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There Is No Place like Ireland

By a Watchtower Society Missionary in Ireland

“AND phwat do you suppose the loikes of youse want to come over here praechin’ to the loikes of us? Sure, isn’t this the land of saints and scholars? Glory be, if you had your way, sure you’d build a roof over the whole country and turn it into one big factory.” So said the Irishman with a roguish twinkle in his eye and in a delightful brogue as he approached the Kingdom publisher in the streets of Dublin.

That reminds me of the joke the American troops had for it when they were over here in the last world war. They said that Ireland would be perfect if only it had a roof over it. Well, of course, it does rain a lot, but if it didn’t we wouldn’t have everything so beautifully green, and then it wouldn’t be Ireland, the Emerald Isle, sure it wouldn’t. Truly this wee island is a green garden of delights. It is a land of stark contrasts too, not only in scenery but in the circumstances and types of its people. We are in the South, and that means Eire. The people are of pure Celtic strain, at times volatile and unpredictable, but with a native charm peculiarly their own.

How would you like to come with me for a day and visit some of the homes? I’ll promise you never a dull moment, till we get back late at night. First we have a few miles of good broad road, just newly resurfaced. We pass a few scattered farms and cottages and now a village. The church is on the left and the clergyman’s house is easily recognizable as the largest in the village, nearly as big as his church, standing in its own grounds and with peacocks strutting on the lawn. We turn off the road here and push on a few miles before we make our first visits.

Here we are at last. A long, low whitewashed house with thatched roof. As we approach the gate there is an excited chatter and children’s faces appear at the tiny window, a woman looks out over the half door (most of the cottages have the door divided) and immediately disappears again. I wonder what sort of reception we are going to get here? You would never know!

THE FIRST CALL

Knocking at the door we peer into the slightly dim room faintly misted with turf smoke. No reply, so we call out, “May we come in?” “Surely,” calls out the housewife over her shoulder, for she is already setting out the chairs before the fire and wiping them with a hastily snatched-up cloth. She quite expected us to walk straight in as the custom is in these parts. “Rest yourself,” she says with a bright smile as she eyes us over. “That’s a wild hill-up so it is,” she says referring to our long climb up from the village. She is quite young, well under thirty years of age, black hair, strong and muscular but rather thin-cheeked and tired-looking. Grandma sits by the roaring turf fire in the great open hearth and watches over a huge black pot full of “praties”. With many a scold and a “whist now”, the children are hushed and kept quiet during the conversation. Five lovely “wee cutties” (girls) with big wondering eyes and little bare feet. “No boys?” we ask with an amused smile. “Divil a one,” says she, “not a cuddy [boy] in the house at all, at all.” We all have a right good laugh, including Grandma, who shows all her gums, for she has not a tooth in her head.

The atmosphere now being congenial and the weather having been solemnly and unanimously denounced as “powerful”, “wild bad,” and suchlike, we proceed to explain our visit. Now, however, the man of the house has walked over to see what all the dog-barking was about. The weather has to be gone over again, but briefly this time, and we get down to business. All this has taken time, and the city man might feel impatient, but these are simple-living countryfolk who seldom see strangers. A hurried city brusqueness would repel them.

But now we have their attention; so we begin by showing that our mission is a holy one. Then we show its universality. The mention of its being carried on in over 120 lands brings forth a favorite phrase, “Man, but that’s a wild number of countries,” and when told that about half a million missionaries are engaged in this worldwide work they exclaim, “Boys a boys, but that’s a dreadful lot of people.”

Taking out the Douay Bible we open it at Isaias 7:14, the prophecy of our Lord’s virgin birth, and pass it around for all to read. The wife says she has often heard it but never before has seen it for herself. The man just grunts, but it turns out later that he cannot read, and, of course, we read it out to him. Now we show them Matthew 24 and Luke 21 and they can see what the events of our generation mean. Now comes the test. The books are introduced and passed around. Grandma chimes up distrustfully, “We’re Catholics here, we don’t need to read any books; sure we get all the instruction we need.” However, the young woman is interested. She yearns for kindness and freedom from want.

