Struggles and Triumphs by P. T. Barnum (love novels in english TXT) 📕

flourish of the shillelah, and a scrimmage which would result in a few broken heads and bloody noses.

Near Donnybrook we saw something on the summit of a hill which appeared like a round stone tower. It was probably sixty feet in circumference and twenty-five feet high.

“I would like to know what that is,” said Sherman.

I advised him to inquire of the first coachman that came along, but, with a forced smile, he declined my advice.

“It can’t be a limekiln, at any rate,” continued Sherman; “it must be a castle of some description.”

The more we looked at it the more mysterious did it appear to us, and Sherman’s castle-hunting propensities momentarily increased. At last he exclaimed: “A man who travels with a tongue in his head is a fool if he don’t use it; and I am not going within a hundred rods of what may be the greatest curiosity in Ireland, without knowing it.”

With that he turned our horse’s head towards a fine-looking mansion on our right, where we halted. Sherman jumped from the carriage, opened the small gate, proceeded up the alley of the lawn fronting the house, and rang the bell. A servant appeared at the door; but Sherman, knowing the stupidity of Irish servants, was determined to apply at headquarters for the information he so much desired.

“Is your master in?” asked Sherman.

“I will see, sir. What name, if you plaze?”

“A stranger from the United States of America!” replied Sherman.

The servant departed, and in a minute returned and invited Sherman to enter the parlor. He found the gentleman of the mansion sitting by a pleasant fire, near which were also his lady and several visitors and members of the family. Sherman was not troubled with diffidence. Being seated, he hoped he would be excused for having called without an invitation; but the fact was, he was an American traveller, desirous of picking up all important information that might fall in his way.

The gentleman politely replied that no apology was necessary, that he was most happy to see him, and that any information which he could impart regarding that or any other portion of the country should be given with pleasure.

“Thank you,” replied Sherman; “I will not trouble you except on a single point. I have seen all that is important in Dublin and its vicinity, and in and about Donnybrook; there is but one thing respecting which I want information, and that is the stone tower or castle which we see standing on the hill, about a quarter of a mile south of your house. If you could give me the name and history of that pile, I shall feel extremely obliged.”

“Oh, nothing is easier,” replied the gentleman, with a smile. “That ‘pile,’ as you call it, was built some forty years ago by my father; and it was a lucky ‘pile’ for him, for it was the only windmill in these parts, and always had plenty to do: but a few years ago a hurricane carried off the wings of the mill, and ever since that it has stood as it now does, a memorial of its former usefulness. Is there any other important information that I can give you?” asked the gentleman, with a smile.

“Not any,” replied Sherman, rising to depart: “but perhaps I can give you some; and that is, that Ireland is, beyond all dispute, the meanest country I ever travelled in. The only two objects worthy of note that I have seen in all Ireland are a limekiln and the foundation for a windmill!”

Upon resuming his seat in the carriage, Sherman laughed immoderately, although he evidently felt somewhat chagrined by this second mistake in searching for ancient castles.

Calling one day in one of the principal hotels in Dublin, I noticed among the “rules” framed and hung in the coffee-room for the warning, instruction, or entertainment of the guests of the house, the following:

“No Gambling or Politics will be allowed to take place in this house, by any parties whatever.”

How politics could “take place” in an Irish hotel, or elsewhere, would have been a mystery to me, if I did not remember that the “scrimmages” and rows, which often follow the mere discussion of politics, seemed to warrant the landlord in classing politics with gambling, or any other dangerous amusement which might take place in the coffee-room of an Irish inn.

Speaking of Irishmen, I am reminded of an illustration of ready Irish wit, which is located on the line of the Boston and Fitchburg Railroad. Some years ago, the Reverend Thomas Whittemore, a wealthy Universalist minister, who was a large stockholder in the road, was appointed president of the company; and, as he was exceedingly conscientious in the discharge of his duty, he once took upon himself to walk over every foot of the route, to see if every part of the road was in complete order. Walking along in this way and alone, he came to a place where a loose rail lay alongside of the track; and, seeing an Irishman near by, who was apparently employed on the road, Mr. Whittemore called out to him:

“Here, Pat, pick up this rail, and lay it alongside of the fence out of the way, till it is wanted.”

It never occurred to Mr. Whittemore that every man whom he met did not know him and his official position; but Pat, not dreaming that his virtual employer, the president of the railroad company, was giving him an order, sharply answered:

“Jist go to the divil, will ye?”

“My dear friend,” said the smiling Whittemore, who instantly comprehended “the situation”⁠—that is, that Pat did not know him, and no particular wonder, either⁠—“ ‘go to the devil?’ why, that is the last place I should desire to go to!”

“An’ faith, an’ I think it’s the last place you will be goin’ to,” responded Pat.

Of railroads and railroad travel and employees I have heard and told no end of stories; but one of the latest and best, I think, is told of a man in