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.
Photo by W. Leonard