Welcome to Ireland—Quaint People of Dublin—Packing the Motor and Departure—Tara Hill; its History and Legends—Ruins at Trim—Tombs of the Druids—Battle-field of the Boyne.

"Glory be to God, but yer honour is welcome to Ireland."

An old traveller understands that it is the unexpected which makes the joy of his days. I had come to Europe with the intention of spending some conventional weeks in London, followed by an auto tour with the family through the fair land of France. Fate brings me, upon my first day in town, to Prince's Restaurant, when out of the chaos of faces before me rises one whose owner, a son of Erin whom I had last seen under the cherry blossoms of Japan, advances upon me. Then the conventional promptly drops off and away, and it is but a short while before a motor tour is arranged in the Emerald Isle, a month to be passed amidst its beauties and miseries, its mirth and its sadness, for all go in one grand company in the land of St. Patrick.

With Boyse of Bannow I shall follow the fancy of the moment, which to my thinking is the only true mode of travel.

"Du Cros" has agreed to furnish a perfectly new Panhard for and upon the same terms which I received in France last year, viz., thirty pounds sterling per week, and everything found except the board and lodging of the chauffeur. These very necessary details arranged we are impatient to be off and leave London on a hot day in June. The smells, dirt, and dust of her wooden streets, driven in clouds over all the grand old city, follow us far out into the green meadows of England until we ask whether the hawthorn blossoms have ever held any fragrance, and have we not been mistaken as to roses. But London is not all of England, and we are finally well beyond her influence and wondering why we remained within her limits with the beautiful country so near at hand. The meadows of England giving way to the mountains of Wales, one catches a glimpse of the stately towers of Conway Castle, and then sails outward and westward upon a level sea, which, on its farther side, holds the haven of desire, Dublin, on the broad waters of the Liffey.

Ireland welcomes us, weeping softly the while, though smiling ever and anon as the sunlight rifts downward from the west. The gang-plank is slippery and the pavements mucky, but our welcome is a warm one, at least one fat, comfortable looking old woman with a shawl over her head, a gown whose colour I cannot attempt to give, and shoes which have evidently been discarded by her "auld man," greets me with a "Glory be to God, but yer honour is welcome to Ireland!" and then catching sight of my Jap servant, she gives utterance to a very audible aside, "Be the powers of the divil, phat's that he has wid him!" crossing herself vehemently the while, firmly convinced, I doubt not, that she has seen a limb of Satan, which I think he strongly resembles.

The Shelburn Hotel receives us within its walls, unchanged in the thirty years which have elapsed since I last crossed the threshold, a comfortable inn, pleasantly situated upon College Green, where a band of Irish musicians are discoursing American ballads of the early sixties.

One runs into the tide of American tourists here in Dublin, and to-night this hotel is crowded with them. The clatter of tongues proving too much for me, I dine and start to bed as soon as possible—a good book and an easy resting-place are attractive after the long ride from London.

In the hallway I encounter the porter trying to induce an old gentleman to go to bed. Said gentleman is drunk as a gentleman should be, and sound asleep in his chair, holding fast to a glass of whiskey and soda, from which no efforts of the porter can part him.

"What's the number of your room, sir?"

The sleeping eyes half open as the happy man murmurs, "Wasn't you tryin' to stale my whiskey just now?"

"Well, I thought, sir, ye would be more comfortable in yer room."

"Let slapin' dogs lie, me boy. But 'twas in a good cause ye did it, and so I'll go," and he staggers off to the lift, sleeps on my shoulders until I get out, and probably on the bench for the rest of the night, as that small lift boy could never move that bulk, redolent of whiskey and good humour.

So far I have heard nothing from Boyse, who was to have rejoined me here, and, when ten o'clock comes round, give him up for the night, and putting out the light am shortly in the land of dreams, only to be awakened by a clatter on the door followed by the entrance of the missing man. He has put up at the Club, having reached here ahead of me. Our car he reports ready for us at nine to-morrow morning, and I shortly drive him out as it has gotten late.

One must be of a sour disposition if one does not laugh in Ireland, and be assured her people will always laugh with one, though at times there sounds a catch of a sob running through it all. Seat yourself on any spot in the island, and something funny is apt, nay almost sure, to occur before you depart; all of which is apparently arranged for your especial benefit.

It is raining this morning and it is Sunday, which in the dominions of his Majesty does not mean a day of diversion unless you happen to be a guest in some country house. I am in a secluded seat on the portico of the hotel, when directly before me, on the only spot of pavement visible, appears a girl of fourteen dressed in everything which could never by the widest stretch of the imagination have been intended for her when purchased. She summons "Katie darlin'" not to be such a "truble" to her, but to appear and "spake to the gintleman," whereupon from around the corner of a stone post comes "Katie darlin'," a mite of a child some two feet tall with a pair of black eyes sparkling all over her dirty little face. She is robed in what looks like a blue plush opera-cloak on wrong side in front and festooned over what were once shoes; her shock of never combed hair is topped by an old woman's bonnet. "Katie darlin'" is evidently out for her Sunday. She is glad to see every one, and especially "Your honour" after the reception of a "ha'penny." Bless her dirty little face, what will be her portion in this life, I wonder! Yet, after all, being Irish, she is safer than if born of another race, for the women of her land do not go down to death and destruction as easily as those of other countries, be it said to their credit. God grant it may be so with "Katie darlin'," who goes smilingly away to meet whatever fate the future holds for her, and which disturbs her not at all as yet.

