The Life Story of an Old Rebel | Page 9

mother often had political discussions, which usually ended

in fierce quarrels, and when he would swear he would have us "run out
of the street," she used to threaten to bring up the men from the docks
and leave not a stone upon a stone of his house. Whether it was through
his being impressed by her terrible earnestness as a member of the
Church militant, or whatever else was the reason, Jamieson in the end
became a Catholic, and died a most edifying death.
Before his conversion, however, as well as after--Jamieson to the
contrary notwithstanding--"our street" always took a lively and
neighbourly interest in the St. Patrick's procession, and used to turn out
to a man, to a baby it would, perhaps, be more correct to say, for was
not one of the chief sights of the procession their decent neighbour,
Timothy, or, as he was more generally called, "Thade" Crowley, the
pork butcher, at the corner? There were splendid pictures and devices
on the banners--I can see them all most vividly now--St. Patrick, Brian
Bora, Sarsfield, O'Connell, the Irish Wolf Dog, with the motto "Gentle
when stroked, fierce when provoked," and harps and shamrocks galore,
but Thade Crowley was in all our eyes the finest figure in the
procession.
Among his greatest admirers were a Jewish family named Hyman, who
lived next door to him. Though the Jews are supposed to hold what was
Crowley's stock-in-trade in abomination, the two old ladies--Mrs.
Crowley, who used to say she was of "Cork's own town and God's own
people," and Mrs. Hyman, who came from Cork, too, though, needless
to say, without a drop of Irish blood in her veins--were great cronies.
As a consequence, the Hymans were among the most eager of the
spectators to get the first glimpse of honest Thade Crowley as he
walked in front of his own particular lodge of the Hibernians. He was a
portly, well-built man, of ruddy complexion, and open, genial
countenance. He wore buckskin breeches, top boots, green tabinet
double-breasted waistcoat, bottle-green coat with brass buttons, and
beaver hat. The Crowleys were very popular in the neighbourhood, as
they never had but a kindly word for everybody.
When I was a small boy, about 9 or 10 years old, I often listened with
delight to Mrs. Crowley, who had a fluent tongue, expatiating on the

glories of her native city--
By the pleasant waters of the River Lee.
and I have heard her exclaiming, I at the time believing it most
implicitly:
"Sin, is it? Sure. I never heard of sin till I came to Liverpool; there's no
sin in Cor-r-k!"
And she rattled the "r" with a strong rising inflexion, greatly impressing
me with the high character of Ireland and of Cork in particular.
At that time I had never seen Ireland but as an infant at my mother's
breast.
CHAPTER III.
IRELAND RE-VISITED.
I was a boy of about 12 when I first re-visited Ireland; and, as the
steamer entered Carlingford Lough, which to my mind almost equals
Killarney's beauty--but that, perhaps, is a Northman's prejudice--with
the noble range of the Mourne mountains on the one side and the
Carlingford Hills on the other, it seemed to my young imagination like
a glimpse of fairy land.
Carlingford reminded me of what my old masters, the Christian
Brothers, used to teach us, that those places ending in "ford" had at one
time been Norse settlements. There is not the slightest trace, I should
say, of people of Norse descent along this coast now, unless we accept
the theory that would regard as such the descendants of the Norman De
Courcy's followers, who can be recognised by their names, and are still
to be found, side by side, and intermingling with those of the original
Celtic children of the soil in the barony of Lecale. It is astonishing, by
the way, how you still find in Ireland, after centuries of successive
confiscations, the old names in their old tribal lands, mingled in places,
as in Lecale, with the Norman names; the two races being now

thoroughly amalgamated--as distinguished from the case of King
James's Planters in Ulster, who, to this day are, as a rule, as distinct
from the population amongst whom they live--whether of pure Celtic
strain or with a Norman admixture--as when first they came.
There was an idea in our family that I had a vocation for the priesthood,
and I was being sent to my uncle, Father Michael O'Loughlin, parish
priest of Dromgoolan, County Down, who placed me in charge of Mr.
Johnson, a somewhat noted classical teacher in the neighbouring little
town of Castlewellan.
I have seen but little of Ireland, but during the few months I was here
on this occasion I made the best use of