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.