Chapter XXXIV: A Problem in Casuistry

Well, we now have the Celt with a vengeance! Cork is the most detestable place I ever saw. Such drunkenness, filth, and squalor I never dreamed possible outside of China! Ardent Home Ruler as I am, I can now understand the Ulsterman's fear and hatred of a rule that might turn Belfast into such a dunghill! You will say, and no doubt you are right, that this shows a lack of faith, and that thrift drives out filth. But sometimes it works the other way. At any rate, one cannot wonder that the Ulsterman should think that not faith like a mustard-seed, but like a mountain, would be needed to enable a man to believe that Protestant Ulster can be benefited by an alliance with Dublin and Cork. However, this is supposed to be the chronicle of a car and not a new treatise on the Irish Question.

When we were at Chester I bought a "slicker," which the salesman called a "shirt," and by that name it has gone between us ever since. As you may fancy, it has proved a useful article when I tell you that here, "The rain it raineth every day," not all the time, of course, but when one least expects it. The very sun is wet! But when it shines the landscape has the same sweet expression that one sees on the face of a dear little girl who has shed a few tears and is again smiling.

The morning we left Killarney it was not raining like that, but coming down in torrents. Indeed we were the only travellers who faced the storm. A good part of the company assembled on the porch to see us start. The hood was up, so that Ruth could not see me as I went to the rear of the motor to see if the chains were tight, but, ever solicitous of my welfare, she called out in an agonized tone: "John, have you got your shirt on?"

To which I replied: "I am not sure. I slept in it, but whether I put it on again after my bath, I can't remember!"

You never saw a crowd melt away so suddenly! One lady ejaculated "Fancy!" and one man laughed and waited to wave us farewell. He, I had been told, was a duke. I do not know if it were true. In Ireland one is never quite sure what is true. And, what is worse, or better, if you feel that way, I am unable to tell a duke from the commonalty!

Ruth says there is nothing funny in this story, and that I acted as if I lived on Second Avenue! Well, I can't tell. It made a duke laugh--if he were a duke--and that is no small feat!

The atmosphere soon showed the Celtic temperament. Or is it the other way about, and is temperament a natural reaction to atmosphere? At any rate the sun soon shone fair and warm, and the conditions for motoring would have been perfect had the roads been better. Unfortunately not only is the surface bad, but the roads are very narrow--a new danger--of which we were soon to have experience.

We were running along at a fair gait--Ruth says racing!--when suddenly, at a turn in the road I found myself under the feet of a team of horses, which loomed up like elephants. It was too late to turn, so I acted automatically, certainly without conscious volition, and threw the car into a hedge. It was a stout one, and the car rose like a hunter and came to rest on the top, which held it! No, this is not an "Irish" story, only a story of Ireland.

A gentleman was walking across the field and ran to our assistance. Gallant Irishman that he was he asked no questions, but assisted Ruth to descend. She was deathly pale, but, I am proud to say, neither screamed nor indeed spoke. Some laborers gathered and helped to drag the car back onto the road, none the worse, so far as I could see, for its strange adventure, save for a few scratches.

I now turned my attention to the driver of the cart, who all this time had remained upon his high perch, gazing at our efforts like a god upon Olympus, "careless of mankind."

"My friend," I began, in as quiet a voice as I could control, "that came near being a nasty accident."

"It did that, your honor."

"You came near having both those horses killed."

"That would have cost your honor a pretty penny, for the likes of them can't be found in the county. Sure the gentleman standin' there will tell you they took the first prize at Dublin not a year ago."

"Well, you are pretty cool about it. The lady might have been killed, too."

"That would have been a pity, for it's a sweet face she has. I was wondering she'd risk her life with you."

"Risk her life with me! Why, you impudent fellow," I cried, being by this time thoroughly angry, "the fault was all yours. You were on the wrong side of the road."

"Well, as for that, your honor," replied this incorrigible fellow, "this road's that narrer, _it ain't properly got two sides_!"

