It was on a dull sultry afternoon in July 1869, that my friend Morrissy
and I found ourselves comfortably located in the commercial room of
one of the hotels in Westport, County Mayo, Ireland, after a long
uninteresting car-ride from Sligo and Ballina. The excellent turnpike
road ran through a flat boggy district; and as we had journeyed along
through dense clouds of dust, it was with an infinite sense of relief
that we disencumbered ourselves of our wraps and other travelling
impedimenta, and prepared ourselves for the substantial dinner which
was placed on the table for our refection.
To those of our readers who are unacquainted with the ‘long-cars’ used
in moving about from one town to another, and especially in the west of
Ireland, where the climate is somewhat exhaustive from its excessive
humidity, a journey upon these public conveniences has its fascinations
as well as its drawbacks; for in going through the country on these
vehicles, you can always, excepting in stormy or dusty weather, insure
capital views of the scenery of the district, pick up a gossiping
acquaintance with your fellow-travellers, readily command the local
information in the possession of your charioteer, and be alternately
amused and annoyed at one time with his legendary and romantic stories,
and at another with his sarcastic reflections on the ‘misgovernment’
of the country since it came under a dominion not entirely its
own. An Irish car-driver always appears to me to be a strikingly
representative type of the Milesian race. He is impulsive and rash,
credulous and wildly poetical, with a dash of superstition and romance
in his character, and a constantly recurring lament for the ‘good old
times’ that prevailed when Brian Borru was king. At the same time, he
is an excellent _compagnon de voyage_, and if he is properly treated
and humoured, will pour out for your delectation quite a flood of
antiquarian, genealogical, historical, and legendary lore, appertaining
to the country in which you are, and the noteworthy objects around you.
Morrissy and I were joined at dinner by a fellow-tourist who had
travelled on the car from Ballina; and as this gentleman is the
principal hero of the little adventure I am about to relate, it is
necessary I should put the reader in possession of some particulars
respecting him. His appearance was both striking and peculiar. At
the Ballina car-office he was very anxious about the disposition of
his luggage. This property consisted of a rifle-case, a long wooden
trunk which he said contained his ‘fixings,’ a hat-case of leather,
several other boxes which sadly taxed the carrying capacity of the
car, and quite a miscellaneous collection of parcels and wrappers.
Though only standing some five feet eight inches in height, he was
strongly built, and of good muscular development, his complexion
having somewhat suffered from a long-continued residence in America.
He wore a conical-shaped wide-awake of green felt; his gold watch,
which with its appurtenances of seals and lockets, was frequently
prominently and somewhat ostentatiously displayed, bore on the reverse
the harp of Ireland beautifully enamelled on a green background; and
he carried a small pocket pistol in the breast of his waistcoat. He
had previously told us that his name was John Hanlon; that he had left
Ireland in consequence of a little political trouble, some twenty years
previously; that he was now a prosperous floor-cloth manufacturer at
Baltimore, and that he was paying a long-cherished visit to his native
country previous to his final settlement in the transatlantic land of
his adoption. Mr Hanlon somewhat surprised me by the freedom of speech
he indulged in on all subjects that cropped up for discussion on the
road, and I could only explain it on the hypothesis that his lengthened
sojourn in America, and the liberal toleration of political questions
there enjoyed by all classes, had lent to his ordinary conversation
a fluency and a license which were comparatively unknown in our more
cautious latitude. Hanlon evidently considered himself a citizen of the
Great Republic, and was certainly far from restricted in the expression
of his sentiments on subjects ranging from the latest Democratic ticket
in his adopted state, to the question of greater political and social
freedom for his fatherland.