The man walks out. More points are explained about the kingdom we have all prayed and longed for. Yes, she would love to be there, to live on the earth forever under Christ the King. “Glory be to God,” she exclaims, not irreverently but from sheer habit. “Wouldn’t that be just great, just, och, I never heard the loike before.” She has “no change”, meaning she has no money at all, but she finds three or four pence to contribute a little toward their cost. It will be a joy to call back again and try to enlarge her vision of the Kingdom. As we leave with her parting, “God bless youse,” the wee girls are permitted to shyly wave us good-by.

Well, did you enjoy that? The long climb was worth it to find someone who was meek like that and to sow seeds of comfort in their heart. Disarmed by our kindly reception we walk confidently up to the next house. It looks to be in a bad way. Grass grows profusely from the thatched roof, the barns are almost roofless, the house is dirty with garbage flung anywhere. The man who appears in the doorway is unkempt, with several days growth of beard and dirty clothes. He regards us with a sullen scowl as we wish him a cheery Good evening. At the very words of introduction, however, he shouts, “Get to hell out of here.” Flinging open the half-door he grabs a nearby fork and, waving it wildly, roars, “Get up that road or I’ll run youse through.”

What a contrast! We move on to the next call. Ah now, here’s a nice wee cottage. A pleasant woman answers our knock but does not invite us in. She has light-blue twinkling eyes and a good humored mouth. After a few words we show her the literature and she exclaims, “Och sure, and didn’t I know youse Jehovah’s witnesses.” “That’s right,” we reply. “Sure, youse don’t believe in hell.” A discussion is begun, and using the Douay Bible again the case of Jonah in the fish is cited. “Now,” we ask, “what did he mean by saying he was in hell?” “The fish couldn’t have been on fire surely?” Greatly puzzled, she reads the account over again and then her Irish wit comes to her rescue, “Och sure,” says she, “and didn’t he mean he was having a hell of a toime?” After a good laugh, the Hope booklet explaining hell is placed and we push on again.

At the next house we see the usual emblems and pictures hanging on the walls and the container of holy water hanging by the door. No progress here. The man is actually reading a newspaper but unblushingly tells us that he cannot read. He snaps out that he cannot understand a word we are saying. A little tactful handling and he says that he is filled with hatred of the political strife that has rent this country for many centuries and he concludes by unceremoniously telling us to “go to hell out of here”. The woman of the house shoos us off and, grabbing the holy water, proceeds to sprinkle the porch, the door and even the path we walked up, while she calls on all the saints and specially the “Mother of God” to protect her from such “hathens” and “the loikes of their praechin’”.

IRISH HOSPITALITY

It is time we made our way over the top of the hill now, as we have a family we have talked to several times and we must see how they are progressing. It is time to eat, too, but up here there is a slight misty drizzle and it is cold, so maybe we can eat our sandwiches when we get to O’Neill’s farm. Here we are, my oh my, what a welcome! Such folks as these would take some beating for warmth. Such a scurrying and a dusting of chairs and clearing the table and poking the fire and quieting the children, all in one operation. Before long we are pushing our chairs back, for that black turf can throw out a terrific heat. The farmer and his two boys come in from a nearby field. The girls, all smiles and dimples, sit in a row on a long wall seat and the discussion is on.

Mrs. O’Neill is very careful to observe all the requirements of her religion, prayers, masses, fasts and feasts, but yet she says that she feels something is missing, she is still spiritually hungry. A Bible study is held using the Douay Bible, on the “New Earth”. She is delighted with all she hears. Mr. O’Neill smiles approval while the boys ask one or two very good questions. They had never seen a Bible before we called, and they handle it with great reverence. Mr. O’Neill and the boys remove their caps immediately.

