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Penelope's Irish Experiences-Part19_Kate Douglas Wiggin(1856-1923)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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the effect of French and Swiss Republicanism in the evolution of



public sentiment, and the close relation and affection that formerly

existed between the north of Ireland and New England. (This last



topic seems to appeal to Salemina particularly.) He also alludes to

Tories and Rapparees, Rousseau and Thomas Paine and Owen Roe



O'Neill, but I have entirely forgotten their connection with the

subject. Francesca and I are thoroughly enjoying ourselves, as only



those people can who never take notes, and never try, when Pandora's

box is opened in their neighbourhood, to seize the heterogeneous



contents and put them back properly, with nice little labels on

them.



Ireland is no longer a battlefield of English parties, neither is it

wholly a laboratory for political experiment; but from having been



both the one and the other, its features are a bit knocked out of

shape and proportion, as it were. We have bought two hideous



engravings of the Battle of the Boyne and the Secret of England's

Greatness; and whenever we stay for a night in any inn where



perchance these are not, we pin them on the wall, and are received

into the landlady's heart at once. I don't know which is the finer



study: the picture of his Majesty William III. crossing the Boyne,

or the plump little Queen presenting a huge family Bible to an



apparently uninterested black youth. In the latter work of art the

eye is confused at first as the three principal features approach



each other very nearly in size, and Francesca asked innocently,

"Which IS the secret of England's greatness--the Bible, the Queen,



or the black man?"

This is a thriving town, and we are at a smart hotel which had for



two years an English manager. The scent of the roses hangs round it

still, but it is gradually growing fainter under the stress of small



patronage and other adverse circumstances. The table linen is a

trifle ragged, though clean; but the circle of red and green



wineglasses by each plate, an array not borne out by the number of

vintages on the wine-list, the tiny ferns scattered everywhere in



innumerable pots, and the dozens of minute glass vases, each holding

a few blue hyacinths, give an air of urban elegance to the dining-



room. The guests are requested, in printed placards, to be punctual

at meals, especially at the seven-thirty table d'hote dinner, and



the management itself is punctual at this function about seven

forty-five. This is much better than in the south, where we, and



sixty other travellers, were once kept waiting fifteen minutes

between the soup and the fish course. When we were finally served



with half-cooked turbot, a pleasant-spoken waitress went about to

each table, explaining to the irate guests that the cook was 'not at



her best.' We caught a glimpse of her as she was being borne aloft,

struggling and eloquent, and were able to understand the reason of



her unachieved ideals.

There is nothing sacred about dinner to the average Irishman; he is



willing to take anything that comes, as a rule, and cooking is not

regarded as a fine art here. Perhaps occasional flashes of



starvation and seasons of famine have rendered the Irish palate

easier to please; at all events, wherever the national god may be,



its pedestal is not in the stomach. Our breakfast, day after day,

week after week, has been bacon and eggs. One morning we had



tomatoes on bacon, and concluded that the cook had experienced

religion or fallen in love, since both these operations send a flush



of blood to the brain and stimulate the mental processes. But no;

we found simply that the eggs had not been brought in time for



breakfast. There is no consciousness of monotony--far from it; the

nobility and gentry can at least eat what they choose, and they



choose bacon and eggs. There is no running of the family gamut,

either, from plain boiled to omelet; poached or fried eggs on bacon



it is, weekdays and Sundays. The luncheon, too, is rarely inspired:

they eat cold joint of beef with pickled beetroot, or mutton and






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