Ballycastle to the Causeway--Prosperity of Northern
Ireland--Bundoran--Gay Life in County Mayo--Mantua House--Troubles
in Roscommon--Wit of the People--Irish Girls--Emigration to
America--Episode of the Horse--People of the Hills--Chats by the
Wayside--Mallaranny.
It is nineteen miles from Ballycastle to the Causeway. Immediately upon
leaving the former place, in fact quite within the town's precincts, we
struck one of those steep short hills which seem greatly to try the
temper of motors. While they will later mount much more difficult and
longer slopes, with apparently no difficulty, such a hill so soon after
breakfast always disagrees with them, and so it was just here. In fact,
it looked as though we must get out and walk, but with an additional
spurt and snort it was over the summit, and we tobogganed down the other
slope at a speed which made us hold on tightly.
All this ride to the Causeway is up and down the wildest hills, close
beside yet high above the neighbouring ocean, and at times the route
lies down such steep inclines that I confess I take them in great
trepidation, commanding Robert to go slowly. This he consents to do at
the very summit, but halfway down with what a whiz and a roar do we
finish the descent, rushing far up the next incline!
There is a safer, far safer, route just inland, but the vote was against
that. Yet at times when the wind is roaring past us, as we rush downward
and we realise that a break in any part of our car might hurl us over
the wall and hundreds of feet downward, we almost wish we had selected
the safer route. The road is so close to the cliff's wall that the
prospect along the coast is at all times grandly impressive while from
far beneath arise the vague, delusive voices of the ocean. Pausing for a
space we cross the wall and creep out on to a projecting headland and
drink in the superb panorama. Far below us and far out to sea spreads
the great floor of the Giant's Causeway, while on either hand away into
the hazy distance of this lovely day in June stretch the fantastic
cliffs and headlands of this romantic coast, showing by their jagged
outlines the effects of their ceaseless battle with the sea. On the
headland where we stand green grasses spangled with buttercups roll
inland into broad meadow lands and towards distant purple mountains.
This world may hold more lovely spots than Erin's Isle, but if so, I
have never seen them.
As there are very few signboards in Ireland a motor tour is a constant
study of the map and one must come provided with such. Before leaving
London I purchased a set of Stanford's, seven in all, covering this
island, and very finely gotten up.[3] It is a pleasure to study them and
a child could scarcely go wrong, though we have enjoyed the pleasure of
getting lost several times.
So far my luck of two years back in France, as to weather, has followed
us. Aside from one shower the first day we have had fine weather all the
time, not all sunshine but no rains, and the cool grey skies with rifts
of sunlight breaking through them, illuminating like a searchlight spots
of the land or sea, are beautiful.
The auto has settled down to serious work by now and rushes singing
along, working better and better as the hours fly by. Leaving the
Causeway our route lies inland through Bushmills, Coleraine, and
Limavady.
All this end of Ireland appears prosperous. The highroads and villages
are well kept. The land is strongly Protestant, its men and women fine,
serious specimens of humanity, and there are no heaps of manure and
filth near the tidy houses, while the old mothers go smilingly along
through life.
Even the hens in this island have a degree of understanding denied their
French sisters. Scarce one has attempted to cross our pathway and none
have gotten killed.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
The Interior of a Cabin of the North]
Lunching at Londonderry we made a rapid run to Bundoran on the Atlantic
coast. The ride was pleasant with good roads nearly all the way, part
way over the highlands and part by the shores of Lough Erne. Bundoran is
a desolate, bleak sort of watering-place, lonely and dispiriting, but
with a comfortable hotel of the Great Northern Railway Company.
We depart next morning with every feeling of satisfaction. It is a
dreary place and the life led therein is dreary also. The power of the
ocean is so great here that it has carved the whole coast with caverns
and gulches until the observer wonders whether it will not eventually
carry off Bundoran, town, hotel, and all.
So we roll off into the sunshine and from the moment we enter County
Sligo the fun begins. A spirited sprint with half a dozen young steers
leads us through a group of jaunting-cars from which our passing causes
men and women to descend in anything but a dignified manner. One portly
dame in a white cap slips and sits down upon mother earth with much
emphasis. Her remarks, though few, were to the point. Another gathers
her skirts well around her waist, and regardless of a foot or more of
panties takes a flying leap over a mud wall, and "Glory be to God's"
resound on all sides. A flock of geese in attempting escape through the
bars of a gate get wedged therein, and keep the gate going by the
motion of their wings, and as it swings to and fro rend the air with
their squawking. On the whole the excitement would satisfy the most
exacting and there is more to come.
