ALONG A MOUNTAIN ROAD--WHY THE RENT WAS RAISED--TURNING FARMS INTO
PASTURES--ST. COLOMBKILL--IRISH HOSPITALITY--A NOTABLE BALLAD.
The twenty-sixth of March rose sunny and cold, and I decided to hire a
horse and guide to go to Derryveigh, made memorable by Mr. John George
Adair. The road lay through wild mountain scenery. Patches of cultivated
fields lay on the slopes; hungry whin-covered hills rose all round them,
steep mountains rank upon rank behind; deep bog lands, full of
treacherous holes, lay along at the foot of the mountain here and there.
The scenery is wild beyond description, not a tree for miles in all the
landscape.
On some of the lower hills men were ploughing with wretched-looking
horses. Men were delving with spades where horses could not keep their
footing. The houses were wretched, some only partly roofed, some with
the roof altogether gone and a shed erected inside, but for the most
wretched of all the hovels rent is exacted.
Every bit of clearing was well and carefully labored. The high, broad
stone fences round hillside fields were all gathered from the soil.
At one place, I was told that the brother of the occupant had sent him,
from America, money to make the house a little more comfortable. He
roofed it with slate. The rent was raised from L2 9s 4d to L13 10s. I
may remark here that the tenants complain that the present Earl, through
his agent, Capt. Dopping, is even more oppressive in a steady, cruel
manner than the late Earl.
The late hard times--the cruel famine--has led to the sacrifice of all
stock, so that some of these people have not a four-footed beast on
their holding.
As we wound along among the hills my guide spoke of getting another man
to accompany us, who was well acquainted with the way to Derryveigh, and
we stopped at his place accordingly. He came to the car to explain that
he was busy fanning up corn, or he would be only too glad to come. In a
subdued whisper he told my guide of Capt. Dopping having been at his
house, with his bailiffs and body-guard of police--threatening the wife,
he said. He then told of the sacrifices he had made of one thing and
another to gather up one year's rent. He had to pay five shillings for
cutting turf on his own land, and one shilling for a notice served on
him. Poor little man, he had a face that was cut for mirthfulness, and
his woefulness was both touching and amusing. So we left him and went
our way.
Along the road, winding up and down among the hills, by sudden bogs and
rocky crags still more desolate and lonely looking, we came upon a
cultured spot, now and then, where a solitary man would be digging round
the edges of the rocks. Again we were among wild mountains heaving up
their round heads to the sky and looking down at us over one another's
shoulders. It brought to my mind the Atlantic billows during the last
stormy February. It is as if the awful rolling billows mounting to the
sky were turned into stone and fixed there, and the white foam changed
into dark heather. After driving some time the landscape softened down
into rolling hills beautifully cultivated, and sprinkled here and there
with grazing cattle.
We are coming to Gartan Lake, and where there is a belt of trees by the
lake shore stands the residence of Mr. Stewart, another landlord. He,
when cattle became high-priced, thought that cattle were much preferable
to human beings, so he evicted gradually the dwellers who had broken in
the hills, and entered into possession, without compensation, of the
fields, the produce of others' toil and sweat. His dwelling is in a
lonely, lovely spot, and it stands alone, for no cottage home is at all
near. He has wiped out from the hill sides every trace of the homes of
those who labored on these pleasant fields and brought them under
cultivation. Since the Land League agitation began he has given a
reduction of rents, and the whole country side feel grateful and
thankful.
There is no solitude so great that we do not meet bailiffs at their
duty, or policemen on the prowl.
We are now nearing Derryveigh. There are two lakes lying along the
valley connected with a small stream. My guide informed me that both
lakes once abounded with salmon. The celebrated St. Colombkill was born
on the shores of the Gartan Lake. Being along the lake one day he asked
some fishermen on the lower lake to share with him of the salmon they
had caught. They churlishly refused, and the saint laid a spell on the
waters, and no salmon come there from that day to this. They are
plentiful in Upper Gartan Lake, and come along the stream to the
dividing line, where the stream is spanned by a little rustic bridge;
here they meet an invisible barrier, which they cannot pass. I told my
guide in return the story of the Well of St. Keyne, but he thought it
unlikely. So there is a limit to belief.