And now what’s this? We are invited to take a meal. But our sandwiches? “Not at all, man dear, glory be, whoever heard of a man bringing his own food to eat?” “Sure we couldn’t let you go on a day like this without a hot meal, sure we couldn’t.” The potatoes are boiled in their skins and a huge bowlful is set in the middle of the table. Everyone helps himself to a “pratie” and proceeds to deftly peel it, add a little butter, and with a bowl of buttermilk you sup away to your heart’s content. There is no meat, but you would be surprised to find how satisfying and nourishing the meal is. After the meal we sing them Kingdom songs for about ten minutes and this is where our hosts’ natural gifts come in, for though they could not read a note of music, they accompany us on the accordion. Now we must leave our friends and pass on to some further calls.

First, some little distance away, to a nice little woman in a cottage whose husband burned the booklets she had taken from us before she could get to read them. Ah, himself has arrived home from work; so let’s see what his trouble is. He doesn’t look a very hopeful prospect, but here goes. O’Donovan is the name. He evidently knows who we are; so we dispense with preliminaries. We tell him of the suffering of our missionaries under the Russian domination, showing that we are not Communists as some mistakenly suppose. His eyes are narrowing, which is always a bad sign, and suddenly he interrupts us with a high-pitched scream of rage. Foaming at the mouth and shouting threats he grasps a turf spade and in lurid detail tells us what he will do to us until we safely have the garden gate between us.

Just one more visit and then we’d better call it a day. This is a mountain farm we are going up to. It is the last house in the hills, nothing but bog after this as far as the eye can see and reaching up to 2,000 feet. “Ould Tom” hears our voices and comes out with a light. “Och, its himsilf,” says he, “come right in and warm yoursilf; bedad but it’s a could noight so it is.” Tom is a widower and around his fire you will always find a ring of neighbor men as the evenings begin to darken. It is about the only social contact they have.

After the usual greetings and all agreeing that “there’s no hate” (meaning that there is no heat and the night is cold), a discussion opens up on hell and purgatory. During the discussion Tom lights an old short-stemmed pipe and after a few reflective puffs he passes it on to the next man. Each one solemnly has a few draws, and passes the pipe on again. As we do not use tobacco, we decline. It is a strange company that sits around that blazing hearth. There are more whiskery chins than you would see in a synagogue. They look like desperadoes, but they are quite harmless despite their rough appearance. Just honest, hard-working shepherds. At the end of the discussion tea is served with soda bread and butter; and so home to bed, which ends another tiring day in Kingdom service.

Many an incident occurs during the preaching work that is highly amusing. The folk here love a “crack”, as they choose to call it, meaning a good chat, especially with a laugh in it. For instance, the woman who said, “Be off wid yez, weses not of youses,” meaning, of course, that she was of a different religion, or the waitress who was asked what kind of soup was on the menu, was it thick or thin soup? “Sure now, it’s not too tik and it’s not too tin.” For some reason they are unable to pronounce the ‘th’ sound. Then there is the frequent reference to luck. One never fails to smile when departing, the householder warmly says, “Well good-by now, and all kind of luck to yez.” Presumably the bad and the good are lumped together to give a bit of variety. Another woman who did not appreciate the message of the Kingdom told a witness, “Och, lorney dear man, will ya go away, or you’ll have me do a murther on me own doorstep.”

Back in our room after a long and tiring day over the rough Irish roads and waiting for the evening meal to be prepared which is already about an hour late, we hear the gramophone churning out these words, “If Ireland isn’t heaven, then it’s only right next door.” That’s Ireland, and strange as it may seem, we grow to like it more and more. This wee island, land of contrast, laughter and tears has yet many men of good will, the Paddys and Mikes, the Sammies and Johnnies, the blunt Irish colleens with their love of fun, and their quick tempers too, who will yet come out of these old world hatreds and superstitions to new world freedom.