Louis Antoine Fauvelet de Bourrienne - "Memoirs of Napoleon Bonaparte, v12"

Oscar Wilde - "The Happy Prince and Other Tales"

Edward Peple - "A Night Out"

E. A. Allen - "The Prehistoric World: or, Vanished Races"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: The Letters of Norah on her Tour Through Ireland

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







IX.

ALONG A MOUNTAIN ROAD--WHY THE RENT WAS RAISED--TURNING FARMS INTO
PASTURES--ST. COLOMBKILL--IRISH HOSPITALITY--A NOTABLE BALLAD.


The twenty-sixth of March rose sunny and cold, and I decided to hire a
horse and guide to go to Derryveigh, made memorable by Mr. John George
Adair. The road lay through wild mountain scenery. Patches of cultivated
fields lay on the slopes; hungry whin-covered hills rose all round them,
steep mountains rank upon rank behind; deep bog lands, full of
treacherous holes, lay along at the foot of the mountain here and there.
The scenery is wild beyond description, not a tree for miles in all the
landscape.

On some of the lower hills men were ploughing with wretched-looking
horses. Men were delving with spades where horses could not keep their
footing. The houses were wretched, some only partly roofed, some with
the roof altogether gone and a shed erected inside, but for the most
wretched of all the hovels rent is exacted.

Every bit of clearing was well and carefully labored. The high, broad
stone fences round hillside fields were all gathered from the soil.

At one place, I was told that the brother of the occupant had sent him,
from America, money to make the house a little more comfortable. He
roofed it with slate. The rent was raised from L2 9s 4d to L13 10s. I
may remark here that the tenants complain that the present Earl, through
his agent, Capt. Dopping, is even more oppressive in a steady, cruel
manner than the late Earl.

The late hard times--the cruel famine--has led to the sacrifice of all
stock, so that some of these people have not a four-footed beast on
their holding.

As we wound along among the hills my guide spoke of getting another man
to accompany us, who was well acquainted with the way to Derryveigh, and
we stopped at his place accordingly. He came to the car to explain that
he was busy fanning up corn, or he would be only too glad to come. In a
subdued whisper he told my guide of Capt. Dopping having been at his
house, with his bailiffs and body-guard of police--threatening the wife,
he said. He then told of the sacrifices he had made of one thing and
another to gather up one year's rent. He had to pay five shillings for
cutting turf on his own land, and one shilling for a notice served on
him. Poor little man, he had a face that was cut for mirthfulness, and
his woefulness was both touching and amusing. So we left him and went
our way.

Along the road, winding up and down among the hills, by sudden bogs and
rocky crags still more desolate and lonely looking, we came upon a
cultured spot, now and then, where a solitary man would be digging round
the edges of the rocks. Again we were among wild mountains heaving up
their round heads to the sky and looking down at us over one another's
shoulders. It brought to my mind the Atlantic billows during the last
stormy February. It is as if the awful rolling billows mounting to the
sky were turned into stone and fixed there, and the white foam changed
into dark heather. After driving some time the landscape softened down
into rolling hills beautifully cultivated, and sprinkled here and there
with grazing cattle.

We are coming to Gartan Lake, and where there is a belt of trees by the
lake shore stands the residence of Mr. Stewart, another landlord. He,
when cattle became high-priced, thought that cattle were much preferable
to human beings, so he evicted gradually the dwellers who had broken in
the hills, and entered into possession, without compensation, of the
fields, the produce of others' toil and sweat. His dwelling is in a
lonely, lovely spot, and it stands alone, for no cottage home is at all
near. He has wiped out from the hill sides every trace of the homes of
those who labored on these pleasant fields and brought them under
cultivation. Since the Land League agitation began he has given a
reduction of rents, and the whole country side feel grateful and
thankful.

There is no solitude so great that we do not meet bailiffs at their
duty, or policemen on the prowl.

We are now nearing Derryveigh. There are two lakes lying along the
valley connected with a small stream. My guide informed me that both
lakes once abounded with salmon. The celebrated St. Colombkill was born
on the shores of the Gartan Lake. Being along the lake one day he asked
some fishermen on the lower lake to share with him of the salmon they
had caught. They churlishly refused, and the saint laid a spell on the
waters, and no salmon come there from that day to this. They are
plentiful in Upper Gartan Lake, and come along the stream to the
dividing line, where the stream is spanned by a little rustic bridge;
here they meet an invisible barrier, which they cannot pass. I told my
guide in return the story of the Well of St. Keyne, but he thought it
unlikely. So there is a limit to belief.

