which he described his host afterwards: "A handsome, grave-smiling
man of fifty or more; thick, grizzled hair; elegant nose; low, cooing
voice; military composure and absence of loquacity; a man you love at
first sight." This was indeed high praise from a man of Carlyle's
cantankerous temper. Lord Hill was so popular with his tenantry that
when his horse broke down they would take the animal out of the shafts,
fasten ropes to the car, and pull it home triumphantly with the owner
seated in state, no matter how many miles they had to cover. He was
a most courteous and obliging man. I well remember how, in the early
sixties, he walked a considerable distance and took particular pains to
show me the best fishing spots on the river.
They tell a joke at the hotel, on an English dude who asked Pat, the
gillie, "Aw, my good man, do you mind telling me what--aw--sort of fish
you catch here?" "Well, to tell ye the truth," was Pat's quick reply,
"ye niver can tell till yez pulls 'em out!"
There was a big fishing crowd there, and when I announced at
dinner that it was more than forty years since I had sat at that
table and fished in the river, they all doffed their caps to
me--metaphorically--and gave me more salmon and other good things than
I could eat or drink.
We hadn't time to fish, and so we pushed on next day through the Rosses
district, with all its innumerable fresh-water lakes and salt-water
inlets. So intermingled were they that it was hard to decide which was
which, and we finally got to know that where wrack grew on the shore
the water was salt and connected somewhere with the sea. We stopped at
Dunlow for lunch and then descended into the Gweebarra River valley
and crossed the large, new steel bridge of that name, erected by the
Congested Districts Board to give the people employment on that and
the roads connecting with it at both ends. The way lies through an
untamably wild country, but with such constant and shifting panorama
of mountain scenery that the attention is never fatigued. You see in
review the Dunlewy Mountains, Slieve Snaght, Errigal, Dooish, and the
Derryveigh chains; in fact, if the weather is fine--and it all depends
on that--there is scarcely such another mountain view in the kingdom.
The head of Gweebarra Bay, where the river joins it, is a queer-looking
place; we skirted its shores for miles and enjoyed its peculiarities.
When the tide is out the water is of a seal-brown color, due to the
peat; when it is in, the color is bright green. Where the tides meet is
a mixture of both colors, and frequently some of the shallows, side by
side, will be of either brown or green, making a checkered appearance.
While all this is going on, water-falls from the hillsides pour their
brown waters into the bay and very often into pools of green. This
phenomenon, in connection with the pleasing picture formed by the
numerous small islands which dot the surrounding waters, makes it well
worth while to wait and witness the tide in its changing stages.
[Illustration: NATIVES OF COUNTY DONEGAL]
We finished our twenty-five mile drive in an hour or so, and put up for
the night at O'Donnell's, Glenties.
GLENTIES TO CARRICK
In some Irish hotels they set apart a room for the drummers to write
and eat in, at lower prices than the public tariff, and this is
as sacred ground as a Hindoo temple; for an ordinary personage to
desecrate it by his presence is simply an unpardonable crime and is
resented by the drummers accordingly. The doors are not always marked,
and so it happened that I innocently wandered into this "reserved" room
in the O'Donnell Hotel at Glenties and began to write a letter. I had
hardly got as far as "Dear Sir," when the intrusion was noticed and
promptly reported to the proprietor, who came in and apologetically
asked me, "What line are ye in, sur?" to which I promptly responded,
"Selling Power's Irish whiskey." He reported my vocation to "the
committee," all were satisfied and I was allowed to finish my letter.
Afterwards Mr. O'Donnell came to me and said with a wink: "It's all
right, Mr. Bayne; your bluff went through with the boys, but 'tis my
private opinion that ye're buyin' more whiskey than ye're sellin'."
Next morning when the sun rose we were off for Carrick, a scenery
and ruin centre, the forts, etc., dating back to the sixth century.
This was a favorite resort of Sir Frederick Leighton, the artist, who
frequently spent his summers there. We took a noon rest at Ardara and
then pushed on to complete our twenty-eight miles.
Before reaching Carrick we traversed the Glengesh Pass, a deep and
beautiful ravine, "with verdure clad," the hills on both sides rising
one thousand six hundred and fifty feet above sea level, their slopes
ornamented with many water-falls, all joining to make up a brawling
stream which rushed headlong down the valley. Altogether the place was
a most charming one.
