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- Herausgeber: DigiCat
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
Charles Battell Loomis' 'Just Irish' explores the rich cultural heritage and traditions of the Irish people through a series of charming and witty anecdotes. The book is written in a light-hearted and humorous style, making it an enjoyable read for those interested in Irish folklore and customs. Loomis' attention to detail and vivid storytelling bring the reader into the heart of Ireland, showcasing the unique characteristics that define the Irish identity. 'Just Irish' is a delightful blend of travel writing, cultural commentary, and humor, making it a unique contribution to the genre. Loomis' work reflects the interest during his time in exploring different cultural identities and shedding light on the diversity that exists in the world. His knowledge and passion for the subject shine through in every page, making 'Just Irish' a must-read for anyone fascinated by the Irish culture and its people.
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Just Irish
Table of Contents
PREFACE
THE first edition of this book was printed before I had thought to write a preface.
Now, my readers may not care for a preface, but as a writer I do not feel that a book is completed until the author has said a word or two.
You don't hand a man a glass of wine or even an innocuous apple in silence: you say, "Here's looking at you," or, "Have an apple?" and the recipient says, "Thanks, I don't care if I do," or, "Thanks, I don't eat apples." In either case you have done what you expected of yourself, and that, let me tell you, is no small satisfaction.
So now that my publisher has thought it worth while to get out an illustrated edition of this unpretentious record of pleasant (though rainy) days in Ireland, it is my pleasure to say to all who may be about to pick it up, "Don't be afraid of it—it won't hurt you. It was written by a Protestant, but while he was in Ireland his only thought was that God was good to give him such a pleasant time and to make people so well disposed toward him. It was written by a man without a drop of Irish blood in his veins (as far as he knows), but he felt that he was among his brothers in race, because their ideas so chimed in with his, and every one made him so comfortable."
This is a good opportunity to thank those of Irish birth or extraction who in their papers and magazines said such nice things about the book.
The pictures, all snap shots, were taken by me, and even the Irish atmosphere was friendly to my purpose, and gave me considerable success. A pleasanter five weeks of travel I never had, and if you who read this have never visited Ireland, don't get too old before doing so. And if you do visit it give yourself up to it, and you'll have a good time.
Here's the book—like it if you can, drop it if you don't. Never waste time over a book that is not meant for you.
Charles Battell Loomis.
ILLUSTRATIONS
CHAPTER I
A Taste of Irish Hospitality
"IRISH hospitality." I have often heard the term used, but I did not suppose that I should get such convincing evidence of it within twelve hours of my arrival at this northern port.
This is to be a straightforward relation of what happened to some half dozen Americans, strangers to each other, a week ago, and strangers to all Ireland upon arrival.
In details it is somewhat unusual, but in spirit I am sure it is characteristic of what might have befallen good Americans in any one of the four provinces.
To be dumped into the tender that came down the Foyle to meet the Caledonia at Moville at the chilly hour of two in the morning seemed at the time a hardship. We had wanted to see the green hills of old Ireland and here were blackness and bleakness and crowded humanity.
But the loading process was long drawn out, and when at last we began our ascent of the Foyle there were indubitable symptoms of morning in the eastern skies, and we saw that our entrance into the tender was like the entrance of early ones into a theater before the lights are turned up. After a while the curtain is lifted and the scenic glories are revealed to eyes that have developed a proper amount of eagerness and receptivity.
With the first steps of day a young Irishman returning to his native land mounted a seat and recited an apostrophe, "The top of the mornin' to ye," and then a mist lifting suddenly, Ireland, dewily green and soft and fair, lay revealed before our appreciative eyes.
A Real Irish Bull
The sun, when he really began his morning brushwork, painted the trees and grasses in more vivid greens, but there was a suggestiveness of early spring in the first soft tones that was fully valued by eyes that had been used to leaden skies for more than half the days of the voyage.