Since Mr. Adair depopulated Derryveigh, and gave it over to silence, the
roads have been neglected, and have become rather difficult for a car.
The relief works in famine time have been mainly road-making, and there
are smooth hard roads through the hills in all directions, so the people
complain of roads that would not be counted so very bad in the Canadian
backwoods. However, the difficulty being of a rocky nature, we left the
car at the house of a dumb man, the only one of the inhabitants spared
by Adair. He and his sister, also dumb, lived together on the mountain
solitudes. She is dead, and a relative, the daughter of one of the
evicted people, has come to keep house for him. He made us very welcome,
seeing to it that the horse was put up and fed with sheaf oats. I and my
guides, for we were now joined by the man who had had the oats to fan--
he had got his brother to take his place and came a short cut across the
hills to meet us--so we all three set out to walk over Derryveigh.

It was a trying walk, a walk to be measured by ups and downs, for the
Derryveigh hamlets were widely scattered. There they were--roofless
homes, levelled walls, desolation and silence. And it is a desolation,
indeed. Broken down walls here and there, singly and in groups, mark the
place where there was a contented population when Mr. Adair bought the
estate. He had made plans for turning his purchase into a veritable El
Dorado. The barren mountains are fenced off, surely at a great expense,
that no sheep or lamb might bite a heather bell without pay. It was to
be a great pasture for black-faced sheep. The sides of the mountains,
which are bog in many places, are scored with drains to dry up the bog
holes and give the sheep a sure footing. I did not see many sheep on the
hill or many cattle on the deserted farms. It is an awfully lonesome
place; desolation sits brooding among the broken-down walls. My guide, a
lonesome-looking man, enlivened our way by remarks like these: "This was
a widdy's house. She was a well-doin' body." "Here was a snug place.
See, there's the remains of a stone porch that they built to break off
the wind." "That was Jamie Doherty's, he that died on the road-side
after he was evicted. You see, nobody dare lift the latch or open the
door to any of the poor creatures that were put out."

And this has been done; human beings have died outside under the sky for
no crime, and this under the protection of English law. Many of these
people lost their reason, and are in the asylum at Letterkenny. Some are
still _coshering_ here and there among their charitable neighbors,
while many are bitter hearted exiles across the sea. After walking up
and down amid this pitiful desolation, and hearing many a heart-rending
incident connected with the eviction, a sudden squall of hail came on,
and we were obliged to take shelter on the lee side of a ruined wall
till it blew over. To while away the time one of the guides told me of a
local song made on the eviction, the refrain being, "Five hundred
thousand curses on cruel John Adair."

Across the Gartan Lake we could see from our partial shelter the point
to which Mr. Stewart wasted the people off his estate. Mr. Stewart's is
a handsome lonely place, but when one hears all these tales of
spoliation it prevents one from admiring a fine prospect. "He is dealing
kindly with the people now," said my guides, "whatever changed his heart
God knows."

The shower being over we returned to the house of the dummy. In our
absence dinner had been prepared for us. She had no plates, but the
table on which she laid oat cakes was as white as snow. She gave us a
little butter, which, by the signs and tokens, I knew to be all she had,
boiled eggs, made tea of fearful strength, and told us to eat. My guides
enjoyed the mountain fare with mountain appetites. I tried to eat, but
somehow my throat was full of feelings. I had great difficulty to make
this mountain maid accept of a two shilling piece for her trouble. We
returned by the way we came to a point where we had a view of a rectory
which was pointed out to me as the abode of another good rector. These
people do seem to feel kindness very much. Here we took another road to
visit Glenveigh and see Adair's castle. On the way we were informed by a
woman, speaking in Irish, that a process-server near Creeslach was fired
at through the window of his house. He had been out serving processes,
and was at home sitting with his head resting on his hand. Three shots
were fired, two going over his head and one going through the hand on
which his head was resting. Two men are taken up to-day.

* * * * *

I have secured a copy of the ballad referred to by our guide, which
records the desolation of Derryveigh. All such actions are celebrated in
local poetry; but this is one of the fiercest; you can publish it if you
think best:--

DERRYVEIGH.

"The cold snow rests on levelled walls, where was a happy home,
The wintry sky looks down upon a desolate hearthstone.
The hearth by which the cradle song has lulled our infant's sleep,
Is open to the pitying skies that nightly o'er it weep.
There is rippling in the waters, there is rustling through the air,
Five hundred thousand curses upon cruel John Adair.

