Ulster Irish

When you think of Irish immigration to America, most immediately recall the destructive potato blight that, in the middle of the 19th century, forced many Irish families from their lands. This, however, is the second great migration. The first occurred in colonial times, when the Ulster Irish dreamed of the fertile soil and available land of the Thirteen Colonies.
Most of us are unfamiliar with the term Ulster Irish, but we are quite comfortable with a more common term: The Scotch-Irish. And what may come as a shock to many families who hold their Irish American heritage tightly—many of us have quite a bit of Scottish blood flowing through our veins, too.
How can this be when we have Irish names, and know our families emigrated from Ireland. Can we conceivably be Scottish, as well?

The story starts out, as many Irish dramas do, with an Irishman at odds with the British government. The man in question, Con O’Neill, was an Irish chieftain with much land, and an even greater ego. In an attempt at Irish solidarity, he tried to end any English interference or control of Ireland. Though he gathered a large number of troops, and also enlisted the aid of the Spanish. O’Neill eventually lost, was imprisoned and his land was taken by the English as a spoil of war. This land, the northern counties of Ireland known as Ulster, was beautiful, fertile, and sparsely populated. After a series of political maneuverings, the English government decided, “that the lands should be planted with British Protestants, and that no grant of fee farm should be made to any person of mere Irish extraction.”
Thus, Ulster Plantation was formed. The plantation wasn’t a plantation as we think of one today. Instead, it was another example of King James’ penchant for creating colonies, or as he called them, “plantations in foreign lands” (his better known plantation was the 1607 Virginia settlement known as Jamestown).
Ulster Plantation was off to a grand start because the poor farmers of Scotland, who were far from modern in their farming techniques, had managed to destroy the previously fertile soil of the Lowlands. This destruction was so evident, that according to historian Larry D. Smith, the Scotland of the early 1600s was a hardscrabble land so barren that even grass was a rare sight.
Another factor in Ulster Plantation’s success was its geographical proximity to Scotland.
In fact, a close examination of a map of Scotland and Ireland will show that Ulster and Scotland are only separated by 20 watery miles, which made it quite easy for ambitious Scots to reach Ulster. Between 1609 and 1619, some eight thousand Scottish immigrants sought a new home amongst the fertile hills and valleys of Ireland. In fact, by the 1630s, it seems the whole north of Ireland had more Scotsmen than Irishmen. The rush for Emigration was so popular, that according to James G. Leyburn, in his book The Scotch Irish: A Social History, “ships were traveling back and forth (across the channel) with the frequency of a ferry.”
Not surprisingly, the Irish were none too fond of these settlers. To them, the Scots were a vile mixture of “interlopers” and “heretics,” as the Scots preferred protestant religious beliefs over the very Catholic country they now inhabited. This extremely tension fraught environment, combined with a severe drought and an economic downfall, prompted many Ulstermen, as the settlers and their descendents were now known, to board ships bound for America. In fact, Leyburn noted that “more than five thousand Ulstermen … made the journey to the American colonies” in 1717.
By this point, though, the Scots and Irish had been living alongside each other for more than 100 years, and some intermingling invariably happened, though the topic is quite controversial among many historians. It’s hard to ignore, though, the fact that many an Ulstermen came to American shores bearing an Irish surname. For the next sixty years, the Ulster Irish continued to emigrate, and their location of choice was William Penn’s Pennsylvania.
Why? Well, according to Smith, “when considering which colony to make their new homes in, the Ulster- Scots really had only limited choices. The southern colonies were not very enticing with their slave labor and plantation system of agriculture. Nor was Maryland because it had been established as a Roman Catholic colony (sic). Although not Catholic, New York had made it clear to earlier immigrants that she would not tolerate religious diversity. Of the choices between New England and Pennsylvania, the earliest immigrants had been made to feel unwelcome at Boston, the primary port of entry. The single colony that welcomed the Ulster-Scots with open arms was Pennsylvania.”
This is also a popular theory with Leyburn, who believes, “the southern provinces, Virginia and the Carolinas, were hardly considered, for the impoverished Ulstermen would (have) seen nothing attractive in a region of plantations and slave-owning, where the Church of England was established. Maryland had been founded for Roman Catholics, was principally a plantation colony, and now had an Established Church; it was therefore no place for Presbyterians who wanted small farms. New York’s governors were reportedly hard on dissenters, and her lands up the Hudson were owned in great estates. Eliminating these, there remained the Middle colonies and New England (and) reports from Penn’s settlements were enthusiastic as to the quality of land and the treatment of colonists.”
And so, wave after wave of Ulster Irishmen sought the freedom and economic joys of Pennsylvania, and made the Delaware River one of the most traveled waterways in the New World. So poignant was their joy, that “their enthusiastic praise…persuaded others to follow them…until by 1720 ‘to go to America’ meant…to take (a) ship for the Delaware River ports, and then head west. For the entire fifty-eight years of the Great Migration, the large majority of Scotch-Irish made their entry to America through Philadelphia or Chester or New Castle.”
From this tolerant and fertile colony, the Ulster Irish steadily pushed westward and south. They quickly became rugged and capable frontiersman, as they spread across the Appalachian mountain range, whose fingers reach from northeastern Pennsylvania down through Maryland, Virginia and the Carolinas. The mountains provided a natural trail, as “the Great Valley lead westward for a hundred miles or more; then when high mountains blocked further easy movement in that direction, the Valley turned southwestward across the Potomac to become the Shenandoah Valley. From the southern terminus of the Valley of Virginia, it was a short trip, by the time the pioneers had reached it, into the Piedmont regions of the Carolinas, where colonists were now warmly welcomed. Within this seven hundred mile arc of back-country, therefore, from Philadelphia as far as the upper Savannah River, most of the Scotch-Irish made their homes.”
The major obstacle to their success? The Native Americans already residing in the area. The Ulster Irish soon adapted to the guerrilla style warfare and combat techniques utilized by the Natives, and after many fierce battles and a few treaties, the land was that of the Ulsters.
These new fighting skills, combined with their innate hatred of the English, were a godsend to George Washington, who managed to spark his exhausted troops with much needed enthusiasm after the “Over the Mountain Boys” (as the Ulster Irish frontiersman were known), soundly defeated the British at the Battle of Kings Mountain. At first, the Ulster Irish were reticent to join the fight, but when Lt. Colonel Patrick Ferguson pushed into the back country and “established a base camp at Gilbertown…. (He) issued a challenge to the Patriot leaders to lay down their arms or he would, ‘Lay waste to their country with fire and sword.’”
Can you say big mistake? Ferguson decided to place his 1,100 troops at the top of Kings Mountain, a spot he considered highly defensible, especially since he believed the 900 Over the Mountain Boys, who had no formal military training or military weaponry, would be more of an annoyance than a real threat. But Ferguson made a major tactical error. He was prepared to fight as if on the fields of Europe, and was unprepared for the guerrilla warfare the Ulsters had learned at the hands of the Native Americans.
Ferguson started off the battle with passion and strength, and yelled to the opposing forces that only God would remove him from the mountain top, but within a few hours, 225 British soldiers were killed, 163 wounded, and another 716 were taken prisoner. And of those 900 untrained and ragtag Ulster boys, only 28 lost their lives at the hands of their mortal enemies. And Ferguson? Well, he was right, in a way. The Ulsters knew that killing Ferguson meant the battle would be won. During the heat of the fighting, Ferguson drew his horse alongside two young men. The first took aim, but his gun jammed; he shouted over to his buddy, Robert Young, “There’s Ferguson. Shoot him,” at which point Young brought his rifle to his shoulder, aimed, and famously said, “I’ll see what ‘Sweet Lips’ can do,” before pulling the trigger. Sweet Lips, it seems, was his sentimental nickname for his two greatest joys: his rifle and his wife.
The Ulster Irish, now recognized as loyal patriots and intrepid fighters, were now a large part of the American population. Some experts believe that there were over two million Ulster Irish by 1776, which made them “the second largest ethnic group in America after the English, and ahead of the Germans.”
Whether you refer to them as Ulster Irish, Ulster Scots, Scotch-Irish, or Scots-Irish, it is apparent that these people were willing to come to a new land, and open it up for others to follow. Their culture is still deeply imbedded in the hills of Appalachia, especially in music, folklore and language. While much of these words are predominantly apparent in southern and rural dialects, some have slipped into our conventional language, too. For example, seisiun became session, as in getting together for music and entertainment. Go leor, meaning plenty, became galore, sean tigh, meaning old house, became shanty, and smidirini, meaning small pieces, became smithereens.
It is difficult to estimate the number of Ulster Irish in America today, as many descendents are unaware of their actual heritage. The 2000 US Census counted approximately 4.9 million Ulsters on American soil; however, some historians believe a more accurate appraisal would be between 23 and 30 million. While many of us are not only unaware that we are of Ulster Irish stock, many more are completely unaware that the Ulster Irish even exist.
Oddly enough, though, the Ulster Irish in America are wildly popular in Ireland. On a recent trip to visit her homeland, Kelly Maher Taylor was startled to find that “The Irish know American history better than the Americans do, and they celebrate it—because it is their own history. It is the story of their children—some who made good, (and) some who did not.” Even more surprising is the existence of the Ulster American Folkpark, located north of Dublin near Omagh. This park is a celebration of those hearty folks who came from Scotland, became one with Ireland, and eventually settled in America. Truly, the Irish could not be more proud of their Ulster Brethren.
Perhaps it’s best to remember the Ulster Irish through this very fitting toast:
Brewed in Scotland,
Bottled in Ireland,
Uncorked in America

