bys had been spoken all around 
 and I had hung my feet over the wheel of the 
 jaunting-car, the young man from Belfast said, 
 "I hope you will go to that place. It's simply 
 foine /" 
 
 After two days of rambling I reached Galway 
 on the western coast. It was about noon, and 
 I went immediately to the hotel which had been 
 so highly recommended to me. The clerks were 
 pretty young girls who were kind and obliging, 
 
PEAT-CUTTERS IN GALWAY 155 
 
 so I was given good quarters. There seemed 
 to be quite a gathering of men in Galway that 
 day. I do not know whether it was a market 
 day, a political field day, or the day of a cattle 
 fair, but when I went late into the dining-room 
 I found many men thereabouts, and apparently 
 many had been in ahead of me. It was a free 
 and easy place, and dinner was served largely 
 table d'hote, though extra dishes could be or- 
 dered if one wished them. Vast rounds of beef, 
 and Irish ham, and bowls of bitter orange mar- 
 malade, and stewed gooseberries, or dishes where 
 these eatables had once been, stood upon the 
 table. All the napkins had been used, and the 
 table-cloth had been badly soiled. The waiters 
 had been rushed until they were tired out; and 
 I thought, after waiting some time for an order, 
 that perhaps the kitchen force also had become 
 rebellious. I was convinced that I had come 
 upon the hotel on a day when it was not so 
 "foine." 
 
 A big bowl of stewed gooseberries, however, 
 and a pot of rich cocoa sent me out in excellent 
 humor for a ramble through the old town. 
 
 Galway is the one Spanish-Irish town of the 
 world. One can hardly conceive of a more re- 
 
156 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 markable combination than one of Spain and 
 Ireland — Latin-Moorish, of languid southern 
 sunshine, upon the one hand, and Celtic, of 
 northern storm and unrest, upon the other. 
 
 The facts of Galway's beginning and early 
 history have been lost in the flux of the centuries. 
 There is reason to believe, however, that a 
 cluster of mud huts with roofs of grass arose 
 here on a bay of the Atlantic long before St. 
 Patrick's time. Here through the Dark Ages, 
 cut off from contact with the activities of Europe, 
 the simple Celts lived their lives. They fished 
 for salmon in the bay, and hunted wild boar in 
 the mountains of Connemara; and at all times 
 they were prepared for raids from native chief- 
 tains and night attacks from Danish pirate 
 ships. 
 
 About a hundred years after Strongbow and 
 Henry II made their partial conquest of Ireland, 
 or, more exactly, about the year 1250, a number 
 of Anglo-Normans found their way across the 
 island from the eastern coast and took possession 
 of the village of Galway and all the surrounding 
 countryside. There were thirteen families or 
 households which came, and they were subse- 
 quently known as "the tribes of Galway." 
 
PEAT-CUTTERS IN GALWAY 157 
 
 Note their names: Athy, Blake, Bodkin, Browne, 
 D'Arcy, Ffont, Ffrench, Joyes, Kirwan, Lynch, 
 Martin, Morris, and Skerret. The newcomers 
 increased rapidly; and, strange to say, within a 
 few generations they had forgotten all allegiance 
 to England and France, and had become "more 
 Irish than the Irish themselves." 
 
 During the next two or three centuries Galway 
 grew rapidly. Walls were placed around the 
 city, towers and castles were built, and straight 
 streets were laid out. Extensive docks were 
 constructed down on the waterside, and a com- 
 merce sprang up with the Italian cities, with 
 Marseilles, with Lisbon, with the West Indies, 
 and with the seaports of Spain. In 1657 Henry 
 Cromwell wrote back to England: 
 
 "For situation, voisenage, and commerce it 
 hath with Spain, the Strayts, West Indies, and 
 other ports, noe towne or port in the three na- 
 tions (London excepted) is more considerable." 
 
 The Spaniards came in the thirteenth, four- 
 teenth, and fifteenth centuries. There were 
 households of rich merchants and retinues of 
 servants. Spain was furnishing all Hibernia 
 with her wines, and she was taking away in ex- 
 change Ireland's cattle, pork, grain and flax. 
 
158 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 Many Spaniards exchanged permanently the soft 
 sunshine of Malaga and Seville for the wintry 
 skies of Galway. The city after a while became 
 in at least some respects more Spanish than 
 Irish. 
 
 That still clear summer day when I wandered 
 about the streets of the ancient little city, now 
 quiet and sleepy, with its vast empty docks and 
 dreamy-eyed inhabitants, I saw marks of the 
 Spaniard on every hand. Many of the women 
 who sat about the doorways or stood quietly on 
 the corners wore red skirts such as one sees no- 
 where else in Ireland but everywhere in Spain. 
 And their eyes were black and piercing, and their 
 figures straight, symmetrical and beautiful. 
 Strange freaks of architecture — for Ireland — 
 in the nature of wide old doorways, fantastic 
 ornaments, and ancient Spanish coats-of-arms 
 reminded one of sunny Cadiz or blue-misted 
 Valencia. 
 
 Though there have been recent attempts to 
 make of Galway the leading port for America, 
 and several hundreds of thousands of dollars 
 have been spent in dredging the bay and building 
 wharfs, the project has been as well as aban- 
 doned; and a ship for a transatlantic port is a 
 
PEAT- CUTTERS IN GALWAY 159 
 
 stranger in the beautiful harbor of a city which, 
 though fifteen hundred years old, has to-day not 
 a thousand inhabitants for each century of its 
 existence. 
 
 Turning a corner and passing down a lane 
 with long lines of thatched cottages, I knew that 
 I was in Ireland still. Irish children played 
 upon the sidewalks, donkey-cars passed this way 
 and that, and a long string of geese filed by. On 
 a corner stood a jaunting-car, and its driver 
 sat in a doorway near by smoking contentedly. 
 
 "Is this your car ?" I asked. 
 
 "It is, sir," he replied. "And it would be 
 a grate plisure, sir, to make it yours for a 
 while." 
 
 I told him I wanted to drive throughout the 
 afternoon, and asked if he were open to such an 
 extended engagement. 
 
 "Sure, sir, and I am, and to-morrow too if ye 
 like. Ye can get right up to your seat from this 
 shpot." 
 
 We started off in a smart trot down a narrow 
 lane. 
 
 "Och! sir, now and where do ye wish to go ?" 
 asked my companion. "The world is wide." 
 
 "Anywhere," I answered, "just anywhere. 
 
160 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 Do you fully understand that word ? I leave 
 it to you. Suppose we say anywhere." 
 
 " Iverywhere, sir, with a gintleman loike you 
 and on a day loike this! " he said, as a happy little 
 twinkle appeared in his eye. 
 
 After we had gone some distance down through 
 the tangled lanes and streets and had come in 
 sight of the grassy fields, I asked him if he knew 
 of some spot away out in the country, far away 
 from the influence of the town and out of reach 
 of the screaming railroad, where peat-cutters 
 could be seen at work getting their winter supply 
 of fuel from the bogs. 
 
 "Och! sir, and I do. It is a quiet way, and 
 now is the toime, under the midsummer sun, 
 whin they do be cutting the turf and piling it up 
 to dhry against the coming of the winter." 
 
 We were soon out in the green fields, leaving 
 behind us the straggling rows of thatched cot- 
 tages in the outskirts of the town. The white 
 road passed between densely green fields where 
 multitudes of red poppies and golden-hearted 
 daisies grew. We came after a while to a frag- 
 ment of an old castle which stood directly on 
 the roadside. A man was engaged in posting 
 upon its old walls a notice which my driver 
 
PEAT-CUTTERS IN GAL WAY 161 
 
 explained to me was no doubt some call to do 
 political duty. He said that all western Irish- 
 men were deeply interested in politics, and when- 
 ever anything in that line had to be done, the 
 men of Galway were on hand to do it. What, 
 indeed, he speculated, would become of any 
 country whose citizens took no interest in poli- 
 tics ? 
 
 A mile or two farther along we came to a little 
 settlement with its houses irregularly set every- 
 where about in the fields. The soil was rocky 
 in the extreme, and many of the stones had been 
 picked up and put into fences until they ap- 
 peared to cover almost half of the surface of the 
 ground. The fields were miniature lots, planted 
 mostly in potatoes which were flourishing in 
 the morning sunshine. 
 
 Just over a fence which enclosed the road an 
 old man was upon his knees in a potato patch, 
 pulling out with his hands an extraneous growth 
 of grass and weeds. When he saw us coming 
 down the road he arose and with much diffi- 
 culty shuffled over to the fence. His wrinkled 
 old face beamed with genuine good humor and 
 a real Irish welcome. My driver stopped the 
 car, and I got out and talked with him for some 
 
162 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 time. Being genuinely Irish, he spoke English 
 very imperfectly, and often my driver had to 
 interpret his remarks for me. 
 
 "Och! yis," he was glad to see an "American 
 gintleman" so far out in Galway. He had 
 never seen one there before, though he had 
 heard very much about America. He thought 
 some day he would cross the ocean and live in 
 that country. To-day he was just weeding his 
 potato patch. " P'taties" were doing very well 
 because there was both moisture and sunshine. 
 He was feeling quite happy these days because 
 he had just moved into a new house; not ex- 
 actly a new house either, but it felt like new to 
 him. Could I see that small house over the 
 stone "finces" down the hill there a little way? 
 Well, in that house he had lived for fourscore 
 and four years. The landlord had finally con- 
 sented to let him leave it because the roof of 
 thatch had rotted and the walls had begun to 
 crumble away. No, he did not object, but he 
 would be glad for me to make a picture of it. 
 
 I was not an expert at climbing the Galway 
 fences. Just about the time I reached the top- 
 most ledge of loose stones something would give 
 way beneath me and I would go down on the 
 
PEAT-CUTTERS IN GALWAY 163 
 
 other side with what appeared to be half a ton 
 of stones about me. I was really ashamed of 
 myself for my bungling destructiveness. The 
 little hut where the old man had spent his days 
 was in bad condition. The roof of thatch had 
 almost rotted away, and great cracks had come 
 in the walls until one could see plainly into the 
 interior. There was only one window and that 
 was very small. The floor was of very rough 
 stones; the chimney was built of mud. And 
 this had been the home of a man for eighty-four 
 years! 
 
 The old man then took his position upon his 
 knees in the midst of the potato vines, com- 
 plaining as he went down: "Och! Hivins, and 
 how these old bones do hurt! Bedad, and the 
 rheumatics do pain one sore!" He looked 
 placidly out from under his much-battered, 
 greasy old derby hat as I took his picture. Then 
 as we drove off he waved his gnarled and twisted 
 old hands and bade us farewell. 
 
 Mile after mile we drove through the fields, 
 the country becoming more and more thinly 
 settled and less rocky as we went; for we were 
 not far from the boglands. We were now getting 
 into a flat, level country, entirely treeless and 
 
164 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 apparently almost barren so far as any kind of 
 crop production was concerned. Only long 
 stretches of monotonous bogland could be seen, 
 and everything was covered with coarse grass, 
 rushes and a kind of bracken. Finally some 
 long black mounds came into view, and my 
 driver told me we were nearing the place where 
 the peat-cutters were at work. Those long black 
 mounds were piles of peat or turf, left to dry in 
 the sun, and the men and women were at work 
 in the trenches hard by. 
 
 I left the car in the road and crossed a level 
 piece of bogland, the rank turf springing 
 beneath my feet as I walked along, sometimes 
 entirely tripping me until I went down upon the 
 turf. In the first trench which I approached 
 two or three young men were at work. Down in 
 a ditch one of them stood, in mud and water 
 almost up to his knees. He presented a lugubri- 
 ous spectacle indeed, for he wore only two 
 garments, and they were not only tattered and 
 unsubstantial but were reeking with the black 
 mud of the ditch. With a peculiarly shaped 
 spade he was cutting brick-shaped blocks of 
 quivering muck from the bog and throwing it 
 dexterously upon the bank where another work- 
 
u. 
 
PEAT-CUTTERS IN GALWAY 165 
 
 man dressed with a torn shirt and corduroy 
 trousers was carrying it off and placing it in 
 piles to dry. Another was busy turning over 
 some half-dried bricks in much larger piles 
 near at hand. 
 
 I immediately began to talk to the two men. 
 They were very talkative, but they did not want 
 me to use my kodak upon them. Oh, no, it 
 would never do. I tried to argue with them, 
 but they would not consent. I asked them why 
 they objected to allowing me to have an interest- 
 ing picture after I had come across the Atlantic 
 just to see the strange things of Ireland. 
 
 "Och! and is it ye are an American ?" one of 
 them asked. " Faith, and I should have known 
 it. I thought ye had come from Galway, and 
 I was afraid ye would take the picture of us 
 back and show it in the town. The divil a wheel 
 would we be able to turn with the girruls there 
 again. Whin we go to Galway to the fairs we 
 do go drissed up, and the ladies niver know we 
 do driss like this out here in the bogs." 
 
 "Sur," said the other, "we do not be objicting 
 to the picther ye'r afther, only we think ye might 
 be willing, if we sthand shtill from worruk long 
 enough, to give us the price of a dhrink. The 
 
166 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 public-'ouse is near by — jist over yon hill — 
 and we do love a dhrink of porther, sur, — 
 nothing shtronger — just as we get out of this 
 mud." 
 
 When I left them I handed them sixpence 
 apiece. Then I crossed the field to a trench 
 where a very scantily dressed young man of per- 
 haps five and twenty years was cutting out the 
 turf and throwing it out to be handled by a 
 young woman who stood upon the bank. She 
 was perhaps no more than twenty years of age, 
 but she was a superb specimen of womanhood. 
 In figure she was exquisite, strong, active and 
 shapely. She was dressed heavily in native 
 wool. Even her skirt and bodice were of wool, 
 as well as the shawl over her head and her thick 
 stockings. She wore enormous shoes for pro- 
 tection against the dampness of the bogs. 
 
 I addressed many remarks to the young man 
 in the ditch before I could get any reply from 
 him. He appeared to be cordial enough and 
 good-natured, but he would not talk. It mat- 
 tered not what I said, he simply looked at me 
 at every remark and grinned. At length the 
 young woman saw that I did not understand 
 the situation. 
 
PQ 
 
 u ■ 
 
PEAT-CUTTERS IN GALWAY 167 
 
 "Oh! sur," she said, "good gintleman, ye 
 must excuse him. He is that Irish he do not 
 talk English at all at all. He do talk Irish well, 
 and if ye know that language he will be glad 
 to talk with ye." 
 
 I begged to be excused from talking Irish, 
 but I talked with the young woman in English. 
 They were husband and wife, and they lived 
 in a little thatched house about a mile from these 
 bogs. They cut turf here every day throughout 
 the summer when the weather permitted. They 
 sometimes made as much as a shilling apiece, 
 and when they worked very hard they had made 
 four shillings and sixpence between them. But 
 this was not often. It was getting rather late 
 for cutting turf, but some would cut it until fall. 
 Turf from these bogs was sold in Galway and 
 all through the countryside. 
 
 The vast level stretches of the bog extended 
 as far as eye could see in every direction. Noth- 
 ing but black mounds and coarse grass, with 
 now and then a stunted shrub or a grass-covered 
 hillock could be seen. In all parts of this vast 
 stretch of waste land, where millions of square 
 yards of peat lay open for the gathering, men, 
 women, and children were at work cutting out 
 
168 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 the brick-shaped masses and carrying them off 
 to be dried. Many could be seen moving the 
 piles and re-stacking the blackish brown blocks 
 which, after drying, resembled decaying wood 
 known as punk, and was elastic and porous and 
 filled with roots and grass. 
 
 Peat, or turf, is found in almost all parts of 
 Ireland and Scotland, but in the interior of Ire- 
 land, where the level boglands occur, the supply 
 is most plentiful. Around the Irish coast on 
 every side hills and mountains rise to give a 
 peculiar beauty to the landscapes, but almost 
 everywhere in the interior of the island the 
 country is level. The bogs are not primitive 
 or original masses of earth, but are merely 
 accumulations of vegetable matter which has 
 undergone a peculiar change under a degree 
 of temperature not sufficiently great to decom- 
 pose the plants and grasses which have grown 
 upon the surface. In some of the bogs in Ire- 
 land there may be found remains of immense 
 forests, a great variety of trees, the wood in 
 some cases still so sound as to be of value to the 
 builder. 
 
 As there is little coal in Ireland, peat-cutting 
 for fuel is a great occupation for the peasantry. 
 
PEAT-CUTTERS IN GALWAY 169 
 
 The commonest method for getting out this peat, 
 or turf, requires six operations. The first opera- 
 tion usually requires four men and two turf- 
 barrows. The strongest man uses the slane, or 
 spade, in cutting out the brick-shaped blocks, 
 another places the turfs upon the barrows, and 
 a third rolls them off and empties them. The 
 fourth man shapes up the banks for the slane 
 man. Such a gang of workmen is expected in 
 a day to cut an amount of turf known as a 
 "dark"; and it is estimated that from two 
 to four darks of turf will last one cottage 
 through the winter. Men thus engaged in 
 cutting turf formerly got a shilling a day. The 
 wages in nearly every part of Ireland are higher 
 now. 
 
 The second operation is the spreading of the 
 turf from the barrow heaps. This is usually 
 done by women and children. The turf re- 
 mains spread thus for about a week. Footing 
 comes next. The turfs are collected in parcels 
 of six each, and are set upon end where they are 
 allowed to remain about ten days. The turf is 
 then rickled. A rickle contains about ten foot- 
 ings or sixty turfs. After fourteen days in the 
 rickle the turfs are placed in clamps or stacks 
 
170 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 twelve feet long, six feet high and four feet 
 wide. The last operation of all is drawing home 
 and stacking near the cottage where it is to be 
 consumed. Donkey-cars are almost invariably 
 used for this purpose. 
 
 In almost every interior Irish village one may 
 see little donkey-carts piled up high with blocks 
 of this spongy, porous, fibrous combustible, 
 which the drivers are anxious to sell at two 
 shillings the load or twelve sods a penny. Many 
 a peasant, with leased right from his landlord 
 to gather turf from neighboring bogs, makes his 
 simple living year in and year out drying and 
 selling turf which is used almost everywhere in 
 the country for fuel. 
 
 After wandering about among the trenches 
 and footings, and rickles and clamps, I found 
 my driver on the roadside lazily and heartlessly 
 cutting off the heads of inoffensive daisies with 
 the cracker of his whip. We drove in leisurely 
 manner back to Galway. For a part of the dis- 
 tance the road was the same as the one by which 
 we came, then we entered another road and went 
 into an unfrequented country. Late in the after- 
 noon we passed through a little village in a 
 secluded spot at the foot of a long hill. It was 
 
PEAT-CUTTERS IN GALWAY 171 
 
 a typical western Irish village in all respects, 
 the houses being small, thatch-covered and old. 
 We drove by a little yard walled in with loosely 
 piled stones, and I made a picture of the front 
 of the house just as three half-grown white 
 shoats emerged from the open doorway of the 
 one room under the roof. Some chickens and 
 ducks which also had free access to the room 
 were near at hand, and the goat was near by. 
 The woman of the house came out about this 
 time and began to express her opinion of the 
 driver for bringing a "shtrange gintleman" to 
 her house. "Sure, and ye monkey-lipped spal- 
 peen," said she, shaking her fist at him, "they'll 
 be raising my rint or turning me out o' house and 
 home all on account o' your incidence!" 
 
 My driver, seeing the old piece of skillet in 
 her hand, did not waste any words with her; 
 but cracking his whip loudly, and ducking his 
 head as though dodging something, he drove off 
 rapidly, leaving the woman in the doorway 
 uttering torrents of heartily-felt vituperation. 
 At another house in this settlement we saw 
 chickens, geese, ducks, pigs, goats and even 
 donkeys in the dooryards with license to enter 
 the house at pleasure. And the children were 
 
172 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 upon terms of equality with the other inhabi- 
 tants of the premises. 
 
 It was just such a village, I suppose, that an 
 American traveler not long ago visited for the 
 purpose of studying the people of western Ire- 
 land. He was particularly impressed with the 
 exceeding friendliness of the pigs which came up 
 and with the utmost good nature began to root 
 up his trousers leg by way of investigation. And 
 he found that the custom was to allow the cow, 
 the donkey and the goat to live under the same 
 roof with the renters of the cottage, though in a 
 different room; and sometimes piles of manure 
 on the outside appeared to have been thrown 
 out of the parlor window. This gentleman's 
 description, as I proved beyond the shadow of 
 a doubt, was not an exaggeration. 
 
 It was after sunset when we drew near the 
 old city of Galway. We began to meet upon 
 the road donkey-cars of all sizes and types, each 
 one loaded to its limit with all ages of humanity. 
 There must have been some gathering or cele- 
 bration in Galway that day which I knew noth- 
 ing of. It was a wonder to me then and has 
 been ever since how one small animal could 
 draw or one small cart contain such aggrega- 
 
y « *jy -^ 
 
 w 
 
PEAT-CUTTERS IN GALWAY 173 
 
 tions of individuals as we saw riding home that 
 June day from Galway. Cart after cart passed 
 us in the road. My driver and I vied with each 
 other in giving them the glad word; but in this 
 matter none can equal a citizen of Galway. 
 They outdid us in cordiality, and their rollicking 
 good humor was stimulating in the extreme. 
 These people were apparently Celts of the purest 
 stock, — black hair, blue eyes, long upper lips, 
 and broad faces, I had up to that hour thought 
 that the caricatures of the comic weeklies were 
 gross and libellous exaggerations. I found that 
 it would be hard to exaggerate the picturesque- 
 ness of a Galway peasant. 
 
 On the roadside we met a shapely young girl, 
 absolutely barefooted and clothed apparently in 
 but one single garment, and that not a very secure 
 one. In looking upon her one would imagine she 
 was the original Jenny Sutton of whom Morris 
 said: 
 
 " One single pin at night let loose 
 The robes which veiled her beauty." 
 
 A red glow came into the sky, and a sharp 
 wind blew up from the southwest. The folds of 
 a dark cloud appeared, and now and then we 
 felt in our faces fresh, cold drops of rain. Long 
 
i 7 4 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 rows of thatched houses could be seen through 
 the dusk, and children played, and geese cackled, 
 and donkeys brayed; and a mist came up from 
 the sea and settled down over all the happy 
 scene. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 GALWAY'S TRAGEDY — THE FIRST LYNCHING 
 
 Behind us were the gray rocks of Jarcon- 
 naught and the luscious greenness of the Moy- 
 cullen meadows. Eastwardly and on our left, 
 stretching away into the north, Lough Corrib 
 lay like a sheet of steely glass, its misty shore 
 line fretted with moldering castle wall and 
 ruined abbeys. Below us lay the old town of 
 Galway awaiting in the damp twilight the fall 
 of night. The wet fogs drifted in from the 
 ocean and obscured the distant views of bay 
 and inlet and river and field. Descending the 
 long even slope, we entered the Claddagh where 
 children played in the streets, fisher-folk passed 
 homeward with their nets, and belated mar- 
 ket-cars slowly turned towards the green fields. 
 Then, crossing the long bridge, we went into 
 the town. 
 
 I had seen much, that long summer day, of 
 mountain and meadow, cottage and crumbling 
 castle, but a restlessness drove me on. I bade 
 
 '75 
 
176 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 my driver good-by and went into the inn for an 
 evening meal; then I went out again into the 
 streets and strolled aimlessly about, observing 
 the houses and wondering at the strange faces 
 that passed me in the gathering darkness. 
 There were Moorish gargoyles and Spanish 
 facements upon the corners and at the entrances 
 to the alleys. Now and then a tall, lithe figure 
 brushed past me, and it was plain from his olive 
 face and the odor of his cigarette that he had 
 other than Celtic blood in his veins. Couples 
 of women, with strange gypsy-like cheeks and 
 ringed ears, passed me with downcast faces and 
 cautious foosteps. They were reminders of 
 Spanish days. 
 
 The shops had closed one by one until now 
 the streets had taken on an appearance of deser- 
 tion. At the end of a narrow alley down which 
 I had gone in a search of an exit to another 
 street which I wished to explore, I paused for 
 a moment to look into a little barred window 
 where some great old volumes bound in heavy 
 sheep and a number of early engravings were 
 displayed. Almost instinctively I turned the 
 old-fashioned door-knob and went into the 
 quaint little shop. Leaning over a somber 
 
GALWAY'S TRAGEDY 177 
 
 tome on a desk was a little old man with a 
 long white beard. Two tallow candles sufficed 
 to give him light. 
 
 "Ah! an American ?" he asked, then went on 
 as though the question needed no answer. 
 "How different are your people from us of the 
 older world. How quick you are, how conquer- 
 ing, and what a hopeful look you bear in 
 your faces!" Then his black eyes scrutinized 
 me closely, and a kindly smile played over his 
 lips. 
 
 "I was reading," he said, "when you came 
 in. It is Le Sage. The volume before me is 
 'Gil Bias.' I sometimes wonder how a French- 
 man could understand Spaniards so well. 
 Shrouded in Galway's mists, I lose myself 
 often of evenings wandering with this loitering 
 vagabond over the purple vineclad hills of Spain. 
 This edition with its heavy covers and quaint 
 old cuts was made in Paris nearly two hundred 
 years ago." 
 
 The old man's kindly manner and intelli- 
 gent conversation had begun to charm me. I 
 needed not much urging to remain and talk 
 with him for a while. He was lonesome, too, 
 he said, and an American was a rarity with 
 
178 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 him. It was a luxury to talk with one who 
 had a heart, as he expressed it. Possibly he 
 had reference to one who manifested interest 
 in him and in those things which interested him. 
 To that extent I must confess I certainly had 
 a heart. 
 
 "I am of that strange mixture," he went on 
 to tell me, "Spanish and Irish. I was born 
 in this house, in a room above us. My father 
 was indulgent with me, and when yet a boy I 
 was sent to Madrid to learn my rudiments. 
 Thence I went to Paris; and afterwards I 
 studied philosophy in Edinburgh. A year at 
 Trinity in Dublin completed my education, and 
 I came back home. My father had this shop 
 before me. I have been here since he died. 
 No; I am the only one of my family in all the 
 world save some distant relatives in Vallado- 
 lid and Oviedo in Spain. 
 
 " But this little shop and these books — God 
 bless us, how I love them! — they are, indeed, 
 my life!" 
 
 And then he told me about Galway, its early 
 history, its traditions. The city, he said, had 
 been founded away back in the dark ages, long 
 before the Anglo-Saxon came to Britain. The 
 
GALWAY'S TRAGEDY 179 
 
 island was densely wooded then, and there 
 were savage tribes and bands of wolves in the 
 mountains. And after the coming of Patrick, 
 and still later of the Anglo-Normans, the Span- 
 iards came, not gallantly with arms to fight, 
 but in ships, to trade. Even the gargoyles 
 that hung over the narrow streets to-day, though 
 they represented dragons, had Moorish cheeks; 
 and their eyes, too human, were the eyes that 
 one sees to-day upon the streets of Burgos and 
 Salamanca, or in the villages outside of quiet 
 Avila in Spain. 
 
