Well, we now have the Celt with a vengeance! Cork is the most
detestable place I ever saw. Such drunkenness, filth, and squalor I
never dreamed possible outside of China! Ardent Home Ruler as I am,
I can now understand the Ulsterman's fear and hatred of a rule that
might turn Belfast into such a dunghill! You will say, and no doubt
you are right, that this shows a lack of faith, and that thrift
drives out filth. But sometimes it works the other way. At any
rate, one cannot wonder that the Ulsterman should think that not
faith like a mustard-seed, but like a mountain, would be needed to
enable a man to believe that Protestant Ulster can be benefited by an
alliance with Dublin and Cork. However, this is supposed to be the
chronicle of a car and not a new treatise on the Irish Question.
When we were at Chester I bought a "slicker," which the salesman
called a "shirt," and by that name it has gone between us ever since.
As you may fancy, it has proved a useful article when I tell you that
here, "The rain it raineth every day," not all the time, of course,
but when one least expects it. The very sun is wet! But when it
shines the landscape has the same sweet expression that one sees on
the face of a dear little girl who has shed a few tears and is again
smiling.
The morning we left Killarney it was not raining like that, but
coming down in torrents. Indeed we were the only travellers who
faced the storm. A good part of the company assembled on the porch
to see us start. The hood was up, so that Ruth could not see me as I
went to the rear of the motor to see if the chains were tight, but,
ever solicitous of my welfare, she called out in an agonized tone:
"John, have you got your shirt on?"
To which I replied: "I am not sure. I slept in it, but whether I put
it on again after my bath, I can't remember!"
You never saw a crowd melt away so suddenly! One lady ejaculated
"Fancy!" and one man laughed and waited to wave us farewell. He, I
had been told, was a duke. I do not know if it were true. In
Ireland one is never quite sure what is true. And, what is worse, or
better, if you feel that way, I am unable to tell a duke from the
commonalty!
Ruth says there is nothing funny in this story, and that I acted as
if I lived on Second Avenue! Well, I can't tell. It made a duke
laugh--if he were a duke--and that is no small feat!
The atmosphere soon showed the Celtic temperament. Or is it the
other way about, and is temperament a natural reaction to atmosphere?
At any rate the sun soon shone fair and warm, and the conditions for
motoring would have been perfect had the roads been better.
Unfortunately not only is the surface bad, but the roads are very
narrow--a new danger--of which we were soon to have experience.
We were running along at a fair gait--Ruth says racing!--when
suddenly, at a turn in the road I found myself under the feet of a
team of horses, which loomed up like elephants. It was too late to
turn, so I acted automatically, certainly without conscious volition,
and threw the car into a hedge. It was a stout one, and the car rose
like a hunter and came to rest on the top, which held it! No, this
is not an "Irish" story, only a story of Ireland.
A gentleman was walking across the field and ran to our assistance.
Gallant Irishman that he was he asked no questions, but assisted Ruth
to descend. She was deathly pale, but, I am proud to say, neither
screamed nor indeed spoke. Some laborers gathered and helped to drag
the car back onto the road, none the worse, so far as I could see,
for its strange adventure, save for a few scratches.
I now turned my attention to the driver of the cart, who all this
time had remained upon his high perch, gazing at our efforts like a
god upon Olympus, "careless of mankind."
"My friend," I began, in as quiet a voice as I could control, "that
came near being a nasty accident."
"It did that, your honor."
"You came near having both those horses killed."
"That would have cost your honor a pretty penny, for the likes of
them can't be found in the county. Sure the gentleman standin' there
will tell you they took the first prize at Dublin not a year ago."
"Well, you are pretty cool about it. The lady might have been
killed, too."
"That would have been a pity, for it's a sweet face she has. I was
wondering she'd risk her life with you."
"Risk her life with me! Why, you impudent fellow," I cried, being by
this time thoroughly angry, "the fault was all yours. You were on
the wrong side of the road."
"Well, as for that, your honor," replied this incorrigible fellow,
"this road's that narrer, _it ain't properly got two sides_!"
I could think of nothing better to say than that I would report him
to the police in the next town, and took the name of the owner of the
cart, which was painted in large letters on the side. I did stop and
report the matter to a policeman who was directing the traffic in a
town near by. He was sympathetic, and said:
"I know that man well, and the next time he comes to market, I will
_represent him to himself_!" This was all the satisfaction I got.
Indeed, I suspect it is as much as could be expected in Ireland.
After all, it was worth something to increase one's stock of phrases.
To represent a man to himself is no small feat!
A little later I got from Ruth a new light on Irish veracity--or
rather, lack of it. She says it arises from no evil motive, but, on
the contrary, from kindness of heart! This, she added, makes it
different from any other lying in the world. This moral, or immoral,
dictum was called forth by the following: I had lost my way--no
uncommon experience--and stopped at a hovel to inquire the way. In
answer to my call a veritable giant appeared. I asked if the road we
were on would bring us to Blarney Castle? After a moment's
hesitation he said it would. Not feeling sure he knew, I asked again
if there was any turning I must take? But he said: "No, keep
straight on this road and it will bring you there."
There was something in the man's face that led me to think he could
not be an ordinary peasant, and therefore I asked him if he lived
there?
"I was born here," he replied, rather defiantly. "But I've been
living in Australia for the past seven years, and have now come back
to see the old people."
I said to myself that, unlike most Irishmen when they migrate, he had
not bettered himself. As if he read my thought, as perhaps he did,
he added, with a glance at his old and torn clothing: "I've better
clothes than these, but why would I be wearing them to shame the
neighbors!"
Could Sir Philip Sidney have said anything finer?
"Well," I said, as I started the motor, "when I next come here you'll
have Home Rule!"
At that the man's whole face lighted up, and he cried: "Glory be to
God, ye're a prophet! What's your name?" When I answered "Dobson,"
without a moment's hesitation he exclaimed: "I've heerd of you!"