The morning of our start from Dublin opens windy and with drifting clouds but is a fair day for hereabouts, and after all these grey skys are very soothing to one's eyes.

Our motor rolls up at ten A.M. and proves to be a handsome new Panhard of fifteen horse-power. Packing and stowing take a half-hour the first day, as economy of space is to be desired, and the proper arrangement of luggage is a question to be considered. However, all is done and I roll off to the "Kildare Street Club," where Boyse awaits me.

His traps necessitate a new arrangement of all the luggage, which I am not allowed to superintend at all, but am carried off to a room well to the rear where a whiskey and soda is vainly pressed upon me. I should much prefer to stay outside and boss the job of loading up, but that would be undignified. So we stay cooped up until all is arranged, and then sally forth and roll away with the utmost grandeur of demeanour. I object several times during the day to the arrangement of those traps, impressing upon Boyse the truth of the old saying, "if you want a thing done, go,—if not, send—" and pointing out to him that therein lies the reason for the increasing glory and prosperity of our country and the evident decadence of the British Empire.

He does not take me as serious,—perhaps I am not,—but daily life must have its spice and we spend many hours like Pat and "Dinnis" on the quay at Cork of a Saturday evening, "fighting each other for conciliation and hating each other for the love of God."

Speeding away through Dublin's busy streets and out into Phoenix Park, existence becomes life once more. The rushing winds drive the last taint of the city and its world of men and women off and away. Beyond the confines of the park we enter at once into the green country; tall hawthorn hedges toss their branches above us as we speed onward, the car moving like a bird. These are not French roads but they are far from bad. Mile after mile glides by us, and a sharp rain forces the top over our heads, but not for long,—it is soon down again, and we give ourselves up for an hour to the enjoyment of mere motion. And then history claims our attention. Dublin is of course rich in its memories but leave it for the present and speeding westward some thirty miles pause at the foot of Tara Hill, the most renowned spot in Ireland. There are few in our Western land who do not remember the sweet old song of Moore's:

And there are many to whom its melodies will recall those better days when voices long since sunken into silence sang them off into dreamland with those words.

Green grow the grasses to-day over this site of Ireland's most ancient capital. Gone are its garland-hung walls, silent its harps for ever.

Leaving the present behind, one passes into the remotest recess of the island's past as one mounts the hill. To-day wavering misty shadows close in around me as I move upward, even as though the spirits of the ancient kings and minstrels were yet about, and the winds moan as though driven across the strings of many harps, and there seems melody all around me.

Tara is not a great hill, but a fair green mound from which the ancient kings were wont to spy out all the fair land around them. It was the most sacred spot in the kingdom and none could wear the crown who bore blemish of any sort. Cormac Mac Art, the great King, was, upon the loss of his eye, forced to retire to the hill of Skreen near-by. For twenty-five hundred years, Tara was the palace and burial-place of the kings of Ireland, who every third year met here in great convention. To-day as I stand on its summit nothing of that period, save some long mounds, breaks the green carpet of grass thrown like the covering of our holy communion over this holy of holies. Tara was mentioned by Ptolemy and he called it "illustrious." Its name by some is supposed to be taken from that of the wife of a King, Heremon, the first monarch of Ireland. "Thea" was her name and the place was called Temora (the house of Thea), but others call it "the house of music" (Thead, a musical chord, and mur, a house).

The main hall stood nine hundred feet square and "twenty-seven cubits in height." It held its thousand guests daily and on great days the monarch sat on his throne in its centre, his flowing yellow hair bearing the golden crown, his stately form clothed in a brilliant scarlet robe laden with rich ornaments of gold. Golden shoes ornamented with red buckles and bearing stars and animals in gold, were upon his feet; the King of Leinster sat, facing him, the King of Ulster sat on his right, the King of Munster on his left, while the King of Connaught sat behind him. On long rows of seats before him were the druids, bards, philosophers, antiquaries, genealogists, musicians, and the chiefs of all the towns of the kingdom. The assembly was opened by the chief bard, followed by the druidical rites, after which the fire of Saman, or the moon, was lighted. Not until then was the business of the convention taken up. In one part of the palace, the youths were instructed in poetry and music and initiated into the hidden harmony of the universe. Evidently in those days a city must have surrounded the base of this hill, but of the houses of the people little seems to be known and nothing is left.

In these long mounds the traveller to-day may trace the outlines of the hall composed of earth and wood from whence one hundred and forty-two kings ruled the land, the great King Cormac dating back to A.D. 227, and he it is who is supposed to have built this hall. Some claim that the celebrated "Stone of Destiny" now in the coronation chair in London was taken from here to Scotland. Of this there is no proof, but so runs the legend.

