The Island of Achill--Picturesque Scenery--Poverty of the
People--"Keening" for the Dead--"The Gintleman Who Pays the
Rint"--Superstitious Legends.
The island of Achill lies off the west coast of Ireland. Exposed to the
full fury of the North Atlantic winds it is one of the bleakest spots on
the globe. The manners and customs of its people change but slightly
with the passing years.
Leaving the hotel on a misty morning, we roll off towards the sea. The
way is narrow for a car and we pass uncomfortably near sleeping brown
bogs whose quiet waters would promptly cover us up and suck us down past
all resurrection were our wheels to slip over the brink.
Reaching a hill up which a man is driving cattle, our chauffeur sounds
the horn and pushes gently forward, causing the animals to give way,
whereupon their owner holds up his hand in indignant protest with a
"Would ye dhrive the _cattle_!" To his thinking we should plod slowly up
that miles-long hill behind his herd rather than cause them to move to
one side,--to "dhrive the _cattle_!" being in his eyes little short of
sacrilege. Yet his sort does not hesitate to drive other men's cattle
off of still other men's land, and consider it their right so to do.
The long muddy road runs on the cliffs over the sea and finally turns
down towards the coast, apparently losing itself in the waste. This is
not the highway and we so discover in season to prevent an accident.
Just then a small boy comes racing after us shouting that we should have
turned off higher up. A few half-pennies and our thanks make him
smilingly offer to return and show us the route, and a lift in the car
completes his happiness,--the first time he has ever ridden in an
automobile, I doubt not.
The traveller does not notice anything unusual until, having crossed the
Peninsula of Curraun, he enters upon one of the strangest spots on
earth. In the foreground, deep in a valley is a mysterious pool, black
as night: all around rise the gloomy mountains, while over the peak to
the west the sun is sending long shafts of purple and gold into the
distant hollows, where brown turf fields stretch away, and low-walled,
whitewashed, and thatched cottages spot the landscape, and the scarlet
skirts worn by all the women throw splashes of vivid colour here and
there. The whole is gloomy and sombre to a degree. The winds blow coldly
and we draw our furs closely about us as the car speeds onward over
roads not made for such usage. This indeed is ancient Ireland and one
hears the Celtic tongue on all sides.
Holiday is held here as in Sligo, and the encounters with cattle and
ponies are frequent. Here is a pony drawing a load of heavy timber which
he insists upon running off with on our approach. Of course, we halt
until we can creep by him. Yonder is a man to whom the fair has proven a
not unmixed blessing. He lies upon his face on a bank, blind drunk, and
will not take home with him the drinks consumed at the fair. His wife
and father stand by trying to hold an old horse, but the bridle breaks
and off he goes ahead of us, losing finally both blanket and saddle, and
vanishing up a mountain. Another old gentleman, held on his horse by a
dutiful son, curses us to the King's taste but in Celtic which we do not
understand. Only the women are sober after the day's bout, and many is
the beautiful face set off by the scarlet dress, which greets us
smilingly or hides its sorrow from our glances.
Now the road grows wilder and wilder,--there is absolutely no sound save
the moan of the distant ocean.
As we near the remotest part of the island, where the mountains raise
their heads in solemn grandeur, there are no signs of human habitation
except one lonely cottage. Its door is open, but there is no evidence of
life. Suddenly the air shivers with the weirdest, loneliest cry I have
ever listened to,--a sustained, penetrating wail rising and falling on
the sad air and then shuddering away into silence, silence, silence
rendered all the sadder by the fast approaching shadows of night. It is
the famous "keening" or mourning cry for the dead. There are
professional keeners and when one is informed of a death she starts for
the house of sorrow and commences this melancholy cry as she goes. All
the way over hill and dale, by these dark pools and through the bog
pathways she goes, her cry bringing the women and children to the doors
of all the huts. As she approaches the dead the cry dies away and ceases
as she enters the cottage. Walking round the bier she commences anew and
passing outward and away fills all the silence of the deepening night
with her melancholy plaint. To hear it any place in Ireland is sad
enough, to hear it amidst the desolation of Achill is almost terrifying
and never to be forgotten. To-night it sounds like the voices of lost
souls from the depths of the dark Atlantic.
