Adare Abbey, in the Private Grounds of the Earl of Dunraven, near Limerick
Adare Abbey, in the Private Grounds of the Earl of Dunraven, near Limerick
The house of Dunraven enjoys the proud distinction of being one of the few of the ancient Celtic aristocracy to survive the vicissitudes of the centuries. The earl traces his lineage back to the chief of the Dalcassian clan of prehistoric days. He is of the same stock as the O’Briens of Limerick, who havea common ancestor in Cormac Cas, son of Olliol Olum, monarch of all Ireland at the beginning of the third century. And the present earl has a curious and interesting letter written by Thady Quin of Adare in the time of James I., giving the complete pedigree.
Adare Manor, as the estate of the Dunravens is known, is one of the most extensive and beautiful in Ireland. There is a stately mansion of the Tudor school of architecture, begun in 1832, upon the site of a former residence of the family and built entirely of material found upon the estate, by artisans of Adare. The material is gray limestone, relieved by blocks of red, and the striking feature is a tower which rises one hundred and three feet from the level of the ground. The stone work of the parapet which surmounts the front façade is inscribed in old English letters with the text, “Except the Lord build the house, their labor is in vain that build it.” The late earl seemed to be fond of inscriptions, for over the main entrance is carved in stone this admonition: “Fear God, honor the Queen, eschew Evil and do Good,” while upon a panel set into the front wall is the coat of arms of the Dunravens and the inscription:
“This goodly Home was erected byWyndham Henry, Earl of Dunraven,And Caroline, his CountessWithout borrowing, selling or leaving a debt.”
“This goodly Home was erected byWyndham Henry, Earl of Dunraven,And Caroline, his CountessWithout borrowing, selling or leaving a debt.”
“This goodly Home was erected by
Wyndham Henry, Earl of Dunraven,
And Caroline, his Countess
Without borrowing, selling or leaving a debt.”
“This goodly home” is surrounded by one of the finest parks in the world—about three thousand acres of glorious native forests, meadows, and pasture lands, all inclosed within a high wall. There are lakes and ponds and a roaring brook whose waters alternately dash over cascades and lie spread out in calm pools where trout and salmon can be seen motionless upon the bottom under the shadows cast by the overhanging trees. Roadways several miles in length reach every part of the demesne and permit views of the most picturesque portions of the scenery. They cross and recross the river over ancient bridges and through undulating pastures where the famousDunraven herds are feeding, and follow long avenues between colonnades of very old trees.
There are several interesting ruins within the demesne, including those of the ancient castle of Adare, which was built some time before 1331, because a record of that date gives a description of its appearance. It was afterward strengthened and enlarged, and for several centuries was one of the most formidable strongholds in all Ireland. It was from this castle in 1520 that the Earl of Kildare, viceroy of Ireland, left for London to answer charges brought against him by Cardinal Wolsey, by whom he was imprisoned in the Tower.
There are ruins of several monasteries which also date back to the fourteenth century and are kept in perfect order. The most beautiful was once a monastery of the Franciscan order, and is within a step of the mansion, in the midst of the golf links.
The present Earl of Dunraven, Windham Thomas Wyndham-Quin, was born in 1844, educated at Eton and Christ Church College, Oxford, and in 1870 married Florence, daughter of Lord Charles Lennox Kerr, a member of parliament from County Wexford. Dunraven is one of the most active and versatile men in the kingdom, and is almost as well known in the United States, being soldier, sailor, horseman, sportsman, yachtsman, explorer, politician, newspaper correspondent, author, antiquarian, economist, and historian. After receiving his degree at Oxford Dunraven served for several years in the Life Guards, and in 1871 resigned upon succeeding to the title and estates. While he was in the army he gained the reputation of being the best steeple-chase rider in the kingdom. Upon leaving the army he became a correspondent of theLondon Daily Telegraphand represented that paper in an expedition to Abyssinia and during the Franco-Prussian war. He then went into politics and was under secretary for the colonies during two of Lord Salisbury’s administrations. He then went into parliament and made a reputation as chairman of committees on the sweating system and the housing of the working classes. He devoted much timeand attention to horse breeding and has a stock farm adjoining his estate at Adare with “Desmond,” the most famous stallion in the kingdom, at the head of his stud. He has been offered $150,000 for the horse.