This being the feast of Sts. Peter and Paul has been seized upon for
fairs, and in all the villages great preparations have been made for
their celebration. Towards each town droves of animals, mostly cattle
but also many pigs, the latter scrubbed to cleanliness, make stately
progress, the pigs in carts bedded with straw--not a mortal in any of
the fairs is as clean as the pigs.
We were approaching one of these fairs, and moving as slowly as could be
if we were to move at all. Cattle and pigs were all around us and
generally paid no attention to our car, but one sportive young heifer
decided otherwise, and with a snort and a whisk of tail she was off in
the opposite direction. Evidently a leader of fashion in her circle, she
created a fashion there and then for there was scarce a pig or cow which
did not follow suit, urged on by many dogs. The noise and confusion was
appalling, and the manner in which old men and women, comfortable Irish
"widdies," young men and maidens, took to trees and stumps gave added
animation to the landscape. By this time we had come to a halt. I did
not want to laugh, and the suppression of that emotion caused the tears
to course down my face. Just then a man advanced towards us, his face
aflame, his raised right arm grasping a bowlder, while as he came onward
he shouted furiously, "I'll larn yez, I'll larn yez." There was nothing
to do save sit silently, and this we did. The nearer he came, the lower
got his arm, until he had passed us as though we were not there. Then
the arm went up again and all the fury returned while the air rang with
his "I'll larn yez," but towards whom directed it was impossible to
determine as he walked steadily away from us all the time. I cannot say
that I altogether blame him as it must have been somewhat difficult for
the owners to separate their new purchases from that concourse of
rushing animals. What a good time they had to be sure!
The man was our first instance of hostility in Ireland. In fact the
people were generally very friendly towards us, assisting whenever
assistance was required, which fortunately was not often. Certainly we
met with none of the jealous hatred which often greets a prosperous
looking man in France, and causes him to think of the guillotine, or the
lowering glances and sometimes violence of the Swiss. Still the Swiss
have some justice on their side. The passing machine covers the meadow
grass with dust and the cattle will not eat it, which to the people
spells ruin.
However, auto cars cannot be kept out of Switzerland, and her government
should take the matter in hand and, by oiling the highways, obviate the
difficulty.
No oil will, however, ever be needed in Ireland. While we had but one
rain during the entire tour of the first summer, the night dews did away
with all dust. As for the highways and lesser avenues and byways, I
expected to find much that was rough and almost impassable, but on the
whole they are all very good indeed. Except in Galway I remember none
that were bad, and I circled the entire island and crossed and recrossed
it many times.
From Sligo we take a run through the county of Roscommon, which seems to
suffer most from these evil days, and to carry on its face a look of
sadness and neglect. Things are not at rest here and the press daily
holds its records of "outrages" in Roscommon, but let us leave that
until to-morrow. Certainly there are no traces of it as our car rolls up
the broad avenue of Mantua House, the estate of Mr. Bowen, where as the
rain comes down a warm welcome and bright fire cause us to forget that
there is storm and darkness outside and perhaps sorrow and trouble all
around.
Mantua House is a spacious, square building, in a large park. It has
some three centuries to its credit but yet it is a cheery, pleasant
abiding-place and smiles at the passer-by like a saintly old lady. It is
said that the fairies abided once under its doorstep and when some few
years ago a vestibule was added an old woman appeared and kneeling down
cursed the workmen for disturbing them. But the little spirits do not
seem to have minded it much and the inhabitants of the "House in the
Bog" live on in peace. My night's slumber under its roof was undisturbed
and dreamless.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
A Woman of the North]
There is much of interest in the house in the shape of portraits, and
those of seven generations, whose owners had passed their lives here,
looked down upon us while at dinner. I fear I appear morose and a bad
guest for I cannot keep my eyes and thoughts from these old portraits,
wondering what the lives of their owners were and how I shall feel if
ever my painted face looks down from some shadowy canvas on a company at
dinner a century or two hence. If such portrait should exist it will
probably be marked "Portrait of a gentleman" as one so often reads in a
catalogue when name and owner are long, long forgotten as of no
importance. How poor a thing is earthly immortality and yet how we all
long for it, how we dread to be amongst those "_forgotten_." But they
are not "forgotten" in Mantua House, as I was told the names and dates
of all of them. Later, in the glow of the turf fire, those around us in
the spacious hall almost quicken into life and gaze into its glowing
depths as we are doing and as they have each in turn done in the old
mansion, until the bell of time sounded for them and they passed away
into shadowland. I think that for glowing warmth and depth of colour a
turf fire surpasses all others. The brown earth burns deeply but glows
to its very heart, and as it burns throws off a pungent smoke which
recalls to your memory the "Princess of Thule," and finally getting
into your brain drives you off to bed and the mantle of sleep falls upon
the "House in the Bog."
