JUST IRISH
[Illustration: LISMORE CASTLE]
JUST IRISH
CHARLES BATTELL LOOMIS
_Author of "Cheerful Americans," "A Bath in an English Tub," "A
Holiday Touch," "The Knack of It," "Little Maude's Mamma," Etc.,
Etc.,_
_With many illustrations from photographs by the Author._
BOSTON
RICHARD G. BADGER
THE GORHAM PRESS
1911
_Copyright 1909 and 1910 by Richard G. Badger_
_All rights reserved_
_The Gorham Press, Boston_
Dedicated to my first friends in Ireland, the Todds of 'Derry
PREFACE
The first edition of this book was printed before I had thought to
write a preface.
Now, my readers may not care for a preface, but as a writer I do not
feel that a book is completed until the author has said a word or two.
You don't hand a man a glass of wine or even an innocuous apple in
silence: you say, "Here's looking at you," or, "Have an apple?" and
the recipient says, "Thanks, I don't care if I do," or, "Thanks, I
don't eat apples." In either case you have done what you expected of
yourself, and that, let me tell you, is no small satisfaction.
So now that my publisher has thought it worth while to get out an
illustrated edition of this unpretentious record of pleasant (though
rainy) days in Ireland, it is my pleasure to say to all who may be
about to pick it up, "Don't be afraid of it--it won't hurt you. It was
written by a Protestant, but while he was in Ireland his only thought
was that God was good to give him such a pleasant time and to make
people so well disposed toward him. It was written by a man without a
drop of Irish blood in his veins (as far as he knows), but he felt
that he was among his brothers in race, because their ideas so chimed
in with his, and every one made him so comfortable."
This is a good opportunity to thank those of Irish birth or extraction
who in their papers and magazines said such nice things about the
book.
The pictures, all snap shots, were taken by me, and even the Irish
atmosphere was friendly to my purpose, and gave me considerable
success. A pleasanter five weeks of travel I never had, and if you who
read this have never visited Ireland, don't get too old before doing
so. And if you do visit it give yourself up to it, and you'll have a
good time.
Here's the book--like it if you can, drop it if you don't. Never waste
time over a book that is not meant for you.
CHARLES BATTELL LOOMIS.
ILLUSTRATIONS
Lismore Castle
A Real Irish Bull
Government Cottage, Rent a Shilling a Week
Horses in County Kerry
To the Men of '98
Prosperity in Limerick
Mackerel Seller, Bundoran, Donegal
In Donegal
The Bungalow of Seumas McManus
A Sky Line at Bundoran
The Rocks at Bundoran on the West Coast
Geese in Galway
Dublin Bay
A Dublin Ice Cart
O'Connell's Monument, Dublin
On the Road to Lismore, in a Rain Storm
Milk Wagon, Mallow
Green Coat Hospital, Cork
A Bit of Killarney
Street in Youghal
Thatched Cottage, Wicklow
Wicklow Peasants
Lost in his Lunch, Mallow, County Kerry
A Side Street, Wexford
Picturesque Galway
A String of Fishermen, Galway
Waiting for the Circus, Galway
Gaelic Sign, Donegal
Gone to America
TABLE OF CONTENTS
_I. A Taste of Irish Hospitality_
_II. Around about Lough Swilly_
_III. A Joyful Day in Donegal_
_IV. The Dull Gray Skies of Ireland_
_V. The Joys of Third-Class Travel_
_VI. A Few Irish Stories_
_VII. Snapping and Tipping_
_VIII. Random Remarks on Things Corkonian_
_IX. A Visit to Mount Mellaray_
_X. A Dinner I Didn't Have_
_XI. What Ireland Wants_
_XII. A Hunt for Irish Fairies_
_XIII. In Galway with a Camera_
_XIV. The New Life in Ireland_
JUST IRISH
CHAPTER I
_A Taste of Irish Hospitality_
"Irish hospitality." I have often heard the term used, but I did not
suppose that I should get such convincing evidence of it within twelve
hours of my arrival at this northern port.
This is to be a straightforward relation of what happened to some half
dozen Americans, strangers to each other, a week ago, and strangers to
all Ireland upon arrival.
