Books: The Letters of Norah on her Tour Through Ireland

M >> Margaret Dixon McDougall >> The Letters of Norah on her Tour Through Ireland

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LIV.

CORK, TO BANDON, SKIBBEREEN AND SKULL.

From Cork by the new railway to Skibbereen there is one rather
noticeable feature by the way. All the way stations in small places are
wooden houses built American fashion, either clapboarded or upright
boards battened where they meet. The road is through a hilly country and
therefore lies mostly through deep cuttings that shut out the scenery.
There is one long tunnel not far from Cork that educates you into a
sense of what utter darkness means. It is pleasant to look over rich
pastures back to the city crowding its lofty hills, and to notice what a
grand steeple-crowned city it is.

The train crawls along through deep cuts, past these little wooden
stations where everything is more primitive and backwoods looking than
anything I have seen before in Ireland. The porters are civil and
obliging, ready to answer the questions of the ignorant, even of those
who travel third-class. The vast majority of the passengers are small
traders, market-women and farmers' wives, who have been away making
purchases.

By the time we reach Dunmanway we had our allowance of light served out
to us, a lamp being thrust through the ceiling of the car from the top,
and by its light we steamed into Skibbereen. I expected Skibbereen to be
a small assemblage of mud huts, but was surprised to find it a large
town of tall houses. As the bus rattled along through one gaslight
street after another, I kept asking myself, is this really Skibbereen.

The little hotel where we stopped was very comfortable, very clean, and
possesses a good cook. The next day in exploring the by streets and
suburbs of the town I saw poverty enough, want enough. It was market day
and the streets were crowded with country women in blue cloaks. These
cloaks are all the same make, but some of them, owing to their material,
were very stylish and shrouded as pretty black eyed, black-haired, rosy-
cheeked women as I ever saw. Some of these cloaks are made of very fine
material, the pleating about the shoulders very artistic, and the wide
hoods lined with black satin when worn round the face make the wearers
look like fancy pictures. Some of the women gather them round them in
folds like drapery. I noticed at once that the artist who made the
statues of O'Connell and Father Mathew had studied the drapery from the
cloaks of some Claddagh or Skibbereen woman.

Market day is used as a day for confession, and the clergy are on hard
duty on that day. Skibbereen boasts of a bishop and numerous resident
priests. The town is as quiet as if such a thing as a riot, an outrage
or a mob was never known.

In a little corner, squeezed in between houses, is a neat Methodist
chapel and the parsonage beside it. Called on the minister, who received
me graciously and was courteous and communicative. Having been by virtue
of his office over a great part of Ireland he had seen a good deal of
the oppression of the tenant, partly from the thoughtlessness of
absentee landlords, partly from the want of any sympathy with the
tenants. Had the Land League confined themselves to moderate efforts,
and to the employment of constitutional means--means not tending to the
dismemberment of the empire, he would have joined them with heart and
soul, knowing the need there was of redress to the wrongs of the small
farmer. He advised me to take a car and go on to Skull through
Ballydehob if I wished to see poverty and misery.

The road from Skibbereen to Ballydehob and Skull runs along the coast
mostly. All that grand rocks and great stretches of water dotted with
many islands can do to make this scenery grand, wild and romantic has
been done by Dame Nature. It is not satisfying to merely pass along. One
would like to tarry here and get acquainted with nature in these out-of-
the-way haunts of hers. The cottages are most miserable, most ruinous.
There is no limestone here. It resembles Achil Island in this respect.
The houses are built of stones and daubed with clay. The clay soon
filters away under the combined action of winter wind and winter frost,
and the houses look like piles of stones tottering to fall.

I heard of a pier being built somewhere here, with part of the Canadian
money, which a priest assured me would be a great benefit to the poor
people. I was very sorry to leave this part without seeing more of the
country and the people. I left Skibbereen on a car for a journey by the
coast the other way to meet the train at Bandon to return to Cork.

The only industry of any kind which I saw between Skibbereen and Bandon
was a slate quarry which they told me shipped a great quantity of slates
besides supplying local demands. As we advanced eastward we left the
heather-clad mountains behind us, the landscape softened down
considerably, and became almost empty of inhabitants. That reminds me
that about Skull was almost emptied of inhabitants also. About the time
of the great famine the people fled away. The remains of houses are
scattered all along on that road. Some cause has also emptied this part
of the country of people. There is much unreclaimed land here, which is
not to be wondered at, seeing that a fine for reclamation was exacted in
the shape of increased rent.

Clonakilty is another little town thronged with small traders and places
"licensed to sell." As we passed east the long boundary walls that
enclose gentlemen's plantations begin to prevail.

A little way, maybe two miles, out of Clonakilty is the property of Mr.
Bence Jones, who has created some stir in the world. One hears story
after story of his grasping and overbearing disposition. The chief
accusation is adding to a man's rent if his father dies. Case after case
of this was spoken of by the passengers on the car with me. Whether
these accusations against Mr. Bence Jones were true or false, here is
his place, and a very fine place it is. The lodge is at one side of the
road, the entrance to his residence at the other. The residence is very
nice, very commodious, and is at some distance from the road. The
property is extensive, but very poor land--mountain and bog. His walled-
in plantation ran along the road for quite a great distance. When they
spoke of him on the car the mere mention of his name caused the driver
to lose himself in profanity.