There is only the music of the wind-swept grasses on Tara Hill to-night, yet surely the moon rising so grandly yonder still holds her feast and is summoning her worshippers from the mists of the valley rising in fantastic forms all around us,—but the only thing bearing semblance of human form which she illumines is a crazy statue of St. Patrick here on the spot where he met and, by the power of the Lord, vanquished the magicians of the king. There could be no fitter heir to inherit and so we leave him in sole possession and go down to our car, which rolls us silently away through the green lanes and on towards Trim's ruined arches and towers. Now the tall "yellow steeple" of the Abbey of St. Mary's, founded by St. Patrick, and close into the town the great Castle of King John loom up in the moonlight. Vast in extent, the castle appears doubly so in this shadowy light, as we glide by it, a huge empty shell covered with clambering ivy.

Rolling on through the town we pass to Navan, dear to hunters. All this is a fair green country where the grass is good for the cattle, where the poultry thrive, and the Boyne is full of fish, hence one notes on all sides the ruins of many monasteries, for those old monks were always to be found where their stomachs could be well taken care of; and yet with all that they were the power in the land, as the priest is still the power in southern Ireland.

Leaving Navan we turn northeastward towards Drogheda. The road winds all the way by the banks of the Boyne and while that name recalls to mind most prominently the famous battle of the kings, James and William, still the region was celebrated long ages before either was thought of. The whole valley was a vast necropolis for the ancient kings and druids, and on both sides one sees the remains of a remote antiquity, especially at New Grange where one finds a tumulus covering some two acres. At first glance it resembles an Indian mound in America, but it is far more satisfactory to explore as one finds in its interior a tomb of extraordinary size and rich in carving, which is supposed to date as far back as the earliest bronze age, but who was buried here is a question which has never been settled.

We enter by a passage on its southern side about fifty feet long,—a stone corridor formed by upright slabs about seven feet high and roofed by stones of great size. Our glimmering candles show the centre tomb to be a lofty domed chamber, circular in form, its roof composed of horizontally placed stones projecting one beyond the other and capped by a single slab some twenty feet above the observer. There are three recesses branching off from the rotunda, probably the tombs of the lesser mortals, while the body of the monarch evidently occupied the centre space.

There is another sepulchre of equal size at Dowth, and doubtless every hill or mound in sight holds others. If the Boyne as it winds and murmurs past them could speak, it could doubtless tell us tales of kings and druids, of royal coronations and priestly ceremonies, of life and death in the long dead past. How was it all, I wonder? Was it picturesque and beautiful or did the barbaric side crowd all that down and out, leaving nothing save a shuddering feeling of horror as one gazed on the rites of the druids?

These tombs were rifled by the Danes a thousand years ago, and therefore, aside from the carvings on their walls, have yielded but little of interest to the antiquary. There is nothing of animal or human life represented, merely coils, lozenges, and spirals, with now and then a fern leaf, but nothing which tells their story as do the Egyptian inscriptions. This valley of the Boyne is beautifully wooded and the roads are fine. Our route lies past the obelisk marking the famous battlefield where the sun of James II. set for ever. The valley is lovely and reminds one greatly of that of the Thames near Richmond. It has taken most of the day to make the chauffeur understand that we are not out to kill time and distance. At the rate he would like to travel we should reach Iceland in time for tea even with the ocean to cross, but, as I have forced him to retrace the route several times, he seems at last to understand our determination not to rush.

The whole day's ride has been charming. We did not stop at Drogheda, but passed on to Newry, a twelve-mile ride over a very fine road, and rested at the Victoria Hotel, having covered one hundred and three miles since eleven this morning, with long stoppages several times. The auto has done splendidly and will do better as it gets down to work.

This is the Protestant end of Ireland, prosperous and contented apparently, but not picturesque. That goes with the state of affairs to be found in the southern half.

Newry is a clean town with neat shops and houses, and a good hotel, still there are Irish characteristics which those of us who remember the Irish maid of long ago in America will recognise at once. Many things are broken, "jist came that way"; a complete toilet set is unnecessary where there are windows; and I notice that the salutations sound always wrong end first,—when people meet they say "Good-night," a form never used elsewhere except when parting.

Apparently the hotel is the social club of the town, where the men of a certain class gather in the evenings, and drawing their chairs in a circle before the bar, spend an hour or so in chaff with the barmaid, drinking porter the while. To-night the talk is of a more serious nature and turns on trade.

It is claimed that what kills all chance of Ireland being a profitable country are the railway rates, that, for instance, it costs more to get corn from Galway to Dublin than from America to any point on the island.

I asked an Irishman whether Gladstone had benefited Ireland, and he replied, "he was the cause of all our trouble, he cost Great Britain two thousand millions sterling and countless lives, and yet they put up statues to him."

The traveller of to-day sees no sign of the upper classes in Newry, though there are estates all around it, and in turning the pages of its history he will discover that it is a place of great antiquity, though its streets to-day show no signs thereof. Prosperous and commonplace would best describe it. However, it is just the prosperous and commonplace which the traveller most welcomes as night comes down upon him, for there, and not amongst the romantic and picturesque, in Ireland at least, does he find comfortable quarters and good food. So it is to-night and so to bed and dreams.