AT LARGE

Evening Star, Issue 19758, 7 January 1928, Page 2

AT LARGE

IRELAND AFTER TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS After six weeks in England of most unsummerliko weather, I went north to Edinburgh. East time I was there the late King Edward, then Prince of Wales, was there also. 1 stayed three days, and it rained all the time. It so happened that on this visit King George and Queen Mary were there also. We had not arranged to meet! As was fitting, we had regal weather, bright sunny days, wjth just a nip of chill saving them from being insipidly lovely. In spite of the unpropitions weather on my former visit, I came away with the feeling that, with the exception of Paris, there is no city to compare with Edinburgh. My last visit confirmed that impression. I coidd give many reasons lor that faith, but it is needless. Perhaps one of them was that I felt at home there. As 1 wandered about the streets I could easily have imagined myself walking through Dunedin, the names of the streets were so familiar. .Edinburgh is a tempting theme on which to discourse, but I forbear. I’m not competent for the iqb. From Edinburgh we went down to Stranraer, and from thence crossed over to Larne, ft is a very pleasant sail of about a couple of hours on a very-well-appointed boat. Last time I visited Ireland I crossed over from Liverpool to Hell'ast. The sea was rough and the boat accommodation wretched. No doubt things have changed since then. Anyway, the Stranraer route is in every way a pleasant one. « * « * So here, on a late midsummer morning, 1 find myself on Irish soil again. A gifted Irish songster thus tells the origin of Ireland: Shure, a little bit of Heaven fell from out the sky one day, And nestled on the ocean in a spot so far away; And when the angels found it, shure it looked so sweet and fair They said “ Suppose we leave it, for it looks so peaceful there.” £o they sprinkled it with star dust just to make the shamrocks grow. ’Tis the only place you’ll find them, no matter where you go; Then they dotted it with silver, to make its lakes so grand, A'rid when they had it finished shure they called it Ireland.

For those who know Ireland only through Mr Brennan’s song, of which the foregoing lines are a sample, they will he well advised not to make their first entry into the country from Larne to Belfast, else they may be disillusioned. For one side of the railway runs within view' of the Belfast Lough, and, as all the great city’s muck and sewage are poured into it, the foreshore is not—well, not delectable, especially if the clay should be wet and windy. The next experience is a battle of wits between the taxi-driver and yourself. In spite of the fare being displayed by the machine, the driver is sure to have some excuse for demanding possibly half as much more than the legal amount. However, for a man as deaf ns I am to start discussing finance on the street with a car owner or motor driver is neither satisfying to oneself nor edifying to the public. There is nothing to do but to pay what is demanded and treat them as one of the tribe did—a very stout old lady, something after the proportions of the one described.by Sydney Smith. The latter was once told that a young Scotchman was going to marry an Irish widow. ‘‘Marry her!” said Sydney. “Why, there is enough of her to furnish wives for a whole parish. Marry her! Nonsense! Yon might perhaps take your morning’s walk round her, if you are in robust health, always provided there were frequent resting places, or you might read the Riot Act and disperse her. In short, you might do anything but marry her.” ft was a lady of this sort who tendered the driver his exact legal fare, which happened to be 6d. Gazing at her and then at his horse, he exclaimed, with a hopeless sigh, “Well, I’ll lave yon to the Almighty, ma’am!” To such straits am 1 reduced when confronted by extortionate car drivers.

Belfast has grown immensely since my last visit seven and twenty years ago, and more especially since I was hero as a student almost half a century syne. The evidences of growth and wealth are everywhere. One of the most impressive of the buildings is the Linen Hall. It is in everyway a most magnificent structure, a fit emblem of what was once the distinctive feature of Ulster’s products. But the linen trade has fallen on evil days. The popular taste has turned to other fabrics, and the demand for linen has declined accordingly. Evidence of this is seen in the country. When 1 was a boy flax was the standby of the farmers—the sheet anchor of their agricultural hopes. The flax fields wore everywhere, and what a lovely sight it was when lint was in the blue. But all that is changed. The demand has fallen off, and it is only here and there one sees a Hax field now. But when the war was raging the farmers reaped a rich harvest from their flax. The price ran up as high as 20s per stone or more. Mow they count themselves happy if they get the half of that, 01even less. There are signs of a revival in the linen trade, but its palmy days, I fear, are over. Dairying is taking the place it once held among the farming community. Belfast is the stronghold of Presbyterianism. Evidences of this abound. One of the most striking is tlie fine Assembly Hall, and close by is the Presbyterian Hostel, built to commemorate the soldiers of that denomination who fell in the Great War. It is meant to serve the young men and young women who come in from the country to engage in business in Belfast. ft can accommodate some 200, and at a much cheaper rate than hotels or boarding houses. The two buildings cost, I believe, something like £IOO,000. They are very impressive evidences of the wealth and generosity of Belfast Presbyterians. a * » * I. passed beside the reverent walls, When of old 1 wore the.gown; I roved at random through the town, And heard the tumult of the halls. Another name was on the door, etc.

