Clifden is the extreme western point of Ireland, and for that reason Marconi selected it for his wireless telegraph station in communicating with Canada and the United States. It is 1,620 miles in a direct line of St. John, New Brunswick, and, as a native remarked, “There’s not a spheck of droy land upon which a burrd could rist the sole of its foot bechune this blessed spot and Americky.” If you will examine the map you will understand the situation better, and a geological chart of the island will show you that the western coast, from Mizzen Head to Bloody Foreland, is protected by a chain of mountains, bleak, rugged, and abrupt, which nature has placed as a buttress to support the rest of Ireland against the fierce attack of the Atlantic. They have terrible storms there, and a northwest gale several times a year that is terrific. The east winds, which we dread, bring good weather in Ireland, but the west wind brings storms and cold and mists that are almost as bad as the London fog.

Connemara is the congested district, but it does not bear that name because the population is overcrowded, but because there are too many people for the inhospitable soil to support. The inhabitants are scattered over a vast area. I could see everything from one point as far as a radius of twenty-two miles, and there wasn’t a human habitation in sight, nor was there any inducement to build one because the country was a bleak, barren, rocky wilderness without soil for crops or shelter for cattle. There is the greatest degree of poverty and suffering in Ireland, and there the government is doing its greatest benevolent work in trying to place the people upon farms that are large enough to support them, and finding them other occupations by which they can earn a few additional dollars.

A railway was built from Galway along the edge of the ocean to Clifden a few years ago, and the track hugs the coast as closely as possible. An hour after leaving Galway nature begins to disclose her unfriendliness, the mountains begin to loom up to a height of two thousand and twenty-two hundred feet, the landscape becomes stern and forbidding, and there is no vegetation except heather, which, when in full bloom, adds a purple hue to the wilderness. Heather seems to be as brave, as enduring, and as self-reliant as the sage brush that decorates the arid plains of our western States, and nothing seems to discourage its growth. Alternating with the rocks are peat beds, in which both men and women spend much time getting out a supply of fuel for the next winter and stacking it in little piles to dry.

The most prominent feature of the landscape is a group of mountains called the Twelve Bens—sometimes written the “Twelve Pins.” They are so called because of their conical, dome-like peaks and the similar individuality of each. They rise almost from the level of the Atlantic, and for that reason look higher than they really are. The highest is Ben Baun, 2,393 feet, and the lowest is Ben Brach, 1,922 feet. Their sides are scarred with the wounds of terrestrial convulsions and glacial action, and they are composed very largely of quartzite, which frequently furnishes a white surface that glistens in the sunlight and adds to the picturesque effect. From these mountains comes the Connemara marble, the most valuable stone in the United Kingdom, often as fine in grain as the malachite and lapis lazuli of the Urals and the onyx of Mexico. It is used both for construction and for ornamental purposes, and the quarries are very profitable.

The landscape is dotted with little lakes and ponds which have no visible outlet, but are all connected somehow underground. Most of them cover only an acre or two, but Lough Corrib is the largest in Ireland except Lough Neagh, near Belfast. Lough Mask and Lough Cong are also several miles in length and two or three miles in width. There are said to be 365 lakes in Ireland, and one would judge that the larger number of them are in Connemara. They are fed by springs and rainfall and are said to abound in fish. The railway companies advertise this as the best fishing ground in the world, and announce that they have leased several of the loughs in order to provide free fishing to all excursionists. That is a great attraction for city people when they take their vacations, because elsewhere as a rule when a man wants to go fishing he is compelled to take out a license and pay handsomely for the privilege—from $2.50 to $5 a day. Therefore the advertisements of free fishing in Connemara, combined with the scenery, which is highly admired and considered second only to that of Switzerland, tempt a great many people there. But most of them are disappointed. There is plenty of water to fish in, there are plenty of boats to hire, but fish are scarce, and, no matter where you go, the oldest inhabitant always insists that he never knew a time when fishing was so bad as it is now. There are many skeptics and a few cynics about who give you a true statement of the situation. “Boots” at the hotel asserted that if anything could be caught in the lakes we might be sure that the fishing would not be free, and added sarcastically that the only reason it was free was that nobody ever caught anything.