The pass was four miles long, and poor Bob could not make it with the
load, so we got off and climbed the road on foot, while he fed and
followed us with the empty car up the steep incline. We nursed him into
Carrick, but he had to have a rest, and after getting it his owner
drove him home. And so we parted with John, our worthy Jehu, and his
good nag, Bob, both of whom had helped us well along on our pilgrimage.
As we were approaching Glengesh, we met a young Donegal girl on the
road. She was dressed in black serge, and, although her feet were
bare, her figure was erect and her carriage very graceful. She swung
along the road with charming abandon, and might have shone at a
"drawing-room" in Dublin Castle, the embodiment, the quintessence of
unconscious grace.
CARRICK TO DONEGAL
We put up at the Glencolumbkille Hotel in Carrick. Here we hired a
new car, with a stout, white horse to draw it, which took us to the
base of Bunglass Head and waited for our return. It is a hard climb of
over three miles to reach the summit, over rocks, bog, and heather,
but we were well rewarded for our trouble. Bunglass fills the rôle of
a grand-stand, as it were, from which you get a good view of Slieve
League Mountain, whose base rises abruptly out of the sea, which breaks
against it with great violence. We had heard that the golden eagle
builds its nests on this headland, but we did not succeed in finding
any of the birds, and concluded that they had flown over to see King
Edward's coronation.
A view of singular magnificence here bursts upon you--a view that
of its kind is probably unequalled, in the British Isles. The lofty
mountain of Slieve League gives on the land side no promise of the
magnificence that it presents from the sea, being in fact, a mural
precipice of one thousand nine hundred and seventy-two feet in height,
descending to the water's edge in one superb escarpment,
" ... around
Whose caverned base the whirlpools and the waves,
Bursting and eddying irresistibly,
Rage and resound forever."
And not only in its height is it so sublime, but in the glorious colors
which are grouped in masses on its face. Stains of metals--green,
amber, gold, yellow, white, red--and every variety of shade are
observable, particularly when seen under a bright sun, contrasting in
a wonderful manner with the dark-blue waters beneath. In cloudy or
stormy weather this peculiarity is to a certain degree lost, though
other effects take its place and render it even more magnificent. This
range of sea-cliff extends with little variation all the way to Marlin,
though at nothing like the same altitude.
Having feasted our eyes on the beauties of the precipices, we then
ascended, skirting the cliffs the whole way. Near the summit the
escarpment cuts off the land slope so suddenly as to leave only a sharp
edge with a fearful precipice of above fifteen hundred feet on the side
towards the sea, and a steep slope on the landward side. This ledge is
termed the "One Man's Path," and is looked on by the inhabitants of
the neighborhood in the same light as the Striding Edge of Helvellyn,
or the Bwlch-y-Maen of Snowdon. There is a narrow track or ledge on
the land slope a little below this edge, facetiously called "The _Old_
Man's Path" by the guides. At the very summit are the remains of the
ancient oratory of St. Hugh McBreacon. The view is wonderfully fine;
southward is the whole coast of Sligo and Mayo, from Benbulbin to
the Stags of Broadhaven; while farther in the distance are faintly
seen Nephin, near Ballina, and Croagh Patrick Mountain at Westport.
Northward is a perfect sea of Donegal mountains, reaching as far as
Slieve Snaght and Errigal, with all the intervening ranges near Ardara,
Glenties, and Dunloe.
[Illustration: A TURF CREEL, CARRICK, COUNTY DONEGAL]
Coming down was almost as bad as going up had been, but we finally
reached our car and were driven home for a late dinner. On the way we
were shown the place where Prince Charlie the Pretender embarked when
he fled from the English forces.
DONEGAL TO BALLYSHANNON
Next morning, in a blinding rain, we got up behind a stout, black
horse, driven by Charley, a conversational soloist of unrivaled
garrulity, who under these conditions told us entirely too much about
Fin McCool's and Red Hugh's feats and what they did to their neighbors.
We passed through Killybegs, but our destination was Donegal (town),
and after we reached it we discharged Charley, took dinner, and
aired ourselves round the city, taking what base-ball players call a
"stretch."
