Penelopes Irish Experiences | Page 6

my behalf, I slip out and seek confirmation from the butcher's boy or
the milkman. Himself would have laid out all our journeyings for us,
and we should have gone placidly along in well-ordered paths. As it is,
we are already pledged to do the most absurd and unusual things, and
Ireland bids fair to be seen in the most topsy-turvy, helter-skelter
fashion imaginable.
Francesca's propositions are especially nonsensical, being provocative
of fruitless discussion, and adding absolutely nothing to the sum of
human intelligence.
"Why not start without any special route in view, and visit the towns
with which we already have familiar associations?" she asked. "We

should have all sorts of experiences by the way, and be free from the
blighting influences of a definite purpose. Who that has ever travelled
fails to call to mind certain images when the names of cities come up in
general conversation? If Bologna, Brussels, or Lima is mentioned, I
think at once of sausages, sprouts, and beans, and it gives me a feeling
of friendly intimacy. I remember Neufchatel and Cheddar by their
cheeses, Dorking and Cochin China by their hens, Whitby by its jet, or
York by its hams, so that I am never wholly ignorant of places and their
subtle associations."
"That method appeals strongly to the fancy," said Salemina drily.
"What subtle associations have you already established in Ireland?"
"Let me see," she responded thoughtfully; "the list is not a long one.
Limerick and Carrickmacross for lace, Shandon for the bells, Blarney
and Donnybrook for the stone and the fair, Kilkenny for the cats, and
Balbriggan for the stockings."
"You are sordid this morning," reproved Salemina; "it would be better
if you remembered Limerick by the famous siege, and Balbriggan as
the place where King William encamped with his army after the battle
of the Boyne."
"I've studied the song-writers more than the histories and geographies,"
I said, "so I should like to go to Bray and look up the Vicar, then to
Coleraine to see where Kitty broke the famous pitcher; or to Tara,
where the harp that once, or to Athlone, where dwelt Widow Malone,
ochone, and so on; just start with an armful of Tom Moore's poems and
Lover's and Ferguson's, and, yes," I added generously, "some of the
nice moderns, and visit the scenes they've written about."
"And be disappointed," quoth Francesca cynically. "Poets see
everything by the light that never was on sea or land; still I won't deny
that they help the blind, and I should rather like to know if there are
still any Nora Creinas and Sweet Peggies and Pretty Girls Milking their
Cows."
"I am very anxious to visit as many of the Round Towers as possible,"

said Salemina. "When I was a girl of seventeen I had a very dear friend,
a young Irishman, who has since become a well- known antiquary and
archaeologist. He was a student, and afterwards, I think, a professor
here in Trinity College, but I have not heard from him for many years."
"Don't look him up, darling," pleaded Francesca. "You are so much our
superior now that we positively must protect you from all elevating
influences."
"I won't insist on the Round Towers," smiled Salemina, "and I think
Penelope's idea a delightful one; we might add to it a sort of literary
pilgrimage to the homes and haunts of Ireland's famous writers."
"I didn't know that she had any," interrupted Francesca.
This is a favourite method of conversation with that spoiled young
person; it seems to appeal to her in three different ways: she likes to
belittle herself, she likes to shock Salemina, and she likes to have
information given her on the spot in some succinct, portable,
convenient form.
"Oh," she continued apologetically, "of course there are Dean Swift and
Thomas Moore and Charles Lever."
"And," I added "certain minor authors named Goldsmith, Sterne, Steele,
and Samuel Lover."
"And Bishop Berkeley, and Brinsley Sheridan, and Maria Edgeworth,
and Father Prout," continued Salemina, "and certain great speech-
makers like Burke and Grattan and Curran; and how delightful to visit
all the places connected with Stella and Vanessa, and the spot where
Spenser wrote the Faerie Queene."
"'Nor own a land on earth but one, We're Paddies, and no more,'"
sang Francesca. "You will be telling me in a moment that Thomas
Carlyle was born in Skereenarinka, and that Shakespeare wrote Romeo
and Juliet in Coolagarranoe," for she had drawn the guidebook toward

her and made good use of it. "Let us do the literary pilgrimage,
certainly, before we leave Ireland, but suppose we begin with
something less intellectual. This is the most pugnacious map I ever
gazed upon. All the names seem to begin or end with kill, bally, whack,
shock, or knock; no wonder the