Castle of Inismore, Barony of ————.
Ay, ‘tis even so—point your glasses—and rub your eyes, ‘tis all one; here I am, and here I am likely to remain for some time, but whether a prisoner of war, taken up on a suspicion of espionage, or to be offered as an appeasing sacrifice to the manes of the old Prince of Inismore, you must for a while suspend your patience to learn.
According to the carte du pays laid out for me by the fisherman, I left the shore and crossed the summit of a mountain that “battled o’er the deep,” and which after an hour’s ascension, I found sloped almost perpendicularly down to a bold and rocky coast, its base terminating in a peninsula, that advanced for near half a mile into the ocean. Towards the extreme western point of this peninsula, which was wildly romantic beyond all description, arose a vast and grotesque pile of rocks, which at once formed the site and fortifications of the noblest mass of ruins on which my eye ever rested. Grand even in desolation, and magnificent in decay—it was the Castle of Inismore. The setting sun shone brightly on its mouldering turrets, and the waves which bathed its rocky basis, reflected on their swelling bosoms the dark outlines of its awful ruins. *
* Those who have visited the Castle of Dunluce, near the
Giant’s Causeway, may, perhaps, have some idea of its
striking features in this rude draught of the Castle of
Inismore.
As I descended the mountain’s brow I observed that the little isthmus which joined the peninsula to the main land had been cut away, and a curious danger-threatening bridge was rudely thrown across the intervening gulf, flung from the rocks on one side to an angle of the mountain on the other, leaving a yawning chasm of some fathoms deep beneath the foot of the wary passenger. This must have been a very perilous pass in the days of civil warfare; and in the intrepidity of my daring ancestor, I almost forgot his crime. Amidst the interstices of the rocks which skirted the shores of this interesting peninsula, patches of the richest vegetation were to be seen, and the trees which sprung wildly among its venerable ruins, were bursting into all the vernal luxuriancy of spring. In the course of my descent, several cabins of a better description than I had yet seen, appeared scattered beneath the shelter of the mountain’s innumerable projections; while in the air and dress of the inhabitants (which the sound of my horse’s feet brought to their respective doors,) I evidently perceived a something original and primitive, I had never noticed before in this class of persons here.
They appeared to me, I know not why, to be in their holiday garb, and their dress, though grotesque and coarse, was cleanly and characteristic. I observed that round the heads of the elderly dames were folded several wreaths of white or coloured linen, * and others had hand kerchiefs ** lightly folded round their brows, and curiously fastened under the chin; while the young wore their hair fastened up with wooden bodkins. They were all enveloped in large shapeless mantles of blue frieze, and most of them had a rosary hanging on their arm, from whence I inferred they were on the point of attending vespers at the chapel of Inismore.
* “The women’s ancient headdress so perfectly resembles that
of the Egyptian Isis, that it cannot be doubted but that the
modes of Egypt were preserved among the Irish.”—Walker on
the Ancient Irish dress, p. 62.
** These handkerchiefs they call “Binnogues,” it is a remnant
of a very ancient mode.
I alighted at the door of a cabin a few paces distant from the Alpine bridge, and entreated a shed for my horse, while I performed my devotions. The man to whom I addressed myself, seemed the only one of several who surrounded me that understood English, and appeared much edified by my pious intention, saying, “that God would prosper my Honour’s journey, and that I was welcome to a shed for my horse, and a night’s lodging for myself into the bargain.” He then offered to be my guide, and as we crossed the drawbridge, he told me I was out of luck by not coming earlier, for that high mass had been celebrated that morning for the repose of the soul of a Prince of Inismore, who had been murdered on this very day of the month. “And when this day comes round,” he added, “we all attend dressed in our best; for my part, I never wear my poor old grandfather’s berrad but on the like occasion,” taking off a curious cap of a conical form, which he twirled round his hand and regarded with much satisfaction. *
* A few years back, Hugh Dugan, a peasant of the county of
Kilkenny, who affected the ancient Irish dress, seldom
appeared without his berrad.
By heavens! as I breathed this region of superstition, so strongly was I infected, that my usual scepticism was scarcely proof against my inclination to mount my horse and gallop off, as I shudderingly pronounced, “I am then entering the castle of Inismore on the anniversary of that day on which my ancestors took the life of its venerable Prince!”