 The old man paused and took his old-fash- 
 ioned glasses from his eyes and polished them 
 with his handkerchief, staring the while into a 
 dark corner of the shop. 
 
 "The history of the Spaniards in Ireland 
 — what romance, what tragedy!" And the 
 old gentleman paused again and sighed. 
 
 "You wish to hear a story. I know you do," 
 he said. "Then come, walk with me upon the 
 streets for a while, and let us gather its spirit 
 from the darkness which is falling about us." 
 
 He locked the little door and placed the great 
 iron key in a leathern bag which he carried in 
 his hand. Then we walked up the narrow 
 
180 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 alley, turned into the street and walked some 
 distance, and then turned into another street 
 where we met a cool breeze which swept in 
 from the sea. We walked a while in silence, 
 hearing nothing save the far-off swish of waves 
 against the shore. 
 
 "I wish to tell you a story," said the old man, 
 "a story that will thrill your heart. 
 
 "They say that Ireland has originated 
 nothing. It is not true. God pity us that the 
 green old island fathered the one institution 
 which is a stigma upon the fair civilization of 
 your country to-day. 
 
 "See before us through the mist that square 
 black building of stone with armorial bearings 
 above the great doorways, and strangely-carved 
 ornaments about the windows ? We call it 
 'Lynch's Castle.' That was for three hundred 
 years the home of the most distinguished fam- 
 ily of Anglo-Normans that came to western 
 Ireland. Those exquisite gargoyles and the 
 crest of the lynx at the entrance show that those 
 who first built the castle were rich, not only in 
 gold, but in refinement and descent as well. 
 
 "It came about that a scion of this family, 
 one James Lynch Fitz-Stephen, was made 
 
GALWAY'S TRAGEDY 181 
 
 warden of Galway the next year after the Geno- 
 ese with his caravels, the Pinta, the Nina, and 
 the Santa Maria, set sail from Palos in search 
 of land across the western seas. The Warden 
 was a man of action ; nor was he ashamed to be 
 known as a nobleman in trade. He numbered 
 among his personal friends Santangel, Spain's 
 royal treasurer, and the Marchioness de Moya, 
 the noble woman who plead on her knees be- 
 fore Isabella for funds to send Columbus on 
 his voyage. Tradition has it that this warden 
 sent to Spain a bag of gold to be divided equally 
 between the cause of Columbus and that of 
 driving Boabdil the Moor from Granada. If 
 true, God blessed both gifts to the utmost. 
 Fitz-Stephen's ships visited all the seaports of 
 Spain. In those far-off cities he was known 
 as though he were king of Ireland; and wherever 
 his galleons sailed his name stood for all that 
 was best in life — power, honesty, faithfulness 
 to duty, justice to the weakest of humanity. 
 
 "One day in summer, when the ocean was 
 quiet, and a soft mist hung over Black Head 
 and Inishmore, a gaily-bedecked galleon drifted 
 slowly up the bay and landed near where now 
 is the pier whence comes the sound of the swish 
 
182 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 of waves in this wind to-night. From it stepped 
 forth a young man in scarlet attire, with attend- 
 ants, and rich goods, and vast bales of products 
 from Spain. To this black castle, then bril- 
 liant with life, he bore costly presents, and a 
 letter, with seal of gold, addressed to the 
 Warden of Galway. It was an illuminated 
 parchment, after the manner of earlier days: 
 
 "'My son goes for a season to dwell with 
 you in your northern home, as I promised you 
 when you were in Spain that he would do when 
 he came of age. His presence will prove the 
 esteem in which Spain holds Ireland. At your 
 good pleasure you may send your son to us in 
 Spain that he may live in the home of my fam- 
 ily and mingle with the people of rank in Val- 
 encia.' 
 
 "The letter was signed by Miguel Gomez, a 
 merchant-lord of one of the richest cities of 
 Spain. 
 
 "Young Rodrigue soon became a favorite in 
 Galway. In body he was beautiful — active 
 and strong, so that his manhood showed itself in 
 the Irish games that call forth the best that is 
 in the physical man. His temperament was 
 gentle, and his voice had all that softness which 
 
GALWAY'S TRAGEDY 183 
 
 typifies the Spaniard at his best. His hands 
 were fashioned to the lute, and Galway's eve- 
 nings were enlivened with his soft music and 
 his tender old Spanish songs. 
 
 "Walter Lynch, only son of the Warden, was 
 even then making preparations to sail for Val- 
 encia in one of his father's ships, to remain many 
 months as a hostage in esteem for his people 
 on the western coast of Ireland. While he 
 yet remained in Ireland he became the insep- 
 arable companion of the young Spaniard. They 
 rode together over the Irish hills and vied with 
 each other in swimming in the bay. Together 
 they visited the gentry of Connaught, hunted 
 in the mountains, and studied the works of the 
 old masters. 
 
 "Galway, second not even to Limerick, has 
 ever been known for the beauty of her daughters. 
 At the time of my story there was none in all 
 the West who could compare with Agnes, the 
 only daughter of John Flood, a wealthy gentle- 
 man. Tradition ascribes to her not the gray- 
 blue eye and the blue-black hair of Ireland, 
 nor yet the jet-black eyes and the olive com- 
 plexion of Spain, but rather hair and eyes that 
 matched, and they a golden brown that glinted 
 
184 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 in the sun. In form, she was supple and strong; 
 in manner teasing and laughter-loving, and full 
 of the passion of life, all inherited from her 
 Norman ancestors, a race of conquerors. From 
 infancy this girl had been as much at home in 
 this black castle of the Lynches as she was in 
 her father's great stone mansion across yon 
 street. When she grew into maidenhood suitors 
 came from far and near to win her smiles. 
 Hardly a castle in western Ireland but sent a 
 son here at one time or another to sue for her 
 favors, nor a family that had not some scion 
 which they would not gladly have grafted upon 
 such a stock. 
 
 " But it was Walter Lynch, son of the War- 
 den, who had won her heart when as children 
 they played together about these great door- 
 ways; others came but in vain. One passion 
 filled her breast, one hope ruled her heart. In- 
 deed, it was currently believed that the son of 
 the king himself might not have been able to 
 displace this sovereign of her heart. 
 
 '•On the night before the day which had been 
 appointed for young Walter to sail for Valencia 
 the Warden gave a feast in the castle before 
 us. From yon small window in the turret to 
 
GALWAY'S TRAGEDY 185 
 
 the very dungeons underneath bright lights 
 shone and gay music sounded. Such a supper 
 had not been known in Galway before. All 
 the rich and great were there. The gallant 
 young Spaniard was that night clothed in purple, 
 and with his lute he pleased all the vast com- 
 pany. It was observed that frequently he sat 
 at Agnes' feet and played and sang old songs 
 of Spain that seemed to please her much, and 
 yet they brought forth tears from her eyes. It 
 was scarcely a wonder that Walter should have 
 gone apart with bitterness in his soul. Through 
 the long months which were to follow, and he 
 far away in Valencia, could this girl remain 
 true to him, when beauty and gallantry and talent 
 dwelt close by her side and at will could draw 
 tears from her eyes ? But the manhood in 
 him prevailed. He stifled the wild pangs of 
 jealousy and rage as unworthy of an Irish 
 gentleman; and the next day he bade his sweet- 
 heart a long good-by, and sailed on a ship for 
 Spain. 
 
 "Long months passed, and Rodrigue Gomez 
 still remained in Galway. Walter Lynch Fitz- 
 Stephen, faithful to the manner of those days, 
 was a friendly hostage in the rich city of Val- 
 
1 86 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 encia, in Spain. His companions there were 
 folk of rank and wealth; and more than once 
 he had gone to the Escorial as an invited guest. 
 Everywhere he met with that hospitality for 
 which Spain is famous. The handsomest and 
 wealthiest of Valencia's daughters vied with 
 each other in their attempts to please this brawny 
 northerner who sought the bull-ring, the fields 
 of wild riding, and all the manly sports rather 
 than the company of women and their kind. 
 
 "Once a week one of his father's ships came 
 into the port, bearing a cargo of barley, or wheat, 
 or the rich root-crops of Ireland. Each rough 
 commander brought carefully in his bosom a 
 missive which servants of the palace of the 
 elder Gomez bore swiftly to the young Irish- 
 man; and upon such occasions, whether in 
 the bull-ring or in a hall oF feasting, he quickly 
 retired to his apartments in the palace and 
 remained long hours alone. 
 
 "One week no letter came. Truly did the 
 great dramatist tell how trifles light as air can 
 confirm the bitterness of the heart of him who 
 is jealously inclined. Young Fitz-Stephen shut 
 himself in and saw no one until the next letter 
 came. Agnes wrote that when the ship which 
 
GALWAY'S TRAGEDY 187 
 
 ought to have borne him a letter sailed from 
 Galway she had been away from the city sail- 
 ing with a party of friends on Lough Corrib, 
 and had spent some days at Castles Ballycurrin 
 and Annahkeen. Her letter was full of descrip- 
 tions of the tender beauty of Inishmicatreer, 
 and Inchiquin, and Inchacommaun, and of the 
 yew-shaded Abbey of Ross and gray castle 
 Moyne. Her descriptions of water and wood 
 touched his spirit with melancholy and home- 
 sickness. And there was dread in his heart 
 and bitterness. Pictures of the brown-haired 
 girl would arise in his mind, and always by her 
 side was a Spaniard in purple with soft voice 
 and a lute in his hand. 
 
 "Again no letter came. Two weeks passed 
 this time, and three. He sought the docks at 
 night and talked long with one of his father's 
 sea-captains. The rough man said he had 
 waited at the Claddagh for hours, but no letter 
 had been sent to him. We had heard it reported 
 in the city that a party of the young gentry of 
 Galway, including the Spaniard and Agnes 
 Flood, had gone on a trip half across Ireland 
 to Knockdrin Castle near Mullingar. Thence 
 they would go to Castle Dromineer and Kill- 
 
1 88 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 aloe on Lough Derg, and thence again to 
 Limerick and home by way of Lisdoonvarna, 
 Kinvarra, and Oranmore. Their trip, now 
 half over, would extend through two months' 
 time. 
 
 Days passed, and still no letter from Agnes. 
 One morning there was consternation in the 
 palace of Miguel Gomez, and all Valencia was 
 filled with excitement. The strong young Irish- 
 man could nowhere be found. Search was 
 made throughout the city and in all the neigh- 
 boring cities of southern Spain. Some thought 
 young Walter had been murdered, and others 
 said he had been drowned at sea while sailing 
 alone as he sometimes was accustomed to do. 
 But there were wiser ones who said nothing at 
 all, but only smiled and shook their heads. It 
 was known that on the night when the young 
 man disappeared a galleon loaded with wines 
 had left the port for Galway in Ireland. 
 
 "Two weeks later, on a stormy night follow- 
 ing a season of dreadful tempests, a ship, 
 lashed with the waves, came into yon harbor 
 which appears so dimly through the mist. The 
 vessel anchored in the angry tide. Over its 
 side came a man in Spanish attire, and in a 
 
GALWAY'S TRAGEDY 189 
 
 frail boat he fought his way to the shore. At 
 midnight, alone, he passed up this street, half- 
 running as he went along. He stopped be- 
 neath that window there — see how it hangs 
 out from that quaint old castle of stone! That 
 was the home of Agnes. The darkness hides 
 from us the carved entablatures and the fretted 
 escarpments. Nor can we discern the crest 
 of the dove above the entrance. 
 
 "Out of that great old doorway at midnight 
 came Rodrigue Gomez, clothed in scarlet, a 
 lute in his hand. Under that window, Agnes 
 standing above him, with clusters of golden- 
 brown hair about her face, he stopped and sang 
 a good-night song of love. Then a wave of 
 the hand, a kiss thrown, and all became quiet 
 again. 
 
 "Then Walter Lynch came out of the shadows. 
 A dagger glittered in his hand, and his face was 
 fearful to see. The young Spaniard turned and 
 fled as from an apparition. Down this very 
 street they went. Come, follow me, friend, 
 down where they went, to the waterside." 
 
 The story of the strange old man fascinated 
 me and thrilled me with horror. His intensity 
 of feeling and his passion as he abandoned him- 
 
190 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 self to his story made the scene live before my 
 eyes. A veritable Ancient Mariner, he held 
 me spellbound with the glitter of his eye. Yet 
 there was tenderness upon his face. I walked 
 with him down to the bay. 
 
 "Here on this very spot where we stand, " 
 continued he, "Walter Lynch plunged his dag- 
 ger into the heart of Rodrigue Gomez. He 
 cast the body into the tide. When the morning 
 sun stole through the mist they found it here, 
 all dressed in scarlet, yet stained with a deeper 
 crimson about the heart. 
 
 "The murderer fled to the mountains of 
 Jarconnaught, and sought safety in an ancient 
 castle there. All Galway learned the secret 
 of the crime, and pity filled every heart. The 
 Warden, loving the boy better than his own 
 life, publicly acknowledged the bitter tragedy. 
 
 "Parental love is strong — oh! stronger than 
 death — but honor and justice, properly rooted, 
 are stronger still. The love of a father may 
 cause bitter tears to fall, and bosoms to heave, 
 and faces to twitch and blanch, but honor im- 
 planted in the soul steels one to have his heart 
 plucked from his bosom and his body burned 
 with fire! 
 
GALWAY'S TRAGEDY 191 
 
 "James Lynch Fitz-Stephen, the sworn War- 
 den of Galway, the upholder of all law, had 
 never swerved from justice. A man of honor, 
 death was sweet to him, when compared with the 
 betrayal of a trust the people had placed in him. 
 
 "The next day, at the head of strong men, 
 with steel and steeds, he set out for the moun- 
 tains of Jarconnaught. Oh! how the tears of 
 Galway's women fell! The young man's mother, 
 with Agnes by her side, followed the stern 
 father out of the city, begging for mercy for 
 her son. Oh! was it not love which had brought 
 about this tragedy ? And could not one be 
 forgiven anything for love ? But the silent 
 man turned not his head to left or right, but 
 rode bitterly on. His honor and the honor of 
 his country transcended every private thought; 
 and ten thousand deaths with torture could not 
 have turned him from his course. 
 
 "But they had not to travel far. Where 
 the road passes Ballycuirke Lough, with waters 
 always gray, they met young Walter riding a 
 wild Irish steed. He flung himself from his 
 saddle and knelt at his father's feet. The War- 
 den tied him with his own hands and bore him 
 back to Galway. 
 
192 
 
 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 "All the city had come out to weep and to 
 pray for the boy's release. Young Agnes, won- 
 drous in beauty, with her rich-brown hair fall- 
 ing about her face, grasped the neck of the steed 
 which bore the Warden. Sobs and wails went 
 up from the women all along the way, and little 
 children wept from sympathy. But the War- 
 den heard not these sounds. He listened to 
 but one voice, the voice of duty — and death! 
 
 "Yon black castle, with walls tumbling now, 
 was his prison-house. It was but a few days 
 that they kept him there. His father spent the 
 whole time in the dungeon with him. What 
 passed between them none but God and the 
 angels know. 
 
 "The day of the trial came. Noblemen from 
 far away Ulster, and citizens from rocky Don- 
 egal and Drogheda and ancient Cork; women 
 from Limerick, richly clothed; stern soldiers 
 from the castles at Athlone and Blarney and 
 Armagh; peasants from Kerry and Mayo; men 
 of law from Dublin — all came to beg for the 
 life of the boy. But the father with calm brow 
 and white lips sat still and sentenced his only 
 son to death at the rising of the morrow's sun. 
 
 "There was much strange whispering in the 
 
GALWAY'S TRAGEDY 193 
 
 great crowd that had gathered; and one might 
 have discerned the beginning of strange hap- 
 penings. That night the city was filled with 
 men from all western Ireland, and there was 
 upon their faces a bitterness which might not 
 be expressed. The young man went back to 
 his dungeon unmolested and unafraid. All 
 awaited with breathless anxiety the rising of 
 the morrow's sun. 
 
 "That night the Warden called the priest into 
 the cell and the three remained there in dark- 
 ness until they saw the light; but it was the 
 peaceful light from the face of God which shone 
 into that cell. 
 
 "When the hour of execution was come the 
 father called the stern officers of the law into 
 the cell. They shuddered, and by no means 
 could be prevailed upon to place the rope about 
 the young man's throat. Neither threats nor 
 appeals to duty prevailed. The Warden per- 
 formed this office with his own hands. They 
 then led the young man up the chill steps from 
 the dungeon and flung wide the great doors 
 which opened upon the place of execution. 
 
 "A great crowd of blanched faces and high- 
 lifted arms met them. Teeth were clenched in 
 
194 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 fury, and loud bitter cries were uttered. With 
 drawn swords and daggers they rushed into the 
 castle with shouts: 'Release the brave young 
 Irishman! Death to those who would harm 
 him!' They pierced through the foremost of 
 the guards and ground them beneath their feet. 
 The soldiers held their ground valiantly, fight- 
 ing back the mob from the doorway, killing 
 many of them with their swords. But the crazed 
 multitude without fought their way into the 
 castle over the bodies of their fallen com- 
 rades. 
 
 "James Fitz-Stephen, with rope about the 
 neck of his son, led the young man quickly up 
 the great stone stairway just as the mob cut 
 down the last of the prison guard and stamped 
 them under their feet. Reaching the top of 
 the castle, closely pursued by shouting men, he 
 quickly made fast the rope to an iron bar, then 
 lifted the young man bodily and flung him 
 from the window, leaving his body dangling 
 above the heads of the angry mob below. The 
 crowd became wild with fury, and men swarmed 
 up the stairway intent upon cutting the rope 
 before young Walter should die; but the War- 
 den, an infuriated giant, stood at the head of 
 
GAL WAY'S TRAGEDY 195 
 
 the stairway, and with the strength of a demon, 
 his eyes the while flashing fire, he decapitated 
 men and thrust through hearts until a river of 
 blood flowed down the steps of stone. And 
 then the steps became blocked with the bodies 
 of the dead and dying so that further attempts 
 to reach the Warden became useless. All the 
 while of this carnage the body of Walter Lynch 
 swung to and fro outside the castle walls writh- 
 ing in death. At length the end came and the 
 twitchings ceased. 
 
 "Filled with horror unspeakable, the great 
 crowd dissolved like mist before the sun. They 
 slunk away like cowed animals, lost in pity and 
 despair. 
 
 "Then the Warden drew in the body of his 
 son, threw aside the carrions upon the stair- 
 way, and buried the corpse with his own hands. 
 
 "The next day the old Warden — for he had 
 become old and shrivelled in a night — left the 
 city which he had ruled so well, and with his 
 wife, now white and palsied and bereft of reason, 
 went up into Connemara where a few days 
 later both of them died on the stone floor of a 
 peasant's hut. 
 
 "Yon church before us is St. Nicholas. 
 
196 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 Within it there is a great square tomb, exqui- 
 sitely carved in marble. Beneath it lie the 
 bones of the Warden and his wife. 
 
 "Out there under the sod, hidden from us by 
 the shadows of night, are two other graves, side 
 by side. In one is Agnes Flood, in the other 
 Walter Lynch Fitz-Stephen. 
 
 "Even through this mist and darkness you 
 may see that fragment of a wall, and upon it a 
 death's head chiselled in stone. On this stone 
 is a strange and weird inscription, carved there 
 many generations ago: 
 
 'REMEMBER DEATHE 
 VANITI OF VANITI 8 ALL IS BUT 
 VANITI' 
 
 "From that window just above the grin- 
 ning death's head Walter Lynch was flung by 
 his father; and here upon the very spot where 
 we stand tradition tells us Agnes, looking upon 
 the quivering body above her, swooned away 
 in death." 
 
 The old man became silent and gazed up 
 at the gray walls. 
 
 "Ah! God," he said, "What a tragedy!" 
 
 Then he was silent again. His story had 
 
From that Window Walter Lynch was flung. 
 " Vaniti oi Vanities — Aile is I'amti." 
 
GALWAY'S TRAGEDY 197 
 
 been told. We could hear the waves moaning 
 in the bay; and the wind came up and drove 
 the mist into our faces. We turned and 
 walked away from the place along the quiet 
 street. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 IN QUEST OF GOLDSMITH'S DESERTED VILLAGE 
 
 We were in the very heart of Ireland. Be- 
 hind us, toward the south, was the old garri- 
 son town of Athlone, lying quietly sleeping on 
 the banks of the Shannon; on our right and 
 left, steaming away in the hot June sunshine, 
 lay fields of dank green grass; in front of us 
 the white road stretched like a waving ribbon 
 as far as eye could see in the distance. 
 
 "Och!" said my driver, who sat over the 
 right wheel to balance me on the left. "Och! 
 jist think of it — the beauty that dwelt in that 
 heart and sowl!" He did not explain, but went 
 introspectively on: 
 
 " ' Swate Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, 
 
 Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain, 
 
 Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
 
 And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed !' 
 
 "The picther of the ould home niver lift him 
 
 — the swate ould place where he wished to 
 
 come and die! Glory be his bed!" 
 
 198 
 
GOLDSMITH'S DESERTED VILLAGE 199 
 
 We could have been talking about none other 
 than Oliver Goldsmith. We were in his coun- 
 try, near the spot of his birth. My companion 
 was an Irishman on his native sod, and he was 
 taking me in his own jaunting-car to visit Lis- 
 soy, now known as Auburn, "Goldsmith's 
 Deserted Village. " 
 
 Just before we left the little old-fashioned 
 stone inn at Athlone, where eel steaks can be 
 had the year round, the proprietor had taken 
 me aside and told me that my driver was a man 
 of "poethry and lore"; and from the remarks 
 which he had let fall since we crossed the bridge 
 into the blooming meadows of the country, I 
 had reason to believe that my host had, in a 
 measure at least, spoken nothing more than the 
 truth. But when I looked across the fields 
 that stretched about us, I felt something like 
 pity for any one who could fail to be full of 
 "poethry" upon such a day and in such a 
 country as this. 
 
 Lough Ree came into view over a stone wall 
 enclosing a meadow on our left, and to-day it 
 was not an Irish lake at all — no gloomy gray- 
 ness hung about it — but it flashed a broad 
 sheet of gladsome, golden sunshine into the 
 
2 oo SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 faces of the dwellers in all that peaceful country- 
 side; and they, like good Irish people, stood 
 looking — just looking with solemn faces across 
 the checkered fields. 
 
 Has any one ever been able to explain why it 
 is that the Irish people at home like so well to 
 stand, even in days of mist and gloom, and 
 gaze up the rocky lanes or across the wind-swept 
 fields ? Has any one ever tried to tell us why 
 the Irishman does not love the interior of his 
 home, but even when the years have bent his 
 back and whitened his hair, does his dreaming 
 and thinking out under the open sky? And 
 has any one ever thought out why it is that in 
 these reveries there is upon the face of the 
 dreamer somewhat of a vague sorrow and an 
 indefinable melancholy ? Is it that the Irishman 
 revels in gloom, and that the law of sadness is 
 in his heart ? Or is it that indefinable thing 
 which they call "the spirit of the Celt" which 
 has followed him down the ages and will not let 
 him be ? Who knows ? Whatever it be, on that 
 sweet day of the solstice, when the June sunshine 
 clung to the blooming hayfields, there were those 
 in sight of a lake all aflame with dimpling joy 
 who stood and gazed sadly off into the distance. 
 
GOLDSMITH'S DESERTED VILLAGE 201 
 
 Some of them were young and strong, but 
 most of the seers of visions had hearkened to 
 some vague call from beyond the sunset line, 
 and those who had remained at home were but 
 simple dreamers of dreams. The old had been 
 left behind, still in exile — destined never to 
 know the how or why — never to see beyond 
 the mountains that shut them in from the rest- 
 less sea — remained to open and shut gates, to 
 stand and gaze up bare, moldy alleys, to look 
 mournfully upon daisy-flecked hillsides or across 
 poppy-pied meadows. "Some day — yis, some 
 Missed day!" 
 
 The old walled-in roadways showed signs of 
 life in frequent low-backed cars, or an occasional 
 barefooted old woman with her head muffled 
 up in a shawl, trudging along with a basket or 
 a bag. Sometimes we saw a good-natured 
 Irishman spading away in his potato patch, or 
 a ragged boy leading a turf-loaded donkey 
 cart. Or, perchance, we got a fleeting glimpse 
 of a bare-legged peasant girl standing out on a 
 rocky hillside, her Celtic soul dancing out from 
 the depths of her gray-blue eyes to meet the 
 brightness of this day in June. 
 
 Far down on our right some long black mounds 
 
202 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 came into view. The peat-cutters had been at 
 work gathering their winter supply of fuel. My 
 driver could not understand what might inter- 
 est me in that "damp, dirthy place," but he 
 was obliging and veered his car in that direc- 
 tion. An old man and an old woman, husband 
 and wife, were re-stacking brick-shaped blocks 
 of turf that had nearly dried. Their greeting 
 was cordial even for Ireland. Ah! would I 
 tell them of "Amuriky" ? They would know 
 about the "grate cities, the foine farrums, and 
 the rich folk." And would I be pleased to tell 
 them about the pigs; and did they burn turf or 
 coal over there ? And did I know Timmy 
 O'Mulligan ? It was strange that I had never 
 even heard of him. He now owned three gro- 
 cery stores in Philadelphia. It had been pre- 
 dicted that he would be a great man before he 
 had left Ballynacarrigy. 
 
 "And, sir, are the wages good, and is there 
 plinty of mate for all ?" the old man inquired. 
 
 I told him wages were high, and so far as I 
 knew there was not a citizen in the country who 
 did not have a plenty to eat. 
 
 "Glory to God!" he exclaimed. "Jannie 
 — turning solemnly to the old wife — "Amur- 
 
Photo by Guy, Cork. 
 
 Standing Bare-legged on a Rocky Irish Hillside 
 
GOLDSMITH'S DESERTED VILLAGE 203 
 
 iky will yet be th' home of this ould mon ! Ye Ve 
 resisted me; ye refuse to go with me. Ye '11 
 miss me whin I'm gone; but blissed be God, 
 I'll come back to Ballaghkeeran a millionaire!" 
 
 We left the old couple piling the peat and 
 just reveling in dreams of "that grate counthry" 
 over the ocean. 
 
 The smooth road passed through bits of an- 
 cient wood of beech, oak, and fir. High stone 
 walls of some estate of the "gintry" at times 
 shut out the landscapes from view. One dense 
 little wood incited my companion to remove 
 his pipe and mention the fairy folk which many 
 people hereabouts had long thought made 
 their home in an ancient Danish "rath" hidden 
 by the dense forest growths. The Leprahawn, 
 the little miller and shoemaker of the fairies, 
 came out, they used to say, on that very west- 
 ern slope before us, and there he bathed him- 
 self in the glowing sunsets on such fine days 
 as these. This set me wondering whether or 
 not there was more than one Leprahawn in 
 Ireland; but I let him talk on. 
 
 I asked if there were still fairies in Ireland. 
 