The principal objects of interest here are the ruined abbey and the
castle of the O'Donnells. The monastery was founded for Franciscan
friars in 1474 by Hugh Roe O'Donnell and his wife, Fingalla, daughter
of Conor O'Brien of Thomond, and in it they were both buried. His son,
Hugh Oge, finally took the habit of St. Francis, and was buried here
in 1537. Red Hugh O'Donnell having taken up arms against the English,
his brother-in-law, Niall Garbh, sided with them and took possession
of the monastery. It was besieged by O'Donnell, and during the siege
some barrels of gunpowder which had been stored took fire and the
explosion destroyed the building. Red Hugh, after the fiasco of the
Spanish landing at Kinsale, to which he went, sailed to Spain for
further assistance and died there at the early age of twenty-eight,
being buried in Valladolid. Niall Garbh, having lost the confidence
of the English, was imprisoned in the Tower of London, and died
after eighteen years of captivity. The O'Donnells, or Cinel Conall,
were descended from Niall of the Nine Hostages, who became king of
Ireland in 379 A.D.. Of his sons, Eoghan, or Owen, was ancestor of
the O'Neills, and Conall Gulban of the O'Donnells. The country of
the former was called Tir Eoghan (Tyrone), or Owen's territory, and
extended over the eastern part of Donegal and the counties of Tyrone
and Londonderry. The peninsula of Inishowen also received its name from
him. Tyrconnell, the territory of Conall, extended over County Donegal.
Between these races, bound together as they were by common descent and
frequent intermarriages, wars were of constant occurrence through many
generations.
[Illustration: DONEGAL CASTLE]
The Cathach of the O'Donnells is a _cumhdach_, or box, made, as its
inscription says, by Cathbhar O'Donnell towards the end of the eleventh
century. It contains a portion of the Psalms in Latin, said to have
been written by St. Columba and which led to the battle of Drumcliff
and his subsequent exile to Iona. It was carried by a priest three
times in front of the troops of the O'Donnells before a contest, hence
its name, "The Battler." The silver case enclosing the box was made by
Colonel O'Donnell in 1723. It was presented by the late Sir Richard
O'Donnell to the Royal Irish Academy, where it now is.
Either in the monastery or in some building near it were compiled,
between 1632 and 1636, the famous _Annals of Donegal_, better known
under the title of the _Annals of the Four Masters_--Michael and
Cucogry O'Clery, Fearfeasa O'Mulconry, and Cucogry O'Duigenan. The
object of this compilation was to detail the history of Ireland up
to the time in which they lived, including all local events, such as
the foundation and destruction of churches and castles, the deaths of
remarkable persons, the inaugurations of kings, the battles of chiefs,
the contests of clans, etc. A book consisting of eleven hundred quarto
pages, beginning with the year 2242 B.C., and ending with the year 1616
A.D., thus covering the immense space of nearly four thousand years of
a nation's history, must be dry and meagre of details in some, if not
in all, parts of it. And although the learned compilers had at their
disposal or within their reach an immense mass of historic details,
still the circumstances under which they wrote were so unfavorable that
they appear to have exercised a sound discretion and one consistent
with the economy of time and of their resources when they left the
details of the very early history of Ireland in the safekeeping of such
ancient original records as had from remote ages preserved them, and
collected as much as they could make room for of the events of more
modern times, particularly those eventful days in which they themselves
lived. This interesting record, which was originally written in native
Irish, has in later times been translated by Mr. Eugene O'Curry, who
has given to the world of general literature a very able translation of
this monumental work.
BALLYSHANNON TO SLIGO
With a fresh horse we started for Ballyshannon, some fifteen miles
ahead of us. The surrounding country was interesting and appeared to
be prosperous, containing many fine seats, the great feature of which
was their magnificent timber. Ballyshannon seems a busy town, with
two thousand five hundred inhabitants. Its castle, of which scarcely
any traces remain, belongs to the O'Donnells and was the scene of a
disastrous defeat of the English under Sir Convers Clifford in 1597.
The castle was besieged with vigor for three days and an attempt made
to sap the walls, but the garrison having made a desperate sally, the
English retreated in haste, and, pursued by Hugh Roe O'Donnell, they
lost a great portion of their force in an unsuccessful attempt to cross
the Erne.
