"But there was wan snakin' vagabone av a divil that come from furrin parts an' hadn't heard the news about the saint, and the blessed saint caught him wan avenin' an' set him to work to build that tower. So the black rogue wint at it as hard as he knew how, an' was workin' away wid all the hands he had, as busy as a barmaid at a fair, thinkin' that afore sunrise he'd have it so high it 'ud fall down be itself an' do the blessed saint not a ha'porth av good. But afther batin' owld Satan himself, Saint Kevin wasn't to be deludhered be wan av his undershtrappers, an' was watchin' wid his two eyes every minnit o' the time, so whin the divil had the tower high enough, he threw his bishop's cap at it, an' it become shtone an' made the roof, so the omadhawn divil was baten at his own game."
The round tower is not without a touch of romance, one of the most notable structures, Monaster-Boice, having been built by a woman under peculiar circumstances. According to the legend, she was young, beautiful, and good, but though she ought to have been happy also, she was not, being persecuted by the attentions of a suitor chieftain, whose reputation[pg 127] must have been far from irreproachable, since he was characterized by the narrator of the story either as an "outprobrious ruffin," or "a sootherin', deludherin', murtherin' villin." Loving another chief who was a "gintleman entirely," and determined to escape from the obnoxious attentions of the "ruffin" already mentioned, the lady, having learned that her disagreeable suitor had resolved to carry her off, employed two men to aid her the night before the proposed abduction, and, before morning, built the tower and took up her abode in the topmost chamber. In due season the chieftain came "wid a gang av thaves," but, disappointed in his "endayvor fur to[pg 128] stale away her varchew," besieged the tower. Having taken the precaution to provide a good supply of heavy stones, the lady pelted her persecutors vigorously, "crackin' their haythen shkulls the same as they wor egg-shells." Her heroism was rewarded by her deliverance, for her lover, hearing of her desperate situation, came to her relief and attacked the besiegers, so that "wid the lady flingin' shtones at the front o' them, an' the other fellys beltin' 'em behind, they got disconsarted as not knowin' phat to do next, an' so they up's an' runs like as tin thousand divils wor parshooin' afther thim. So she was saved an' brought down, an' was married to the boy av her heart the next Sunday, Glory be to God, an' that's the way the tower come to be built, an' shows that thim that thries to marry a lady agin her will always comes to grief, fur av she cant bate thim wid her tongue she can some other way, fur a woman can always get phat she's afther, an' bad luck to the lie that's in that."
THE POLICE.
During the last few years, the most obviously conspicuous individual in Ireland is the policeman. Go where you will, if the policeman is not there before you, the reason is probably to be found in the fact that he has just been there and will likely return before you leave. In Dublin, Cork, Limerick, Athlone, Belfast, and other large cities and towns, the police are seen at every corner, singly, in pairs, and in groups. Fresh-looking police are going on duty; tired-out police are going home; clean, well-brushed police are starting to the country on horseback, having heard reports of rural disturbance; muddy police are coming in on jaunting-cars, with prisoners from the nearest eviction. Everywhere you meet them; young policemen, with fresh, rosy complexions; middle-aged policemen, with stern faces, bearing strong evidence of Irish pugilistic talent; old policemen, with deeply scarred and weather-beaten countenances, looking forward to speedy retirement and a moderate pension; they are in the city, in the village, on the high road, in the by-way, and on the mountain paths. At every railroad station they are to be seen in pairs, observing those who arrive and depart, and noting[pg 130] all that may seem suspicious in the appearance and actions of travellers.
As long as a stranger remains on the common, well-frequented tourist routes he escapes with a sharp glance of inspection, but let him leave the courses usually followed by travellers, or go into parts of the country not often visited by strangers, and he at once becomes an object of intense suspicion. You are driving along a retired country road; at the turn of the hill a policeman heaves in sight. He speaks pleasantly, and if nothing arouses his suspicion, he will pass on and you see him no more; but if the slightest distrust of you or your business finds lodgment in his mind, he marks you as a possible victim. He temporarily vanishes; look round as you proceed on your journey, and you may, by chance, catch a glimpse of him a mile or two away, peeping over a wall after you, but in the next village, where you stop for the night, he reappears, and the local policemen, after his coming, will be sure to observe you with some degree of attention. Leave your baggage in the public room of the inn and step out on the street. In comes the policeman, ascertains your name, takes a mental inventory of your effects, makes a note of the railway and hotel labels on your trunks, and goes away to report. A sharp detective is the policeman even in the country districts. He knows articles of American manufacture at a glance, and needs only to see your satchel to tell whether it came from America or was made in England. Talk with him, and he will chat cordially about the weather, the crops, the state of the markets, but all the time he is trying to make out who you are and what is your business. His eyes ramble from your hat to your shoes, and by the time the conversation is ended, he has prepared for the "sargeant" a report of your personal appearance and apparel. "Hat, English; coat, London-made;[pg 131] trousers, doubtful; shoes, American; party evidently an Irish Yankee, who might as well be looked after."
The Irish policeman, or "consthable," as he is familiarly known on his native sod, is the son of a peasant. Finding life as a laborer or tenant in either case intolerable, he debated in his own mind the question whether he should emigrate to America, enlist in the British army, or apply for a place on the constabulary. The first step was, to him, the most acceptable, but he lacked the money to go; of the two courses left open, enlistment in the army was the more pleasant, since in Ireland the constabulary are almost entirely cut off from association with the people in a social or friendly way, a general belief prevailing that the Irishman who enters the police has deserted the cause of his country and entered the service of her deadliest foe. So the police are avoided by their former companions, shunned by old friends, and, lastly, what is of some consequence to a genuine Irishman, are given the cold shoulder by the ladies. To be sure, the Irishman who enlists in the British army would be treated in the same way at his old home, but as he usually leaves never to return, the case is materially different. Chance, or the obligation of supporting aged parents or a helpless family of young brothers and sisters, usually determines the question, and the young Irishman enters the constabulary, thenceforth to be a social leper, for the constable is hated by his countrymen with a hatred that knows no bounds.