 "The ould folks belave in the good people 
 shtill. It's so all through this counthry. But 
 
204 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 the young are doubters, and they, too, the ones 
 who ought quickest to belave. The national 
 schools have done it. The young boys and 
 girruls sometimes even doubt there is a divil, 
 bad luck to these evil toimes." And the old 
 fellow grew thoughtful. 
 
 In the shady, walled-in roadway we met 
 two bright-faced old Irishmen, contentedly driv- 
 ing a donkey-cart. Stopping to talk to us a 
 moment, they asked me a few questions about 
 America and "the Irish over there. ,, Seeing 
 me adjusting my little hand camera, one of the 
 old fellows removed his pipe and said: 
 
 "Sir, allow me jist a word of advice before 
 ye touch the button. Please do not do the 
 thing naturally expected and let the ass's head 
 get where MichaeFs head should be!" Then 
 he nudged his companion with great glee and 
 broke into a roar of laughter at his companion's 
 expense. 
 
 "Glory be to God, sir, f'r the blissed land 
 ye 're from!" said one of the old fellows as we 
 drove off. 
 
 Before us in the distance was another village, 
 stretched along on both sides of the white road. 
 The name of the village was Glassan, but my 
 
Photo by Guy, Cork. 
 
 "Glory to God! Amuriky will yet be th' Home of this Ould Mon! 
 
GOLDSMITH'S DESERTED VILLAGE 205 
 
 driver said all the people in that countryside 
 called it the "Village of Roses." When we 
 reached the hamlet, lying peacefully in the 
 June sunshine, I observed the peculiar neat- 
 ness of the white cottages and the trim roofs of 
 tile and thatch. Rambling pink, red, and yel- 
 low roses grew over the fronts of the houses, 
 even to their eaves, and the air was filled with 
 their faint perfume. The village was without 
 a sign of life except the presence in the street 
 of a baby girl that strolled along in white frock 
 and muslin hood, and a constable in a clean, 
 new uniform, who was leaning on a banister 
 talking to a girl in one of the old doorways. 
 When he saw our car approaching he turned 
 and walked rather shamefacedly away. 
 
 "The Pinnacle of Kilkenny- West," said my 
 driver, pointing to a granite shaft off to our 
 right. And he explained that it had been 
 erected on that grassy hill to mark the very center 
 of Ireland. Only one more hill, he told me, 
 and we should be in Lissoy. 
 
 When we reached the summit of the long 
 incline I bade him stop the car. Before us 
 lay what remained of Auburn, Goldsmith's 
 Deserted Village. We sat there for a while in 
 
206 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 silence. There was no real village in sight; 
 no settlement so large as Glassan or Ballagh- 
 keeran — only silent fields, thick-checkered with 
 old stone walls, and now and then a gray cot- 
 tage with roof of thatch, a tottering wall, or a 
 fragment of a stone gable. 
 
 On the meadows the grasses were in bloom 
 — sod-flowers, field daisies, white clover, and 
 beds of red poppies and wild roses. The whole 
 rich, damp earth was carpeted with dank, 
 lush green. The sweet, wild freshness of the 
 spring came to us over the meadows that rolled 
 away into the north and east and west — simple 
 meadows of grass, unworked by the spade and 
 unturned by the plow. 
 
 We drove up to an old gate with pillars of 
 stone, between which hung a modern farm gate 
 of wood. A hundred yards within were some 
 tottering gray stone walls which had belonged 
 to the home in which the Reverend Charles 
 Goldsmith lived when he was rector of Kil- 
 kenny-West, and where the boy Oliver spent 
 his childhood days. We opened the gate and 
 drove into the yard. Almost in front of what 
 had once been the doorway some cows lay in 
 the dense shade cast by a clump of ash-trees, 
 
E -5 
 
 3 'l 
 
GOLDSMITH'S DESERTED VILLAGE 207 
 
 lazily chewing their cuds; and in a shallow 
 pool of black water a pair of geese, with their 
 half-grown family, were wading about and 
 sipping the liquid, now and then protruding 
 their necks and making resentful clatter. 
 
 "The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool." 
 
 The line occurred to me. This pool, though, 
 could not have been here in the good old rec- 
 tor's front yard in those happy days, but the 
 geese may have been able to trace their ancestry 
 back to those which cackled so joyously when 
 Goldsmith was here as a boy. 
 
 An Irishman of middle age came out of the 
 weeds behind the ruins of the house and greeted 
 us. He said it was truly the old home of Gold- 
 smith. The house had formerly had two sto- 
 ries, with five windows opening upon the front. 
 When it had a roof it was always of thatch. 
 I observed that some new corrugated iron, 
 painted red, now roofed in a part of the ruins, 
 making the place useful as a stable for the cows 
 and a shelter for the hay! 
 
 In 1770, when Oliver Goldsmith wrote The 
 Deserted Village in London, and received for 
 it a hundred pounds, the old home of his youth 
 
208 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 had even then gone into ruins, and in some bit- 
 terness of mind he wrote: 
 
 "Near yonder copse where once the garden smiled 
 And still where many a garden flower grows wild, 
 There where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose." 
 
 It is rather remarkable that the place should 
 have remained in a state of decay for a hundred 
 and thirty-five years without even an attempt 
 to restore it. But such is the way of Ireland. 
 
 "Out there is the ould gyarden," said my 
 new acquaintance, pointing to a weedy lot just 
 back of the bare, gray walls. 
 
 I climbed the tottering stone fence, tearing 
 down a part of it as I went down on the other 
 side. In the field — for it was no longer a 
 garden — tall weeds and hay were growing, all 
 in bloom. A few gnarled old apple-trees grew 
 at irregular intervals, showing that the place 
 at some time had been an orchard. In the 
 shadow of a high stone wall on the north side 
 was an old shrub, apparently a lilac. An althea, 
 probably a scion of an older root, grew close 
 to a bunch of old-fashioned roses, half hidden 
 in the weeds. Wild daisies and patches of 
 white clover grew thickly about the spot just 
 
GOLDSMITH'S DESERTED VILLAGE 209 
 
 back of the house where childish feet had pat- 
 tered long ago. In vain I looked for some of 
 the bushes where grew the fruit out of which 
 the good wife used to make such excellent goose- 
 berry wine. They had doubtless been choked 
 out by the briars and weeds. 
 
 An old tenant-farmer lived in a double-roomed 
 thatched house on the side of the yard in front. 
 The house was apparently as old as the Gold- 
 smith house, and had probably been used as 
 servants' or tenants' quarters. The old farmer 
 cordially invited me in and brought forth from 
 his little library case a well-worn volume of 
 Goldsmith's poems, which he opened on the 
 table before him. 
 
 The old wife was busy about an old-fashioned 
 fireplace in the adjoining stone-floored room, 
 baking potatoes and cooking bacon over a 
 smouldering peat fire. Some great pots hung 
 on hooks inside the chimney, as they had prob- 
 ably done two hundred years ago. It was 
 apparent that the cottage, though neat and 
 clean, had suffered but few changes in many 
 generations. 
 
 The old fellow told me many things of Au- 
 burn and the Goldsmith's, and I found that 
 
210 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 his traditional knowledge coincided well with 
 the best research of the historians into Gold- 
 smith's early life. 
 
 The Reverend Charles Goldsmith, he told 
 me, had lived at Pallas, a hamlet in the adjoin- 
 ing county of Longford, thirty miles away on the 
 north, and there supported himself and a large 
 family partly as a curate and partly as a small 
 farmer. In 1730, two years after the birth of 
 his son Oliver, he removed to Lissoy, to become 
 rector of Kilkenny- West, with a salary of £200 
 a year. His home was the gray old mansion 
 whose ruins were before us. Here the boy 
 Oliver played, tutored by a maid-servant, and 
 afterwards by a vagabond soldier who taught 
 him the love of adventure and the fascination 
 of wandering idly through strange lands. 
 
 As for the village, it had been known as Lis- 
 soy for centuries; but since the day of the poem 
 called The Deserted Village, the place had been 
 called "Auburn," from the poet's fanciful title 
 for the little hamlet. Some old people called 
 the village "The Pigeons," from the name of 
 the ale-house and inn which was described 
 happily in the poem but mentioned by name 
 only in Goldsmith's play "She Stoops to Con- 
 
GOLDSMITH'S DESERTED VILLAGE 211 
 
 quer." "The Three Jolly Pigeons " was still, 
 after an existence of several centuries, the most 
 lively spot in Auburn, or, indeed, anywhere 
 in that section. 
 
 The old man, in telling me these stories, grew 
 thoughtful, and more than once I caught him 
 looking — just looking across the green fields 
 into the sunny distance. I reluctantly left him 
 there in the quiet of a June afternoon, and my 
 driver took me up the road a little way to the 
 top of the hill, the spot which once had been 
 the center of the village. Near the roadside 
 grew a thick cluster of whitethorn bushes, mak- 
 ing a bower of dense, luxuriant shade. Here 
 was the place, my driver said, where grew 
 
 "The hawthorn bush with seats beneath the shade, 
 For talking age and whispering lovers made." 
 
 The original bush had grown here, and for 
 years it had been protected by the villagers; 
 but one day a carter — "bad cess to his sacril- 
 ligious sowl," interjected the narrator — with a 
 load of apple-trees allowed his wheel to level 
 the bush to the ground. These bushes had 
 grown up in its stead. 
 
 Just across the road stood a gigantic oak, 
 
212 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 within whose shade rested a stolid peasant's 
 cottage. Two old women stood outside the 
 door and welcomed me, giving me the freedom 
 of the place. There were two rooms, both on 
 a level with the ground. It was damp and cool 
 inside. Only a trace of light found its way 
 through a small window cut through the thick 
 stone walls. Uneven stones paved the floor; 
 and above were bare, visible rafters, supporting 
 a rat-infested roof of thatch. Around the large 
 stone fireplace were a few old skillets and a 
 suspended pot; and a hen picked about the 
 floor. Adjoining the rooms was a pig-sty that 
 contained two healthy-looking shoats. The 
 house was interesting because it was one of the 
 two hundred and fifty thousand Irish houses 
 known in the census reports as "residences of 
 the third class," and reputed to shelter a million 
 and a half of Ireland's four million inhabitants. 
 
 We drove farther down the road and turned 
 into a rocky lane enclosed with tumbling stone 
 fences. On a hillside and near the lane stood two 
 bare, gray gables of stone. Just below flowed 
 a brook, half hidden in the tall weeds and grass. 
 
 My driver stopped the car and pointed to them: 
 
 "The never-failing brook, the busy mill!" 
 
< 
 
GOLDSMITH'S DESERTED VILLAGE 213 
 
 The gables of the mill were quite small, 
 showing that it had been but a peasant's cot- 
 tage fitted up to do the grinding for the neighbor- 
 ing peasantry. And as the stream which runs 
 past is small, it is evident that grinding could 
 be done only in seasons of rain — which, by 
 the way, are not altogether too infrequent in 
 Ireland. 
 
 I began to look around me. The place was 
 inexpressibly lonesome. Some summer insects 
 sang away in the tall grass, and now and then 
 I heard the croak of an Irish crow. I walked 
 slowly down the lonesome lane seeking for some 
 sign of life. In the midst of the solitude, 
 wrapped in lonesomeness, I found an Irishman 
 sitting on a low, tumbling wall in the sunshine, 
 slowly smoking his pipe. 
 
 "Good evening, sir," I ventured. 
 
 "And to you, sir, whoiver you be — and ye 
 seem a gintleman, heart and sowl," came the 
 courteous and flattering reply. 
 
 I told him I was a stranger just rambling 
 about the ruins of Goldsmith's Deserted Village 
 to see what I could find. I apologized for 
 breaking into his reveries, but he assured me 
 that no "matarial harrum" had been done. 
 
214 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 "Och! yis," he said, "it is a swate ould 
 place. I have lived my loife in its blissed pre- 
 cincts — glory be to God ! " 
 
 And he slowly arose and told me to follow 
 him. We walked down the rocky lane, it 
 getting rockier as we went, until we reached a 
 brook, half hidden in the weeds and grass, that 
 crossed the path in front of us. My companion 
 stopped, slowly took the pipe from his mouth, 
 pointed to the brook, and said: 
 
 "No more th' grassy brook reflicts th' day, 
 But, chocked with sidges, worruks its weedy way." 
 
 And that was all he had to say about it, but 
 it was enough to show that he had poetry in 
 his soul. 
 
 We came to a little field that contained some 
 dwindling haystacks and a number of ancient 
 thatch-roofed cabins of stone. 
 
 Again he stopped and repeated: 
 
 " Besoide yon straggling fince that skirts th' \f ay 
 With blossomed furze, unprofitably gay, 
 There in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule, 
 Th' village master taught his little school." 
 
 And I was informed that tradition had as- 
 cribed to this spot the location of the village 
 school where the boy Goldsmith was educated. 
 
GOLDSMITH'S DESERTED VILLAGE 215 
 
 My companion and I then turned and walked 
 up a rocky lane where we found a seat on a 
 grassy bank in the shadow of a stone wall. 
 Before and below us sloped a long hill, down 
 which ran a lane edged in with wild daisies 
 and shamrock, with here and there a wild rose 
 bush or some straggling wild red poppies. This 
 was the very spot, my companion informed me, 
 where the poet played as a boy, on evenings 
 when the sun went down. 
 
 "Sweet was the sound, whin oft at avening's close 
 Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; 
 There, as I passed with careless steps and slow 
 The mingling notes came softened from below; 
 The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung" — 
 
 My companion led me through a succession 
 of lanes and paths to a long squatty building 
 with roof of thatch, around and within which 
 a considerable crowd of men and boys had 
 congregated, thus celebrating some holiday 
 which I was told was observed that day through- 
 out Ireland. There was a sign above the door 
 of the popular place. It was the "Three Jolly 
 Pigeons/' where similar crowds met in Gold- 
 smith's boyhood days, and 
 
216 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 "Where gray-beard mirth, and smiling toil, retired, 
 Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, 
 And news much older than their ale went round." 
 
 Our arrival at the inn brought out the entire 
 contingent of loafers, all of whom solemnly 
 arranged themselves in front of the door while 
 I got a kodak picture of the building. 
 
 The old millstone had been brought from 
 the ruins of the mill and buried in the ground 
 at the door of "The Pigeons," where it was 
 always on view. 
 
 "Not only supposed to be, sir, but it is the 
 i-dentical stone of the old mill," the proprietor 
 said with pride in his voice. And he added 
 that "over there in the trees," pointing to a 
 grove upon a sloping hill upon the east, was 
 still standing, though considerably changed, 
 
 'fThe decent church that topped the neighboring hill." 
 
 My driver, who had apparently just awak- 
 ened from a dream in the sunshine, drove slowly 
 up from the rocky lane where I had left him. I 
 shook hands all around and took my seat on 
 the jaunting-car. We drove up the lane and 
 passed again the ruins of the Goldsmith house. 
 The geese were still wading and sipping in the 
 
GOLDSMITH'S DESERTED VILLAGE 217 
 
 pool, and summer insects sang in the blooming 
 grass. All else seemed asleep. 
 
 On the summit of the hill we stopped again. 
 Far away in front, resting in the quiet of an 
 ancestral grove, and shut out from the world 
 by great stone walls, was an ancient home of 
 a gentleman: sprinkled over the long hillsides 
 on either hand, and nestling in little groups in 
 the valleys, were little stone houses with roofs 
 of thatch: immediately below us, on the grassy 
 hillside, was all that remained of Auburn, the 
 Deserted Village. 
 
 The white roads stretched away into the 
 distance. Long shadows began to appear across 
 the fields of daisies and poppies. We heard in 
 the distance the occasional braying of a donkey 
 and the faint cackling of geese. Pigs and goats 
 moved about the rocky lanes: now and then 
 an old man or an old woman could be seen 
 walking slowly along. Low-backed cars crawled 
 along between gray stone fences up the long 
 hills that stretched away beyond our sight. 
 
 This was the very heart of Ireland — there 
 could be no mistake about it. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE IRISH WOMAN — ARISTOCRAT AND 
 PEASANT 
 
 Broadly speaking, there are but two classes 
 in Ireland — the aristocracy and the peasantry. 
 The inconsequential middle class is modern and 
 artificial, and is found chiefly in north, or "alien" 
 Ireland, and in the growing commercial cities 
 like Belfast, Londonderry and Dublin. In Eng- 
 land, Germany, and the United States the upper 
 and lower classes are parasites on the middle 
 classes; in Ireland the middle class is a parasite 
 upon the serfs and aristocrats. The women of 
 this commercial or farming middle class in Ire- 
 land are in no marked manner different from 
 the women of similar classes elsewhere; it is the 
 Irish woman aristocrat who is the most interest- 
 ing study in the world, if, indeed, it is not the 
 Irish peasant woman. 
 
 Perhaps no other women of the world have 
 just that piquancy and vivacity of manner which 
 characterizes the women of Ireland. There is 
 
 ziS 
 
 
THE IRISH WOMAN 219 
 
 an animation, a force of manner, a spontaneity 
 of expression which makes them attractive in 
 the extreme. One cannot come in contact with 
 them without feeling that with the proper en- 
 vironments they might furnish the world a type 
 of the perfect woman. 
 
 The real "Irish type," so much extolled, may 
 be found not infrequently in Ireland to-day. 
 Sometimes it crops out in a remote bogland 
 village where the girl with her wealth of Hiber- 
 nian endowments lives away her years like a 
 flower which is born to blush unseen; sometimes 
 it shows itself in some old "castle" of the gentry 
 hidden away in a dark grove and shut out from 
 the world by tall stone walls. 
 
 The aristocratic class in Ireland is much 
 larger than strangers to the island are accus- 
 tomed to think. All around the picturesque 
 coasts and even far in the remote inland regions, 
 at intervals of a few miles, one passes, the estates 
 of native Irish titled aristocrats no less cultured 
 in any way, and, in some respects, more exclu- 
 sive, than the most favored of the aristocratic 
 class of England. There is lack of wealth, it is 
 true, and sometimes there is poverty that pinches, 
 but this does not seriously affect that native 
 
220 
 
 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 pride which, when full grown on Irish soil, out- 
 does the pride of any other people. 
 
 The old aristocratic homes are generally far 
 from modern, but they are stately and spacious. 
 They are situated back from the white walled-in 
 roadways in ancestral groves of the densest and 
 blackest green. Tall stone walls shut out the 
 gardens from the view of the casual passer-by. 
 In every section of Ireland this aristocratic class 
 may be found, still maintaining the semblance 
 of an elegance and a refinement that has disap- 
 peared from many a seemingly more favored 
 section of the earth. 
 
 In traveling through County Clare, or Tipper- 
 ary, or Mayo, or even rocky Galway or Donegal 
 on a jaunting-car, you ask your driver the name 
 of the family that lives in that castle which 
 looms into view in yon dense grove. He will 
 immediately out with a vast mouthful of titles 
 which almost startles you; and his animated 
 manner shows that, in spite of statements to the 
 contrary, he is proud of the fact that Ireland, 
 too, has its aristocrats whom he was born to 
 
 serve. 
 
 Says Filson Young in his charming book, 
 Ireland at the Cross Roads": "Their castles 
 
Underwood & Underwood, New York. 
 
 View from the Home of One of the Gentry. 
 
 
THE IRISH WOMAN 221 
 
 surround you, beautiful of name and aspect, 
 and wearing an expression of pride and reserve 
 upon the worn stone walls that gleam between 
 the trees. The houses themselves are often 
 strange in architecture, full of builders' con- 
 trivances and local makeshifts for what was too 
 costly to bring from afar, and when they were 
 new many of them must have been ugly. But 
 the busy climate, the busy creepers, and busy 
 Time soon round off their eccentricities and 
 clothe them with a merit greater than that of 
 architecture. You see them in all stages of 
 repair and decay. There is the house patched 
 and mended with loving solicitude as each gen- 
 eration succeeds to its heritage of affection and 
 encumbrance; where the children go without 
 luxuries that the place may be kept up; where 
 the boys' education is curtailed, in order that 
 there may be no reproach when the will is 
 opened. But this is not so frequent a case as 
 that other, in which the old house itself is starved 
 to pay for the son in the English regiment, and 
 where the plaster peels from the walls so that 
 his uniform may blaze with the best." 
 
 Here in these old secluded mansions of the 
 past have been reared some of the most charm- 
 
222 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 ing women of the world. The Irish people who 
 have a reasonable chance generally make some- 
 thing of themselves. These, the descendants of 
 the Irish nobility and royalty of early days, have 
 retained until now the evidence of their good 
 blood. Reared in seclusion, breathing the fresh 
 air of the country, and getting all the whole- 
 someness of good food, and receiving at the 
 same time the intellectual nourishment which 
 comes from substantial companionship and good 
 books, these Irish girls have had an opportunity 
 to become marvelous specimens of womanhood. 
 
 They are not obtrusive, these high-born Irish 
 girls, nor do they care for publicity in the society 
 journals, yet in these old seats of the aristocracy, 
 isolated from the world, and passing their years 
 in the shadows of gnarled elms, and closely shut 
 in with lofty stone walls, they are perhaps freer 
 and happier than those who flourish in the 
 society of the capitals. 
 
 Physically the Irish girl is a worthy specimen 
 of what a woman living close to nature may be. 
 The perfect Irish type shows a woman somewhat 
 above the medium height, straight, well-formed, 
 and exceedingly active of body and limb — all 
 an inheritance of a hundred generations of phys- 
 
THE IRISH WOMAN 223 
 
 ical prowess and unending courage. Their eyes 
 are between a blue and a steel gray, bright and 
 expressive in the extreme, and always cheerful 
 and full of light. Their cheeks are highly col- 
 ored, so much so that an American traveler at 
 first suspects artificiality; but later he learns that 
 it is the dampness of the climate and a lux- 
 uriant health which combine to paint these 
 roses. 
 
 Their speech is always English, and it is such 
 English as one delights to hear. It is said that 
 the best English of the world is spoken in Dub- 
 lin. The aristocracy of Ireland speaks Dublin 
 English. There are antiquated forms and un- 
 usual expressions, but they are survivals of the 
 older English — evidences of conservatism and 
 pride in the tongue. One hears such pronun- 
 ciations as "cyar," "gyarden," and "cyarpet," 
 for car, garden, and carpet, even in the shadow 
 of old Trinity College, in Dublin, spoken with 
 that unbounded pride which Virginians display 
 when they use exactly similar expressions around 
 the walls of old William and Mary or the Uni- 
 versity of Virginia. These little mannerisms in 
 the speech of the Irish gentry and the polished 
 Virginian are but survivals of the best in the 
 
224 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 language of former days. One cannot use 
 them unless he is to the manner born. 
 
 Irish girls of the gentlewoman class are not 
 idlers. Housework they do not do, of course, 
 nor are their energies engaged by women's clubs 
 and social routine; yet they have their society 
 quietly to mingle with, though this sometimes 
 requires long stages across the boglands; and 
 there are always outdoor games to keep them 
 supple and strong. They are good golf players; 
 at squash and tennis they are certainly not bung- 
 lers; and around the seashore they develop great 
 endurance in swimming in the tide. But above 
 all things else, the Irish girl loves a horse. For 
 centuries fox-hunting has been what might be 
 termed the national sport of Ireland. Wherever 
 one may go in the island he will find a hunt 
 club where enthusiasm for this exhilarating sport 
 is no less marked among the young women than 
 among the men. But when the hunting season 
 is over the horses are not allowed to remain 
 idle. The Irish roads are perfect, and one may 
 travel upon them in mid-winter as well as in 
 June. A traveler upon these ancient Irish high- 
 ways sometimes catches an elusive glimpse of a 
 wonderful specimen of glowing young Irish 
 
THE IRISH WOMAN 225 
 
 beauty disappearing with her horse over a wall, 
 or clattering through a lofty stone arch home- 
 ward in a dainty trap. 
 
 Servants from among the peasantry do the 
 work around these ancient Irish households. 
 The cooking is done for the most part in great 
 open fireplaces, and the pots are swung from 
 hooks as was the custom in the Southern States 
 of the Union in ante-bellum days. The excel- 
 lent mutton chops, the rich Irish butter, and 
 the cream from the luscious meadows insure 
 that blooming healthfulness which pure plain 
 food, fresh from the soil, can always give to the 
 one who chooses to live the simple life. 
 
 Of course there are romances and courtships 
 and affairs of the heart. Under the circum- 
 stances who could expect anything else ? Let it 
 be understood, however, that the outward mani- 
 festations of these inward feelings are different 
 in Ireland from what they are in some other 
 lands. Old customs there may not be broken 
 with impunity; new methods of procedure in 
 these serious matters are offences on a par with 
 such things as treason and sacrilege. The suitor 
 must first of all be agreeable to the heads of the 
 household; and not long after he has crossed 
 
226 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 the threshold he is expected formally and em- 
 phatically to declare his intentions. Unless he 
 "means business" from the start it were better 
 for him to be rather chary how he allows his 
 sense of the esthetic to beguile him into com- 
 plimenting the fair young damsel upon the glint 
 of her eye or the peachbloom upon hei cheek, 
 else she might misunderstand and, confiding in 
 her maternal adviser, blushingly report the 
 happy steps of her progress; then the gallant, 
 if he had no means of escape, would be com- 
 pelled to make some mortifying explanations or, 
 in case he were an unusually "good match,'' 
 run the risk of having papers for breach of 
 promise served upon him. 
 
 In many of the old families the priestly con- 
 ception of discipline prevails. This means, in 
 short, submission to authority — children to 
 parents, parents to priests. In a book entitled 
 "My New Curate," written by one Father 
 Dan, a genial old priest of seventy-odd years, 
 there are passages which reveal something of 
 the idea of marriage which prevails to some 
 extent in Ireland to-day. He is describing 
 home life as he has observed it in Ireland 
 during his long ministry. He relates a case 
 
Underwood & Underwood, New York. 
 
 Milking the Goat. 
 
THE IRISH WOMAN 227 
 
 of genuine merit in this matter of giving up to 
 authority: 
 
 "There was no lurid and volcanic company- 
 keeping before marriage, and no bitter ashes of 
 disappointment after; but the good mother 
 quietly said to her child, 'Mary, go to confes- 
 sion to-morrow, and get out your Sunday dress. 
 You are to be married on Thursday evening/ 
 And Mary said, 'Very well, mother,' not even 
 asserting a faintest right to know the name of 
 her future spouse. But then, by virtue of 
 the great sacramental union, she stepped from the 
 position of a child and a dependent into the 
 regal position of queen and mistress on her own 
 hearth. . . . Married life in Ireland has been, 
 up to now, the most splendid refutation of all 
 that the world and its gospel, the novel, preach 
 about marriage, and the most splendid and 
 complete justification of the supernaturalism of 
 the church's dogmas and practises. ,, 
 
 This indifference to the matter of personal 
 selection in matrimonial affairs increases as you 
 go down the social scale until among the peas- 
 antry a proverb has been crystallized which 
 states the truism that "There is not the odds of 
 a cow between any one woman and another." 
 
