Irish born as I am, there is something in the breath of Ireland that
makes my heart rise. The sound of the soft Irish voices is music to my
ear. I forgive the slipshod ways because of the general delightfulness.
Distressful country as it is—more than ever, now, alas! the
battle-ground of factions—from the moment of our landing joyfully on its
shores, to the sad hour of parting, our too rare visits to Ireland have
been punctuated by kindly and innocent laughter. Impossible, beloved
people! They break the heart of the politician and of the reformer; but
how enchanting they are to just a foolish person such as I am, who likes
to go and live among them and enjoy them without political bias; who can
laugh at and with them, and love them as they are!
Our last journey to Ireland began in mirth, and ended in the agonies of
a bad passage which accentuated all our regrets. The traject thither had
been accomplished with no such drawbacks.
The Master of the Villino is remarkably indifferent to anything the sea
can do; but I like to have a comfortable cabin to myself, and a large
port-hole for the sea-wind to blow through. I cannot say I’m fond of
feeling like the German lover:
_Himmel-hoch jauchzend, zu Tode betrübt_
between wave and hollow. But it is the woes of other people that really
undo me. On this particular passage—a bright fresh day it was, with
what’s called, I suppose, “a choppy sea”—I was quite ready to defy the
elements, when suddenly there arose, from the next-door cabin,
sounds.... No—even in recollection these things are not to be dwelt
upon!
“My dear,” said I to my companion, “let us talk and drown the outcries
of this shameless and abandoned woman.”
Fortunately I had a companion with whom conversation is always as easy
as it is interesting. We began to enjoy our own pleasant humour very
much, and did not allow a moment’s silence to fall between us, lest—
We were travelling by North Wall; and when the placidity of the Liffey
odoriferously enfolded us, we emerged cheerfully on deck to join some
friends, for the sake of whose agreeable company we had chosen this
particular route.
The dear little lady who was about to be our hostess we found charitably
administering dry biscuits to a very dilapidated-looking, green-faced
young woman with the unmistakable appearance of—but again, no!
“Poor Mrs. Saunders has been feeling so faint,” said our friend, with
the cheerful sympathy of the good sailor.
We were introduced to the languid one.
“Poor thing,” we said, “you do look bad! Have you been ill?”
One is very crude in one’s questions on board ship.
“Oh, no; not ill!” She flung the suggestion from her with an acid
titter. Then rolling a jaundiced eye upon us:
“Were you ill?”
“Oh, no,” we said; “we quite enjoyed the passage.”
The sufferer turned her glance from our brutality to the sympathetic
neighbour.
“If I could have slept,” she said plaintively. Then she looked back
darkly at us. “There were some horrible people in the cabin next me, who
would talk, and talk, and talk.”
“Well,” we exclaimed, and it was indeed in all innocence, “you were at
least better off than we were. For there was a creature in the cabin
next to us—the most disgusting—the most unbridled—”
It was not till we saw the dreadful rage in her eyes that we realized!
It is a horrible little anecdote, but it started us laughing even before
we set foot on the quays.
[Sidenote: IRISH VIGNETTES]
The next incident partakes of the tragi-comedy in which every Irish
problem is set. All Ireland stands like one of those figures of mimes on
an old drop-curtain; a laughing face behind a tragic mask—or indeed the
reverse. We laughed while our hearts grew sad at the sight of a stalwart
devil-may-care individual in a frieze coat who strolled up to a group of
jarvies while we sat in the cab waiting for our luggage to be loaded.
The whole business was conducted with a fine artful carelessness. Now
one, now another of the standing group of cab-drivers would lurch up
against him of the frieze coat or clasp him jovially by the hand, and
there would ensue a passage of coppers from one grimy palm to another.
Then out of a deep side-pocket of the frieze coat a black bottle would
be drawn, with all the _désinvolture_ of the conjuring trick. No doubt
some four yards away on either side stood a policeman; the illicit
traffic was conducted, so to speak, under his nose. But, splendid fellow
as he is, is he not, too, an Irishman? He knows when to sniff in another
direction.
‹And here we may parenthetically remember a charming and typical
spectacle which once met our eyes in the County Wicklow: a local police
station, a large placard commanding that all dogs shall be muzzled, and
five or six curs of different low degrees snapping untrammelled in the
sunshine at the feet of two smiling members of the constabulary.
Some brutish Saxon member of our party stops to point out the
discrepancy.
“Unmuzzled, is it?” says the elder policeman genially. “And, begorra, so
it is, ma’am. But, sure, isn’t that Tim Connolly’s little dog? Sure,
what ’ud we be muzzling him for? Thim orders is only for stray dogs!”›
* * * * *
[Sidenote: DRIVEN IN STYLE]
We drove away across the cobbled Dublin streets at a hand gallop.
Whether the poor animal that drew us had to be kept at this unnatural
speed lest it should collapse altogether, or whether our “jarvey” had
had more than one pull at the black bottle I know not; certainly we went
in peril of our lives. Shaving off corners, striking the edge of the
curb, oscillating violently from side to side, the antique vehicle
threatened at every leap and bound to break into fragments like a
pantomime joke. The Dublin cab is a thing apart. From the musty straw
upon which your feet rest, to the dilapidated blue velveteen cushion
upon which you leap, to its wooden walls and rattling windows, you would
not find its like upon any other point of the globe. It searches you to
your least bone socket; and the noise of its career deafens your wails
on the principle of the “painless extractor” at the fair, who blows a
trumpet for every wrench.
It was useless for us to thrust our heads out of the window, like “Bunny
come to town”; the frightful clatter of an arrest, a grunt, and a start
at fresh speed were the only result. We trembled in every limb and so
did the poor horse, as we were at last flung out in front of our hotel
with a jerk that nearly broke the bottom of the cab in two.
We tendered what we knew to be considerably more than the fare. The
driver surveyed it and looked at us, then rolled a disgusted glance back
to the coins, and dropped them into his pocket.
“Is that all? And me afther dhriving you in such style!”
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