In 1874 Dunraven went to the United States with his wife and spent nearly a year in the Rocky Mountains hunting big game and exploring and climbing peaks and shooting buffaloes with General Sheridan and Buffalo Bill. He wrote a book giving an account of his experience. He then took up the Irish question, went into it very deeply, and has retained his interest until now. He has written several books on the land question and the other economic problems of Ireland. He has been a prolific contributor to the magazines, and was the inventor of what is known as the “devolution policy” as a substitute for home rule in Ireland, which Sir Antony MacDonnell worked up into the so-called “Irish councils bill,” which proposed to give home rule in every respect except the courts, police, and legislation. His lordship went through Ireland making speeches in favor of the project, but the leaders of the Irish parliamentary party declined to accept it and it fell to the ground.
The Earl of Dunraven is best known in the United States, however, as a yachtsman. For several years he was the leader of that sport in England, and in 1893, 1894, and 1895 sailed for theAmerica’scup with three successive yachts namedValkyrie. The third contest was a fiasco, as may be remembered. Lord Dunraven published a pamphlet setting forth his side of the controversy, which created a great sensation. His lordship has made a thorough study of the archæology of this section of Ireland, and has written several interesting volumes on the subject.
County Clare and County Galway are the districts of the greatest unrest in Ireland; and the largest number of boycotts, cattle drives, and evictions have occurred there of late years because certain large landowners, chief of whom is the Earl of Clanricarde, stubbornly refuse to sell their estates under the Land Act of 1903 or restore the tenants they have evicted or divide up their pastures into farms. The Earl of Clanricarde carried the matter into court, where he was sustained in his refusal to sell, on the ground that the law is not compulsory, and it is probable that parliament will adopt an amendment, now pending and introduced since the decision, requiring every large landowner in Ireland to divide up his estates among his tenants at prices to be fixed by the courts.
The disturbances that are taking place at present are gentle and mild compared with what have occurred during the land wars of the past, and they are confined to a limited area and a small number of estates. The methods of “persuasion” used by the tenants and the “landless” men, as those who are entirely without farms are called, are, however, very much the same as those adopted years ago, but they are not so effective as they used to be. They are severely punished by the courts, and the taxpayers are assessed for all the damages committed. If these assessments could be confined to the particular parish within which the outrages occur it would be very much better, for it is not fair to ask innocent property owners twenty and thirty miles from the scene to pay for the mischief of a few reckless and irresponsible persons over whom they have no control.
County Limerick is usually quiet. There has been no trouble there and the best of feelings prevail between the landlords and their tenants, with a few exceptions. There was only one criminal case (of infanticide) at the dockets of the courts in July, 1908, when I was there, two boycotts, and twenty-one complaints of intimidation, which, however, did not all relate to land matters. There were thirty-four evictions in County Limerick that year, most of them being due to poor crops and the lack of remittances from America.
Lough Rea, the seat of the Clanricarde, has been the residence of that family since the year 1300. Althenry, the neighboring town, is also very old, and has belonged to the earls of Clanricarde since 1238. There is a castle, a Dominican monastery, a Franciscan monastery, and several churches, all in ruins, destroyed by Red Hugh O’Donnell in 1596. The Earl of Clanricarde never visits his Irish property. He has never occupied his ancestral home and has been seen in the vicinity but once since he came into the inheritance thirty or forty years ago.
The boycott was invented at the little town of Ballinrobe, a pretty village of about fifteen hundred inhabitants, on Lough Mask, about twenty miles north of Galway. Charles S. Parnell made a speech at Ennis, the capital of County Clare, Sept. 19, 1880, advising the people to punish those who did not sympathize with them by “isolating them from their kind as if they were lepers.” This advice was first applied to Captain Boycott, agent for the estate of Lord Erne, near Ballinrobe, and he was a complete victim of the policy. The police could do nothing. There was no law under which dealers could be compelled to sell him food and drink, and all his supplies had to be shipped to him from Dublin. Nobody would speak to him, nobody would work for him, nobody would accept his money, and, as Parnell suggested, he was treated as if he were a leper. The plan was so successful that it was promptly adopted throughout Ireland, and has since been commonly used elsewhere under the name of the first victim.