228 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 In many other ways, however, the pride of 
 the Irish women, especially of the upper class, 
 is almost proverbial. Even though they may 
 have lost their estates through negligence or 
 mismanagement, and become earners of their 
 daily bread at what erstwhile they thought vulgar 
 occupations, they still retain their pride; and this 
 pride is disseminated and passed on to other 
 classes, the shop-keepers and even the peas- 
 antry, until even the Irish writers have been 
 forced to take notice of it. Hannah Lynch 
 takes occasion in a book on French life to score 
 her countrymen for their improvidence and their 
 almost unnatural pride. Out of all sympathy 
 with the recklessness with which the Irish upper 
 classes spend money when they have it, only to 
 keep up appearances, she writes: 
 "Go to Ireland and observe with lamentation 
 and indignation the havoc made of home life, 
 of family dignity, of the lives of unfortunate 
 girls, by the miserable wastefulness of parents. 
 On all sides you will hear sad tales of girls, 
 obliged to work hard for shocking rates of pay- 
 ment, who were brought up in foolish luxury, 
 whose parents 'entertained' in that thriftless, 
 splash, Irish fashion, drank champagne, drove 
 
THE IRISH WOMAN 
 
 229 
 
 horses, when the French of the same class would 
 be leading the existence of humdrum small 
 burgesses." 
 
 Comparing the tradespeople of Paris with 
 those of the Irish cities, she says: "I was 
 used to the simple, courteous, willing, active 
 tradespeople of Paris, who give themselves no 
 airs, dress dowdily, live modestly. I found the 
 same class in Ireland, even in a small village, 
 dressed daily as Solomon in all his glory never 
 was, with tailor-made gowns worth ten and 
 twelve guineas, and with haughty manners that 
 would bewilder a princess of the blood; the one 
 cutting the other, Heaven only knows upon 
 what assumption of superiority, and all hasten- 
 ing from their counters in smart turn-outs, duly 
 to subscribe their loyal names to the list of the 
 Queen's visitors." 
 
 An Irish family which she had formerly 
 known in opulence was forced to give up its 
 fine residence and take another in an obscure 
 portion of the town. This fact, however, did 
 not deter this family from making as great a 
 show as possible under the circumstances. She 
 describes them in their new quarters: "The 
 house I visited was one of a row, a poor, mean 
 
230 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 quarter, where no sane person would look for 
 any appearance of affluence. Over the fan-light 
 the house rejoiced in an imposing Celtic name 
 in three words in raised white letters, not the 
 cheapest form of house nomenclature. A gar- 
 dener was engaged trimming the infinitesimal 
 garden front; the youngest girl, of twelve, was 
 mounting her bicycle to career off with a com- 
 panion; in the hall were three other bicycles 
 belonging to different members of the family. 
 The furniture of the drawing-room was new and 
 expensive, and a young lady was playing up-to- 
 date waltzes on the piano, without a trace of 
 concern or anxiety; no sign anywhere of econ- 
 omy, of sacrifice, of worry. Yet I knew I was 
 entering a house where there was practically 
 not a thing to live upon, and where the proceeds 
 of a sale that should have gone to the woman's 
 creditors had been squandered on unnecessary 
 things. One may criticize the meannesses to 
 which thrift drives the frugal French, but I 
 never felt more near to falling in love with 
 what is to me an uncongenial vice than I did 
 on leaving my native land after this visit, to 
 have commercial dealings once more with people 
 not above their business, instead of trading with 
 
THE IRISH WOMAN 231 
 
 the spurious descendants of kings, whose sole 
 anxiety is to make you feel their social supe- 
 riority and extraordinary condescension." 
 
 Though some of the gentry have been forced 
 by adverse circumstances into the ranks of the 
 peasantry, there is no gradual line of demarka- 
 tion between these two extreme classes of society 
 in Ireland. A great gulf separates them so 
 effectually that each has constant difficulty in 
 understanding the actions and motives of the 
 other. The fact that the Irish aristocracy is to 
 a large extent of mixed, or alien, blood does 
 not fully account for this, for the lower class in 
 many parts of the island, noticeably in the 
 north, east, and south, is also of mixed blood, 
 there being a blending of the Danish, the Nor- 
 man, the English, the Welsh, and even the 
 Scotch with the original Irish Celtic; and the 
 aristocracy, especially in western Ireland, is 
 often of as pure Irish blood as may be found 
 anywhere in the island. 
 
 An interesting example of the misunderstand- 
 ing between the two classes came before the 
 writer. I was traveling on a railroad train be- 
 tween Limerick and Galway in western Ireland. 
 In my compartment were only two fellow- 
 
232 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 travelers, a priest from California, on a visit to his 
 old home in County Clare, and a middle-aged 
 maiden lady, known to me to be such before 
 she declared the fact, by the frequence with 
 which she opened a basket under her seat and 
 fed two half-grown cats with milk which she 
 carried for that purpose. 
 
 At Ennis the priest left us; the lady and I 
 being alone, and she intellectual in appearance, 
 I ventured a general remark which elicited a 
 response. We thereupon entered upon a con- 
 versation which proved most interesting to me. 
 
 The lady was a Miss Jackson who lived, as 
 she told me, in a remote and wretchedly poor 
 section of Connemara, about forty miles west of 
 Galway. She was of the gentry, educated, re- 
 fined, to a certain extent literary, and used only 
 to the best of everything. In faith she was 
 what might be called an Episcopalian, being 
 identified with the church of Ireland. Upon 
 my expressing surprise that she was connected 
 with this church, she was careful to impress 
 upon me the fact that there is a considerable 
 class of the genuinely Irish who are in no way 
 interested in the Catholic church. She fre- 
 quently visited Limerick and Galway, and 
 
THE IRISH WOMAN 233 
 
 sometimes even ventured so far away from 
 home as Dublin and Cork, though she admitted 
 her means were limited. 
 
 The most lasting impression which her con- 
 versation made upon me was her frequently 
 expressed fear of the peasantry, which, from 
 what she said, must have been intense. When- 
 ever she mentioned "the Irish " she spoke with 
 bated breath. She took occasion to tell me of 
 the Fenian revolt and other uprisings, and de- 
 clared that she lived in constant dread of mas- 
 sacre at the hands of the lower order. This 
 dread of the peasantry, she told me, was shared 
 by many of the gentry in the west. All this 
 time I was observing that she had features which 
 indicated that every drop of blood in her veins 
 was Irish. Because her ancestors for genera- 
 tions back had been owners of the soil and 
 possessors of a castle, she was separately more 
 widely from the squatters and serfs upon her 
 estate than the average southern citizen in the 
 United States is from the ex-slaves of an alien 
 and inferior race; while her dread of the peas- 
 ants was apparently much greater than that 
 which Americans have of the negro. 
 
 This lady told me that old papers in possession 
 
234 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 of her family indicated that she was distinctly 
 related to one Thomas J. or "Stonewall" Jack- 
 son whose ancestors many years before had 
 emigrated to America. The name of her only 
 brother was Stonewall, and her family was not 
 altogether ashamed of this great man's fighting 
 record in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. 
 
 I confess I may have been mistaken, but 
 when I looked at this lady's face I was startled 
 with the wonderful resemblance which it bore 
 to the portraits of the great Virginian. There 
 were the steel-gray eyes, the black hair, the firm 
 lips, the characteristic nose, and the high brow 
 of Stonewall Jackson. Being a Virginian, I felt 
 impelled to doff my hat to the very train which, 
 disappearing over the boglands, bore her out to 
 her home in the rocky barrens of Connemara. 
 
 The Irish peasant woman, though she differs 
 greatly from the woman in the castle, is no less 
 interesting a study. She is remarkable in many 
 ways, though her individualities must be ob- 
 served while she is at home and upon her native 
 heath. When in young womanhood she comes 
 to America as a servant the picturesqueness of 
 her life vanishes. She is ubiquitous in Ireland, 
 even after three quarters of a century of emigra- 
 
THE IRISH WOMAN 235 
 
 tion. In Wexford, in Kerry, in Kilkenny, in 
 Donegal, in Sligo, and even in Antrim, she may 
 be found on every hillside or in every village 
 lane. And she bears with her at all times her 
 quickness of perception and her vivacityof speech. 
 
 But this peasant woman does not care much 
 for home. She spends her time on the road- 
 side, on the corners of the village street, in the 
 market-places, about the fairs, out in the fields, 
 but seldom in the house of which she is mistress 
 and in which she was born. The home, or 
 rather, the house in which she happens to be 
 living and to which she sometimes repairs, is 
 centuries old, squatty, and built of loose stones 
 mixed with mud. There is no porch in front, 
 nor awning, and no front yard. The windows 
 are square little holes made through the thick 
 walls; the chimney is of mud, and the roof is of 
 thatch-straw tied down with ropes. 
 
 Usually a bare, tumbling stone wall encloses 
 a bit of space in front of the door, and in this 
 space, all bare of grass, though the adjoining 
 meadow is covered with beautiful turf, the 
 chickens scratch, the pigs root, and the family 
 goat browses. Flowers in the dooryard are 
 rarely if ever seen. 
 
236 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 Cooking is done in great open fireplaces over 
 smouldering peat-fires. There is precious little 
 wood to be found anywhere in Ireland, and 
 since coal must be brought from England and 
 Wales, very little of that commodity is used. 
 Even the living-rooms are damp and uncom- 
 fortable, and are often shared with the fowls. 
 It is scarcely a wonder that the Irish woman 
 does not love such a place; but it is indeed 
 incomprehensible how she can even call it home 
 and yet refuse, in a land of grass, to have a bit 
 of turf in her front yard, or in a climate which 
 produces wild blossoms in profusion, to plant a 
 rose at the doorway or a morning-glory to give 
 a touch of color to the little window that lets in 
 the morning sunshine. 
 
 The Irish peasant woman generally keeps her- 
 self occupied, even if her energies are not usually 
 expended in maintaining or adorning her home. 
 She usually has her work to do, and she does it 
 systematically and well. In some cases the Irish 
 woman, like the aboriginal American Indian 
 woman, does all the work that is done about 
 the place, while Patrick is occupied at the 
 public-house or grog-shop, an institution which 
 may be found more frequently in Ireland in 
 
Lawrence, Dublin. 
 
 An old Timer coming Home from the Wood. 
 
THE IRISH WOMAN 237 
 
 proportion to the population than in any other 
 country upon earth. 
 
 In haying season — and Ireland is a hay 
 country — the buxom young women and the 
 strong housewife go out into the fields to help 
 gather in the hay. This work is done, of neces- 
 sity, between showers, and sometimes in pene- 
 trating mists. They also pile the turfs in the 
 peat-bogs, and help to plant, to weed, and to 
 dig the potatoes. They assist in stacking the 
 wheat and the oats; they drive home the cows 
 and milk them, then take the milk to the cream- 
 eries in donkey carts. In short, there is scarcely 
 any kind of work about a peasant's home that is 
 not participated in by the women. 
 
 It is perhaps at the village fairs on fair or 
 market days when the Irish peasant women 
 enjoy themselves most. At these fairs, denomi- 
 nated "pig-fairs,'' "cattle-fairs," "sheep-fairs," 
 or "vegetable-fairs," whichever the case may 
 be, vast numbers of women, young and old, 
 may be seen participating in the activities of 
 the day. These fairs and market days are held 
 frequently in all parts of the island, and their 
 dates are given more prominently even than the 
 dates of the assizes, in all the local almanacs. 
 
238 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 Crowds of men, women, and children frequent 
 these gatherings to buy, sell, trade, or exchange 
 their produce — pigs, chickens, geese, ducks, 
 goats, sheep, and cattle. It is amusing indeed to 
 visit one of these fairs on a bright spring day 
 and watch the happy throngs of traders. 
 
 The writer arrived at a western Irish village 
 the day after a fair had been held, and there 
 were still marks of the event in evidence. A 
 well-informed and witty villager, who appre- 
 ciated the picturesque, said the fair was a no- 
 table one. At one time, when trading was brisk 
 and the crowd largest, a wild pig from out 
 Connemara way had gotten loose and had de- 
 fied its pursuers. It soon became a thing of 
 the whole crowd against the pig — men, women, 
 and boys participating — and such strenuosity 
 in the way of running, falling, scrambling, yelling, 
 and using strong Irish invective had not been 
 known in that part of the island since away 
 back in feud days. 
 
 Many men and some of the women walk to 
 the fairs, but usually they come in low-backed 
 market cars, drawn by long-eared donkeys. 
 They come sometimes as far as ten or fifteen 
 miles to trade or mingle with the crowds. They 
 

THE IRISH WOMAN 239 
 
 bring with them oftentimes from the mountains 
 queer costumes and a quaint brogue; and they 
 are seldom so forgetful as to leave their native 
 shrewdness behind. They are wonderful bar- 
 gain-drivers, and will argue for an hour over 
 the split of a penny, or allow a farthing to 
 interfere with a trade. When at night they 
 drive back home they go with the satisfaction 
 which generally attends the close of a day most 
 congenially spent. 
 
 Since the rise of the Gaelic League and the 
 many societies for the improvement of the condi- 
 tion of the Irish peasantry, the women have been 
 making a great deal of fancy lace and embroidery, 
 and selling it to the tourists who swarm about 
 the outer portions of the island. Much of this 
 lace and other handwork is sold on the great 
 passenger vessels which stop at Queenstown on 
 their way to America. One must have his wits 
 about him when he seeks to purchase of these 
 sharp women traders, else he will find himself 
 the poorer from his dealings with them. In 
 many parts of Ireland, especially in the west 
 and northwest, one may purchase excellent 
 woolen shawls and the finest kinds of linen 
 drawn work at merely nominal prices. They 
 
240 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 also make a woolen tweed which is much sought 
 after by the tourists. Looms are erected in the 
 peasants' huts, and thus many of the girls and 
 young women find employment that helps to 
 keep the wolf from the door of many a house- 
 hold. 
 
 Since the establishment of the National Schools 
 a chance has been given the girls to qualify 
 themselves as teachers. As yet, most of the 
 principals of the larger schools are men, but the 
 majority of the teachers are women, and most 
 of them have come from the ranks of the peas- 
 antry. These schools are scattered all over the 
 country at intervals of a few miles, and attend- 
 ance upon them is compulsory. It is quite 
 interesting to visit these schools and study the 
 manner of their instruction. Often in summer 
 one sees a class out in the yard reciting under a 
 tree, one of the female teachers or a girl in a 
 higher class hearing the lessons. Irish children 
 are early taught the lesson of obedience, and 
 discipline is generally easy, though moral suasion 
 has by no means superseded the birch rod in 
 the matter of maintaining order and producing 
 studiousness. 
 
 Church life in Ireland is totally different from 
 
THE IRISH WOMAN 241 
 
 what it is in the United States. In the cities all 
 denominations may be found, with the Catholics 
 predominating, the Episcopalians second, and 
 the Presbyterians third. There are a few Meth- 
 odists, Congregationalists and Jews, but they 
 constitute only a small part of the population. 
 In the great modern commercial city of Belfast 
 the Presbyterians control everything. They have 
 a large number of churches, charitable institu- 
 tions, schools, and a first-class university. 
 
 In the rural districts, except in Antrim, Down, 
 and Londonderry, where the Presbyterians pre- 
 dominate, the Catholics have complete control. 
 Throughout the east, south, and west of Ireland 
 one may expect to find nothing but Catholic 
 churches except in the cities and larger towns. 
 The country Irish church is indeed a study. 
 The peasants every Sunday morning go to early 
 mass, and some of them return for regular ser- 
 vices at noon. Generally one service a day 
 suffices for the average countryman. After the 
 service other things are indulged in. Often, if 
 not generally, in summer, Sunday is the great 
 day for sports, many of the big cricket matches 
 being played that day. There is also at times 
 Sunday racing. 
 
242 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 In the service itself in these country Catholic 
 churches there is often no singing at all. The 
 congregations devoutly kneel upon the hard 
 stone floors while the priest goes through the 
 long services in Latin and preaches a short 
 sermon in English or Gaelic, as the case may be. 
 Sunday morning after mass is also hiring day in 
 large parts of Ireland. The women and girls 
 who work out repair to the public squares of 
 the village and bargain with farmers for work 
 during the coming week or month. 
 
 As a rule, the Irish women do not take an 
 active part in church work. There is little for 
 them to do since there are no church "societies," 
 no Sunday schools like ours, no singing of hymns 
 in English, and no church " entertainments. " 
 Yet most writers tell us that south Ireland is 
 the most morbidly religious country in the 
 world. 
 
 The wake is still an institution in rural Ireland 
 and among the peasantry who still speak Gaelic, 
 though it has not the social prominence it had 
 fifty years ago. An Irish peasant will econo- 
 mize and hoard for years in order that he may 
 have enough to insure him a "foine wake" and 
 a "dacent funeral" at the end of his days. 
 
Lawrence, Dublin. 
 
 A Seller of Blackthorn Sticks. 
 
THE IRISH WOMAN 243 
 
 Both men and women take part in the wakes, 
 though the women are the principal participants, 
 and it is they who give it its fullest support. 
 
 Immediately after one dies, or even before 
 the sad event occurs, in case it is fully expected, 
 the usual formalities commence, and all is gotten 
 in readiness for the wake. The priest who has 
 been on hand to administer extreme unction 
 remains to say mass over the departed soul. 
 This is done in the room in which the body 
 reposes. 
 
 The corpse is laid out in decent order on a 
 table or bed, and is covered with a clean, white 
 linen, the most expensive that can be obtained. 
 The shroud is adorned with black ribbons if the 
 deceased is an adult, or white ribbons if the 
 person be unmarried; and in case it is a child 
 flowers are used as decorations. Close by are 
 laid plates of tobacco or snuff, and around the 
 pallet are placed lighted candles. All the neigh- 
 bors from far and near, particularly all the 
 women, come to pay their last tribute of respect 
 to the dead. 
 
 While all these preparations are making the 
 most important personage of the entire cere- 
 mony is by no means neglected. She is the 
 
244 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 chief mourner or "keener," and she may have 
 been brought from a distant neighborhood on 
 account of her great talent for wailing; for 
 keeners, like poets, are born, not made. The 
 word "keen" or "kein" comes from the old 
 Celtic word "caoine," which means a lamenta- 
 tion for the dead. 
 
 The keener is generally above middle age or 
 old. Her voice is strong, and is under perfect 
 control, capable of expressing a wide range of 
 feeling. She can work herself up into lofty 
 pitches of lamentation, with a passionate aban- 
 donment to grief which carries everybody in her 
 hearing with her. The keener is a poet, a 
 singer, and an orator combined, and the keen 
 is an improvised poem in Gaelic of irregular 
 measures, delivered ecstatically, with a chorus 
 from a large number of other women mourners 
 present coming in at the end of every stanza. 
 
 There is a tradition that the keen is of super- 
 natural origin, and that it was first sung by a 
 chorus of invisible spirits over the grave of one 
 of the early kings of Ireland. 
 
 The services of a professional keener are de- 
 manded far and wide; and her usually aged 
 and haggard appearance, together with her 
 
THE IRISH WOMAN 245 
 
 mighty gifts of voice and feeling, serve to give 
 her a high place in the estimation of all respect- 
 able people. She is also well recompensed for 
 her services. 
 
 The Irish wake usually lasts two or three 
 days, during which time the good women folk 
 gladly offer their services and lament unstint- 
 edly through the long nights. Formerly there 
 was much drinking at the wakes "jist to kape 
 up the spirits of the watchers," and the men 
 consumed vast quantities of whisky at the ex- 
 pense, of course, of the bereaved family or 
 estate. In recent years it has been considered 
 disgraceful to drink to excess at such places, 
 and rowdyism and debauchery have largely 
 ceased. Still the modern wakes are not what 
 might be termed dry parties. 
 
 At the conclusion of the wake the body is 
 carried to the graveyard through the door which 
 has remained open since the death occurred, 
 and the funeral train takes the longest way to 
 the grave, sometimes passing through fields, over 
 stiles, and across narrow foot bridges, turning 
 aside at landmarks, and widely avoiding places 
 with evil associations. 
 
 When the body is finally put away into the 
 
246 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 earth the mourning women return home with 
 the bereaved family and offer all the comfort 
 and help which they are capable of giving. 
 Thus this creature of love and emotion is indis- 
 pensable, not only in those vocations which help 
 to sustain life and in the avocations which 
 brighten the way, but most of all in those last 
 sad scenes of earth, when the night comes, and 
 in some light which is not akin to the dimness 
 which shrouds the misty Irish hills, the traveler 
 sets out upon his last journey into strange 
 lands. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE TWO IRELANDS NORTH AND SOUTH 
 
 Late one summer afternoon I boarded at 
 an inland Irish town a train bound for Dublin. 
 The train was a handsomer one than those to 
 which I had become accustomed during my 
 stay in Ireland. The compartments of the 
 coach which I entered were connected by nar- 
 row passages, making out of it what is known 
 as a "corridor carriage"; and at the forward 
 end there was a large plate-glass mirror into 
 which the several lady passengers aboard gazed 
 with many evidences of satisfaction. 
 
 I had not long seated myself before my atten- 
 tion was attracted by a young man in clerical 
 garb who sat opposite me on a plush divan, 
 nervously fingering a small volume which he 
 had evidently grown tired of reading. This 
 priest's face was intellectual in the extreme — 
 the forehead high and broad, eyes bright and 
 sparkling, and mouth indicating strength of 
 
 character and, best of all, temperate habits. 
 
 247 
 
248 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 I had no idea who this intellectual gentleman 
 could be, but I at once concluded that he was 
 a man of ability and perhaps of some national 
 prominence, as I afterwards found him to be. 
 
 From the time I entered the train this young 
 cleric kept his eyes upon me, evidently suspect- 
 ing that I was an American traveler. Several 
 times our glances met, and each time I ob- 
 served an agreeable sparkle in his eye which 
 invited friendship. Another recurrence of the 
 sparkle, with a similar response from me, 
 brought us together with a hand-clasp in the 
 center of the aisle. Five minutes more sufficed 
 to give each a thorough understanding of 
 the other; then he began to tell me about Ire- 
 land. He was a brilliant conversationalist, 
 thoroughly familiar with every phase of Irish 
 life, and he carried upon his tongue a vast 
 storehouse of information which he seemed 
 to delight to impart to the one who was inter- 
 ested in a subject so congenial to him. At 
 times when he discussed such topics as the 
 Celtic revival of literature and the new move- 
 ments for Ireland's uplift his speech fairly 
 scintillated with bon mot and epigram. 
 
 He was a priest of the Catholic church, and 
 
THE TWO IRELANDS 249 
 
 he resided much of his time in Dublin and 
 London. This much he told me about his 
 personal life. Further than this I felt a hesi- 
 tancy in causing him to go, though I delighted 
 to hear him express his clear-cut views upon 
 Irish subjects, and I drew him out by telling 
 him of things I had heard about Ireland and 
 asking him if such things were true. An Irish 
 Protestant would hardly be willing to believe 
 that a Catholic priest could be so liberal in his 
 views as he was and so charitable in his remarks 
 about Irish Protestantism. He told me that 
 many of the criticisms which I had heard and 
 read of the Irish Catholic church were true; 
 perhaps too true. No doubt I had not heard 
 all that could be brought against the church. 
 The priests in many cases did have too much 
 power; there was corruption beyond any doubt; 
 the church in some sections was certainly not 
 doing the work it should be doing. He for one 
 wished all these corruptions to be exposed; he 
 rejoiced at all that had been published against 
 these evils, provided these things brought out 
 were true, even though the enemies of the 
 church had published them. The truth might 
 sometimes cause consternation and unrest; it 
 
250 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 might revolutionize society; but he was a Catho- 
 lic of such fiber as to believe that whatever the 
 truth could injure was not genuine, and if truth 
 succeeded in destroying the Roman Catholic 
 church he would accept the ultimatum without 
 a murmur. But he believed the truth would 
 only purge it of its dross and leave the gold 
 behind. 
 
 He discussed with me the two Irelands, Prot- 
 estant North and Catholic East, South and 
 West. Much had been said and written on 
 both sides, and he was sure there were two sides 
 to this as there were to every other question. 
 He was particularly anxious that I should read 
 some books which had been written upon Ire- 
 land. He wrote in my note-book the names of 
 a few of the best recent books. The first of 
 these was "Ireland in the New Century," a 
 widely-circulated volume by Sir Horace Plun- 
 kett, an Irish Protestant and a most enthusiastic 
 reformer. Then there followed, "To-day and 
 To-morrow in Ireland," a collection of sketches 
 by Stephen Gwynn, a charming writer. "The 
 Seething Pot," and "An Alien of the West" 
 were two excellent pieces of fiction written 
 from the Protestant point of view. And there 
 
THE TWO IRELANDS 251 
 
 was a unique little volume called "Ireland at 
 the Cross-Roads" which had had a wide cir- 
 culation throughout the British Isles. It was 
 perhaps a little wordy, and in places contained 
 some tall writing, but it would certainly help 
 to a better understanding of modern Ireland. 
 "Ireland Industrial and Agricultural," by W. 
 P. Coyne, would give me such information as 
 I wished in regard to Irish products and man- 
 ufactures. 
 
 These and a number of other volumes he 
 recommended that I purchase and read. If 
 I would go to the National Library in Dublin 
 and present the name which he wrote in my 
 note-book I would certainly get the best of 
 attention at the hands of the librarians. The 
 name I afterwards presented with almost mag- 
 ical results; though the officials of the library 
 I found to be polite and obliging in the extreme 
 even to those who came without a password. 
 
 As we neared Dublin the companionable 
 young priest told me he had visited America. 
 His last trip across the Atlantic was taken for 
 the purpose of delivering a series of lectures 
 on Ireland at one of the great universities of 
 New England. 
 
:-: SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 I spent some § in Dublin, which I found 
 be a delig ltfiil c I . lands . lih, with 
 
 - BCtS DpICSS . -" . . IgS . B 
 
 - lg sights . ig the capital ol be .and. 
 
 iccessibk I England, it is a cosn - 
 
 argt Pkotestanl filiation, 
 
 . asm pi ^dominates 
 
 iinnbei Out n's inhabitants about 
 
 thai : N; Means, C k nati. 
 
 it is grc '-.ing, 
 
 if not Mid surely. The 
 
 nounding ty, with wonderful 
 
 backg 5 gorgeously 
 
 »d one such as the < ghts tc 
 
 Leaving Dut up the 
 
 t sk :: -: 
 B : ell massacn 
 
 ::::_;. ere the Battk of the 
 
 [ - ■ . g ii ■ can 
 • : 7 . ere Edward Brua 
 
 : r i Kir : ;:' . . icrc 
 
 i : 1 8 Later I visited Nc 
 
 ere I had :. 1 
 g - teDectuaJ ::;:': :; '■'.'horn 
 
 Etrers c :" inn o Prom Nc 
 
THE TWO IRELANDS 253 
 
 I proceeded to Belfast, the great commercial 
 metropolis of Ireland. After crossing the river 
 Bann in county Down, into Ulster proper, I 
 observed a great difference in the appearance 
 of the country. The fields were better culti- 
 vated, flax and potatoes and oats were growing 
 in luxuriancy, and there was exhibited an effort 
 at real farming which I had not observed any- 
 where in rich South Ireland. The smoke- 
 stacks of factories could be observed in all the 
 busy towns which succeeded each other along 
 the railroad. At Portadown and Lurgan and 
 Lisburn there were evidences of much com- 
 mercial activity. I had gotten into the flax 
 country, and great new linen mills arose on 
 every hand. In approaching Belfast one might 
 have thought he was entering Glasgow or Pitts- 
 burg, so busy and smoky everything appeared. 
 Even in the far-outlying suburbs there were 
 long lines of handsome new houses, and miles 
 of freshly-paved streets. Immense linen fac- 
 tories were built even out in the grassy fields; 
 and as we entered the city I was impressed with 
 the immense stores, churches, warehouses, dwell- 
 ings and places of amusement, which had been 
 newly erected, or were in the process of building. 
 
