Wanderings in Ireland

"'At length,' say the Princes, 'your predecessor, Pope Adrian, an Englishman—although not so completely in his origin as in his feelings and connections,—in the year of our Lord 1155, upon the representation, false and full of iniquity, which was made to him by Henry, King of England—the monarch under whom, and perhaps at whose instigation, St. Thomas, of Canterbury, in the same year, suffered death, as you are aware, in defence of Justice and of the Church,—made over the dominion of this realm of ours in a certain set form of words to that Prince, whom, for the crime here mentioned, he ought rather to have been deprived of his own kingdom; presenting him de facto with what he had no right to bestow, while the question touching the justice of the proceeding was utterly disregarded, Anglican prejudices, lamentable to say, blinding the vision of that eminent Pontiff. And thus despoiling us of our royal honour, without any offence of ours, he handed us over to be lacerated by teeth more cruel than those of any wild beasts. For, ever since the time when the English, upon occasion of the grant aforesaid, and under the mask of a sort of outward sanctity and religion, made their unprincipled aggression upon the territories of our realm, they have been endeavouring, with all their might, and with every art which perfidy could employ, completely to exterminate, and utterly to eradicate our people from the country ... and have compelled us to repair, in the hope of saving our lives, to mountainous, woody and swampy and barren spots, and to the caves of the rocks also, and in these, like beasts, to take up our dwelling for a length of time.'

"The Princes enclosed a copy of Pope Adrian's Bull, along with their Complaint, to Pope John, which Bull the latter Pope forwarded to King Edward....

"The part which the Church of Rome has taken, not only in the bringing of Ireland under English rule in the first instance, but in the maintenance of that rule, has never been understood by the Irish people in general.

"Dr. Lanigan, whose history of Ireland is expensive and scarce, says of Pope Adrian that 'love of his country, his wish to gratify Henry, and some other not very becoming reasons, prevailed over every other consideration, and the condescending Pope, with great cheerfulness and alacrity, took upon himself to make over to Henry all Ireland, and got a letter, or Bull, drawn up to that effect and directed to him, in which, among other queer things, he wishes him success in his undertaking, and expresses the hope that it will conduce, not only to his glory in this world, but likewise to his eternal happiness in the next.'[8]

"Adrian's old master was one Marianus, an Irishman, for whom he had great regard, yet, says Dr. Lanigan, 'he was concerned in hatching a plot against that good man's country, and in laying the foundation of the destruction of the independence of Ireland.'[9]

"This is strong language from an Irish Roman Catholic clergyman, who enjoys the fullest confidence of his country, with regard to a former Pope, and it must be remembered that the statement was not made in a platform speech, when momentary excitement might impel a speaker into the use of words which he would afterwards regret, but that it was calmly and deliberately penned in the quietness of the study, and, probably, read and re-read, and finally corrected, before it was committed to print.

"The Rev. M.J. Brennan, O. S. F., who is not at all so unprejudiced as Dr. Lanigan, states that 'Adrian, anxious for the aggrandisement of his country,' or, as Cardinal Pole expresses it, 'induced by the love of his country, lost no time in complying with the agent's request.'[10] The agent referred to was John of Salisbury, who had been sent by King Henry in 1155 to ask for the Pope's sanction for the invasion of Ireland, and who states that the invasion was delayed until 1171 by the restraining influence of the King's mother, the Empress Matilda. With this statement Dr. Lanigan agrees.[11]

"It is a mistake to suppose that the Conquest of Ireland is due to the appeal made in 1168 by Dermot MacMurrogh for King Henry's aid. That event merely afforded to the King and the Pope a convenient excuse for carrying out a long-determined plan.

"Attempts have been made on various grounds to justify Pope Adrian's action. Edmund Campion, the famous English Jesuit, alleges that the Spanish ancestors of the Irish were subject '376 years ere Christ was born' to one Gurguntius, from whom King Henry was descended, and that, consequently, the Pope only helped to restore to Henry his rightful authority.[12] But this notion is too far-fetched to deserve consideration.

