From Cork by the new railway to Skibbereen there is one rather
noticeable feature by the way. All the way stations in small places are
wooden houses built American fashion, either clapboarded or upright
boards battened where they meet. The road is through a hilly country and
therefore lies mostly through deep cuttings that shut out the scenery.
There is one long tunnel not far from Cork that educates you into a
sense of what utter darkness means. It is pleasant to look over rich
pastures back to the city crowding its lofty hills, and to notice what a
grand steeple-crowned city it is.
The train crawls along through deep cuts, past these little wooden
stations where everything is more primitive and backwoods looking than
anything I have seen before in Ireland. The porters are civil and
obliging, ready to answer the questions of the ignorant, even of those
who travel third-class. The vast majority of the passengers are small
traders, market-women and farmers' wives, who have been away making
purchases.
By the time we reach Dunmanway we had our allowance of light served out
to us, a lamp being thrust through the ceiling of the car from the top,
and by its light we steamed into Skibbereen. I expected Skibbereen to be
a small assemblage of mud huts, but was surprised to find it a large
town of tall houses. As the bus rattled along through one gaslight
street after another, I kept asking myself, is this really Skibbereen.
The little hotel where we stopped was very comfortable, very clean, and
possesses a good cook. The next day in exploring the by streets and
suburbs of the town I saw poverty enough, want enough. It was market day
and the streets were crowded with country women in blue cloaks. These
cloaks are all the same make, but some of them, owing to their material,
were very stylish and shrouded as pretty black eyed, black-haired, rosy-
cheeked women as I ever saw. Some of these cloaks are made of very fine
material, the pleating about the shoulders very artistic, and the wide
hoods lined with black satin when worn round the face make the wearers
look like fancy pictures. Some of the women gather them round them in
folds like drapery. I noticed at once that the artist who made the
statues of O'Connell and Father Mathew had studied the drapery from the
cloaks of some Claddagh or Skibbereen woman.
Market day is used as a day for confession, and the clergy are on hard
duty on that day. Skibbereen boasts of a bishop and numerous resident
priests. The town is as quiet as if such a thing as a riot, an outrage
or a mob was never known.
In a little corner, squeezed in between houses, is a neat Methodist
chapel and the parsonage beside it. Called on the minister, who received
me graciously and was courteous and communicative. Having been by virtue
of his office over a great part of Ireland he had seen a good deal of
the oppression of the tenant, partly from the thoughtlessness of
absentee landlords, partly from the want of any sympathy with the
tenants. Had the Land League confined themselves to moderate efforts,
and to the employment of constitutional means--means not tending to the
dismemberment of the empire, he would have joined them with heart and
soul, knowing the need there was of redress to the wrongs of the small
farmer. He advised me to take a car and go on to Skull through
Ballydehob if I wished to see poverty and misery.
The road from Skibbereen to Ballydehob and Skull runs along the coast
mostly. All that grand rocks and great stretches of water dotted with
many islands can do to make this scenery grand, wild and romantic has
been done by Dame Nature. It is not satisfying to merely pass along. One
would like to tarry here and get acquainted with nature in these out-of-
the-way haunts of hers. The cottages are most miserable, most ruinous.
There is no limestone here. It resembles Achil Island in this respect.
The houses are built of stones and daubed with clay. The clay soon
filters away under the combined action of winter wind and winter frost,
and the houses look like piles of stones tottering to fall.
I heard of a pier being built somewhere here, with part of the Canadian
money, which a priest assured me would be a great benefit to the poor
people. I was very sorry to leave this part without seeing more of the
country and the people. I left Skibbereen on a car for a journey by the
coast the other way to meet the train at Bandon to return to Cork.
The only industry of any kind which I saw between Skibbereen and Bandon
was a slate quarry which they told me shipped a great quantity of slates
besides supplying local demands. As we advanced eastward we left the
heather-clad mountains behind us, the landscape softened down
considerably, and became almost empty of inhabitants. That reminds me
that about Skull was almost emptied of inhabitants also. About the time
of the great famine the people fled away. The remains of houses are
scattered all along on that road. Some cause has also emptied this part
of the country of people. There is much unreclaimed land here, which is
not to be wondered at, seeing that a fine for reclamation was exacted in
the shape of increased rent.
