It Did Look
Ridiculous To See Full-Grown People Take The Long Way Round In This
Fashion.
At noon Saturday, the 19th of February, I had the blissful feeling of
rest connected with sitting in an easy chair before a coal fire, trying
to wake up to the blissful fact of being off the sea and in Ireland.
On Sunday it was raining a steady and persistent rain; went through it
to the Duncairn Presbyterian Church because it was near, and because I
was told that the minister was one skilled to preach the gospel to the
poor. Found myself half an hour too early, so watched the congregation
assemble. The Scottish face everywhere, an utter absence of anything
like even a modified copy of a Milesian face. Presbyterianism in Ulster
must have kept itself severely aloof from the natives; there could have
been no proselytizing or there would have been a mixture of faces
typical of the absorption of one creed in another.
Judging from the sentiments I have heard expressed by the sturdy
descendants of King Jamie's settlers, the sympathy that must precede any
reasonably hopeful effort to win over the native population to an alien
faith has never existed here. There is a great social gulf fixed between
the two peoples, with prejudice guarding both sides. The history, the
traditions of either side is guarded and nourished in secret by one,
openly and triumphantly by the other, with a freshness of strength that
is amazing to one who has been out of this atmosphere long enough to
look kindly on and claim kindred with both sides.
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