"A more plausible excuse is that about a century previous to the Conquest the Irish handed over to the Pope of that time—Urban II.—the sovereignty of this country. This theory was advocated by the Rev. Geoffrey Keatinge, D.D.

"But a still more popular excuse is, that all the Christian Islands of the Ocean were conferred on the Popes by the first Christian Emperor, Constantine. "Dr. Lanigan brushes aside all these fanciful ideas with one sweep. 'This nonsense' he says, 'of the Pope's being the head owner of all Christian Islands had been partially announced to the world in a Bull of Urban II., dated 1091, in which, on disposing of the Island of Corsica, he said that the Emperor Constantine had given the Islands to St. Peter and his vicars. But Constantine could not give what did not belong to him, and accordingly, as Keatinge argues, could not have transferred the sovereignty of Ireland to any Pope.'[13]

"As to Keatinge's own idea, namely, that the Irish had transferred their crown to the Pope, Dr. Lanigan writes: 'Neither in any of the Irish annals, nor in the ecclesiastical documents of those times, whether Roman or Irish, is there a trace to be found of a transfer of Ireland to Urban II., or to any Pope, by either the Irish Kings or Irish nobility, although the sly Italian, Polydore Virgil, who has been followed by two Englishmen, Campion and Sanders (both Jesuits), and also by some Irish writers, has told some big lies on this subject. These stories were patched up in spite of Chronology, or of any authority whatsoever, and Keatinge swallowed them as he did many others.'"[14]

There is much more to be read on the subject and those who are interested in the question cannot do better than examine that very excellent little work of John Roche Ardill, Forgotten Facts of Irish History,[15] from which the foregoing pages are a quotation.

A very recent writer (Thomas Addis Emmet) states that

"It would be inconsistent with the truth were we to attribute the piteous condition of Ireland to any other cause than that the great majority of the Irish people belong to the Catholic faith. Had the Irish been willing to cast aside, for temporal benefit, the faith which they have unflinchingly maintained for over twelve centuries, their country would have received every aid to advance prosperity, which would, with their greater advantages of soil and climate, have been far greater than that attained by Scotland."[16]

What has Mr. Emmet to say of the treatment of the Irish people by the English Romanists from Henry II. down to and including the reign of Mary the First? He will scarcely find that the students of Irish history will agree with his statement.

There is another tale, legend or fact, in which, of course, a woman and her abduction from her husband, O'Roirke, Prince of Breffin, by Dermot MacMurrogh, King of Leinster, with her own consent many think, was the cause of the interposition of the English, and she is called the Irish Helen. Dermot fled to England and laid his case before the King, craving protection and swearing allegiance. Henry was too busily engaged in France to attend, but he did issue an edict offering his protection to all who might aid his trusted subject, Dermot, King of Leinster.

This aroused Richard, Earl of Chepstow, called "Strongbow," who for his assistance was to receive the hand of Dermot's daughter in marriage, and a settlement of all of that Irish King's property upon them and their children (a contract which was fulfilled), but Strongbow being tardy was anticipated by Robert Fitzstephens, who agreed to assist Dermot, and was to receive in payment the town of Wexford and adjoining lands, and he it was whose boats landed on this little beach, where the water murmurs so quietly to-night.

Dermot in his castle yonder at Ferns awaited the coming of these invaders, and promptly sent his natural son Donald with five hundred horse to join them, and so the game was played, and his throne restored to him.

Then came Strongbow, then Henry II. with his armies, and the English were here to stay.

Whatever the facts of the case are, it is certain that just here landed the first of the English, and from here spread their rule,—whether for good or ill is the great question of to-day in this island. There are no relics of the event, though there appear to be some earthworks which are thought of Celtic origin.

