Part 2 (2/2)

His face fell.

”But you have seen cowboys?” he persisted.

”Only in Wild West Shows,” I admitted. ”That's where I have seen most of my Indians.”

”They're brave lads, aren't they?” and his eyes were s.h.i.+ning again.

”Why, have you seen them?” I questioned in surprise.

”Ah, I have, sir, many times, in the moving-pictures,” he explained. ”It must be a fine thing to live in America!”

I found out afterwards that the Wild West film is exceedingly popular in Ireland. No show is complete without one. I saw some, later on, and most sanguinary and impossible they were; but they were always wildly applauded, and I think most Irishmen believe that the life of the average American is largely employed in fighting Indians and rescuing damsels in distress. I tried to tell the bell-boy that life in America was much like life everywhere--humdrum and matter-of-fact, with no Indians and few adventures; but I soon desisted. Why should I spoil his dream?

And then, from up the street, came the rattle and blare of martial music, and we had our first view of an Irish performer on the ba.s.s-drum.

It is a remarkable and exhilarating spectacle. The drummer grasps a stick in each hand, and sometimes he pounds with both of them, and sometimes he twirls one over his head and pounds with the other, and sometimes he crosses his arms over the top of the drum and pounds that way. I suppose there is an etiquette about it, for they all conduct themselves in the same frenzied fas.h.i.+on, while the crowd stares fascinated. It is exhausting work, and I am told that during a long parade the drummers sometimes have to be changed two or three times. But there is never any lack of candidates.

There were thousands of men in line, that day, members of a hundred different lodges, each with its banner. Their women-folk trooped along with them, often arm-in-arm; and they trudged silently on with the slow and dogged tread of the beast of burden; and the faces of men and women alike were the pale, patient faces of those who look often in the eyes of want. It melted the heart to see them--to see their rough and toil-worn clothing, their gnarled and twisted hands, their heavy hob-nailed shoes--and to think of their treadmill lives, without hope and without beauty--just an endless struggle to keep the soul in the body. Minute after minute, for almost an hour, they filed past. What they hoped to gain, I do not know--a living wage, perhaps, since that is what labour needs most in Ireland--and what it has not yet won!

Our b.u.t.tons had watched the parade with the amused tolerance of the uniformed aristocrat.

”There's a lot of mad people in Dublin,” he remarked cheerfully, as we turned to go in.

CHAPTER III

THE ART OF ANCIENT ERIN

DUBLIN is by far the most fascinating town in Ireland. She has charm--that supreme attribute alike of women and of cities; and she has beauty, which is a lesser thing. She is rich in the possession of many treasures, and proud of the memorials of many famous sons. Despite all the vicissitudes of fortune, she has remained the spiritual and artistic capital of Ireland, and she looks forward pa.s.sionately to the day when the temporal crown will be restored to her. To be sure, there is a canker in her bosom, but she knows that it is there; and perhaps some day she will gather courage to cut it out.

Among her memorials and treasures, are four of absorbing interest--the grave of Swift, the tomb of Strongbow, the Cross of Cong and the Book of Kells. It was for the first of these, which is in St. Patrick's Cathedral, that we started Monday morning, and to get there we mounted for the first time to the seats of a jaunting-car.

I suppose I may as well pause here for a word about this peculiarly Irish inst.i.tution. Why it should be peculiarly Irish is hard to understand, for it furnishes a rapid, easy, and--when one has learned the trick--comfortable means of locomotion. Every one, of course, is familiar with the appearance of a jaunting-car--or side-car, as it is more often called--with its two seats back to back, facing outwards, and a foot-rest overhanging each wheel.

Opposite the next page is a series of post-card pictures showing its evolution from the primitive drag, which is the earliest form of vehicle all the world over, and which still survives in the hilly districts of Ireland, where wheels would be useless on the pathless mountain-sides.

Then comes a rude cart with solid wheels and revolving axle working inside the shafts, still used in parts of far Connaught, and then the cart with spoke wheels working outside the shafts on a fixed axle--pretty much the form still used all the world over--just such a ”low-backed car” as sweet Peggy used when she drove to market on that memorable day in spring. The next step was taken when some comfort-loving driver removed the side-boards, in order that he might sit with his legs hanging down; and one sees them sitting just so all over Ireland, with their women-folk crouched on the floor of the cart behind, their knees drawn up under their chins, and all m.u.f.fled in heavy shawls. I do not remember that I ever saw a woman sitting on the edge of a cart with her legs hanging over--perhaps it isn't good form!

Thus far there is nothing essentially Irish about any of these vehicles; but presently it occurred to some inventive Jehu that he would be more comfortable if he had a rest for his feet, and presto! the side-car. It was merely a question of refinements, after that--the addition of backs and cus.h.i.+ons to the seats, the enlargement of the wheels to make the car ride more easily, the attachment of long springs for the same purpose, and the placing of a little box between the seats for the driver to sit on when his car is full. In a few of the larger places, the development has reached the final refinement of rubber tires, but usually these are considered a too-expensive luxury.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE EVOLUTION OF THE JAUNTING CAR]

Now evolution is supposed to be controlled by the survival of the fittest, but this is only half-true of the side-car; for, while admirably adapted to hilly roads, it is the worst possible conveyance in wet weather. Hilly roads are fairly frequent in Ireland, but they are nowhere as compared to wet days, and the side-car is a standing proof of the Irishman's indifference to rain. Indeed, we grew indifferent to it ourselves, before we had been in Ireland very long, for it really didn't seem to matter.

I suppose it is the climate, so soft, so sweet, so balmy that one gets no harm from a wetting. The Irish tramp around without any thought of the weather, work just the same in the rain as in the sun, never think of using a rain-coat or an umbrella--would doubtless consider the purchase of either a waste of money which could be far better spent--and yet, all the time we were in Ireland, we never saw a man or woman with a cold! The Irish are proud of their climate, and they have a right to be.

And, now I think of it, perhaps the climate explains the jaunting-car.

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