254 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 Belfast is one of the busiest cities of the Brit- 
 ish Isles. It manufactures the finest linens in 
 the world, and builds such steamships as the 
 "Celtic" and the "Cedric"of the White Star Line. 
 In population it has far eclipsed Dublin, its 
 growth during the last quarter century having 
 been quite phenomenal. Its population at this 
 time is about 400,000, and it is the commercial 
 capital of that portion of Ireland known as the 
 Province of Ulster. 
 
 It may not be improper here to repeat that early 
 Ireland was divided among many tribes and into 
 many kingdoms. At the death of Brian Boru, 
 which occurred upon the day when he gained 
 his great victory over the Danes at Clontarf in 
 1 014, the country was divided amongst four 
 rulers, each of the four sections being a federa- 
 tion of tribes and ruling families. These four 
 kingdoms of the north, east, south and west 
 bore the Latin names Ulidia, Lagenia, Mo- 
 nonia,and Conacia, which have been modernized 
 into Ulster, Leinster, Munster and Connaught. 
 These great divisions of Ireland hold to-day, 
 though each is subdivided into a number 
 of counties; and the great divisions them- 
 selves have no special political significance. 
 
THE TWO IRELANDS 255 
 
 The province of Ulster comprises fourteen 
 counties in the north of the island, all except 
 the five northernmost counties being small. 
 
 The Ulster section of Ireland may be said to 
 be dominated by the three intensely Protestant 
 counties of Antrim, Down and Londonderry. 
 Here we find to-day such devotion to English 
 rule that our memories must be revived by 
 history to realize that Ulster was the province 
 which held out longest against English aggres- 
 sion; and it was with the greatest difficulty, 
 and only after intense effort that it was finally 
 subjugated. Even after the country had ap- 
 parently been conquered there were repeated 
 uprisings and rebellions. In Elizabeth's reign 
 O'Neil, Earl of Tyrone, and O'Donnell, Earl 
 of Tyrconnel, headed a revolt, and after much 
 hard fighting were forced to flee from the coun- 
 try to Rome where after some years both of 
 them died as exiles. James I, whose reign 
 began in the year 1603, when Elizabeth died, 
 and continued until 1625, used this rebellion 
 as a pretext for dispossessing the Irish people 
 of their lands, and it was in his reign that the 
 "Plantation of Ulster" was made. The land 
 was taken away from the Irish and turned over 
 
256 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 to an anti-Irish colony of Englishmen and 
 Scotchmen. At one stroke the entire counties 
 of Donegal, Derry, Tyrone, Fermanagh, Cavan 
 and Armagh were confiscated. Thus began 
 the Scotch settlement of Ulster which continued 
 through several generations. To-day north- 
 eastern Ulster is not only the most intensely 
 Protestant section of Ireland but possibly of 
 the entire world. 
 
 One finds in Ulster Ireland, more particularly 
 in Antrim, Down and Londonderry, where 
 the Scotch and English elements have full pos- 
 session of the soil, a Protestantism which never 
 relaxes its aggressive antagonism to Catholicism. 
 It may be said that the intensest hatreds of the 
 world exist between the Scotch-Irish of the 
 North, and the Celtic and Catholic Irish of 
 the South, East and West of Ireland. Perhaps 
 an American citizen can best understand the 
 intensity of this feeling by recalling, if he can, 
 the bitterness, now happily disappeared, which 
 was felt in the United States between the North 
 and the South during Reconstruction days. 
 Certainly ever since the "Plantation of Ulster" 
 these hatreds have existed in Ireland, and the 
 centuries have but served to intensify them. 
 
THE TWO IRELANDS 257 
 
 One day when riding in an electric tram-car 
 which ran from the heart of Belfast out to Cave 
 Hill, a grassy mountain beyond the suburbs, 
 the conductor of the car observed a small 
 Masonic pin upon my lapel, and felt permitted 
 to engage me in conversation. There were few 
 passengers aboard, so we talked together for 
 some time. He was surprised that I was bold 
 enough to travel through the South and West 
 of Ireland with a Masonic emblem in view. 
 He was a Mason, but he declared he would 
 certainly not be willing to wear a Masonic pin 
 through Munster. 
 
 This young man was also a Presbyterian and 
 an Orangeman. He explained to me just what 
 this latter term meant. The Society of Orange- 
 men was a secret order of Protestants organized 
 and maintained primarily to oppose Cath- 
 olic aggression in Ireland. The order had an 
 elaborate ritual and conferred many degrees 
 upon its candidates. It was an extensive society, 
 and numbered among its members thousands 
 of north Irishmen, some of them men of con- 
 siderable prominence. 
 
 This society took its name from William, 
 Prince of Orange, who after coming to the 
 
258 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 throne with the "Bloodless Revolution " in 
 1688, set out to drive the deposed James II 
 out of Ireland whither he had come from his 
 exiled home in France to stir up a rebellion. 
 The two armies met near Drogheda, on the 
 eastern coast, where the Battle of the Boyne 
 was fought on July 1, 1690. James fled from 
 the field and his army was overwhelmingly 
 defeated. The cowardice of James moved even 
 his followers to scorn. "Change kings with 
 us," said a taunted Irish soldier, "and we will 
 fight you again." 
 
 The Battle of the Boyne was essentially a 
 Protestant victory over the Catholics. Since 
 that time this Protestant Society of Orangemen 
 have felt called upon to do their utmost in the 
 way of resisting the Catholics, and their hatred 
 of Catholicism is returned in kind by the south- 
 ern Irish. Naturally, the south Irish hate 
 British control, and have for many years been 
 contending for "Home Rule." The Orange- 
 men of the North, more nearly identified with 
 the rest of Great Britain, are Unionists, and 
 are outward opponents of home rule. The 
 favorite political cry of the South, " Down with 
 the King!" is answered through the clenched 
 
THE TWO IRELANDS 259 
 
 teeth of the Orangemen with the irreverent 
 imprecation, "To hell with the Pope!" 
 
 Plainly speaking, the Ulster Protestants op- 
 pose home rule in Ireland because home rule 
 means the rule of the majority, and the great 
 majority in Ireland is Catholic. If the major- 
 ity in Ireland had been Protestant it is safe to 
 say that they would have had home rule gen- 
 erations ago. Upon the platforms the gigantic 
 controversies which have been carried on were 
 based principally upon religious and political 
 grounds, the northern Protestants asserting that 
 chaos would reign if the government of the 
 island were placed in the hands of the Catholics, 
 which meant really the priests. 
 
 The business interests of the North have 
 also been intensely opposed to home rule. 
 When Mr. Gladstone was attempting to get 
 his Home Rule bill through Parliament strong 
 petitions were presented against the measure 
 by the manufacturers of Ulster. Writing of 
 this matter, Sir Horace Plunkett says: 
 
 "The intensely practical nature of the ob- 
 jection which came from the commercial and 
 industrial classes of the North who opposed 
 Home Rule was never properly recognized in 
 
260 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 Ireland. It was, and is still unanswered. 
 Briefly stated, the position taken by their spokes- 
 men was as follows: 'We have come/ they said 
 in effect, 'into Ireland, and not the richest por- 
 tion of the island, and have gradually built up 
 an industry and commerce with which we are 
 able to hold our own in competition with the 
 most progressive nations in the world. Our 
 success has been achieved under a system and 
 a polity in which we believe. Its non-inter- 
 ference with the business of the people gave 
 play to that self-reliance with which we strove 
 to emulate the industrial qualities of the people 
 of Great Britain. It is now proposed to place 
 the manufactures and commerce of the country 
 at the mercy of a majority which will have no 
 real concern in the interests vitally affected, 
 and who have no knowledge of the science of 
 government. The mere shadow of these changes 
 has so depressed the stocks which represent 
 the accumulations of our past enterprise and 
 labor that we are already commercially poorer 
 than we were.'" 
 
 When in Ireland I talked with the southern 
 Irish as well as those of the North about the 
 differences, particularly in an industrial way, 
 
THE TWO IRELANDS 261 
 
 between the two sections. I frequently asked, 
 just because I wanted the information, why 
 the province of Ulster shows such activity and 
 Munster and Connaught are so stagnant. Some 
 of those with whom I talked offered one answer, 
 some another. Mr. T. P. O'Connor told me 
 it was due to the favoritism which the National 
 Government had lavished upon Ulster from 
 the first Scotch settlement. Prominent editors 
 and professional men of the North told me it 
 was due to the difference in the stock of the 
 people and the religion which they professed. 
 They accused the south Irish of being lazy in 
 the first place and priest-ridden in the second. 
 
 I talked plainly with a number of Catholic 
 priests in the South about this very matter. 
 They disclaimed any great interference with 
 the liberties and rights of the people. In 
 defending the southern Irish, they laid the 
 blame for their non-progress upon the evils 
 of landlordism and past oppressions on the part 
 of the Government. 
 
 I was uniformly well treated by all the south 
 Irish with whom I came in contact, and es- 
 pecially by the priests whom I found to be 
 kind, cordial, good-natured and hospitable to 
 
262 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 a fault. All this, too, in spite of the fact that 
 they knew me to be a Protestant and openly 
 a member of a secret society which as it exists 
 in Ireland they possibly have a reason to dis- 
 like. They told me that most of the hatred 
 which existed between the two elements in Ire- 
 land was mostly in the hearts of the Protestants; 
 the Catholics had almost forgotten the old 
 antipathies. 
 
 I believe there may be a number of black 
 sheep among the priesthood in south Ireland — 
 men immoral, dissipated and profane, and who 
 are in the ministry for what they can get out 
 of it — but to say that even a respectable minor- 
 ity are vicious men would, I believe, be stating 
 a monstrous untruth. Besides, in the North 
 there may be little or no intemperance or im- 
 morality among the Protestant clergy, yet from 
 what I observed and heard I am inclined to 
 believe that there is with them much more in- 
 tolerance than with the Catholic clergy; and 
 it is indeed a question whether anything can 
 be worse than a life spent in nourishing in the 
 heart bitterness and hatred towards one's fellow- 
 creatures. 
 
 Yet a stranger cannot help seeing the vast 
 
THE TWO IRELANDS 263 
 
 difference which exists between North and 
 South Ireland. It may be observed even in 
 the appearance of the people. Throughout the 
 South one meets with a preponderance of 
 the Gaelic or Celtic characteristics — black 
 hair, broad faces, and grayish-blue eyes. In 
 Antrim, Down and Londonderry one sees men 
 and women of light or reddish hair, blue eyes, 
 and very ruddy complexions. The speech of 
 the North is quick, vigorous and strong, de- 
 cidedly Scotch in its accent. The Irish brogue 
 of the South, soft and in some respects 
 pleasing, disappears almost entirely when one 
 crosses the boundary of county Down into 
 Ulster. 
 
 The difference between the two sections 
 also shows itself in the fields, which, stagnant 
 and reverting to pastures in the South and 
 West, are cultivated more and more intensively 
 in the North. In the South, outside of a few 
 cities such as Cork and Limerick, where some 
 activity may be discerned, there are few man- 
 ufacturing establishments of any kind; in Ulster 
 smokestacks arise on every hand. The differ- 
 ence in the industrial respect between counties 
 Antrim, in Ulster, and Kerry, in Munster, or, 
 
264 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 say, Sligo, in Connaught, is about such as exists 
 between Pennsylvania and New Mexico. 
 
 The religious differences are also great; and 
 they make a most interesting study. When in 
 Dublin I had access to the official census statis- 
 tics first-hand, and I made note of a number 
 of important items. 
 
 The last official census of the population 
 was taken in 1901. By that census we learn 
 that, barring changes made in the seven years 
 since that time, which do not materially change 
 the proportions, there are 4,458,775 people in 
 the island, of whom 3,308,661 are Catholics, 
 581,089 Episcopalians, 443,276 Presbyterians, 
 and 61,976 Methodists. There are also a 
 small number of Unitarians, Congregational- 
 ists, Baptists, and other scattering sects in the 
 large cities. Of the entire number of Presby- 
 terians, 426,177 live in Ulster, leaving a small 
 remainder of 17,000 scattered through other 
 parts of the island. Of the Episcopalians, 
 359,898 dwell in Ulster, leaving 222,000 for the 
 rest of the island. It might be stated that 
 this church was formerly the "Established 
 Church'' of Ireland, precisely as the church 
 was also established in England; and it was 
 
t- 1 e 
 
 J -8 
 
 £ as 
 
 c .-a 
 
 .a s 
 
 > £ 
 
 p i- 
 
 < 
 
 
THE TWO IRELANDS 265 
 
 supported by the Government. Mr. Glad- 
 stone succeeded in having the church disestab- 
 lished in 1868. The number of Methodists 
 in Ulster is 47,172, leaving about 15,000 for 
 other sections. Offsetting this large number 
 of Protestants in Ulster, there are in that prov- 
 ince 699,152 Catholics, the vast majority of 
 whom inhabit the eleven small southernmost 
 counties, leaving Antrim, Down and London- 
 derry almost purely Protestant. 
 
 In all Ireland the Catholics constitute 74.20 
 per cent, of the population; the Episcopalians, 
 13.03 per cent., the Presbyterians, 9.94 per 
 cent., and the Methodists, 1.39 per cent. In 
 the decade between 1891 and 1901 the Roman 
 Catholics lost 6 per cent, of their population; 
 the Episcopalians, 3 per cent.; and the Pres- 
 byterians, .04 per cent. While the Catholic 
 and the Episcopal churches are gradually los- 
 ing ground in proportion to the population, 
 the Presbyterians are gradually gaining. This 
 gain of the Presbyterians is all shown in Ulster. 
 
 The Irish Presbyterian church is a most 
 interesting body, vigorous and aggressive in 
 the extreme, with strong missionary tendencies. 
 These Presbyterians are descended not only 
 
266 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 from the settlers who came at the time of the 
 " Plantation " under James, but also from Eng- 
 lish and Scotch non-conformist refugees, and 
 officers and soldiers of the armies of Cromwell 
 and William III. They have at this time five 
 synods, 36 presbyteries, 660 ministers, and 
 106,665 communicants. 
 
 In his readable book, "Ireland at the Cross- 
 Roads," Mr. Filson Young tersely and epi- 
 grammatically contrasts the different sections 
 and religious beliefs of Ireland. He scores 
 strongly the Catholic church for its despotic 
 power over the masses, but states that he would 
 score any church that would enthrall a people 
 as Catholicism has done Ireland. He also 
 writes scathingly of the Presbyterians of the 
 North for their narrowness and bigotry; and 
 he reminds the Episcopalians, with an ironical 
 touch, of their pride and unwarranted pomp. 
 His description of the Ulster village, with its 
 sects, is unusually instructive as coming from 
 one who has observed these matters from child- 
 hood. Thus he writes: 
 
 "In every little village of the North of Ire- 
 land the population is strictly divided into at 
 least three camps — Presbyterians, Roman Cath- 
 
THE TWO IRELANDS 267 
 
 olics, and Episcopalians. Of these the Pres- 
 byterians will probably be a virile community, 
 containing the best yeoman stock of the coun- 
 try, and representing the bulk of the agricul- 
 tural interest. The Catholics will number in 
 their fold the very poor and those engaged in 
 labor, with many of the servant class, and an 
 occasional unprosperous farmer, and a pros- 
 perous publican; while the Episcopalians will 
 be a rather weak and nondescript community, 
 consisting of those classes, whether tradespeople 
 or professional, who regard themselves of social 
 importance, and who have the mental qualifica- 
 tions for conforming in religious matters to 
 their views of what is socially expedient. 
 
 "And of the three camps the Presbyterians 
 and Episcopalians will certainly have dealings 
 with each other, and a kind of friendly rivalry, 
 as of those who should oppose each other in 
 the same cause. But neither of them will 
 have any dealings at all with the Roman Cath- 
 olics. It will be enough that a man should 
 be a Roman Catholic for him to be refused 
 employment in their affairs if a Protestant is 
 available. 
 
 "However small and meager the social re- 
 
268 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 sources of the place may be, no one would 
 dream of inviting the priest to any social enter- 
 tainment; and, indeed, if such an invitation 
 were given it would hardly be understood. 
 Priests, being in the minority there, are far 
 more tolerant and kindly in their views than 
 their Protestant brethren, just as in other parts 
 of Ireland, where they are in the majority, they 
 are apt to apply the boycott in their turn in 
 just the same way. 
 
 " But the two sets of people might belong to 
 different races and be of different colors for all 
 that they will have to do with each other." 
 
 As to the chance of the final triumph of Prot- 
 estantism in Ireland, and the stamping out of 
 Catholicism, as England formerly tried to do, 
 and as some Protestants still hope to see accom- 
 plished, the writer says: 
 
 "You might stamp out Catholicism, but it 
 would be by stamping out the Catholics; you 
 might destroy religion, but not before you have 
 destroyed the nation; and although I am con- 
 vinced that Roman Catholicism is in its essence 
 anti-national, I am also convinced that it is 
 twisted like ivy about the very life of Ireland; 
 and though it will destroy the tree if the growth 
 
THE TWO IRELANDS 269 
 
 continues, yet I am sure that you could not 
 uproot the one without fatal damage to the 
 other." 
 
 It would appear that the intensive farming 
 and the manufacturing of Ulster act as a check 
 to emigration. The population of Munster 
 in the last decade decreased 8.29 per cent., 
 and Connaught decreased 10.08 per cent., 
 while Ulster decreased only 2.28 per cent. 
 Leinster in the East, including the city of Dub- 
 lin and eight counties, showed a decrease of 
 3.36 per cent., though every one of the eight 
 counties showed a decrease except county Dub- 
 lin. With the exception of this county, and 
 counties Antrim and Down in Ulster, each of 
 which increased at the rate of about 7 per cent., 
 all the other twenty-nine counties of the island 
 decreased in population, ranging from 13.60 
 per cent., in the case of Monaghan to 5.10 per 
 cent, in the case of Londonderry. Many of 
 the towns in the South and West, such as Lim- 
 erick, Galway, and Kilkenny, showed sub- 
 stantial decreases, while Dublin increased at 
 the rate of 7.60 per cent., and Londonderry 
 city at the rate of 20 per cent. ; while Belfast, a 
 city which, as I was informed by Mr. T. P. 
 
270 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 O'Connor, "will not have even a policeman 
 if he is a Catholic," increased at the rate of 
 27.08 per cent., a rate of increase greater than 
 that shown by some of the most progressive 
 American cities. 
 
 The province of Munster in South and South- 
 west Ireland, which includes the counties of 
 Cork, Waterford, Tipperary, Limerick, Kerry, 
 and Clare, had at the last census a population 
 of 1,075,075, having decreased from 2,404,460 
 since 1841. Of the present population the 
 Catholics number 1,007,283, and the Protes- 
 tants 67,792, a proportion of 94 per cent, to 
 6 per cent. 
 
 Michael J. F. McCarthy, a native Irish Cath- 
 olic lawyer, in a recently-published sensational 
 book, says: 
 
 "The priest is lord of Munster. The news- 
 papers see through him, but they flatter him; 
 for in himself alone he represents a large cir- 
 culation and advertisement business. The pro- 
 fessional men privately despise him, but are 
 forced to beg for his influence. The traders 
 and farmers partially see through him, but he 
 infuses them with such a spirit of laziness and 
 cowardice, and so distorts their minds in youth, 
 
THE TWO IRELANDS 271 
 
 that, while they are always in a state of smoth- 
 ered repudiation of his pretentions, they pass 
 through life without assailing him. All classes, 
 but especially the laborers, fly from him in 
 thousands across the Atlantic and Indian Ocean. 
 The decrease in Catholic Munster within the 
 last decade was 8.29 per cent., while in Presby- 
 terian Ulster it was but 2.28 per cent. ,, 
 
 The book from which the above paragraph 
 is taken is entitled "Priests and People in Ire- 
 land." Together with its companion volumes, 
 "Rome in Ireland" and "Five Years in Ire- 
 land," I found it for sale on book-stalls through- 
 out the British Isles. These books are of large 
 size, and are illustrated with photographs. 
 Each is literally crammed with statistics in- 
 tending to prove the deteriorating effect of 
 "Priest Rule" in Ireland. The writer con- 
 tends that he is a native-born, typical southern 
 Irishman and a loyal Catholic, though he de- 
 clares eternal hatred of the Irish priest. The 
 priests look upon him and speak of him as 
 being a turncoat. McCarthy has lectured in 
 various parts of Ireland and England upon this 
 subject so congenial to him, and has run some 
 serious risks at times. In Ulster, according 
 
272 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 to his own accounts, he met with great audi- 
 ences and was hailed almost as a hero. 
 
 The Irish National Schools, North and South, 
 have served within recent years greatly to 
 decrease illiteracy in the island. It is said, 
 however, that the schools of Ulster surpass 
 those of the South and West. The census of 
 1 90 1 reveals the fact that the percentage of 
 illiteracy among the Roman Catholics was 16.00 
 per cent.; among the Episcopalians, 7.30 per 
 cent.; and among the Presbyterians, 4.90 per 
 cent. This would seem to indicate that the 
 Presbyterians of the North are more careful to 
 have their children to learn to read and write. 
 In considering this matter, however, one must 
 consider the vast numbers of older people of the 
 South and West, all genuine Irish and Catholics, 
 who never had the opportunity to attend school. 
 
 All recent writers upon Ireland have been 
 more or less free in the matter of contrasting 
 the North and the South, or, perhaps more 
 correctly, in contrasting the Protestant and 
 Catholic elements of the country. Mr. Stephen 
 Gwynn, in his book "To-day and To-morrow 
 in Ireland," has some particularly fine para- 
 graphs bearing upon the subject: 
 
THE TWO IRELANDS 273 
 
 "It would be hard to exaggerate the separate- 
 ness, the cleavage, that runs through the whole 
 country. . . . Broadly speaking, at the Prot- 
 estant houses you do not meet Catholics. They 
 are kept apart by instinctive antipathies — 
 instincts maintained, no doubt, by the delib- 
 erate policy of the Catholic church. ... It 
 would be hardly too much to say that the Cath- 
 olics in Ireland form among themselves — with- 
 out intention and even without knowledge — 
 a huge secret society, like all secret societies, 
 amenable to a social code. 
 
 "The historic genesis of this attitude is not 
 hard to find. Throughout Ireland, on the 
 whole, Protestants are the possessors. Cath- 
 olics the dispossessed. They are dispossessed 
 not less for their religion than for their race; 
 and their religion is to-day in many cases, per- 
 haps in most, the only mark of their separate 
 origin. It has been the lasting bond, indeed 
 the one and only positive link of union among 
 them — for hate is only a negative tie. Perse- 
 cution and penalization were directed against 
 the religion, and in their clinging to what was 
 attacked, they fell away hopelessly from the 
 attacking force — which was the law. And 
 
274 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 the secret law which grew up among them was 
 so indissolubly bound up with their religion, that 
 the religion could not, if it would, shake it off. 
 
 "Catholicism is a strong religion, perhaps 
 the strongest in the world, but to no people in 
 the world does it represent so much as to the 
 Irish. It is the one thing they retained. They 
 lost their land, they lost their language, and 
 with it their traditional culture, but they kept 
 their religion; and when their religion ceased 
 to be attacked they kept the habits and the 
 instinctive organization that they acquired in 
 defending it. The Irish peasant who passes 
 for an expansive, confiding creature, is in real- 
 ity the most reserved of human beings. . . . 
 
 "Taking it all round, throughout Ireland 
 wherever Catholics are in the majority the upper 
 classes are Protestants, separated from the 
 lower class not so much by any great difference 
 in the possession of money (since the successful 
 shopkeeper is apt to be better off than the aver- 
 age landlord) nor in education, as by a radi- 
 cal divergence in social code and religious 
 creed. . . . 
 
 "Where Protestant and Catholic see most of 
 each other in Ireland is over sport; and in 
 
THE TWO IRELANDS 275 
 
 these cases, the Protestant shoots, the Catholic 
 carries the bag; the Protestant hooks the salmon 
 (if he can), the Catholic gaffs it. I should be 
 the last to deny that real friendship grows up 
 out of this relation; but the mere fact that 
 people meet exclusively as employer and em- 
 ployed, or patron and client, stamps a special 
 character on the intercourse. It is not the 
 same thing as playing together on a side; rather 
 the relation, in establishing itself, marks the 
 essential separateness." 
 
 Sir Horace Plunkett, from whose book, "Ire- 
 land in the New Century," I have already quoted, 
 says, in contrasting the two great sections of 
 Ireland: 
 
 "Protestantism has its stronghold in the 
 great industrial centers of the North and among 
 the Presbyterian farmers of five or six Ulster 
 counties. These communities, it is significant 
 to note, have developed the essentially strenu- 
 ous qualities which, no doubt, they brought 
 from England and Scotland. In city life their 
 thrift, industry and enterprise, unsurpassed in 
 the United Kingdom, have built up a world- 
 wide commerce. In rural life they have drawn 
 the largest yield from relatively infertile soil. 
 
276 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 Such, in brief, is the achievement of Ulster 
 Protestantism in the realm of industry. It is 
 a story which, when a united Ireland becomes 
 more than a dream, all Irishmen will be proud. 
 "But there is unhappily another side to the 
 picture. This industrial life, otherwise so worth- 
 ily cultivated, is disturbed by manifestations 
 of religious bigotry which sadly tarnish the 
 glory of the really heroic deeds they are in- 
 tended to commemorate. It is impossible for 
 any close observer of these deplorable exhibi- 
 tions to avoid the conclusion that the embers 
 of the old fires are too often fanned by men 
 who are actuated by motives, which, when not 
 other than religious, are certainly based upon 
 an unworthy conception of religion. . . . This 
 bigotry is so notorious, as for instance in the 
 exclusion of Roman Catholics from many re- 
 sponsible positions, that it unquestionably reacts 
 most unfavorably upon the general rela- 
 tions between the two creeds throughout the 
 whole of Ireland. The existence of such a 
 spirit of suspicion and hatred, from whatever 
 motive it emanates, is bound to retard our pro- 
 gress as a people towards the development of 
 a healthy and balanced national life. . . . 
 
