'Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose,
Breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes.'
Oliver Goldsmith.
If you drive from Clifden to Oughterard by way of Maam Cross, and then
on to Galway, you will pass through the O'Flahertys' country, one of
whom, Murrough O'Flaherty, was governor of this country of Iar (western)
Connaught. You will like to see the last of the O'Flaherty yews,
a thousand years old at least, and the ruins of the castle and
banqueting-hall. The family glories are enumerated in ancient Irish
manuscript, and instead of the butler, footman, chef, coachman, and
gardener of to-day we read of the O'Flaherty physician, standard-bearer,
brehon or judge, master of the revels, and keeper of the bees; and the
moment Himself is rich enough, I intend to add some of these picturesque
personages to our staff.
We afterwards learned that there was formerly an inscription over the
west gate of Galway:--
'From the fury of the O'Flaherties,
Good Lord, deliver us.'
After Richard de Burgo took the town, in 1226, it became a flourishing
English colony, and the citizens must have guarded themselves from
any intercourse with the native Irish; at least, an old by-law of 1518
enacts that 'neither O' nor Mac shalle strutte ne swaggere thro' the
streetes of Galway.'
We did not go to Galway straight, because we never do anything straight.
We seldom get any reliable information, and never any inspiring
suggestions, from the natives themselves. They are all patriotically
sure that Ireland is the finest counthry in the world, God bless her!
but in the matter of seeing that finest counthry in the easiest or best
fashion they are all very vague. Indirectly, our own lack of geography,
coupled with the ignorance of the people themselves, has been of the
greatest service in enlivening our journeys. Francesca says that, in
looking back, she finds that our errors of judgment have always resulted
in our most charming and unforgettable experiences; but let no one who
is travelling with a well-balanced and logical-minded man attempt to
follow in our footsteps.
Being as free as air on this occasion (if I except the dread of
Benella's scorn, which descends upon us now and then, and moves us to
repentance, sometimes even to better behaviour), we passed Porridgetown
and Cloomore, and ferried across to the opposite side of Lough Corrib.
Salemina, of course, had fixed upon Cong as our objective point, because
of its caverns and archaeological remains, which Dr. La Touche tells her
not on any account to miss. Francesca and I said nothing, but we had
a very definite idea of avoiding Cong, and going nearer Tuam, to climb
Knockma, the hill of the fairies, and explore their ancient haunts and
archaeological remains, which are more in our line than the caverns of
Cong.
Speaking of Dr. La Touche reminds me that we have not the smallest
notion as to how our middle-aged romance is progressing. Absence may,
at this juncture, be just as helpful a force in its development as daily
intercourse would be; for when one is past thirty, I fancy there is a
deal of 'thinking-it-over' to do. Precious little there is when we are
younger; heart does it all then, and never asks head's advice! But in
too much delay there lies no plenty, and there's the danger. Actually,
Francesca and I could be no more anxious to settle Salemina in life if
she were lame, halt, blind, and homeless, instead of being attractive,
charming, absurdly young for her age, and not without means. The
difficulty is that she is one of those 'continent, persisting, immovable
persons' whom Emerson describes as marked out for the blessing of the
world. That quality always makes a man anxious. He fears that he may
only get his rightful share of blessing, and he craves the whole output,
so to speak.
We naturally mention Dr. La Touche very often, since he is always
writing to Salemina or to me, offering counsel and suggestion. Madame La
Touche, the venerable aunt, has written also, asking us to visit them
in Meath; but this invitation we have declined, principally because the
Colquhouns will be with them, and they would surely be burdened by the
addition of three ladies and a maid to their family; partly because we
shall be freer in our own house, which will be as near the La Touche
mansion as possible, you may be sure, if Francesca and I have anything
to do with choosing it.
The La Touche name, then, is often on our lips, but Salemina offers no
intimation that it is indelibly imprinted on her heart of hearts. It
is a good name to be written anywhere, and we fancied there was the
slightest possible hint of pride and possession in Salemina's voice when
she read to us to-night, from her third volume of Lecky's History of
Ireland in the Eighteenth Century, a paragraph concerning one David La
Touche, from whom Dr. Gerald is descended:--
'In the last of the Irish Parliaments no less than five members of the
name sat together in the House of Commons, and his family may claim what
is in truth the highest honour of which an Irish family can boast,--that
during many successive governments, and in a period of most lavish
corruption, it possessed great parliamentary influence, and yet passed
through political life untitled and unstained.'