"It is not we that curse him, though in woe our sad heart bleeds,
The curse that's on him is the curse that follows wicked deeds.
He suspected and he punished, he judged, and then he drew
The besom of destruction our quiet homesteads through;
So it's rippling in the waters, it is rustling through the air,
Five hundred thousand curses upon cruel John Adair.

"We little dreamed upon our hills destruction's hour was nigh,
Woe! Woe the day our quiet glens first met his cruel eye!
He coveted our mountains all in an evil hour,
We have tasted of his mercy, and felt his grasp of power;
Through years to come of summer sun, of wintry sleet and snow,
His name shall live in Derryveigh as Campbell's in Glencoe.

"A tear is on each heather bell where heaven's dew distils,
And weeping down the mountain side flows on a thousand rills;
The winds rush down the empty glens with many a sigh and moan,
Where little children played and sang is desolate and lone.
The scattered stones of many homes have witnessed our despair,
And every stone's a monument to cruel John Adair.

"Where are the hapless people, doomed by John Adair's decree?
Some linger in the drear poor-house--some are beyond the sea;
One died behind the cold ditch--back beneath the open sky,
And every star in heaven was a witness from on high.
None dared to ope a friendly door, or lift a neighbor's latch,
Or shelter by a warm hearthstone beneath the homely thatch.

"Beside the lake in sweet Glenveigh, his tall white castle stands,
With battlement and tower high, fresh from the mason's hands;
It's built of ruined hearth stones, its cement is bitter tears,
It's a monument of infamy to all the future years,
He is written childless, for of his blood no heir
Shall inherit land or lordship from cruel John Adair.

"His cognizance the bloody hand has a wild meaning now,
It is pointing up for vengeance to Cain-like mark his brow,
It speaks of frantic hands that clasped the side posts of the door;
Pale lips that kissed the threshold they would cross, oh, never more.
The scattered stones of many homes, the desolated farms,
Shall mark with deeper red the hand upon his coat of arms.
The silver birches of Glenveigh when stirred by summer air
Shall whisper of the curse that hangs o'er cruel John Adair."




X.

WHY THE RENT IS RAISED--THE HISTORY OF AN EVICTION FROM ONE OF THE
EVICTED--A DONEGAL CONGREGATION--A CLIMB TO THE TOP OF DOONHILL--DOON
HOLY WELL--MAKING THE BEST OF A STRANGER.


In the silence of the night when sleep would not come, and when my
imagination rehearsed over and over again sights I had seen and tales I
had heard, I made an almost cast-iron resolution to escape to the estate
of Stewart of Ards and have one letter filled up with the good deeds of
a landlord. Alas for me! another storm, a rain storm, and a touch of
neuralgia conspired to keep me "ben the house" in the little room upon
the mountain side. One can weather snow or hail easier than a mountain
rain storm. The rain is laden with half-melted snow, and the wind that
drives it is terribly in earnest.

It is one queer feature of this mountain scenery, the entire absence of
trees. The hills look as if the face of the country had been shaved. Up
the hill sides the little fields are divided off by high, broad stone
fences, the result of gathering the stones out of the fields. The bog
land to be reclaimed requires drains three feet deep every six feet of
land.

To trench up a little field into ridges six feet apart, to gather stones
out of a little field sufficient to surround it with a four feet high
stone fence, to grub out and burn whins, to make all the improvements
with your own labor, and then to have your landlord come along with his
valuator and say, "Your farm is worth double what you pay for it; I can
get thirty shillings an acre for it," and to raise the rent to its full
value, which you must pay or go out. This sort of thing is repeated, and
repeated, in every variation of circumstances and of hardship, and the
people submit and are, as a whole, quiet and law-abiding.

I was called out of my little den to see a woman, one of the evicted
tenants of Mr. Adair. She was on her way to Letterkenny to see her son,
who is in the asylum since the eviction. It was hard enough to wander
through the ruins and hear of the eviction scenes from others, but to
sit by the turf fire and listen to one who had suffered and was
suffering from this dreadful act, to see the recollection of it
expressed in look and tone was different. This woman--husband dead, son
in the asylum--was a decent-looking body in cloak and cap, with a
bleached face and quiet voice.

