WITH FRIENDS IN DUBLIN
Early next morning we ascended from Drogheda, and followed the valley
of the Boyne for several miles. Then turning south, we flew over County
Meath, on a straight way to Tara, the ancient Capital of Ireland.
County Meath is one of the most fertile spots in Europe. Its rich
greenness is proverbial. Large pasturages, though not profitable to the
peasants, add to the beauty of the landscape.
“I say, Jack,” said Mike, after we had been gazing in silence at the
fields as they glided under us, “I am falling in love with Ireland.”
“Mike,” I said solemnly, “you mean that you are falling in love with
the Irish. I think it is because we are getting near Dublin you are
feeling that way.”
“We’ll get to Dublin bright and early at this rate,” said Mike
evasively. I fancied I could see Mike become more and more lively as we
approached the neighborhood of Dublin.
As we saw Tara with its little cluster of Irish cottages, I felt a
sense of disappointment, but when we circled over the famous hill, I
let my imagination supply what was wanting. I re-peopled the green
mounds with Druid priests and Irish Kings. I imagined coronation
scenes, and vast armies filling the plains. These used to be realities
in Tara, but all is changed now. An air of loneliness pervades the very
atmosphere. Even the “Stone of Destiny,” fabled as Jacob’s Pillow at
Bethel, is gone. It was carried to Scotland centuries ago, and later
taken to London, where it can be seen as the seat of the coronation
chair in Westminster Abbey. We saw the Statue of St. Patrick, at which
many a rude joke is made. From our aerial viewpoint we could not see it
distinctly, but it is said to be a fair work of art for a stone cutter
to accomplish. St. Patrick often preached at Tara, and a shaft here in
his honor would be most appropriate.
Daniel O’Connell on one occasion drew a quarter of a million of people
to Tara in 1844, when he held a great two days’ political meeting and
gave two brilliant addresses.
Tara is not marked by any marble obelisk to recount its former glories,
but it will be held in memory while time lasts on account of Thomas
Moore’s world-famed ballad:
“The Harp that once through Tara’s Halls
The soul of music shed
Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls,
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory’s thrill is o’er,
So hearts that once beat high for praise
Now feel that pulse no more.
“No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;
The chord alone that breaks at night
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives
Is when some heart indignant breaks
To show that she still lives.”
“Farewell to Tara’s Halls,” I said, as we swept on south.
As we fled over Ireland we astonished the Irish people, but we also
astonished the denizens of the air. The birds seemed unable to
understand what kind of a monster was invading their element. As we
passed over rookeries, where the crows had their nests in large flocks,
the cawing of the frightened crows was tremendous. The little sparrows
chirped around us with their chatter. We saw many magpies, robins,
blackbirds and thrushes. There was one bird in Ireland I learned to
love, the meadow lark. It would spring from the ground singing as it
rose, until it was lost in the clouds, but its sweet notes could still
be heard.
Less than half an hour after leaving Tara, we arrived at Maynooth,
which is located just 12 miles west of Dublin. Maynooth is celebrated
as the seat of Maynooth College, the chief Roman Catholic educational
center in modern Ireland. A College was established in Maynooth as
early as 1513, but the present institution dates back only to 1795. At
that time it was re-organized and established with Government grants.
Three-fourths of the priests in Ireland have been educated here, and
the standard of the college is high amongst the Catholic institutions
of Europe. About 150 complete their education every year, and take
their place as the spiritual leaders of the Catholic population of the
Island. Until the establishment of Maynooth College, the Irish priests
were educated generally in France. Maynooth is noted amongst all
classes in Ireland as a center for temperance reform, and it is claimed
that fully three-fourths of the priests from Maynooth are pledged
abstainers, and ardent temperance workers. The College has a large,
spacious campus, and adequate buildings, and has an attendance of about
500 students.
The massive ruins of Maynooth Castle stand at the gateway of the
College. There is another interesting ruin in the vicinity, the Round
Tower, of Taghadoc, one of the largest of these Irish Round Towers. It
stands a few miles south of Maynooth.
We circled twice over the College, and were greeted with cheers by a
company of the students who were walking on the campus.
“Now for Dublin,” said Mike, as he turned the aeroplane east.
“Mike,” I said, “do you know why every Irishman ought to be rich?”
“No,” he answered, “I never knew that was one of the duties of an
Irishman.”
“Yes,” I went on, “every Irishman ought to be rich because the capital
of the country has been “dublin” every year for centuries.”
“That’s a _capital_ joke,” said Mike laughing.
As we were leaving Maynooth, I could see from my lofty seat the famous
Carton House. In this lordly mansion lives one of the most favored of
Irishmen, the Duke of Leinster. He has a whole bushel of titles, is
worth millions of money and has the blood of a hundred Dukes and Earls
in his veins. In spite of all this, he is not very robust in physical
health, and it is said he has symptoms of tuberculosis. He is young and
unmarried. He has several palatial residences, but Carton House is his
favorite. It stands in a Park, enclosed by an eight mile 10 foot wall,
and in the Park are over thirty miles of macadamized driveways. His
garden covers sixty acres. Queen Victoria was once the guest of this
splendid home, which is a royal palace itself.
For a number of miles we followed the river Liffey, and it was easy
to tell we were nearing the Capital City. Beautiful villas dotted the
landscape, and many of these homes were evidently abodes of wealth and
culture.
As we came nearer, we rose in the air until we were fully 600 feet
high. From this lofty elevation I could see the great city of Dublin,
stretching to the sea, and reaching out on both sides along Dublin Bay.
Mr. O’Neill had described his home to us so clearly that we had no
difficulty in finding it. He lived south of Dublin, near Blackrock, not
far from the seaside.
We followed the river Liffey as we passed through the center of the
city. To our left we saw Phoenix Park on the western outskirts. We
passed Four Courts, a massive Government building. We could see the
famed Dublin Castle, south of the river, and further on Trinity
College with its large campus in the middle of the city.
Passing over Trinity College Park, we began to scan the landscape for
Mr. O’Neill’s residence. We could see that we attracted great attention
from the populace and we saw thousands of upturned faces of astonished
Dublinmen. Mike’s quick eye discerned our landing place. The home of
“The” O’Neill, as we heard him called in Dublin, was in the center of
a large park, with a tall wall circling it completely. In front of the
noble mansion there was a large lawn, which made a good place to alight.
It was only nine o’clock when we dismounted from our aeroplane at
“Shaneville,” as the house was called. Mr. O’Neill and Miss Edith came
out of the large front door, as we alit.
“Yankee birds, Yankee birds,” sang out the girl in gay greeting.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” said Mr. O’Neill, “welcome to ‘Shaneville’.”
With genuine Irish cordiality he ushered us into his beautiful and
richly-furnished home.