Ancient Memories….
As usual, I missed the turning
that would have taken us across the Plains
of Kildare and in particular an area known as The Curragh. Instead, we
found ourselves driving down a narrow country road bounded on both sides by a
large hedgerow of blackthorn. The road showed little signs of usage other than
by the occasional farm vehicle.
I, at the insistence of my nervous wife, began to look for a
convenient point to make an about turn but the road was far too narrow. I
continued for a couple of miles and in fact I was quite enjoying the drive. We
seemed to have entered another world with perfect silence, apart from the
singing birds, after the busy traffic of the main road, which we had left
behind.
As if from nowhere, we entered an area with few bushes or trees.
It had an eerie feeling about it. I suppose the overgrown grassy area was no
more than a couple of hundred yards long. Again, suddenly as if it had risen
out of the landscape and without warning, we came upon what looked like a
deserted village. On both sides of the road there were small cottages without
windows or roofs. There appeared to be a derelict small church with an
overgrown small cemetery beside it.
As I stopped the car and got out, I was immediately struck by
the total silence of the scene. Even the birds had stopped singing. My wife
refused to get out of the car but I decided to have a walk around some of the
old houses.
As I rounded the end house I immediately saw an old man and
woman sitting on a large stone slab. The man had his arm around the woman’s
shoulders. The scene was totally surreal. The man was talking and at times
singing in a soft low voice. They were both well dressed but most surely they
were both in their late 80’s.
As I approached quietly, the man stopped and they both looked at me.
"Well" the old man asked, "what do you think?" I was stuck
for words and merely said "Beautiful". The woman gave a Mona Lisa type smile
but did not speak. I felt quite guilty about breaking into their private
moment.
"‘Twas one of the
finest villages in the whole of Ireland" the man said without me
having asked a question. "The
stories these old houses could tell would make you cry an ocean of tears"
he added "but what God gave, he took
away and left the village to fall apart as you now see it". They both
looked around as if they could see the place as it was in year’s well-gone by….
"Tell me" I asked, "are you connected with the
old village?" He smiled at the woman by his side and she smiled back at
him. "I suppose you could say that" he replied.
He pointed to a derelict building close to the ruined
churchyard. He then said, "My father was the schoolmaster there. Such
great learning came from that tiny schoolhouse" he sighed "and didn’t
at least five of his pupils go on to become teachers themselves. Four or five
others went on to University at Trinity College up in Dublin". "When
was that?" I asked. He laughed and for the first time the woman spoke.
"Three score and ten years" she said "just like the Bible
says". They both heaved a deep sigh............
"And do you mind telling me what happened to the
village?" I asked softly. "Sure didn’t the Spanish Flu wipe out
half the population" he replied. "If you have a walk around the
churchyard you will see tombstones that tell the tale". "And your
father?" I queried. "He was one of the last to leave" the man
answered "it broke his heart in two to have to go".
All went silent.................
"He pretended to be a hard man, you know" the old man
quietly spoke after a minute or two. "Who was that?" I asked.
"Why my father the Headmaster, of course" he replied as if I had
asked a silly question. "But he wasn’t" added the old woman "he
loved teaching beyond all else. He was a great man in a small world" she again
heaved a heavy sigh.
"But very kind too" added the old man as if to
balance things up. "When some of the old folk who only knew Gaelic received
letters from the Americas from
their sons and daughters, he never scolded them for asking him to read and
translate them". The old woman continued "And not only would he write
replies for them but he would also stamp the envelopes. Ah, a good man, your
father".
"May I ask what happened to him?" I asked. "Died
within a month of leaving the village" the old man replied, "as I
said before, it broke his heart to leave". The old lady added "But past is all his fame. The very
spot, Where many a time he triumph’d is forgot".
As this seemed to be the appropriate time to bid my farewell, I
wished them well and returned to the car with the old lady’s words ringing in
my ears.
The line did not mean anything to me at the time, but many, many
years later I discovered the source. It was the last two lines from The Village Schoolmaster by William Goldsmith.
Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way
With blossom’d furze unprofitably gay,
There, in his mansion, skill’d to rule,
The village master taught his little school;
With blossom’d furze unprofitably gay,
There, in his mansion, skill’d to rule,
The village master taught his little school;
A man severe he was, and stern to view,
I knew him well, and every truant knew;
Well had the boding tremblers learn’d to trace
The days disasters in his morning face;
I knew him well, and every truant knew;
Well had the boding tremblers learn’d to trace
The days disasters in his morning face;
Full well they laugh’d with counterfeited glee,
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he:
Full well the busy whisper, circling round,
Convey’d the dismal tidings when he frown’d:
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he:
Full well the busy whisper, circling round,
Convey’d the dismal tidings when he frown’d:
Yet he was kind; or if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault.
The village all declar’d how much he knew;
‘Twas certain he could write, and cipher too:
The love he bore to learning was in fault.
The village all declar’d how much he knew;
‘Twas certain he could write, and cipher too:
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And e’en the story ran that he could gauge.
In arguing too, the person own’d his skill,
For e’en though vanquish’d he could argue still;
And e’en the story ran that he could gauge.
In arguing too, the person own’d his skill,
For e’en though vanquish’d he could argue still;
While words of learned length and thund’ring sound
Amazed the gazing rustics rang’d around;
And still they gaz’d and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
Amazed the gazing rustics rang’d around;
And still they gaz’d and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame. The very spot
Where many a time he triumph’d is forgot.
Where many a time he triumph’d is forgot.
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