It is a misty morning in which we bid our hosts good-bye but not to be
too hard upon us the sun shines now and then as we roll off between the
dripping hedgerows whose boughs, reaching at us as though endeavouring
to stay our progress, scrape the top of our hood as the car glides
onward. As I have stated, the county of Roscommon suffers more than any
other section of Ireland in these days of "cattle driving." Here it is
first impressed upon the traveller that there is trouble abroad. Numbers
of men with lowering glances loaf around doing nothing save smoke their
stumpy pipes and all the rich land hereabouts stands neglected and
deserted.
As to this driving of the cattle which is the cause of most of the
trouble, the landowners generally rent their fields for grazing, but the
people are determined that they shall _sell_ them their lands and at
prices dictated _not_ by the _owners_, but by the _purchaser_. This
being refused, they will not allow the grazing, and drive a man's cattle
back to him, leaving the land of no profit to its owner, and hoping
thereby to force him to their methods. There would appear to be small
justice in all this.
There is much trouble of this description all over the island but it is
only in Roscommon that the fact has impressed itself upon us and we
hear of it constantly. One man told me that he had been out with seven
packs of hounds which had been poisoned and related the story of a
landlord who spent not less than forty thousand pounds a year on his
estate keeping it and his tenantry in the best of conditions. He was
waited upon by a committee from the League, who informed him that if he
allowed certain men, all his friends, to hunt with his hounds, he and
his pack would be boycotted. He replied that he lived in the country
because he considered it his duty to do so, that he spent all his money
here for the same reason, giving employment to hundreds, keeping all in
plenty, but that if such a threat was carried out, he would sell
everything and leave. It was carried out, and he closed his estate, sold
his horses and hounds in England, and left this island, the loss to his
section being enormous, and all for the sake, as in most of our
"strikes," of a few ringleaders who fatten on the poor men they
hoodwink, while their families starve.
At present a man may go into many sections of Ireland and demand land,
placing his own price thereon and the owner has got to accept it.
What an opportunity for dishonesty lies there! It is so common for
all Europe, and I have noticed several very bitter "communications"
in the Irish press lately--to point to the so-called lawlessness of
America, _i.e._, the United States, that it is something to note the
present state of affairs in parts of Ireland. For instance, here in
Roscommon, no man has been convicted of murder for years, yet there
have been many terrible crimes of that sort committed; one where a son
and daughter murdered their old father on his doorstep that they might
get the little place. They were tried and _acquitted_. Again every one
has heard of the case of Mr. and Mrs. Blake which occurred but lately
in Galway. Refusing to sell their lands they were both fired upon and
wounded while returning from mass and almost under the walls of the
church. The people standing round simply roared with laughter. No one
was apprehended for that crime though every one in the country could
tell who were the assailants.
It is scarcely just for an outsider to pass upon the affairs of a
foreign country, but when, as I have stated, one's own land is
constantly held up to the most violent criticism, while at the same time
the daily press of our critics teems with reports of like and worse in
their own country, one cannot be blamed for so doing.
[Illustration: Mantua House
Roscommon]
I was told later that there is much trouble around Cashel, but
personally I saw no signs of it save in Roscommon. Elsewhere it is very
easy to disbelieve the reports, for surely in no part of the world are
the prospects more entrancing to the traveller--on the surface at
least--than in this island with its lovely lakes, its beautiful
mountains and seas, its picturesque people, and above all its luxuriant
vegetation. Every old tower is shrouded in ivy, and the grass is soft as
velvet, showing the richness of the soil, and is beautiful beyond
description. With all their sorrow and tears these people appear full of
sunshine and laughter, and if you smile at them you are always greeted
pleasantly, while you find them at all times full of jests and quaint
humour which keep you in a constant state of laughter. The other day I
gave a man a sixpence as a tip. Being possessed of true politeness, he
would not directly reflect upon my generosity, or the lack thereof, but
gravely regarding the coin a moment, and scratching his head the while
in a meditative fashion, he exclaimed, "Bad luck to the Boer war which
blew the two shillings away and left the sixpence."
