To my friend, Councillor Leitch, one of the many successful men who have
migrated from the Moravian settlement of Grace Hill, I had expressed a
wish to see the face of Jonathan Pim, the landlord of whose goodness I
heard so much in the neighborhood of Clew Bay. Through Mr. Leitch's
kindness I obtained a seat in the gallery of the round room of the
Mansion House where the meeting was held to consider the advisability of
holding an exhibition of Irish manufactures. It was expected that I
should see Mr. Jonathan Pim at this meeting, but he was not there; he
was represented by his son. It was something for my backwoods eyes to be
privileged to see this grand room, built, I hear, for the reception of
His Gracious Majesty King George the Fourth when he made his visit to
Ireland, called the "Irish Avatar." At one side of the round room was a
sort of dais, on which was a chair of state that, I suppose, represented
a throne. Round the gallery were hung shields, containing the coats-of-
arms of the worshipful the Lords Mayor of Dublin. The chair was occupied
by the present Lord Mayor, a very fine-looking gentleman who became his
gold chain of office well.
The day before I had been taken by Mrs. Leitch to an academy of arts and
industry. For some reason of alterations and repairs there was no
admission beyond the vestibule. In this entrance hall were specimen
slabs and pillars of all the Irish marbles, which were there in as great
variety as in Shushan the palace. There was the marble of Connemara in
every shade of green, black marble of Kilkenny, red marble of Cork, blue
credited to Killarney, I think, and many, many others. I think there was
hardly a county in Ireland unrepresented. I do think that among all this
wealth of marbles the Irish people might gratify their most fastidious
taste without sending to Italy. I saw a good many productions of Irish
industry, but they seem always confined to the localities which produce
them. You see things in shop windows ticketed Scotch and English, but,
until this new movement began, nothing marked Irish. Yet Limerick laces
might tempt any fine lady, as well as Antrim linens and Down damasks.
There is also Blarney tweed of great cheapness and excellence, Balina
blankets, and the excellent Claddagh flannel.
If there were enterprise as well, and a desire to patronize home
industries, I think the chimneys of factories now silent and idle might
smoke again. I particularly noticed in every corner of Ireland where I
have been that where I saw the tall chimneys of factories in operation I
did not see barefoot women with barefoot asses selling ass loads of turf
for threepence.
I left Dublin--really, I may say, an almost unseen Dublin--behind me and
turned my face Belfastwards.
Drogheda is the last place of which I have taken any notes. I was a day
or two there. In fact I was more than a few days, but was confined to my
room by a severe neuralgia most of the time. There is a fine railway
bridge here, lofty enough for schooners to sail under. The land on both
sides of the river is like a garden, and is devoted to pleasure grounds
in the usual proportion. I was wishful to see the very spot on the banks
of the Boyne where James and William fought for a kingdom long ago. As I
looked at the fair country checked off into large fields by green
hedges, at the waving trees of enclosed pleasure-grounds, I recalled
King William's words about Ireland, "This land is worth fighting for,"
and I thought he was right.
The Boyne is but a small river, no wider than the Muskrat at Pembroke,
but deep enough to carry schooners a little way up. There is a canal
beside it, and it was full of barges carrying coal and other things.
Near to Drogheda town, in the suburbs, is a bridge over the Boyne. I
crossed it looking for the locality of the battle. Meeting a clerical-
looking gentleman, I enquired if he could point out to me where the
battle of the Boyne was fought. This gentleman, who was a Franciscan
friar, directed me to keep along the road by the river bank, when I
would come to another bridge and the monument beside it. "It stands
there a disgrace to Drogheda and a disgrace to all Ireland," he said. He
showed me the new Franciscan church, a very grand cut stone building.
There is also a Dominican church, and an Augustinian, besides two
others, and there was the foundation stone of still another to the
memory of that Oliver Plunket, Catholic archbishop and primate of
Ireland, put to death in the time of Titus Oates. I was informed that
the proportion of Catholics to Protestants in Drogheda is six to one.
Walking through Drogheda on market day I did not see one barefoot woman
in the crowd; all were pretty well dressed and well shod. The asses were
sleek and fat, shod and attached to carts. How different from Ramelton,
Donegal, Manor Hamilton, Leitrim, Castlebar or Mayo, where straw
harness, lean asses and hungry, barefoot women abound. The land is good
round Drogheda, and there is manufacturing going on. This makes the
difference.
I will never get up along the Boyne at this rate. I went along the south
side and, hearing the cheery clack of a loom, went into a cottage to see
the weaver, a woman. She was weaving canvas for stiffening for coats.
Could make threepence a yard, which was better pay a good deal than the
Antrim weavers of fine linen make. She was much exercised in her mind
against Mr. Vere Forster, who helps young western girls to emigrate to
America, confounding him with the infamous wretches who decoy girls to
France and Belgium. I tried to set her right, to explain matters to her,
but I am afraid that I did not succeed in convincing her.