From Clonakilty to Bandon was a long, dreary drive, and the night had
fallen for some time, sharp and chill, before we entered the second time
into merry Bandon town. It is quite a large place, and, entered by
another way than the railway, looks bright and pleasant. The houses are
lofty on the principal streets, and the whole town has a scattered
appearance. It was a welcome sight to us, weary of travelling by car,
and visions of a warm fire and a good supper--for I had travelled from
breakfast without waiting to eat--ran in my head; but it was Saturday
night, a train was almost due for Cork, and, contenting myself with an
after-night glimpse of merry Bandon town, I came to the ponderous
station, and started in due time for Cork.

At one of the first way stations, where is the little clapboarded
waiting-room, two policemen entered our compartment with a prisoner.
Whether he was a suspect or was charged with a specific crime we did not
learn, but surely such a poor scare-crow never was arrested before. He
was black with dirt, as if he had been taken out of the bog, or from a
coal-pit. His clothes were thin and ragged, and he had such a fierce,
desperate look. The policemen fraternized with their fellow-passengers
and chatted merrily. The prisoner listened to their talk with a kind of
dumb fierceness, shaking his head from side to side as I have seen an
angry horse do. It was very chilly, and he was so miserably clad that he
shivered, though he tried not to do so.

The way was long by train, and he might have marched for many a weary
mile before he got on the train. He lay down on the seat and tried to
sleep but could not, so he started up and resumed the wild glancing from
side to side and the fierce head shakes. I began to think he might be
very hungry, and if he was, he was not likely to get anything in gaol
till morning. I had some biscuits and cheese in my satchel, and they
began to struggle to get out, and at last I consented and handed the
little parcel silently to the prisoner. He did not thank me, except by
falling to and eating like a famished creature.

Arrived at Cork, the police took him away on a car, and the last glimpse
I got of him he was eating as if he had not eaten before for a week.

I was very thankful when Sabbath morning found me in Cork again and with
power to rest. There is not much appearance of Sabbath in the streets of
Cork; it looks like a vast crowd keeping holiday. A great many shops are
open; the stall women are in their places and seem to drive a good
trade. I even heard a woman crying her wares as on any other day. I do
not think that a little more Sabbath would hurt this fair town in the
very least. I rested this day.

In the evening I had the pleasure of hearing "the bells of Shandon"
ringing the people in to worship in the old Shandon Church. I heard them
while walking by "the pleasant waters of the river Lee." I followed
their chime and enjoyed it, sweetly solemn and grand it was, and thought
of Father Prout who has made them so famous, and finally found myself at
Shandon church.

When the chimes ceased I went up the high steps into the old church. It
is very old. It is high, long and narrow. The tower, in which are the
famous bells, seems of better workmanship than the church. It is built
in stories. The bells were chiming out, "Oh, that will be joyful!" as I
entered. It is a nice, homely, comfortable church; but so plain that the
tide of fashion has rolled past it into another quarter of the town. The
pulpit and reading-desk were supplied by a gray-haired clergyman, who
had power to read the service, so that it had a newness as if it had
never been heard before and to preach to the heart. With the echo of his
words and the echo of the bells of Shandon the Sabbath closed.

LV.

THE SOUTH--THE FEELING OF THE PEOPLE--EVICTIONS AND THE LAND LAW.

In conversing with a very sensible gentleman in Cork, he mentioned the
competition among the farmers themselves as one reason of the high
rents. I have heard this brought forward again and again in every part
of Ireland. It is difficult to get so far into the confidence of the
southern people as to know what they really think or feel. Without an
introduction from one whom they trust they are very reticent and non-
committal. There is another party who will not be drawn into giving an
opinion for fear of their names appearing in print in company with these
opinions.

Cork is such a brilliant city, such a sunshiny city, for the sun shone
while I was there as it did not shine anywhere else where I have been
for the last two months, such a brisk, busy city, that I felt some
regret at leaving it. Cork is a busy town, but there are many idle hands
and hungry mouths within its boundaries.

The prevalence of drinking habits is deplored by many with whom I
conversed here. Speaking of the movement, now so rife, for encouraging
home manufacture, especially in the shoe trade, a lady remarked that if
there were a revival in trade without a revival in temperance many
shoemakers would only work three days a week as had been the case in
good times before.

It was a sunny day when I looked my last on the busy city on the river
Lee, on the numerous basket women that squat in its streets, some
knitting or crocheting for dear life, some sitting with arms crossed,
fat and lazy, basking contentedly in the sun beside their baskets of
miserable stunted apples that would be thrown to the pigs in Canada.