Since Mr. Adair depopulated Derryveigh, and gave it over to silence, the
roads have been neglected, and have become rather difficult for a car.
The relief works in famine time have been mainly road-making, and there
are smooth hard roads through the hills in all directions, so the people
complain of roads that would not be counted so very bad in the Canadian
backwoods. However, the difficulty being of a rocky nature, we left the
car at the house of a dumb man, the only one of the inhabitants spared
by Adair. He and his sister, also dumb, lived together on the mountain
solitudes. She is dead, and a relative, the daughter of one of the
evicted people, has come to keep house for him. He made us very welcome,
seeing to it that the horse was put up and fed with sheaf oats. I and my
guides, for we were now joined by the man who had had the oats to fan--
he had got his brother to take his place and came a short cut across the
hills to meet us--so we all three set out to walk over Derryveigh.
It was a trying walk, a walk to be measured by ups and downs, for the
Derryveigh hamlets were widely scattered. There they were--roofless
homes, levelled walls, desolation and silence. And it is a desolation,
indeed. Broken down walls here and there, singly and in groups, mark the
place where there was a contented population when Mr. Adair bought the
estate. He had made plans for turning his purchase into a veritable El
Dorado. The barren mountains are fenced off, surely at a great expense,
that no sheep or lamb might bite a heather bell without pay. It was to
be a great pasture for black-faced sheep. The sides of the mountains,
which are bog in many places, are scored with drains to dry up the bog
holes and give the sheep a sure footing. I did not see many sheep on the
hill or many cattle on the deserted farms. It is an awfully lonesome
place; desolation sits brooding among the broken-down walls. My guide, a
lonesome-looking man, enlivened our way by remarks like these: "This was
a widdy's house. She was a well-doin' body." "Here was a snug place.
See, there's the remains of a stone porch that they built to break off
the wind." "That was Jamie Doherty's, he that died on the road-side
after he was evicted. You see, nobody dare lift the latch or open the
door to any of the poor creatures that were put out."
And this has been done; human beings have died outside under the sky for
no crime, and this under the protection of English law. Many of these
people lost their reason, and are in the asylum at Letterkenny. Some are
still _coshering_ here and there among their charitable neighbors,
while many are bitter hearted exiles across the sea. After walking up
and down amid this pitiful desolation, and hearing many a heart-rending
incident connected with the eviction, a sudden squall of hail came on,
and we were obliged to take shelter on the lee side of a ruined wall
till it blew over. To while away the time one of the guides told me of a
local song made on the eviction, the refrain being, "Five hundred
thousand curses on cruel John Adair."
Across the Gartan Lake we could see from our partial shelter the point
to which Mr. Stewart wasted the people off his estate. Mr. Stewart's is
a handsome lonely place, but when one hears all these tales of
spoliation it prevents one from admiring a fine prospect. "He is dealing
kindly with the people now," said my guides, "whatever changed his heart
God knows."
The shower being over we returned to the house of the dummy. In our
absence dinner had been prepared for us. She had no plates, but the
table on which she laid oat cakes was as white as snow. She gave us a
little butter, which, by the signs and tokens, I knew to be all she had,
boiled eggs, made tea of fearful strength, and told us to eat. My guides
enjoyed the mountain fare with mountain appetites. I tried to eat, but
somehow my throat was full of feelings. I had great difficulty to make
this mountain maid accept of a two shilling piece for her trouble. We
returned by the way we came to a point where we had a view of a rectory
which was pointed out to me as the abode of another good rector. These
people do seem to feel kindness very much. Here we took another road to
visit Glenveigh and see Adair's castle. On the way we were informed by a
woman, speaking in Irish, that a process-server near Creeslach was fired
at through the window of his house. He had been out serving processes,
and was at home sitting with his head resting on his hand. Three shots
were fired, two going over his head and one going through the hand on
which his head was resting. Two men are taken up to-day.
* * * * *
I have secured a copy of the ballad referred to by our guide, which
records the desolation of Derryveigh. All such actions are celebrated in
local poetry; but this is one of the fiercest; you can publish it if you
think best:--