I was informed that when
I passed Clones I was in Ireland, as if Clones was an outpost of some
other country.
The Episcopal Church in Clones is built on an eminence and is reached by
a serious flight of steps; it looks down on the ancient cross which
stands in the market place. This church is being repaired and was
therefore open, so I climbed the long flight of steps and went in to see
it. It certainly is being greatly improved. A grand ceiling has replaced
the old one, a fine organ and stained glass windows add to the glory of
the house. I had an opportunity of speaking with the rector, and his
curate, I imagine. They pointed out the improvements in the church,
which I admired, of course, and they told me some news which was of more
interest to me than either organ tone or dim religious light streaming
through stained glass.
They said that the temperance cause was flourishing in connection with
their congregation. Both these clergymen were strict teetotalers, they
said, and workers in the total abstinence field. The number of pledged
adherents to the temperance cause had increased some hundreds within a
given time. There was every encouragement to go on in the fight with all
boldness. Truly these gentlemen had good cheer for me in what they said
on this subject, for the drinking customs are a great curse to the
people of the land wherever I have been.
From Clones to Belturbet Junction, where there were no cars, and there
was the alternative of waiting at the station from two to seven p.m., or
getting a special car. Waiting was not to be thought of for a moment, so
got a car and a remarkably easy-going driver. He informed me that the
rate of wages about that part of the country was one shilling a day with
food. He thought the people were not very poor. The crops were good, the
wages not bad, and he thought the people were very contented. Belturbet
is another quiet little town, larger than Clones I should say. Like
Clones it has no newspaper, no specific industry, but depends on the
farmers round.
Procured a car and drove out to the village of Drumalee. The land is
middling good as far as the eye can judge. This neighborhood abounds
with small lakes. Here for the first time I saw lads going to fish with
the primitive fishing rods peculiar to country boys. The country round
here is full of people and there is no appearance of extreme poverty.
The houses are rather respectable looking, comparatively speaking.
There is a fine Catholic chapel in Drumalee built of stone in place of
the mud wall of seventy odd years ago. Saw no old people about and found
that almost the recollection of Father Peter Smith, the blessed priest
who wrought miracles, had faded away from the place, also that of his
friend the loyal Orangeman who always got Orange as a prefix to his
name.