Between Cork and Mallow my travelling companion was an elderly
Scotchman, a cattle dealer, who deplored the disturbed state of the
country very feelingly. He admitted that there was undeniable need of a
revision of the land tenure but thought that the people went about
securing it in a very wrong way. I ventured to suggest that there was
likely to be an agitation in Scotland on the land question. "Aye, there
will and must be that, but they will manage it differently," said the
old gentleman. He censured my excitable country people pretty freely. I
enquired why he did not return to Scotland to live in that tranquil
country. "He had been long, out of Scotland, about forty years, and had
got into the ways of the Irish, and truly they were a kind-hearted
people and easily pleased."

Another gentleman in this compartment pointed out to me Blarney Castle
in the distance, and Blarney woollen mills nearer hand, where the
celebrated Blarney tweed is manufactured, and whispered to me that
Father ----, I did not catch the name with the noise of the cars, had
appeared in a suit of Blarney tweed. There and then I wished that every
reverend Father in Ireland was dressed in native manufacture.

A little fiddler was playing in the car for halfpence, and the Irish
gentleman paid him to play Scotch tunes in our honor, thinking we were
both Scotch, I and the old Scotch gentleman. I asked the child to play
"Harvey Duff," as I wanted to hear that most belligerent tune. The poor
child looked as frightened as if I had asked him to commit high treason
and shook his head. At Mallow the fine old Scotchman got off the train.
We had had a long talk on country and country's needs, and his fervent
"God bless you" at parting was a comfort and encouragement to me, indeed
it was.

At a station we took up some police who had been drinking--one sergeant
was very drunk; then some soldiers who had been drinking, and some
civilians who were in the same state. One fine looking young farmer of
the better sort was fighting drunk. There were sober people and a good
many women also on the car. It was one of those cars whose compartments
are boxed up halfway. The sergeant spilled a box of wafers and felt that
he did not wish to pick them up; another policeman in an overcoat set
himself to gather them up. I heard the young farmer say to him, "You're
a peeler," and in a moment every man in the car was on his feet. We had
not yet left the station, and many women rushed out of the car. The
official came and locked the doors, and we steamed out of the station
with all the men on their feet in a crowd, gesticulating and shouting at
one another at the top of their voices. As they swayed about with the
motion of the carriage, every soldier and constable with his rifle in
his hand, I found myself wondering if they were loaded or could possibly
go off of themselves.

As soon as I could distinguish words among the war of sounds I
understood that the young farmer accused the soberest sergeant of being
one of the party that shot young Hickey at Dr. Pomeroy's, and that he
was burning for revenge. The constable was a Northman, I knew by his
tongue, and he was at a northern white heat of anger. The young farmer
was almost mad with rage and drink. The drunken sergeant seemed to sober
in the congenial element of a probable row, and he and two sober
civilians exerted themselves to keep the peace, and to pacify the farmer
and get him to sit down.

In one of the pauses in the storm the peace-making sergeant wanted a
match; an old man behind me who had matches was appealed to for one and
he declined, averring with much simplicity that he was afraid of being
shot. His wife in a vigorous whisper advised him to keep his matches in
his pocket. Everyone in that car, drunk or sober, peace-making or not,
sympathised with that young farmer and were against the police.

We reached Fermoy quite late. The next morning early I took a car and
drove out to Mitchelstown, at the foot of the Galtees. Passed at a
distance, half hidden among embowering woods, the castle residence of
Lord Mount Cashel, who seems to be as much liked here as he was on the
Galgorm estate, but there were whispered reminiscences of by-gone wicked
agents.

The country on the way to Mitchelstown is partly very rich-looking now
waving with the harvest. There is a long valley in sight stretching away
for many miles, yellow with ripened corn and dotted with farm houses,
each with a few sheltering trees. Upon what is called mountain land I
saw a fine little farm that had been reclaimed from the heather quite
recently. The farmer and his sons were binding after the cradle. He
holds this land at two shillings and sixpence an acre, and hopes under
the new Land Law that it shall not be raised on him. Mitchelstown is
quite a large place, and was as quiet as Indian summer. Had my worst
experience of hotel life in Fermoy, and gladly left it behind for
Cappoquin. The road lies alongside a lovely valley of the Blackwater,
and one has glimpses of the most enchanting scenery as they steam along.
Cappoquin is quite a nice town, and seems to have some trade by river as
well as by rail.

Walked out through the fair country to Mount Mellary Monastery, a
property reclaimed out of the stony heathery mountain by the monks of La
Trappe. They have succeeded in creating smiling fields among the waste
of the mountain wilderness. They hold the land on a lease of 999 years.
No woman is allowed into the precincts of the monastery proper, but
there is a hospice attached where travellers are received and
entertained without charge, but any gratuity is accepted. There is also
a school among the buildings.

The valley between Cappoquin and Mount Mellary is strikingly beautiful.
There is tradition of a great battle having been fought here once in the
dim past when a hundred fights was no uncommon allowance of battle to
one warrior. All is quiet and peaceful here now. The crops are being
gathered in in the sunshine, and everything is smiling and serene. I
received very much kindness in Cappoquin for which there will always be
sunshine over my memories of it.

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.

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