By Marjorie McKinstry-Miller

Jackson Wins at New Orleans

On January 8, 1815, Andrew Jackson scored a decisive defeat over the British at New Orleans. It was the final battle in the War of 1812, a conflict many in the young nation called America’s second war for independence. And it made Jackson a national hero with what many thought was a decidedly bright future.
Andrew Jackson was born in South Carolina on March 15, 1767, the third son of Andrew and Elizabeth (Hutchinson) Jackson, both immigrants from Ulster. From the start Jackson faced adversity. His father died just a few days before he was born, leaving his mother to struggle to keep the family together.
When Jackson was eight, the revolutionary war broke out between the colonies and England. Jackson’s family sided with the pro-independence forces and in the latter years of the war (at age 13) he served as a mounted courier for the Continental Army. Unfortunately, the war left him an orphan as his brothers were killed by British soldiers and his mother died of cholera. The ordeal left him with an implacable hatred for the British and a hope that he might one day have an opportunity for revenge.
Despite his travails, Jackson studied law after the war and was admitted to the bar in 1787. He then headed for the frontier town of Nashville, Tennessee where he prospered as an attorney and investor in land, horses, and slaves. He entered politics in the late 1790s, serving in both the United States House and Senate before accepting an appointment to the state superior court of Tennessee. In 1802 Jackson was named the major general of the state’s militia.
When war broke out between America and Great Britain in 1812, Jackson was exultant. Like many Americans, he had long decried the foreign policy of the Jefferson and Madison administrations as nothing short of cowardly in the face of repeated British outrages against American ships on the high seas. Jackson immediately volunteered for military service and by 1814 had risen to the rank of major general in the regular Army in command of Tennessee, Mississippi, and Louisiana.
Although far from the war’s major clashes in the north, Jackson made the most of his opportunity. His forces successfully repulsed a British assault on Mobile, Alabama in September and in November expelled the enemy from Pensacola, Florida. That left one key city in need of protection—New Orleans, the gateway to the vital Mississippi River. The British, Jackson soon learned, intended to take the city and close the river to American commerce.
Jackson’s army reached New Orleans in late November, shortly before a British fleet arrived and landed a force of some 13,000 at a position 10 miles below the city. Here the Irish connection to the story broadens considerably, for the commander of the British operation was Major General Sir Edward Pakenham, born in Westmeath, Ireland. Pakenham took the offensive immediately, launching repeated attacks on the city. But Jackson’s men—a much smaller force of 5,000 that included both regular army and militiamen as well as free blacks and Choctaw Indians—held the British at bay until the climactic battle of January 8, 1815.
Among those assisting Jackson in his defense of New Orleans was yet another man with a strong Irish connection. Seventeen years earlier General Jean Humbert had landed 1,000 French soldiers in Ireland to support Wolfe Tone and the 1798 uprising of the United Irishmen. Captured and imprisoned in the wake of the uprising’s failure, Humbert eventually returned to France, resigned his commission, and sailed for New Orleans. When Jackson arrived, Humbert offered his services and was placed in charge of mounted scouts. His service proved immensely beneficial to the cause and he later received stirring praise from Jackson.
The morning of January 8 was foggy and dark, conditions Pakenham believed gave the attacking British the advantage. Striking from the east from Lake Borgne, the British threw everything they had at Jackson’s lines in an all-out attempt to end the standoff once and for all. But poor coordination of a planned two-pronged strategy threw them off balance. Jackson’s men were ready for the attack and poured fire into the British lines, repulsing the offensive and winning a decisive victory. British forces lost more than 2,000 men, Jackson lost 71. Worse for the British, however, was the loss of two generals, including Pakenham who was shot while trying to rally his crumbling forces. Defeated, the British retreated and soon sailed off into the Gulf of Mexico leaving New Orleans safely in American hands.
Given the primitive communications of the day, it took several weeks for news of Jackson’s stunning victory to reach the rest of the country. When it did become public knowledge, the nation exploded in celebration for it was the second welcomed bit of news to arrive in recent days. On December 24—fifteen days before Jackson’s victory–American and British officials signed the Treaty of Ghent, ending the War of 1812. This gap between treaty signing and the Battle of New Orleans has long led people to erroneously state that Jackson’s victory (snicker, snicker) came after the war had ended. But since the Treaty of Ghent specifically stipulated that hostilities would continue until both governments formally ratified the treaty, which did not occur until mid-February. The war was very much ongoing when British and American forces clashed on January 8.
Andrew Jackson became a national hero and used his fame over the next decade to build a political career that eventually led to the White House. General Humbert remained in the city until his death in 1823. General Pakenham’s body was brought back to England for burial. The people of New Orleans eventually erected a statue honoring Jackson and the men he commanded and for decades celebrated January 8 as victory day, an event that inspired several songs, including “Huzza! for General Jackson,” the chorus of which went
Remember New Orleans I say,
Where Jackson show’d them Yankee play,
And beat them off and gain’d the day,
And then we heard the people say
Huzza! For Gen’ral Jackson! hm

