FOOTNOTES:
[1] The Preface of George Buchanan's Poetical Paraphrase upon the five books of Psalms.
Translated literally into English by Pat Stobin, A. M. Copied by me from the MS. copy of Stobin at Tanderagee, owned by the Duke of Manchester. The whole book is in MS.
M. M. Shoemaker.
[2] The late Professor Stokes ventured to say that an English Peer is a more welcome visitor at the Vatican than an Irish Roman Catholic Bishop.
[CHAPTER III]
Through Newcastle to Downpatrick—Grave of St. Patrick—His Life and Work—The Old Grave-Digger—Belfast and Ballygalley Bay—O'Halloran the Outlaw.
It is nearly six o'clock when we start from Newry towards Newcastle. Our road lies down the river, and so on by the sea the entire distance.
The highway is excellent all the way, some thirty-two miles, and the car speeds onward like a bird. The scenery is lovely, the glimpses of mountain and meadow, sea and sky enchanting.
About 7.20 brings us to the hotel at Slieve Donard, a very large costly establishment built by the railway company. It is evidently a watering-place of some importance, and next month (July) will see it crowded. The place is pleasantly situated by the sea and presided over by the Mourne Mountains. There are golf-links and the walks and drives are fine, but otherwise there is nothing of interest, and we shall move northward to Dundrum.
The morning is clear and crisp as we leave Newcastle, getting lost at once in the many byways, but that is rather a pleasure than an annoyance. All the roadbeds are fine hereabouts and we roll merrily along over hill and down dale until Downpatrick comes into view, and we pass up her streets to her ancient cathedral, and there pay our devotions at the grave of St. Patrick.
The church stands well above its ancient city and is visible from all the country round about. Several places claim the birthplace of St. Patrick, but that benign Scotchman was born near Dunbarton. He himself says that his father was a deacon and his grandfather a priest. He was a nephew of St. Martin of Tours, the sister of that holy man having been the mother of the Irish patron. His name was Succat, but it is by his Latin name of Patricius that he is known best to the millions who revere his memory.
Ireland during its first millennium was called Scotland, and its people "Scots," and by these St. Patrick was taken prisoner when he was but sixteen years of age and carried to Antrim, where he was held for six years and forced to care for the swine of Michu, a chieftain. We are told that this occurred in the mountain of Llemish near Ballymena. During this period his thoughts were ever turned towards Christianity and after having effected his escape he is next heard of at Auxerre with its Bishop, Germanus, by whom he was admitted to holy orders. His thoughts always turned towards Ireland and here he landed when he was sixty years of age near the present church of Saul on Strangford Lough in 432 A.D. This was but four miles from Downpatrick, and there the Lord promptly blessed his work by enabling him to convert the chieftain of the district, Dichu, to Christianity, receiving as a gift the barn of that same chieftain, which formed the first Christian church of this island. The present church of Saul stands on the spot and that name is but a corruption of the ancient one of "Patrick's Sabball," or barn.
From here the faith spread until it covered all the land, and here in 492 he died.
Both Armagh and Dundalethglass—Downpatrick—claimed a right to provide him with a tomb, and to settle the dispute two untamed oxen were yoked to his bier, and they stopped on this hill of Downpatrick. As to what sort of a wild ride they gave his saintship before, out of wind, they rested on this hill, history is silent, but, being Irish, there is no doubt but that he thoroughly enjoyed it.
I have always regretted that during an ocean voyage which I once made with the late Bishop Donnelly, I did not make inquiry concerning this funeral progress, for I have no doubt but that his reverence—he was not a Bishop then—knew all about it. I have never met any one who more thoroughly appreciated the sunshine and sorrow, the laughter and tears of the land he loved so well, and I greatly regret that that voyage was so short and that the good Bishop so soon thereafter entered into his rest. But to return.
As far as the actual grave of St. Patrick is concerned, there is, of course, no certainty; that he was buried somewhere on this hill appears beyond doubt, and probably near the spot the church was built on, but that his body remained long in the grave after he was elevated to the sainthood is clearly doubtful. Probably every church in Ireland has at one time contained a relic of his. As for this original church here, it is spoken of way back in the sixth century and again in the eleventh. The first claimed to have been erected by the saint himself.
The relics of Columba were brought from Iona here and it is related that it was that saint who enshrined those of St. Patrick just three-score years after his death. In his tomb were found his goblet, his Angel's Gospel, and the Bell of the Testament.
Into St. Patrick's tomb went also the bones of St. Brigid. The Danes came here, and Strongbow and King John passed by.
The present church is supposed to be only the choir of the great edifice—the second church—built by De Courcey and destroyed by Edward, Lord Cromwell in 1605; but it is so completely restored that it is of little interest, though very comfortable withal.
Photo by Wm. Lawrence
Terrace at Tanderagee Castle
Just outside there stands a venerable grave-digger amongst the tombs, who might almost have been here fifteen hundred years ago, and certainly he would resent any insinuation that he was not well informed upon all which may or may not have occurred since the death of the saint. He is leaning upon his rake near the church door, and returns our salutation in an antique manner, nothing about him as it were, belonging to this latter day or date. "Yes, the cathedral can be visited, but perhaps 'twould be as well to visit the tomb, I will show you that,—who better?"
