The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Charm of Ireland, by Burton Egbert Stevenson
Title: The Charm of Ireland
Author: Burton Egbert Stevenson
Release Date: March 8, 2011 [eBook #35529]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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THE CHARM OF IRELAND
See page 356
The
Charm of Ireland
Burton E. Stevenson
the Boule Cabinet," etc.
With many Illustrations from
Photographs by the Author
New York
Dodd, Mead and Company
1914
By DODD, MEAD & COMPANY
J. I. B.
THIS BOOK
CONTENTS
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE Dublin Castle 10 O'Connell, alias Sackville, Street, Dublin 10 Ruins of St. Mary's Abbey Howth 22 The Evolution of the Jaunting Car 28 The Cross of Cong 40 The Shrine of St. Patrick's Bell 40 Glendalough and the Ruins of St. Kevin's Churches 66 The Road to St. Kevin's Seat 74 The First of St. Kevin's Churches 74 The Round Tower, Clondalkin 88 St. Lawrence's Gate, Drogheda 88 Holy Cross Abbey, from the Cloisters 100 The Mighty Ruins on the Rock of Cashel 100 Cashel of the Kings 104 Blarney
THE CHARM OF IRELAND
CHAPTER I
The boat showed many evidences that the Irish Sea can be savage when it chooses. Everything movable about the decks was carefully lashed down; there were railings and knotted ropes everywhere to cling to; and in the saloon the table-racks were set ready at hand, as though they had just been used, and might be needed again at any moment. But, on this Saturday evening in late May, the sea was in a pleasant, even a jovial, mood, with just enough swell to send a thin shower of spray across the deck from time to time, and lend exhilaration to the rush of the fleet little turbine.
There were many boats in sight—small ones, for the most part, rolling and pitching apparently much worse than we; and then the gathering darkness obscured them one by one, and presently all that was left of them were the bobbing white lights at their mastheads. A biting chill crept into the air, and Betty finally sought refuge from it in the saloon, while I made my way back to the smoking-room, hoping for a friendly pipe with some one.
I was attracted at once by a rosy-faced old priest, sitting at one of the corner tables. He was smoking a black, well-seasoned briar, and he bade me a cheery good-evening as I dropped into the seat beside him.
"You would be from America," he said, watching me as I filled up.
"Yes," I answered. "From Ohio."
"Ah, I know Ohio well," and he looked at me with new interest, "though for many years I have been in Illinois."
"But you were born in Ireland?"
"I was so; near Tuam. I am going back now for a visit."
"Have you been away long?"
"More than thirty years," he said, and took a few reflective puffs.
"No doubt you will find many changes," I ventured.
But he shook his head. "I am thinking I shall find Tuam much as I left it," he said. "There are not many changes in Ireland, even in thirty years. 'Tis not like America. I am afraid I shall have to give up smoking while I am there," he added, with a little sigh.
"Give up smoking?" I echoed. "But why?"
"They do not like their priests to smoke in Ireland."
I was astonished. I had no suspicion that Irish priests were criticised for little things like that. In fact, I had somewhere received the impression that they were above criticism of every kind—dictators, in short, no act of whose was questioned. My companion laughed when I told him this.
"That is not so at all," he said. "Every priest, of course, has authority in spiritual matters; but if he has any authority outside of that, it is because his people trust him. And before they'll trust him, he must deserve it. There is no people in the world so critical, so suspicious, or so sharp-sighted as the Irish. Take this matter of smoking, now. All Irishmen smoke, and yet there is a feeling that it is not the right thing for a priest. For myself, I see no harm in it. My pipe is a fine companion in the long evenings, when I am often lonely. But of course I can't do anything that would be making the people think less of me," and he knocked his pipe out tenderly and put it sadly in his pocket, refusing my proffered pouch.
"You will have to take a few whiffs up the chimney occasionally," I suggested.
His faded blue eyes lit up with laughter.
"Ah, I have done that same before this," he said, with a little chuckle. "That would be while I was a student at Maynooth, and a wild lot we were. There was a hole high up in the wall where the stove-pipe used to go, and we boys would draw a table under it, and stand on the table, and smoke up the chimney, turn and turn about," and he went on to tell me of those far-off days at Maynooth, which is the great Catholic college of Ireland, and of his first visit to America, and his first sight of Niagara Falls, and of how he had finally decided to enter the priesthood after long uncertainty; and then presently some one came to the door and said the lights of the Irish coast could be seen ahead, and we went out to look at them.
Far away, a little to the right, a strong level shaft of light told of a lighthouse. It was the famous Bailey light, at the foot of the Hill of Howth, so one of the deckhands said; and then, still farther off, another light began to wink and wink, and then a third that swept its level beam across the sea, stared one full in the eye for an instant, and then swept on; and then more lights and more—the green and red ones marking the entrance to the harbour; and finally the lights of Kingstown itself stretched away to the left like a string of golden beads. And then we were in the harbour; and then we were beside the pier; and then Betty and I and the "chocolate-drop"—as we had named the brown English wrap-up which had done such yeoman service in Holland that we had vowed never to travel without it,—went down the gang-plank, and were in Ireland!