It is almost impossible to change the habits and customs inborn in these
peasants, no matter how many years may be passed in foreign lands. It is
a well-known fact that girls that have lived in cleanly, pleasant homes
in America, with all which that means, on returning here, as they often
do, and marrying some Irish lad, soon sink to the level from which they
had raised themselves by emigrating. Their savings all gone to buy the
hut from their husband's brothers and sisters and poor as when they left
Ireland, they are soon seen standing barefooted in the manure and filth,
pitching it into a wretched cart, drawn by a most wretched looking
donkey, all their good clothes and dainty habits a thing of the past and
I doubt if greatly regretted.
Occasionally, however, the reverse holds true. A lady not long since
came over bringing her Irish maid with her, and on reaching Queenstown
told the girl that she could, if she desired, go home for a visit and
rejoin her mistress later in Dublin. The girl went, but before the
mistress reached Dublin the telegraph wires were laden with messages
from the maid, so fearful was she that the mistress would leave her, and
when she rejoined her remarked with a gasp, "but ma'am, I did not know
it was like that; why the pig slept in the room wid us." But there are
not many who mind the pig and a girl returned and married here will cuff
her children, dirty with dirt which would have sickened her while in her
American home, out of the way of the "gentleman who pays the rent."
As for the emigration of these or any other peoples to our country, if
they who come are honest and willing to work, they will find no
difficulty in obtaining plenty of employment, provided they go where it
is and do not expect it to be ready to their hand on landing. Most who
get into trouble and, returning home, tell woful tales about
impositions, etc., are those who insist upon remaining in the congested
districts of the East. The whole South and great West, from St. Louis to
the Pacific, and from Canada to Mexico, is open to them, a vast empire,
where all may live if they will work and where there is room for all who
come. The systems of irrigation in action and proposed by our
government, in the west, are reclaiming a vast empire yet to be
peopled, while in the South labour brings high figures and is difficult
to obtain, especially in our great cotton mills in South Carolina and
Georgia and in the lumber mills of Florida.
But thousands who come to us have no intention of working and insist
upon remaining around and in our crowded cities and districts where the
devil soon finds plenty of employment for their idle hands, and his arch
agents--ward politicians--lend him most efficient assistance. I know
that only last winter one of the owners of a great lumber mill in
Florida, at his own expense, brought from the immigrant bureau in New
York a large number of men who no sooner got to Florida than they ran
off and became tramps, having from the start no intention of working.
That there is much truth in _The Jungle_ and other books of like sort is
beyond doubt, but there is no necessity for any man, woman, or child's
remaining in such places unless he so desires. Most of them having lived
in abject poverty and wretchedness at home, continue, by nature, to do
so abroad, and will never change, and such as these by their very habits
contribute largely to the state of affairs described in that book. The
hope lies in the future, not for them, but for their children, who
certainly _will_ change. Such change is difficult if not impossible
after man's estate is reached, not only with the poor but also with the
well-to-do and rich.
To all proposed emigrants to the United States I would say again, if you
are honest men and will come willing to work, you are welcome and there
is plenty for you to do and space for all. If you expect or insist upon
loafing around the cities, declining work, and expecting to be
supported, you will be disappointed, you will end in the workhouse--stay
away, we don't want you.
The roads through Roscommon from Mantua House are bad. We encountered
but few good stretches for some miles from that house; then they became
better. On one of these we were making rapid progress down grade, when
suddenly some hundred or so yards ahead two men came out from a gateway
leading a huge black mare. She was evidently restive and we slowed up
but as we came to a stop a hundred feet off she reared, broke loose, and
fell over backwards, then rolling over plunged forward towards a gate
and succeeded in fastening the metal pointed horns upon her collar so
securely under the bar of the gate that she was held immovable upon her
knees. Notwithstanding her great power she could not stir an inch. When
the gate was thrown open, she sprang forward in the wildest fright and
her owner stood by and cursed us to the extent of his ability. He
certainly heard us coming and should not have brought her out, but it's
all one-sided with horsemen,--they expect to do exactly as suits them
and if anything happens, the other party, no matter what they are on or
in, are always to blame. In every case we come, as we did there, to a
dead stop at once, and I must say that all of our accidents have arisen
because the men have much less sense than the horses, which I notice in
nearly every case rarely evince fright until their owners jump at them
and drag at their bridles. I have never listened to a more perfect line
of curses than were poured forth in that case; they seemed to linger in
the air long after we had placed hills and dales between ourselves and
the old man, which we did as soon as possible.