The O’Briens were once kings of that country and they were driven out by the O’Flahertys, who in turn were driven out by the English. You can see the ruins of Castle Bally Quirk, the principal fortress of the O’Flahertys, from the car window, and read the terrible story of how the chief of that clan was imprisoned in its keep in the time of Queen Elizabeth and starved to death. The O’Flahertys were always “agin the government,” and were so impertinent in their replies and so arrogant in their demeanor that Queen Elizabeth decided to bring them to submission, and nearly exterminated the family before she did so. “The O’Flaherty,” the head of the family at present, is a justice of the peace, who lives at Lemonfield, upon the ancient estates, but retains very little of them.

If Clifden wasn’t such a dirty town it might be made a popular health resort. The air is glorious; the natural surroundings are grand and would tempt many artists as well as admirers of scenery. There are excellent small hotels, but the town is decidedly unattractive, the streets are filthy, the walks in the neighborhood of the town are used so much by the cattle that they are quite unclean, and the people do not seem to have any idea of neatness or order. The principal business seems to be the sale of liquor, which can be purchased at thirty-three places within this little town of eight hundred people, as advertised by the sign boards. And they all look as if they were doing a good trade. There is considerable fishing at Cleggan, a neighboring village, which has been encouraged and assisted by the government, and large shipments of fish are made to Dublin every day. Early in the morning several ancient fishwives appear in a triangular space between the rows of houses in the center of the village with baskets of fish, and from our windows in the comfortable Railway Hotel we can see the inhabitants come strolling along in an indolent and indifferent manner to buy their breakfasts. They have the choice of a variety of fish, and the prices are remarkably low. A fine, fat mackerel costs a penny, a codfish sixpence, and for a shilling one can get a haddock big enough to last a large-sized family for a week.

Upon the hillside overlooking the town is an imposing church which has an air of magnificence in comparison with the rest of the town; it is ten times as large and ten times as glorious for Clifden as St. Peter’s is for Rome. It was built only a few years ago from the contributions of the peasants, the same people that the government is trying to make comfortable and aid in earning a living. It will seat nine hundred people and is filled twice on Sunday with devout worshipers. Father Lynch, the curate, told me that it was necessary to have two masses and sometimes three on Sunday to accommodate them all, and some of them come eleven and even twelve miles, most of them on foot, to attend worship. Here, as everywhere in Ireland, religion is the first and most important thing in life, and the church is the gateway to happiness and Heaven. There is also a Protestant church, much smaller, but not insignificant, which stands upon an opposite hill, surrounded by a graveyard, in which there are some venerable tombs.

Clifden is the seat of several important families, including the Martins, who formerly lived at Ballynaninch Castle, a plain, large, stern-looking embattled building, which was the scene of Charles Lever’s novel, “The Martins of Cro’ Martin.” It was the home of Col. Richard Martin, M.P., the inventor and organizer of the first society for the prevention of cruelty to animals in the world, and the author of “Martin’s Acts,” punishing those who are guilty of that offense. He spent large sums of money in the enforcement of this law and in organizing societies and establishing hospitals for diseased and wounded animals throughout the kingdom, but was otherwise extravagant and went through his fortune.

Colonel Martin was the original of “Godfrey O’Malley,” the hero of Lever’s novel, and the sketch is said to be very accurate. He was a reckless, extravagant, but generous, warm-hearted man and died a sacrifice to his efforts to relieve the sufferings of his tenants at the time of the famine.

His only child, Mary Martin, married an American, Colonel Bell of New York, and lived in that city until her death. Although she was known as the Princess of Connemara and inherited an empire in area, she was never able to maintain the state that her father was so proud of, and 192,000 acres of her vast domain was sold by the courts to settle his debts, being purchased by the Law Life Assurance Company. Richard Berridge, a London brewer, bought another tract of 160,000 acres and the young woman scarcely missed it, so extensive were her lands. But they were of little value, being mostly mountain peaks and barren moors. Colonel Martin once silenced the prince regent, who during the early part of Queen Victoria’s reign was boasting of the famous Long Walk of Windsor, by scornfully declaring that the avenue which led from his front gate to his hall door was thirty miles long; and that was very nearly the truth.

Clifden Castle is the seat of the De Arcy family, who built and owned the town of Clifden and were formerly very rich, but a very little is seen of them at present.

