Photo by Wm. Lawrence
Terrace at Tanderagee Castle
Just outside there stands a venerable grave-digger amongst the tombs, who might almost have been here fifteen hundred years ago, and certainly he would resent any insinuation that he was not well informed upon all which may or may not have occurred since the death of the saint. He is leaning upon his rake near the church door, and returns our salutation in an antique manner, nothing about him as it were, belonging to this latter day or date. "Yes, the cathedral can be visited, but perhaps 'twould be as well to visit the tomb, I will show you that,—who better?"
It is off amongst a tangle of tombstones and high grasses, a great flat irregular boulder engraved with a Celtic cross and the saint's name—evidently the sinful dead have crowded as closely as possible around the saintly ashes in order perhaps to pass into the heavenly gates unobserved with such great company to chain the attention of St. Peter. But some of these around started on their last journey hundreds of years after St. Patrick,—still, as we are told that "in His sight a thousand years are but as yesterday," perhaps they all arrived together, and I doubt not that for his beloved Irish the holy Patrick would delay his entry as long as possible and even come back again from that farther shore at the calling of some late comers.
When I ask this grave-digger whether this be indeed the grave of the holy man, he looks wise, plucks a bit of grass from a near-by grave, and seizes his opportunity for an oration. It is useless to stop him with questions, he will answer as and when it pleases him; and so, sitting upon the tomb with the sunlight falling in a glowing benediction upon us living and upon the old cathedral and its silent company, he speaks on and on. "There's many, your honour, phwat has heads but don't use thim. Is this the grave you ask. Well I have puzzled out the question for many years. I don't believe it is, as I suggested this spot to the antiquary society myself. In owlden days the spot prayed upon as his tomb was under yonder middle window of the church, but whin a bishop came along who wanted more silf-glory than one driveway would give him, he made that one there, and in so doing moved the owld tombstone,—not that I am claiming that even that was the first one laid upon the blessed corpse, for an owld woman of eighty who lived here until she was ten and then moved away, came back to bid farewell to her native town on going to America, and upon being shown the tomb undher the window asked since whin had the dead taken to moving their graves, for whin she left here it was below there in the valley. But we know it was around here some place, and this new spot is as good as any other." "Did St. Pathrick build that church?—no, sure, yer honour, he was not the kind of a man who wint around glorifying himself. If he had had as much money as that cost 't would be the poor who would have got it. Still, the church yonder is fifteen hundred years old, though it has been so built over that it is hard to believe it."
The old man would have talked on for ever, but, like most of his age, it would have been but vain repetition, and so we move off and away, feeling sure that the spirit of the benign old saint returns now and then in floods of warm sunlight to his ancient cathedral of Downpatrick.
Like most grave-diggers, the man up there knew more of the past than of the present, and when he told us that we would find a fine ferry from Strangford across the outlet of the lough of that name he spoke without advisement. We found a proposition to place some planks from one boat to another and so to ferry us and our great machine over one of the deepest, swiftest currents passing outward to the sea. It is useless to say that I vetoed this proposition, so we rolled backward almost to Downpatrick, and then turned north-west towards Belfast, which we reached for luncheon.