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The Traps of 'The Walking Parson'
Rev. A. N. Cooper
The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd, 1905
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“I
do not cotton to the distressful country,” wrote a friend to me
when I proposed we should walk together across Ireland. As we could not
hit upon a tour which for length would be agreeable to both of us, I
was fain to go alone. […]
My duties to my parish compelled me to take my holidays either just
before or just after the summer season, and in the year in question, as
Easter fell somewhat late, I started about the middle of April –
on the 16th, to be exact. I did not stay at the “Shelburne”
in Dublin, partly because a man with only his clothes he stands up in
feels a little out of it when attended upon by waiters in full dress,
and partly because I guessed hotels in general would be of a somewhat
primitive character, and I had plunge in media res at once. So I made
for a native hotel, and sat over a fire of native coals. The Irish have
the character of being very warm-hearted, and I was cheered by the
prospective warmth of my reception in the country; but certainly there
was no warmth in the fire, and when I stirred it in hopes of making it
blaze, it went out, and accordingly I went to bed.
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I was up
and off early the following morning, for there was nothing to delay me
in my hotel, I assure you; and soon I was inquiring my way to Kildare.
Nobody seemed to know the distance, which may be accounted for by the
fact that an Irish mile is a mile and a bit, and nobody exactly knows
of what the bits consists. I do not remember seeing the distance marked
up on any signpost on the east side of Ireland, but on the west, where
the roads are quite modern, the distance was marked in English miles. A
friendly policeman (by the way, every one seemed friendly and glad to
see me) directed me to go past Kilmainham Gaol, and then inquire the
way to Naas (pronounced Neese). The road became pretty after I had left
the town, and about six miles out I entered my first Irish village
– Rathcoole by name. My breakfast had been so unappetising that I
already felt ready for luncheon, and accordingly entered what I was
going to call a public-house, but, as every shop sells liquors and in
this sense is public, I will say this was a house where I expected to
get something to eat. So I did – bread-and-butter and dirt. The
landlady came and chatted with me all the time I was eating. If she had
been scrubbing her floor and tables she would have been more profitably
employed, but then that would not have been the Irish way of doing
things. She could give me no information as to my journey, and did not
know whether there was a hotel in Kildare or how far it was.
I trudged on to Naas, a small town, where I got a dinner of
mutton-chops. To prevent a wearisome repetition of vituperative
adjectives, here let me say that my experience of Irish cooking is that
it is execrable in all points but one, and that one is so good that it
all but atones for the general badness. Travellers tell us that no one
has tasted oranges till he has been to Jaffa, or knows what a dish of
rice is like until he has tasted one prepared by a Hindoo cook; and I
can vouch that a man has never tasted potatoes till he has been in
Ireland. Whether the excellence is in the potato itself, or in the peat
in which it is roasted, or whether the absence of anything else throws
you on the piece de resistance with
a special appetite, I cannot say, but certainly its excellence is
unimpeachable. I learned at Naas from a commercial traveller that
Kildare is a little, dirty, slatternly place, despite its being a
cathedral city, with scarcely accommodation for a dog, whereas
Newbridge, which was considerably nearer, had two hotels, a large
barracks, and other evidence of civilisation. He bade me hurry on, as
Newbridge is close to the Curragh, and the races were on, and so there
was likely to be a lively demand for beds. I took his kind advice and
reached Newbridge a little after five, having done 20 Irish miles that
day. I found all the beds the hotel had to let bespoken, but one of the
daughters of the house offered to give up her room to me, and proceeded
to show me upstairs. A town which has barracks for its chief building
will be sure to have soldiers as the staple of its population, and my
little inn was crowded that night with the red-coats, who were holding
a “free-and-easy” in the only room in the inn. We were
joined by some racing men, and I wondered where all were to sleep. I
partly solved this mystery in the morning when, on coming down to
breakfast, I found a man asleep on the sofa, wrapped up in the
tablecloth. I cannot claim to have breakfasted on the historic cloth,
taken fresh from the couch to the table, for the Irish are far too
good-natured to disturb a sleepy man in his slumbers, and so I had my
breakfast while he had the cloth.
