Wanderings in Ireland

by Michael Myers Shoemaker

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.