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THROUGH CONNEMARA
IN A
GOVERNESS CART.
BY
THE AUTHORS OF “AN IRISH COUSIN.”
ILLUSTRATED BY W. W. RUSSELL, FROM SKETCHES BY
EDITH Œ. SOMERVILLE.
LONDON:
W. H. ALLEN & CO., LIMITED,
13, WATERLOO PLACE, S.W.
1893.
The following pages, with their accompanying illustrations, originally
appeared in the columns of “THE LADIES’ PICTORIAL,” and are here
reprinted by permission of the Proprietors.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
“IN THE SECLUSION OF THE BACK BEDROOM” 5
“IF YE BATE HIM ANY MORE HE’LL LIE DOWN” 19
“SHE’S A LITTLE GIDDY ABOUT THE HEAD, MISS” 28
“WE VIEWED THE STOWING OF THE GOVERNESS-CART” 31
“MR FLAHERTY’S BOY WAS DEMONSTRATING WITH A PITCH-FORK” 35
“WE PURSUED OUR WAY TO RECESS” 39
A FISHERMAN AT RECESS 43
THE TWO HOTEL DOGS 49
“NOW” 53
“BALLINAHINCH CAME SLOWLY INTO SIGHT” 65
“WE HEARD WHEELS CLOSE AT HAND” 71
“HANGING ON EACH TO OUR REIN” 85
“SITTING ON LITTLE STOOLS INSIDE THE BIG FIREPLACE” 97
“REVEALED A MONSTROUS GREY GOOSE” 105
MR. MITCHELL HENRY’S PLACE, KYLEMORE CASTLE 119
JACK’S FATHER 125
AT TULLY FAIR 129
RENVYLE HOUSE HOTEL 141
“IT WAS THE BROAD WINDOW SEAT, IN CONJUNCTION WITH
THE MOUNTAINS, THAT TURNED THE SCALE” 147
“SHE WAS AN AMERICAN LADY” 149
THE RENVYLE DONKEY 158
“DOWN THE HILL OF SALRUCK” 169
“THE HOLY WELL, SALRUCK” 175
“EIGHT O’CLOCK BREAKFAST, PLEASE, AND CALL US SHARP
AT SEVEN” 191
“THE REGRET WITH WHICH WE PAID OUR HOTEL BILL
WAS NOT WHOLLY MERCENARY, BUT WAS BLENDED
WITH THE FINER PATHOS OF FAREWELL” 197
THROUGH CONNEMARA IN A GOVERNESS-CART.
CHAPTER I.
My second cousin and I came to London for ten days in the middle of last
June, and we stayed there for three weeks, waiting for a fine day.
We were Irish, and all the English with whom we had hitherto come in
contact had impressed upon us that we should never know what fine
weather was till we came to England. Perhaps we came at a bad moment,
when the weather, like the shops, was having its cheap sales. Certainly
such half-hours of sunshine as we came in for were of the nature of
“soiled remnants,” and at the end of the three weeks aforesaid we began
to feel a good deal discouraged. Things came to a climax one day when
we had sat for three-quarters of an hour in a Hungarian bread shop in
Regent Street, waiting for the rain to clear off enough to let us get
down to the New Gallery. As the fifth party of moist ladies came in and
propped their dripping umbrellas against the wall behind us, and
remarked that they had never _seen_ such rain, our resolution first
began to take shape.
“Hansom!” said my second cousin.
“Home!” said I.
By home, of course we meant the lodgings--the remote, the Bayswaterian,
but still, the cheap, the confidential; for be they never so homely,
there’s no place--for sluttish comfort and unmolested
unpunctuality--like lodgings.
“England is no fit place for a lady to be in,” said my second cousin, as
we drove away in our hansom with the glass down.
“I’d be ashamed to show such weather to a Connemara pig,” I replied.
Now Connemara is a sore subject with my second cousin, who lives within
sight of its mountains, and, as is usually the case, has never explored
the glories of her native country, which was why I mentioned Connemara.
She generally changes the conversation on these occasions; but this time
she looked me steadily in the face and said,
“Well, let’s go to Connemara!”
I was so surprised that I inadvertently pressed the indiarubber ball of
the whistle on which my hand was resting, and its despairing wail filled
the silence like a note of horror.
“Let’s get an ass and an ass-car!” said my cousin, relapsing in her
excitement into her native idiom, and taking no notice of the fact that
the hansom had stopped, and that I was inventing a lie for the driver;
“or some sort of a yoke, whatever, and we’ll drive through Connemara.”
