IT’S WELL known that Ireland’s latter-day infestation with grey squirrels began with a big-house wedding present in Co Longford in 1911. Somebody had the bright idea of giving the happy couple six pairs of the charming little critters, which had probably started breeding before the end of the reception. If not then, they soon went forth and multiplied; and they have been multiplying ever since.
We should probably be grateful that a similar experiment, in Co Down in 1831, was not so fruitful. On that occasion, it was snakes that were introduced – six in total – and without even the excuse of wedding. A local gentleman named James Cleland was merely curious to know whether St Patrick’s Ireland really was as unconducive to the serpent’s wellbring as tradition claimed. So he bought half a dozen at a market in London’s Covent Garden and released them on his own property back at Rathgael.
A week later, one of the snakes was killed about three miles away. Presuming it to be an eel of some kind, the finders took its carcase to a famous Irish naturalist, Dr Drummond, who told them it was in fact a reptile. Pandemonium ensued. As the 19th-century chronicler Robert Chambers wrote, the idea that a snake – or a “rale living sarpint”, as he insisted the locals pronounced it – had been found so close to the burial place of St Patrick “caused an extraordinary sensation of alarm among the country people”.
The incident was, of course, interpreted as an omen of terrible event. “One far-seeing clergyman preached a sermon in which he cited this unfortunate snake as a token of the immediate commencement of the millennium; while another saw. . .the approach of the cholera morbus. Old prophecies were raked up, and all parties and sects for once united in believing that the snake foreshadowed ‘the beginning of the end’, though they very widely differed as to what that end would be.”
There were also, however, some pragmatists in Down, whose reaction was to put up a reward for any more snakes that might be found. Another three were duly killed and cashed in. Which left two that, according to Chambers, were never accounted for. It is not recorded whether these were a pair. In any case, even if they survived the search parties, they do not appear to have multiplied – though it’s tempting to see them as the mythical forebears of that well-known Irish reptile, the snake in the grass.
I don’t know if this James Cleland was related to the reverend gentleman of the same name from Comber who, three decades earlier, was the local agent for Castlereagh, who ran a highly-placed informer in the United Irishmen and played a key role in the ’98 rebellion’s failure, before going on, in 1800, to build Stormont Castle.
Chambers suggests the later Cleland kept his head down after the incident, and that this was wise: “The writer, who resided in that part of the country at the time, well remembers the wild rumours among the more illiterate classes on the appearance of the snakes: and the bitter feelings of angry indignation expressed by educated persons against the — very fortunately then unknown — [individual] who had dared to bring them to Ireland.”
SPEAKING of pairs of animals, it used to be believed – in more innocent times – that March 17th was the date in Biblical antiquity when Noah’s Ark left port. Not only that, it was also supposed to be the date on which Adam and Eve had been thrown out of Eden. But medieval calendars were particularly confident about the timing of the Ark’s sailing schedule, recording that it reached land again on April 29th.
It’s not clear why what is now Ireland’s national day should have been considered so portentous once, although it’s true that the mid-March weather in these parts can be very wet. During a St Patrick’s Festival a few years back, for example, I attended what was billed as a spectacular light show on the Liffey, but which coincided unfortunately with a day and night of relentless, Old Testament-style rain.
Despite this, a good-sized crowd gathered on the appointed evening and stared at the river for a long time waiting for something to happen. Nothing did, however, apart from even more rain. The highlight of the show was to have been some kind of sun rising symbolically out of the Liffey. But after an hour or two of waiting and getting soaked, we realised that the arrival up the river of Noah on a home-made ship was more likely, and went home. Of course, that sort or rain – albeit slightly warmer – is just as likely in mid-July.
The Dublin parade has been luckier, at least in recent years, and the long-range forecast suggests the 2009 version will be dry (in the strictly meteorological sense). I also note that the organisers are staying well away from water in this year’s parade theme — “The Sky’s the Limit”. Even so, you can never be too confident of the weather in March. And I’ve always thought it a wise precaution that the main exhibits featured in the parade are known as “floats”.