These lines kept recurring to me as I wandered through the streets of Belfast, and, in particular, as I visited tho scenes when of old I wore the gown. The Belfast College which, along with those in Galway and Cork, formerly composed the Queen’s University, of which I am a graduate, has kept pace with the city’s growth. The old schools, and ever so many new ones, have been added, until now the buildings have more than trebled since my time. They form now a most imposing block, giving ample evidence of the liberality of tho citizens of Belfast and of their love of learning. Close by is the Theological College, in connection with the Presbyterian Church of Ireland. Outwardly it has altered little, hut inwardly the change is very noticeable. When Hie northern comities declined to throw in their lot with tho Free State, the- Ulster Parliament had some difficulty in finding housing accommodation. They finally arranged to take the offer of the Assembly’s College for six years, at a rental of £6,000 per annum. And there it is located now. I was interested, if not amused, to find that the room I formerly occupied in the students’ chambers now accommodates no less a personage than Lord Oraigavon, the Premier of the Ulster Parliament. I could not help thinking of the evolution illfis-. trated by this. When I came to Belfast to begin my student career, I shared a little sitting room in one of the back streets of the city, for which we paid 3s 6d each—providing our own food, the greater part of which came from our homes. I was fortunate in my mate. He was more senior than I; a diligent student, and helped mo along, not least by his studious habits. In later years I got better “diggings,” as they were then called, and finally spent my last two years in the students’ chambers, in the room now dignified by the occupancy of the Ulster Premier. Parliament was not in session, so I took to myself the honor of sitting in tho Speaker’s Chair, and in tho seats reserved for distinguished visitors. I suppose it is the only Parliament in the world on which so many theologians look down upon it from their portraits on the walls. One of these recalled to my mind a comic incident that occurred in this very room in my student days. A certain class

I mot here just after lunch time. The professor was something like the preacher described by Sydney Smith, that if yon bored holes in him sawdust would come out. He had a peculiar sing-song sort ol delivery. Dr Parkes Cadman, one of the greatest of living preachers, tells that when lie was just beginning the work ho was taking a service in a lumbermen's camp. At the close one of the men came to thank him. “ I have had the best sleep today 1 have had for a good while; your delivery reminded me so much of my mother’s lullaby.” It so happened that this particular class met just after lunch. , 1 sat on the hack bench along with a fellow-student. We beguiled the hour in various ways, usually by reading novels. One day, under the soporific influence of the professor’s monotone, I tell asleep, with my head on my arms resting on the desk. When my companion got me sleeping soundly he started to snore. He kept at it till he had attracted the attention of the whole class, and finally the professor. Then he poked me in the ribs, and 1 woke to find them all staring at me. The situation was made plain by his whispering to mo; “Yon have been snoring too loudly.” As the grave old face looks down on the new, strange company that now assembles in his lecture room, 1 dare say he will sec some of them at times following my example, though he will not ho able to convey to them the reproof with which he greeted my astonished stare: “Don’t let that occur again.” ♦ * * * As 1 wander through these silent, vacant rooms of my old Alma Mater I feel like someone who has got up from the grave and forgot to go back. Most of my associates of university days have passed beyond the bourne from which no traveller returns. A very few of us Still in life’s school do linger on, The remnants of a once-full list, Conning our lists undismiss’d, With faces to the setting sun. Out in the streets there is little change. Save for the strange faces, the crowds are just at the same old game, chasing the almighty dollar and what it can bring them. Of’their success in this the city’s improvements afford abundant evidence. Palatial residences dazzle the wondering eyes as one drives through the spacious suburbs. The city is gradually swallowing up the country for miles and miles around. And yet there are plenty of mean streets and “crowded warrens of the poor.” But poverty is not as great, or at least not as visible, as it was in my young days. Few beggars are to be seen about the streets. .In this connection a good story was told me once. A gentleman was passing down Donegal place, once the chief thoroughfare of the city. An old woman accosted him and said: “Could you spare a copper, sir, for a poor mild woman, for the love of God?” Ho put his hand in his pocket and gave her a shilling. She was aghast at the generosity. When she recovered herself she said: “May every hair on your head, sir, he a candle to light your soul to glory.” He took off his hat, and there was not a hair on his head. He replied; “It won’t be a groat torchlight procession, madam, will it?” The story is suggestive in maffy ways, but my space is exhausted, and other aspects of Ireland must bo loft for a future article. Bor.