Ed O’Donnell is the author of 1001 Things Everyone Should Know About Irish American History

Hogan Makes a Comeback

On January 10, 1950, Ben Hogan did the unimaginable. Nearly killed and severely injured in an auto accident eleven months earlier, he’d finished in a tie for first place in his first post-accident tournament in the California Open. Although he eventually lost that day in the playoff to Sam Snead, his performance captured the hearts of golfers and non-golfers alike. The greatest golfer of the era had just commenced one of the most extraordinary comebacks in professional sports history. His victory five months later in the U.S. Open made clear that it was no fluke.

William Benjamin Hogan was born in 1912 in Dublin, TX, the son of a struggling blacksmith. A poor kid made poorer by his father’s suicide when he was nine, Hogan came into the world of country clubs and golf through the service entrance. He began caddying at age 12, earning 65 cents a round.
He learned to play and turned pro at 17. After two unsuccessful campaigns on the pro tour in 1931 and 1934, he returned for good in 1937. By 1940 he was the tour’s top money winner. Service in World War II from 1943-45 took him out of the game, but he quickly stormed back to reclaim his crown as the game’s top player, winning 37 tournaments between August 1945 and February 1949.
Then disaster struck. While driving with his wife on a small highway in West Texas, Hogan’s car was hit head on by a Greyhound bus that entered his lane while attempting to pass another vehicle. In the split second before impact, Hogan hurled himself in front of his wife in a heroic attempt to protect her.
Hogan’s valor saved two lives that night—his wife’s and his own. Had he remained in his seat, he would have been impaled by the steering column which shot through to the back seat on impact. Still, the accident left Hogan in grave condition, with his pelvis fractured in two places, a broken rib, ankle and collarbone. Worse, he required several operations to keep blood clots in his legs from causing a heart attack.
Many wondered if he’d live. Certainly, no one thought he would ever play golf again.
By the summer of 1949 it was clear that Hogan would live, but his career seemed over. He could barely walk and only for short distances. Weight loss (he dropped from 150 to 95 lbs.) and inactivity left him too weak even to swing a golf club.
Six months later a gaunt and slow moving Ben Hogan showed up to play in the California Open. People were stunned. Could he possibly go 72 holes on those legs? Perhaps, thought many, it was a symbolic gesture, part of his long-term rehabilitation.
How wrong they were. Anyone who knew Hogan could attest, he was no ordinary professional. He possessed an inner drive, work ethic, and sense of purpose few could match. It was what made him a champion in the first place and it’s what enabled him to come back from the brink of death to dominate his sport once again. “He’s the standard of excellence,” said a 5-time British Open winner, “ against which we all measured ourselves.”
Hogan topped his incredible resurrection performance in the California Open with a victory at the U.S. Open five months later. He did it in dramatic style, nailing a 1–iron approach shot on the 18th and final hole to set up a putt that tied him with two other players. The next day he won the 18-hole playoff by four strokes.
Although his legs were in constant pain, Hogan kept playing–and winning–for several more years. By the end of his career he’d posted 63 PGA tournament victories including nine majors (six after the accident). He was one of only four players to win all four majors. The 1951 film Follow The Sun starring Glen Ford chronicled his incredible career and comeback.
An intensely private man, Hogan enjoyed a quiet retirement in Texas. He kept busy playing golf and working as an advisor to the Ben Hogan Golf Company he started in the 1950s and then later sold. When he died in July 1997 at the age of 84, nearly every obituary and tribute said the same thing: “never before or since had there been a player who so embodied grit and competitive intensity like Ben Hogan.”
“I don’t like the glamour,” he once said, “I just like the game.”

By Edward T. O’Donnell

A Nation of Immigrants

New Year’s Day dawned cold and blustery in 1892, but for fourteen year old Annie Moore and her two younger brothers, the austere weather belied their intense happiness. The young trio from County Cork Ireland had been traveling for almost two weeks across the Atlantic Ocean aboard the S.S. Nevada. After spending Christmas at sea and one night in New York City without any adult relatives, they were eager to finally meet up with their parents, Matthew and Mary Moore, who had emigrated to New York City two years earlier.
That morning, Annie and her brothers were among almost 300 immigrants waiting to step onto Ellis Island, America’s newest federal immigration processing center. As the ferry’s gangplank lowered, a small mob of people rushed forward, and Annie was in danger of being trampled by a “burly German immigrant.” According to a local cub reporter, a fellow Irish immigrant filled with “a spark of Celtic gallantry changed the scene,” shouting out, “Ladies first!”