The leagues are not many which separate this cliff from Cardiganshire in Wales, and a friendly intercourse was kept up until Pope and King came together in solemn conclave.

One of that King's first acts was the bestowal of Dublin upon the "good citizens of my town of Bristol." The capital of a kingdom bestowed upon the traders of Bristol! The original of this gift is in the Record Office of Dublin castle.

Would it have been any satisfaction to those of the land which he had so oppressed to have known of the ending of this "Great King"? Dying at Chinon in a rage so terrible that even death could not smooth out the traces from his face, Henry II.'s body was plundered like the Conqueror's, and, like his, left stark naked. Shrouded at last in some cast-off garments, it was placed in its coffin, a rust-broken sceptre stuck in its hand, an old and meaningless ring of no value on its finger, while the crown on its brow was composed of a piece of gold fringe torn from a discarded robe of some court dame, who doubtless had curtsied to the ground many times before the living monarch. In such state, Henry II. was buried in the stately abbey of Fontevrault and promptly forgotten, though the wrongs he did Ireland lived on and on.

CHAPTER XVI

Wild Times in Ireland—Landlord and Tenant—Evictions—Boycott at Bannow House—The Parson and the Legacy—The Priest and the Whipping—Burial in Cement—Departure from Bannow House—Kilkenny and her Cats—The Mountains of Wicklow—Powers Court and a Week End—Run to Dublin and an Encounter by the Way—The Irish Constabulary—Motor Runs in the Mountains—Lord H.

Ireland has seen strange wild times, and no section of it more than this remote County Wexford. As I have stated, this estate of Bannow is eighteen miles from a railroad station now, but in another month a new line three miles away opens for traffic, and though a good thing for the property of all in the county, it will sound the knell of probably all the quaint and curious customs still in vogue here. If that railway company is wise it will build a seaside hotel in this neighbourhood. The climate is for most of the year delightful and is rarely subject to the howling tempests which so constantly sweep the west coast for half the year. Wexford abounds in beautiful scenery and almost every valley holds a charming home while quaint towns crowd the river banks and ruined towers crown the hills on either side.

The maintenance of many of these Irish estates becomes each year more and more difficult unless the whole is strictly entailed. This is especially the case with places of small income, say two or three thousand pounds sterling. In the days when rents were good and five per cent. obtained it was well enough, but to-day when three per cent. is all that can be hoped for and yet the old charges for dowers and legacies must be paid, the owner is perforce a poor man. At present the landlord seems to have no rights. His tenants may and do absolutely refuse to pay him rent and he is reduced to poverty. There is a case I know of where the tenants are amply able to pay him, but they simply won't. His only resource is eviction, which is slow, expensive, and brings down wrath upon his head. So he is forced to give up his home and retire to a cottage, while his tenants laugh at him.

In the case of the peasants, eviction is not only expensive but useless. No man will rent the hut of those turned out, no matter how many years drift by, and some landlords are reinstating their evicted tenants. Better them than empty farms.

With the new Land Act the tenants dictate that they will buy or nothing. Of course there have arisen the usual number of scoundrels who get behind these peasants, buy out their rights, and in the end get the land for a song. There are several instances where such men who at one time broke stones on the highway are now landowners of considerable extent. I heard of one the other day who was just adding a billiard-room to his "mansion."

There is much said over here about the corruption of our city governments, especially those of Chicago and New York, but I also hear that that of the city of Dublin is to say the very least nothing to boast of, and that graft has even penetrated London itself.

Home rule for the peasants of Ireland, so it is stated here, would be about as sensible as a rule of the blacks in America. When the leaders in Parliament found they could make no more money by the disturbances, they called them off, and one of the members of that august body was kicked all the way down this peaceful avenue before me here and out yonder gate for abuse of the late Queen.

During the boycott, Bannow House was in a state of siege and its owner forced to start a store on the lawn for his own workmen, who could not purchase anywhere. These provisions were brought from London under guard.