The two portions of the town, the lower one of which is called the
Port, are connected by a bridge of twelve arches about four hundred
yards above the celebrated falls, where an enormous body of water is
precipitated over a cliff some thirty feet high and ten feet above
high-water, with a noise that is perfectly deafening. This is the scene
of the "salmon-leap." The salmon that come down the river in the autumn
return again in the spring months, and this can only be accomplished by
ascending the falls. Traps with funnel-shaped entrances are placed in
different parts of the falls, in which the salmon are caught, and taken
out for market as required. Between the traps are intervals through
which the fish can reach the top of the falls by leaping, and as at
low water the spring is about sixteen feet, the scene is singularly
interesting. Below the falls is the island of Inis-Saimer, on which are
buildings connected with the fishery. The fishery is very valuable, and
is owned by Messrs. Moore & Alexander.
On the bridge is a tablet to William Allingham (1824-1889), a native
of Ballyshannon. I give Allingham's own description of his home; it
can hardly be surpassed in the English language for simple, graceful,
and yet direct diction. I also quote a few lines from a poem he wrote
before he sailed for America; they are not Miltonian in their style,
but Milton could not have touched the spot as he did.
"The little old town where I was born has a voice of its own, low,
solemn, persistent, humming through the air day and night, summer
and winter. Whenever I think of that town I seem to hear the voice.
The river which makes it rolls over rocky ledges into the tide.
Before spreads a great ocean in sunshine or storm; behind stretches a
many-islanded lake. On the south runs a wavy line of blue mountains;
and on the north, over green, rocky hills, rise peaks of a more
distant range. The trees hide in glens, or cluster near the river;
gray rocks and boulders lie scattered about the windy pastures. The
sky arches wide over all, giving room to multitudes of stars by night
and long processions of clouds blown from the sea, but also, in the
childish memory where these pictures live, to deeps of celestial blue
in the endless days of summer. An odd, out-of-the-way little town
ours, on the extreme western verge of Europe, our next neighbors,
sunset way, being citizens of the great new republic which, indeed, to
our imagination seemed little, if at all, farther off than England in
the opposite direction."
"Adieu to Ballyshannon! where I was bred and born;
Go where I may, I'll think of you, as sure as night and morn;
The kindly spot, the friendly town, where every one is known,
And not a face in all the place but partly seems my own.
There's not a house or window, there's not a field or hill,
But, east or west, in foreign lands, I'll recollect them still.
I leave my warm heart with you, tho' my back I'm forced to turn,
So adieu to Ballyshannon and the winding banks of Erne!
"Farewell, Coolmore--Bundoran! and your summer crowds that run
From inland homes to see with joy th' Atlantic setting sun;
To breathe the buoyant salted air, and sport among the waves;
To gather shells on sandy beach and tempt the gloomy caves;
To watch the flowing, ebbing tide, the boats, the crabs, the fish;
Young men and maids to meet and smile, and form a tender wish;
The sick and old in search of health, for all things have their turn--
And I must quit my native shore and the winding banks of Erne!"
Near here are the ruins of Kilbarron Castle, an ancient fortress of the
O'Clerys, a family renowned in their day for their skill in science,
poetry, and history, of whom was Father Michael O'Clery, the leader
of the illustrious quartet of the "Four Masters." It stands on a
precipitous rock at the very edge of the coast.
[Illustration: SALMON-LEAP, BALLYSHANNON, COUNTY DONEGAL]
In the vicinity of Ballyshannon can be seen Ballymacward Castle, which
was built during the famine of 1739. This was the home of the "Colleen
Bawn," famous in song and story, who was one of the Ffolliott girls,
and eloped with Willy Reilly.
Now we are on the road to Bundoran, and we had hardly cleared the
skirts of Ballyshannon before it began to rain so hard that even
had old Noah been with us he could not have bragged much about the
Flood. It came in at our collars and went out at our boots. Our new
driver could not be induced to say a single word except yes or no;
he was neither a historian, a botanist, nor a geologist, and he took
no interest whatever in ruins; but we forgave him for all these
shortcomings, for he drove his horse steadily onward through the
torrent with an unswerving perseverance that covered a multitude of
sins. When we arrived at Bundoran's fashionable watering-place hotel,
The Irish Highlands, the guests received us with shouts of laughter, in
which we good-humoredly joined. No more weary pilgrims ever drew rein
at inn in such a sorry plight.