I have heard a cry like that from the Arab women of a desert town, but
nowhere else on earth, and I doubt if any other people possess one of
such concentrated, desolate sorrow as this,--a sound which almost makes
the heart stand still.
Why should these people mourn the advent of peace? Surely it is better
for them to sleep than to wake; better to die than to live.
Through the open doorway of this hut as we pass we catch but a glimpse
of an old woman bowed in sorrow and a sheeted, silent form on the bed in
the corner.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Slievemore and Dugort, Achill]
Our car glides slowly and silently by and we move onward, more and more
into the island of Achill, into the heart of ancient Ireland, until,
rounding the shoulder of a desolate mountain, we come suddenly upon the
sea. This is no bay or inlet, no capes guard us here, there is no
lighthouse in sight to indicate that man ever sends his ships out there.
That is the heart of the ocean, the deep sea. The waves, black as
midnight and hurled forward with the force of the Gulf Stream, and all
the currents of the North Atlantic, come thundering in with such power
that one instinctively draws backward, while the coast is all cut and
jagged, torn up and thrown pell-mell by the ceaseless onslaught. You
realise that just out there are vast depths, awful forces, and that once
within their grasp nothing save an interposition of God could save you;
even this land scarcely seems a safe abiding-place.
The sky above is black as the waters beneath it and the winds sough
upward from the underworld as though laden with the misery of these
people of Achill.
Are there not scenes and times when the great truth of the existence of
the Deity is impressed upon one? By the deep sea, amidst the solitude of
the mountains and the silence of the desert, from the song of a bird far
overhead, and always from the eyes of a little child does not the
assurance come to man, past all doubting, that verily there is--a God?
Has the atheist ever existed who has not experienced this many times
throughout his wretched life?
The face of Ireland in the far western section seems constantly covered
with tears. The sadness and poverty of the people passes all
comprehension. Surely the love of their home land must be very great to
keep them here at all.
Lady Dudley has established a most excellent charity hereabouts in the
shape of contribution boxes for the establishment of district nurses in
these the poorest sections of Ireland. The girls have a sadly hard time
of it as often they find nothing to rest on in these hovels save a box
or head of a barrel. We are stopping in front of one now that would be
considered unfit for cattle at home, a low stone hut thatched in rotting
straw patched up with turf. There is no window, and the door has no
glass. The interior, plainly visible, is horrible in its sodden
wretchedness. Before the doorstep is a bog of manure and all kinds of
filth in which the pigs and ducks are at work. As our eyes wander away
and up to the hills, white with stone, we wonder why in God's name with
feet to walk upon every soul does not leave this island, which is not
intended for man to live upon; yet here they are and plenty of them, and
many seem cheery and happy. The woman of this wretched hovel before us
is pitching manure into a cart, and as she stands, barefooted, in the
filth above her ankles, sings and talks to me in the liveliest fashion.
Just beyond is a bog whose waters, black as night, and spangled with
water lilies, reflect as in a mirror a flock of geese and a woman in a
brilliant scarlet petticoat. Beyond rise the mountains sombre and gloomy
and over all lowers a sky dark with storms. Then the rain falls, but
only for an instant, when the sunlight descending in long shafts of
intense light turns even this scene of desolation into one of beauty. If
these people were moved into a richer and more fertile section would
they remain there, or would one shortly find these filthy hovels
occupied again by their original owners? If so, their love of home
passes comprehension.
One cannot but feel that many of the countless millions yearly sent to
foreign missions were better spent here, where, by improving the body,
the salvation of the soul would be more easily attempted, for it is
impossible to believe that with such horrible, sordid conditions, there
can be any deep belief in the goodness of God.