But boycotting is growing unpopular in Ireland. It is condemned by the bishops and the clergy generally. They are taking more and more positive grounds, and many refuse the communion to persons who are guilty of either boycotting or cattle driving, because they are contrary to justice and charity and are therefore sinful. I heard one of the bishops preach an impressive sermon on the subject. He condemned all combinations of persons to cause suffering or distress in their neighbors as inhuman, immoral, and unjust. He declared that boycotting was worse than murder, because it caused a greater degree of suffering. When a man was shot he usually died without agony, but when he was boycotted he suffered the worse sort of mental torture, and to cause such sufferings was one of the worst of sins. Father Gilligan, parish priest at Carrick-on-Shannon, preached against boycotting the Sunday we were there. He said, in introducing the subject, that he deeply regretted that many of his parishioners had joined in a boycott for which they imagined they had a good excuse, but nothing would justify a boycott. It was a crime, and those who had engaged in it would not be admitted to communion until they had sincerely repented. Every effort had been made by advice, by intimidation, and even by threats of violence, to keep the people from dealing with some of the most respectable merchants in the town. There were three degrees of boycotting—mild, medium, and savage—and all three had been condemned by the Church. “Have nothing to do with it,” said Father Gilligan, “do not touch it with a pole that would reach New York.”
At present boycotting is applied to landlords and cattle men who are occupying their land that is wanted for farms. The cattle men have no permanent tenancy, they erect no buildings, they make no improvements, and the cattle business is so profitable that they are able to pay twice as much rent as the ordinary farming tenant. For those reasons, and because he has only one man to deal with, a landlord is always glad to rent his lands for grazing, and gradually Ireland is becoming one great pasture.
Cattle driving is another weapon used by the same peoplefor the same purpose, and that is condemned by the bishops and the clergy with equal emphasis. Archbishop Fennely of Tipperary recently preached a sermon in which he expressed the hope that before he closed his eyes in death he would see every acre of land in Ireland owned by the men who tilled it, but he could not sympathize with and he must earnestly condemn every form of violence and every unlawful measure that was used to secure that end. He gave his diocese a solemn warning that cattle driving, boycotting, and similar unlawful practices would not be tolerated by the Church.
This form of argument, it must be admitted, is a great advance over the fierce methods that have been used in the past, when murder and bloodshed were quite common, and other damages that cannot be repaired by money or by the judgment of the court were suffered. It was a habitual jest to speak of the “closed season for landlords.”
The Irish never overlook the humor in a situation, and at a cattle drive which took place in 1908 at Tuam, which is a place of considerable ecclesiastical importance, being the residence of the Most Rev. John Healey, one of the ablest and most influential Roman Catholic bishops in Ireland, the following lines were pinned to the tail of one of the cows:
GOD SAVE IRELAND.
“Leave the way, for we are coming.And, on my soul, we got a drumming;They cleared us out so mighty quick,And, faith, they used their hazel stick.Well, now, Paddy, of you we implore,Don’t put us through Cloomagh any more;For if you do you’re bound to die,And we have the powder fresh and dry;God bless the Cattle Drivers.”
“Leave the way, for we are coming.And, on my soul, we got a drumming;They cleared us out so mighty quick,And, faith, they used their hazel stick.Well, now, Paddy, of you we implore,Don’t put us through Cloomagh any more;For if you do you’re bound to die,And we have the powder fresh and dry;God bless the Cattle Drivers.”
“Leave the way, for we are coming.
And, on my soul, we got a drumming;
They cleared us out so mighty quick,
And, faith, they used their hazel stick.
Well, now, Paddy, of you we implore,
Don’t put us through Cloomagh any more;
For if you do you’re bound to die,
And we have the powder fresh and dry;
God bless the Cattle Drivers.”
The taxpayers are compelled to pay damages for all cases of cattle driving, for loss of business in boycotting, and for other claims growing out of such outrages. Usually the courts assess one pound per head for cattle where no harm is done, five pounds per head where an animal is injured, and aboutone-third as much for sheep. Most of the cattle driving and the boycotting is committed by irresponsible young men who are led by mischief-makers with private grudges, and they never reason for themselves. It goes without saying that the love of fighting is one of the most conspicuous traits of the Irish character. The history of Ireland from the foggiest period of the past is a tale of continuous warfare. In the early days fighting was the chief end and aim of men, and women fought beside their fathers and husbands and brothers until St. Patrick forbade them to do so. And they thought very little of the consequences.
The case was well stated in a little poem from an American paper that was shown me by a friend the other day:
“‘Who says that the Irish are fighters by birth,’Says little Dan Crone;‘Faith, there’s not a more peacable race on the earthIf ye l’ave them alone.’”
“‘Who says that the Irish are fighters by birth,’Says little Dan Crone;‘Faith, there’s not a more peacable race on the earthIf ye l’ave them alone.’”
“‘Who says that the Irish are fighters by birth,’
Says little Dan Crone;
‘Faith, there’s not a more peacable race on the earth
If ye l’ave them alone.’”