THE TWO IRELANDS 277 
 
 "From such study as I have been able to 
 give to the history of their church, I have come 
 to the conclusion that the immense power of 
 the Irish Roman Catholic clergy has been 
 singularly little abused. I think it must be 
 admitted that they have not exhibited in any 
 marked degree bigotry towards Protestants. 
 . . . My own experience distinctly proves that 
 it is no disadvantage to a man to be a Protes- 
 tant in Irish political life, and that where opposi- 
 tion is shown to him by Roman Catholics, it is 
 almost invariably on political, social, or agra- 
 rian, but not on religious grounds." 
 
 Further contrasting the North with the South, 
 he writes: "I have learned from practical ex- 
 perience amongst the Roman Catholic people 
 of Ireland that while more free from bigotry, 
 in the sense in which that word is usually ap- 
 plied, they are apathetic, thriftless, and almost 
 non-industrial, and that they especially require 
 the exercise of strengthening influences on their 
 moral fiber. . . . North and South have each 
 virtues which the other lacks; each has much to 
 learn from the other; but the home of the 
 strictly civic virtues and efficiencies is in Prot- 
 estant Ireland." 
 
278 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 In describing the intelligence and love of 
 knowledge which the people of Ulster display, 
 Sir Horace agrees entirely with Michael Mc- 
 Carthy in his conclusions upon the same sub- 
 ject. In "Rome in Ireland" the latter writes 
 as follows: 
 
 "I have never yet gone into a Presbyterian 
 house in which I did not find one or more well- 
 filled bookcases occupying a place of honor; 
 and the acquaintance with every phase of 
 current thought to be found amongst the Pres- 
 byterians is no less characteristic of them than 
 their love of travel and the extent of their topo- 
 graphical knowledge. Let others depict the 
 shortcomings of the Presbyterians if they will 
 — and the carping critics are far from few in 
 number — I shall not be deterred from calling 
 attention to their good points, or from record- 
 ing my own experience of them for that section 
 of humanity who condescend to read what I 
 write. ,, 
 
 I carried with me to Ireland letters of intro- 
 duction to prominent people in Newry, Belfast, 
 and Ballymoney in North Ireland. I found 
 these people courteous, kind and attentive, and 
 happy to make my acquaintance. I was im- 
 
THE TWO IRELANDS 279 
 
 pressed wherever I went in the North with the 
 comfortable dwellings, the extreme cleanliness 
 of everything about the premises of the homes, 
 the attempt at making and keeping the home 
 attractive, and, above all, with the great habit 
 of industry which seems to pervade the very 
 atmosphere. 
 
 In the market town of Ballymoney, in Antrim, 
 where resided some distant kinsmen of a dis- 
 tinguished Virginia author and scholar, who 
 had given me personal letters of introduction 
 to them, I found a congenial company of people 
 who reminded me of cultured Bostonians or 
 Richmonders. In this small town of three 
 thousand people, situated in the midst of a 
 fine farming country, with its big barns remind- 
 ing one of the Shenandoah and Cumberland 
 Valleys, there were three Presbyterian churches, 
 all with different pastors and active organiza- 
 tions. There were practically no poor people 
 in or around the town, and all whom I met 
 appeared healthy and happy. The Roman 
 Catholics had a small chapel in the town where 
 the few inhabitants of that faith worshiped. 
 
 Along the side-tracks upon the railroad I 
 saw several car-loads of mowing and reaping 
 
280 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 machinery; and I had the curiosity to go and 
 learn that these up-to-date farming implements 
 were products of American factories. Thus 
 Ulster Ireland is linked closely with a similarly 
 progressive land across the sea. 
 
 I visited a number of other towns in the North, 
 and was much pleased with the general appear- 
 ance of prosperity and thrift throughout that 
 section. I was particularly interested, how- 
 ever, in the people of the North, the Scotch- 
 Irish, that sturdy and indomitable stock which 
 our American school histories teach us, went 
 forth to provide the brawn and brain which 
 opened up the forests of America, fought back 
 the savage tribes, laid the foundation of the 
 nation, and at length wrested freedom from 
 England's grasp. 
 
 While traveling through Antrim and Down 
 I felt sometimes that I was treading upon hal- 
 lowed ground. I was within two miles of the 
 low-lying stone cottage, with roof of thatch and 
 floor of stone, which sheltered many generations 
 of the ancestors of President McKinley; and I 
 traveled over long stretches of clover-scented 
 meadow and densely-green hillside, every mile 
 of which contained some sturdily-built home 
 
THE TWO IRELANDS 281 
 
 within whose rough stone walls had lived the 
 ancestry of such makers of America as Andrew 
 Jackson, James Buchanan, John C. Calhoun, 
 Ulysses Grant, Stonewall Jackson, and multi- 
 tudes of other statesmen, soldiers, lawyers, 
 preachers and citizens who will be known to 
 history as among the greatest men who ever 
 lived in the world. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 RURAL IRELAND AS IT IS TO-DAY 
 
 It is largely as a result of the unprecedented 
 loss of half its population in half a century 
 that the present condition of rural Ireland is 
 so interesting and so remarkable a study. The 
 depopulation of Ireland has largely changed 
 the life of the people and brought about vast 
 differences in the face of the country. The 
 Ireland of to-day is by no means the Ireland 
 of sixty years ago. 
 
 Owing to lack of labor, the former intensive 
 cultivation of the soil has to a large extent ceased. 
 Tillage has been superseded by pasturage. 
 Thousands of acres that in former years were 
 teeming with laborers planting and working 
 potatoes and turnips, and harvesting wheat 
 and oats, are now turned out in grass; and 
 the song of the laborers and the music of the 
 whetting of scythes have been hushed, and in 
 their place can be heard the tinkling of sheep- 
 bells and the lowing of cattle. 
 
 282 
 
s < 
 
 c „, 
 
RURAL IRELAND AS IT IS TO-DAY 283 
 
 In all parts of the middle, south, and west 
 of Ireland one may see evidences of this re- 
 markable change, — more remarkable since the 
 signs of former possession and cultivation are 
 still evident. For sixty years the young and 
 vigorous farm-hands have been dropping the 
 hoe and spade and emigrating to America, 
 leaving behind them to attempt their work 
 their infirm old parents and their little brothers 
 and sisters. The children dream through their 
 boyhood and girlhood of the time when they 
 in turn can go down to Queenstown and sail 
 on the big ship for New York or Boston. Whole 
 villages have thus been robbed of their young 
 people, and vast country sections that once 
 teemed with vigorous farm laborers now con- 
 tain but a handful of men who are capable of 
 hard labor. Indeed, one of the most striking, 
 and at the same time most mournful, sights in 
 rural Ireland to-day is the unusually large num- 
 ber of despondent-looking old men and women 
 who mope absent-mindedly about the road- 
 ways of the country-sides or the alleys of the 
 hundreds of semi-deserted villages. Their sons 
 and daughters have grown up and gone to seek 
 their fortunes in the West. Not one in a hun- 
 
284 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 dred of them will ever return to hoe and spade 
 the rocky old Irish fields again. 
 
 A brief study of the rise of Ireland's popula- 
 tion and its subsequent decline, even though 
 some statistics may be involved, is by no means 
 unprofitable or uninteresting. Indeed, Ireland's 
 history in this respect reads almost like a ro- 
 mance. 
 
 Let it be understood, then, that Ireland is an 
 island off the northwestern shores of Europe, 
 situated so far to the north that if it were in 
 the Western hemisphere it would be bound per- 
 petually in snow and ice; but since it is in the 
 path of the Gulf Stream and certain warm 
 winds, its climate is mild, its summers are 
 humid and cool, its winters damp and com- 
 paratively warm. The dank moisture of the 
 island prevents a great amount of freezing, and 
 the grass remains green the year round. 
 
 The area of Ireland is 32,583 square miles. 
 This is slightly less than the area of Indiana, 
 about two-thirds that of New York State, or a 
 little over half that of England. 
 
 We have no way of knowing the number of 
 Ireland's inhabitants in early days. Perhaps 
 before the sixteenth century it would have been 
 

RURAL IRELAND AS IT IS TO-DAY 285 
 
 impossible to take even a comparative census, 
 so crude were the methods then employed, and 
 so difficult must it have been to obtain accurate 
 information from the people themselves. But 
 in 1593, near the close of Elizabeth's reign, 
 Moryson visited Ireland with Lord Mountjoy 
 and estimated just at the close of the Civil War 
 that there were 700,000 people in the island. 
 In 1672 Sir William Petty estimated, on the 
 basis of five persons to each house, that the 
 population was 1,100,000. By 1785, according 
 to Hearth-Money Collectors, the number of 
 inhabitants was 2,845,932. It was during the 
 century between 1750 and 1850 that Ireland's 
 population increased by leaps and bounds; for 
 the first complete parliamentary census, which 
 was taken in 1821, revealed the fact that Ire- 
 land had 6,801,827 inhabitants. By 1845 this 
 large population had increased to 8,295,061. 
 At this time the population to the square mile 
 was 254, while that of Scotland was only 97, 
 and England but 280. Then Ireland held one- 
 third of the population of the British Isles. 
 Her hills fairly swarmed with people, all of 
 whom, in a manner which can hardly be under- 
 stood, eked out a living altogether from the 
 
286 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 soil, since there was no manufacturing in the 
 island and comparatively no commerce. 
 
 It was at ^this period of Ireland's intense 
 activity in getting a living for its teeming pop- 
 ulation that every foot of land which could be 
 worked was put into a state of cultivation. 
 The bogs were drained, the woods were all 
 cut down, and the mountain-sides were lev- 
 eled. The limestone rocks that jutted up out 
 of the ground were dug up and crushed for the 
 roads or made into fences which still remain. 
 The soil was worked with the spade and fondled 
 until it was of the consistency of ashes, and 
 produced abundantly. 
 
 It was just at the time when every foot of 
 ground was required to bring forth to its ut- 
 most to fill the hungry mouths of the teeming 
 thousands that the potato crop failed. In 
 1846 and 1847 ^e famine killed thousands of 
 Irish people. It was then that the rush was 
 made for America. Each census since 1841 
 has shown a decrease in population, until that 
 of 1 901 reveals that there are but 4,458,775 
 people in Ireland, or, adding the decrease since 
 that time, about half the population of 1845. 
 
 Still, one must not think of Ireland as being 
 
RURAL IRELAND AS IT IS TO-DAY 287 
 
 a deserted country. Its population per square 
 mile is even now 137, or a much greater den- 
 sity than exists in such progressive states as Ohio 
 and Illinois, or, leaving out Philadelphia and 
 New York City, of the states of Pennsylvania 
 and New York. Nor must one under any cir- 
 cumstances imagine that Ireland is a worn-out 
 country, with ragged or uneven appearance. 
 There could not be a greater mistake than this. 
 To the traveler the soil of the greater part of 
 Ireland appears to be inexhaustibly rich, with 
 a covering everywhere of dense and luxuriant 
 green; while its fine limestone roads, its pic- 
 turesque stone fences, its wonderful mountains, 
 its gray lakes, its placid rivers, and its undula- 
 ting fields, with their carpets of green plush, 
 make it one of the most entrancingly beautiful 
 countries upon earth. The depopulation of 
 the country has but served to increase its beauty; 
 for all the old landmarks remain — castle, 
 tower, bridge and cross — and the little farms 
 that were formerly diligently worked with the 
 spade are now covered over with a sward of 
 green. 
 
 Still, a traveler in Ireland cannot help being 
 depressed with the apparent stagnation which 
 
288 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 exists on every hand. And it is not hard to 
 account for these conditions. For whatever 
 other obscure evils may be at the root of 
 that evil, the emigration craze alone has 
 been sufficient to demoralize every indus- 
 try and occupation of Ireland. No country 
 can stand the loss of the vigorous and active 
 half of its people without suffering dreadfully 
 from it. Stagnation in business and all kinds 
 of industries that require labor is the first and 
 most evident result of such a condition. In 
 Ireland to-day we have a case of the survival 
 of the unfittest. 
 
 One must remember, in studying this matter, 
 that the northern portion of Ulster can in no 
 way said to be stagnant. It is this Ulster sec- 
 tion of Ireland, progressive as the best portions 
 of England and Scotland, which makes all the 
 agricultural and commercial statistics of Ire- 
 land, bad at the best, appear as well as they do. 
 
 It is in large portions of Leinster, in Mun- 
 ster and in Connaught that the real "Irish 
 question" is centered. In these portions of 
 real and typical Ireland the conditions are 
 most interesting, even if in some respects they 
 are unpleasant to dwell upon. Even in such 
 
RURAL IRELAND AS IT IS TO-DAY 289 
 
 wonderfully beautiful and apparently prosper- 
 ous sections as County Cork and the "Golden 
 Vale of Tipperary" the conditions are yearly 
 growing more acute. It seems but nothing 
 that the soil is rich and the outward conditions 
 favorable. The immense loss of population 
 and the consequent stagnation in business and 
 agriculture has depressed the life of the coun- 
 try, and disheartened those who are left in 
 possession of the soil. 
 
 The census of 1901 gives some interesting 
 statistics as to the occupations of the Irish 
 people. Of the 4,458,775, given as the total 
 population, 131,035 were classed as "profes- 
 sional"; 255,144 as "domestic"; 83,173 as 
 "commercial"; 936,759 as "agricultural"; 
 656,410 as "industrial"; and 2,494,958 as 
 "non-productive and indefinite." The inclu- 
 sion of considerably more than one-half of the 
 total population of the country in the class of 
 non-productives tells in no uncertain way the 
 real story of rural Ireland. It is this aimless- 
 ness in affairs which has within recent years 
 been furnishing material for so much discus- 
 sion and agitation for reform on the part of 
 the publicists and government experts. 
 
290 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 The counties of Kerry, in the southwest; 
 Galway, on the middle western coast; Mayo, 
 the next county to the north of Galway; Sligo, 
 and Roscommon, in the northwest, and some 
 of the counties in the north central portion of 
 the island are among those which present rather 
 remarkable agricultural conditions at this time. 
 In most of the counties named the population 
 is still considerable, and in some cases con- 
 gested. The soil is in many places rocky, and 
 along the mountain-sides is so rough that the 
 use of elaborate farm machinery, if ever dreamed 
 of by the inhabitants, would be quite impos- 
 sible. There are no cities and few towns of 
 size in these sections, and there are no mills 
 or factories of any description. The commerce 
 is inconsiderable, though harbors are numerous 
 along the coast; and railroad traffic, as might 
 be expected, is small. The living that the 
 people get must come from the ground. 
 
 Throughout the counties named, as well as 
 in most of South and West Ireland, there are, 
 as stated in a previous chapter, but two classes, 
 — the gentry, who own large portions of the 
 land, and the peasantry. The former are sel- 
 dom seen, because even in this day many of 
 
RURAL IRELAND AS IT IS TO-DAY 291 
 
 them are non-residents, while the latter are 
 ubiquitous. The masses of the people live 
 generally in one-story stone or mud houses, 
 scattered over the long mountain-sides, or clus- 
 tered in the little one-street villages peculiar 
 to Ireland. Around these houses one generally 
 finds a small garden patch, in which are raised 
 potatoes and other hardy vegetables. In front 
 of the doors are small inclosures, or yards, 
 walled in with stones, sometimes so loosely 
 poised upon each other that one may through 
 the interstices see into the sheep-walks beyond 
 their bounds. Here, around the doorway, the 
 family goat browses; and here the pigs, the 
 geese, and the chickens are wont to gather, 
 indefatigably seeking and as freely obtaining 
 uninterrupted entrance into the living-room of 
 the dwelling. 
 
 The interiors of the houses are too often 
 comfortless and bare. It is seldom that more 
 than one room out of a possible two or three 
 has a wooden floor. The others are paved with 
 roughly-fitting flat stones, and are generally 
 cold and damp. In the rural districts there 
 are no stoves or ranges, so cooking is done over 
 the open fire in large fireplaces. Peat is uni- 
 
292 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 formly used for fuel except near the coasts 
 where coal is sometimes imported from Wales. 
 In the interior the use of coal and wood for 
 fuel is unknown. 
 
 There are no verandas or porches to the 
 Irish rural or village dwellings; the windows 
 are small square holes made in the thick walls, 
 and stopped with from four to eight panes of 
 glass. Ventilation is unprovided for. Fre- 
 quently a pigsty or a stable for the cow is in- 
 closed under the same roof of thatch, which is 
 a coating of sedge or straw from six inches to 
 a foot in thickness fastened down with ropes. 
 
 Such dwellings as described above exist all 
 over Ireland. It is rather remarkable how 
 little variation there is from the type. They are 
 termed "third class" by the government. The 
 last census shows that there are 251,606 of such 
 in Ireland. The dwellings called "fourth class" 
 are the lowliest kinds of huts, with dirt floors 
 and one room with one window. There are 
 to-day in remote rural sections of Ireland 9,873 
 such huts, inhabited by probably thirty or forty 
 thousand people. 
 
 The "second class" houses are of a some- 
 what better type, especially when found in such 
 
RURAL IRELAND AS IT IS TO-DAY 293 
 
 cities as Limerick, Cork, Dublin and Belfast. 
 In the better agricultural districts, as in Antrim 
 and Down, Tipperary, Wicklow, and Kil- 
 kenny, they may also be found. Many of the 
 second class houses are covered with slate, 
 though in the interior thatch is used. There 
 are 521,000 second class houses in all Ireland. 
 The houses of the "first class" are the "castles'' 
 of the gentry and landlords scattered through 
 the country and the houses of the prosperous 
 business and professional men of the cities. 
 There are 75,000 of these in the island. 
 
 The landlord question is still the one all- 
 absorbing topic in Irish affairs, as it has been 
 for the past three centuries. From the time of 
 Cromwell, and before, the Irish have chafed 
 under landlord rule. For many years the ten- 
 ure system was unregulated by the government, 
 and the landlord had the entire disposition of 
 his estate. As might be expected from such a 
 state of affairs, there was constant friction and 
 no little bitterness between the landlord and 
 his tenants. The Irish peasantry for genera- 
 tions contended that it was not to their advan- 
 tage to improve lands upon which, as a result 
 of the improvement, heavier rents would be 
 
294 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 exacted. Thus the habit of unthrift and un- 
 tidiness was fastened upon the people. 
 
 The government, in 1868, through the first 
 Gladstone land act, recognized the right of 
 the Irish tenant to compensation for improve- 
 ment effected by him in the soil which he had 
 cultivated, should he be deprived of his holding 
 or should his rent be changed. This was the 
 beginning of legislation, which, through suc- 
 cessive acts of Parliament in 1870, 1871, and 
 1876, enlarged and modified by more recent 
 enactments, resulted in the passage of a meas- 
 ure, in 1903, that promised for a time to settle 
 effectively the landlord question for the coun- 
 try. This great act provided for the purchase 
 of lands from the landlords by the small farmers 
 and peasants, the government advancing the 
 necessary cash to the purchasers at a nominal 
 rate of interest. Every student of Irish affairs 
 has for the past five years been watching with 
 the closest interest the operations of this gigan- 
 tic piece of legislation. For two or three years 
 after the act went into force the fullest advan- 
 tage was taken of its provisions by the rural 
 Irish, and the large sums set apart by the gov- 
 ernment to be applied in loans to purchasers 
 
RURAL IRELAND AS IT IS TO-DAY 295 
 
 were taken up greedily in all parts of the coun- 
 try. Many of the priests of the South and 
 West, quick to recognize the advantages of the 
 offer, bought land upon the usual terms. 
 
 So loud were the demands for additional 
 appropriations to be applied in these land loans 
 that three years after the original land act an 
 additional $50,000,000 was set apart by the 
 government to facilitate the operations of the 
 act and to remedy the stoppage of sales of land 
 through lack of funds. 
 
 In selling the land to their tenants for the 
 cash advanced for them by the government, 
 the landlords have generally demanded as a 
 price that amount which the land would pro- 
 duce in rent in twenty-two and a half years. 
 Some have demanded more, some less, than 
 this. The average purchase of the tenant is 
 his dwelling, sometimes an outbuilding, and 
 from six to twenty acres of land. The price 
 paid, based on the rent value, varies from $20 
 to $60 an acre. 
 
 An actual case of purchase is as follows: A 
 small farmer lived upon a tract of i6| acres of 
 land in a good agricultural section. For some 
 years past he had been paying to the landlord 
 
296 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 an annual rent of £6 12s., or about $33. He 
 wished to purchase the land, and it was offered 
 to him by the landlord for £150, or about $750. 
 He made the necessary application to the 
 authorities, borrowed the money from the gov- 
 ernment, and paid the landlord for the place, 
 gaining from him a deed in fee simple. The 
 government retained what might be termed a 
 first mortgage upon the place, which is to be 
 released at the expiration of forty years, and 
 after forty yearly payments of £4 4s., or about 
 #21. In forty years from 1904 the purchaser 
 will have paid to the government about $840 
 for his farm. He began also to pay taxes upon 
 the place as soon as it was listed in his name. 
 His first year's taxes amounted to 26s., or about 
 $6.50. This amount may be increased or 
 diminished according to the valuation put upon 
 the property and the rate of taxation adopted 
 from year to year. 
 
 During 1907 and the early part of 1908 there 
 was much friction in the congested districts of 
 western Ireland, and even in better parts of 
 the island, caused by the fact that landlords 
 refused to sell their best lands to bidders, but 
 offered only their very stony mountain lands 
 
RURAL IRELAND AS IT IS TO-DAY 297 
 
 or unproductive boglands, retaining their best 
 lands for pasturing large herds of cattle. The 
 peasantry, becoming disgruntled on account 
 of such conditions, often in the dead of night 
 would drive the cattle from the lands of the 
 landlords, thus running serious risks of arrest 
 at the hands of the constabulary. Taking all 
 things into consideration, there has been re- 
 markably little trouble as a result of the 
 operation of this land act which is altogether 
 revolutionary in its processes; and it is almost 
 certain that in time it will serve to bring about a 
 complete solution of the land problem in Ireland. 
 As the rents for the past fifty years have to a 
 large extent been paid by American citizens, 
 so the farmer or tenant who buys land generally 
 does so with a view of paying for it in yearly 
 instalments sent to him by children or relatives 
 who have emigrated to the United States. It 
 would be impossible to estimate the amount of 
 money which is sent to Ireland every year from 
 this country. Private inquiry sometimes brings 
 to light the fact that almost every cent of the 
 rent and taxes paid by certain villages and 
 sections of counties was provided by American 
 Irish. 
 
298 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 The above statement will not appear so 
 strange if one remembers that there are 595,210 
 people of Irish parentage in New York City 
 alone, which means a population greater than 
 the combined Irish populations of Belfast and 
 Dublin, the two largest cities of Ireland. There 
 are in Boston 160,000 full-blooded Irish people; 
 185,000 in Chicago; and 225,000 in Phila- 
 delphia, not to mention the hundreds of thou- 
 sands scattered through other sections of the 
 country. These American Irish are as a rule 
 industrious and steady, and they command 
 good wages. One may very readily see how 
 it is that Ireland to-day is supported so largely 
 by American money. 
 
 Indeed, it is necessary for the native Irish 
 to receive help from somewhere, otherwise 
 about half the population could not be kept 
 from starvation. The Earl of Dunraven, pres- 
 ident of the Irish Reform Association, in a 
 pamphlet which was strewn broadcast through 
 the British Isles, declares that out of the 500,- 
 000 holdings in rural Ireland, fully 200,000 
 might be classed as uneconomic, or inca- 
 pable per se of maintaining a family. Unless 
 the purchaser has some other means of sup- 
 
RURAL IRELAND AS IT IS TO-DAY 299 
 
 port besides the proceeds of the land, he will 
 not be able to pay for his property or live 
 except in the most abject poverty. Starva- 
 tion, then, in the case of purchasers of such 
 property is kept off by money which is sent 
 from America. 
 
 Of the 300,000 economic holdings, the vast 
 majority are self-sustaining, not from tillage, 
 but from dairying and stock-raising. Dairy- 
 ing has within the past nine years received an 
 impetus through the efforts at cooperation made 
 by the Board of Agriculture and Technical 
 Instruction, which was created in 1899. This 
 board has provided instruction for the people 
 in dairying in many schools, and has established 
 creameries throughout Ireland, with expensive 
 machinery for stripping butter from milk fresh 
 from the cow. To these public creameries 
 dairymen haul their milk and receive credit 
 for each gallon brought according to its butter- 
 producing value. Tests are applied to every 
 can of milk received. The establishment of 
 these creameries, insuring cleanliness and a 
 regular supply of butter, has succeeded in open- 
 ing up a fresh market for Irish butter in the 
 great manufacturing centers of England where 
 
3 oo SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 enormous quantities of butter are required; 
 and has stimulated dairying in almost every 
 part of the island. The cooperative plan may 
 be said to be even yet in its infancy, and it must 
 prove what it will accomplish if universally 
 patronized. 
 
 Stock-breeding among the small farmers is 
 increasing with the decline of tillage. Most 
 writers upon the subject look with great dis- 
 favor upon the change. Stock-breeding is gen- 
 erally considered to be a branch of industry 
 fraught with considerable danger to the small 
 capitalist. In Ireland especially cattle and 
 sheep-raising is a speculation rather than an 
 investment, and, like all species of gambling, 
 is attended with great risk to the man of small 
 capital. The depressing outlook of the rural 
 life of England and Scotland, so much com- 
 mented upon, is brought about by the passing 
 of the land from under the plow and its being 
 given over to stock-raising. In these countries 
 there is a saying that "the men decay as the 
 kine increase. " In Ireland, conditions are still 
 worse. Those who are forced to leave the 
 Irish farms for lack of work do not drift into 
 native towns and cities to engage in manufac- 
 
RURAL IRELAND AS IT IS TO-DAY 301 
 
 turing or mercantile pursuits, as they do in 
 England and Scotland, but emigrate to America, 
 leaving a remnant of the old and infirm and 
 unfit to engage in the "lotus-eating occupation 
 of opening and shutting gates" for the cattle 
 and sheep to pass through. 
 
 Rural Ireland has gained largely in the num- 
 ber of its cattle and sheep even within the past 
 five years, but it has lost to an even larger 
 degree in the activities and productiveness of 
 its people in all other lines on account of the 
 stagnation in agriculture due to this rush towards 
 pasturage. It is a well-known truth that the 
 decline of tillage in any country, whatever be 
 the cause, involves an enormous waste of na- 
 tional resources. In Ireland the worst possible 
 results have come from such a condition. 
 
 The Irish tenant, or independent farmer, of 
 the present time generally turns out the larger 
 part of his land in permanent pasture. Upon 
 this he grazes from two to ten cows, three or 
 four calves, sometimes a small flock of sheep, 
 raises half a dozen pigs, and sometimes keeps 
 a horse or a donkey. Hardly half of the ordi- 
 nary Irish small farmers keep a horse. The 
 small cultivation which the land gets is done 
 
302 
 
 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 with the spade. All farm work, except in a 
 few favored sections, is done in the most prim- 
 itive manner. A modern plow or mowing- 
 machine, outside of Ulster, would be looked 
 upon with amazement by the Irish farmer. 
 There are large tracts of land in central and 
 western Ireland that have not known a plow 
 for a century. The land is down permanently 
 in grass, and an occasional top-dressing of the 
 soil with fertilizer in the spring is practically 
 all the attention which is paid it. 
 
