One Irish Summer

by William Eleroy Curtis

He was so deaf that he couldn’t understand us, and he mumbled his words so that we couldn’t understand him, except now and then a word, but he was so anxious to be of service, so eager to earn a tip, that he would repeat everything he said again and again, until we were able to comprehend it. With his crooked stick he pointed the way across the fields and we followed him. We wouldn’t have got much information, however, had not Mr. Wilkinson, the first citizen of Tara, come to our rescue. He saw us as we passed his house, which stands a little way down the road, and, as he explained, “Having nothing better to do, and always enjoying an opportunity to meet Americans,” he fortunately came over and joined our party and gave us intelligent and interesting explanations. He is a rugged old gentleman, is Mr. Wilkinson. Although more than eighty years of age, he “can do as big a day’s work, six days in the week, and enjoy the Lord’s day for rest as much as he did when he was only forty.” His great-grandfathers as far back as he knows, like himself, were born in the cottage in which he lives, and “I’ve seen things come and go for many a day,” he said. When Mr. Wilkinson had passed beyond hearing with the ladies, the old guide seized me by the arm, drew me anxiously to shelter and then in a whisper repeated several times until I was able to comprehend:

“’E’s the richest man in Tara and in all the country round about. ’E’s worth three thousand pun if he’s worth a penny, and he got it from his father before him. He’s a good man, too, and I dunno what we’d do here without Mr. Wilkinson.”

They led us to the top of the hill, where we could stand beside the spot once occupied by the coronation stone and admire all Ireland, spread out like a cyclorama around us. It is one of the most beautiful landscapes in the universe. There are no mountains, except in the far distance; there are no rocks or other ungainly objects in view, but as serene and peaceful and fertile a tract of territory as can be found upon God’s footstool. Ireland is the greenest country that ever was. The turf and the foliage have a brighter color and a richer luster than those of any other country. That, however, is not news. The fact was discovered centuries ago and has been disclosed by every son of old Erin who ever wrote poetry or prose. But nowhere is there such convincing proof that the Emerald Isle was appropriately named as is offered from the top of the Hill of Tara. You cannot transfer the testimony of the fields and the forests to paper, either with a pen or a brush, and certainly not with a typewriter. There are no words in the English language sufficient to convey to another mind what the eyes can see of this glorious landscape, and it is useless to multiply adjectives.

“Some sez it’s the place of the coronation chair,” mumbled the guide, as we stood on the crest of the hill. “Some sez it’s the king’s chair; but I calls it a very commandin’ spot. Two years ago,” he continued, “some friends of Lord Dunsany came here. May be they have a son married to his daughter, I dunno, but she was a very dacent lady. She wouldn’t walk any further than the hall, and she sez, sez she, ‘Me man, bide here with me,’ and I sez, sez I, ‘Have no fear, me lady, sit here on the soft sod and I’ll go with his lordship, for people are always comin’ from Scotland and Ameriky, and I always shows them about.’ There’s none else that can do it so well as meself, and when they came back his lordship gave me two shillin’, and he’s a vera dacent man.”

Mr. Wilkinson gave us some interesting history, and repeated many traditions and legends of the place. He told us how many parties of archæologists had been here digging for the Ark of the Covenant and had found nothing but dirt and stone. He took us through the modern churchyard and opened to us the little sanctuary where Rev. Mr. Handy preaches every Sunday morning and baptizes into the Church of Ireland the babies of Tara, that are very numerous in the short, narrow street. He told us that Mr. Briscoe was the largest landowner in the neighborhood, and had inherited from several generations the sacred hill upon which we stood. He had fenced in the remains to keep the cattle out and kept down the grass so that the outlines of the ruins could be followed. Mr. Briscoe has recently disposed of nearly all his holdings, under the new land act, to his tenants, who occupy them, and now nearly every acre within the range of human vision from the Hill of Tara belongs to the man who tills it.

After we had thanked Mr. Wilkinson for his attentions and parted with him on the roadside, a woman put her head out of one of the cottage windows and in a stage whisper said:

“He’s the best and richest man in Tara. He’s worth every penny of ten thousand pounds.”

Cambrensis, one of the oldest and earliest writers of Ireland, says: “There is in Mieth a hill called the Hill of Taragh, whereon is a plaine twelve score long which was named the King his hall; where the countrie had their meetings and folkmotes, as a place that was accounted the high place of the monarch. The historians hammer manie fables in this forge of Fin Mac Coile and his champions.”

While Tara was the seat of authority for all Ireland, and the center of military education and display, it was also the place where the bards used to assemble in early times for competitions in poetry and melody. Each year the troubadours of Ireland gathered there to recite heroic epics in praise of their patrons and sing the ballads they had composed for prizes. These musical and literary tournaments reached their greatest fame and influence during the days when Cormac Mac Art was king. He was not only the greatest warrior, but the greatest scholar and legislator and judge that the Irish knew during the period of which Tara was their capital. The poems and chronicles of his time describe him as a model of majesty, magnificence, and manly beauty. He founded three colleges in the neighborhood of Tara, one for the teaching of law, one for poetry, literature, history, and music, and the third for military science. He organized what was known as the “Fena of Erin,” a body of militia remarkable in many respects, which was under the command of Fin Mac Cool, his son-in-law, who of all the ancient heroes of Ireland is best remembered in tradition and combined the qualities of Hercules, Julius Cæsar, and Solomon.

But no reference in literature to this sacred place is more familiar than one of the ballads of Tom Moore. Indeed, the great majority of people never heard of Tara from any other source: