LVI.
TIPPERARY—OVER THE KNOCK-ME-LE-DOWM MOUNTAINS—"NATE CLOGHEEN"—CAHIR— WATERFORD—DUBLIN.
From Cappoquin I proposed to go to Cahir, across the pass, through the Knock-me-le-Down Mountains. Took a car for this journey which was driven by the only sullen and ill-tempered driver which I had seen on my journey through Ireland. The road passed through Lismore, a little town about four miles from Cappoquin, which is in a red hot state of excitement just now; the bitterest feelings rage about the land question. Evictions and boycottings are the order of the day. The feeling of exasperation against the police is so determined that supplies of any kind for their use could not be purchased for any money in Lismore. The police feel just as exasperated against Miss Parnell, who attends all evictions as a sympathizer with the tenants, and reports all the proceedings. The police made an effigy of her and stoned it to pieces to relieve their feelings.
The road to Lismore lay along a fair valley; the town itself was a pleasant surprise. It looked as peaceful and peaceable as possible when I passed through it; there was neither sight nor sound to reveal the present state of things among the people. From the grand castle of Lismore the road wound along between low range walls, ivy-covered and moss-grown, that fenced in extensive woods, clothing bold hills and deep valleys with wild verdure. The wildness of these woods and their thick growth of underbrush reminded me of far off Canadian forests.
We overtook a decent-looking country woman, who was toiling along the road with a big basket; the car man took her up; she seemed an old acquaintance. On one side of the road below the range wall a shallow little river ran brawling among the stones. I tried to find out its name from the woman with the basket but she could only tell its name in Irish, a very long name, and not to be got hold of hastily. "Her son was in America—God bless it for a home for the homeless!—and he had that day sent her L120, which she was carrying home in the bosom of her dress." "She had good boys who neither meddled with tobacco or drink, and not many mothers could say that for their sons." "Her boys were as good boys to their father and mother as ever wore shoes, thoughtful and quiet they were." "They had good learning and did not need to work as laborers." I asked her why she did not go out to America. "Ould trees don't take kindly to transplanting," she said, "I will see the hills I have looked at all my life around me as long as I see anything. I want the green grass that covers all my people to cover me at last."
At a turn in the road the woman left us to climb a steep boreen that led to her home among the hills, with her heavy basket and her son's love gift of L120 in her bosom, and I sat in the car dreamily looking at the wooded hills and wondered how dear a hilly country is to its inhabitants.
The most beautiful thing which I saw in Killarney was the feeling of proprietorship and kinship that all the people felt in and for the mountains and lakes. It takes a lifetime to get thoroughly acquainted with the eternal hills. They have ways of their own that they only display upon long acquaintance. You can see shadowy hands draw on the misty night cap or fold round massive shoulders the billowy gray drapery or inky cloak when passing rain squall or mountain tempest is brewing. They wrinkle their brows and draw near with austere familiarity; they retreat and let the sunshine and shadows play hide-and-seek round them, or lift their bald heads in still summer sunshine with calm joyfulness. The dwellers among them learn to love them through all their varying moods.
As I dreamed dreams the car driver, the surliest of his class which I have met, was urging a tired horse up a gradual ascent higher and higher among the hills, until we left houses, holdings, roads—except the gamekeeper's or bog rangers' track—far below us. These wild places, he told me, had no deer, but unlimited grouse, hares and rabbits. I was inclined to think very slightly of rabbits, especially when told of land that had formerly supported inhabitants having been given over to small game of this kind; but a gentleman landholder told me of a nobleman's estate (I will not name him for fear I mistake the name) which averaged 1,000 rabbits weekly, which were worth one shilling and sixpence a couple after all expenses were paid. I have respected rabbits as rivals of human beings ever since.
We got up among the bleak mountains at last, high and bare, except where their rocky nakedness was covered with ragged heather. Silent and awful their huge bulk rose behind one another skyward. After we had long passed sight or sound of human habitation, we suddenly came to a whitewashed cosy police station in the shelter of the mountains, with a pretty garden in front, and a pleasant-faced constable came down for the mail. It was such a lovely place for a man to wear a cheerful face in, that I could not help saying, "You have a nice place here, sergeant." "Yes," he smilingly answered, "but lonely enough at times." The car man was very sullen, and seemed eager to pick a quarrel with the policeman, which the other evaded with dexterous good nature, while another policeman, pipe in mouth, hands in pockets, gloomed at the driver from behind him.
I should not wonder if my driver resented me speaking to the policeman, for feeling runs high against them in these southern counties for a long time now; he was still more sullen, at all events, after we passed the station. I was told that from these Knock-me-le-Down Mountains, I could see a glimpse of the Galtees, but the mountains began to array themselves in, what the sullen driver called fog, cloaks of gray mists that fell in curling folds down their brown sides. Up and up we climbed, along a road that twisted itself among the solemn giants of the hills sitting in veiled awfulness. We passed a boundary ridge that separated the Duke of Devonshire's lands from the next landlord, and I thought we were at the highest point of the pass, and here the storm came down, and the mountain rain and mountain winds began to fight and struggle round every peak and through every glen. I have never ventured among the mountains yet without rousing the fury of the mountain spirits. The jaded horse got himself into a staggering gallop, and so, chased by the storm, we threaded our way about and around on the downward slope of the mountains. It grew very dark, and we jaunted along a bit in one direction, and then turned sharp and jaunted off in another, the driver informing me that this was the V of the mountains, and miles immeasurably spread seemed lengthening as we hurried on.
We reached at length, at the foot of the hills, the "town of nate Clogheen, where Sergeant Snap met Paddy Carey." As far as the darkness permitted us to see, Clogheen is still neat Clogheen. A little further west is the classic little town of Ballyporeen, which has danced to music that was not wedding music more than once during late years.
After we left Clogheen and struck through a wide plain for Cahir the moon came out and touched the dark mountains with silver and they folded away their gray robes until we should return. Those eight Irish miles from Clogheen to Cahir were the longest miles I have ever met with, exceeding in length the famous Rasharken miles. Here in a rambling, forsaken like assemblage of stairs and passages, called a hotel, we found a room and I rested for the remaining hours of the night. I never bestowed whip money so grudgingly as I did on the sullen driver who brought me through the Knock-me-le-down mountains. Under his care all my bags and parcels came to grief in the most innocently unaccountable way and were carried in in a wrecked condition.
In the morning the melancholy waiter who set my little breakfast at one end of a desert of a table in a dusty wilderness of a room, commenced bemoaning over the poverty of the country. It was a market morning and there were many asses, creels and carts with fish drawn up in the market place. I ventured to suggest a fish for breakfast, which was an utter impossibility. Cahir has a handsome old castle standing close to its main street which is still inhabited.
We dropped down by rail through Clonmel to Waterford, our companions by the way being all returning tourists, English and Welsh people over for a holiday to see the disturbances in Ireland, which they had always missed seeing some way. We amused ourselves in drawing comparisons between the lines of rail in Ireland and those in other countries to the total disparagement of Irish railways. They spoke of the railways in England and Wales, and I exalted Canadian railways.
Waterford seemed a pretty, lively, bustling town. The river seemed alive with boats; there was a good deal of building going on near the depot, and the people had a step and an air as if they had something to do and were hurrying to do it. It looked very unlike its ancient name, which was, I am told, the Glen of Lamentation. Tales still linger here of the sack of Waterford by Strongbow and his marriage to Princess Eva, and of the landing here of Henry the Second when he came to take possession.
From Waterford up through Kilkenny in the sunshine, wondering to see hay
still being cut in September. Heard no word of Kilkenny black coal or
Kilkenny marble and passed on to Bagenalstown in Carlow and up through
Kildare to Dublin.
The days were passing so swiftly away that there was but a little time to see Dublin sights; the question was, therefore, what to see and what not to see. Owing to the kindness of Miss Leitch, an art student, I had the privilege of half an hour in the Academy. Having so little time I spent it all before Maclise's picture of the marriage of Strongbow and Princess Eva and in a small way understood how a great painter can tell a story. The museum of Irish antiquities was the next place. I wanted to see the brooch of Tara and saw it, but I was not prepared to see so many reliques of gold and silver telling their own tale of the grandeur of the native rulers of the Ireland of long ago. The ingenuity shown in the broad collars of beaten gold which made them be alike fitted for collar or tiara was surprising. The shape of the brooches and cloak clasps are so like the Glenelg heirlooms which I saw in Glengarry families that the relationship between the clans of the Highlands and the Irish septs is quite apparent. There was quite a large room entirely devoted to gold and silver ornaments. One side was given up to gold collars, neck ornaments, bracelets, armlets and cloak clasps, all of gold. There was another cabinet of rings of various kinds. Some of the rings and bracelets are quite like modern ones. Saint Patrick's bell was another object of great interest to me. It was plain and common-looking, evidently for use, shaped a good deal like a common cow bell. I liked to think how often it had called the primitive people to hear God's message of mercy to them from the lips of his laborious messenger. Beside it stood the elaborate case which the piety of other ages manufactured for the bell. It is such an easy matter to deck shrines and garnish the sepulchres of the righteous when they are gone past the place where the echoes of man's praise can reach. It is easier than hearing and obeying the message which they carry. We were given a powerful magnifying glass to inspect the workmanship of the shrine that held the bell, but my thoughts would turn back to the plain common-looking bell itself. Still I did admire the exquisite workmanship of the shrine, which could only be fully appreciated when seen through the magnifying glass. It required the magnifying glass also to fully bring out the richness of the delicate tracery on the brooch of Tara. There were in another room quite a number of short swords of cast bronze similar to the one presented to me in Mayo. Some of them had been furbished up till they looked like gold. There were some specimens of the bronze chain mail used by the ancient Irish, and the foot covering, which they wore a good deal like Indian moccassins, answering exactly to the description given by Scott in the notes to the Lady of the Lake, of the kind of brogans of the dun deer's hide which shod the fleet-footed Malise, messenger of the fiery cross. There was also a woollen dress found in a bog, which was exactly shaped like a modern princess dress. I was sorry I had only one poor sixty minutes to carry off all my eyes could gather up in that time of these reliques of ancient Ireland. I would recommend any one who cares for the ancient history of Ireland to study these records of the past. What we see affects us more than what we hear.