Part 33 (1/2)

It was to mark the graves of the warriors who fell in that dim-distant fray that the circles and cromlechs which dot its site were probably erected; but the Irish have another theory, which we shall hear presently.

I shall not soon forget that walk, at first through the busy streets of the town, past solid, well-built houses of brick, with bright shops on the lower floor and living-rooms above; then into the poorer and quainter quarter, where the houses are all one-storied, built of rubble, roofed with straw, and, as we could see through the open doors, stuffed with trash, as all these little Irish houses seem to be; and finally out along the country road, between fragrant hedges, occasionally pa.s.sing a pretty villa, set in the midst of handsome grounds--and then we came to a place where the road branched, and we stopped.

Our guide-book gave no definite directions as to how to get to Carrowmore. ”On Carrowmore,” it says, with magnificent vagueness, ”within three miles south-west of Sligo, is a large and most interesting series of megalithic remains”; nor does it tell how far the remains are apart, or how to find them. If it had been Baedeker, now, we would not have stood there hesitant at the cross-roads, because he would not only have told us which way to turn, but would have provided a diagram, and led us step by step from one cromlech to the other. There is no Baedeker for Ireland, which is a pity, for I have never yet found a guide to equal that painstaking German.

There was no one to ask, so we took the road which led toward Knocknarea; but after we had gone some distance, a telegraph-boy came by on his wheel, and told us that we should have taken the other road; so we walked back to the branch and turned up it. The road mounted steadily, and after about a mile of up-hill work, we came to a cl.u.s.ter of thatched houses, and I went up to one of them to ask the way of a woman who was leaning over her half-door.

I think I have already said somewhere that Irish directions are the vaguest in the world--perhaps this is the reason Murray is so vague, since it is written by an Irishman!--and the conversation on this occasion ran something like this:

”Good morning,” I began. ”It is a fine day, isn't it?”

”It is so, glory be to G.o.d.”

”Can you tell me how to get to the cromlechs?”

”The cromlechs? What might that be?”

”The big stone monuments that are back here in the fields somewhere.”

”Ah--so it is the big stones you would be after?”

”Yes. Can you tell me how to get to them?”

”I might,” said the woman cautiously. She had been looking at me all this time with the brightest of eyes, and then she looked at Betty, who had remained behind at the gate. ”Is yon one your wife?” she asked, with a nod in Betty's direction.

”Yes.”

”You would be from America.”

”Yes.”

”Have you people hereabouts?”

”Oh, no; we haven't any relatives in Ireland.”

”And would you be comin' all this way just to see the big stones?”

”We want to see everything,” I explained. ”The stones are near here, aren't they?”

”They are so. Just a step up yonder lane, and you are right among them.”

She was preparing to ask further questions; but this direction seemed definite enough, so I thanked her and fled, and Betty and I proceeded to take a step up the lane. We took many steps without seeing any stones; and finally we turned up a narrow by-lane, and came to a tiny cottage, hidden in the trees. We were greeted by a noisy barking, and then a man hurried out of the cottage and quieted the dog and told us not to be alarmed. We told him we were looking for the stones.

”There be some just a small step from here,” he said; ”but you would never find them by yourselves, so I will go with you. You are from America, I'm thinking?”

”Yes,” I admitted, wondering, with sinking heart, if it was going to begin all over again.

”I have four brothers in America, and all doing well, glory be to G.o.d, though seldom it is that I hear from them.”

”How did you happen to stay in Ireland?” I asked.