Marconi’s wireless telegraph station occupies a bleak, rocky promontory extending out into the sea about three miles from the village. It is surrounded by a large tract of barren moor and is inclosed in barbed wire fence, which no one is allowed to pass without a permit. There are several corrugated iron buildings, comfortable but temporary, for generating furnaces, offices, and dormitories for Mr. Marden, the superintendent, and seven assistants. There is a miniature railway connecting them with the harbor to bring up coal and other supplies from the bay, for it requires a lot of fuel to generate the tremendous voltage necessary to throw a message across the Atlantic Ocean. When the operators are sending a Marconigram the sound can be heard for half a mile—a deafening whirr and buzz like that of a sawmill, interspersed with sharp detonations, long and short, according to the dots and dashes of the Morse code. An ordinary operator could read the message a long distance away, but would not be able to understand it because every word is sent in cipher. This is the reason why people are kept out of the grounds and why so large an area is necessary for protection. The station is a profitable thing for the town, because about fifteen hundred dollars a month is spent for supplies and labor, and employment is given to a large gang of men.

After several romantic engagements to American girls, Signor Marconi finally married a local beauty, Miss O’Brien, daughter of “The O’Brien,” the representative of the family that were kings over this country in the early days.

As Clifden is the terminus of the railway, we cruised around the rockbound coast of the Atlantic and across the bleak mountain sides to Westport, in what they call an “excursion car”—an exaggerated jaunting car on four wheels, drawn by two horses, with seats for six passengers on each side and a cavity in the center between them, opening from the end like a hearse, in which the baggage is carried. It is one of the most uncomfortable vehicles you can imagine. None of the passengers can see more than half the scenery, as they sit back to back and face out toward either side of the road. The ordinary jaunting car is quite as awkward and uncomfortable, and if you take a drive to see the scenery you have to go over the road twice because you can see only half of it at a time.

The scenery in Connemara reminds one very much of Norway except in the lack of the cleanliness for which the latter country is famous. The coast line is cut by deep jags and precipitous cliffs, like the fiords, and the mountains have the same stern and stony appearance, and the peat bogs that lie between them are similar to those in the Scandinavian countries, although the climate is much milder here. The fuchsia plant is commonly used for hedges, which all summer long is loaded with blossoms of purple and red. I had never seen a fuchsia hedge until I came to Ireland. The first was at Glengariff, on the southern coast, but since then we have found them everywhere along the Atlantic shore, in the western counties, hundreds of miles of them, inclosing pastures, meadows, and gardens and growing with wonderful luxuriance.

There is no fruit in Ireland, or at least very little. I didn’t see a respectable orchard all summer and saw no fruit trees except a few cherries and plums in gardens. Gooseberries seem to be the only “fruit of the season” at the hotels, and gooseberry tart is served for luncheon and for dinner every day. There are a few strawberries, but they are very expensive and are sold by the pound. They are never served upon the regular table d’hÔte bills of fare, but are always extra.

We were told the Connemara was very picturesque, and the most interesting section of Ireland, both in scenery, in local color, and in costumes, but it is a disappointment in all three respects. The scenery is grand, as mountains always are, but it is very monotonous; the people are so poor and so dirty that they repel, and we seldom see them at work, except in the peat fields as we pass. The Connemara peasant woman always wears a red skirt, goes barefooted, and covers her tousled head under a heavy shawl. She works alongside of the men and does her share of the heavy as well as the light labor. She is expected to do as much manual labor as her husband or her brother, and judging from what we observed in the peat bogs, they give her the heavy end of the load.

We spent the night at Leenane, a little fishing village at the head of a fiord that comes up nine miles from the Atlantic into the mountains. There is a plain but good hotel, much patronized by fishermen. In the morning we continued our journey over the mountains through some very rugged country. We drove through the famous Pass of Kylemore, one of the most beautiful pieces of scenery in Ireland, and called “The Gem of Connemara.” It was particularly interesting to us because Kylemore Castle is the home of an American girl, the Duchess of Manchester, who was formerly Miss Helena Zimmerman of Cincinnati and is now the wife of the Duke of Manchester. It is one of the most beautiful residences in Ireland, and is situated upon the banks of a lovely little lake and at the base of a mountain called Doughraugh, which rises 1,736 feet behind it as a background and is covered with the most beautiful foliage. The castle is in the center of the pass, between two lofty mountains, and the roadway for miles passes through a forest and between fields that are inclosed with fuchsia hedges.