When in Teheran, Persia, I could not but observe the extensive
missionary buildings, and when I asked what people the work was amongst,
the reply came "Nestorian Christians." So, all the contributions from
the churches are expended upon those who are already Christians. For (as
is certainly not known at home) a Persian to be converted does not mean
loss of caste as in India but _death_, and hence conversion to
Christianity amongst them is impossible. Persia is the most fanatical
of all nations, where one may not even look into a mosque, much less
enter, yet millions continue to pour into that land yearly. Comment
should be unnecessary, but I cannot help feeling that comment is needed
when looking out over a scene like this before us to-day. There are
plenty of plague spots in our own new land which need close attention;
for instance, in the mountains of Virginia where the people are so
ignorant that they not only cannot read, but do not know what reading
is. It is a disgrace to our land that the ministers from these mountains
are forced to go begging through the churches for money to carry on
their work, but,--it is not half so picturesque and interesting to help
such as to send millions to the land of the Sultan of Ispahan and
perchance be able to rescue some Lalla Rookh or encounter the veiled
prophet of Khorassan.
I find I am very apt--so to speak--to tumble off the island of Achill
into almost any part of the world, so let us return once more.
The population of Achill is steadily decreasing, and now counts but
forty-six hundred. These people have been described as a lot of thieves
and murderers with, I should judge, very little justice in the charge.
They had no such appearance to my eye.
The soil on the island is so thin and poor that her men cannot raise
enough upon it to pay their rent and are forced to seek every year work
in more favoured sections.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Fisherfolk of Achill]
It is claimed these islanders consist of four great families, whose
members can be easily distinguished from each other, the French
Lavelles, the English Scholefields, the creole Caulfields, the Danish
Morans. But there are also pure Irish to be found in the O'Malleys,
Gaughans, and Monahans. The houses are but heaps of rude stones (which
have been moulded by the tide), round of gable, and roofed by fern,
heather, and shingles fastened by straw bands. Often there are no
chimneys.
We stop at the town of Dugort under the shadow of the sombre mountain,
"Slievemore," which rises immediately behind it. The town is an attempt
on the part of one church to upset the authority of another amongst
these people, and judging by the absolute desolation of the place I
should say that the move has not been successful. There are some good
houses and a church, but the people do not appear to be about. In the
dreary hotel, we spent some time in an inspection of the most marvellous
collection of paintings it has ever been our misfortune to examine.
There were several of them and they occupied most of the hallway. We
were unable to discover what one of them was intended to portray. We
asked the barmaid and she seemed equally in doubt. B. suggested the
mountain of Slievemore--I thought, a leg of mutton. The artist is the
hotel proprietor. We left a request that he would "Please not do it
again" which seemed greatly to relieve the young woman in charge.
At the door stands a jaunting-car waiting to take the luggage of a man,
who has been fishing hereabouts, to the station. We offer him a lift in
our motor and I tell the barmaid to give a glass of whiskey to his car
driver. It appears, when it comes, to be a fair sized drink, but the old
chap cocks his eye first on it and then at me, remarking, as he touches
his cap, "And did ye say, sir, it was _twelve_ years old--indade thin
it's _small_ for its _age_." As we roll off he promises to pick us up
when our car breaks down as he knows it _will_. If that is to occur it
is well to start, as we are miles from Mallaranny and well know that
aside from this dreary hotel no hospitality would or could be offered us
in this desolate region, and that the feeling here is not, especially
after the "day off," of the best, as is proven by the curses hurled at
us once more by the old gentleman whom we encountered on our way out.
Later we meet the load of timbers and find that the drunken man has been
deposited face down on the top, while his poor wife and old father
trudge along behind.
How different all here from the Ireland decked out for the tourist! How
sad and stern and strange! As I turn to look back upon it the daylight
departs and the shadows grow blacker and deeper, only the waters of the
lake catching for an instant a fleeting glow which soon dies out into
ashes; and with the coming of night silence and solitude, profound and
unbroken, rest upon the island of Achill.