"We were all under sentence of eviction, but it was told to us that it
was for squaring the farms. Then we were warned to pay in the half-
year's rent. It was not due till May, and we had never been asked to pay
the rent ahead of us before. But the landlord was a new one, and if he
made a rule, why, we must obey him; so we scraped up and sold this and
that and paid it. If we had known what was coming we might have kept it,
and had a penny to turn to when we were out under the sky. It was to get
the rent before he turned us out that he made that plan. We were put out
in the beginning of April; our rent was paid up to May. Oh, I wish, I
wish that he had driven us into the lake the day he put us out. A few
minutes would have ended our trouble, but now when will it end! I have
been through the country, my lady, and my boy in the asylum ever since."

Went to the Catholic chapel up here in the mountains. It was quite
convenient to my lodging. It is a very nice building with a new look. I
was surprised to see such a fine building in the mountains, for, owing
to the poverty of the people, there were no chapels at all in some
places a little time ago. Mass was celebrated in _scalans_, a kind
of open sheds, covered over head to protect the officiating priest from
the weather, while the people clustered round in the open air. When I
spoke of the nice appearance of the chapel I was told that the children
of these hills scattered through the United States, Canada, New Zealand
and Australia, had helped in its building. There were between seven and
eight hundred people present. There were no seats on the floor of the
chapel. I could not help admiring the patient, untiring devotion of
these people, and the endurance that enabled them to kneel so long. The
prevailing type of face is eminently Scottish, so is the tone of voice,
and the names, Murrays, Andersons, and the like.

Were it not for the altar and the absence of seats I could have imagined
myself in a Glenelg Presbyterian congregation. The Irish spoken here,
and it is spoken universally, has a good deal of resemblance to Glenelg
Gaelic. I was surprised at how much I understood of the conversations
carried on around me. The women, too, in their white caps, with their
serious, devotional comely faces, reminded me of faces I have seen in
dear old Glengarry.

There were not half a dozen bonnets in the whole congregation--snow-
white caps covered with a handkerchief for the matrons. They wore cloaks
and shawls, and looked comfortable enough. I saw some decent blue cloth
cloaks of a fashion that made me think they had served four generations
at least. The lasses wore their own shining hair "streeling" down their
backs or neatly braided up; abundant locks they had, brown color
prevailing. Fresher, rosier, comelier girls than these mountain maidens
it would be hard to find.

The men's clothing, though poor, and in some instances patched in an
artistic fashion, was scrupulously clean. In the congregation were some
young men well dressed, bold and upright, whose bearing, cut of
whiskers, and watch chains, showed that they had lived among our trans-
Atlantic cousins of the great Republic.

The priest of the hills is the one man whom these people trust. The
prevailing type of landlord has been their enemy and oppressor. The
priest has been friend, counsellor, sympathizer, helper, as well as
clergyman, and so he is _soggarth aroon_.

The storm continues at intervals. I get one clear, cold bit of fair
weather to climb to the top of Doune hill, where the Ulster kings used
to be crowned, a sugar-loaf shaped hill with the top broken off, rising
in isolated grandeur up high enough to give one a breather to get to the
top.

The weather returned to its normal condition of storm, and I was shut up
again. I became a little homesick, had the priest to tea, and enjoyed
his conversation very much, but he had to go off in the storm on a sick
call. A priest in these mountains has not the easiest kind of life in
the world.

Illusions took possession of my brain. I fancied myself a great queen,
to say the least of it. A whisper got among the hills that a great
American lady with unlimited power had come seeking the welfare of the
country, and so any amount of deputations wafted on me. I will give a
few specimens.

Two men to see my lady in reference to a small still that had been
misfortunately found on the place of an old man upward of eighty. He was
fined L12, and would my lady do anything?

Two women under sentence of eviction, my lady (I saw the place of one of
these, the roof was on the floor, and a little shelter was in one corner
like the lair of a wild beast, and here she kept possession in spite of
the dreadful Captain Dopping; the agent). Would my lady send out their
two daughters to America and place them in decent places?

And here was old Roseen, old and miserable, without chick or child, or
drop's blood belonging to her in the wide world, and would my lady
remember her?

Here's the crature of a widow from the mountain with four small
children, and no man body to help her with the place, and not a four-
footed beast on it belonging to her; all went in the scarcity; would my
lady look to her a little, sure she was the neediest of all?

And here was the poor cripple boy that his reverence was so good to,
&c., &c., &c., in endless file.