Thanks to this noble gesture, not only were Annie and her brothers the first three off the ferry, they were also the first three immigrants of any nationality to be processed at Ellis Island. Interestingly, none of the trio had any idea that their family was making American history, which may explain why Annie was stunned when she was met by “a host of city, state, and federal officials who presented her with a certificate and a ten-dollar gold piece.”
According to the local papers, the grand opening of Ellis Island was actually a rather quiet affair, and so “ without any ceremony or formal opening the immigration officials of this city … settled down on Ellis Island, in the harbor, and the barge office is known to them no more. The steamship Nevada was the first to arrive at the new landing place. Her immigrants were put aboard the barge J. E. Moore, and amid the blowing of foghorn and whistles approached the pier. Charles M. Hanley … was at the registry desk when there came tripping up a fifteen-year-old-girl, Annie Moore, and her little brother.”
That morning, as Annie had the honor of being the first person named in the Ellis Island registration book, she was understandably overwhelmed. In her hands she now held a ten dollar gold coin, “the first United States coin she had ever seen and the largest sum of money she had ever possessed.”
And for quite some time, that was all that was known about little Annie Moore. Over the next sixty years, 12 million more immigrants traced Annie’s footsteps through Ellis Island until it closed in November of 1954. By the mid-1960s, people were keen to know more about the history of Ellis Island. Younger Americans attempted to trace the paths of their immigrant grandfathers and grandmothers. Soon historians were clamoring to know more about Annie… what had happened to the young Irish lass who had been so captivated by a shimmering coin in 1892.
The search was on, and experts soon located an Annie Moore who had moved “west with her family to fulfil the American dream—eventually reaching Texas, where she married a descendant of the Irish liberator, Daniel O’Connell, and then died accidentally under the wheels of a streetcar at the age of 46.”
For years this Annie Moore and her descendents were touted to be the Moore family who first trod upon Ellis Island. As recently as July 11, 2000, First Lady Hillary Clinton spoke eloquently about her and her descendents, stating: “You know, I think about the millions and millions of people who came here and the courage it took to make the decision to leave a familiar place. Some were driven out, some were fleeing for their lives with their few possessions carried and put on their backs, clinging to children. Others made the decision that there was a better life and they would go find it. And when the ferry pulled into the harbor and everyone disembarked to begin walking through these hallowed grounds, I thought about all of those people. We’ve seen the pictures, we’ve heard the stories, and I can imagine what it must have been like for the very first person to pass through Ellis Island. Her name was Annie Moore. She was 15 years old and on January 1, 1892, she came with her family in pursuit of a new life. In honor of her place in history, the New York authorities at the immigration station gave her a $10 gold piece.
Almost a hundred years later, her daughter, then in her 80’s, came from Arizona for the opening of the genealogical center, and presented a symbolic $10 bill to kick off the fundraising campaign. I am very pleased that Annie Moore’s great grandson, Ed Wood, is here today, along with his wife Barbara. And Ed, would you please stand in honor of your brave great grandmother who led the long line of immigrants who passed through this island on the way to freedom and citizenship.”
Unfortunately, Ed Wood and Hillary Clinton had their facts all wrong.
It took the bloodhound combination of detective work and genealogical acumen of Megan Smolenyak Smolenyak (sic) and Brian Andersson for the real Annie to surface. Through birth and naturalization certificates, Megan and Brian were able to locate Annie’s brother Phillip, her great-niece Anna, and a great nephew. Megan took a gamble, flipped through the phone books and found the great nephew listed. She immediately placed a call and, “As soon as I said ‘Annie Moore,’ he knew instantly — ‘That’s us.’” According to Megan, the family felt ‘they had been overlooked, but they had sort of resigned themselves.
Not too surprisingly, “Edward Wood, a New Jersey plumbing contractor … descended from the Texas Annie Moore and who has been feted on Ellis Island, stated that he was”… disappointed, but … not heartbroken.”
So, what really happened to Annie Moore who arrived aboard the S.S. Nevada?
According to Megan, “She had the typical hardscrabble immigrant life,” and “… sacrificed herself for future generations.” Annie died of heart failure in 1924, barely 47 years of age. Her body was worn out from years of drudgery and eleven pregnancies. Only five of her children survived childhood.
Though Annie never knew great wealth or a life of ease, she would probably be proud to know that her descendents have done quite well. Today, one is an investment adviser and another has a PhD.
It seems her family has finally found the American Dream.

By Marjorie McKInstry-Miller

Everything Everyone Should Know About St. Patrick

The First Christian Missionaries

Contrary to popular belief, St. Patrick was not the first Christian missionary in Ireland, though he was certainly its most successful. Some evidence exists of missionaries traveling through Ireland by the late fourth century A.D., but they seemed to have enjoyed little success. The best-known missionary before Patrick was Palladius, sent by Pope Celestine in 431 A.D. to minister to “the Irish who believe in Christ.” Many scholars believe that at least some of the deeds and accomplishments later attributed to Patrick were more likely those of Palladius (some contend that Patrick and Palladius were one in the same). There were others as well, Auxilius and Iserninus worked in the south of Ireland while Secondinas preached in the north and east.

St. Patrick
St. Patrick, or Patricius as he was known in Latin, is the patron saint of Ireland. He is traditionally credited with bringing Christianity to Ireland, though it is more accurate to say that he was the leading figure among many missionaries engaged in that task.
No one knows for certain where Patrick was born, but based on his own account, it was most likely in southwestern Britain. In recent years many people have expressed delight in the “irony” that Ireland’s patron saint was actually “English.” The problem, of course, is that no one in the 5th century was what we would call “English.” Rather, the people living in present-day England were Romanized Celts, or Britons. Patrick was thus a Celtic Briton who went by the name of Succat. Patrick’s father was a low-level Roman official and a deacon. Patrick’s grandfather had been a priest.

St. Patrick’s Calling
At age sixteen, Patrick was captured by Irish raiders under the command of Niall of the Nine Hostages and taken to Ireland as a slave. For the next six years he labored tending sheep and pigs for one Miliucc near Mount Slemish in Antrim. Life as a herdsman was rough. Patrick barely survived, poorly clothed and without protection from the elements and frequently near starvation. He sought consolation in constant prayer. Finally, his prayers were answered by a mysterious voice that said “Your hungers are rewarded: you are going home.” Miraculously, he walked unharmed two hundred miles to the Wexford coast. There he managed to stowaway aboard a ship transporting Irish wolfhounds to the continent. After reuniting with his family in Britain, he experienced a vision in which he was handed a letter inscribed with the words vox hiberionacum, or Voice of the Irish, and heard people calling him “come and walk among us once more.”
It was not long before Patrick headed for Gaul to study for the priesthood. He was ordained about the year 430 A.D. and, haunted as he was by his years of captivity there, Patrick headed for Ireland.

St. Patrick’s Mission
Patrick began his mission in Ireland sometime about 432 A.D., possibly as successor to Palladius, first bishop of Ireland. Although Christian missionaries had arrived before him, the Irish remained a pagan people. Patrick faced enormous dangers from local chieftains and bands of marauders, but especially from the druid priests who correctly perceived him as a threat to their authority. “[E]very day,” he wrote, “I am ready to be murdered, betrayed, enslaved.”
Patrick concentrated his missionary efforts in the west and north of Ireland. He converted countless thousands during his mission and established, according to tradition, bishops throughout north, east and western Ireland (everywhere, it seems, but Munster). Patrick, as primatial bishop, established his see at Ard Macha (present-day Armagh), symbolically a stone’s throw from the seat of Ulster kings at Emain Macha.
When he died ca. 461 A..D. much of Ireland had been exposed to the teachings of Christianity. The process of conversion, however, took time and as late as the seventh century groups of non-Christian Irish continued to resist.

St. Patrick’s Lorica
One of the most important works attributed to Patrick is his prayer called “St. Patrick’s Lorica” for its alleged power to protect him from harm. It reads in part:
I arise today
Through the strength of heaven:
Light of sun,
Radiance of moon,
Splendor of fire,
Speed of lightning,
Swiftness of wind,
Depth of sea,
Stability of earth,
Firmness of rock.