There is always a certain excitement, a certain exhilaration, in setting foot for the first time in any country; but when that country is Ireland, the Island of the Saints, the home of heroic legend and history more heroic still, the land with a frenzy for freedom yet never free—well, it was with a mist of happiness before our eyes that we crossed the pier and sought seats in the boat-train.
It is only five or six miles from Kingstown to Dublin, so that at the end of a very few minutes our train stopped in the Westland Row station, where a fevered mob of porters and hotel runners was in waiting; and then, after most of the passengers and luggage had been disgorged, and a guard had come around and collected twopence from me for some obscure reason I did not attempt to fathom, went on again, along a viaduct above gleaming streets murmurous with people, and across the shining Liffey, to the station at Amiens Street, which was our destination.
Our hotel, I knew, was only two or three blocks away, and the prospect of traversing on foot the crowded streets which we had
"Here!" he called. "Take the bags for the gintleman. Look sharrup, now!"
But there was no need to tell him to look sharp, for he sprang toward me eagerly, his face alight with joy at the prospect of earning a few pennies—maybe sixpence—perhaps even a shilling!
"Where is it you'd be wantin' to go, sir?" he asked, and touched his cap.
I named the hotel.
"It's in Sackville Street," I added. "That's not far, is it?"
"'Tis just a step, sir," he protested, and picked up the bags and was off, we after him.
It was long past eleven o'clock, but when we got down to the street, we found it thronged with a crowd for which the sidewalks were much too narrow, and which eddied back and forth and in and out of the shops like waves of the sea. We looked into their faces as we went along, and saw that they were good-humoured faces, unmistakably Irish; their voices were soft and the rise and fall of the talk was very sweet and gentle; but most of them were very shabby, and many of them undeniably dirty, and some had celebrated Saturday evening by taking a glass too much. They were not drunk—and I may as well say here that I did not see what I would call a drunken man all the time I was in Ireland—but they were happy and uplifted, and required rather more room to walk than they would need on Monday morning.
Our porter, meanwhile, was ploughing through the crowd ahead of us like a ship through the sea, swinging a bag in either hand, quite regardless of the shins of the passers-by, and we were hard put to it to keep him in sight. It was farther than I had thought, but presently I saw a tall column looming ahead which I recognised as the Nelson Pillar, and I assured Betty that we were nearly there, for I knew that our hotel was almost opposite the Pillar. Our porter, however, crossed a broad street, which I was sure must be Sackville Street, without pausing, and continued at top speed straight ahead. We followed him for some moments; but the street grew steadily darker and more deserted, and finally I sprinted ahead and stopped him.
"Look here," I said. "We don't want to keep on walking all night. How much farther is the hotel?"
He set down the bags and mopped his dripping face with his sleeve.
"I'm not quite sure, sir," he said, looking about him.
"I don't believe it is up this way at all," I protested. "It's back there on Sackville Street."
"It is, sir," he agreed cheerfully, and picked up the bags again and started back.
"That is Sackville Street, isn't it?" I asked.
"Sure, I don't know, sir."
"Don't know?" I echoed, and stared at him. "Don't you know where the hotel is?"
"You see, sir, I'm a stranger in Dublin, like yourself," he explained.
"Well, why on earth didn't you say so?" I demanded.
He didn't answer; but of course I realised instantly why he hadn't said so. If he had, he wouldn't have got the job. That was what he was afraid of. In fact, he was afraid, even yet, that I would take the bags away from him and get some one else to carry them. I didn't do that, but I took command of the expedition.
"Come along," I said. "You follow me."
"Thank you, sir," he said, his face lighting up again, and fell in behind us.
As we retraced our steps, I tried to figure out how he had expected to find the hotel by plunging straight ahead without asking the way of any one, and for how long, if I had not stopped him, he would have kept on walking. Perhaps he had expected to keep going round and round until some good fairy led him to our destination.
At the corner of Sackville Street, I saw a policeman's helmet looming high above the crowd, and I went to him and asked the way, while our porter waited in the background. Perhaps he was afraid of policemen, or perhaps it was just the instinctive Irish dislike of them. This particular one bent a benignant face down upon us from his altitude of something over six feet, and in a moment set us right. The hotel was only a few steps away. The door was locked, and I had to ring, and while we were waiting, our porter looked about him with a bewildered face.
"What name was it you gave this street, sir?" he asked, at last.
"Sackville Street," I answered, and pointed for confirmation to the sign at the corner, very plain under the electric light.
From the vacant look he gave it I knew he couldn't read; but he scratched his head perplexedly.
"A friend of mine told me 'twas O'Connell Street," he said finally, and I paid him and dismissed him without realising that I had been brought face to face with the age-long conflict between English officialism and Irish patriotism.
Ten minutes later, I opened the window of our room and found myself looking out at Lord Nelson, leaning sentimentally on his sword on top of his pillar—posing as he so often did when he found himself in the limelight. Far below, the street still hummed with life, although it was near midnight. The pavements were crowded, side-cars whirled hither and thither, some of the shops had not yet closed. Dublin certainly seemed a gay town.