Yet there we saw some wonderfully beautiful women, women whose type has
made Ireland famous, great blue-grey eyes and jet black hair,--or the
fairest of blondes with pale yellow hair and blue eyes, like the
rain-washed heaven of their native land. Again, as we rolled by some
white-walled, rose embowered cottage, an ancient dame in high frilled
cap would smile us a welcome, or, as once to-day, I saw such a splendid
young fellow, whose eyes beamed down into those of his baby boy held in
his arms. There was happiness there. He must have married "his Nora" and
the boy must have had its mother's eyes. Happiness, yes truly, such as
comes not often to the portals of a palace. The man smiles in my face as
the car rolls by. In fact, nowhere in all the years of my wanderings
have I met such quick response to a smile or greeting as in these wilds
of Ireland--save when drink, the curse of the land, had destroyed the
man; but always with the women one has seemed welcome.
As for the pigs, they are so clean and so pink that one imagines that
they wear silk socks and pumps. Do they walk?--bless you, no,--not on
holidays at least, but ride in state, and here at last you meet and
understand "the gintleman phat pays the rint." I firmly believe they
have all been shaved. B. says not, not till after death. But those were
very lovely and complacent pigs. I was only astonished that they were
not riding in motor cars.
After the desolation of Achill it is pleasant to return to the hotel at
Mallaranny. Owned by the Great Western Railway Company, it is most
comfortable; a cozy fire before which a tabby cat is purring greets us
as we enter the reading-room and we drop rugs and books with a sigh of
contentment. Dinner over, the evening is passed deep in the history,
romance, and poetry of the spot just visited.
Probably in no part of Ireland does superstition persist so strongly as
in Achill. Many of the legends are gruesome and cluster about death and
the grave. Many are beautiful, like that of the swans, and there is one
about the seals, which they believe are the people who were drowned in
the great flood. Not until this world is destroyed by fire will they be
permitted to enter heaven, but once in every hundred years they resume
their human shape upon earth, and it was during one of these periods
that an incident happened which is still talked about in the island of
Achill.
"John of the Glen had fallen asleep. Now the place he had chosen to
repose in was for all the world like a basket; there was the high rock
above him, and a ledge or rock all round, so that where he lay might be
called a sandy cradle.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
A Lonely Road in Connemara]
There he slumbered as snug as an egg in a thrush's nest, and he might
have slept about _two_ hours, when he hears singing--a note of music, he
used to say, would bring the life back to him if he had been dead a
month--so he woke up; and to be sure, of all outlandish tunes, and, to
quote his words again, 'put the one the old cow died of to the back of
it,' he never heard the like before; the words were queerer than the
music--for John was a fine scholar, and had a quarter's Latin, to say
nothing of six months' dancing; so that he could flog the world at
single or double handed reel, and split many a door with the strength of
his hompipe. 'Meuhla machree,' he says, 'who's in it at all?' he says.
'Sure it isn't among haythins I am,' he says, 'smuggled out of my native
country,' he says, 'like a poor keg of Inishowen,' he says, 'by the
murdering English?' and 'blessed father,' he says again, 'to my own
knowledge it's neyther Latin or Hebrew they're at, nor any other livin'
language, barring it's Turky'; for what gave him that thought was the
grand sound of the words. So, 'cute enough, he dragged himself up to the
edge of the ledge of the rock that overlooked the wide ocean, and what
should he see but about twenty as fine well-grown men and women as ever
you looked on, dancing! not a hearty jig or a reel, but a solemn sort of
dance on the sands, while they sung their unnatural song, all as solemn
as they danced; and they had such queer things on their heads as never
were seen before, and the ladies' hair was twisted and twined round and
round their heads.
