GOOD-BYE TO RAMELTON--ON LOUGH SWILLY--A RUINED LANDLORD--FARM STOCK VS.
WAGES--A GOOD LANDLORD--A REMINDER OF CANADA--MOVILLE--PORT-A-DORUS
ROCKS--ON GOOD TERMS WITH THE LANDLORD.
Left Ramelton at seven o'clock Monday morning, April 4th, the hoar-
frost lying white on the deck of the little steamer. The cabin was black
with smoke that would not consent to go in the way it should go, so one
had to be content with the chill morning, the hoar frost and the deck.
We steamed up past the town of Rathmullen with the two deserted forts
grinning at one another.
Two women of the small farming class were, like myself, sitting close to
the machinery to get warm. They were gravely discussing the value of a
wonderful goose owned by one of them. I do not think the owner of a fast
horse could go into greater raptures or more minute description of his
good points than these two ladies did about the goose. One declared that
she had been offered eight shillings ($2) for the goose and had refused
it. This is one proof of the high figure at which all animals, birds and
beasts, common to a farm are held. Although this goose was exceptionally
valuable, yet a goose is worth five shillings or $1.25.
A laborer's wages is two shillings, without food, so it would take him
two and a half days' work to earn a goose, a day's work to earn a hen or
a duck, fifteen days' work to earn a suckling pig, nearly four months to
buy the cheapest cow; always considering that he has food to support him
while so earning. I have heard poor men blamed for not raising stock.
When the price of stock is considered, and that a small field for
grazing purposes is rented at L8, I confess I wonder that any poor man
has a cow. If he has, butter is now thirty cents per pound in this
locality, and a cow is therefore very valuable.
Before I leave bonnie Ramelton behind altogether, I must say that it has
been in the past fortunate in a landlord. Old Sir Annesly Stewart, lord
of this fair domain at one time, invariably advised his tenants who
purposed to build houses, to secure titles first, saying, "Do not trust
to me, I am an old man and will soon pass away: who knows what manner of
man may succeed me? I will give a free farm grant, equivalent to
guarantee deed, I am told, to anyone wanting to build." So the owners of
houses in Ramelton pay ground rent, while at Milford, Kilmacrennan and
Creaslach the strong hand has seized the tenants' houses without
compensation. It is said that the present owner of old Sir Annesly's
estate, who is not a lineal descendant, however, feels as Bunyan
describes the two giants to feel, who can grin and gnash their teeth,
but can do no more.
All this and more I hear, as the sun comes up and the frost disappears,
and we sail over bright waters. One might enjoy sailing over Lough
Swilly, the whole of a long summer day. Everything pleasant comes to an
end, and we land at Fahan, and while waiting for the train my attention
is drawn to the fair island of Inch, with its fields running up the
mountain side, and the damp black rocks through which the railway has
cut its way at Fahan. The train comes along, and we go whirling on past
Inch, Burnfoot Bridge, and into Derry. A Presbyterian doctor of divinity
is in our compartment, and some well-to-do farmers' wives, and again and
yet again the talk is of the land and the landlords. Instance after
instance of oppression and wrong is gone over.
But Derry reached, I must say good-bye to some agreeable travelling
companions, and take the mail car to Moville for a tour round
Innishowen; Innishowen, celebrated for its poteen; Innishowen, sung
about in song, told about in story.
"God bless the dark mountains of brave Donegal,
God bless royal Aielich, the pride of them all--
She sitteth for ever a queen on her throne,
And smiles on the valleys of green Innishowen.
A race that no traitor or tyrant has known
Inhabits the valleys of green Innishowen."
From Derry to Moville is, as usual, lovely--lovely with a loveliness of
its own. Fine old trees, singly, in groups, in thick plantations;
beautiful fields; level clipped hedges; flowers springing everywhere,
under the hedges, in little front gardens, up the banks. The land is
dreadfully overrun with gentry's residences fair enough to the eye, some
of them very beautiful, but one gets to wonder, if the land is so poor
that it is spueing out its inhabitants, what supports all these?
The wide Lough Foyle is in sight of the road most of the way, and a sea-
bound steamer carries me away in thought to Canada. The air is nipping
enough to choke sentiment in the bud. It is bitter cold, and I have the
windward side of the car, and shiver at the nodding daffodils in
blooming clumps at every cottage as we pass along. There are some waste
unreclaimed fields, and the tide is out as we drive along, so that long
stretches of bare blue mud, spotted with eruptions of sea weed, fit well
with the cold wind that is enjoying a cutting sweep at us. Then we come
again to trim gardens and ivy garnished walls. The road follows the
curves of the Lough, and we watch the black steamers ploughing along,
and the brown-sailed little boats scudding before the breeze.