In details it is somewhat unusual, but in spirit I am sure it is
characteristic of what might have befallen good Americans in any one
of the four provinces.
To be dumped into the tender that came down the Foyle to meet the
Caledonia at Moville at the chilly hour of two in the morning seemed
at the time a hardship. We had wanted to see the green hills of old
Ireland and here were blackness and bleakness and crowded humanity.
But the loading process was long drawn out, and when at last we began
our ascent of the Foyle there were indubitable symptoms of morning in
the eastern skies, and we saw that our entrance into the tender was
like the entrance of early ones into a theater before the lights are
turned up. After a while the curtain is lifted and the scenic glories
are revealed to eyes that have developed a proper amount of eagerness
and receptivity.
With the first steps of day a young Irishman returning to his native
land mounted a seat and recited an apostrophe, "The top of the mornin'
to ye," and then a mist lifting suddenly, Ireland, dewily green and
soft and fair, lay revealed before our appreciative eyes.
[Illustration: A REAL IRISH BULL]
The sun, when he really began his morning brushwork, painted the trees
and grasses in more vivid greens, but there was a suggestiveness of
early spring in the first soft tones that was fully valued by eyes
that had been used to leaden skies for more than half the days of the
voyage.
But I am no poet to paint landscapes on paper, so we will consider
ourselves landed at Londonderry and furnished with a few hours of
necessary sleep, and anxious to begin our adventures.
Our party consisted of a half dozen whose itineraries were to run in
parallels for a time. There were four ladies and two of us were men.
One of the men had to come to Ireland on business, and he found he had
awaiting him an invitation to lunch that day with a country gentleman
with whom he had corresponded on business matters.
As the one least strange to the country this American had tendered his
good offices, American fashion, to the ladies who would be traveling
without male companions after we left them, and so he dispatched a
messenger with a note to the effect that he must regretfully decline,
and stating his reasons for so doing.
While we were lunching at the hotel a return note came to him, this
time from the good man's wife, cordially asking that we all come and
have afternoon tea.
Here was a chance to see an Irish household that was hailed with
delight by all, a delight that was not unappreciative of the warmth of
the invitation.
We would go to the pleasant country house, but--our trunks had not
come. Would our traveler's togs worthily represent our country?
But our friend said, "Don't let clothes stand between us and this
thing. I'm sure this lady will be glad to welcome us as Americans, and
for my part I never reflect credit on my tailor, and people never
clamor for his address when they see me. As for you ladies, I'd think
any tea of mine honored by such fetching gowns, if that's the proper
term. I'm going to write her that we're coming just as we are."
So he sent another messenger out into the country--telephones seem as
scarce as snakes here--saying, well, he used a good assortment of
words and arranged them worthily.
The two young girls of the party clamored for jaunting cars, and so
two were ordered for four o'clock. One of them had red cushions and
was as glittering in its glass and gold as a circus wagon.
My friend, on ordering this one, said to the "jarvey" (by the way,
they call them drivers here in this part of Ireland, but jarvey has
always seemed so delightfully Irish that I prefer to stick to it),
"Get another car as nice as this."
"Sure, there's none as nice as this," said he, pride forcing the
confession, "but I'll get a good one."
It was a beautiful day except for the extreme heat--and yet they say
it always rains in Ireland. I felt that it must be exceptional, and
said to the waiter at lunch, "I suppose it's unusual to have such
weather as this?" "Sure, every day is like this," said he with
patriotic mendacity.
When the jaunty jaunting cars drew up a little before four o'clock
there were portentous black clouds in the sky, but the jarvies assured
us that they were there more for looks than anything else--that there
might be a matter of a spit or two, but that we'd have a fine
afternoon.
So we mounted the sides of the cars, and holding on to the polished
rails, as we had been told was the proper fashion, we set out bravely
on our way, little wotting what a wetting all Ireland was soon to
have.
In a half hour or so we would be walking over Irish lawns and
admiring Irish laces as they decked the forms of gaily clad femininity
gathered for sociability and tea alongside the rhododendrons and
fuchsia bushes.
[Illustration: GOVERNMENT COTTAGE, RENT A SHILLING A WEEK]
A few drops of rain fell, but the wind was south and we seemed to be
going east.