But sometimes they won’t be let alone. In the summer of 1908 there was a riot in the town of Thurles and a mob did a lot of damage in order to show its disapproval of legal proceedings that had been taken against a fellow townsman. Richard Burke, who was “licensed to sell spirits not to be consumed on the premises,” was unable to meet his obligations and went into bankruptcy. The sheriff took charge of the establishment under the orders of the court, and the license, good will, and the stock in hand were offered for sale to the highest bidder. But the bids did not come up to the valuation of the court and were all rejected. A few days later a private offer from Mr. Cody, who has been competing with Mr. Burke to quench the thirst of Thurles for several years, to take the entire place for £2,000 was accepted. Mr. Burke, who has been in the habit of consuming too much of his own merchandise for the good of his business, became very indignant because his old enemy was going to step into his place, gathered together a few sympathetic friends, raided his own establishment, smashed the bottles, knocked in the heads ofthe barrels, and invited the whole town to help themselves, which they did with an energy that would have been commendable in another cause. Then, when almost every citizen of the town, young and old, was drunk, they started up the street smashing their own windows and doors and doing what is estimated at $15,000 worth of damages to their own property, besides $7,000 worth of destruction in Mr. Cody’s place.
Although Cody had signed the papers, he had not paid for Mr. Burke’s former stock, and naturally he now refuses to do so, since it does not exist, so that Mr. Burke and his creditors suffer the entire loss of his own raid and hospitality, and the taxpayers of Thurles have been assessed to pay for the other foolishness.
There are twenty thousand Galway people in the United States, or “across the herring pond,” as a banker there expressed it, who have been in the habit of making remittances to their fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters here in generous amounts, and many families are partly and a large number are wholly dependent upon them. Most of the Galway emigrants are in New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, and other large cities, earning good wages, but they were out of employment after the recent panic and have had all that they could do to take care of themselves. Hence very little money has been received here from America for nearly a year. The postmaster told me that the American money orders cashed at the Galway post office have averaged £40,000 a year for the last eight or ten years, and in 1908 the total will not reach £15,000. An even larger sum of money has been coming in checks and drafts and the bankers say that the remittances in that form are not more than ten per cent of the usual amount. The merchants complain that their customers are not bringing in any American checks, which have been presented in payment daily for ten or twelve years. Christmas checks were very scarce in 1907, and that is the principal reason for the poverty. Wages are very low in Galway—ten shillings a week, and two shillings a day is the average for ordinary labor. The Allan Line steamers havebeen touching at Galway since 1881, and have carried to Quebec an enormous number of emigrants for the United States as well as Canada, but the faster boats, touching at Queenstown, have reduced the business considerably. The steerage passage is $27.50 and $30; the average emigrants are chiefly between seventeen and twenty-three years of age, and most of them go to Boston.
Galway is a foreign-looking little town, unlike any other we saw in Ireland, and much of the architecture is Dutch and Spanish, departing from the plain, ugly brick front without cornice or eaves which is so common elsewhere. The streets are irregular and run all sorts of ways; some very narrow and some very wide, and they vary in width at different places, with occasionally an odd-shaped space at the intersection. Everything looks old and shabby and out of repair. It is queer as well as significant to see buildings half in ruins in the principal streets and others with the glass broken out of the windows. There are some smart-looking shops, however, and neatly kept residences, but they are not frequent. Nor is the town well kept. The Common Council evidently lacks a sense of the æsthetic, because the streets are dirty, the park is scraggly, and the grass and trees are very much neglected. It is altogether the untidiest public park I saw in Ireland. Many of the people we met on the principal streets, particularly the women, are repulsive in their rags and dirty faces and unkempt hair and bare feet. We saw a few barefooted women in Tipperary and Limerick, but in Galway none of the working women wears shoes, although the men seem to be well shod. The women cover their heads with thick shawls that are often greasy and torn, and their faces show evidences of sorrow and privation, and perhaps other causes have left a mark.
Fish Market, Galway
Fish Market, Galway
The foreign appearance of Galway is accounted for by the fact that many Frenchmen, Spaniards, and Dutchmen were in business there in early times. The town was named from the Gauls, and for centuries an extensive trade was carried on with the Continent by foreign merchants and foreign fleets.Richard de Burgo, founder of the Burke family, was given the country of Connaught by the king, and, having in 1232 crushed the O’Connors, who were formerly kings there, he enlarged the Castle of Galway and made it his residence, calling around him a flourishing foreign colony. But the “tribes of Galway,” as Cromwell called the natives, would not submit to him, and kept up a guerrilla warfare that was very annoying. The English took all the measures they could to protect themselves, and in 1518 a law was passed forbidding the people of the town “to recieve into their housses at Christemas, Easter nor no feaste elles, any of the MacWilliams, Kellies, Joyces, Lynches nor to cepte Elles without permission of the Mayor and Councill; on payn to forfeit £’5 and that no one called O’ nor Mac shalle strutte ne swaggere thro the streetes of Galway.” And the following inscription was formerly to be seen over the west gate to the city:
“From the fury of the O’FlahertiesGood Lord deliver us.”