I could think of nothing better to say than that I would report him to the police in the next town, and took the name of the owner of the cart, which was painted in large letters on the side. I did stop and report the matter to a policeman who was directing the traffic in a town near by. He was sympathetic, and said:

"I know that man well, and the next time he comes to market, I will _represent him to himself_!" This was all the satisfaction I got. Indeed, I suspect it is as much as could be expected in Ireland. After all, it was worth something to increase one's stock of phrases. To represent a man to himself is no small feat!

A little later I got from Ruth a new light on Irish veracity--or rather, lack of it. She says it arises from no evil motive, but, on the contrary, from kindness of heart! This, she added, makes it different from any other lying in the world. This moral, or immoral, dictum was called forth by the following: I had lost my way--no uncommon experience--and stopped at a hovel to inquire the way. In answer to my call a veritable giant appeared. I asked if the road we were on would bring us to Blarney Castle? After a moment's hesitation he said it would. Not feeling sure he knew, I asked again if there was any turning I must take? But he said: "No, keep straight on this road and it will bring you there."

There was something in the man's face that led me to think he could not be an ordinary peasant, and therefore I asked him if he lived there?

"I was born here," he replied, rather defiantly. "But I've been living in Australia for the past seven years, and have now come back to see the old people."

I said to myself that, unlike most Irishmen when they migrate, he had not bettered himself. As if he read my thought, as perhaps he did, he added, with a glance at his old and torn clothing: "I've better clothes than these, but why would I be wearing them to shame the neighbors!"

Could Sir Philip Sidney have said anything finer?

"Well," I said, as I started the motor, "when I next come here you'll have Home Rule!"

At that the man's whole face lighted up, and he cried: "Glory be to God, ye're a prophet! What's your name?" When I answered "Dobson," without a moment's hesitation he exclaimed: "I've heerd of you!"

I laughed and said: "I see you've kissed the Blarney stone yourself."

But there was no jocular reply. The thing was too serious for that. The man was inflamed. Why cannot the English appreciate that the love of nationality is inextinguishable?

The rain began again and fell persistently and we slithered on our way. It's a long lane that has no turning, and this was one, though it did nothing but turn. Always it was leading to the right, though I _felt_ it should lead straight on or else bear to the left.

Finally we came to a highway that somehow looked familiar, and before we had gone a mile farther, I found that we were where we had started from an hour before! There was the wretched hovel where the giant dwelt, and a vigorous shout brought him to the door.

"See here, my friend," I cried, "what did you mean by telling me that that road would lead to Blarney Castle? I have kept on it all the time, and it has brought me back here."

"Now ain't that a shame? I never thought such a thing would happen to you. Now I'll tell you God's truth. You was clean out of your way when you was last here. You ought to have left the road you are on this minute as much as seven miles back. And when you asked me if yonder road would lead to Blarney Castle, and I looked at the lovely face of the lady, and she lookin' tired, too, I hadn't the heart to tell you you must turn back. I thought when you got on this road again ye would have turned the other way, and not have lost so much anyway. And how was I to know you wouldn't meet a man who wouldn't mind telling bad news, and who would set you on your way? But as for me, I hadn't the heart to do it!"

And that's what Ruth calls "lying from a kind heart!" A cynic might suggest that the "lovely lady" had something to do with this charitable if immoral dictum!

Well, there was nothing to do but to turn back and drive for the third time over a road I had come to hate. About seven miles back we found the proper turning, and, after much splashing, came to Blarney Castle.

I did not kiss the stone, for I had no desire to get a water-spout down the back of my neck by leaning out of the window--as you may remember one must do--to perform the feat. Indeed I thought there was force in Lord Chesterfield's advice to his son, when he said he intended to go down into a coal-mine:

"What for?" asked the noble lord.

"Why, to say I have been down one!"

"Why not say it?" he replied.

Indeed I am inclined to think that is what a good many people have done at Blarney!