Irish hotels may be comfortless, but at least they are cheap. Five
shillings for a dinner, bed, and breakfast is a price unknown in
England; and when it is remembered that this was race-week, and the
town unusually full, the price is wonderful in its moderation.
My road next lay across the Curragh of Kildare, a large common now
given up to racing and military purposes. Its history hangs on a legend
which is only a variation of Dido and her bull’s hide. Dido
having obtained the grant of as much land as a bull’s hide would
cover, cut the hide into thin slips, and so enclosed enough to build a
citadel on. St. Bridget was granted by a King of Leinster as much land
as her cloak would cover, but the pious Irish would not put the lady to
the trouble of Queen Dido, and so the cloak ran of its own accord over
5000 acres and covered that.
On the other side of Curragh I sighted the Cathedral of Kildare, but on
arrival at the gates I found them fast and padlocked. The cathedral is
said to stand on the very site of the cell of St. Bridget, in which
case I wondered what the holy woman would have done had she lived in
our time and had wanted to pray, or if the poor had wished to resort to
her cell for that butter and bacon she gave away with so reckless a
hand, but I supposed “other time, other manners.” But,
quite apart from any ecclesiastical consideration, I, as a traveller,
am in favour of open churches all along the line.
The cathedral was a fitting crown for the inhospitable little city
where I did not see a single place tempting enough to cause me to stop
and rest; so I trudged on, and before long I made acquaintance with an
Irish bog. Notices were up that the bog-letting would take place on
such and such a day, and from the size of the posters I judged it was a
very important operation.
The other end of the bog brought me within sight of the spire of a
church, which seemed to indicate I was nearer a village, and this led
me to hope that I might get some luncheon. I was to learn in what a
happy-go-lucky country I was, and perhaps I was let into the secret of
how the Irish had borne all their sufferings and looked cheerful all
the time. The spire truly belonged to a church, but the whole village
consisted of a school and a public-house. I entered the latter and
asked what they could give me to eat.
“Indeed, sir,” said the landlady, “we have nothing in the house but some fresh bread.”
“Perhaps you have something to drink?” I suggested.
“Indeed, sir, we have not. The cart has gone to town to-day, and may bring some back.”
Here was a cheerful look-out for a hungry man. However, it was more
bearable than an experience I once had in Wales, when they refused me
meat and drink, while the smell of meat in the process of being cooked
was quite maddening in my nostrils. If I was hungry and thirsty, I was
no worse off than my landlady. She at least asked me in to rest upon
the sofa, and began to beguile the time by talking. One hears much of
Irish blarney, which is only another way of saying that the soft speech
of the Irish is inimitable. She told me she liked the English,
especially as the only man in the district who had any money owed his
wealth to having married an English heiress. She had heard my name, I
found out, and had read the works of Cowper the poet. Meantime I
hinted that perhaps the fresh bread was not too fresh for me to eat,
and accordingly a slice or two was given me, which, with a little milk,
was all the house contained.
After an hour’s rest I followed a straight road which in time
brought me to Athy.[...] Though I went to the best hotel in Athy, the
furniture for my bedroom was beggarly in the extreme, with such a tiny
wash-hand stand, and no tooth-water or glass. [...]
Of course I had my meals and sat in the commercial room, for Athy was
far too primitive to know anything of a coffee-room, and I noticed a
single penny bottle of ink had to do duty for the whole of the
commercial gentlemen, who were fairly numerous and very friendly. As an
Englishman I am proud of my country, and do not like to hear it abused
as it was, both in speech and print, around me. It was some relief to
hear something on the other side from the commercial gentlemen, who one
and all decided it would be worth their while to pay certain Irish
M.P.’s £5000 a year a-piece to keep out of the country.
Business was bad, very bad, they said: everybody with money was driven
out of the country, and those who remained wanted nothing but potatoes
and stirabout. [...]