But I am no poet to paint landscapes on paper, so we will consider ourselves landed at Londonderry and furnished with a few hours of necessary sleep, and anxious to begin our adventures.
Our party consisted of a half dozen whose itineraries were to run in parallels for a time. There were four ladies and two of us were men. One of the men had to come to Ireland on business, and he found he had awaiting him an invitation to lunch that day with a country gentleman with whom he had corresponded on business matters.
As the one least strange to the country this American had tendered his good offices, American fashion, to the ladies who would be traveling without male companions after we left them, and so he dispatched a messenger with a note to the effect that he must regretfully decline, and stating his reasons for so doing.
While we were lunching at the hotel a return note came to him, this time from the good man's wife, cordially asking that we all come and have afternoon tea.
Here was a chance to see an Irish household that was hailed with delight by all, a delight that was not unappreciative of the warmth of the invitation.
We would go to the pleasant country house, but—our trunks had not come. Would our traveler's togs worthily represent our country?
But our friend said, "Don't let clothes stand between us and this thing. I'm sure this lady will be glad to welcome us as Americans, and for my part I never reflect credit on my tailor, and people never clamor for his address when they see me. As for you ladies, I'd think any tea of mine honored by such fetching gowns, if that's the proper term. I'm going to write her that we're coming just as we are."
So he sent another messenger out into the country—telephones seem as scarce as snakes here—saying, well, he used a good assortment of words and arranged them worthily.
The two young girls of the party clamored for jaunting cars, and so two were ordered for four o'clock. One of them had red cushions and was as glittering in its glass and gold as a circus wagon.
My friend, on ordering this one, said to the "jarvey" (by the way, they call them drivers here in this part of Ireland, but jarvey has always seemed so delightfully Irish that I prefer to stick to it), "Get another car as nice as this."
"Sure, there's none as nice as this," said he, pride forcing the confession, "but I'll get a good one."
It was a beautiful day except for the extreme heat—and yet they say it always rains in Ireland. I felt that it must be exceptional, and said to the waiter at lunch, "I suppose it's unusual to have such weather as this?" "Sure, every day is like this," said he with patriotic mendacity.
When the jaunty jaunting cars drew up a little before four o'clock there were portentous black clouds in the sky, but the jarvies assured us that they were there more for looks than anything else—that there might be a matter of a spit or two, but that we'd have a fine afternoon.
So we mounted the sides of the cars, and holding on to the polished rails, as we had been told was the proper fashion, we set out bravely on our way, little wotting what a wetting all Ireland was soon to have.
In a half hour or so we would be walking over Irish lawns and admiring Irish laces as they decked the forms of gaily clad femininity gathered for sociability and tea alongside the rhododendrons and fuchsia bushes.
Government Cottage, rent a shilling a week
A few drops of rain fell, but the wind was south and we seemed to be going east.
"Isn't this gay?" called the young girls, as we jiggled along in holiday mood. Suddenly a silver bolt of jagged lightning cleft the sky to the south, and almost instantaneously a peal of thunder that sounded as if it had been born and bred on Connecticut hills, so loud was it, told us that the people living to the south of us were going to get wet.
And then we came to a bend in the road and turned south.
"Ah, 'twill be nothin'," said our driver, in answer to a question.
To give up what one has undertaken is a poor way of playing a game and we were all for going on. "It's not so far," said the jarvey, but this was a sort of truth that depended on what he was comparing the distance with. It was not so far as Dublin, for instance, but 'twas far enough as the event proved.
We put on our cravenettes, hoisted what umbrellas we had, and gave the blankets an extra tucking in and after that—the deluge!
Bang, kerrassh! A bolt from heaven followed by a bolt from each horse. A sort of echo as it were. The drivers reined them in and ours started to seek shelter under a tree.
As I sometimes read the newspapers when at home I told our driver to keep in the open.
The lightning now became more and more frequent and was so close that we let go our hold on the brass rails, preferring to pitch out rather than act as conductor on a jaunting car—such things as conductors being unknown anyway.