“From the fury of the O’FlahertiesGood Lord deliver us.”
“From the fury of the O’Flaherties
Good Lord deliver us.”
There are some quaint old houses—one of them on the principal street, known as “the mansion,” being elaborately decorated with carved moldings, drip stones, cornices, balustrades, medallions, crests, coats of arms, and other ornaments in which the lynx and the monkey, which were used upon the family arms, appear frequently. The same story is told to account for the monkey that is used to explain the appearance of that animal upon the escutcheon of the Earl of Desmond—that the heir to the house was rescued by a monkey when it was burning.
The Burkes, the Joyces, and the Lynches were the leading families there. The records show that eighty-four members of the Lynch family have held the office of mayor. A tragic story of James Lynch, the second mayor after the charter of the city was granted by Richard III., is kept in the minds of the people by a tablet imbedded in the wall of a ruined house on one of the principal streets. It bears this inscription:
“This memorial of the stern and unbending justice of the chief magistrate of this city, James Lynch Fitzstephen, elected mayor,A.D.1493, who condemned and executed his own guilty son, Walter, on this spot, has been restored to its ancient site, with the approval of the town commissioners, by their chairman, the Very Rev. Peter Daly, P.P. and Vicar of St. Nicholas.”
“This memorial of the stern and unbending justice of the chief magistrate of this city, James Lynch Fitzstephen, elected mayor,A.D.1493, who condemned and executed his own guilty son, Walter, on this spot, has been restored to its ancient site, with the approval of the town commissioners, by their chairman, the Very Rev. Peter Daly, P.P. and Vicar of St. Nicholas.”
The Rev. Mr. Daly has immortalized himself in this simple way, and his character may be judged by the fact that his name appears even more prominently on the tablet than that of the unnatural father whose act he perpetuates. The story goes that Mayor Lynch, being one of the most successful of the shipping merchants in the city, visited Spain in the very year that Columbus discovered America, to make the personal acquaintance of his customers, and, being treated with generous hospitality, invited the son of one of his friends to return with him to Ireland. The young man spent several months in Galway, as the guest of Mayor Lynch, and as the companion of his son, Walter. The latter, a great favorite in the city, was engaged to a young lady of good family, who behaved rather imprudently with the young Spaniard. This excited the jealousy of Walter Lynch, who murdered his playmate, and then, from remorse, gave himself up to justice. He was tried, convicted, and condemned to death by his own father, sitting as judge of the court, and when the sheriff, in obedience to public opinion, refused to carry out the sentence, Judge Lynch hanged his own son with his own hands. As there were other judges and courts in Ireland and as changes of venue were common in those days, as they are now, one cannot sympathize with this Spartan heartlessness.
There is a quaint old church, built in 1320, in honor of St. Fechin, who was born about the year 600, in County Sligo, was the founder of numerous monasteries and churches along the western coast of Ireland, and was the first to bring the gospel to County Galway. Queen’s College, supported by the government, has a fine Gothic building, copied after All Souls of Oxford, with about three hundred students, and there isanother college, under the Christian Brothers, which is very prosperous.
The most interesting sight in Galway is the thousands of fat salmon lying motionless on the bottom of the river which carries the water of Lough Corrib—one of the largest fresh-water lakes in the country—into Galway Bay. The river is short and swift and flows through the center of the city. Its banks are walled up with masonry and it is crossed by a series of ancient iron bridges. From the railings of the bridges one can see the salmon through the transparent water lying with their noses up stream so closely that the bottom of the river is hidden; and I am told that when they are running in the spring the stream is black with them. They come in from the sea and go up a ladder that has been built for them over the rapids into Lough Corrib.
The exclusive right of fishing that river was granted in 1221 by King John to one of his favorites, and the monopoly has been recognized ever since. It has been sold many times. The last purchaser was an ancestor of a Mrs. Hallett, who enjoys the privilege at present, and lives in a big stone house on the river banks, surrounded by high walls. A series of traps extends from her garden across the river, covering four-fifths of its width, one-fifth being always kept open by act of parliament, so that the fish can go up and down freely, but as they are all strangers in Galway, and young and reckless, many of them run into the traps instead of the passageway and become the property of Mrs. Hallett. She ships them to London and makes three or four thousand pounds a year by selling them. The fishermen in charge told me that in the spring they often caught as many as two or three hundred a day in each of the traps. Any one who desires to try his luck with a fly can do so by getting a permit from Mrs. Hallett, for which the fee is $2.50 a day or $25 a year.