A bedroom which had no tooth-glass on the washstand was not likely to
have a key in the door. Nor had mine. Now, I am one of those who always
lock their bedroom door for fear of intruders. I am, too, of that order
of men who always look under the bed before stepping into it, to see if
there be any robber lurking there! Therefore I barricaded the door as
well as I could with a chair and my knapsack, and hoped that I should
be safe from intrusion. However, next morning, as I was taking an
apology for a bath in my washbasin, in walked the servant-girl, and, so
far from retreating when she saw me in puris naturalibus,
she actually advanced into the room and laid a clean towel over the
horse, and asked me if I wanted anything more. I answered that I
required nothing except that she should make herself scarce, which she
did – yet quite at her leisure. I had a similar experience a few
days later on, and when I fled to hide myself under the bedclothes, the
girl busied about the room as though unable to understand my confusion.
I do not relate the above to the disadvantage of Irish girls; quite the
contrary, for I believe there is no purer set in the world, and that
innocence sees no harm where less pure natures might suggest it. [...]
Neither board nor lodging was calculated to detain me at Athy, and
though I confess the kindliness of the Irish commercials might have
kept me, yet in the morning they were of course out on their rounds; so
I set off too, and was soon by the side of the fine river, the Barrow.
Irish rivers, as I saw them are all large and beautiful. No factories
discolour them, and no barges disfigure their banks. Free Trade, so the
people told me, had shut up the only industry which the South of
Ireland possessed – its flour-mills. I passed several empty and
windowless mills by the river-bank, and by the middle of the day had
reached a charming village called Castle Comer. In the centre of the
village was a beautiful mansion, the seat of a lady who was a leader
among the Plymouth Brethren, and when I got there I found a convention
of the Brethren being held, or, to be more particular, the convention
had just adjourned for lunch at the “Wandlesford Arms.” As
this was the only decent inn in the place, I went there too and asked
for luncheon.
“Are you a ‘Plym’?” asked the landlord, not uncivilly.
“No, I am not,” I replied.
“No,” he said; “I saw you were not. You look far too
jolly and wicked for them. Well, they have got all the good rooms, and
if you want anything to eat you must have it in the kitchen.”
Kitchens and parlours come alike to a hungry man, provided he can get
something to eat in them, but the Brethren were so long over their
meal, that I was afraid they were not going to leave me anything at
all. However, what was left of a hot steak-pie was rescued, refreshed
with which and some “hummocks”, I made my way to Kilkenny.
I
learned the name of the best hotel was the “Club House.” A queer name,
but a good hotel as Irish hotels go. At the entrance of the town on the
banks of the Nore is the seat of Marquis of Ormonde. There was a time
when Kilkenny was “a hot corner” for all the treason-mongers of
Ireland, and in the rebellion of 1641 the Council of Kilkenny
practically governed the kingdom. All seemed quiet when I entered it.
There
is only one way of making money in Ireland, and that is by distilling
spirits. Kilkenny has its big distiller, who provides for the bodies of
the majority of the people by giving them work, and for their souls by
having built them a cathedral. What could they want more? and so it is
no wonder that the place struck me as one of the most prosperous in
Ireland.
I was well fed at the “Club House” both night and morning. This was
fortunate, as I was to have a tremendous experience that day. Cashel
was the next place on the map which was on my route, and which seemed
likely to afford me a supper and a bed, but to learn the distance to
Cashel was more than I could do. Twenty, thirty, and even fifty miles
were mentioned as probable, but the cheery prospect was added that I
should get better information as I got farther on. A little more than
three hours’ walking brought me to Freshford, a village of some
pretensions, but whose sole refreshment for a hungry man consisted of a
piece of dry bread; even a grocer’s shop yielded not a morsel of
cheese, and as I had no knife there was no use buying any butter. The
same remark accounts for my non-purchase of sardines. There was nothing
for me but to walk on, resting now and again by the roadside. At three
I came upon a cluster of small houses, which I know not whether to call
a village, a hamlet, or a town; but I do know that the contents of the
solitary shop consisted of a piece of stale bread, two oranges, and
some acid drops. I could not stomach the sweets, and again had to
content myself with bread. All the way along I was inquiring how far I
was from Cashel, or from any town, and was always politely told the
farther I went on the nearer I should be to it. At last my informants
began to talk about Littleton as a place likely to afford every
accommodation under the sun, and soon after five o’clock I sighted the
little place, consisting of a short street and containing two
moderately sized houses – the priest’s and the inn. I was soon standing
at the bar of the latter, and asked the girl if I could have a bed
there for the night. She called up the stairs to her mother, “Mother!