My friend Bryan Morrissy possessed many traits of character and
feeling in common with Mr Hanlon, and consequently it was not at
all extraordinary to find that they almost immediately struck up a
close intimacy. Morrissy, a somewhat slimly-built fellow of six feet,
was a County Waterford man; and his fervent poetical and patriotic
temperament was so strongly displayed during the troubles in Tipperary
in 1848, that he judged it expedient for the good of his health to
make a somewhat sudden voyage to New York. Finding many sympathetic
friends in Cork, he was one fine night quietly smuggled on board an
outward-bound vessel at Queenstown; and in a month he found himself at
Castle Gardens, on Manhattan Island, with a couple of sovereigns in his
pocket, three shirts, a Sunday suit, and letters of introduction to a
number of Irish Nationalists in the cosmopolitan city of New York. For
a couple of months he led a very active life of unprofitable energy,
his time mainly occupied in addressing huge meetings; but at length he
got disgusted with the game of politics, so unblushingly played there
by mercenary ‘patriots;’ and as he saw no prospect of succeeding in his
business as a counting-house clerk, he slipped over to England; and
finding that the pursuit of the Young Ireland conspirators had been
judiciously relaxed, he took a post as a store-manager in a Yorkshire
manufacturing town which I shall call Fleeceborough, and for a number
of years devoted himself so closely and assiduously to his essentially
prosaic duties, that even the new acquaintances—of whom I was one—who
gathered around him, scarcely realised how deep were his convictions on
certain ‘burning questions’ of national sentiment connected with his
own country, and at what great hazard he had, at an earlier period of
his life, advocated and compromised himself by his enunciation of those
opinions.
Considered as a warm friend and a lively and entertaining acquaintance,
Morrissy was everything that one could wish; and as he was well versed
in ancient as well as contemporary history, and had an appreciative
acquaintance with the modern poets, especially such as Byron, Burns,
Moore, and Campbell, whose aspirations after liberty were warm and
fervent, his company was highly appreciated by the little earnest band
of embryo publicists among whom he found himself in the radical town
of Fleeceborough. By his outdoor political speeches and harangues in
America, he had contracted severe colds, which ultimately somewhat
affected his hearing—an ailment afflicting enough in itself, but which
had its occasional benefits, a salient example of which will be seen in
the further progress of this narrative.
Coming to myself, as the third of the party, I may briefly inform the
reader that my name is Robert Talbot, that I am generally accounted a
pleasant and fairly informed acquaintance, rather given to punning and
other word-dislocating frivolities, though esteemed for my patience
as a good listener, and as one who generally appreciates any smart or
witty remark made by another. In fact my habit of preserving these good
conversational things is so strong that it has been my practice to
‘take them down in black and white;’ and as they sometimes crop up and
out on seasonable and auspicious occasions, I have got myself generally
known by the name of ‘the repeater.’ And it was during a pleasure
excursion through the highlands of Connemara that Morrissy and I thus
became acquainted with Mr John Hanlon, floor-cloth manufacturer, of
Baltimore, United States.
Dinner passed pleasantly enough at the Westport hotel. The provision
was bountiful and miscellaneous in its character, and we chatted over
the table as if we had been acquainted for years. When the cloth had
been removed, Morrissy and Hanlon drew themselves more confidentially
together, and soon commenced exchanging reminiscences of the ‘affair
of 1848,’ over a jug of whisky-punch. In the earlier hours of the
evening their conversation was quiet and decorous enough, but with
the interchange of mutual confidences, the narration of mutually
interesting incidents connected with the ‘rising,’ and the frequent
appeals to the inspiriting liquor which the constantly replenished
‘Toby’ supplied, they soon became more cosy, and began to fight their
patriotic battles over again in strains more hearty and convivial than
ordinary sobriety would have warranted.
Another person had by this time joined the party. Although a complete
stranger to ourselves, he was evidently well known to the people at
the hotel, for the waiters treated him with a certain deference for
which I was unable to account. Although plainly and respectably dressed
in a kind of frieze cut-away suit, these clothes did not seem to sit
comfortably and naturally upon him; and when he rose to procure a
light for his pipe or to ring the bell for another supply of punch, he
paced the room with a habit of precision and regularity that somehow
suggested to me that he must at one time of his life have been in
the army. The waiters were somewhat obsequious in their attention to
his orders, called him with emphasis ‘Mister Doolan,’ and appeared
to hold him in a certain degree of respect, if not of absolute fear.