Kylemore Castle was built by Mr. Mitchell Henry, a home rule member of parliament in the ’60’s, about a hundred years ago, and cost him more than a million dollars. The chapel, which cost more than a hundred thousand dollars, was built by his son, who sold the place to the Duke of Manchester. As the latter was not able to pay for it, his father-in-law, Mr. Zimmerman, a railroad magnate of Cincinnati, president of the Cincinnati, Hamilton & Dayton Railroad, took it off his hands for £69,000 and presented it to his daughter, who spends most of her time there, because the climate is very agreeable throughout the entire year and she loves the seclusion. There isn’t a neighbor for several miles, except the people employed on the place. There are fourteen thousand acres of shooting, several small lakes, and about forty acres in garden.

This is the kingdom of Grace O’Malley, the famous Amazon daughter of Owen O’Malley, King of Connaught. She lived and reigned here in the time of Queen Elizabeth, and her castle is now used as a police barracks. While some of the legends of Grace O’Malley are doubtless fiction, many of them are founded upon fact. She was a real woman and a real queen with pride and power and all the other qualities that are attached to royalty. Queen Elizabeth, to whom she once paid a visit, offered to make her a countess, but Grace declined on the ground that the Queen of Connaught was the equal of the Queen of England, and could accept no favors. Her first husband was an O’Flaherty and her second was Sir Richard Burke. The second was a “trial marriage,” and it was agreed that after the end of one year the union could be dissolved by either husband or wife saying, “I dismiss you,” to the other, and Grace said it first.

We passed around the base of the mountain Crough Patrick, which rises with great abruptness to a height of 2,510 feet, almost directly from the Atlantic Ocean, and has a flat plain about half a mile square upon its summit. There are the remains of an ancient chapel, and a large Celtic cross stands boldly in the foreground, where it can be seen from all the country round. This is one of the most sacred spots in Ireland, because, according to Monk Jocelyn, who wrote a life of St. Patrick in the twelfth century, and other historians, that most venerated saint “brought together here all the demons, toads, serpents, creeping things, and other venomous creatures in Ireland and imprisoned them in a deep ravine on the sea front of the mountain known as Lugnademon (the pen of the demons) as fast as they came in answer to his summons, and kept them safely there until he was ready to destroy them. Then, standing upon the summit of the Crough, St. Patrick, with a bell in hand, cursed them and expelled them from Ireland forever. And every time he rang the bell thousands of toads, adders, snakes, reptiles, and other noisome things went down, tumbling neck and heels after each other, and were swallowed up forever in the sea.” A less reverent writer says:

It is a well-known phenomenon in natural history that there are no snakes, toads, moles, or venomous reptiles in Ireland, and the fact has always been accounted for in this way. St. Patrick’s miracle, performed at the summit of the Crough, in County Mayo, in the year 450, is accepted with as perfect faith as the story of the creation, and on the anniversary, during the month of July, thousands of pilgrims climb to the ruined chapel, some of them on their knees, to pray to the patron saint of Ireland.

As Westport is the nearest town of importance in Ireland to the United States, there have been several projects to take advantage of that fact by running a line of steamers from there. The distance to St. John, New Brunswick, is 1,656 miles; to Halifax, 2,165 miles; to Boston, 2,385 miles, and to New York, 2,700 miles, which in each case is much less than from Queenstown or any of the English ports. At the same time, however, passengers landing there would be subjected to a long railway journey and would be required to cross St. George’s Channel, which is not an amiable streak of water. It is subject to the same moods and tenses as the English Channel, and whoever crosses it must make sacrifices to Neptune in the form of discomfort if not other tribute. A company was formed some years ago to build docks here and to build steamers, but nothing has been heard from it of late, and the invention of the turbine engine and the construction of the fast steamers like the Lusitania make the voyage quite as short without the other drawbacks.The Marquis of Sligo has his seat at Westport and is one of the largest landowners in Ireland, but he does not spend much time here. He prefers his townhouse at 10 Hyde Park Place, London. The greater part of his land is entirely worthless. He owns many square miles of rock, moorland, and mountain peaks in Connemara, which furnish admirable scenery but are good for nothing else. As General Sheridan once said of another place, under other circumstances, “It would be necessary for a crow to take his rations with him,” if he attempted to make the journey across his lordship’s estates. There is more waste land to the acre in Connemara than in any other part of the United Kingdom, and the Marquis of Sligo owns the largest share of it.