After his death—in 1881—his grave, guarded by policemen for twenty-four hours—until the concrete in which his coffin had been buried had set,—was surrounded all the time by a howling mob who would have promptly "had him out" otherwise.

He hated the parson and so left the church's legacy of two thousand pounds to the "next incumbent," or rather the interest thereof, but the parson was equal to the occasion, and, resigning, got himself re-elected, and so became the "next incumbent" and secured the interest.

There was another instance here where the holy man, this time a priest, did not fare so well. He had attacked a member of his parish from the pulpit, and thereby aroused the ire of the wife. She was about six feet tall, and following the priest into the vestry-room flogged him soundly. It was a foolish thing to do, as it roused the whole country round about and she and her household almost starved from the boycott which promptly followed. On her death it was necessary to bury her also in cement, to prevent desecration, every man at the funeral carrying a gun.

Fortunately those days are gone by, let us hope for all time, but with a people so ignorant and superstitious anything may happen and if that cattle driving does not cease old times will come again.

It is quiet enough here this morning; the peace of the country is intense, yet to me it is never a solitude, never lonely, and it is delicious to awake in the early light and feel the cool, damp air blow in upon one through the open window, while even at this hour of dawn yonder old reprobate of a wood pigeon is earnestly entreating Paddy to follow the way of the transgressor,—"two coos, Paddy," "two coos." One can almost hear the stealthy rustle of the departing beasts and the soft footfall of Paddy. Far beyond the trees where the pigeons hide, the fair blue of heaven has been rain-washed during the night, and white clouds drift lazily off towards the sea murmuring in the distance.

To-day brings my stay at Bannow House to a close, I trust not for all time. After luncheon, bidding our hostess farewell, we roll away through the avenue of rhododendrons, over the meadows, through the forest, where the insistent birds try for the last time to corrupt my honesty, and so out on the highway and off to the north.

Our route takes us past the site of Scullaboyne House, a spot sadly famous.

In the dark days of the rebellion of 1798, New Ross and this vicinity of Bannow suffered horribly. Indeed the battle at the former town was the most sanguinary of that period, and an event which followed it here too horrible to be passed over without notice even at this late date. Scullaboyne House, but lately deserted by its owner, Capt. King, and seized by the rebels, was in use as a prison. In the house itself were confined some thirty-seven men and women and in the adjoining barn were over one hundred men, women, and children, chiefly, but not exclusively, Protestants. After their defeat at New Ross the rebels sent word to destroy these prisoners. Those in the house were called one by one to the door and shot down, but a worse fate awaited those in the barn, where firebrands thrown into and upon its roof soon turned the whole into a red hot furnace. Children were tossed out of the windows to save them, but only to be impaled upon the pikes of the outlaws. Some authorities claim that two hundred and thirty persons met their deaths in Scullaboyne. Certainly the French Revolution can show nothing more horrible.

There is little left here now to recall the event save a few blackened fragments, which the rich grass and creeping vines are daily covering more and more each passing year.

It is claimed by the insurgent party that they had nothing to do with the slaughter—that it was the act of outlaws, such as are always to be found dogging the footsteps of contending forces. However that may be, the result was absolute ruin to the cause of the rebels. Be it recorded to the credit of the intelligent priests of the day that they at all times did what they could to prevent like occurrences and save human life and that amongst the sixty-six persons executed in Wexford, after that period, for murder and rebellion, only one was a priest.

But let us hasten away from all this.

The roadways are superb all over this section of Ireland, and indeed I have so far encountered none which could be called bad the (worst were better than we have around most of our cities), and we are at the extreme south, having circled the island.

To-day we meet but few motors. Others are not so fortunate, as we discover by a disturbed roadbed and some fragments of cars lying around.

The other day, Lord Blank and a friend of his, driving their cars here on roads running at right angles and shaded by tall hedges,—the noise of each motor drowned in that of the other,—came together, "sociable like," at the junction. Result, two cars gone to smash, but bless you that's "all in a lifetime" in this blessed isle.