I arise today
Through God’s strength to pilot me:
God’s might to uphold me,
God’s wisdom to guide me,
God’s eye to look before me,
God’s ear to hear me,
God’s word to speak for me,
God’s hand to guard me,
God’s way to lie before me,
God’s shield to protect me,
God’s host to save me
From snares of devils,
From temptations and vices,
From everyone who shall wish me ill,
Afar and anear,
Alone and in multitude.

[NOTE: source of translation: Thomas Cahill]
Some scholars note that the language is more seventh century than fifth and therefore question whether or not Patrick himself wrote the prayer. “On the other hand,” as Thomas Cahill writes in his classic, How the Irish Saved Civilization, “it is Patrician to its core, the first ringing assertion that the universe itself is the Great Sacrament, magically designed by its loving creator to bless and succor human beings. … If Patrick did not write it (at least in its current form) it surely takes its inspiration from him.”

St. Patrick’s Legends
Of the many legends associated with St. Patrick, two stand out. First, it is said that he drove the snakes out of Ireland. The problem with this story is that Ireland never had any snakes to drive away. Separated from England (where snakes of all sorts abound) and the Continent thousands of years ago, Ireland emerged from the Ice Age snake-free. If St. Patrick were alive today, of course, he would have his spokesperson come forward to offer a slightly modified legend which stretched but did not break the limits of belief: “Since Patrick’s arrival in Ireland no snakes have been sighted.”
A second and more plausible legend is that he used the shamrock to explain the mystery of the Trinity (by comparing the three leaves with the Father, Son and Holy Spirit). The legend is unverifiable, since Patrick doesn’t mention it in his writings. Some have suggested it derives from an earlier Celtic tradition of using the shamrock as a metaphor representing a “trust in your soul,” “belief in your heart” and “faith in your mind.” Some missionary, if not Patrick himself, very likely Christianized this concept. Few in Ireland seem troubled by these details, and the shamrock remains the Irish national symbol.

St. Patrick’s Legacy
Much of what we know about St. Patrick comes from his Confessio, a kind of spiritual autobiography. A unique mystical chant attributed to Patrick, called the Lorica, is preserved in the Liber Hymnorum, or Book of Hymns. A handbell that he is alleged to have used during Mass is on display in Ireland’s National Museum.
And, of course, every year, on March 17, St. Patrick is honored in Ireland and throughout the world. The date, according to tradition, corresponds to the day of his death (c. 493) at Saul, near Downpatrick in County Down. The style of celebration varies by country and even region. For centuries the people of Ireland marked the day as a solemn religious event, perhaps wearing green, sporting a shamrock, and attending mass, but little more. Certainly there was no massive parade like the ones found in American cities like Boston, New York and Chicago. These have the aura of proud pageantry about them, but sadly much of St. Patrick’s Day in America has been neither religious nor contemplative, but instead an excuse for excessive drinking. Fortunately, the revival of interest in Irish and Irish American culture has prompted parade organizers, church officials, and others to de-emphasize drinking and encourage more appropriate activities such as concerts and poetry readings.
Interestingly, as the American Irish move toward a more Irish form of celebrating March 17, the Irish in Ireland have begun to imitate their American cousins. St. Patrick’s Day parades now occur in most major Irish cities. Differences still remain. Parades in Ireland tend to be more like Mardi Gras pageants than the more formal and earnest shows of ethnic pride found in America.
A more somber remembrance of Patrick occurs every year in Ireland, on the last Sunday of July. Thousands of pilgrims ascend – some barefoot and others on bloodied knees — the nearly half-mile high mountain in the west of Ireland named Croagh Patrick. The devotional ceremony is in memory of the time in 441 when Patrick fasted there.

By Edward T. O’Donnell

American Film Festivals Underscore Irish Cinema

Gone are the wonderfully delightful Irish films depicted by depression-aged directors that patronized global Irish stereo-types with myopic views of the Irish. Brilliant was the photography of Ireland’s pastoral scenes, but lost in the story was solid character development. These films were most often nostalgic in nature illustrating American immigrant’s tendency to desperately clutch to the past for selected memories that sooth the soul. For good or bad, Irish film had its place in Hollywood film archives…made by Irish-Americans.
We have been subjected to the onslaught of more Hollywood films about the IRA and the troubles in Northern Ireland. Films like The Devil’s Own and Ronan illustrate historical fiction and a subjective perspective of Irish Nationalism, often subtley engaging viewers to think about politics and support for, or not for, a cause. In a world where so much hate and violence dominate our headlines the reality films have given way to a new kind of cinema. Not that the atrocities of the past are forgotten but more Irish filmmakers are focusing on the effect rather than the cause for nationalism. Filmmakers are now finding themselves living in the aftermath and are beginnig to tell those stories.
Ireland has significantly changed for the better, becoming one of the world’s wealthiest countries. Although it may no longer be poor, it still seeks identity. Independent films denunciate a cookie-cutter approach to filmmaking and embrace individual expression.
There are now enough wealthy stars with their own production companies that remain true to their art by supporting new talent that tell accounts of human condition inundated with conflict, love and spirit of life. Directors demonstrate the direction of the New Irish cinema. For example Jim Sheridan’s “The Boxer” and “In America,” Ken Loach’s “The Wind That Shakes The Barley,” and John Sayles’s “The Secret of Roan Inish.” Even Sheridan cannot escape American influence naming his Dublin based production company, Hell’s Kitchen, after the New York City enclave of Irish immigration. These directors are moving forward developing stories with characters and actors that breathe new life into Irish themes making it a new genre all it’s own.
Irish stars Liam Neeson, Pierce Brosnan, Fiona Flannagan, and Colin Farrell can pick and choose the films they make, encouraging the Irish film industry to spawn its own portrayal of who and what Ireland is in the cinema. Beautifully entertaining films like The Nephew, Michael Collins, The Waking of Ned Devine, and the latest, In Bruges, are signs that Irish Filmmaking is here to stay.
Indeed, Irish cinema is taking ownership and imbuing a new stamp of approval. Also, Irish films are gaining in popularity from great venues and good marketing. That is why Irish film festivals in America are exploding onto the scene.
A united movement on the west coast is the Irish Film America (IFA), a new organization, dedicated to bringing the best of contemporary Irish film to US audiences, provide a platform for Irish filmmakers to showcase their independently-produced feature films, documentaries, short films and animations. In March IFA will host its first Irish Film Festival with screenings in Los Angeles, San Francisco and Seattle. Co-presenting partners are established film festivals like San Francisco Irish Film Festival and the Seattle Irish Reels Film Festival.
The Tri-City Festival at the Clarity Theatre in the heart of Beverly Hills will be the inaugural Irish Film Festival of Los Angeles.
Elsewhere in the country the well-known Chicago Irish Film Festival continues to flourish. Since 2000 it has been screening features, documentaries, shorts and animation. The Chicago festival presents a brilliant selection of Irish film, from the classics to the contemporary. It will have nine screenings and two receptions, showcase feature films, documentaries, two programs of short films and animations, and question and answer sessions with filmmakers, scholars from the American Conference of Irish Studies.
A Festival highlight this year includes an outstanding documentary about the life and work of Ireland’s top photojournalist, “Colman Doyle: Photographing the Nation” and the American premiere of “Garage” starring Pat Shortt, one of Ireland’s most beloved comedians.
Guests at the opening reception include filmmakers David Gleeson (director), Nathalie Lichtenthaeler (producer), James Kelly (director) and Ross Whitaker (director); Consul General of Ireland Martin Rouine and Vice Consul Timothy Reilly; members of the American Conference on Irish Studies; and members of the South Side Irish Parade Committee.
This year’s classic is Ireland’s first Irish language feature film, “Poitin,” made in 1977 and directed by Bob Quinn. In honor of its 30th anniversary, the film, originally produced with no music, received a soundtrack by composer Bill Whelan of “Riverdance.”
Among the filmmakers whose early works will be screened are Kirsten Sheridan, who was nominated for a screen writing Academy Award for “In America;” Ken Wardrop, winner of 17 international film festival awards; Ian Power whose films have won awards from the Galway, Cork and Foyle film festivals and whose short “The Wonderful Story of Kevin Kind” was picked up by Warner Bros. for nationwide release; and Nick Kelly whose latest short, “Why the Irish Dance That Way, was commissioned in Ireland by the Arts Council and RTE (Radio and Television of Eireann) and was accepted for the prestigious Montreal World Film Festival.