There is just the faintest gleam of hope, by the way, that Himself may
join us at the very end of June, and he is sure to be helpful on this
sentimental journey; he aided Ronald and Francesca more than once
in their tempestuous love-affair, and if his wits are not dulled by
marriage, as so often happens, he will be invaluable. It will not be
long then, probably, before I assume my natural, my secondary position
in the landscape of events. The junior partners are now, so to speak, on
their legs, although it is idle to suppose that such brittle appendages
will support them for any length of time. As soon as we return in the
autumn I should like to advertise (if Himself will permit me) for a
perfectly sound and kind junior partner,--one who has been well broken
to harness, and who will neither shy nor balk, no matter what the
provocation; the next step being to urge Himself to relinquish
altogether the bondage of business care. There is no need of his
continuing in it, since other people's business will always give him
ample scope for his energies. He has, since his return to America,
dispensed justice and mercy, chiefly mercy, to one embezzler, one honest
fellow tempted beyond his strength, one widow, one unfortunate friend
of his youth, and two orphans, and it was in no sense an extraordinary
season.
To return to notes of travel, our method of progression, since we
deserted the high-road and the public car, has been strangely varied. I
think there is no manner of steed or vehicle which has not been used by
us, at one time or another, even to the arch donkey and the low-backed
car with its truss of hay, like that of the immortal Peggy. I thought at
first that 'arch' was an unusual adjective to apply to a donkey, but
I find after all that it is abundantly expressive. Benella, who
disapproves entirely of this casual sort of travelling, far from
'answerable roads' and in 'backwards places' (Irish for 'behind the
times'), is yet wonderfully successful in discovering equipages of some
sort in unlikely spots.
In towns of any size or pretensions, we find by the town cross or near
the inn a motley collection of things on wheels, with drivers sometimes
as sober as Father Mathew, sometimes not. Yesterday we had a mare which
the driver confessed he bought without 'overcircumspectin' it,' and
although you couldn't, as he said, 'extinguish her at first sight from a
grand throtter, she hadn't rightly the speed you could wish.'
“It's not so powerful young she is, melady!” he confessed. “You'd be
afther lookin' at a chicken a long time and niver be reminded of her;
but sure ye might thry her, for belike ye wouldn't fancy a horse that
would be leppin' stone walls wid ye, like Dan Ryan's there! My little
baste'll get ye to Rossan before night, and she won't hurt man nor
mortial in doin' it.”
“Begorra, you're right, nor herself nayther,” said Dan Ryan; “and if
it's leppin' ye mane, sure she couldn't lep a sod o' turf, that
mare couldn't! God pardon ye, melady, for thrustin' yerself to that
paiceable, brindly-coloured ould hin, whin ye might be gettin' a dacint,
high-steppin' horse for a shillin' or two more; an' belike I might
contint meself to take less, for I wouldn't be extortin' ye like Barney
O'Mara there!”
Our chosen driver replied to this by saying that he wouldn't be caught
dead at a pig fair with Dan Ryan's horse, but in the midst of all the
distracting discussions and arguments that followed we held to
our original bargain; for we did not like the look of Dan Ryan's
high-stepper, who was a 'thrifle mounTAIny,' as they say in these parts,
and had a wild eye to boot. We started, and in a half-hour we could
still see the chapel spire of the little village we had just left. It
was for once a beautiful day, but we felt that we must reach a railway
station some time or other, in order to find a place to sleep.
“Can't you make her go a bit faster? Do you want to keep us on the road
all night?” inquired Francesca.
“I do not, your ladyship's honour, ma'am.”
“Is she tired, or doesn't she ever go any better?” urged Salemina.
“She does; it's God's truth I'm tellin' ye, melady, she's that flippant
sometimes that I scarcely can hould her, and the car jumps undher her
like a spring bed.”
“Then what on earth IS the matter with her?” I inquired, with some fire
in my eye.
“Sure I believe she's takin' time to think of the iligant load she's
carryin', melady, and small blame to her!” said Mr. Barney O'Mara; and
after that we let him drive as best he could, although it did take us
four hours to do nine Irish miles. He came, did Mr. Barney, from County
Armagh, and he beguiled the way with interesting tales from that
section of Ireland, one of which, 'the Old Crow and the Young Crow,'
particularly took our fancies.