In the seclusion of the back bedroom we reviewed the position, while
around us on the lodging-house pegs hung the draggled ghosts of what had
been our Sunday dresses.
“That’s the thing I wore last night!” said my second cousin, in a hard,
flat voice, lifting with loathing finger a soaked flounce. As she did
so, the river sand fell from it into the boots that stood beneath.
“Soil of tea-garden, Kingston-on-Thames. Result of boating-picnic that
has to fly for refuge to an inn-parlour ten minutes after it has
started.”
“It will wash,” I answered gloomily. “But look at that!” Here I pointed
to an evening gown erstwhile, to quote an Irish divine, “the brightest
feather in my crown.” “That’s what comes of trailing through Bow Street
after the opera, looking for a hansom during the police riots. Give me
Irish weather and the R.I.C.! We _will_ go to Connemara!”
* * * * *
The Milford and Cork boat starts at eight, and at half-past eight a
doomed crowd was sitting round its still stationary tea-table. My second
cousin was feverishly eating dry toast and drinking a precautionary
brandy and soda, but the others were revelling
[Illustration: “IN THE SECLUSION OF THE BACK BEDROOM.”]
on beefsteak and fried fish. The company was mixed. Opposite to us sat
an American and his bride, both young, and both uncertain of the rules
that govern the consumption of fish; the bride feeling that a couple of
small forks, held as though they were pens, would meet the situation,
while her big, red-headed husband evidently believed that by holding the
fork in the right hand and the knife in the left the impropriety of
using the latter would be condoned. Beside us were two elderly ladies,
returning, like us, to their native land.
“Yes, me dear,” we heard one saying to the other; “I had nothing only my
two big boxes and seven little small parcels, and poor little Charlie’s
rabbit, and that porther wanted to get thruppence out o’ me!”
“D’ye tell me so?” remarked the friend.
“Yes, dear, he did indeed! He wanted thruppence and I gave him tuppence;
he was tough, very tough, but I was shtubborn!”
“Ah, them English is great rogues,” said the friend, consolingly.
“More fish, Miss?” said the unobservant steward to my second cousin,
thrusting a generous helping under her nose. It wanted but that, and she
retired to the doubtful security of the ladies’ cabin.
We have travelled with many stewardesses on the various routes between
England and Cork, and we have found that, as a species, they have at
least two great points in common. They are all Irish, and they are all
relentlessly conversational. They have no respect for the sanctity of
the silence in which the indifferent sailor wishes to shroud herself; it
is impossible for them to comprehend those solemn moments, when the
thoughts are turned wholly inwards in a tumult of questioning, while the
body lies in mummy stillness waiting for what the night shall bring
forth. Their leading object seems to be to acquire information, but they
are not chary of personal detail, and, speaking from experience, I
should say that a stewardess will confide anything to the passenger by
whose berth she has elected to take down her hair. For stewardesses
generally do their hair two or three times in the course of a twelve
hours’ crossing. When you go on board you find them at it. Your evening
ablutions are embittered by the discovery of their hair-pins in the
soap-dish, and at earliest dawn the traveller is aware of the stewardess
combing her shining tresses over the washing-stand. I have sometimes
wondered if from this custom arose the fable that the mermaid, when not
decoying sailors to their fate, is incessantly “racking her poll,” as
they say in the county Cork.
We will not linger on the details of the night, the sufferings of little
Charlie, who, on the plea of extreme youth, had been imported by his
mother into the ladies’ cabin; the rustlings and chumping of the rabbit,
whose basket occupied the greater part of the cabin table, or the
murmured confidences exchanged through the night hours by the stewardess
and the friend of Charlie’s mother. These things are being forgotten by
us as fast as may be; but my second cousin says she never _can_ forget
the waft of pigs that came to her through the porthole as the steamer
drew alongside of the Cork quay.
The exigencies of return tickets had compelled us to go to Connemara
_viâ_ Cork and Milford, and it certainly is not the route we would
recommend; however, it has its advantages, and we were vouchsafed a time
of precious rest before the starting of our train for Limerick at 2.10,
and we reposed in peace on the sofas of the ladies’ drawing-room in the
Imperial Hotel. Much might be said, were there time, of the demeanour of
ladies in hotel drawing-rooms; so hushed, so self-conscious, so eminent
in all those qualities with which they are endued by the artist who
“does” the hotel interiors for the guide-books. It is almost possible to
believe that they are engaged for the season to impart tone, and to show
how agreeable a lounge life can be when spent in the elegant leisure
that is the atmosphere of hotel drawing-rooms.