The land on both sides of the Boyne is dotted with houses and filled
with people, so the country looks more cheerful than in empty Mayo or
Roscommon. I spoke to a farmer who was looking hopefully at a large
field of oats, and asked him what rent he paid. Owing to his nearness to
Drogheda he paid L7 per acre. "How can you pay it?" I asked. "I can pay
it in good years well enough," he said. "What have you left for
yourself?" "I have the straw," he answered. I walked on and got weary
enough before I came to the iron bridge and the monument. The monument
has a very neglected, weather-stained appearance. Where Duke Schomberg
was said to have fallen there was a growth of red poppies. I plucked
some as a memorial of the place. I returned by the Meath side along a
lovely tree-shaded road.
Some work-people explained to me that the late severe winters had
destroyed the song birds of Ireland. I did not hear one lark sing in all
the summer since I came. These working people were all anxious to
emigrate if they had some means, and listened eagerly to the advantages
of Canada as a place for settlement.
I was one Sabbath day in Drogheda, and attended service in the
Presbyterian church there, which was opposite the spot where the great
massacre of women and children took place in Cromwell's time. This was
eagerly pointed out to me. The congregation was very small, not half
filling the church.
Between Dublin and Belfast I had as travelling companion a Manchester
merchant, who had run over during his holidays to have a peep at the
turbulent Irish. He had been in Ireland for a few weeks, and had visited
some cabins and spoken to some laborers, and had settled the matter to
his own satisfaction. "The ills of Ireland arise from the inordinate
love of the soil in the Irish, and their lower civilization. For
instance, an English farmer in renting a farm would consider how much
would support his family first, and if the landlord would not accept as
rent what was left the bargain would not be struck. The Irish farmer
would think first how much he could give the landlord, and would
calculate to live somehow, not as any human beings should live, but
somehow on the balance."
This was his theory. He denounced in no measured terms the union of
Church and State, blaming this for the prevalent unbelief.
In many parts of Ireland I have been taken for some one else. I have had
secrets whispered to me under the mistake that I was somebody else, and
words of warning given that were of no use to me, but the funniest of
all was on my way from Dublin to Belfast. At a station in Down, I think,
a gentleman got into our compartment who was in the good-natured stage
of tipsyness. He seemed to labor under the impression that I had, in
company with my brother, canvassed eagerly for Colonel Knox at the
Tyrone election. He felt called upon to tell me some home truths, the
bitterness of which he qualified with nods and smiles. "We bate your
Colonel Knox, mem, in spite of you and your brother. Thank God for the
ballot, mem, we can vote according to our own consciences, mem, not as
we're told as it used to be, mem. You and your party think you have all
the sense and learning and religion in Ireland, mem. All your religion
is in your song, 'We'll kick the Pope before us.' All your learning,
mem, is to hold up King William a decent man and abuse King James at the
Orange meetings in Scrabba where your brother speaks. You and your kind
need to know nothing but what happened in '98 and only one side of that.
What happens in '81, mem, you hold your noses too high to notice." In
this manner my tipsy friend ran on until the train stopped at Lisburn,
when he left with a parting benediction. "God bless you, mem, you're
better natured than I thought you were. May you go to heaven and that's
where your brother won't go in a hurry."
I had to go to Liverpool to catch the ship and so had to forego seeing
many things in Belfast which I had hoped to see. It was with some
gladness I saw the ship "Ontario" again. Having arrived before the other
cabin passengers I took the opportunity of going over the steerage with
Mr. Duffin, the excellent chief steward. The quarters for steerage
passengers were on the same deck as the saloon, as lofty and as well
ventilated. The berths were arranged in groups with an enclosed state
room to each. Single men by themselves, families by themselves, single
women by themselves and foreigners by themselves, every division having
their own conveniences for cleanliness and comfort. I am sure the
arrangements for steerage passengers on the "Ontario" would have
gladdened the heart of Miss Charlotte O'Brien.
I speak for myself, and I know I speak the sentiments of all the cabin
passengers, when I say that nothing could exceed the provisions made for
our comfort, or the courtesy and kindness shown by the captain and
officers of the "Ontario" to us all, both in saloon and steerage. In
conversation on board these sentiments came up often, and with
enthusiasm, and captain and crew, and the stout ship met with no
measured praise.
Before retiring behind the curtain to shake hands with sea-sickness
again, we had a long, fond look at the land we were leaving. Liverpool
had receded into a long, low line of twinkling lamps. My thoughts went
through the mist to the land of my own people now passing through the
throes of a great change.
Erin, beloved and beautiful, once more
The time of parting comes to thee and me;
The sad delight of pilgrimage is o'er,
And voices call to me across the sea.
In Canada the magic summer shines,
A purple haze upon the mountain broods,
The soft warm breeze is whispering through the pines.
And leaping waters thunder through the woods.
September radiance tints the forest grand,
The maples are aflame upon the hills;
From bursting barns plenty smiles o'er the land,
Where the tall farmer owns the soil he tills.
Erin, thy robe of green is dewed with tears,
Fields outrage-stained, thy west wind thick with sighs,
Thou that hast walked with woe down through the years,
Weighted with all the wrongs of centuries.
Erin, beloved with love akin to pain,
Through woe and outrage, turbulence and strife,
Thou shalt arise and enter once again
Into a higher, freer, glorious life.