Bicyclists also appear to meet with trouble now and then, as we have just passed an inn bearing the sign "Broken down cyclists rest free."

The road from Bannow via New Ross to Kilkenny passes through Inistiogey, Thomastown, and Bennett's Bridge, and is fine all the way and through lovely scenery, most of the time by the banks of the Barrow.

We reach Kilkenny about three P. M., two hours and five minutes out, about fifty miles, which is good time on Irish routes, because of their narrowness and the frequent stoppages rendered necessary through stubborn donkeys and young cattle.

The approach to Kilkenny is marked, as is most appropriate, by an increase in the number of cats, sorry looking specimens, most of them. I must congratulate the town upon her very clean and comfortable Club Hotel.

Kilkenny Castle is not of interest save its stately appearance from the bridge. It has been modernised into a comfortable dwelling-place, prosaic in the extreme.

I find in Ireland that the interesting abodes are of two classes only, the very ancient castle or the square manor-house; the latter, while appearing modern, have some centuries to their credit and are characteristic of the country. I certainly have never seen them elsewhere. Castles such as Kilkenny and Lismore (the Duke of Devonshire's), while holding somewhere in their vastness remnants of the ancient strongholds, have, as I have stated, been brought up to date and out of all interest.

The same holds with the cathedral here. Even the round tower looks new. Rolling onward we pass again through the Vale of Ovoca, but have no time now for more than a glance as the day wanes and rain threatens.

Entering amongst the mountains of Wicklow, our car balks once or twice at the grades, but finally makes up its mind to go ahead and so puffs and pulls and stews with less noise than most motors would be guilty of, until finally, with a last effort, the highest point is reached, and the vale beyond is open to our view, with the demesne of Powerscourt nestling on its farther side. There are few more enchanting prospects in the British Isles. It would seem from here to be a great bowl, so completely enclosed in the mountains as to be accessible only by wings. The billowy foliage is broken at one point by a waterfall some three hundred feet high, which plunges down into the celebrated glen, "the Dargle."

Half-way up the mountain stands the huge mansion of Powerscourt House, as though it were the royal box in this vast opera-house of nature. Dublin has many beautiful points in her neighbourhood, more in fact I think than any other city of Europe, but none so beautiful as this before us.

The temptation to linger is strong, but it is late, and there are miles yet to go. The route drops rapidly downward and then upward until barred by the gates of the home park, which we are allowed to enter once it is certain that we are "going to the house" and are not tourists.

When we reach there every one is abroad in motors, and it is too late for tea, but not too late for a whiskey and soda, which, being assured that we are expected,—hosts have been known to forget their invitations,—is accepted and thoroughly enjoyed.

Powerscourt, the seat of Viscount Powerscourt came into possession of the family during the reign of Elizabeth, and is one of the largest estates in Ireland, having some twenty-six thousand acres within its bounds. Probably its scenery is more varied and beautiful than that of any other estate in the kingdom.

One enters a hallway of large dimensions, whose walls and ceilings are laden with trophies of the chase from all over the world. Skins of every description cover walls and floors, while chandeliers formed of antlers hang by the dozens from the ceilings.

Doffing our coats and rugs on its great table and trying to appear like white men after our hundred-mile run through rain and mud, we pass into the morning room and so out on to the terrace beyond, which on this side of the house stretches along the entire front, while below terrace after terrace drops downward to a stone balustrade overlooking the lake, beyond which the land rises tier after tier until the higher mountains outline against the sky.

The rain has ceased and the setting sun is casting long shafts of light into the quivering forests whose leaves are thicker than ever they were in Vallombrosa.

But it is chilly and we hunt out the smoking-room where a bright fire works its will with the winds driven through us all day and we are found half asleep when host and hostess return.