Near the mouth of the river and at the head of the Bay of Galway is an ancient village called Claddagh, whose inhabitants have been engaged in the herring and salmon fisheries for ten centuries, and have lived apart from the world,having their own municipal organization, their own laws and courts and customs and manner of dress. From the beginning of time they have been ruled by one of their own number, elected by themselves for a term of years, who exercises executive, legislative, and judicial functions, from which there is no appeal. They have no written laws, no records of their judicial proceedings, but when there is a dispute between any of the fishermen they take it to their chosen umpire, who decides it according to the merits of the case. And his decision is always accepted. I am told that no citizen of Claddagh has ever been before a Galway court, either as a plaintiff or defendant. They live in low thatched cottages, grouped in irregular streets on the bank of the river, with a large and very modern-looking church, which they attend regularly. They are remarkable for their piety and their morals. They will not work, nor will they leave their village for any reason, on Sundays or religious holidays. They never allow strangers to live among them, their young men and women never marry outside of the colony, they take care of their own sick and poor, and, although they are only five minutes’ walk from the principal street of Galway, they are as isolated as if they were on an island in the middle of the ocean.
Formerly the Claddagh people wore a distinctive dress, resembling that of the fisher folks of Holland,—a red skirt, a blue waist, elaborate headdress, and bare feet and legs,—but this costume has been discarded by the younger women and is only worn by their grandmothers now. But all the women go barefooted. They never wear shoes or stockings. The men are engaged exclusively in fishing, although they do all of their own masonry, carpentering, and boat building. They pack their fish in the village, but carry a portion of each catch across the river to the fish market of Galway.
There is an attractive resort for city people on the Bay of Galway, with a long promenade, several hotels, and a number of comfortable villas.
Salmon Weir, Galway
Salmon Weir, Galway
Clifden is the extreme western point of Ireland, and for that reason Marconi selected it for his wireless telegraph station in communicating with Canada and the United States. It is 1,620 miles in a direct line of St. John, New Brunswick, and, as a native remarked, “There’s not a spheck of droy land upon which a burrd could rist the sole of its foot bechune this blessed spot and Americky.” If you will examine the map you will understand the situation better, and a geological chart of the island will show you that the western coast, from Mizzen Head to Bloody Foreland, is protected by a chain of mountains, bleak, rugged, and abrupt, which nature has placed as a buttress to support the rest of Ireland against the fierce attack of the Atlantic. They have terrible storms there, and a northwest gale several times a year that is terrific. The east winds, which we dread, bring good weather in Ireland, but the west wind brings storms and cold and mists that are almost as bad as the London fog.
Connemara is the congested district, but it does not bear that name because the population is overcrowded, but because there are too many people for the inhospitable soil to support. The inhabitants are scattered over a vast area. I could see everything from one point as far as a radius of twenty-two miles, and there wasn’t a human habitation in sight, nor was there any inducement to build one because the country was a bleak, barren, rocky wilderness without soil for crops or shelter for cattle. There is the greatest degree of poverty and suffering in Ireland, and there the government is doing its greatest benevolent work in trying to place the people upon farms that are large enough to support them, and finding themother occupations by which they can earn a few additional dollars.
A railway was built from Galway along the edge of the ocean to Clifden a few years ago, and the track hugs the coast as closely as possible. An hour after leaving Galway nature begins to disclose her unfriendliness, the mountains begin to loom up to a height of two thousand and twenty-two hundred feet, the landscape becomes stern and forbidding, and there is no vegetation except heather, which, when in full bloom, adds a purple hue to the wilderness. Heather seems to be as brave, as enduring, and as self-reliant as the sage brush that decorates the arid plains of our western States, and nothing seems to discourage its growth. Alternating with the rocks are peat beds, in which both men and women spend much time getting out a supply of fuel for the next winter and stacking it in little piles to dry.