The Marquis of Sligo owns the town of Westport, and it is built around the entrance to his beautiful park. He is more generous than most of the earls, because he allows the public free of charge and without restriction to enjoy it with him. The gates are always open to young and old, rich and poor,—on foot, on bicycle, or in vehicles, except automobiles. He has a prejudice against them and they are not allowed to enter.

Across the roadway from the main entrance and nailed to the wall of an old-fashioned house is an ancient signboard, upon which are inscribed the tolls formerly demanded by the Marquis of Sligo upon the sales of produce in the market of this town. He owns the place; the land all belongs to him, and that which is not occupied by his houses pays him ground rent perpetually. He owns the market place, and instead of charging rental to the farmers who come there to sell their produce he used to tax each sale a penny for a dozen eggs, a penny for a chicken, tuppence for a sack of potatoes, and so on. There is a long list upon the signboard giving the exact toll for every article and animal that entered into the traffic of the market place, fish, fowl, fruit, vegetables, grain, and all other things. He owns the fair grounds also, and in olden times collected ten per cent of all the premiums and prizes that were awarded, and a corresponding toll upon the cattle that were bought and sold at the monthly and annual fairs. And this custom prevailed all over Ireland, until 1881, when the people decided that they would not submit to it any longer, and therefore refused to pay the collector when he came around. Finally, after a popular agitation which resulted in a good many broken heads and some loss of life, parliament abolished the privilege, and the tolls collected in the market houses now go into the common treasury.

Westport is the residence of Rev. J.M. Hannay, rector of the Church of Ireland here, who is better known to the world as George A. Birmingham, author of several political novels which have caused a great stir and have had an important influence upon land legislation. Mr. Hannay is an ardent patriot, but has the judicial faculty of looking upon both sides of a question, and in the vivid pictures he has drawn of the scenes and events and consequences of the land wars, stripping the screens from the motives of the leaders, he has convinced thousands of people where ordinary arguments would have entirely failed. His novel entitled “The Seething Pot” has frequently been recommended to me by the highest authorities as the best picture of Irish politics that was ever written.

There has always been a good deal of literary talent up this way. The County of Longford, just south of here, was the birthplace and home of two of the most famous of Irish writers,—Maria Edgeworth and Oliver Goldsmith. It is quite remarkable that both should have derived their early love and their knowledge of the Irish character from the same identical parish. Both received their early education at the same school, and the little hamlet Pallasmore, where the author of “The Vicar of Wakefield” first saw the light, is still, as it was in his time, the property of the Edgeworth family. It is now only a group of humble cabins. The house in which the poet was born, Nov. 10, 1728, long ago disappeared and there is not a relic left of himself or his family. Later Rev. Charles Goldsmith, his father, removed to the rectory of Kilkenny West, six miles from the city of Athlone. There the poet spent his boyhood days, and there his brother, Rev. Henry G. Goldsmith, continued to reside after his father’s death. And he was residing there when Oliver dedicated to him his poem, “The Traveler.”

A hundred years ago Maria Edgeworth was the most popular of English novelists. She was the daughter of Richard Lovell Edgeworth, an Irish literary man, and was born Jan. 1, 1767, in Berkshire, England, where her family was stopping temporarily. She made her reputation in 1801 by the publication of a novel called “Castle Rackrent,” which was followed by “Belinda,” “Leonora,” and other novels at the rate of one a year until she closed her labors in 1834 with a charming story for children called “Orlandino,” and died at Edgeworthstown, the family seat, which they still occupy, in 1849. Miss Edgeworth never married, although she is said to have been very attractive, and was an admired and courted favorite at the court at Windsor as well as among the peasants of Ireland. Her writings are noted for the simplicity and beauty of her style, originality of expression, truthfulness to nature, and the ingenuity of her situations.

Rathra, near Frenchport, County Roscommon, is the residence of Douglas Hyde, the organizer and president of the Gaelic League, which is intended to revive and restore to common use the ancient language and the ancient customs of Ireland. Dr. Hyde is the son of a Protestant clergyman, a graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, a professional literary man, author of several books, and a lecturer and teacher at different times. Although he originated the Gaelic League movement, it was inspired by Prof. Hugo Meyer, a celebrated German linguist, who is familiar with forty languages, and in his studies, conceived a profound admiration for the Gaelic. He came to Ireland as a lecturer at the university, and there made the acquaintance of Douglas Hyde, who became his disciple, and by his advice and with his assistance inaugurated the movement which has since been so successful.

