Photo by W. Leonard
Monument on the Battle-field of the Boyne
The whole day's ride has been charming. We did not stop at Drogheda, but passed on to Newry, a twelve-mile ride over a very fine road, and rested at the Victoria Hotel, having covered one hundred and three miles since eleven this morning, with long stoppages several times. The auto has done splendidly and will do better as it gets down to work.
This is the Protestant end of Ireland, prosperous and contented apparently, but not picturesque. That goes with the state of affairs to be found in the southern half.
Newry is a clean town with neat shops and houses, and a good hotel, still there are Irish characteristics which those of us who remember the Irish maid of long ago in America will recognise at once. Many things are broken, "jist came that way"; a complete toilet set is unnecessary where there are windows; and I notice that the salutations sound always wrong end first,—when people meet they say "Good-night," a form never used elsewhere except when parting.
Apparently the hotel is the social club of the town, where the men of a certain class gather in the evenings, and drawing their chairs in a circle before the bar, spend an hour or so in chaff with the barmaid, drinking porter the while. To-night the talk is of a more serious nature and turns on trade.
It is claimed that what kills all chance of Ireland being a profitable country are the railway rates, that, for instance, it costs more to get corn from Galway to Dublin than from America to any point on the island.