The most prominent feature of the landscape is a group of mountains called the Twelve Bens—sometimes written the “Twelve Pins.” They are so called because of their conical, dome-like peaks and the similar individuality of each. They rise almost from the level of the Atlantic, and for that reason look higher than they really are. The highest is Ben Baun, 2,393 feet, and the lowest is Ben Brach, 1,922 feet. Their sides are scarred with the wounds of terrestrial convulsions and glacial action, and they are composed very largely of quartzite, which frequently furnishes a white surface that glistens in the sunlight and adds to the picturesque effect. From these mountains comes the Connemara marble, the most valuable stone in the United Kingdom, often as fine in grain as the malachite and lapis lazuli of the Urals and the onyx of Mexico. It is used both for construction and for ornamental purposes, and the quarries are very profitable.
A Scene in Connemara
A Scene in Connemara
The landscape is dotted with little lakes and ponds which have no visible outlet, but are all connected somehow underground. Most of them cover only an acre or two, but Lough Corrib is the largest in Ireland except Lough Neagh, nearBelfast. Lough Mask and Lough Cong are also several miles in length and two or three miles in width. There are said to be 365 lakes in Ireland, and one would judge that the larger number of them are in Connemara. They are fed by springs and rainfall and are said to abound in fish. The railway companies advertise this as the best fishing ground in the world, and announce that they have leased several of the loughs in order to provide free fishing to all excursionists. That is a great attraction for city people when they take their vacations, because elsewhere as a rule when a man wants to go fishing he is compelled to take out a license and pay handsomely for the privilege—from $2.50 to $5 a day. Therefore the advertisements of free fishing in Connemara, combined with the scenery, which is highly admired and considered second only to that of Switzerland, tempt a great many people there. But most of them are disappointed. There is plenty of water to fish in, there are plenty of boats to hire, but fish are scarce, and, no matter where you go, the oldest inhabitant always insists that he never knew a time when fishing was so bad as it is now. There are many skeptics and a few cynics about who give you a true statement of the situation. “Boots” at the hotel asserted that if anything could be caught in the lakes we might be sure that the fishing would not be free, and added sarcastically that the only reason it was free was that nobody ever caught anything.
The O’Briens were once kings of that country and they were driven out by the O’Flahertys, who in turn were driven out by the English. You can see the ruins of Castle Bally Quirk, the principal fortress of the O’Flahertys, from the car window, and read the terrible story of how the chief of that clan was imprisoned in its keep in the time of Queen Elizabeth and starved to death. The O’Flahertys were always “agin the government,” and were so impertinent in their replies and so arrogant in their demeanor that Queen Elizabeth decided to bring them to submission, and nearly exterminated the family before she did so. “The O’Flaherty,” the head of the family at present, is a justice of the peace, who lives atLemonfield, upon the ancient estates, but retains very little of them.
If Clifden wasn’t such a dirty town it might be made a popular health resort. The air is glorious; the natural surroundings are grand and would tempt many artists as well as admirers of scenery. There are excellent small hotels, but the town is decidedly unattractive, the streets are filthy, the walks in the neighborhood of the town are used so much by the cattle that they are quite unclean, and the people do not seem to have any idea of neatness or order. The principal business seems to be the sale of liquor, which can be purchased at thirty-three places within this little town of eight hundred people, as advertised by the sign boards. And they all look as if they were doing a good trade. There is considerable fishing at Cleggan, a neighboring village, which has been encouraged and assisted by the government, and large shipments of fish are made to Dublin every day. Early in the morning several ancient fishwives appear in a triangular space between the rows of houses in the center of the village with baskets of fish, and from our windows in the comfortable Railway Hotel we can see the inhabitants come strolling along in an indolent and indifferent manner to buy their breakfasts. They have the choice of a variety of fish, and the prices are remarkably low. A fine, fat mackerel costs a penny, a codfish sixpence, and for a shilling one can get a haddock big enough to last a large-sized family for a week.
Upon the hillside overlooking the town is an imposing church which has an air of magnificence in comparison with the rest of the town; it is ten times as large and ten times as glorious for Clifden as St. Peter’s is for Rome. It was built only a few years ago from the contributions of the peasants, the same people that the government is trying to make comfortable and aid in earning a living. It will seat nine hundred people and is filled twice on Sunday with devout worshipers. Father Lynch, the curate, told me that it was necessary to have two masses and sometimes three on Sunday to accommodate them all, and some of them come eleven andeven twelve miles, most of them on foot, to attend worship. Here, as everywhere in Ireland, religion is the first and most important thing in life, and the church is the gateway to happiness and Heaven. There is also a Protestant church, much smaller, but not insignificant, which stands upon an opposite hill, surrounded by a graveyard, in which there are some venerable tombs.