By Thomas Miner

Spring Vacation Ideal for Visit to Treasured Island

I am aboard a bus that is driving on what I am still convinced is the wrong side of the road Our driver, Jo, a quiet photographer-type, has no problem shifting with his left hand while winding around the narrow passages of Northwest Ireland.
I begin to wonder if the roads weren’t constructed this way on purpose, forcing Jo to slow down and to submit me to the views of the Atlantic’s tides coming and going on one side and that of mountains and villages on the other. Unlike so many American shorelines and landscapes, these are not scarred with the overdevelopment of trophy homes, preserving the views for a select few. Thanks to stringent conservation and permitting laws, the sapphire and emerald brilliance of Ireland is unobstructed as far as the eye can see.
A typical Irish spring, the weather is cold and rainy– much like what I left behind in Boston. Pallid skies perfectly contrast for the never-ending slopes of green countryside, accentuated with fuchsia rhododendrons and beaded with stone-walled corrals of grazing cattle. Fortunately, we Irish-blooded New Englanders know better than to store the cardigans before June, so I’m not uncomfortable. I cannot say as much for the Floridian a few seats up, relying on a rose-colored fleece to get through the week.
My trip was concentrated along the Atlantic seaboard of Ireland’s northwest side, which is steeped in as much natural beauty as history–both factual and fictitious.
The region is also poetic. County Sligo, known as “Yeats Country,” was home to the 1923 Nobel Prize poet William Butler Yeats. The locals take great pride in Yeats’ work, offering visitors numerous opportunities to become more familiar with the great bard. I had the enviable occasion to attend a Yeats Supper, hosted by Damien Brennan, his wife Paula Gilvarry and their teens Sarah and Paul.
While Paula, an acclaimed executive chef turned medical doctor, artfully prepared the multi-course gourmet dinner, Damien served up selected poems from his well-read 1970 volume of Yeats’ works. Other guests and I sipped Spanish wine and dined on venison; salmon, (caught that day); winter bake, a mixture of potatoes mashed with carrots; lemon pudding; and cream puffs, as Damien shared his passion for the poet, pointing out the parts of the countryside which inspired such works as “The Song of Wandering Angus.”
The readings were as idyllic as the surroundings. Paula and Damien constructed a contemporary home, named Broc House, with a 40-foot wall that overlooks Loch Gill. The natural greens and blues provided the color scheme for the interior walls, which made me feel like I was sitting outside, when really I was warm inside by the fire.
Irish shores are home to some of Europe’s most unsung beaches. “The waves hit the windows during a storm,” said Paul Diver, manager of the Sandhouse Hotel on Rossnowlagh Beach, a peaceful resort near the border of Northern Ireland. “That attracts a lot of storm watchers.” It also attracts the brass of the World Master Surfers short-board competition, which schedules the annual event at the hotel.
Green, clean and sandy, Ireland’s northwest coast is quickly becoming a magnet for families, prompting the construction of modest holiday homes, restaurants, pubs and resorts. Anglers will not be disappointed with the costs and the odds of hooking a long Irish fish tale. Beachcombers, too, will appreciate their finds. Golfers will love the view and smell of ocean air along the courses constructed in esplanades. Bathers prefer June, July and August, the only true summer months. After a memorable daybreak galloping on horseback through the low tide of Dunfanaghy Killhoey Beach, I recommend taking in the surf via saddle.
Like New England beaches, the water here is cold, but not to worry. The Irish have devised a way to take the chill out of soaking up the sea. The Celtic Seaweed Baths are located in Strandhill, across the street from the Atlantic. This age-old pampering ritual incorporates adding fresh seaweed, harvested daily, to bathwater. The heat of the water releases the algae’s natural oils, reproducing the plasma makeup of the human body. After nearly an hour immersed in this brew, not only was my skin rejuvenated, but my soul as well. All was right with the world - for the next three days, at least.
Besides relaxing, the Irish like to have fun, as we all know, and have no qualms about padding their pasts with conjured plots. One example is Queen Maeve’s tomb, a rocky cairn atop Knocknarea, a mountain in Sligo. The grave measures 55 meters wide, 10 meters high and can be seen from miles away. Maeve, as the story goes, was the mythical Iron Age Queen, whose father was the high king of Ireland. Supposedly, the monument was constructed for the battle heroine, who was buried standing and facing her enemies, holding her sword and shield, even in death.
But Lynda Hart, our guide at Carrowmore Megalithic Cemetery, politely quashed that account. “The monument predates her by 3,000 years,” said Hart. Scientific data concluded that the cairn was constructed around 3,000 B.C.E., probably for a Neolithic king. Maeve didn’t go about her rampages until the Iron Age, which began around the fifth century BCE in the British Isles. Therefore, unless the early Irish were psychic, the tomb likely was built for someone else. Could the Iron Age Queen of Ireland’s remains have been placed inside later? We’ll never know. The tomb is considered a sacred burial site, so excavation is prohibited.
Piling stones to mark graves has been an is as old as the hills they grace. We toured about a dozen sites at Carrymore, some that date back to 4000 B.C.E. and as recently as 90 A.D. Much research has been conducted on these megalithic tombs, which number about 200. Skeletal remains, tools dating back to both the iron and bronze ages, and other artifacts, such as Carrowkeel-style pottery, have been unearthed during various excavations over the years.
Many of the tombs were first disassembled by gravediggers in search of gold, then again in the 19th century by neighboring landlords complying with a new law mandating defined land markers. Thus, the abundance of stonewalls. The site is now protected and managed by the National Heritage Sites of the Office of Public Works.
Fairy trees, which Irish lore tells us are the home of fairies, are also the true burial sites of Famine babies, who died before baptism. Some of these trees have raised controversy lately, as the government seeks to build more roads through Northwest Ireland to accommodate the new clusters of primary and holiday homes. Activists gathered round these fairy trees scheduled for the axe, forcing the rerouting of planned roads.
Though Ireland hasn’t had a monarchy in nearly a thousand years, many of the former royal castles, or remnants thereof, still stand. Lack of blue blood, however, did not deter wealthy clans from building stately mansions with similar blueprints. I visited two castles, both in Donegal, (pronounce it Dun na gal if you want to be taken for a local.)
Glenveagh Castle, located in the scenic Glenveagh National Park in the highlands, is a must-see, featuring 27 beautifully landscaped acres surrounding Lough Veagh against a mountainous backdrop. Black and green thumbs alike will get lost in the botanical maze of rhododendrons, dogwoods, herbs and hundreds of other shrubs, trees and plant species. The castle is a four-story granite structure designed after Balmoral, the Scottish residence of Queen Victoria. As an aside, the population of Donegal speaks with a brogue that sounds more Scottish than Irish. The castle was built in 1870 by John George Adair, an Irish born businessman, who made a fortune in the United States. After his sudden death, Adair’s New York-born wife, Cornelia Wadsworth, softened the interior décor, which was dominated by images of large animals. She also worked the grounds. Her fabulously maintained gardens and homestead are popular daily tours.
Donegal Castle was built overlooking the River Esque in 1505 by the O’Donnell Clan, which ruled the area for one thousand years. Sir Basil Brooks moved in later, adding turrets, fireplaces and windows for viewing–once considered a liability, as windows in high-rent residences were designed to accommodate weaponry. The river, which once flowed along both sides of the castle, but has since ebbed away from the fortress, created a water-tight defense at high tide. The Republic now owns the castle and has been busily renovating it to look like the active household that the Brooks clan kept. Tours are offered daily. They are quick, no more than half an hour, and rather enjoyable.
While in Donegal, visit Magee’s Tweed factory, which features the anhydrous scent of wool, has been producing fine tweeds since 1866. Though much of the wool is imported from Down Under, the processing technique of cleaning it by hand in the River Esque, remains the same. Good buys on fine apparel can be had in the factory’s store. You may even find yourself fighting with Sarah Jessica Parker for a one-of-a-kind herringbone sheath. The acclaimed actress, better known for her sexy silks than gabardine garb, shops here while staying at her Donegal home. (The staff says she is lovely, very unassuming and is often accompanied by her child.) But no need to worry if you can’t shop with the stars at this clearance rack this week. You will find this superior cloth in garments made by Calvin Klein, Ralph Lauren and Burberry, just to name a few.
Of course, no take from the Emerald Island would be complete without harping on the hops. Guinness has produced the country’s most famous suds since Arthur Guinness began dabbling in the fermented-beverage industry in 1759. Pints and half pints were served at every pub and elegant restaurant I visited.
On my last day in Ireland I sipped my last pint before boarding a bus to my hotel just in time to pack or the flight home. Even after more than a week it still seemed as though the bus was traveling on the wrong side of the road…

