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. Noting the direction of my glance, she informs
me of the martyrdom which Mr. Johnston has suffered from Government. She
has a confused idea that Mr. Johnston is at present returning good for
evil by holding our gracious Queen upon the throne in some indirect way.
After carefully finding out what my religious opinions are, she informs
me of evangelistic services that are held in a tent at the foot of the
hill on which Clones sits. These services are not, she says, in
connection with the "Hallelujahs" or the "Salvations," but are
authorized by the Government, and are under the wing of the Episcopal
Church. Of course tent services under the wing of the Episcopal Church
are worth going to, so we attend.
The service is quite as evangelical as if it were preached by
"Hallelujahs." There is a very large audience, and the people seem very
attentive. My hostess is much affected. She tells me that if she can
work hard and manage well and be content with her station, reverencing
her betters as she ought to do, she hopes to get to heaven at last.
Almost in the same breath she informs me that all the people of Mayo
will go to hell, if any one goes, for that is their _desarvings_.
Yes. The Mayo people are sure to be damned. "God forgive me for saying
so," adds my hostess, as a saving clause. I am afraid the evangelistic
services have failed as yet as far as my hostess is concerned; and Mayo,
beautiful and desolate Mayo, may be glad that the keys of that
inconveniently warm climate are not kept by a Clones woman whom I know.
There are few who have not something to be proud of. My woman of Clones
is proud of the fact that she entertained and lodged for a night the
potato pilgrims - thirty-five of them - who went to Captain Boycott's
relief down to Lough Mask. After she had mentioned this circumstance a
few times, and did seem to take much spiritual comfort from the face, I
ventured to inquire if she were paid for it. Oh, yes, she was; but if
she had not been - she was all on the right side, she was that; and if
she had the power would sweep every Papist off the face of the earth.
She was wicked, she said, on this subject.
I did not believe this woman; her talk was mere party blow. The whole
street about her was full of Papists, small and great. I do not think
she would sweep the smallest child off the face of the earth, except by
a figure of speech. There are those who really know what language means
who are responsible for this bloodthirsty kind of talk.