 In those few sections of the island where the 
 land is still worked intensively splendid yields 
 result. Wheat, oats, potatoes and all kinds 
 of hardy root crops yield richly, and in the 
 north flax can be most profitably raised. It is 
 indeed remarkable why the large land-owners 
 and farmers with large holdings do not go more 
 fully into the intensive cultivation of the soil. 
 The English market is at their doors, and 
 prices are always good. Labor, too, may be 
 had cheaply if only a permanent demand is 
 made for it. Every summer thousands of 
 laborers from central and western Ireland go 
 over to Scotland and England to work in the 
 harvest fields. They return late in the autumn 
 
RURAL IRELAND AS IT IS TO-DAY 303 
 
 having spent most of their summer earnings 
 in the Scotch and English public-houses. If 
 the same wages could be had in Ireland they 
 would remain at home. 
 
 Both men and women work in the fields, the 
 men commanding a somewhat larger wage 
 than the women. In those sections where 
 labor is in comparatively active demand, the 
 prices average from $2.25 to $3.00 a week. In 
 county Roscommon laborers get 9s. id. ($2.18) 
 a week; in Sligo, 8s. nd. ($2.14); and in Mayo, 
 8s. 9d. ($2.10). Out of this wage the laborer 
 must board himself. It can readily be seen 
 that the large farmer, with proper management, 
 might profitably employ large numbers of men 
 and women, upon such terms, to produce vege- 
 tables for the English market. 
 
 In Kerry and Galway a good stout farm-boy 
 is often employed for £10 ($50) and board a 
 year. It is hardly necessary to add, however, 
 that when these farm-boys do succeed in rak- 
 ing and scraping together enough money to 
 pay their steerage fare from Queenstown to 
 New York they lose no time in shaking the 
 Irish dust from their feet for good and all. 
 
 In the greater part of Ireland the soil is black 
 
3°4 
 
 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 and rich, — far richer than the average Amer- 
 ican soil. Nowhere in the world does grass 
 grow more luxuriantly, and in no other coun- 
 try is the land so little encumbered with weeds, 
 briers and undergrowth. Much of the coun- 
 try was originally rocky, but long cultivation, 
 particularly in the days when the island was 
 overflowing with people, has put the loose 
 stones into walls and fences, while many have 
 been crushed in making the Irish roads, which 
 are as fine as any in the world. 
 
 Considering the natural fertility of the Irish 
 soil, and its adaptability to almost all kinds of 
 grain and root crops, one is naturally surprised 
 that, with such cheap labor, the crops for the 
 past few years have been so small. Some com- 
 parisons here will certainly not be amiss: 
 
 The total wheat crop for Ireland for the year 
 1907 was 1,325,000 bushels, which was valued 
 at $1,127,000. Fifteen of the States of the 
 Union produced more than ten million bushels 
 each, and five of them produced more than 
 forty million bushels each. The wheat crop 
 of Indiana, the same size as Ireland, was valued 
 at $30,000,000. Ireland produced 6,700,000 
 bushels of barley, a crop particularly well 
 
u 
 
 "5b 
 "J5 
 
 6 
 
 o 
 > 
 
RURAL IRELAND AS IT IS TO-DAY 305 
 
 suited to the soil and climate. The State of Min- 
 nesota produced 26,600,000 bushels, while five 
 other States produced over 14,000,000 bushels 
 each. The oat crop of Ireland is one of its sta- 
 ples. In 1907 this crop amounted to 50,000,000 
 bushels, valued at $24,000,000. The oat crop 
 of Iowa was 108,000,000 bushels, valued at $41,- 
 000,000. Illinois produced 101,000,000 bushels. 
 The Irish climate, always cool and moist, 
 favors the production of all kinds of root crops. 
 Turnips, swedes, mangolds, cabbage, and pota- 
 toes were formerly grown in enormous quan- 
 tities. Indeed, since its introduction into the 
 island by Sir Walter Raleigh, late in the six- 
 teenth century, the potato had grown by the 
 middle of the last century to be the chief staple 
 of Ireland. In many parts of the island it was 
 the sole support of the people. Throughout 
 central and western Ireland in the early half 
 of the century there were thousands of peas- 
 ants who hardly knew the taste of either meat 
 or bread. Potatoes and buttermilk constituted 
 their food supply. The cultivation of the potato 
 superseded that of wheat and other cereals, 
 and after it had come into universal use, fewer 
 pigs were raised and even less meat was con- 
 
306 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 sumed than before. Between 1800 and 1845 
 perhaps three-fourths of the Irish people were 
 wholly dependent upon the potato for support. 
 The potato crop of Ireland is still its largest 
 production. In 1907 this amounted to about 
 111,000,000 bushels, worth about $40,000,000. 
 The total potato crop of the United States was 
 298,000,000 bushels, worth $183,000,000. New 
 York State produced 41,000,000 bushels, worth 
 $23,000,000, a sum more than half the total 
 valuation of the entire crop of Ireland. With 
 all its rush towards pasturage, the total hay 
 output of Ireland in 1907, sown grass and per- 
 manent grass, was but 5,000,000 tons. New 
 York State produced 6,000,000 tons and a 
 number of other States produced almost as 
 much. These staple crops, with the exception 
 of flax, which is produced largely in North 
 Ireland, are practically all that Ireland must 
 fall back upon for a livelihood. The climate 
 is too severe for Indian corn, cotton, sweet 
 potatoes, tomatoes, or the thousand and one 
 small crops that help to make the American 
 farmers independent. If it were not for their 
 cattle and sheep the Irish could not make a 
 living on the island. 
 
RURAL IRELAND AS IT IS TO-DAY 307 
 
 The farmers and others in rural Ireland might 
 be helped by mining, milling, timbering, and 
 other such pursuits, but none of these things 
 is done there. The country is said to contain 
 iron, silver, gold, lead, and copper, but not an 
 ounce of these metals has been produced in 
 fifty years. The coal-beds are very small, 
 and the output is inconsiderable. The Irish 
 rivers might furnish enormous power for manu- 
 facturing if they were properly harnessed, but 
 this has never been done. There are not even 
 grist or flouring mills of any consequence, and 
 the very nature of the case excludes saw and 
 wood-working mills. 
 
 An American who travels in Ireland begins 
 to wonder as soon as he looks about him and 
 sees the stagnation of the country why it is that 
 the Irish people themselves or their wealthy 
 sympathizers among the English or the Scotch 
 do not devise some means for supplementing 
 the earnings of the small farmers and laborers 
 in some of those ways so well known in the 
 United States. This might be done by estab- 
 lishing mills or factories, even upon a small 
 scale, throughout the rural section where labor 
 is so cheap and agriculture so restricted. Some 
 
3 o8 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 say, in answer to this, that Irish labor is so 
 uncertain and the Irish coal-beds so small that 
 Ireland can never hope to be a manufacturing 
 country. The few factories in Ireland to-day, 
 outside of a few cities, count for but little in 
 the life of the great masses of Irish people. 
 
 The rivers of Ireland are particularly well 
 adapted to bear commerce and furnish power; 
 but to-day they are of little more use to the 
 Irish that the Hudson was to the aborigines 
 four hundred years ago. The Shannon, a 
 wonderful stream flowing for 240 miles through 
 a naturally fertile and beautiful country, with 
 tumbling towers and ruined castle walls on its 
 banks, is without commerce except in summer 
 when one lone daily steamer is run for the ben- 
 efit of tourists and transients; and from its 
 source in the beautiful hills of Cavan to the 
 magnificent bay at its mouth, there is not a 
 single mill or factory outside of the old and 
 declining city of Limerick. The same condi- 
 tion of stagnation exists on the Suir, the Lee, 
 the Blackwater and the Erne. All these streams 
 might be dammed and harnessed, and made 
 to produce electric power sufficient to manu- 
 facture millions of dollars* worth of woolens 
 
RURAL IRELAND AS IT IS TO-DAY 309 
 
 and linens, and convert central and southern 
 Ireland into a rich and busy country. 
 
 The condition of stagnation in Ireland's 
 rural life has within the past two or three years 
 brought to life many schemes for the reawaken- 
 ing of the old island to a conformity with mod- 
 ern progress in living. The Gaelic League 
 was organized in 1893 by the Irish people them- 
 selves for the purpose of reviving the old Irish, 
 or Gaelic, tongue. Its object primarily has 
 been and still is to revive interest in the study 
 and publication of existing Irish literature and 
 to cultivate a modern literature in Irish. In 
 this way the effort is made indirectly to create 
 a new national and racial pride and to stimulate 
 all kinds of industry. 
 
 In a large number of the national schools 
 the young people are engaged in learning this 
 difficult and peculiar language of their ances- 
 tors. The Irish claim that this course will 
 serve to give back to the Irish the dreams in 
 which Irish nature revels and upon which Irish 
 nature thrives. Many practical people are op- 
 posed to the movement upon the grounds that 
 a revival of Irish sentiment with a useless lan- 
 guage will serve only to separate Ireland still 
 
3 io SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 further from all that is practical and progress- 
 ive. Isolation, they say, with too much senti- 
 ment, has been to a large extent the cause of 
 Ireland's undoing. Still, the League is doing 
 a great work in the island, and is astoundingly 
 popular with the great masses of the Irish peo- 
 ple, especially the Irish-speaking people of the 
 West. It issues two or three periodicals and 
 publishes books in the old Erse or Gaelic tongue. 
 During one year more than a quarter of a mil- 
 lion copies of a Gaelic book were sold among 
 people who were never known to purchase or 
 read an English book. Friends of the Gaelic 
 League and those who are pushing its work 
 declare that it will eventually result in the re- 
 making of Ireland upon the old national lines 
 by creating a pride in the language and the 
 race among all classes of the people. It may 
 be said to the credit of the League that it is 
 strictly non-political and non-sectarian. It yet 
 remains to be seen just what this rather remark- 
 able movement will accomplish in the way 
 of rejuvenating the old land. 
 
 The various efforts of individuals and of 
 government boards to stimulate Irish agricul- 
 ture, such as those put forth by the Irish 
 
RURAL IRELAND AS IT IS TO-DAY 311 
 
 Department of Agriculture and Technical In- 
 struction, the Earl of Dunraven, President of 
 the Irish Reform Association, Sir Horace Plun- 
 kett, and others, have met with a fair measure 
 of success. The establishment of creameries, 
 as already mentioned, is one of the innovations 
 made by these agencies. Scotch fishermen, 
 with boats, have been employed to teach the 
 Irish of the west coast profitable methods of 
 fishing; technical schools have been founded in 
 conjunction with other schools in various parts 
 of the country, and small markets have been 
 established for the sale of Irish home products. 
 Hand-weaving, spinning, knitting, embroider- 
 ing, shirt-making, lace-making, and crocheting 
 have been developed somewhat within the past 
 few years, especially in mountain regions of 
 the West, where poverty most abounds, in 
 order that the women might be able to help 
 keep the wolf from the door. 
 
 This is a period of Irish history which gen- 
 erations of the future will probably look back 
 upon as the beginning of an era of change and 
 development when Ireland emerged from a long- 
 continued state of depression and stagnation, 
 brought about by centuries of misrule, into a 
 
312 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 condition of freedom and happiness to which 
 the richness of her soil, the gentleness of her 
 climate, the strange beauty of her scenery, and 
 the genius of her people entitle her. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 SUNSET AT THE GIANT'S CAUSEWAY 
 
 The legend relates that long, long ago — 
 far back in the dim ages of the past, ere civi- 
 lized folk had ever set foot upon the Green Isle 
 — an expedition went out from some distant 
 country for the purpose of conquering the 
 strange peoples upon this rich island of the 
 sea. The little ships were nearing the moun- 
 tains which stood along the coast when the 
 leader arose in his boat and declared that who- 
 soever of all the men should first touch the shores 
 should possess the land and become sovereign 
 of the kingdom; and no one might ever dis- 
 possess him, but he should hand it down to 
 his heirs forever. One dark-browed man, with 
 strength and power written upon his face, 
 strove with all his might to reach the land first 
 of all, but his ship was heavier than the rest, 
 and his oarsmen were weak, and another boat 
 seemed about to push ahead of him to the 
 
 shore. So the man of beetling black brow 
 
 313 
 
3H SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 ground his teeth, seized an axe, and severed 
 his left hand at the wrist. With his right he 
 threw it far out on the sandy shore. Thus the 
 first of the O'Neils, tradition says, came into 
 Ireland to possess it and to rule it forever. 
 
 Hence a sinister hand, gules, became the 
 armorial ensign of the Province of Ulster. 
 That red left hand has for centuries struck 
 terror into the hearts of those families or 
 tribes or clans or peoples who in one man- 
 ner or another gained the enmity of that 
 fierce race of kings who first ruled upon the 
 Irish shores. 
 
 As one travels in leisurely manner from Bel- 
 fast northwestwardly to the ocean which bathes 
 the picturesque northern coast of Ireland, he 
 meets with many a hoary ruin that holds in 
 the vineclad tower and tumbling keep innu- 
 merable stories of those warlike O'Neils who 
 through all the centuries of written and tra- 
 ditional Irish history were connected in one 
 manner or another with almost every impor- 
 tant event which occurred. 
 
 On the northern shore of Lough Neagh, 
 known in olden times as Lqugh N'Eachach, 
 jutting out into the waves upon a peninsula, 
 
SUNSET AT THE GIANT'S CAUSEWAY 315 
 
 are the ruins of Shane's Castle, one of the most 
 famous castle remains of Ireland. Here, al- 
 most covered up in the shade of great gnarled 
 trees, are tumbling walls, and vine-covered 
 turrets, and ruined towers, and danksome 
 keeps — silent and mournful reminders of those 
 old days of Ulster 
 
 "When her kings, with standard of green unfurled, 
 Led her Red-Hand knights to danger ; — 
 Ere the emerald gem of the Western world 
 Was set in the crown of a stranger." 
 
 Within and about the tottering ruins are 
 marks of the olden times. Here was for a 
 thousand years, and is to-day (if you will but 
 listen to the stories told by neighboring peas- 
 antry), the primal and original home of the 
 Banshee. She made her home here to keep 
 watch over the family of the O 'Neils. When- 
 ever one of them was killed in battle, or was 
 lost at sea, or passed quietly away in some 
 other castle fastness, all the night long her 
 shrieks could be heard down in the dense woods, 
 upon the lake shore, high up in the great old 
 castle, or in the vaults and dungeons under- 
 neath. Oftentimes her bitter wail could be 
 heard coming from the graveyard where mul- 
 
316 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 titudes of the O 'Neils were buried in the yew- 
 trees' shade. And even in modern days, long 
 since the last O'Neil was deprived of temporal 
 power, the Banshee has been heard repeatedly 
 to wail. Her cries come at night whenever a 
 descendant of the O'Neil family dies, it matters 
 not whether he is of the gentry or is but a lowly 
 peasant dispossessed of his land. If he is an 
 O'Neil or has O'Neil blood in his veins, his 
 death will be announced in and about the ruins 
 of Shane's Castle by the Banshee who for so 
 many generations has kept watch over the 
 O'Neil family. To hint a doubt of the pres- 
 ence and residence of the Banshee here would 
 be considered by the old folk as something near 
 akin to blasphemy. "Och! and did I not hear 
 the wail myself that night the ould master 
 died?' one will tell you. Or "Indade, sir, 
 and I have seen her virry gyarments glisten 
 there against the wall o' stormy nights whin a 
 death had occurred in the ould family." And 
 they will describe to you the mournfulness of 
 her wail until you actually become unwilling to 
 ramble too far alone among those black old 
 ruins or about the ancient graves. 
 
 Along the lake and on the island near the 
 
SUNSET AT THE GIANT'S CAUSEWAY 317 
 
 shore are innumerable ruins of castles and 
 round-towers; and they say that underneath 
 the waves there are many others that have long 
 ago sunken out of sight. For there are many 
 strange legends connected with the old place. 
 In Caxton's history, published in England in 
 1497, there is an account of how this the larg- 
 est lake of the British Isles originated. The old 
 book earnestly relates that ''there were men in 
 this contre of evyle lyvinge" — this was why 
 calamity overtook them. And in the following 
 manner their sins were visited upon them: There 
 was a well in the neighborhood where all came 
 to be supplied with water. It was a magic well, 
 and had to be kept covered at all times. One 
 day it chanced that a woman went to the well 
 to get water, and being in a hurry she "hyed 
 fasd to hyr chylde yd wepd in ye cradele," 
 leaving the well uncovered. That night it 
 overflowed and made a lake out of the val- 
 ley. Entire towns and villages, they say, 
 were submerged. The old record recounts: 
 "Fysshers of yd water see in ye grounde under 
 ye water rounde toweres and hyghe shapen 
 steeples and churches of yd land." 
 Sings the poet about it: 
 
318 SHAMROCK I AND 
 
 "On lough Neigh's banks as the fisherman stravs. 
 
 When the clear soft eve's declining. 
 He sees the round towers ot* other d.u s 
 In the wave beneath him shining. - ' 
 
 At Antrim. .1 small town near Shane's Castle, 
 one sees in the deer-park which formerly be- 
 longed to the castle a stone which once marked 
 the burial-place of a large number of the O'Neils. 
 It has a rather remarkable inscription upon it: 
 " This vault was erected in the year lOOo by 
 Sheari MacPhelim MacBryan MacShean O'Neil, 
 Esq., as a burying-plaee for himself and the 
 family of Clandekn ." 
 
 A few miles north of Shane's Castle is Bally- 
 mena, a prosperous flax-market town, about 
 which are innumerable ruins and landmarks. 
 Here is Ballykee) Moat, a rath fifty feet high, 
 and a great amphitheater which is probably of 
 Druidical origin. Not far away on the east is 
 Sliemish, a mountain upon which St. Patrick 
 lived as a shepherd for several years after he 
 first came to Ireland. Near Sliemish is a 
 Druid's altar of much impressiveness. 
 
 Traveling between Ballymena and Bally- 
 monev on a train bound for Portrush. I often 
 broke the rules of the Irish railways bv thrust- 
 
/ 
 
SUNSET AT THE GIANT'S CAUSEWAY 319 
 
 ing my head far out of the window of my com- 
 partment, where I had been some time alone, 
 to see some interesting bit of scenery or some 
 unusual sight along the way. I noticed that 
 another head was often outside of another 
 window in the compartment adjoining mine. 
 I did not even suspect that my neighbor might 
 be a fellow-countryman until at the little sta- 
 tion of Glaryford, where the railroad crosses 
 the River Clogh, I heard him with a keen 
 Yankee voice comment upon a bit of scenery 
 against the grassy hillside. Then I spoke. 
 Within five minutes he had transferred his 
 handbaggage to my compartment, and we were 
 talking like old friends. "Look at me!" said 
 he, standing up. "I'm actually one-sided from 
 riding in a jaunting-car so much. But I've 
 seen it all, sir, actually all in south Ireland!" 
 We talked together, comparing notes, until we 
 reached the northern coast, when we separated 
 to meet again the next day and remain together 
 during a tour of Scotland. He was a New 
 Yorker, a Master of Arts of Yale, and his 
 greatest pleasure was found in joking with 
 the railroad officials and country peasants, 
 and playing upon the pianos at the hotels and 
 
320 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 charming all the many who stopped to hear 
 his music. As we sailed away from Ireland he 
 assured me that while he had traveled exten- 
 sively he knew of no country comparable to 
 Ireland in the rare beauty of its scenery or in 
 the kindness of its people. Whenever we came 
 in contact with American tourists in Scotland, 
 which was frequent, I overheard him advising 
 them to include Ireland in their itinerary. I 
 mention these facts only to show how all Amer- 
 icans are impressed with Ireland after having 
 traveled through its interior. 
 
 Passing Ballymoney, we were soon nearing 
 the end of our day's journey. The country 
 about us was beautiful. Rich meadows lay 
 on every hand, with the River Bann down on 
 our left, flowing placidly down to the ocean. 
 In the western distance were round grass- 
 covered mountains that reeked with greenness. 
 Turning due north at Coleraine, a prosperous 
 little city of very early foundation, we soon 
 came in sight of the ocean. Ah! how it gleamed 
 and glittered in the light of the summer sun! 
 How blue, and pure, and tender it appeared, 
 begirt with green shores and beset with emerald 
 islands! 
 
SUNSET AT THE GIANT'S CAUSEWAY 321 
 
 We left the train at Portrush, a clean, new 
 town on the coast which is rapidly becoming 
 the most popular seaside resort in Ireland. 
 Every day in summer crowds come over the 
 railroads to bathe in the ocean, stroll along 
 the coast, and play golf on the Portrush links. 
 On that day there were many visitors in the 
 town, all of prosperous-looking people. Among 
 them were many children who came to bathe 
 in the ocean. They undressed among the 
 rocks upon the sands, got into a slip of a gar- 
 ment, and waded out into the water where 
 they enjoyed themselves to the utmost. 
 
 An electric line runs from Portrush east- 
 wardly along the coast to the Giant's Cause- 
 way, eight miles away. It was a particularly 
 bright afternoon when I made the trip. We 
 ran instantly out into the green meadows, rich 
 with all kinds of summer bloom. The golf 
 links, stretching along the coast, were swarm- 
 ing with players, as, I was informed, was the 
 case almost every agreeable day in summer. 
 They are the best links in Ireland, and so far 
 as scenery goes perhaps the most happily sit- 
 uated links in the United Kingdom. For here 
 begins a view of sea-coast which for genuine 
 
322 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 beauty and grandeur is acknowledged to be 
 one of the most charming in the world. 
 
 As we glided to the top of a smooth green 
 hill and began descending on the other side 
 the beauty of it all dawned upon me. The 
 richness of the country was remarkable. On 
 our left was the sea, densely blue in the sum- 
 mer haze, and on our right, towards the south, 
 was an undulating country of meadows and 
 fields — the picture of pastoral peace. Five 
 miles away, in front, arose the mighty cliffs at 
 whose base lay one of the wonders of the world. 
 Down through meadow and orchard and daisy- 
 flecked field we went, turning now here, now 
 there, while the rich sweetness of summer blos- 
 soms and new-mown hay was swept in to us 
 from the fields. 
 
 The car men had talked with me in Portrush 
 before we started, and they had agreed to 
 point out to me the places of interest and stop 
 the car for me to get some of the prettiest views. 
 On the way the man who handled the trolley 
 and collected the fares, known in America as 
 the conductor, came around and talked with 
 me about himself and his work. He and the 
 driver were stout fellows with pleasant faces 
 
SUNSET AT THE GIANT'S CAUSEWAY 323 
 
 and genial manners. The driver was paid 
 twenty-five shillings a week for his work, and 
 the conductor fifteen shillings, equivalent to 
 $25 and $15 a month, American money. It 
 is scarcely a wonder that they both were anxious 
 for me to procure jobs for them in the United 
 States. 
 
 About four miles east of Portrush we came 
 opposite the ruins of Dunluce Castle, a vast 
 pile of gray turrets, walls and towers, built 
 on the summits of jagged and precipitate masses 
 of rock arising from the ocean a hundred feet 
 below. These ruins are picturesque in the 
 extreme. The rocks upon which the castle 
 is built are connected with the shore by a nar- 
 row wall only eighteen inches in thickness 
 which was built in the place of a former draw- 
 bridge. When the castle was in use it must 
 have been quite impossible for an enemy to 
 take it or even to reach it at all except by cross- 
 ing the drawbridge. 
 
 In one of the chambers of the gray old castle 
 a Banshee is said still to reside. The older 
 and more superstitious folk in that region are 
 confident that she makes her home among these 
 ancient and gloomy ruins, else why is it that 
 
324 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 the chamber is always kept swept so clean, and 
 why is it that one can hear on stormy nights 
 her wail arising above the sound of the waves 
 which beat against the cavern walls under- 
 neath the castle rock ? 
 
 One of the rooms of the castle is suspended 
 in the air, being held in position only by con- 
 nection with the rest of the structure. That 
 portion of the rock upon which it was built 
 has fallen into the sea. There was a similar 
 happening in 1639 when the Marchioness of 
 Buckingham was entertaining guests in the 
 castle. It was a stormy night, and the waves 
 boomed outside against the cliffs, but those 
 within felt snug and secure. However, late 
 in the night a portion of the cliff gave way and 
 precipitated one of the apartments adjoining 
 the kitchen into the waves. Eight servants 
 who were sleeping therein went down into the 
 sea with the stones. 
 
 Though there is lack of definite data, it is 
 thought that Dunluce Castle was built by the 
 McQuillans about 1550. For several centuries 
 its history was replete with romance and tragedy. 
 
 The day when I saw the castle the sun 
 streamed down upon it softly, the waves below 
 
SUNSET AT THE GIANT'S CAUSEWAY 325 
 
 were gentle, and all along the grassy tops of 
 the cliffs summer daisies were growing and 
 birds were building their nests in the ruined 
 walls. 
 
 Two miles east of Dunluce is the old village 
 of Bush Mills, a pretty rural town of about a 
 thousand inhabitants, situated in the midst 
 of a country of grass and grain. The Bush 
 River, upon which it is situated, is a fine stream 
 which turns the wheels of factories and fur- 
 nishes good fishing. 
 
 Making a sharp turn at Bush Mills and 
 proceeding northeast through the green fields 
 and along the rolling hills, one soon reaches 
 the end of the tramway line where he alights 
 and walks up the hill to the tourists' hotel. 
 
 The first evening after my arrival I ate sup- 
 per in a dining-room overlooking the sea, 
 attended by Swiss waiters and entertained by 
 an old German professor who had come hither 
 with his Frau to recuperate after a hard win- 
 ter's lecturing in one of the universities. 
 
 After supper I set out alone to explore the 
 Causeway. I fought off all proffers from guides, 
 for I was determined that this evening should 
 be one of quiet enjoyment of nature. 
 
326 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 Descending a long and in some places steep 
 decline, I at last found myself almost on a level 
 with the sea. Here my walk abruptly ended 
 until I produced the sixpence which was re- 
 quired of me before I could be admitted through 
 the turnstile. 
 
 "The rocks are wet," said the old gate-keeper. 
 "See that ye keep a firm step over the smooth 
 stones, else we might have to come after ye 
 in a wheelbarrow. But jist go where ye will 
 and enjoy yourself to the utmost." 
 
 In ten minutes more I had seen the Giant's 
 Causeway. I hardly knew what to think of 
 it at all. This was one of the world's great 
 wonders, but to me there was nothing sublime 
 there. No lump came into my throat, and no 
 tears into my eyes. I must confess that I was 
 disappointed. I had seen pictures of the Cause- 
 way in school geographies when a child, and 
 I expected to see here some of those gigantic 
 masses of rocks and stormy waves. But the 
 sea was rippling quietly on the shore, and the 
 stones of the Causeway were small indeed. Yet 
 there was something remarkable there unlike 
 anything which I had seen before. There 
 spread out before me were forty thousand pil- 
 
SUNSET AT THE GIANT'S CAUSEWAY 327 
 
 lars of stone, all apparently about twenty inches 
 in diameter, and with a few exceptions all hav- 
 ing five or six sides, cut with an exactness 
 approximating a geometrical figure. These pil- 
 lars, they say, are jointed like bamboo, the 
 sections having a convex base and a concave 
 top. The columns are down on the shore 
 only a few feet above the level of the sea. One 
 may walk around on the tops of the stones 
 where he pleases and make such observations 
 as suits him — wondering the while how it 
 was that Dame Nature should ever have thought 
 of effecting such a freak as this. 
 