Clonakilty is another little town thronged with small traders and places
"licensed to sell." As we passed east the long boundary walls that
enclose gentlemen's plantations begin to prevail.
A little way, maybe two miles, out of Clonakilty is the property of Mr.
Bence Jones, who has created some stir in the world. One hears story
after story of his grasping and overbearing disposition. The chief
accusation is adding to a man's rent if his father dies. Case after case
of this was spoken of by the passengers on the car with me. Whether
these accusations against Mr. Bence Jones were true or false, here is
his place, and a very fine place it is. The lodge is at one side of the
road, the entrance to his residence at the other. The residence is very
nice, very commodious, and is at some distance from the road. The
property is extensive, but very poor land--mountain and bog. His walled-
in plantation ran along the road for quite a great distance. When they
spoke of him on the car the mere mention of his name caused the driver
to lose himself in profanity.
From Clonakilty to Bandon was a long, dreary drive, and the night had
fallen for some time, sharp and chill, before we entered the second time
into merry Bandon town. It is quite a large place, and, entered by
another way than the railway, looks bright and pleasant. The houses are
lofty on the principal streets, and the whole town has a scattered
appearance. It was a welcome sight to us, weary of travelling by car,
and visions of a warm fire and a good supper--for I had travelled from
breakfast without waiting to eat--ran in my head; but it was Saturday
night, a train was almost due for Cork, and, contenting myself with an
after-night glimpse of merry Bandon town, I came to the ponderous
station, and started in due time for Cork.
At one of the first way stations, where is the little clapboarded
waiting-room, two policemen entered our compartment with a prisoner.
Whether he was a suspect or was charged with a specific crime we did not
learn, but surely such a poor scare-crow never was arrested before. He
was black with dirt, as if he had been taken out of the bog, or from a
coal-pit. His clothes were thin and ragged, and he had such a fierce,
desperate look. The policemen fraternized with their fellow-passengers
and chatted merrily. The prisoner listened to their talk with a kind of
dumb fierceness, shaking his head from side to side as I have seen an
angry horse do. It was very chilly, and he was so miserably clad that he
shivered, though he tried not to do so.
The way was long by train, and he might have marched for many a weary
mile before he got on the train. He lay down on the seat and tried to
sleep but could not, so he started up and resumed the wild glancing from
side to side and the fierce head shakes. I began to think he might be
very hungry, and if he was, he was not likely to get anything in gaol
till morning. I had some biscuits and cheese in my satchel, and they
began to struggle to get out, and at last I consented and handed the
little parcel silently to the prisoner. He did not thank me, except by
falling to and eating like a famished creature.
Arrived at Cork, the police took him away on a car, and the last glimpse
I got of him he was eating as if he had not eaten before for a week.
I was very thankful when Sabbath morning found me in Cork again and with
power to rest. There is not much appearance of Sabbath in the streets of
Cork; it looks like a vast crowd keeping holiday. A great many shops are
open; the stall women are in their places and seem to drive a good
trade. I even heard a woman crying her wares as on any other day. I do
not think that a little more Sabbath would hurt this fair town in the
very least. I rested this day.
In the evening I had the pleasure of hearing "the bells of Shandon"
ringing the people in to worship in the old Shandon Church. I heard them
while walking by "the pleasant waters of the river Lee." I followed
their chime and enjoyed it, sweetly solemn and grand it was, and thought
of Father Prout who has made them so famous, and finally found myself at
Shandon church.
When the chimes ceased I went up the high steps into the old church. It
is very old. It is high, long and narrow. The tower, in which are the
famous bells, seems of better workmanship than the church. It is built
in stories. The bells were chiming out, "Oh, that will be joyful!" as I
entered. It is a nice, homely, comfortable church; but so plain that the
tide of fashion has rolled past it into another quarter of the town. The
pulpit and reading-desk were supplied by a gray-haired clergyman, who
had power to read the service, so that it had a newness as if it had
never been heard before and to preach to the heart. With the echo of his
words and the echo of the bells of Shandon the Sabbath closed.