Mister Doolan paid particular regard to the conversation of my Irish
friends Morrissy and Hanlon; and if at any time the continuity of their
narratives appeared likely to be broken in favour of subjects more
generally interesting to myself as an Englishman, I noticed that he was
at extraordinary pains to bring it back to the point at which I had
broken in upon their talk, and to induce them to resume the story of
their experiences.
As I was very tired with the jolting motion of the car—a species
of locomotion with which I had been previously unfamiliar—I soon
afterwards retired to rest; but even after I had got to bed in the
room above, I could hear my friends below in the full flight of
conversation, not only on the past of Ireland, but in somewhat hazy
prophecies as to the future of their beloved country. To the music of
this harmonious but disturbing concert, relieved at times by the more
measured and careful utterances of Mister Doolan, I listened for a
time, until the voices became a monotonous drone in my sleepy ear; and
then I sank into the elysium of sleep, a paradise doubly grateful to me
after the fatiguing incidents of the day, and the consciousness that
though I was in a strange land I was neither alone nor unbefriended.
As some of my readers will be aware, Ireland was at this time suffering
in the throes of the Fenian agitation. Not only was a deep patriotic
feeling prevalent among honest Irishmen, but the national spirit was
also being moved strongly and passionately by the Irish Americans, who
were quietly invading the country, and making large and extravagant
promises of American support to another rising against English rule.
The extraordinary enthusiasm manifested by Irish men and women at
that time settled in the United States; and the heartiness with
which money was subscribed by all classes of the community, from the
middle classes down to the humblest labourers of both sexes, still
arrests the attention of the historian, and excites his surprise that
enthusiasm so general in its character should have so powerfully
impressed the children of Erin who peacefully sojourned in a distant
land. The fact remains that for some time Ireland was seething like
a restricted volcano, the under-current of patriotism being deep,
earnest, and general. Government at length awoke to the seriousness of
the crisis, and after a long period of inaction, the English officials
came to the conclusion that not only was sedition rife in that unhappy
country of Ireland, but that a great proportion of the mischief was
directly traceable to Irish-American agents, who with military titles
and the nucleus of military organisations, were constantly landing on
her shores. It was not, however, until the English government found
that chests and packages of arms and munitions of war were being
systematically despatched to and distributed through a large range of
the country, that they fairly took the alarm, and began to exercise
a stricter supervision over the arrival of American Hibernians in
Ireland, and took measures for obtaining careful information of
the movements of such disaffected persons as had already procured
a footing in the country. Not only were the soldiery placed on the
alert, but that semi-military organisation, the Irish constabulary, had
also instructions to scrutinise carefully the persons and movements
of strangers and travellers in the interior of the country. These
regulations, of a repressive as well as detective character, were in
full force in certain wild and disturbed districts at the time that
Morrissy and I were taking our peaceful excursion; and they were
the means of bringing about the curious imbroglio I am now about to
describe.
When I descended to the coffee-room next morning, I did not find either
of my companions of the previous night. As they had not evidently
yet slept off the fumes of the whisky-punch, I strolled down to the
beach of Clew Bay, and was soon drinking in not only the fine mountain
and sea breeze, but also the wild but charming scenery of that fine
district. Leaving behind me the desolate ruined warehouses which told
the mournful story of the past, when Westport was indeed the western
harbour of Ireland, I saw in the near distance the placid waters of
the bay, studded with its numerous and picturesque islets; whilst to
the left—rearing itself in savage majesty over the waters—frowned
the Reek of Croagh Patrick, the sacred mountain of the district, and
up the craggy sides of which, pilgrimages to the stone hut of St
Patrick are still regularly made. The light haze resting upon the sea
and the cloudy vapour that encircled the summit of Croagh Patrick,
appeared destined soon to give way before the western breeze, that
already curled the surface of the bay into miniature waves and lent a
refreshing fragrance to the morning air. But though thus inspirited
by the ramble, I could not help thinking with some uneasiness of the
dangerously outspoken language both Morrissy and Hanlon had been using
when in their cups; though I had heard so much of the proverbial
good-fellowship of the Irish character, that I was reluctant to
bring myself to the conviction that any such loose talk would be
unfavourably brought up against them. At the same time, considering
the state of the country and the many warnings on the subject of
political discussion which I had received in Dublin, I could not avoid
regretting that the conversation had taken such a dangerous direction,
feeling assured that if any of the police or military authorities had
been in the Commercial Room at the time, they would have been bound to
notice what Morrissy and Hanlon might call ‘patriotic talk,’ but which
other keen protectors of law and order might designate as seditious and
treasonable utterances. It was while thus engaged in chewing the cud
of sweet and bitter fancy that I again found myself at the door of the
hotel, in front of which was already standing the long-car on which we
purposed journeying that day to Clifden.