Nothing kept this over-dose of "my lady" from going to my head like
Innishowen poteen, but the slenderness of my purse. Determined at last,
warned by my fast-collapsing _portmonnaie_, to refuse to see any
more deputations and keep ben-the-house strictly. A cry arose that
Captain Dopping and his body-guard, on evictions bent, were coming up
the hill. I rushed out, mounted a ditch of sods for one more look at the
little tyrant of their fields. As I stood shading my eyes with my hand
and looked across at the dreaded agent, a plaintive "my lady," bleated
out at my side, drew my eyes down. It was a woman; she did not speak any
more, but looked, and that look drew out my fast collapsing purse. I
walked slowly into the house, determined to escape from the hills while
I had the means left of escaping.




XI.

THE JAUNTING CAR--SCENERY IN DONEGAL--MOUNTAIN PASTURES--A VISIT TO
GLENVEIGH CASTLE.


I have returned to pleasant Ramelton, and will write my visit to
Glenveigh Castle from here. This town will always be a place of
remembrance to me on account of the Christian kindness, sympathy,
encouragement and counsel which I have received in it.

It was my great good fortune to get an introduction to Mr. and Miss
McConnell, a brother and sister, who are merchants in this place. They
are of the stock of the Covenanters, a people who have left the stamp of
their individuality on the piety of the North of Ireland. Sufferers
themselves from Lord Leitrim's tyranny and greed, they sympathize with
other sufferers, and sympathize with me in my work to a greater extent
than any others since I left home. I can say with feeling, I was a
stranger and they took me in.

I have been driven in many directions sight-seeing in their cosy little
pony carriage. It is a nice little two-wheeled affair. I believe the
orthodox name of it is a croydon. It carries four, who sit back to back,
while the back seat turns up when not wanted. It was in quite a
different trap that I rode in on my visit to Glenveigh. During my
journey there we talked, my guide and I, of what constitutes a good
landlord. It was a negative sort of goodness which he expected from the
good landlord--"that he would not harry the tenants with vexatious
office rules; that he would let them alone on their places so long as
they paid their rent; that he would not raise the rent so that all grown
on the land would be insufficient to pay it." Since the Land League
agitation some landlords have granted a reduction of rents, and some
have even given a bag of potatoes for seed as a gift to the poorer
tenants.

The road to the new castle leads through scenery of grand mountain
solitudes, treeless, houseless and silent. Our road wound in a
serpentine fashion among the mountains. The drains that regularly score
the foggy mountain sides produce a queer effect on the landscape.

As we wound along the serpentine road nearing the castle, the hills
seemed to get wilder and more solemn. No trace of human habitations, no
sound of human life, treeless, bare, silent mountains, wastes of black
bog, rocks rising up till their solemn heads brushed the sky,--Irish
giants in ragged cloaks of heather.

At last we came in sight of Loughveigh lying cradled among the rocks,
and got a glimpse of the white tower of Glenveigh Castle. There is a
small skirting of wood near the castle where the silver barked birch
prevails from which the glen takes its name, interspersed with holly
trees, which grow here in profusion, and some dark yews, prim and
stately, drawn up like sentinels to guard the demesne.

No place could be imagined more utterly alone than Glenveigh Castle. The
utter silence which Mr. Adair has created seems to wrap the place in an
invisible cloak of awfulness that can be felt. Except a speculative rook
or a solitary crane sailing solemnly toward the mountain top, I saw no
sign of life in all the glen. Owing to the windings of the road it
seemed quite a while after we sighted the top of the tower before we
entered the avenue which sweeps round the edge of the lake shore, and
finally brought us to the castle. The castle stands on a point
stretching out into the lake. Opposite, on the other side of the lake, a
steep, bare, dark rock rises up to the dizzy height. It is the kind of
rock that makes one think of fortified castles, and cities built for
defence, that ought to be perched on a summit, but Glenveigh Castle
should be a lady's bower, instead of a fortalice. Behind the castle the
mountain slopes are clothed with young trees. The castle itself is a
very imposing building from the outside; grand, strong, rather
repellant; inside it has a comfortless; ill-planned, unfinished
appearance. The mantel-piece of white marble with the Adair arms carved
on it--the bloody hand, the motto _valor au mort_, the supporters
two angels--lies in the hall cracked in two. A very respectable
Scotchman, a keeper, I suppose, showed me over the building. He must
enjoy a very retired life there, for in all the country for miles there
is not a human habitation except the police barrack that looms up like a
tall ghost at the other end of the lake.