The Lough is on one side, and a remarkable, high steep ridge on the
other, yellow with budded whins, green with creeping ivy, and up on the
utmost ridge a row of plumed pines. When I noticed their tufted tops
standing out against the sky, I felt like saying, "Hurrah! hurrah for
Canada!" the pines did look so Canadian looking. I soon was recalled to
realize that I was in my own green Erin, and certainly it is with a cold
breath she welcomes her child back again.
We knew we were nearing Moville: we saw it on a distant point stretching
out into the Lough. I forgot to mention that the land began to be full
of castles as we drove along the road. We passed Red Castle and White
Castle and when we reached Moville, Green Castle was before us a few
miles further down. Further down I wished to go, for a very distant
relative was expecting me there--Mr. Samuel Sloan, formerly of the Royal
Artillery, who had charge of Green Castle Fort for years; but now has
retired, and lives on his own property. I like people to claim kindred
with me; I like a hearty welcome, the _Cead mille faille ghud_,
that takes you out of hotel life and makes you feel at home. I was so
welcomed by my distant kinsman and his excellent wife that I felt very
reluctant to turn out again to hotel life.
Next day after my arrival we got a car and made an excursion down along
the coast to Port-a-dorus. I thought I had seen rocks before, but these
rocks are a new variety to me. They occur so suddenly that they are a
continual surprise. Along the coast, out in the water, they push up
their backs in isolated heaps like immense hippopotami lying in the
water, or petrified sharks with only a tall serrated back fin visible.
There would occur a strip of bare brown sand, and outside of that row
upon row of sharp, thin, jagged rocks like the jaw teeth of pre-Adamite
monsters. In other places they were piled on one another in such a
sudden way, grass growing in the crevices, ivy creeping over them, the
likeness of broken towers and ruined battlements, that one could hardly
believe but that they were piled there by some giant race.
When we had driven as far as the car could go we left car and driver,
and scrambled over the rocks like goats. Rocks frowned above us, between
us and the sky, rocks all round in black confusion. As we climbed from
slippery rock to slippery rock, over long leathery coils of thick sea
weed, like serpents, on, on through the _Dorus_ to the open sea,
noticing the dark passages, the gloomy caves, the recesses among the
cliffs, the narrow passes, where one could turn to bay and keep off
many, it was natural to think of rebels skulking here, with a price on
their heads, after the '98, or of lawless people stilling illicit
_poteen_ to hide it from the gaugers. Sheltered by the rocks of
Port-a-dorus, I could enjoy the sea air flavored with essence of sea
weed. We watched for a while the waves playing about the rocks and
washing through the door in innocent gambols. This sportfulness did not
impose upon me nor the rocks either, for the marks of the Atlantic in a
rage were graven on their brows in baldness and in wrinkles.
Along the road as we drove back I noticed the white cottages of coast
guardsmen who have married the maidens of the hills. They were there in
their patches of ground, delving with the spade, scattering sea weed
manure, the landlords here allowing them to gather all the sea weed that
drifts to their shores. Decent looking men these, in their blue uniforms
and thoughtful sea-beaten faces, with hardy little children around them,
playing or helping. The rocks rise among the fields with the same
startling abruptness as they do along the shore, looking still more like
ruins of old castles. Round these rocks and among them, in every nook
and cranny where there is a spadeful of earth, is delved carefully by
these mountain husbandmen.
As I looked at the rocks and crags, and the workers among them, I could
hardly help thinking they dearly earned all that grew upon them,
although there would be no half-yearly rent hanging over them. In one
little clearing some children were scattering manure. One, a sturdy
little maiden, but a mere baby of about seven years of age, had a fork
cut down to suit her size, and was handling it with infantile vigor,
laying about her with great vim. It was such a comical sight that we
stopped the car to watch her. As soon as she saw she was watched, she
dropped the fork and scampered off to hide. A pretty little child, hardy
and healthy and nimble as a goat.
Of course on this coast there are tall, white light houses, two of them
keeping guard over the rocks. Here and there are coast guard stations,
white and barrack-like, only holding blue jackets instead of red or
green.
The tenants along here praised their landlords. One of them, the Marquis
of Donegal, was spoken of as a merciful lord all through the hard years.
He had forgiven them rent which they could not pay, and lowered the rent
when they did pay, returning them some of the money, and the poor people
spoke of him with warm gratitude.
I notice that the people here have a good many sheep. They are not so
very wretched as the mountaineers I saw in northern Donegal. Poor they
must be, to dig out a living from among these rocks and keep up a lord
besides, but their lord has had a more human heart toward them than
other lords over whose lands I have been.