here’s a man wants a bed.” A voice from above replied, “How many are
sleeping in the long bed?” “Four.” “Tell him it’s full.” Full, I
thought to myself, I should think it was! Still, if there had only been
three in the long bed, I should have been offered the fourth place. |
The girl explained to me that there were a number of poultry-buyers in
the neighbourhood who occupied the long bed, and there was no other in
the village. She told me if I walked to the “Horse and Jockey” (which I
took to be a public-house, but found to be a village possessing a
railway station), I should be sure to get a bed. Six miles was named as
the distance to the “Horse and Jockey,” and not staying to take
anything for the good of the house, which had done no good to me, I
went on. I always walk faster at the end of the day’s journey than at
any other time – not that I am not tired, but the longing for food and
rest acts as a spur. It was nearly seven when I reached the tiny
village, consisting of about a dozen houses and a “pub.” If it be asked
how a drink-shop could possibly subsist on such a population, I know of
no other way to explain it than the saying that every Irish landlord is
his own best customer.
I asked at the bar of the public-house the momentous question as to
bed, and was told that the landlady had only moved into the house that
very day, and had not a bed for herself, much less for me; but if I
went down to the station-master’s, she was sure he had a spare room,
and would be glad to let it. Fortunately the station was less than a
minute’s walk, and in this short space of time I was trying to
negotiate for a bed with the civil station-master. [...] By bedtime the
recital of my adventures, the distance I had walked, and my starving
condition so worked on his wife and four daughters that they lighted a
fire, brought me out a quilting-frame and a blanket, lit a lamp, and
gave me a supply of religious books to while away such hours as might
be sleepless, and then left me. |
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I
have little doubt that the religious books were the only literature the
house contained. I never came across a people so religious as the
Irish, and yet without a trace of cant. My conversation with the
station-master had turned upon the various places where he had lived,
and the mention of Borris led me to say that I had been at Oxford with
the son of the owner, Mr. Kavanagh, M.P., who had been born without
arms and legs.
“Did you ever see him?” asked the station-master.
Yes, I had seen him in the House of Commons, brought in to his seat on the back of an attendant.
“Did I know how it happened?”
“No.” Then he would tell me. His father had been waiting at
table at the time, and one of the jellies bore the effigy of the Pope.
The lady of the house drew it towards her, and with a spoon deprived it
of its arms and legs, and said that was how she would like the Pope to
be; “And do you know, sir,” said my informant gravely,
“it pleased the Almighty that her next child should be born
without arms or legs? – teaching us not to speak disrespectfully
of the priests and the Holy Father.”
Macaulay and those who had followed him have drawn conclusions
prejudicial to the Irish religion on account of the poverty of
the people compared with those of a Protestant country. Of course, if
plenty of bread and beef, with money in the bank, constitutes an
earthly paradise, their argument would be conclusive; but if the world
belongs to those who enjoy it, I would rather be an Irish peasant on
seven shillings a week than Middlesbrough puddler with seven pounds.
The Irish enjoy everything, from their religion downwards. What an
insight into their lives was given by a witness on Irish habitations
before a Parliamentary Committee:- “Their cabins, your honours,
are in such a state that the poor creatures could count the stars as
they lay on their beds.” Now, without disputing, it would be
better if the Irish peasant had got up and mended his roof instead of
counting the stars, yet one sees that any one who could forget the
discomfort to expatiate on the skies must be independent of external
circumstances.