Dr. Hyde visited the United States in 1908, dined at the White House, spent two or three evenings with the President and made a disciple of him. He is a man of slender stature, delicate health, and intense nervous emotional nature. He has the faculty of hypnotizing the people he talks with, and his fascinating personality has been very effective in his crusade.

Irish ideals, traits, customs, and superstitions were fast disappearing; English sports, games, literature, and customs were being adopted. The legends and folklore of Ireland were being forgotten, and native ballads and melodies became obsolete with the harp, and, although a hundred years ago Gaelic was spoken by everybody up to the very gates of Dublin and Belfast, it has been practically forgotten by the people. The census of 1901 showed that 638,000 people could speak the language, but most of those could not read it, and knew only a few phrases and words they had learned from their grandmothers. It was ignored in the schools and in the printing houses. No Gaelic books had been published for generations. Since the time of Daniel O’Connell the Irish peasantry have been anxious to learn English so as to read his speeches.

This was the situation when Hugo Meyer and Douglas Hyde undertook to revive an interest in the native language, literature, and customs, and in 1893 they organized what was called the Gaelic League, a nonpolitical, nonsectarian society, which has now more than nine hundred local branches with two hundred thousand members, sending delegates to the annual ard-fheis or annual assembly. Since 1898 a weekly newspaper and a monthly magazine have been published in the Irish language, and both have become self-supporting; and the daily and weekly newspapers throughout Ireland, almost without exception, have a Gaelic department conducted in that language. The names of the streets are now posted in Gaelic in nearly all the towns and cities, and the English directions upon the signboards on the country roads are duplicated in that language.

Gaelic is taught for an hour a day in all the national schools, although a fee is charged for it, which the league is now trying to abolish. In 1907 there were 33,741 children in the primary schools and 2,479 in the secondary schools receiving paid instruction in Gaelic, an increase from 24,918 primary and 2,029 secondary pupils in 1906. It is confidently expected that the fee will be abolished during the coming year. The commissioners of education have recommended it. Gaelic is taught in all of the normal schools and is required in the examinations for teachers. The league maintains fourteen organizers and lecturers who go about organizing classes similar to the Chautauqua circles in the United States, and more than two hundred thousand adults are studying Gaelic in that way.

The movement is cordially indorsed by the Roman Catholic Church, by the Church of Ireland, by the Presbyterian general assembly, and the Methodist general conference, which is extraordinary. I am told that it is the only movement except temperance that has ever received the approval of all the religious sects. That indicates very clearly that its managers have carefully maintained the nonsectarian attitude which is one of the chief planks of the platform. And the fact that it has been kept out of politics is apparent from the indorsement it has received from the United Irish League and the Irish parliamentary leaders as well as the anti-home rulers. Dr. Hyde said the other day that

“For the first time in history, and through the influence of the league, priest and parson, landlord and tenant, Catholic and Protestant, Orangeman and nationalist, are working together. It cannot be said that the league has all parties behind it, but there is no party in Ireland of which some of the members are not with us, and I expect sooner or later we will succeed in bringing all conflicting interests in Ireland together in the movement to restore the language and the customs and the spirit of our ancestors to modern Ireland.

“In Toomebridge, in the north of Ireland, where for five generations the Protestant Orangemen and the Catholic nationalists have never met at a fair or a market without smashing each other and fighting with fist and stones and shillelah, all parties have come together peaceably at the assemblies of the league. They held a feis there last year, at which I was present, and as I looked over the heads of the multitude I could not say which were the more numerous, the Catholics or Protestants, the nationalists or Orangemen, and the feis adjourned with the best of feeling in everybody’s heart and without a single angry word having been exchanged. I am told that this was the first instance where such a thing has happened, but it has been several times repeated in different parts of Ireland since.”

Dr. Walsh, the Roman Catholic Archbishop of Dublin, commends the league in the very highest terms, and takes a great interest in the movement. He told me it has had a beneficial effect upon the character and the habits of the people; it has encouraged education, temperance, self-respect, and has revived an interest in literature, music, oratory, sports, folklore, and history.