“An old crow was teaching a young crow one day, and says to him, 'Now,
my son,' says he, 'listen to the advice I'm going to give you,' says he.
'If you see a person coming near you and stooping, mind yourself, and be
on your keeping; he's stooping for a stone to throw at you,' says he.
“'But tell me,' says the young crow, 'what should I do if he had a stone
already down in his pocket?' says he.
“'Musha, go 'long out of that,' says the old crow, 'you've learned
enough; the divil another learning I'm able to give you.'”
He was a perfect honey-pot of useless and unreliable information, was
Barney O'Mara, and most learned in fairy lore; but for that matter, all
the people walking along the road, the drivers, the boatman and guides,
the men and women in the cottages where we stop in a shower or to
inquire the way, relate stories of phookas, leprehauns, and sprites,
banshees and all the various classes of elves and fays, as simply and
seriously as they would speak of any other occurrences. Barney told
us gravely of the old woman who was in the habit of laying pishogues
(charms) to break the legs of his neighbour's cattle, because of an
ancient grudge she bore him; and also how necessary it is to put a bit
of burning turf under the churn to prevent the phookas, or mischievous
fairies, from abstracting the butter or spoiling the churning in any
way. Irish fays seem to be much interested in dairy matters, for,
besides the sprites who delight in distracting the cream and keeping
back the butter (I wonder if a lazy up-and-down movement of the dasher
invites them at all, at all?), it is well known that many a milkmaid
on a May morning has seen fairy cows browsing along the banks of
lakes,--cows that vanish into thin mist at the sound of human footfall.
When we were quite cross at missing the noon train from Rossan, quite
tired of the car's jolting, somewhat vexed even at the mare's continued
enjoyment of her 'iligant load,' Barney appeased us all by singing, in
a delightful, mellow voice, a fairy song called the 'Leprehaun,' [*] This
personage, you must know, if you haven't a large acquaintance among
Irish fairies, is a tricksy fellow in a green coat and scarlet cap, with
brave shoe buckles on his wee brogues. You will catch him sometimes, if
the 'glamour' is on you, under a burdock leaf or a thorn bush, and he
is always making or mending a shoe. He commonly has a little purse about
him, which, if you are quick enough, you can snatch; and a wonderful
purse it is, for whatever you spend, there is always money to be found
in it. Truth to tell, nobody has yet succeeded in being quicker than
Master Leprehaun, though many have offered to fill his cruiskeen with
'mountain dew,' of which Irish fairies are passionately fond.
* By Patrick W. Joyce.
'In a shady nook, one moonlight night,
A leprehaun I spied;
With scarlet cap and coat of green,
A cruiskeen by his side.
'Twas tick, tack, tick, his hammer went,
Upon a weeny shoe;
And I laughed to think of his purse of gold;
But the fairy was laughing too!
With tip-toe step and beating heart,
Quite softly I drew nigh:
There was mischief in his merry face,
A twinkle in his eye.
He hammered, and sang with tiny voice,
And drank his mountain dew;
And I laughed to think he was caught at last;
But the fairy was laughing too!
As quick as thought I seized the elf.
“Your fairy purse!” I cried.
“The purse!” he said--“'tis in her hand--
That lady at your side.”
I turned to look: the elf was off.
Then what was I to do?
O, I laughed to think what a fool I'd been;
And the fairy was laughing too!'
I cannot communicate any idea of the rollicking gaiety and quaint charm
Barney gave to the tune, nor the light-hearted, irresistible chuckle
with which he rendered the last two lines, giving a snap of his whip as
accent to the long 'O':--
'O, I laughed to think what a fool I'd been;
And the fairy was laughing too!'
After he had sung it twice through, Benella took my guitar from its case
for me, and we sang it after him, again and again; so it was in happy
fashion that we at least approached Ballyrossan, where we bade Barney
O'Mara a cordial farewell, paying him four shillings over his fare,
which was cheap indeed for the song.
As we saw him vanish slowly up the road, ragged himself, the car and
harness almost ready to drop to pieces, the mare, I am sure, in the
last week of her existence, we were glad that he had his Celtic fancy to
enliven his life a bit,--that fancy which seems a providential reaction
against the cruel despotisms of fact.