[Illustration: A View in Ballina, A typical Irish town]
As we stopped for luncheon later on I questioned a car driver as to a
large building near by.
"Is that a court-house over there?"
"Yis, sir, but we haven't much use for it. Only open it wanst a
fortnight, and shortly we won't open it at all, at all. Thim lawyers've
'ad their own way long enough, it's time the car drivers had a show."
(Wherein lawyers interfered with car drivers was not stated.)
"Are you mostly Catholics around here?"
"Yis, sir."
"Is not that a Methodist chapel yonder?"
"Yis, but not much good at all, and would shut up altogether only some
old man with more money than sinse left it twenty pounds a year."
Passing onward into the highlands, we stopped for water at a little
stone house, from which the children swarmed out like
flies,--seven,--belonging to one man, and his wife ventures the
statement that if we come back in seven years there will be seven more.
She speaks feelingly; evidently there is no race suicide here.
This far western Ireland is much like the highlands of Scotland, but far
wilder. Auto cars are rarely seen here. While the land is still orderly
and apparently prosperous, I think I note the change towards the
shiftlessness so prevalent in the south. There are many roofless and
abandoned cottages and the heaps of manure are becoming more frequent.
We shall shortly reach Newport near Clew Bay and pass on to Mallaranny
and Achill Island, the wildest part of Ireland. Well up into the hills,
we pause for some slight repairs, and the usual group of men and boys, a
girl and a dog, appear as from nowhere and squat on the adjacent bank.
They say they can speak the ancient tongue and that all the old customs
and usages are still in vogue hereabouts. I ask for a wake, but that
puzzles them. "It might be difficult to arrange, sir." However, I shall
probably attend one before I leave the land, hoping that it may not
prove my own. I ask if these boys live near here.
"They all do, sir."
"Well, it's a beautiful spot." His eyes and mine wander off over the
solitary moorland and up to the more solitary mountains.
"It is indade, sir."
"I have a streak of Irish blood in my own veins," I venture to add.
"Have ye, now, sir, and were ye born in Ireland?"
"No, we left here more than two centuries ago."
"Time you war havin' a wake indade, sir." That turns the laugh on me,
and I throw a shilling at the crowd for drinks, which results in a wild
scramble down into a muddy ditch and a wilder waving of legs in the air
as each and all go head first into the mud.
Quiet restored, my former conversationalist, somewhat the worse for mud,
remarks. "And indade, sir, ye seem to have a good time, 'tis wishin' I
am that all the people here had the likes," and with an echo to the wish
and a wave of the hand we glide off and away into the valley.
This ride has indeed been beautiful, but just as we enter the village of
Mallaranny (County Mayo) and are speeding down a steep incline, a little
yellow-headed urchin toddles directly across our track; a catastrophe
seems unavoidable; women shriek and howl, and men stand paralysed, but
one old crone grabs the boy just as Robert brings our car to a halt,
with not six inches to spare. The baby, not at all frightened, howls
with rage because his progress has been cut short. The old crone
proceeds to spank the child until I tell her that if any one deserves
punishment it is herself for her neglect. A few more miles brings us to
the hotel and in a very sleepy state, as the air all day has been
chilly; but we are not so sleepy that we cannot see at once that this
is not such a chamber of discomfort, such a cold storage as that place
at Bundoran. In point of situation and objects of interest there can
also be no comparison. As a centre to explore this beautiful section and
study these people Mallaranny could not be improved upon. The house
stands high and overlooks land and sea for miles, and in whichever
direction the eye roams the prospect is attractive, while Bundoran Hotel
stands on a bleak moor over which the howling winds from all the North
Atlantic sweep with terrible force. The town is dreary and of no
interest, and the mountains too far away, while the climate is raw and
unpleasant, whereas Mallaranny, much to the south, is swept by balmy
winds and well sheltered on the north. Both places have salt water in
the house, but here the bathrooms are large and the tubs are small
swimming-tanks. There is a man at the head of that house and a woman at
the head of this, and there lies the difference so far as the houses are
concerned. Of course I do not mean to state that it is warm here. In
fact the air is cold all over the land, and while there have been no
rains so far, we wear fur coats and use fur robes all the time, and
would be most uncomfortable without them.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
A Glimpse of Achill]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 3: There are also Mecridy's Maps for Cyclists and Tourists,
published at the office of the _Irish Cyclist_, Dame Court, Dublin, at
one shilling each. A very excellent lot of maps. Just what one wants and
no more, and not so expensive as Stanford's.]