"Isn't this gay?" called the young girls, as we jiggled along in
holiday mood. Suddenly a silver bolt of jagged lightning cleft the sky
to the south, and almost instantaneously a peal of thunder that
sounded as if it had been born and bred on Connecticut hills, so loud
was it, told us that the people living to the south of us were going
to get wet.
And then we came to a bend in the road and turned south.
"Ah, 'twill be nothin'," said our driver, in answer to a question.
To give up what one has undertaken is a poor way of playing a game and
we were all for going on. "It's not so far," said the jarvey, but
this was a sort of truth that depended on what he was comparing the
distance with. It was not so far as Dublin, for instance, but 'twas
far enough as the event proved.
We put on our cravenettes, hoisted what umbrellas we had, and gave the
blankets an extra tucking in and after that--the deluge!
Bang, kerrassh! A bolt from heaven followed by a bolt from each horse.
A sort of echo as it were. The drivers reined them in and ours started
to seek shelter under a tree.
As I sometimes read the newspapers when at home I told our driver to
keep in the open.
The lightning now became more and more frequent and was so close that
we let go our hold on the brass rails, preferring to pitch out rather
than act as conductor on a jaunting car--such things as conductors
being unknown anyway.
It was terrifying, and to add to my discomfort I found I was sitting
in a pool of water, the rain having an Irish insinuatingness about it
that was irresistible. And now, just to show us what could be gotten
up on short notice for American visitors, it began to hail and the
wind blew it in long, white, slanting, winter-like lines across the
air and into our faces, and the roads having become little brooks, the
horses had to be urged to the driver's utmost of threats and cajolery.
I thought of that waiter who had told me it was always sunny in
Ireland and I wished him out in the pelting storm.
"I've not seen the like in twinty yairs, sirr," said the driver.
To go back was to get the storm in fuller fury, for the wind had
shifted. To go ahead was to arrive like drowned rats, but we were
anxious for shelter, and still the driver said, "It's not far," and so
we went on. I have been in many places in all sorts of weathers, but
it is years since I've been out in such a storm. The hailstones were
not as large as hen's eggs, but they were as large as French peas.
There was not a dry stitch on us and the red of the gay cushion went
through to my skin. My cravenette treacherously refused to let the
water depart from me, but shed it on the wrong side--which may be an
Irish bull, for all I know.
"Here we are now, sirr," said our driver, as he turned in at a
beautiful driveway. A winding drive of a minute or two and we arrived
like wet hens--all of us--at the house of these people who had never
heard of us until that day.
But the warmth of the welcome from our host and hostess who came out
to the door to greet us made us not only glad we had come, but even
glad we were wet.
Had there been the least stiffness we should have wished the storm far
enough (and indeed all Ireland did wish it, for it turned out to be
the most tremendous thunder and hailstorm in a score or more of
years), but our new found friends frankly laughed with us at our funny
appearance, and we were hurried off to various rooms to change our
clothes.
Our protestations of regret at putting them to trouble were met with
protestations of delight at being able to serve us, and as my host
brought me some union garments that had been made for a man of three
times my size and I wrapped them round and round me until they were
giddy, I was glad I had not turned back to spend a damp afternoon in a
lonely hotel.
The rest of the party fared well in getting clothes that became them,
but when I was fully dressed I looked like Francis Wilson in Erminie.
As I turned up my sleeves and triple turned up my trousers I knew I
would be good for a laugh in any theater in Christendom.
There was but one thing to do--go down and look unconscious of my
misfit appearance. It would never do to stay in my room through a
mistaken sense of personal dignity.
So I went down, and meeting host and hostess and my compatriots, a
laugh went up that would have broken the ice in a Pittsburgh
millionaire's drawing room.
And then we were taken to the tearoom and in a few minutes I forgot
that I was no longer the glass of fashion and the mold of form, for I
was made to feel that I was just a friend who had dropped in (or,
perhaps, dripped in would be better), and when a couple of hours later
we drove home through the soft Irish verdure, doubly green after its
rough but invigorating bath, we all felt that Irish hospitality was no
mere traveler's tale, but a thing that had intensity and not a little
emotion in it.
[Illustration: HORSES IN COUNTY KERRY]