These Irish places are not so gorgeous as many in England but an Irish welcome is something one does not meet with either in England or any other land, and to-day holds no exception to that rule. They are glad to see us and the usual stiffness of an entry in a strange house and amongst strange people is altogether lacking. The time passes so quickly that the dressing gong sounds all too soon.

As I mount the stair portraits of the former owners look down upon me, from those long dead to that of the present owner, presented by his tenants upon his coming of age, which by the way must have occurred very lately, as he is the youngest looking man to be the father of two children that I have ever seen.

There is another portrait in yonder corner of a man who looks as though he would like a whiskey and soda on this damp evening, but he must long since have passed to the land where such things are not.

At the head of this main stairway, one enters a vast hall supported by columns. George the Fourth strutted through here in all his gorgeousness in 1821. As far as Royalty is concerned, that monarch and his successor certainly marked its lowest stage—the latter the worse of the two, as he was common. The rebound since then has been so tremendous that one feels as though gazing from the top of a mountain downward upon the marshes by the sea.

One of the late owners of Powerscourt evidently felt great interest in the house as he placed tablets in many of the rooms indicating what they were and had been. I am told to go where I like and examine the whole, but of course I do not penetrate behind closed doors where evidently there is much of interest. But I do get lost actually as far as the body is concerned and mentally in a picture of a lady in the dark corner of a distant gallery, and have to be hunted out when the gong sounds for dinner. In the dining-room my eye is attracted by a portrait on the opposite wall. It proves to be one of Lady Jane Grey when a child of eight or nine years of age, but has a very Dutch appearance and the original could never have developed into the graceful greyhound-like creature so familiar to all in the later portraits.

The living-rooms in these European country houses are so homelike and comfortable that similar rooms in our Newport houses must strike a foreigner as very stiff and new, and generally they are just that, for with few exceptions they are but temporary abiding-places for a few weeks in summer.

The drawing-room in Powerscourt is a wide, sunny apartment; in the daytime its windows, giving on to the terrace, hold a marvellous panorama framed for one's benefit, but to-night the curtains are dropped and a bright fire blazes on the hearth around which runs a rail topped with a broad leather cushion, which forms a most comfortable perch promptly appropriated by the men, while the ladies are on low seats.

The walls are covered by pictures of great value and there is much else of interest around one, yet it is all so homelike and comfortable that one scarcely remembers any of the details but simply a charming picture of the whole; and so the time passes until the ladies having vanished we are again in the smoking-room, where Boyse starts in to talk and would have kept it up until grey dawn, but I for one am sleepy and detect the same symptoms in our host, so we suppress Boyse and go to bed. He may talk to the fire if he likes, but not to us.

The next day being Sunday I wanted to go to church, but it is intimated that my presence is not desired. So Boyse and I roll off to Dublin for letters and en route back break down and nearly miss luncheon in consequence.

On our return we encountered one of the rare cases of hatred, pure and simple, for those of the upper ranks which I have noted in Ireland. The avenues between Bray and the city were crowded with Sunday excursionists, and at one point, a van having stopped, the occupants covered all the roadway and two men stood facing us exactly in the centre of our only course. Moving at a snail's pace, we trumpeted constantly and finally stopped directly in front of these men. I have never noted more malignant snarls on human countenances than these bore as they grudgingly gave way. "Do ye think ye own the whole shop?" The fact that we appeared unconscious of their existence only enraged them the more, and had they dared strike they would have done so, but one is always sure of the presence of some of those splendid specimens of men, the Irish constabulary, than whom the world holds of their kind none better. All over six feet in stature, they are not merely policemen, ignorant or not as the case may be, but men of education and who must keep up that education by further study for higher examinations, which unpassed will cost them their positions. There are three here to-day, hence those lowering brows and clenched hands disappear. However, we have encountered but little of that state of feeling in Ireland, the instances have been few and far between,—a contrast indeed to France, where a well-dressed man is often impressed with the belief that those around him would like to erect a guillotine for his express enjoyment and would do so upon the smallest provocation.