We crossed Cork on an outside-car; and here, no doubt, we should enter
on a description of its perils which would convulse and alarm English
readers in the old, old way; but we may as well own at once that we know
all about outside-cars; we believe we went to be christened on an
outside-car, and we did not hold on even then--we certainly have not
done so since.
Let us rather embark on a topic in which all, saving a besotted few,
will sympathise. The nursery _en voyage_--the nurse, the nursemaid, the
child, the feeding-bottle. These beset every traveller’s path, and we
had considerably more than our fair share of them between Cork and
Limerick. At Cork they descended upon the train, as it lay replete and
helpless, a moment before starting, and before we had well understood
the extent of the calamity, a nurse was glaring defiance at us over the
white bonnet of a bellowing baby, and a nursemaid was already opening
her basket of food for the benefit of two children of the dread ages of
three and five respectively. Some rash glance on the part of my second
cousin must have betrayed our sentiments to the nurse, and it is hard
to say which was worse, her exaggerated anxiety to snatch the children
from all contact with us, or the imbecile belief of the nursemaid that
we wanted to play with them, and, of the two, enjoyed their wiping their
hands on our rug in the intervals between the oranges. They never ceased
eating oranges, those children. Oranges, seed cake, milk; these
succeeded one another in a sort of vicious circle. An enterprising
advertiser asks, “What is more terrible than war?” We answer
unhesitatingly, oranges in the hands of young children.
However, everything, even the waits at the stations between Limerick and
Athenry, comes to an end if you can live it out, and at about nine
o’clock at night we were in Galway. Scarcely by our own volition, we
found ourselves in an hotel ’bus, and we were too tired to do more than
notice the familiar Galway smell of turf smoke as we bucketted through
Eyre Square to our hostelry. It may be as well at this point to
seriously assure English readers that the word “peat” is not used in
Ireland in reference to fuel by anyone except possibly the Saxon
tourist. Let it therefore be accepted that when we say “turf” we mean
peat, and when, if ever, we say Pete, we mean the diminutive of Peter,
no matter what the spelling.
We breakfasted leisurely and late next morning, serenaded by the screams
of pigs, for it was fair day, and the market square was blocked with
carts tightly packed with pigs, or bearing tall obelisks of sods of
turf, built with Egyptian precision. We cast our eye abroad upon a drove
of Connemara ponies, driven in for sale like so many sheep, and my
second cousin immediately formed the romantic project of hiring one of
these and a small trap for our Connemara expedition.
“They are such hardy little things,” she said, enthusiastically, “we had
two of them once, and they always lived on grass. Of course they never
did any work really, and I remember they used to bite anyone who tried
to catch them--but still I think one of them would be just the thing.”
“I beg your pardon, Miss,” said the waiter, who was taking away our
breakfast things, “but thim ponies is very arch for the likes of you to
drive. One o’ thim’d be apt to lie down in the road with yerself and the
thrap, and maybe it’d be dark night before he’d rise up for ye. Faith,
there was one o’ them was near atin’ the face off a cousin o’ me own
that was enticin’ him to stand up out o’ the way o’ the mail-car.”
My second cousin looked furtively at me, and rose from her seat in some
confusion.
“Oh, I think we should be able to manage a pony,” she said, with a
sudden resumption of the dignity that I had noticed she had laid aside
since her arrival in Galway. “Is there--er--any two-wheeled--er--trap to
be had?”
“Sure there is, Miss, and a nate little yoke it’d be for the two of ye,
though the last time it was out one of the shafts----”
“Is it in the yard?” interrupted my second cousin, severely.
“It is, Miss, but the step took the ground----”
My cousin here left the room, and I followed her. A few moments later
the trap was wheeled into the yard for our inspection. It was apparently
a segment of an antediluvian brougham, with a slight flavour about it of
a hansom turned the wrong way, though its great-grandfather had probably
been a highly-connected sedan-chair. The door was at the back, as in an
omnibus, the floor was about six inches above the ground, and the two
people whom it with difficulty contained had to sit with their backs to
the horse, rocking and swinging between the two immense wheels, of which
they had a dizzy prospect through the little side windows.