By Maureen Costello

More than good luck… Finding your roots.

The tattered photo of a house with six front windows was the only piece of paper left of my grandmother’s past. She died in New York in 1963. I knew that she had emigrated from Northern Ireland in 1902 when she was nineteen, but she had always been quiet about her early life.
Because I remembered her brothers’ names, a researcher at the Belfast Public Record Office was able to find the name of her village, Sixmilecross, halfway across the country.
“Why are you coming here?” asked the B & B proprietor in Sixmilecross when I tried to book a room for the next night.
“My grandmother emigrated from Sixmilecross. I’d like to visit the cemetery.”
“What were your ancestors’ names?”
When I replied “Anderson,” she gasped and fell silent. Finally she said: “Your great-grandparents were my grandparents. We’ve been waiting to hear from your branch of the family for decades.”

As I stood in a street corner phone booth, she launched into a tearful forty-five minute family history. “My B and B is in your grandmother’s old schoolhouse right on the main street. I’ll take you up to Daisy Hill, where descendents of Andersons have lived since they came here from Scotland in 1610.”
The house in my photo stood on a plateau overlooking a breathtaking scene of bright green fields dotted by white washed houses in all directions, many of them connected to the family by blood or circumstance. The sounds of lowing cows and bleating sheep wafted through the air.
We entered the kitchen where my grandmother had warmed herself by a peat fire, helped her mother cook, and listened to stories after Saturday night’s bath in a tin tub. With the current owner, a young man with my father’s first and middle name, we climbed to the top of the hill and looked down over the valley. The property was a sprawling farm once controlled by Sir Verner and the English Lord Belvedere, but it had gradually been deeded over to the family by various land acts.
That night at dinner, I passed my photograph around the table of gathered relatives. “That’s your great-grandfather,” they said, pointing to a shadow in the front doorway. I’d missed it.
I’d also brought along a picture of my grandmother sitting on the grass with a group of children when she made her one visit back in the 1950s. Several middle-aged women giggled and pointed themselves out.
My grandmother used to take me on walks in New York when I was a little girl. She would lift me up so I could slip her mysterious blue air-mail letters into mailboxes. But it wasn’t until I took this trip to Sixmilecross that I found out she also sent huge boxes of beautifully crafted clothes back to her nieces, now in their eighties. One of them was Marion, the proprietor of the Schoolhouse B & B.
My newfound cousins and I now send old family stories across the continents via email. They tell me that somewhere, in a cousin’s nephew’s son’s house, there may be a trunk with packets of blue onionskin letters tied with string. If they find them, I’ll read every word.

By Emilie C. Harting

How To Keep Irish Culture In Your Life

Thousands of Americans, whose families originated in many other nations of the world, have made genealogy one of the most popular pursuits for cultural connections. A private researcher can spend thousands of hours and dollars tracing family roots back to nations of origin.
Irish Americans find that the huge influx of Irish into the U.S. over more than a century presents special challenges when tracing families back to the Irish county or town of origin.