All the afternoon is spent out of doors. Other guests have arrived, one with three motors and another with one. Lord P. has several and ours has been polished up to look its best, but we finally leave it behind, and stowed away in the others the whole cavalcades spend the afternoon in wild flights over the hills and mountains. In the rushes through the valleys we are well together, but in climbing the ascents which around here are very steep the cars of greater power vanish in the distance and we do not see them again and only know of their passage by the general state of wild confusion reigning amongst dogs, geese, and chickens, which knowing there must be more of us have not as yet returned to the centre of the highways; except the geese—it takes more than a motor to keep those doughty birds off the road.

Those are wonderful fowls. They measure the width of an approaching car to a nicety, and retreat just beyond that. So near in fact that we have been struck by their indignant wings several times.

To-day I am in an enclosed car belonging to Mr. G. Whilst very comfortable, especially for ladies in a city, I do not think that they are pleasant to ride in. The constant rumble and roar becomes very unpleasant, something one never experiences in an open car; also one loses entirely that sensation of flying so delicious in an open car. This one makes my head ache, and it is not a matter of regret when, the ride over, I am out on the lake with Lord H., attempting to tug a duck house out of the mud. I am quite convinced that I did most of the work, but I believe he denies that fact.

I cannot but regret as I look at this young man, certainly not more than twenty-five years of age, that we have not something like a school for the study of diplomacy. We might even have such scholarships, now that we have decided to become a world power in which diplomats are so necessary. I asked what was the future of this man in question and was told, "Oh, he will be an ambassador some day, that is what he is working for," and working for that means the attainment of perfection in all things necessary for an educated man,—perfection in everything, not a mere smattering in a few things. This man speaks all the modern languages of Europe with equal facility. If music is necessary for his career he has it at his fingers' ends. He is wealthy, but his money will be used to further his progress, not to kill it. Nothing will interfere with that.

I cannot but contrast him with one I know of whose prospects appeared equally bright, though his education was not at all the equal of this man's. However, he might have done much with his life, but marrying a rich wife he promptly resigned and "sat down to good dinners," amounting now to absolutely nothing, his career ended.

Abandoning the rescue of the duck house together with graver questions, we adjourn to the gardens and consume half an hour, and also a lot of the biggest strawberries I have ever eaten.

Time flies. Tea on the terrace, to which more motors have brought other guests, dinner, and the night are over and gone, and we have rolled away, waving thanks to our host and hostess for the pleasant "week end" at Powerscourt House.

CHAPTER XVII

Dublin—Derby Day and the Rush to the Curragh—An Irish Crowd—The Kildare Street Club and Club Life—Jigginstown House and its History—The Cowardice of a King—The Old Woman on the Tram Car—Parnell—The Grave of Daniel O'Connell.

Given the capital of Ireland, a bright day in the midsummer of an exposition year, with the King almost here, and above all the Derby at hand, and if you are looking for peace and quiet you should go elsewhere. All Dublin is in an uproar this morning and there is not a jaunting-car which will look at you for less than double the tariff. Stately equipages move slowly along, motors of all descriptions pass like the wind. The beggars are out in full force and if you have a heart in your bosom you will reach the race-track with not a shilling left you. Our motor dashes around the corner and up to the door as though it were new instead of some years of age. The spirit of the races seems to have gotten into its old bones and it shrieks and snorts and rushes off with us at an appalling pace notwithstanding the crowded streets and stone pavements. Out on to the broad highway to the south in company with the whole town we roll onward past the ruins of Jigginstown House.

Of the thousands who come this way to-day, few give thought to the house or its history. They have little time for the past as just a few miles beyond is the famous Curragh of Kildare, a stretch of the most marvellous grass-lands in the world, where the turf is of greatest richness and elasticity. Not for this, and yet because of this, the people flock four times a year in tens of thousands to worship there at the altar of the noble horse. The Curragh holds Ireland's greatest race-course, and has held it for two thousand years. The winner of the last English Derby is to be on hand and to race to-day and nearly all Ireland is en route to be present.

