The Irish standard. [volume] (Minneapolis, Minn. ;) 1886-1920, 1903-01-24


where the elves dance of summer
night, have seen the problem of the
land as in a picture ten miles wide.
And from seat on Pat Tuohy's jaunt
: ing car, from hazy noon to frosted sill.
yer evening, have seen the panorama
of the tragic earth unroll for thirty
Irish miles. That's a days work,
says Hugh Sutherland in a letter from
Castlerea, County Roscommon, to the
Philadelphia North American.
What picture it was. 1 thought of
the wales Of Chester and the velvet
fields of Lancaster. Here they were
over again, mile upon mile of the fair
est land the mind can conceive, rich
with promise of fertility, green still to
the very verge of winter, smiling,
beautiful-and empty
That is the tragedy of it. 1 had
spent weary days and nights in places
where humanity in wretchedness in
carnate, and men and women huddle,
crowd amid grim barrenness. There
are ranges here where the wind may
sweep for leagues over living fields and
never know the faint Of the turf smoke.
The crows that wheel back against the
sky must mount far to spy out Chin
ney or haystack. The hares that run
wild know no strangers but the rough
coated cattle that Craze i'm scattered
herds. 1t is fertility and loneliness;
the land that mourns for the people,
as they mourn for the land.
"Come," said John Fitzgibbon, "come
and I'll show you what we fight for
and why"
1t was Sunday in Castlerea, and the
shuttered street lay silent and empty
the folk having gone from Mass to din
her. The sun at its highest point
hung as though setting, and the
street was in wintry shadow. We
climbed on the jaunting car, wrapping
the rugs well, for the wind was keen
and piercing, and clattered out on the
road to the eastward. At the first cor
ner stood stalwart member of the
Royal Irish Constabulary, in his boots
and cloak and peaked cap. He
glanced at us sharply, then disap-
peared with ostentatious Indifference
shall have good deal to say Of
John Fitzgibbon, for he is man to
write about. But for the present we
shall just glance at him as he balances
himself OH the swaying car. A stout
man, with Il rugged, burly figure, a
round, healthy, keen, kindly red face,
close-trimmed beard Of gray-streaked
copper, and the blue eyes that twinkle
or grow hard as he talks. For the rest,
he is man Of the people, chairman Of
the Roscommon County Council, an en-
thusiastic official of the UniteA Irish
League, speaker of natural force,
a devout Christian, a total abstainer.
and zealot for temperance. Add to
this that he is a prosperous and re-
spected merchant, and has served four
terms in prison for his political views,
and you have rough sketch Of one of
the finest Irishmen 1 have ever met
between Cork and Derry.
For half mile or so we skirted the
Sanford demesne, where great trees
stand thick behind the time blackened
wall, then swung into the country
road, with it's border of leafless haw-
thorn hedge. When we were quite
clear of the village turned and looked
behind, for l knew what to expect.
Two hundred yards back was man
OH bicycle: a grim built man in a
uniform of black, with peaked cap
The present government does not ap.
prove of explorations by American
newspaper men, particularly under the
guidance of such dangerous criminals
as John Fitzgibbon. Hence the pres
ence of the R. I. G. man, detailed to
follow US, though we Travelled till
another dawn.
'.There he is,'' said. John Fitz-
gibbon glanced back.
"Oho," he said "'Tis Reilly, the