Taking into consideration the fact that Larry was to live among his
Irish cousins, it is possible that from the point of view of
expediency, the relations and friends were in some degree justified.

Ireland, it is almost superfluous to observe, has long since decided
to call herself The Island of Saints, an assertion akin to the
national challenge of trailing the coat-tails, and believers in
hereditary might, perhaps, be justified in assuming a strictly
celibate sainthood. Be that as it may, Irish people have ever been
prone to extremes, and, in spite of the proverb, there are some
extremes that never touch, and chief among them are those that concern
religion. Religion, or rather, difference of religion, is a factor in
every-day Irish life of infinitely more potency than it is, perhaps,
in any other Christian country. The profundity of disagreement is such
that in most books treating of Ireland, that are not deliberately
sectarian, a system of water-tight compartments in such matters is
carefully established. It is, no doubt, possible to write of human
beings who live in Ireland, without mentioning their religious views,
but to do so means a drastic censoring of an integral feature of
nearly all mundane affairs. This it is to live in the Island of
Saints.

In this humble account of the late Plesiosauridæ and their
contemporaries, it is improbable that any saint of any sect will be
introduced; one assurance, at least, may be offered without
reservation. Those differing Paths, that alike have led many wayfarers
to the rest that is promised to the saints, will be treated with an
equal reverence and respect. But no rash undertakings can be given as
touching the wayfarers, or even their leaders, who may chance to
wander through these pages. Neither is any personal responsibility