"Well, John crossed himself to be sure like a good Christian, and swore
if he ever saw Newport again to pay greater attention to his duty, and
to take an 'obligation' on himself which he knew he ought to have done
before; and still the people seemed so quiet and so like Christians,
that he grew the less fearful the longer he looked; and at last his
attention was drawn off the strangers by a great heap of skins that were
piled together on the strand close beside him, so that by reaching his
arm over the ledge, he could draw them, or one of them, over. Now John
did a little in skins himself, and he thought he had never seen them so
beautifully dressed before; they were seal skins, shining all of them
like satin, though some were black, and more of them grey; but at the
very top of the pile right under his hand was the most curious of them
all--snowy and silver white. Now John thought there could be no harm in
looking at the skin, for he had always a mighty great taste for natural
curiosities, and it was as easy to put it back as to bring it over; so
he just, quiet and easy, reaches in the skin, and soothering it down
with his hand, he thought no down of the young wild swan was ever half
so smooth, and then he began to think what it was worth, and while he
was thinking and judging, quite innocent like, what it would fetch in
Newport, or maybe Galway, there was a skirl of a screech among the
dancers and singers; and before poor John had time to return the skin,
all of them came hurrying towards where he lay; so believing they were
sea-pirates, or some new-fashioned revenue-officers, he crept into the
sand, dragging the silver-coloured skin with him, thinking it wouldn't
be honest to its _rale_ owner to leave it in their way. Well, for ever
so long, nothing could equal the ullabaloo and 'shindy' kicked up all
about where he lay--such talking and screaming and bellowing; and at
last he hears another awful roar, and then all was as still as a
bridegroom's tongue at the end of the first month, except a sort of
snuffling and snorting in the sand. When that had been over some time he
thought he would begin to look about him again and he drew himself
cautiously up on his elbows, and after securing the skin in his bosom
(for he thought some of them might be skulking about still, and he
wished to find the owner), he moved on and on, until at last he rested
his chin upon the very top of the ledge and casting his eye along the
line of coast, not a sight or a sign of any living thing did he see but
a great fat seal walloping as fast as ever it could into the ocean:
well, he shook himself, and stood up; and he had not done so long, when
just round the corner of the rock, he heard the low wailing voice of a
young girl, soft and low, and full of sorrow, like the bleat of a kid
for its mother, or a dove for its mate, or a maiden crying after her
lover yet ashamed to raise her voice. 'Oh, murder!' thought John
O'Glin, 'this will never do; I'm a gone man! that voice--an' it not
saying a word, only murmuring like a south breeze in a pink shell--will
be the death of me; it has more real, true music in it than all the
bagpipes between this and Londonderry. Oh, I'm kilt entirely through the
ear,' he says, 'which is the high-road to my heart. Oh, there's a moan!
that's natural music! The "Shan Van Do," the "Dark Valley," and the
"Blackbird" itself are fools to that!' To spring over was the work of a
single minute; and, sure enough, sitting there, leaning the sweetest
little head that ever carried two eyes in it upon its dawshy hand, was
as lovely a young lady as ever John looked on. She had a loose sort of
dress, drawn in at her throat with a gold string, and he saw at once
that she was one of the outlandish people who had disappeared all so
quick.
"'Avourneen das! my lady,' says John, making his best bow, 'and what
ails you, darling stranger?' Well, she made no answer, only looked askew
at him, and John O'Glin thought she didn't sigh so bitterly as she had
done at first; and he came a little nearer, and 'Cushla-ma-chree, beauty
of the waters,' he says, 'I'm sorry for your trouble.'
"So she turns round her little face to him, and her eyes were as dark as
the best black turf, and as round as a periwinkle.
[Illustration: Photo by W. Leonard
Kylemore Castle]
"'Creature,' she says, 'do you speak Hebrew?' 'I'd speak anything,' he
answers, 'to speak with you.' 'Then,' she says again, '_have you seen my
skin_?' 'Yes, darling,' he says in reply, looking at her with every eye
in his head. 'Where, where is it?' she cries, jumping up and clasping
her two little hands together, and dropping on her knees before John.
"'Where is it?' he repeats, raising her gently up; 'why, on yourself, to
be sure, as white and as clear as the foam on a wave in June.'
"'Oh, it's the other skin I want,' she cries, bursting into tears.
'Shall I skin myself and give it you, to please you, my lady?' he
replies; 'sure I will, and welcome, if it will do you any good, sooner
than have you bawling and roaring this way,' he says, 'like an angel,'
he says.
"'What a funny creature you are!' she answers, laughing a lilt of a
laugh up in his face; 'but you're not a seal,' she says, 'and so your
skin would do me no good.'
"'Whew!' thought John O'Glin; 'whew! now all the blossom is out on the
May-bush; now my eyes are opened'; for he knew the sense of what he had
seen, and how the whole was a memory of the old world.