I found both Morrissy and Hanlon in the coffee-room awaiting my
appearance. The breakfast table was profusely laden with substantial
delicacies; but though I was ready enough for that meal, I could see
at a glance that my companions were not equally prepared. Both looked
sheepish enough in all conscience, and on the principle that if you
feel ill you must take ‘a hair of the dog that bit you,’ each of them
had a suspicious-looking glass of ‘mountain-dew’ at his elbow. Neither
seemed inclined for eating, and I therefore had the breakfast-table
much to myself. I tried to interest them by describing the delightful
walk I had enjoyed to the bay, but was unable to galvanise either life
or spirit into them. My only hope was that the fresh keen sea-air and
the rushing excitement of the car-ride might by-and-by restore them to
their wonted physical and mental equilibrium.
As the weather had by this time cleared up, and there was every
prospect of a fine pleasant journey of forty miles to Clifden,
through the heart of the Connemara mountains, the car filled rapidly
that morning, partly with visitors like ourselves and partly with
residents in the district. Within the latter category evidently came
two fine-looking undoubted Irishmen, who took their seats on my side
of the conveyance, and who interested me by their conversation and
evident familiarity with the sights of the neighbourhood. They were
well though plainly dressed, and evidently devoted themselves to the
task of engaging me in talk of a nature innocent enough in itself,
but which later on grew somewhat irksome and suspicious. Morrissy and
Hanlon were on the other side of the car; and just as it was about to
start, our friend Doolan came up in a bit of a hurry, and took the
vacant seat which had been left unoccupied by their side. Doolan, who
was spruce and collected enough, and who looked as fresh as a daisy,
gave me a half-familiar nod, and then exchanged the compliments of the
day with my friends. It struck me that Hanlon received his approaches
in a half-sullen, half-distant manner, but that I set down to my latent
suspicions respecting the man; and as the car rattled gaily over the
road to Leenane, and I heard little bursts of laughter and apparently
racy jests exchanged by that party, I felt ashamed of the apprehension
by which I was still haunted.
The route, at first direct south, curved a little westward as we
approached Killery Bay, through the mountainous, land-locked, tortuous
courses of which the Atlantic was now rolling in magnificent grandeur.
I was entranced with the first view of this fine picture, embracing
high rugged rocks overhanging the bay, with a stern range of mountains
in the north-west, and a splendid natural harbour in which the navy of
England might safely ride, protected from all winds except the west. My
enthusiasm increased as we neared Leenane, which pretty little village
nestled snugly and picturesquely at the head of Killery, and where
we stopped to change horses. Here Mr Doolan alighted, somewhat to my
surprise; though I fancied a look of intelligence passed between him
and the two Irishmen with whom I had been in conversation. In answer to
my question as to whether he was not going farther with us, he quietly
remarked that he had a little business in the neighbourhood, but that
he would be seeing us again in the course of the day. I noticed that
Doolan turned up an avenue leading to a gentleman’s house; and on
asking the driver who resided in that fine mansion, was somewhat dryly
told that ‘it was the country residence of Mr Sarsfield, a magistrate.’