Our clothes were dried during the night, and with a new steed we
started for Sligo. It was clear weather and we had a pleasant ride
along the coast-line. The feature of the day was skirting the base of
Benbulbin for about seven miles. This is a most peculiar mountain,
almost eighteen hundred feet high. Its base starts in with patches of
yellow and sage-green verdure, then turns to streams of broken rocks.
From these, regular pillars of stone start like the pipes of an organ,
which can be seen for fifty miles, these again being covered by a flat
crown of green growth. The whole looks like a vast temple in India. A
large water-fall, consisting of three separate cascades, cuts its side
and adds greatly to its beauty and attractiveness.
We passed through the village of Drumcliff, situated on the bank of the
river of the same name which here enters Drumcliff Bay from Glencar
Lake. A monastery was founded here by St. Columba, the site for which
was given in 575, and it was made into a bishop's see, afterwards
united to Elphin. This village was anciently called "Drumcliff of the
Crosses," and of the remains of these the "Great Cross" is a fine
example. It is thirteen feet high and three feet eight inches across
the arms, which are connected by the usual circular segments. It is of
hard sandstone and consists of three sections, the base, shaft, and
top. It is highly sculptured, showing human figures, animals, and fine,
interlaced scrollwork. There is also the stump of a round tower, about
forty feet high, of rude masonry of the earliest group. The door is
square-headed, six feet from the ground, and the walls are three feet
thick.
[Illustration: GOING TO THE BOG FOR TURF, BUNDORAN, COUNTY DONEGAL]
Near Drumcliff was fought a great battle in 561, arising out of a
quarrel over the possession of a copy of a Latin Psalter made by St.
Columba from one borrowed of St. Finnian, of Moville. St. Finnian
claimed the copy, and the case was brought before Dermot, King of
Meath, who decided, Brehon fashion, that as "to every cow belongs its
calf, so to every book belongs its copy," a judgment from which St.
Columba appealed to his tribe. The party of St. Columba was victorious,
three thousand of the men of Meath being slain. St. Columba was advised
by St. Molaise to go to Scotland and convert the pagans as penance
for the blood he had shed, which he did, and founded a missionary
establishment in Iona.
Lord Palmerston took a great interest in this part of the country,
laying out plantations in 1842 and building a harbor, which we saw from
the car. It cost him over £20,000.
While riding along we noticed a tower on a distant hill, and said to
the driver, "Is that a _round_ tower?" "Yis, sur." "Are you sure it's
round?" "Yis, sur, I am; it's square it is."
SLIGO TO BALLINROBE
We finally reached Sligo; and Sligo is quite a place, both historically
and commercially. It has a population of 10,274, and is an important
seaport town in close neighborhood to scenery such as falls to the
lot of very few business towns. It is remarkably well situated in the
centre of a richly wooded plain, encircled on all sides, save that of
the sea, by high mountains, the ascent of which commences within three
to four miles of the town, while on one side of it is Lough Gill,
almost equal in beauty to any lake in Ireland, and on the other a wide
and sheltered bay. Connection between the two is maintained by the
broad river Garrogue, which issues from Lough Gill and empties itself,
after a course of nearly three miles, into Sligo Bay. It is crossed by
two bridges, joining the parish of St. John with that of Calry on the
north bank. Steamers ply regularly between this town and Glasgow and
Liverpool.
Sligo attained some importance as early as 1245 as the residence of
Maurice Fitzgerald, Earl of Kildare, who there founded a castle and
monastery. The castle played an important part in the struggles of
the English against the Irish chiefs in the thirteenth century and
subsequently, in which the rival O'Conors and O'Donnells were mainly
concerned. Sligo suffered in the massacres of 1641, when it was taken
by Sir Frederick Hamilton and the abbey burned. The Parliamentary
troops, under Sir Charles Coote, took it in 1645 after a battle in
which the Irish were defeated and the warlike Archbishop of Tuam,
Malachy O'Kelly, was killed. In the great abbey, which is now a fine
ruin, is the grave of Patrick Beolan, who did not "give in," as
they say in Ireland, till he had reached the age of one hundred and
forty-four.
While at Sligo we met the brother of Lieutenant Henn (owner of the
_Galatea_, and who tried to lift the cup with her some years ago). This
man is a local judge and a very pleasant and entertaining gentleman,
reminding us greatly of his late brother, whose estate he inherited.
[Illustration: LORD ARDILAUN'S CASTLE, CONG, COUNTY MAYO]
BALLINROBE TO LEENANE