"'I'll tell you what it is,' said the poor fellow, for it never took him
any time at all to fall in love; 'I'll tell you what it is, don't bother
any more about your bit of a skin, but take me instead of it--that is,'
he said, and he changed colour at the bare thought of it, 'that is,
unless you're married in your own country.' And as all their discourse
went on in Hebrew and Latin, which John said he had not a perfect
knowledge of, he found it hard to make her understand at first, though
she was quick enough too; and she said she was not married, but might
have been, only she had no mind to the seal, who was her father's prime
minister, but that she had always made up her mind to marry none but a
prince. 'And are you a king's son?' she says. 'I am,' says John, as
bould as murder, and putting a great stretch on himself. 'More than
that, I'm a king's great-grandson--in these twisting times there's no
knowing who may turn up a king; but I've the blood in my veins of twenty
kings--and what's better than that, Irish kings.'
"'And have you a palace to take me to?' she says, 'and a golden girdle
to give me?'
"Now this, John thought, was mighty mean of her; but he looked in her
eyes and forgot it. 'Our love,' he says, 'pulse of my beating heart,
will build its own palace; and this girdle,' and he falls on his knees
by her side, and throws his arm round her waist, 'is better than a
girdle of gold!' Well, to be sure, there was no boy in Mayo had better
right to know how to make love than John O'Glin, for no one ever had
more practice; and the upshot of it was that (never, you may be sure,
letting on to her about the sealskin) he clapt her behind him on Molche,
and carried her home; and that same night, after he had hid the skin in
the thatch, he went to the priest--and he told him a good part of the
truth; and when he showed his reverence how she had fine gold rings and
chains, and as much cut coral as would make a reef, the priest did not
look to hear any more, but tied them at once. Time passed on gaily with
John O'Glin: he did not get a car for Molche, because no car could go
over the Mayo mountains in those days; but he got two or three stout
little nags, and his wife helped him wonderful at the fishing--there
wasn't a fin could come within half a mile of her that she wouldn't
catch--ay, and bring to shore too; only (and this was the only cross or
trouble John ever had with her, and it brought him a shame-face many a
time) she'd never wait to dress anything for herself, _only eat it raw_;
and this certainly gave him a great deal of uneasiness. She'd eat six
herrings, live enough to go down her throat of themselves, without
hardly drawing her breath, and spoil the market of cod or salmon by
biting off the tails. When John would speak to her about it, why she'd
cry and want to go back to her father, and go poking about after the
skin, which she'd never mention at any other time; so John thought it
would be best to let her have her own way, for when she had, it's
nursing the children, and singing, and fishing she'd be all day long;
they had three little children, and John had full and plenty for them
all, for she never objected to his selling her rings, or chain, or
corals; and he took bit after bit of land, and prospered greatly, and
was a sober, steady man, well-to-do; and if he could have broke her of
that ugly trick she had of eating raw fish, he'd never say no to her
yes; and she taught the young ones Hebrew, and never asked them to touch
a morsel of fish until it was put over the turf; and there were no
prettier children in all the barony than the 'seal-woman's'; with such
lovely hair and round blinking eyes, that set the head swimming in no
time; and they had sweet voices, and kind hearts that would share the
last bit they had in the world with any one, gentle or simple, that knew
what it was to be hungry; and, the Lord he knows, it isn't in Mayo their
hearts would stiffen for want of practice.
"Still John was often uneasy about his wife. More than once, when she
went with him to the shore, he'd see one or two seals walloping nearer
than he liked; and once, when he took up his gun to fire at a great
bottle-nosed one that was asleep on the sandbank, she made him swear
never to do so: 'For who knows,' she says, 'but it's one of my relations
you'd be murdering?' And sometimes she'd sit melancholy-like, watching
the waves, and tears would roll down her little cheeks; but John would
soon kiss them away.
[Illustration: "Biddy"
The Lunatic of Kylemore]
"Poor fellow! much as he loved her, he knew she was a sly little devil;
for when he'd be lamenting bitterly how cute the fish were grown, or
anything that way, she'd come up and sit down by him, and lay her soft
round cheek close to his, and take his hand between hers, and say, 'Ah,
John darlin', if you'd only find my skin for me that I lost when I found
you, see the beautiful fish I'd bring you from the bottom of the sea,
and the fine things. Oh! John, it's you then could drive a carriage
through Newport, if there were but roads to drive it on.'
