Wanderings in Ireland

by Michael Myers Shoemaker

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.