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THE CHARM OF IRELAND
[Illustration: TWO TINY CONNAUGHT TOILERS
_See page 356_]
THE CHARM OF IRELAND
by
BURTON E. STEVENSON
Author of "The Spell of Holland," "The Mystery of the Boule
Cabinet," etc.
With Many Illustrations from Photographs by the Author
New York
Dodd, Mead and Company
1914
Copyright, 1914
By Dodd, Mead & Company
_TO_
J. I. B.
_THIS BOOK_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I DUBLIN'S SATURDAY NIGHT 1
II LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF AN ANCIENT CAPITAL 9
III THE ART OF ANCIENT ERIN 26
IV ON THE TRAIL OF THE SHAMROCK 42
V THE COUNTRY OF ST. KEVIN 59
VI DROGHEDA THE DREARY 85
VII HOLY CROSS AND CASHEL OF THE KINGS 97
VIII ADVENTURES AT BLARNEY 113
IX CUSHLA MA CHREE 128
X THE SHRINE OF ST. FIN BARRE 139
XI A TRIP THROUGH WONDERLAND 153
XII THE "GRAND TOUR" 177
XIII ROUND ABOUT KILLARNEY 192
XIV O'CONNELL, JOURNEYMAN TAILOR 203
XV THE RUINS AT ADARE 224
XVI "WHERE THE RIVER SHANNON FLOWS" 242
XVII LISSOY AND CLONMACNOISE 265
XVIII GALWAY OF THE TRIBES 292
XIX IAR CONNAUGHT 314
XX JOYCE'S COUNTRY 339
XXI THE REAL IRISH PROBLEM 358
XXII THE TRIALS OF A CONDUCTOR 375
XXIII THE LEACHT-CON-MIC-RUIS 398
XXIV THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE 415
XXV THE MAIDEN CITY 438
XXVI THE GRAINAN OF AILEACH 458
XXVII THE BRIDGE OF THE GIANTS 472
XXVIII THE GLENS OF ANTRIM 485
XXIX BELFAST 503
XXX THE GRAVE OF ST. PATRICK 519
XXXI THE VALLEY OF THE BOYNE 534
XXXII THE END OF THE PILGRIMAGE 559
INDEX 567
ILLUSTRATIONS
Two Tiny Connaught Toilers _Frontispiece_
FACING
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 Castle 116
A Cottage at Inchigeelagh 144
The Shrine of St. Fin Barre 144
The Bay of Glengarriff 164
The Upper Lake, Killarney, from the Kenmare Road 164
Old Weir Bridge, Killarney 188
The Meeting of the Waters 188
Ross Castle, Killarney 188
Muckross Abbey, Killarney 194
The Cloister at Muckross Abbey 194
The Choir of the Abbey at Adare 232
The Castle of the Geraldines, Adare 232
The Shannon, near World's End 248
St. Senan's Well 248
The Bridge at Killaloe 258
The Oratory at Killaloe 258
Entrance to St. Molua's Oratory 262
A Fisherman's Home 262
The Choir of the Abbey at Athenry 270
A Cottage at Athenry 270
The Goldsmith Rectory at Lissoy 276
The "Three Jolly Pigeons" 276
On the Road to Clonmacnoise 288
St. Kieran's Cathair, Clonmacnoise 288
The Market at Galway 296
"Ould Saftie" 296
The Claddagh, Galway 300
A Claddagh Home 300
A Galway Vista 302
The Memorial of a Spartan Father 302
The Connemara Marble Quarry 322
A Connemara Home 322
In "Joyce's Country" 344
On the Shore of Lough Mask 344
The Cloister at Cong Abbey 348
The Monks' Fishing-house, Cong Abbey 348
The Turf-Cutters 356
A Girl of "Joyce's Country" 356
Cromlechs at Carrowmore 392
Sligo Abbey from the Cloister 400
The Leacht-Con-Mic-Ruis 400
A Ruin on the Shore of Lough Gill 402
The Last Fragment of an Ancient Stronghold 402
A Cashel near Dromahair 408
St. Patrick's Holy Well 408
The Coast at Bundoran 416
The Home of "Colleen Bawn" 416
Birthplace of William Allingham 430
Castle Donegal 430
The Walls of Derry 466
The Grainan of Aileach 466
The "Giant's Head," near Portrush 480
The Ruins of Dunluce Castle 480
The Giant's Causeway 482
The Cliffs beyond the Causeway 482
The Grave of Ossian 496
An Antrim Landscape 496
A Humble Home in Antrim 498
The Old Jail at Cushendall 498
The City Hall, Belfast 516
High Street, Belfast 516
The Grave of Patrick, Brigid and Columba 522
The Old Cross at Downpatrick 522
The Great Rath at Downpatrick 526
The Inner and Outer Circles 526
The Central Mound 526
The Eye Well at Struell 528
The Well of Sins at Struell 528
The Birthplace of John Boyle O'Reilly 540
Entrance to Dowth Tumulus 540
Entrance to Newgrange 546
The Ruins of Mellifont 546
The Round Tower, Monasterboice 554
The High Cross, Monasterboice 554
Muiredach's Cross, Monasterboice 556
THE CHARM OF IRELAND
CHAPTER I
DUBLIN'S SATURDAY NIGHT
TWILIGHT was at hand when the little steamer, slender as a greyhound,
cast loose from the pier at Holyhead, made its way cautiously out past
the breakwater, and then, gathering speed, headed away across the Irish
Sea, straight toward the setting sun.
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 glimpsed from the
train was not to be resisted; so I told the guard we wanted a man to
carry our bags, and he promptly yelled at a ragamuffin, who was drifting
past along the platform.
"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.