Then I will change the color, too, that I wear in my caubeen;

But till that day, plaze God, I’ll stick to wearing of the green.”

The Earl of Lismore is the Lord of Tipperary, and the head of the O’Callaghan family, who were formerly kings of Munster and are descended from a famous Milesian prince. The various generations have taken an active part in the affairs of Ireland since history began. They have been bishops, statesmen, lawyers, soldiers, sailors, and priests; they have married the daughters of the most prominent houses in the kingdom and their sisters have been the wives and mothers of dukes. They live at Clogheen, in the famous Sharbally Castle, and occupy land which has been in the family for many centuries.

XXII
THE IRISH HORSE AND HIS OWNER

We attended the races at Leopardstown, about forty minutes south of Dublin by rail toward the picturesque Wicklow hills. The gate is at the railway station and the embankment upon which it stands gives an opportunity to see the entire panorama, and a beautiful one it is. One could not easily imagine a more peaceful, yet picturesque landscape, the race course being in the center of an amphitheater surrounded by wooded hills of lustrous green. I have said several times and will be apt to keep on saying—for it is the most interesting and the truest thing in Ireland—that the fields are greener and the foliage has a deeper tint than anywhere else I have been. And although it rains half the time and showers are more plentiful than sunshine, they make the grass and the leaves and the flowers more beautiful and rich in color and give old Mother Earth a brighter robe.

The horses run on the turf, and there is no such thing as a trotting race. All of the entries are from breeding farms, not from sporting stables. The winner cares more for the cup than the money, for he enters his horses to increase the reputation of his stud rather than the size of his purse. There is a great deal of betting, both by owners and by the general public, but that is a secondary consideration. The chief end of a race is glory, and not gain.

The course at Leopardstown is a perfect oval; the track runs between hedges instead of rails and is shaven like a lawn, but the grass is quite long in the infield, and cattle and sheep are grazing in bunches here and there. At one end is a group of vine-clad buildings, covered with red tiles, almost entirely hidden by overhanging boughs. A large stone house which used to be occupied by the farmer who owned this place is now the home of the caretaker, who sets a table for the trainers and the jockeys, and they sleep in the stables with their horses. I don’t know exactly where or how they make their beds; perhaps they lie on the straw in the mangers, but it is the practice over here, and a groom seldom leaves his horse. There is little trickery on the Irish race course, because it is patronized by men of the highest social standing and integrity. They not only frown upon all forms of sharp practice, but there is no penalty too severe for a man that cheats or a jockey or a groom that violates the regulations. You read in novels of English and Irish life about horses being dosed with “knockout drops” and various other disreputable proceedings to make the situations more dramatic and startling, but it is asserted that there hasn’t been a scandal of any consequence upon the Irish turf for the last ten years. As one enthusiastic horseman expressed himself, “It’s run as honestly as the church, and more so than the government.”

The admission to the grounds is a shilling for all comers, but after the spectators enter they are classified according to the dimensions of their purses. Anybody can get a seat upon the bleachers for another shilling, and the larger part of the crowd go that way, because the grand stand prices are almost prohibitive to the working classes, being $1.50 for ladies and $2.50 for gentlemen. The grand stand is small and is not patronized by many people because the cheaper seats attract the crowd and the members’ pavilion and clubhouse on the other side are open to all subscribers to the Jockey Club. As the privilege of membership can be had for a couple of guineas, nearly every gentleman of affairs who ever attends the races subscribes and that gives him admission to all the meetings and the privileges of the clubhouse. There were many carriages, motor cars, jaunting cars, and saddle horses in the infield, because the course is within driving distance from Dublin, and those who can prefer to come down that way. Under the grand stand is a restaurant, a tea-room, and a bar, all small and cozy and well kept, and the attendants are women,—cashiers, barmaids, waitresses, and cigar venders,—dressed in pretty liveries. The accommodations at the clubhouse are quite attractive as well as convenient, although they are closed to strangers like the ordinary clubs of the English and Irish cities. A member may invite a friend to luncheon or dinner, but he cannot put him up at a club in England and Ireland as we do in the United States. They are very selfish about such privileges.

Behind the grand stand and the clubhouse is a large shaded inclosure accessible to the occupants of both, where the horses are brought before the races and the jockeys are weighed. The horses are brought there after the races also and the people stand in large circles around them to see them rubbed down. The paddock looks more like a garden party than a stable yard, for it is filled with ladies and gentlemen chatting gayly, promenading, and sometimes drinking tea, eating ices, or taking other refreshments on the benches, under the trees between races, or standing at the scales discussing the horses and talking to their owners. You have read descriptions of such scenes in society novels, no doubt, for many authors introduce the races as a feature. Here and there you can see a party with their lunch spread on a white cloth that covers the grass, and I have no doubt a good deal of flirting is going on, although it is more interesting to watch the horses and the crowd.