Martin Ross have lived in as grown women has been a
country in the throes of a revolution, long drawn-out, with varying
phases, yet still incomplete. Those who judge Ireland should remember
this. In time of revolution, life is difficult, ancient loyalties clash
with new yet living principles, sympathy and justice even are unsure
guides. No country could have been kept for forty years in such a
ferment as Ireland has known without profound demoralisation. We may
well envy those who lived more easily and quietly in the Ireland of
yesterday, and held with an unquestioning spirit to the state of things
in which they were born.

Such were the folk of whom Miss Somerville writes with "that indomitable
family pride that is an asset of immense value in the history of a
country." They "took all things in their stride without introspection or
hesitation. Their unflinching conscientiousness, their violent
church-going (I speak of the sisters), were accompanied by a
whole-souled love of a spree and a wonderful gift for a row." I can
corroborate her details, especially the last. All those that I recall
had some talent for feuds; at least, in every family there would be one
warrior, male or female; and all had the complete contempt, not so much
for convention as for those who were affected in their lives (or
costumes) by any standard that was not home-made. But in all humility I
must admit that the real heroines of this book--Mrs. Somerville and Mrs.
Martin--outshine anything that my memory can produce. When Martin Ross
and her mother went back to West Galway and re-established themselves at
their old home, a letter from her to Miss Somerville describes one
incident:--

I wish you had seen Paddy Griffy, a very active little old man, and
a beloved of mine, when he came down on Sunday night to welcome me.
After the usual hand-kissings on the steps, he put his hands over
his head and stood in the doorway, I suppose invoking his saint. He
then rushed into the hall.

"Dance, Paddy," screamed Nurse Bennett (my foster-mother, now our
maid-of-all-work).

And he did dance, and awfully well, too, to his own singing. Mamma,
who was attired in a flowing pink dressing-gown and a black hat
trimmed with lilac, became suddenly emulous, and with her spade
under her arm joined in the jig. This lasted for about a minute,
and was a never-to-be-forgotten sight. They skipped round the hall,