 After wandering around for some time upon the 
 Causeway stones, I went up and sat on a bench 
 with the keeper and several of his visitors, 
 possibly neighbors of his who had come to 
 look out over the sea, tell stories, and while 
 away the twilight hours. Among them was a 
 Scotch-Irishman of above middle age who 
 talked to me for some time about the Land 
 Act of 1903. He himself had purchased a 
 small farm under this act, paying for it with 
 money borrowed from the Government. He 
 was glad indeed to get from under the thumb 
 of the landlord. He felt now like a free man. 
 
328 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 "Now," said he, "I have no more dealings with 
 the landlord than I do with the devil," adding 
 after some thought, "possibly not quite so 
 much." The man was what might be called 
 an uneducated small farmer, though he had 
 good sense and was above the average in powers 
 of conversation. He talked most sensible of 
 Ireland and her problems, choosing rather the 
 Scotch-Irish view of the matter, though he was 
 decidedly democratic in spirit. He would have 
 made a successful farmer in America or a shrewd 
 man of business. 
 
 An old woman was seated on a bench near 
 by. She had begun talking to me when I 
 first came in sight, and had kept up her con- 
 versation as best she could all the time I sat 
 there. She appeared to be real Irish, and her 
 manner of expression was that of the South. 
 Och! no, I did not have to tell her I was an 
 American. She knew it as soon as I came in 
 sight. She could tell Americans as far as she 
 could see them. Possibly there was some 
 peculiarity in their dress, but it was most of 
 all their quickness and the business-like man- 
 ner in which they went about everything, even 
 the exploration of the Causeway. They lost 
 
SUNSET AT THE GIANT'S CAUSEWAY 329 
 
 no time in anything except the pronunciation 
 of their words and the formation of their sen- 
 tences. She could not understand this exactly, 
 but she was certain the Irish were much quicker 
 of speech. But how she did like the Americans! 
 They were so cordial and so kind. And she 
 had many friends in the United States. She 
 was sure it must be a "grate counthry." 
 
 And the little group continued to talk to me 
 about Ireland, its affairs and its traditions. 
 
 Did I see that green island lying out there 
 in the ocean ? One of those sitting by asked 
 me. Well, far out beyond it were the many 
 islands off the western coast of Scotland. One 
 of them was the isle of Staffa, and upon it, 
 down on a level with the sea, was Fingal's 
 Cave. Though the nearest Scotch island was 
 scarce thirty miles across the North Channel, 
 yet Staffa was ninety miles away on the north. 
 At one time many, many years ago the Giant's 
 Causeway extended from these cliffs where 
 we sat to Staffa. Any one might be able to 
 see that it had been built by giants. Only 
 giants could hew and handle those mighty 
 stones. The building of it came about in this 
 wise: 
 
330 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 Fin MacCoul had for many years been the 
 champion of all Ireland. Not another giant 
 in the country, and there were many, had ever 
 dared openly to oppose him in anything. But 
 over in Scotland there was one great fellow, 
 Benandonner, who was most insolent in the 
 messages which he constantly sent over to Fin. 
 He just wanted to see Fin once and give him a 
 drubbing that he would not soon forget. Only 
 it was winter, and the water was cold, and he 
 did not care to swim over. Fin applied to 
 the king for permission to construct a causeway 
 connecting the two countries, in order that 
 the Scotchman might have no excuse for not 
 coming. The king gave his permission — he 
 was not unused to allowing Fin to have his 
 way in most things — and the Irishman, who 
 was a rapid workman, lost no time in complet- 
 ing the causeway across to Scotland. The 
 Scotch giant reluctantly came over, but he had 
 no sooner planted his feet on Ulster soil than 
 Fin gave him a beating that left him black and 
 blue for many a day. But, like all true Irish- 
 men, Fin was generous and kind, and he gave 
 Benandonner permission to marry and settle 
 in Ireland. This the Scotch giant was glad 
 
SUNSET AT THE GIANT'S CAUSEWAY 331 
 
 to do, being that Scotland is such a poor coun- 
 try to live in anyway, and everybody knows 
 that Ireland is the best country in the world. 
 
 After the giants died the causeway went into 
 disuse and gradually sank beneath the waves. 
 Only portions of it might now be seen — at 
 either end and on the coast of Rathlin Island. 
 
 Beetling above us were a number of tall 
 slender rocks known as the Chimney-tops. In 
 Elizabeth's time these rocks were battered by 
 cannon-balls from one of the ships of the Span- 
 ish Armada whose crew mistook them for the 
 turrets of Dunluce Castle. Thus losing its 
 bearings, and the night being stormy, the ship 
 went down on the rocks in that bay before us. 
 It was now known as Port-na-Spania. Casks 
 of gold were rolled in on the shore by the waves, 
 and they say that the rocks are stained with 
 Spanish wine even to this day. Many years 
 later the skeletons of the lost Spaniards could 
 now and then be found; and sometimes a 
 skull laced up in armor would come in, with 
 death laughing through the chattering jaws. 
 
 The sun was nearing the ocean which lay 
 quietly before us. The air was full of the fresh 
 odors of the sea and the bloom of summer 
 
332 
 
 SHAMROCK-LAND 
 
 flowers on the cliffs. I left the little company 
 there in the quiet of the approaching twilight, 
 and walked up the path along the cliffs. As I 
 went on I got higher and higher above the sea. 
 The scenery grew wilder and the prospects 
 became mightier. In some places the path 
 along the cliffs was cut around boulders or 
 made to hang over dizzy precipices. It was 
 only after I had climbed these heights that I 
 fully understood why the Giant's Causeway is 
 so popular with those who love the beautiful 
 and the wonderful in nature. That marvel- 
 ous floor of polished hexagons down near the 
 waves perhaps attracted many to the place 
 that they might study the strange formations 
 in stone, but it was these mighty cliffs, reaching 
 from the sea up to dizzy heights that added a 
 touch of the sublime which once having been 
 seen can never be forgotten. 
 
 More and more beautiful grew the wide- 
 stretched sea, purpler grew the cliffs, and ten- 
 derer the sky. Onward and upward still I 
 went until at last I reached the summit. Be- 
 fore me were no rocky mountain-sides or 
 wastes of stone. Instead, there were meadows 
 flecked with daisies and primroses; and coun- 
 
mm. 
 
 
 'Z 
 
SUNSET AT THE GIANT'S CAUSEWAY 333 
 
 try lanes, enclosed with hawthorn hedges, 
 stretched into the hazy distance of this day of 
 June. 
 
 The linnets were singing their evening songs; 
 sweet odors of sod-blossoms and new-mown 
 hay filled the summer air. Far, far out, stretch- 
 ing away from the foot of these giant cliffs, the 
 sea lay, dimpled like some inland lake. 
 
 And oh! the glory that filled the sky when 
 the sun sank into the sea! I thought it was 
 worth crossing the ocean only to sit there for 
 an hour upon the sward of matted shamrocks 
 at the top of the beetling heights, with the ocean 
 sleeping at its feet, and watch the blazing red 
 change to gold, and the gold to saffron, and the 
 saffron to pink, — and opaline, and gray, and 
 somber lead — and the evening star and the 
 crescent moon of an Irish summer night. 
 
 THE END 
 
INDEX 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Adrian IV, Pope 93 
 
 Aghamarta Castle 14 
 
 Agriculture and Technical Instruction, Board of . 299 
 
 Aherlow, Valley of 95 
 
 Ailbe, Saint 109 
 
 "Alien" Ireland 218 
 
 "Alien of the West, An" 250 
 
 Anglo-Normans in Ireland 93 seq., 156 
 
 Annahkeen Castle, near Galway 187 
 
 Anne's, St., Church, in Cork 34 
 
 Antrim County 152,241 
 
 Aristocracy, Irish 218 seq. 
 
 Arklow, Famous Woods Near 121 
 
 Armada, The Spanish, at the Giant's Causeway .... 331 
 
 Athlone, Garrison Town of Central Ireland 198 
 
 Auburn, "The Deserted Village" 205^17. 
 
 Austin, Alfred, Description of Killarney 82 
 
 Ballaghkeeran Village, Near Auburn 203 
 
 Ballycuirke Lough 191 
 
 Ballycurrin Castle, near Galway 187 
 
 Ballyhoura Hills in South Ireland 95,119 
 
 Ballykeel Moat, Near Ballymena, in County Antrim . . 318 
 Ballymena, a Flax-Manufacturing Town in County Antrim 318 
 Ballymoney, a Market Town in County Antrim . 278, 279, 318 
 
 Bann, River, in County Antrim 253, 320 
 
 Banshee, The, Ireland's Greatest "Spirit" . 135, 136, 315, 323 
 
 335 
 
336 INDEX 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Barr, Saint Finn, the Founder of Cork 31 
 
 Bars, Irish, The Frequency of 236 
 
 Bars, Irish, The Luxuriancy of 96 
 
 Beaconsfield's, Lord, Speech on Ireland 3 
 
 Beggars, Irish, The Importunities of 38 
 
 Belfast, the Largest City of Ireland 21,152,253 
 
 Benandonner, The Giant 330 
 
 Black Head, on Galway Bay 181 
 
 Black Rock Castle on the River Lee 14 
 
 Blackwater River in South Ireland 308 
 
 Blackwater Valley 94 
 
 Blarney Castle 43 seq. 
 
 Blarney Lake 46 
 
 Blarney Stone, The 30, 44, 48 
 
 Blarney, The Groves of 53 
 
 Blarney Village 30,41,43 
 
 Blood, Irish, Mixed 231 
 
 Boglands of Galway 163 
 
 Boyne, Battle of the 252, 258 
 
 Brefni, Lord, or Chief of 92 
 
 Brian Boru 92, 254 
 
 Bridget, Saint 149 
 
 Bruce, Edward, Crowned King of Ireland 252 
 
 Buchanan, James, a Scotch-Irishman 281 
 
 Buckingham, Marchioness of, at Dunluce Castle . . . 324 
 Bush Mills, in Antrim, near the Giant's Causeway . . . 325 
 
 Calhoun, John C, a Scotch-Irishman 281 
 
 Cashel, City of, in County Tipperary .... 103, 107, 108 
 
 Cashel, Rock of 103, 106, 108 
 
 Catholic Church, The 232, 241 
 
 Causeway, The Giant's, in County Antrim' 321 
 
 Caxton's History 317 
 
 Celtic Revival of Literature, The 248 
 
INDEX 
 
 337 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Cenn-gecan, an Early King of Munster 117 
 
 Censuses of Ireland 284 seq. 
 
 Characteristics of the North and the South Irish . . . 263 
 
 Charleville, Town of 95 
 
 Chimney-Tops, The, at the Giant's Causeway . . . .331 
 
 Church Life, Irish 240 
 
 "City of the Violated Treaty, The" 146 
 
 Claddagh, The, Part of Galway City 175 
 
 Clancarty, The Lords of 45 
 
 Clare, County 61 
 
 Clare, Richard of, Known as "Strongbow" 93 
 
 Classes, The Two Irish 218,231 
 
 Clericaune, The, an Irish Spook 133 
 
 Clonakilty, on the South Irish Coast 5 
 
 Clonmel, The Church of, near Queenstown 14 
 
 Clontarf, Battle of 92,254 
 
 Cloyne, Village and Tower of 14 
 
 Coleraine, a Town of North Ireland 320 
 
 Comeragh Mountains in South Ireland 118 
 
 Commerce with Southern Europe, Galway's 157 
 
 Congested Districts Board 90, 126 
 
 Congregationalists, The 241 
 
 Connaught, The Province of 92 
 
 Connemara, The Western Portion of County Galway . 156,232 
 
 Constabulary, The Irish 69 
 
 Corcach, The Old Name of Cork ^3 
 
 Core, Son of Loo-ee 105 
 
 Cordiality of Galway People 173 
 
 Cork Harbor 15 
 
 Cork, The Ancient City of 19,25,31 
 
 Cormac MacCarthy 45>u° 
 
 Cormac's Chapel, on the Rock of Cashel 109 
 
 Corrib, Lough 175 
 
 Country Church, The Irish 241 
 
338 INDEX 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Courtmacsherry Bay 5 
 
 Courtship, Irish Method of 225 seq. 
 
 Cove of Cork 10 
 
 Creagh, Archbishop 110 
 
 Creameries 100 
 
 Cromlechs, Remains of Early Inhabitants .... 13, 105 
 
 Cromwell, Oliver 293 
 
 Cromwell's Armies at Killarney 80 
 
 Crops of Ireland, The 304^. 
 
 Crow, The Irish 75 
 
 Danes in Ireland 32,91 
 
 Dan, Father 226 
 
 Danish Raths 203 
 
 Declan, Saint 109 
 
 Decrease in Population 269,282,286 
 
 Denominational Statistics 264. 
 
 Dense Forests of Early Ireland 104 
 
 Description of Ireland, General 284 
 
 Deserted Village, The ... 205 seq. 
 
 Devil's Bit Mountains 116 
 
 Devonshire, Duke and Duchess of 94 
 
 Devorgilla, Wife of the Chief of Brefni 92 
 
 Disestablishment of the Irish Church 265 
 
 Divisions of Ireland, The Four 254 
 
 Doneraile Park 95 
 
 Doordry 105 
 
 Down, County . 21,241,252 
 
 Downpatrick, Burial-Place of St. Patrick 21 
 
 Drake, Sir Francis 14 
 
 Drake's Pool, near Cork Harbor 14 
 
 Drink Bill, Ireland's Great 98 
 
 Drinking in Ireland 96 
 
 Drogheda, Siege Town, North of Dublin 252 
 
INDEX 339 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Dromineer Castle 187 
 
 Druidical Remains 318 
 
 Druidism, Religion of 105 
 
 Druids, in Early Ireland *3>20 
 
 Dublin City 252 
 
 Dundalk 252 
 
 Dundrum, Railway Station in the Golden Vale .... 144 
 
 Dunloe, Gap of, at Killarney 63 
 
 Dunluce Castle, on the Northern Coast 323 seq. 
 
 Dunraven, The Earl of, a Reformer 298,311 
 
 Durmot MacMurragh 92 
 
 Eagle's Nest, at Killarney 63 
 
 Early Ireland 104,178,179 
 
 Elizabeth, Queen 255 
 
 England's Conquest of Ireland 91 seq. 
 
 Ennis, a Town in County Clare 232 
 
 Episcopalians, The 241,264 
 
 Erne River 308 
 
 "Faerie Queene, The" 95 
 
 Fairies, Irish Belief in 129^., 203 
 
 Fairs, Irish 237 seq. 
 
 Famine, The Potato 11,286 
 
 Father Matthew 97 
 
 Fear of the Peasantry, The Gentry's 233 
 
 Fenian Revolt 233 
 
 Fights on Hiring and Market Days 121 
 
 Fingal's Cave 3 2 9 
 
 Finian, Saint, Founder of Innisfallen Abbey 81 
 
 Fin MaeCoul, the Giant 330 
 
 Finn Barr, Saint, Founder of Cork 31 
 
 Fitzgeralds, The *3 
 
 Fitz-Stephen, James Lynch 180 
 
340 INDEX 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Fitz-Stephen, Robert 93 
 
 "Five Years in Ireland," McCarthy 271 
 
 Flax Manufacture 253 
 
 Fuel, Peat or Turf Used for 168 
 
 Funerals, Irish 242 seq. 
 
 Gabhul 21 
 
 Gaelic League 90,239,309 
 
 Gaelic Tongue 131,242,244 
 
 Galley Head 5 
 
 Galway City 1545^., 178 
 
 Galway County, Fences of 162 
 
 Galty Mountains 95> n 9 
 
 Geese, Strings of 73 
 
 Giant's Causeway, The 321 seq. 
 
 Glandore Harbor 5 
 
 Glaryford, in County Antrim 319 
 
 Glassan, "The Village of Roses" 204 
 
 Glena Wood 82 
 
 Golden Bridge 140 
 
 Golden Vale of Tipperary .... 87,95,114,119,125,289 
 
 Golden, Village of 140 
 
 Goldsmith, Oliver 206 
 
 Goldsmith's Deserted Village 205 seq. 
 
 Goldsmith, The Rev. Charles 206 
 
 Goold's Cross 103 
 
 Grattan 149 
 
 Groves of Blarney, The 53 
 
 Gwynn, Stephen 127,272 
 
 Hearth-Money Collectors' Census 285 
 
 Henry II of England 93> 1 5& 
 
 Hibernia 20 
 
 Hiring Day in Ireland 119,241 
 
INDEX 341 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Homes, Neglected in Ireland 127,235 
 
 Home Rule 88,258 
 
 Home Rule, Scotch View of 88 
 
 Hore Abbey, at Cashel 116 
 
 Hospitality, Irish 52 
 
 Imokilly, Seneschals of 13 
 
 Inchacommaun 187 
 
 Inchiquin 187 
 
 Industries of the North 263 
 
 Inishmicatreer 187 
 
 Inishmore 181 
 
 Innisfallen, Annals of 81 
 
 Innisfallen, Island and Abbey 80 
 
 Interiors of Irish Homes 291 
 
 Intolerance of Protestants 262 
 
 Ireland, Area of 284 
 
 "Ireland at the Cross-Roads," by Filson Young 220,251,266 
 "Ireland Industrial and Agricultural," by Coyne. . . 251 
 
 "Ireland in the New Century," by Sir Horace Plunkett 250,275 
 
 Irish Church, The 264 
 
 Irish in America, The 298 
 
 Irish Pronunciation and Speech 223 
 
 Irish Type, The 219,222 
 
 Irish View of England 153 
 
 Jackson, Andrew 281 
 
 Jackson, General "Stonewall" 281 
 
 Jackson, Miss, Relative of Stonewall Jackson .... 232 
 
 James I of England 255 
 
 James II of England 258 
 
 Jarconnaught 175, 190 
 
 Jaunting-Car, The Irish 12 
 
 Jeffreys, Sir James 46 
 
342 INDEX 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Jews in Ireland 241 
 
 John, King of England 94 
 
 Keen and Keeners, The 244 
 
 Kenmare, Earl of, and Estate 67 
 
 Kerry County 58 
 
 Kerry County, Decrease in Population 125 
 
 Kildare, Earl of ..... . no 
 
 Killarn 105 
 
 Killarney, Lakes and Mountains of 62 
 
 Killarney Town 58, 61 
 
 Kilcolman Castle 95 
 
 Kilkenny-West, Charles Goldsmith made Rector of . . 210 
 
 Kilkenny-West, Pinnacle of 205 
 
 Killaloe 188 
 
 Kinsale, Old Head of 5 
 
 Kinvarra 188 
 
 Kippeen, a Staff for Fighting 121 
 
 Knockdrin Castle 187 
 
 KnockgrafFon, Moat of . . 139 
 
 Land Acts 294 
 
 Land Bill of 1903 294,327 
 
 Leane, Lough 63 
 
 Lee, River 14 
 
 Lee, Valley of the 55 
 
 Leinster Province 92 
 
 Leprahawn, The 133,203 
 
 Limerick, County 95 
 
 Limerick County, Decrease in Population of 125 
 
 Limerick Junction 95 
 
 Limerick, The Ancient Siege City 95 
 
 Lisburn 253 
 
 Lisdoonvarna 188 
 
INDEX 343 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Lismore, Village and Castle 94 
 
 Lissoy, The "Deserted Village" 205 
 
 Longford County 210 
 
 Low-back Cars 41 
 
 Lynch, Hannah 228 
 
 Lynch's Castle 180 
 
 Lurgan 253 
 
 MacCarthy, Cormac 45, 1 10 
 
 MacCarvill, David 116 
 
 MacCoul, Fin, The Giant 330 
 
 MacCulinan, Cormac no 
 
 MacGillicuddy Reeks, at Killarney 63 
 
 Mahony, Francis S., The Poet 54 
 
 Mallow Junction 61,94 
 
 Mary, Castle 13 
 
 Mass, Sunday 241 
 
 Matthew, Father Theobald 97 
 
 McCarthy, Justin , 92 
 
 McCarthy, Michael J. F 128,270 
 
 McKinley's, President, Ancestral Home 280 
 
 McMurragh, Dermot 92 
 
 McQuillans, The, Builders of Dunluce Castle .... 324 
 
 Meeting of the Waters, Killarney 63 
 
 Methodists, The 241,264 
 
 Mildwin O'Donoghue 81 
 
 Millikin, Richard Alfred, The Poet 53 
 
 Monoghan County 152 
 
 Montaigne, Earl of 94 
 
 Moore, Thomas 82 
 
 Moryson's Census 285 
 
 Moycullen, in Galway 175 
 
 Moyne 187 
 
 Muckross Abbey, at Killarney 80 
 
344 INDEX 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Muckross Lake, at Killarney 63 
 
 Munster, The Province of 45, 88, 92, 269, 270 
 
 Muskerry, The Lords of 45 
 
 "My New Curate," by Father Dan 226 
 
 Natfraitch, King 117 
 
 National Schools 151,204,240,272,309 
 
 Neagh, Lough 314 
 
 Neglected Homes in Ireland 127,235 
 
 Newry, a City of County Down 253 
 
 Newspapers, Irish 25 
 
 Norman Conquest of Ireland 91 
 
 O'Brien, Donald no 
 
 O'Briens, The 13 
 
 O'Connor, Hon. T. P 98,261,269 
 
 Occupations of the Irish People 289 
 
 O'Donnell, Earl of Tyrconnel 255 
 
 O'Donoghues, The 80 
 
 Oengus, Patrick's First Convert in South Ireland 109, 116,117 
 
 O'Neil, Earl of Tyrone 255 
 
 O'Neils, The, of Ulster 314 seq. 
 
 Orangemen, Society of 257 
 
 Oranmore 188 
 
 Origin of Lynching 180 
 
 Pallas, the Birthplace of Oliver Goldsmith 210 
 
 Parnell 149 
 
 Partial Character of the Norman Conquest 94 
 
 Pasturage Supersedes Tillage 282 
 
 Patrick, Saint 20,109,149,318 
 
 Peasant Woman, The Irish 234^. 
 
 Peasant Woman, The Irish, Her Duties 236 seq. 
 
INDEX 345 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Peat-Cutting in Galway 164^. 
 
 Penn, William 14 
 
 Petty, Sir William, Census of 285 
 
 " Pigeons, The " 210,215 
 
 Pinnacle of Kilkenny-West, The 205 
 
 Plantation of Ulster, The 255, 266 
 
 Plunkett, Sir Horace 250,275,311 
 
 Politics, Irish Interest in 161 
 
 Pooka, The 135 
 
 Pope Adrian IV 93 
 
 Population of Ireland 11,284 
 
 Portadown 253 
 
 Port-na-Spania 331 
 
 Portrush, in County Antrim 152,321 
 
 Potato in Ireland, The 305 
 
 Presbyterians, The Irish 241,264,265 
 
 Presbyterians, The Irish, Thrift of 275 
 
 Pride, Irish 228 seq. 
 
 "Priests and People in Ireland," by Michael McCarthy . 271 
 
 Protestant Ireland 255 seq. 
 
 Prout, Father, Francis S. Mahony, The Poet .... 35, 54 
 Pyne, Sir Richard 45 
 
 Queenstown 1, 10 
 
 Queenstown Harbor 6,7 
 
 Question, The Irish 57, 288 
 
 Railway Stations, Irish 96 
 
 Railway Travel, The Three Classes of 17 
 
 Rathlin Island 331 
 
 Raths, Peopled with Fairies 113,203 
 
 Red Hand, The Armorial Ensign of Ulster 314 
 
 Ree, Lough 199 
 
 Richard of Clare 93 
 
346 INDEX 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Roads, Irish 55,224,304 
 
 "Rock-Close, The Sweet," at Blarney 53 
 
 Rock of Cashel, The 103,116 
 
 "Rome in Ireland," by Michael McCarthy .... 271,278 
 
 Ross Abbey 187 
 
 Ross Carberry Bay 5 
 
 Ross Castle . 79 
 
 Rostellan Castle * 13 
 
 Round Towers, Irish m seq. 
 
 Sadness, Irish, Due to Climate 58 
 
 Scotch-Irish, The 256 
 
 Scotch View of Home Rule 88 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter 52 
 
 "Seething Pot, The" 250 
 
 Seven Heads 5 
 
 Shandon Bells, The 34 
 
 Shane's Castle in County Antrim 315 
 
 Shannon, The River 198,308 
 
 Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, The 87,234,279 
 
 Shillalah, the Weapon Used in Factional Fights .... 121 
 
 Sliemish Mountain 318 
 
 Slieve-na-Muck Hills 100 
 
 Spaniards in Ireland 155^., 179 
 
 Spenser, Edmund and His Home 95 
 
 Sports in Ireland, Sunday 241 
 
 Staffa, Island of 329 
 
 Stagnation in Agriculture 287 
 
 St. Anne's Church, Cork 34 
 
 Stevenson, Robert Louis 81 
 
 St. Nicholas' Church, Galway 195 
 
 Stonewall Jackson 281 
 
 Stonewall Jackson's Relative 234 
 
 "Strongbow," Richard of Clare 93* x 5^ 
 
INDEX 347 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Suir, The River 140,308 
 
 Tillage Superseded by Pasturage 282 
 
 Tipperary County, Decrease in Population of .... 124 
 
 Tipperary, Golden Vale of 87 
 
 Tipperary, Town of 99 
 
 Titled Aristocrats 220 
 
 "To-day and To-morrow in Ireland," by Gwynn .127,250,272 
 
 Tore Lake, Killarney 63 
 
 Total Abstinence Society 97 
 
 Towers, Irish Round in seq. 
 
 Trains, Irish 247 
 
 "Tribes of Galway, The" 156 
 
 Turf-Cutting in Galway 164^^. 
 
 Turf-Sellers 65 
 
 Ulster, Province of 89,92,255,314 
 
 University of Paris 91 
 
 University of Virginia 223 
 
 Unthrift, Irish 229 
 
 Village of Roses, The 204 
 
 Wages of Farm Hands 303 
 
 Wakes, Irish 242 seq. 
 
 Warden of Galway, The 180 
 
 Waterford, The City of . . ■ 99 
 
 Wattle, a Weapon Used in Fighting 121 
 
 Weir Bridge, Killarney 63 
 
 Wexford, Taken by English 93 
 
 Wicklow County, Woods of 121 
 
 Wild Animals and Birds, Early Irish 104 
 
 William and Mary College in Virginia 223 
 
 William III, Signed Charter of "City of Cashel" . . . 140 
 
348 INDEX 
 
 PAGE 
 
 William of Orange 2 C7 
 
 Wolfe, Rev. Charles [ , 4 
 
 Women of Ireland 218 seq 
 
 Yeats, An Irish Poet gj 
 
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