"But he'd stand out that he knew nothing of the skin; and it's a wonder
he was heart-proof against her soft, deludering, soothering ways; you'd
have thought she'd been a right woman all her life, to hear her working
away at the 'Ah, do,' and 'Ah, don't'; and then, if she didn't exactly
get what she wanted, she'd pout a bit; and if that didn't do, she'd
bring him the youngest baby; and if he was hardened entirely, she'd sit
down in a corner and cry; that never failed, except when she'd talk of
the skin--and out and out, she never got any good of him about it--at
all! But there's no end of female wit; they'll sit putting that and that
together, and looking as soft and as fair-faced all the while as if they
had no more care than a blind piper's dog, that has nothing to do but to
catch the halfpence. 'I may as well give up watching her' said John to
himself; 'for even if she did find it, and that's not likely, she might
leave me (though that's not easy), but she'd never leave the children';
and so he gave her a parting kiss, and set off to the fair of Castlebar.
He was away four days, longer certainly than there was any call to have
been, and his mind reproached him on his way home for leaving her so
long; for he was very tender about her, seeing that though she was only
a seal's daughter, that seal was a king, and he made up his mind he'd
never quit her so long again. And when he came to the door, it did not
fly open, as it used, and show him his pretty wife, his little children,
and a sparkling turf fire--he had to knock at his own door.
"'Push it in, daddy,' cried out the eldest boy; "'mammy shut it after
her, and we're weak with the hunger.' So John did as his child told him,
and his heart fainted, and he staggered into the room, and then up the
ladder to the thatch--_It was gone!_--and John sat down, and his three
children climbed about him, and they all wept bitterly.
"'Oh, daddy, why weren't you back the second day, as you said you'd be?'
said one. 'And mammy bade us kiss you and love you, and that she'd come
back if she'd be let; but she found something in the thatch that took
her away.'
"'She'll never come back, darlings, till we're all in our graves,' said
poor John--'she'll never come back under ninety years; and where will we
all be then? She was ten years my delight and ten years my joy, and ever
since ye came into the world she was the best of mothers to ye all! but
she's gone--she's gone for ever! Oh, how could you leave me, and I so
fond of ye? Maybe I would have burnt the skin, only for the knowledge
that if I did, I would shorten her days on earth, and her soul would
have to begin over again as a babby seal, and I couldn't do what would
be all as one as murder.'
"So poor John lamented, and betook himself and the three children to the
shore, and would wail and cry, but he never saw her after; and the
children, so pretty in their infancy, grew up little withered atomies,
that you'd tell anywhere to be seal's children--little, cute, yellow,
shrivelled, dawshy creatures--only very sharp indeed at the learning,
and crabbed in the languages, beating priest, minister, and
schoolmaster--particularly at the Hebrew. More than once, though John
never saw her, he heard his wife singing the songs they often sung
together, right under the water; and he'd sing in answer, and then
there'd be a sighing and sobbing. Oh! it was very hard upon John, for he
never married again, though he knew he'd never live till her time was up
to come again upon the earth even for twelve hours; but he was a fine
moral man all the latter part of his life--as that showed."
As I close my book and put out my candle for the night the moonlight
streaming in at the window draws me to the casement. The bay is like a
sheet of quivering silver with the mountains of Achill and the island of
Clare towering darkly above it. On the highway winding off white in the
clear light no sign of life is visible and but for the softly sobbing
winds, the silence of the night is intense. The tide is flowing to the
sea and the waters are deserted save for one slowly drifting boat. One
is scarcely conscious at first of any sound other than that of the winds
but, as the boat draws nearer on the air floats upward one of those sad
crooning melodies of these people--at first a low monotone which rises
and rises, wailing all around and far above until the very mountains
seem to throw back the sorrow of it. Then it falters away into silence.
[Illustration: From a steel engraving
The Lynch House, Galway]