One Irish Summer

by William Eleroy Curtis

The interior of the mansion is handsomely furnished according to the conventional requirements of a wealthy country gentleman, and the walls are hung with paintings representing racing incidents and famous race horses of the present and the past. At one end of the portico at the main entrance is a large screen of white canvas covered with cryptograms of Egypt, cartouches of the Pharaohs and other designs which Mr. Croker brought back with him from his visit to the Nile last winter. And in the main hall are several other Egyptian souvenirs.

All of the work upon the place has been done by local artisans, and all of the employees of the stock farm belong to families in the neighborhood, for Mr. Croker believes in practical home rule. His chief trainer is an Irishman, like all his grooms, but Lucius Lyne, a Kentuckian, has ridden his horses since 1906. John Reiff, a famous American jockey, rode Orby when he won the Derby, and Mr. Croker will not trust any but American jockeys in his saddles. Every one else about the place, however, is Irish. And Mr. Croker has been a veritable fairy godfather to the poor people in his neighborhood, although his old friends in New York will agree that he does not look the part. He has not only given employment at good wages to almost every man in that locality, but has assisted several families in a substantial manner. His generosity seems to be boundless. He gave every dollar of his winnings at the Derby to Archbishop Walsh of Dublin for the charities of the church, and it would amuse you to hear the enthusiastic terms in which his neighbors praise him for his good heart and his good works.

He takes no part in local politics, although his sympathies are very strongly with the nationalist party, and at the last parliamentary election in 1906 he contributed generously to the campaign fund, and on election day loaned his automobile and his carriage to haul infirm and lazy voters to the polls. The contest was between Walter Long, an Englishman, who had been defeated for parliament by one English constituency and was sent over there by the conservative leaders in London to contest one of the Irish seats, and a labor leader named Hazelton, who had been nominated by the nationalist party. Mr. Croker took an unusual interest in the fight because, from his point of view, it was not only an impertinence but an indignity to set up an Englishman for the votes of an Irish constituency. And he was even the more indignant when Long was elected, as he claims, by the votes and influence of the officials and pensioners of the government and the soldiers of the garrison. He criticises the management of the nationalist committee for not looking after the registration of their voters. The registration laws are very strict over here and many of the poorer classes are disfranchised for not complying strictly with them. Mr. Croker says that if the contest had been in New York the Tammany leaders would have got out every vote and Long would have been defeated. Next time he will undoubtedly give the nationalist campaign managers some hints as to how an election should be conducted. Mr. Croker is an earnest home ruler, although he would prefer to see Ireland a republic, but he says that he does not intend to get mixed up in Irish politics. He considers his political career as finished and he intends to spend the rest of his life in the quiet seclusion of his present home with his horses and intimate friends.

He says that the Tammany people in New York do not bother him much with political matters. Occasionally he receives a cablegram, or a letter asking his advice or his influence, and occasionally somebody comes over to confer with him, but he considers himself “entirely out of it and does not want to be bothered.”

Mr. Croker showed us around the place in his silent, matter-of-fact manner, but could not suppress the pride he feels in his horses and his satisfaction with the record he has already made upon the turf in Ireland and England with his own colts, for he doesn’t own or race any but those that are foaled and bred and trained in his own stables. That is what he is here for, and that is his greatest gratification, and he likes it a great deal better than politics. He brought with him to Ireland a famous Kentucky mare named “Rhoda B.,” which we did not see because she was down in the pasture, and from her he has been breeding a string of colts that have had remarkable success. Every one of them has been foaled at Glencairn. He has won the English Derby and two Irish Derbys, and the English Newmarket, which is the third in order of the great events on the English turf. Rhodora won the thousand-guinea race in the Newmarket, and Mr. Croker is confident that another colt called “Alabama” will win the Derby just as Orby did.

An Irish Jaunting Car

Back of his mansion and his flower garden and his hothouses is a quadrangle of box stalls. In the center is a statue of Dobbin, the first horse Mr. Croker ever owned and for which he had great affection. There are a dozen stalls, and in the first he showed us Orby, a beautiful creature, as vain and conscious as a prima donna, that seems to realize the supreme importance of a Derby winner. Nailed upon the door is a gold plate properly inscribed and inclosed by one of the shoes worn in that race.

Across the quadrangle were a number of two-year-olds named Lusitania, Fluffy Ruffles, Lady Stepaside, Lotus, Lavalta, and one or two others, all foaled on the place, and six yearlings which Mr. Croker exhibited to us with the pride of possession, and one or two others which he said “were no good.” At the stable of Alabama he showed more animation and did more talking than those who know him would suppose him capable of. Mr. Croker has the reputation of being one of the most reticent and unemotional men in the world, as all American politicians know, and I never saw him warm up over anything before. He has a face like a bulldog, perfectly expressionless, and no one can ever tell whether he is pleased or displeased from the lines in his face or the tone of his voice, which is always low and deliberate. But when he showed us Alabama, the son of Americus and Rhoda B., he woke up and actually became animated as he described the fine points of the colt and told us what he had been doing and what he is expected to do.