“There it is for ye, now!” said the waiter, triumphantly. He had
followed us downstairs and was negligently polishing a tablespoon with
his napkin. “And Jimmy,” indicating the ostler, “’ll know of the very
horse that’ll be fit to put under it.”
“No,” we said faintly, “that would never do; we want to drive
ourselves.”
The ostler fell into an attitude of dramatic meditation.
“Would you be agin dhrivin’ a side-car?”
We said “No.”
Equally dramatic ecstasy on the part of both ostler and waiter. The
former, strange to say, had a friend who was the one person in Galway
who had the very thing we wanted. “Letyees be gettin’ ready now,” said
Jimmy, “for I’ll go fetch it this minute.”
About half an hour later we were standing at the hotel doorsteps,
prepared for our trial trip. On the pavement were clustered about us the
beggarwomen of Galway--an awesome crew, from whose mouths proceeded an
uninterrupted flow of blessings and cursings, the former levelled at us,
the latter at each other and the children who hung about their skirts.
We pushed our way through them, and getting up on the car announced that
we were ready to start, but some delay in obtaining a piece of cord to
tie up the breeching gave the beggars a precious opportunity. My second
cousin was recognised, and greeted by name with every endearment.
“Aha! didn’t I tell ye ’twas her?” “Arrah, shut yer mouth, Nellie
Morris. I knew the fine full eyes of her since she was a baby.” “Don’t
mind them, darlin’,” said a deep voice on a level with the step of the
car; “sure ye’ll give to yer own little Judy from Menlo?”
This was my cousin’s own little Judy from Menlo, and at her invocation
we both snatched from our purses the necessary blackmail and dispensed
it with furious haste. Most people would pay largely to escape from the
appalling presence of this seventy-year-old nightmare of two foot
nothing, and she is well aware of its compelling power.
The car started with a jerk, the driver boy running by the horse’s side
till he had goaded it into a trot, and then jumping on the driving-seat
he lashed it into a gallop, and we swung out of Eyre Square followed by
the admiring screams of the beggars. The pace was kept up, and we were
well out of Galway before a slightly perceptible hill suddenly changed
it to a funeral crawl--the animal’s head disappearing between its
forelegs.
“Give me the reins,” said my second cousin. “These country boys never
know how to drive,” she added in an undertone as she took them from the
boy. The horse, a pale yellow creature, with a rusty black mane and
tail, turned his head, and fixing a penetrating eye upon her, slightly
slackened his pace. My cousin administered a professional flick of the
whip, whereon he shrank to the other side of the road, jamming the step
of the car against a telegraph post and compelling me to hurriedly whirl
my legs up on to the seat. We slurred over the incident, however, and
proceeded at the same pace to the top of the hill. A judicious kick from
the boy urged the horse into an amble, and things were going on
beautifully when we drew near a pool of water by the roadside.
“You see he goes very well when he is properly driven,” my second cousin
began, leaning nonchalantly
[Illustration: “IF YE BATE HIM ANY MORE HE’LL LIE DOWN.”]
across the car towards me. As she spoke, the car gave a lurch and came
to a standstill at the edge of the pool. Apparently the yellow horse was
thirsty. He was with difficulty dragged into the middle of the road
again, but beyond the pool he refused to go. The boy got down with the
air of one used to these things.
“If ye bate him any more he’ll lie down,” he said to my cousin. “I’ll go
to the house beyond and gether a couple o’ the neighbours.”
The neighbours--that is to say, the whole of the inhabitants of the
house--turned out with enthusiasm, and, having put stones behind the
wheels, addressed themselves to the yellow horse with strange oaths and
with many varieties of sticks.
“’Tis little he cares for yer bating,” screamed the mother after several
minutes of struggle. “Let him dhrink his fill o’ the pool and he’ll go
to America for ye.”
We thought that on the whole we should prefer to return to Galway, and
though assured by the boy of ultimate victory, we turned and made for
the town on foot.
“I scarcely think that horse will do,” said my second cousin, after we
had walked about half a mile, turning on me a face still purple from her
exertions with the whip. “We want a freer animal than that.”
She had scarcely finished when there was a thundering on the road behind
us, a sound of furious galloping and shouting, and the car appeared in
sight, packed with men, and swinging from side to side as the yellow
horse came along with a racing stride.
“Ye can sit up on the car now!” called out the boy as they neared us,
“he’ll go aisy from this out.”
The car pulled up, and the volunteers got off it with loud and even
devotional assurances of the yellow horse’s perfections.
But we walked back to Galway.