So there is no time for dead Earls and ruined houses on such a day, and we are swept on and away, for once forgetting our caution and bidding the chauffeur beat every other motor on the road if he can, and to our amazement this old "Clement" comes near to doing it, and there are some very smart cars going down to-day. How the wind does sing around us—if a cap is lost we do not stop to get it—it would not be possible or safe to do so with this onrushing crowd behind us. Dogs and chickens get out of the way in wildest terror, and it seems to me that we take several turns on two wheels only. It is dangerous work and we know that a break means destruction most complete, but we cannot help it. Curragh air had gotten into our heads and go we must.

After all is said, I think the desire for a race is in every man of us, inborn and irresistible. Such is the case to-day and our record is good, though every now and then a sullen rumble and roar and many blasts of a horn warn us that some car of great power is coming to which we must give place, and though going at full speed we seem to stand still as it rushes by us, and here comes in one of the greatest dangers of the road. The clouds of dust in the wake of such a car are appalling and impenetrable to sight, yet through this our own car rushes on, trusting to Providence to keep the way clear. It is a relief to me at least when it mounts in safety to the downy stretches of the Curragh where there is no dust, and I find on calling the roll that none of our party is missing.

What a beautiful sight! The downs of deep grass stretch away on all sides crossed and recrossed by the wide highways. Off to the left lies the great military camp, while in front stretches the race-course, towards which what seems the whole of Dublin is moving and in every imaginable manner, from the foot passenger and funny little donkey to the tally-ho coaches and the gorgeous motor-cars, while over and around it all rings the Irish laughter, as it has rung around this race-course of Curragh for two thousand years,—its very name "Cuir reach" implying "race-course." It must mean that to-day at all events, but I should think that if any sort of a race could disappoint an Irishman that to-day, the Irish Derby, would do so. It was a foregone conclusion that the winner of that race in England would be first here,—but to my thinking it proves no race at all, that horse and another of the same owner simply running round the course with no show for any other, and with apparently no speed exerted on their own parts.

However, it is the changing panorama of the people and not the race which interests me, and that is not in any degree a disappointment.

The return to Dublin and on to Bray was the same wild flight as when going down and a feeling of relief came to me at least when we got safely back to our hotel, or rather to the exposition grounds where we dined. What time we reach the hotel and bed I have no memory. Boyse never got there at all.

The following day being rainy, I am not disposed to go to the races, and also learn that our car is in need of attention. However, another must be forthcoming if desired, and one does come, in which Boyse and a friend of his, "Copper," are most comfortably packed, and evidently bound for the Curragh, being Irish. Now, though that is my car, my absence is evidently very precious to its occupants; still Boyse does ask kindly whether I "would like to go." What a pressing invitation that!—much like a blast from the North Atlantic. For an instant I am tempted to say yes, just to watch their discomfort, but I much prefer not to go and so state, when—whiz—they vanish like smoke around the corner, evidently with no intention of allowing any reconsideration on my part.

Laughing, I summon a jaunting-car and go to buy my ticket homeward. The usual tariff for short distances is a sixpence and I hand it over on descending at the ticket office. The driver evidently has exposition extortions in his head for, regarding me sourly for an instant, he remarks, "Ye could 'ave saved five ov thim if ye'd come in the tram." However, his anger is short lived, and when I laugh he laughs. God bless you, Pat,—may you succeed in "doing" the next man you carry.

Many of our evenings have been passed at the Kildare Street Club, of which Boyse is a member. While they do not give a stranger a week's card as we do, a member seems to be at liberty to take him there as often as that member desires, and so the result is the same, if not better. Certainly at this, the best club in the Irish capital, I was made to feel as much at home as in my own in America. I shall always remember it and the men I met there with pleasure.