It is off amongst a tangle of tombstones and high grasses, a great flat irregular boulder engraved with a Celtic cross and the saint's name—evidently the sinful dead have crowded as closely as possible around the saintly ashes in order perhaps to pass into the heavenly gates unobserved with such great company to chain the attention of St. Peter. But some of these around started on their last journey hundreds of years after St. Patrick,—still, as we are told that "in His sight a thousand years are but as yesterday," perhaps they all arrived together, and I doubt not that for his beloved Irish the holy Patrick would delay his entry as long as possible and even come back again from that farther shore at the calling of some late comers.
When I ask this grave-digger whether this be indeed the grave of the holy man, he looks wise, plucks a bit of grass from a near-by grave, and seizes his opportunity for an oration. It is useless to stop him with questions, he will answer as and when it pleases him; and so, sitting upon the tomb with the sunlight falling in a glowing benediction upon us living and upon the old cathedral and its silent company, he speaks on and on. "There's many, your honour, phwat has heads but don't use thim. Is this the grave you ask. Well I have puzzled out the question for many years. I don't believe it is, as I suggested this spot to the antiquary society myself. In owlden days the spot prayed upon as his tomb was under yonder middle window of the church, but whin a bishop came along who wanted more silf-glory than one driveway would give him, he made that one there, and in so doing moved the owld tombstone,—not that I am claiming that even that was the first one laid upon the blessed corpse, for an owld woman of eighty who lived here until she was ten and then moved away, came back to bid farewell to her native town on going to America, and upon being shown the tomb undher the window asked since whin had the dead taken to moving their graves, for whin she left here it was below there in the valley. But we know it was around here some place, and this new spot is as good as any other." "Did St. Pathrick build that church?—no, sure, yer honour, he was not the kind of a man who wint around glorifying himself. If he had had as much money as that cost 't would be the poor who would have got it. Still, the church yonder is fifteen hundred years old, though it has been so built over that it is hard to believe it."
The old man would have talked on for ever, but, like most of his age, it would have been but vain repetition, and so we move off and away, feeling sure that the spirit of the benign old saint returns now and then in floods of warm sunlight to his ancient cathedral of Downpatrick.
Like most grave-diggers, the man up there knew more of the past than of the present, and when he told us that we would find a fine ferry from Strangford across the outlet of the lough of that name he spoke without advisement. We found a proposition to place some planks from one boat to another and so to ferry us and our great machine over one of the deepest, swiftest currents passing outward to the sea. It is useless to say that I vetoed this proposition, so we rolled backward almost to Downpatrick, and then turned north-west towards Belfast, which we reached for luncheon.
When I pass a city like Belfast without notice, it is not that there is not much of interest there, but that it has been so often described, and I would confine these notes to those more unfamiliar spots with which Ireland abounds, places of which the general run of travellers knows nothing. Yet Belfast, like its great neighbour Glasgow, possesses much of interest of which the guide-books make no note.
Leaving the busy city of the north, our route lies towards the sea and by the sea for some hours, the roads all very good. We pass Carrickfergus and Larne and on the shores of Ballygalley Bay, coming to a sudden stoppage, discover on investigation that our stupid chauffeur has allowed the gasoline to run out. What to do is a problem, as we are some miles from any town and the road is a lonely one. To assist in a solution of the question Boyse goes to sleep in the motor and I go out on a lonely rock at sea where O'Halloran, that most renowned outlaw in Irish history, built his tower,—all in ruins now. For ten years he kept all this district in subjection and was killed in 1681.
There is but little left of his stronghold here—an angle of a tower, an outline of a wall or two,—all on a tiny island around which murmur the waters of the Irish Sea, while far out, seemingly afloat, in the hazy distance rise the shadowy shores of Scotland. That is Cantyre and Arran over yonder. There are no sails in sight and the sea is asleep. The high-road winds away close down by the shore on either hand, while high behind it the fantastic cliffs tower some three hundred feet and more, wild and desolate. To have passed this way in the days of O'Halloran, without paying heavy tribute, if he allowed you to go at all, would have been well-nigh impossible, and our further progress, unless that petrol comes, is as effectively prohibited.
Photo by W. Leonard
The Tomb of St. Patrick
But there is peace about just now, the drifting clouds above, the lapping waters and silent hills all around, Boyse still sleeping, and the auto seemingly dead, while Yama occupies a pinnacle of an adjacent rock, a bronze Buddha on its travels, as it were. But far down the coast road a white speck shortly evolves into a jaunting-car laden with petrol cans—we had sent word back by a passing cyclist—whose contents are promptly transferred into our tank, and then with all paid for we glide away to the north, with one last glimpse at the ruined tower in its bay of Ballygalley.
I should make the chauffeur pay for his stupidity about that petrol, but I don't suppose I shall do so.
The ride to Ballycastle is joyous, the road very fine and smooth, running now by the glistening sea and then far up a thousand feet amidst the silence of the hill and moors, over which flocks of sheep are browsing upon grass rich and thick.
Several towns are holding fairs, and we have met two "Irish gentlemen" returning home who would not care to-day whether the Emerald Isle got her freedom or not. One led a huge stallion which pranced and snorted at our passing, but while unable to stand straight, his keeper held on to his charge, and I doubt not got him home safely, occupying most all the roadway in his progress. It will be a very sorry day indeed when an Irishman, no matter what his condition, cannot hold on to a horse.
Ballycastle is reached at eight o'clock and we find quarters in a very comfortable inn—the Marine Hotel,—after a run of over one hundred miles.
[CHAPTER IV]
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 half-way 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Photo by W. Leonard
A Glimpse of Achill