Next morning I was up early and was assured that it was not more than
eleven miles to Cashel. So it proved, and by noon that day I was making
the first substantial meal I had had for thirty hours, and, as it was
market-day, I had not only food for the body, but I found in the
charming Irish talk on all sides of me that rest for the mind which
just suited a weary man. The Irish are exceedingly clean in their talk,
and never so much as a doubtful story did I overhear in my walk across
“the island of saints.”
While I was eating my dinner a gentleman entered into conversation with
me, and learning that I was walking across Ireland, and was anxious to
see as much of the life there as possible, invited me to stay at his
house over Sunday. I naturally felt a reluctance to intrude on people I
did not know, especially in my walking garb, but his face and manner
were so inviting, which was more than my inn was, that I consented. He
had his conveyance in the city (collections of one-storeyed cottages
are cities in Ireland), and drove me out to his place. As we passed the
Rock of Cashel, he told me the legend that the devil had bitten a piece
out of a neighbouring mountain and put it down in this plain. There is
a gap in the nearest mountain corresponding to it, but the fact that
the Rock is of limestone and the mountain is not, is one of those
discrepancies which do not matter in a legend. My host pointed out to
me the cathedral which once stood on the Rock, but a hundred years
before an archbishop unroofed and dismantled it on the plea that it was
half a mile away from the palace, and he was an invalid. He substituted
a barn-like structure in the centre of the town for the cathedral, in
spite of the protests of the people. As I sat next day, almost the
solitary worshipper in this brand-new cathedral, I could not help
thinking about the measure we mete being measured to us again. Once the
archbishop would not trouble himself to go to the people’s
church, now the people would not go to his.
My newly-found friend drove me about two miles out to his castle, which
bore about as much resemblance to an English castle as an Irish city
does to an English one. Times were very bad for landlords just then,
and there was only one maid in the castle, and one man to do the
outside work. My host and his sister constituted the
“family.” The sister washed my solitary collar and my
handkerchiefs, and as there was no footman, my host filled the
water-jug and in everything showed himself the generous blue-blooded
Milesian gentleman he was. A river ran through his grounds, which
provided the fish for our dinner. Though they might be poor, with
home-made bread and the freshest of butter, with jugs of rich cream and
new-laid eggs, there was no need to starve.
Next morning was Sunday, and as I wanted to see everything, my host
proposed I should attend the two churches in Cashel as there would be
ample time for both. Service began in the Roman Catholic church at ten,
and though in good time I just managed to squeeze in. I was directed to
a portion of the large church which was railed off, and where a man
stood to take the money for the seats. Only a penny was charged. Mass
began, at which there was neither music, incense, nor anything
attractive, if I except the sermon, which came in the middle. It had
the great advantage of being intelligible, dealt with the everyday
duties of the people, and was delivered without a book. The sermon of
the Protestant dean, which I subsequently heard in the cathedral, was
as void of all interest as any sermon could be. If the sermon was poor,
the service was poorer – for, only fancy, the mighty canon could
not sing. It sounded like a duet between a treble and a bass, when the
bass spoke and the treble sang. The only thing I can possibly comment
about the cathedral was the seats, which were the very acme of comfort.
The next day I read that an Irish bishop had been pleading with his
clergy for an earlier hour of service than twelve o’clock, the
time at which Morning (sic) Prayer began in Cashel Cathedral.
“Awake with the sun” half-an-hour after noon. I myself
wondered why service was so late, but my friend pointed out the clergy
were not able to help themselves in the matter, as all the world over
the sacred hour is the one which fits the domestic arrangements of the
flock. In Ireland practically all the masters are Protestants, and all
the servants Roman Catholics. In a country so intensely religious
provision must be made so that both can attend church, and so the
servants go at twelve and leave the house in safety. With scarcely an
exception the superiors appear to be Protestants. Not a single carriage
waited at the door of the Catholic church, but there were several at
the Protestant. I saw the rank and file of the Irish constabulary at
the former, but their officers at the latter, and so in everything.