Starting with immediate family and local churchs, property and tax records often turns up surprises. One of the great advantages of this research in the U.S. is the availability of census records that date back more than a century. Records from entry points, such as Ellis Island, were meticulously kept and are still available. The Internet has been the primary engine in sparking this kind of research and much help can be found there as well as connecting with others doing similar research.
Some non-Irish, with an interest in the contributions or rise of the Irish in their area, can use these same methods for enjoyment, scholarly works, as gifts to an Irish American friend, or, in the case of some writers, a complete set of stories and characters on which to base fiction pieces or films such as The Gangs of New York.
Be warned that this research is very addicting and time consuming, but the rewards in wonder, education and imagination are great. Every Irish name has stories from Ireland and throughout the world. Here is an example: the Prime Minister of Spain, who supported Columbus’ desire to explore the New World, was a direct descendant of an Irish earl who fled to Spain to avoid the British. The current chief of that branch of that Irish clan is an elderly priest in Spain. When he passes away it is likely that the title will fall to an American.
For more information or to start your search: visit www.ancestry.com.

Irish and Irish American artistic contributions are immeasurable, yet an interested individual who chooses to study an Irish author, actor, director or artist will find rewarding connections to other Irish, Irish American, and American artists.
Oscar Wilde found adventure and peril while touring the Wild West of the 19th century and used that influence in his writing. American poet Ezra Pound was a great friend and supporter of James Joyce, who in turn influenced works by fellow exile T.S. Elliot.
One can often find clubs or websites devoted to specific authors which contain links leading to new information about the author’s life, work and friends. There are often amazing connections. Did Hornpipe’s own Jim McAuley pen any of his own works during a fortnight stay in the cottage of the late great Brendan Behan?
While the Irish film industry seems to have come into its own in the past 15 years, the effect of Ireland and its people on American movies started in the days of silent films, when many an Irish immigrant Anglicized his or her name just to get into the movies.
By the middle of the 20th century Irish director John Ford, and Irish American Michael Marion Morrison (aka John Wayne), and a pantheon of character actors like Victor McLaughlin and Barry Fitzgerald, paved the way for the likes of Peter O’Toole and Richard Harris. They made their mark in international cinema—one that still continues. Today Colin Farrell and others are top tier movie stars and link the progression of old and new movie greats to create fabulous movies and unending entertainment.
Modern Irish artists started to gain recognition outside their native land during the Impressionists rise to pre-eminence in the late 19th century. Many a lad from a flush family went to study art in Paris and came home to produce works that pre-cursed the paint, sculpting and craft explosion now emanating from Ireland. One could spend a lot of time becoming an expert on any one of these art forms. Many people are drawn to studying the incredible illumination art of ancient documents, especially the Book of Kells. It is no understatement to say that Irish monks saved western civilization with their work during the Dark Ages. During that time the men labored in Irish monasteries etching the pages of the Book of Kells and copying other sacred documents.

Now here is a limitless endeavor with opportunities for all. Many people are content to collect old and new Irish crystal and Belleek, linens and wools, clothing, jewelry and similar collectibles.  These enormous, valuable and educational collections are everywhere. Look up any of these on the Internet and you may find something that draws your interest.
A couple of other collecting objects that mark the connection between Ireland and her U.S. children refers to activities of the new Irish immigrants. More than a century ago, no proper east coast home, with pretensions of becoming upper class, would have been caught without a plethora of lace doilies, curtains, table covers, bed covers, tea cozies or other functional lace pieces that often came directly from the needles of Irish women who made extra money from their labors.
Collectors say that one can often tell the county and town of the person who created a lace piece, just by its design, stitching and knotting styles. Some patterns were so prized they were often kept secret within a family or village.
An even rarer collection consists of items used by the Irish to defend themselves against the British landlord’s tyranny or the anti-Irish gangs in the New World. From incredibly steel-hard clubs and walking sticks to pikes and hand-hewn knives and guns, it is the sort of collection that shows the immigrant Irish, at home and in the U.S., accepted no mistreatment without fighting back. One collection in Ireland is made up solely of weapons obtained form the U.S. and Europe and used in the Irish Free State Civil War.
These are only a few ideas for nurturing your Irish connection and may lead to some activity or study that foster your love of the cultural in all its aspects.

By Ed O’Donnell

John Millington Synge

John Millington Synge was born in 1871 in Rathfarnham, County Dublin. He showed a higher intelligence at an early age and even cultivated such refined interests as “violin and music theory.”
The promising young mind headed to Dublin’s Trinity College in 1889. He studied music along with Irish and Hebrew. Upon graduating, he went to Germany to make a career of music. However, his timid nature was not conducive to the performing arts, and he eventually forsook such ambitions to pursue a life of letters.
The new vocation led him to Paris, where he found enlightenment at the prestigious Sorbonne University. He then published a few works of literary criticism and composed some verses in the “decadent” style in vogue at the time.
These poems went unpublished and Synge’s work was largely unrecognized, though his talent was evident to fellow countryman William Butler Years, who convinced him to return to Ireland and absorb the rustic peasant life for inspiration. Yeats’ advice proved first-rate, and Synge found his muse in the Aran Islands, where he wandered about, chatting with locals and recording his experiences.
Synge published a book about his life on the islands, which would serve as inspiration for future plays as Riders to the Sea and The Shadow of the Glen. Another play for which he drew on this rural experience was his acclaimed masterpiece, Playboy of the Western World.
Synge’s Playboy is a dark comedy in three acts about a young man who arrives at a country pub claiming he just killed his father. This recent “murderer” tells the story with panache and immediately becomes an object of respect among men and a magnet of seduction for women, both of whom see such violence as glamorous.
Though some of Synge’s previous works had drawn censure for perceived subversive content, the reaction to Playboy was downright explosive. On its opening night at the Abbey Theatre, the audience began to riot and set the place ablaze.
Clearly a controversial playwright, Synge’s personality is one of the most enigmatic of any Celtic Scribe. It was said that even his immediate kin were hard-pressed to comprehend the man. Most acquaintances regarded him as “quiet” and “strange.” Yeats commented on his “meditative” ways.
It may seem ironic that the mild-mannered, contemplative Synge could cause an audience to set fire to a theatre. However, as Yeats observed, his dramatist friend was drawn to “all that had edge, all that heightened the emotions.”
Synge’s emotions were aroused by actress Molly Allgood, with whom he pursued a blissful courtship, eventually resulting in a formal engagement. However, their passion was ill-fated, as Synge, who had first encountered Hodgkin’s disease in his mid-twenties, saw his ailment return with an untreatable vengeance.
The dramatist succumbed in 1909 at age 37. Determined Irishwoman that she was, Allgood worked with Yeats to help finish Synge’s last play, Deirdre of the Sorrows, in which she performed the leading role.
Premature as his demise was, Synge’s work has endured. He is seen as having played a major role in the Irish Literary Revival, and his influence has been attributed to the making of such prominent Irish playwrights as Sean O’Casey and Nobel laureate Samuel Beckett.
A highly remarkable and unfortunate fact about Synge is that he had such few years to practice his art, having begun writing plays at age 31, only to exit this world six years later. There have been other eminent writers who died younger than Synge, but almost (if not) all of them took to their craft much earlier. As critic Richard Ellmann said, “Synge started late, finished early, and had little time to flower.”

Ray Cavanaugh

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