Portadown, All We Saw Of It, Just Passing Through, Is A
Clean And Thrifty Little Town.
We would have liked to linger in Armagh a little while, but we must
hurry down to the South.
Got a glimpse of Armagh Catholic cathedral - a
very fine building, not so grand, however, as the Cathedral at Sligo.
Took notice of a very fine memorial window, with the name of Archbishop
Crolly on it. I remember him very well, saw him frequently, got a pat on
the head from him occasionally. He seemed partial to the little folks,
when we played in the chapel yard - a nice place to play in was the
chapel yard in Donegal street. He was then Bishop Crolly, and I was a
very small heretic, who loved to play on forbidden ground. Walked about
a little in Armagh between the trains, saw that there were many fine
churches and other nice buildings from the outside view of them, and
passed on to Clones. The land as seen from the railway is good in some
places, poor in others, but in all parts plenty of houses not fit to be
human habitations are to be seen.
Clones is a little town on a hill, with a history that stretches back
into the dim ages. It has a round tower that threatens to fall, and
will, too, some windy night; an abbey almost gone, but whose age and
weakness is propped up by modern repairs, as, they say, the tenure of
some land depends on the old gable of the abbey standing; a three-story
fort, that, as Clones is built on a hill and the fort is built on
Clones, affords a wide view of the surrounding country. Clones has a
population of over two thousand, has no manufactory, depends entirely on
the surrounding farming population, does not publish a newspaper, and is
quietly behind the age a century or two. The loyal people who monopolize
the loyalty are in their own way very loyal. It is delightfully sleepy,
swarming with little shops with some little things to sell; but where
are the buyers? If a real rush of business were to come to Clones I
would tremble for the consequences, for it is not used to it.
I was quartered in the most loyal corner of all the loyal places in
Clones. Every wall on which my eyes rested proclaimed that fact. Here
was framed all the mysterious symbols of Orangeism, which are very like
the mysterious symbols of masonry to ignorant eyes. There was King
William in scarlet, holding out his arm to some one in crimson, who
informed the world that "a bullet from the Irish came that grazed King
William's arm." On the next wall is the battle of the Boyne, with some
pithy lines under.
"And now the well-contested strand successive columns gain,
While backward James' yielding band is borne across the plain;
In vain the sword that Erin draws and life away doth fling,
O worthy of a better cause and of a nobler king!
But many a gallant spirit there retreats across the plain,
Who, change but kings, would gladly dare that battlefield again."
I read that verse, like it, transcribe it, and turn to study the
handsome face of Johnston of Ballykillbeg, who is elevated into the
saint's place alongside of King William on many, many cottage walls,
when the hostess appears.
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