After dinner that day I took leave of my friends and their open house
and departed from the city of kings, as Cashel is called, and made my
way to Tipperary.
It was late on Sunday afternoon when I reached Dobbin’s Hotel in
Tipperary and found the room full of commercial travellers. Two things
are said to keep the town on its legs – barracks and butter. The
soldiers spend their pay in the place, and of course are provisioned by
the various shops in the town. Tipperary is the centre of the butter
trade, and, as I noticed, everything looked like it. Never had I seen
the priests looking so sleek and fat, or the people so well-to-do. The
conversation in the commercial room turned on the price of butter; when
that goes up people are quiet and content, when it goes down they are
ready for rebellion. As I entered Tipperary I saw the only carriage and
pair I came across in all my travels through Ireland, but whether that
was made of butter is more than I can say.
I suppose no town in Ireland is more typically Irish than Tipperary,
and there I met a number of typical Irishmen, keen-witted and swift at
repartee. News had arrived of one of our many defeats in South Africa,
and they could not forbear having a shot at an Englishman, as they saw
me to be. Some Irish regiment had been engaged in the battle, and of
course shared the disgrace of defeat, as I pointed out.
“Did you ever hear what King James said to an Irish lady after the battle of the Boyne?” asked one of them.
“No, I have not.”
“Well, the King came riding into Dublin, the first comer from the
battle-field, and saluted Lady Tyrconnel by exclaiming: ‘Madam,
your countrymen have run away.’ But the high-spirited Irish lady
replied: ‘If they have run away, your Majesty seems to have won
the race.’”
All joined in a good-humoured laugh against me, and for the life of me
I could not think of an instance where an Englishman said something
smarter than an Irishman, so I sat and listened to their stories. One
related to an incident in a police-court, where the drollery of the
Irish nature came out even in its rascals. At some English church an
Irishman produced a plate from his pocket, and when the collection
began he handed it about, and when fairly laden he transferred the
contents to his own pocket. The attention of the officials was soon
called to him, and he was given into custody. He pleased he had used no
false pretences, as he had merely handed his plate about for any one to
put what they liked on it; what false pretence was there in that? The
magistrate was unable to say and discharged him, and even the money,
which the church officials claimed, was given back to him; and the
shouts of laughter which followed the recital of the story showed how
dear to the Irish heart it is to get the better of a Saxon. I heard,
however, no rancour against England, still less against Protestants,
and as far as I could learn the various religions lived side by side in
perfect amity.
Next morning a friend of the commercial room kindly showed me the road
to Limerick, and his genial company made the milestones fly past.
Presently he had to turn back and attend the markets, but still the
milestones seemed to fly by. I got out my watch, and found I was
walking an Irish mile in twelve minutes. Impossible! – they must
be English miles. So they were. The roads of this county (I was now in
Limerick) are of recent construction. The Irish mile is, like the
language, dying out, and so in out-of-the-way parts of Limerick you
come into splendid roads accurately marked with English miles.
[…]
It was in one of the Limerick villages that I saw something of the
darker side of Irish life – dark in more senses than one. I hope
I shall not be thought to exaggerate when I say that a quarter of a
mile away I heard a peculiar moan, which I took for a funeral chant. On
approaching, I found the crowd was gathered at a railway-station, and
asking a constable what was the matter, I was told two young emigrants
were being sent off, and the moans were the lamentations of their
friends. I looked up and down the platform to see the interesting
parties, but could discern no one who looked the least likely to be
going on a journey – no luggage nor anything. Sir John Lubbock
relates how in Borneo he attended a funeral of some party who was not
dead, and I began to think I was attending the emigration of some one
who was not going, when the train came up, and two young men hopelessly
tipsy, with their bundles on their shoulders, were dragged forth from
somewhere and thrust into the carriage, while their friends moaned
about meeting them in Heaven!! |
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