Clifden is the seat of several important families, including the Martins, who formerly lived at Ballynaninch Castle, a plain, large, stern-looking embattled building, which was the scene of Charles Lever’s novel, “The Martins of Cro’ Martin.” It was the home of Col. Richard Martin, M.P., the inventor and organizer of the first society for the prevention of cruelty to animals in the world, and the author of “Martin’s Acts,” punishing those who are guilty of that offense. He spent large sums of money in the enforcement of this law and in organizing societies and establishing hospitals for diseased and wounded animals throughout the kingdom, but was otherwise extravagant and went through his fortune.
Colonel Martin was the original of “Godfrey O’Malley,” the hero of Lever’s novel, and the sketch is said to be very accurate. He was a reckless, extravagant, but generous, warm-hearted man and died a sacrifice to his efforts to relieve the sufferings of his tenants at the time of the famine.
His only child, Mary Martin, married an American, Colonel Bell of New York, and lived in that city until her death. Although she was known as the Princess of Connemara and inherited an empire in area, she was never able to maintain the state that her father was so proud of, and 192,000 acres of her vast domain was sold by the courts to settle his debts, being purchased by the Law Life Assurance Company. Richard Berridge, a London brewer, bought another tract of 160,000 acres and the young woman scarcely missed it, so extensive were her lands. But they were of little value, being mostly mountain peaks and barren moors. Colonel Martin once silenced the prince regent, who during the early part of Queen Victoria’s reign was boasting of the famous Long Walkof Windsor, by scornfully declaring that the avenue which led from his front gate to his hall door was thirty miles long; and that was very nearly the truth.
Clifden Castle is the seat of the De Arcy family, who built and owned the town of Clifden and were formerly very rich, but a very little is seen of them at present.
Marconi’s wireless telegraph station occupies a bleak, rocky promontory extending out into the sea about three miles from the village. It is surrounded by a large tract of barren moor and is inclosed in barbed wire fence, which no one is allowed to pass without a permit. There are several corrugated iron buildings, comfortable but temporary, for generating furnaces, offices, and dormitories for Mr. Marden, the superintendent, and seven assistants. There is a miniature railway connecting them with the harbor to bring up coal and other supplies from the bay, for it requires a lot of fuel to generate the tremendous voltage necessary to throw a message across the Atlantic Ocean. When the operators are sending a Marconigram the sound can be heard for half a mile—a deafening whirr and buzz like that of a sawmill, interspersed with sharp detonations, long and short, according to the dots and dashes of the Morse code. An ordinary operator could read the message a long distance away, but would not be able to understand it because every word is sent in cipher. This is the reason why people are kept out of the grounds and why so large an area is necessary for protection. The station is a profitable thing for the town, because about fifteen hundred dollars a month is spent for supplies and labor, and employment is given to a large gang of men.
After several romantic engagements to American girls, Signor Marconi finally married a local beauty, Miss O’Brien, daughter of “The O’Brien,” the representative of the family that were kings over this country in the early days.
Clifden Castle, County Galway
Clifden Castle, County Galway
As Clifden is the terminus of the railway, we cruised around the rockbound coast of the Atlantic and across the bleak mountain sides to Westport, in what they call an “excursion car”—an exaggerated jaunting car on four wheels, drawnby two horses, with seats for six passengers on each side and a cavity in the center between them, opening from the end like a hearse, in which the baggage is carried. It is one of the most uncomfortable vehicles you can imagine. None of the passengers can see more than half the scenery, as they sit back to back and face out toward either side of the road. The ordinary jaunting car is quite as awkward and uncomfortable, and if you take a drive to see the scenery you have to go over the road twice because you can see only half of it at a time.
The scenery in Connemara reminds one very much of Norway except in the lack of the cleanliness for which the latter country is famous. The coast line is cut by deep jags and precipitous cliffs, like the fiords, and the mountains have the same stern and stony appearance, and the peat bogs that lie between them are similar to those in the Scandinavian countries, although the climate is much milder here. The fuchsia plant is commonly used for hedges, which all summer long is loaded with blossoms of purple and red. I had never seen a fuchsia hedge until I came to Ireland. The first was at Glengariff, on the southern coast, but since then we have found them everywhere along the Atlantic shore, in the western counties, hundreds of miles of them, inclosing pastures, meadows, and gardens and growing with wonderful luxuriance.
There is no fruit in Ireland, or at least very little. I didn’t see a respectable orchard all summer and saw no fruit trees except a few cherries and plums in gardens. Gooseberries seem to be the only “fruit of the season” at the hotels, and gooseberry tart is served for luncheon and for dinner every day. There are a few strawberries, but they are very expensive and are sold by the pound. They are never served upon the regulartable d’hôtebills of fare, but are always extra.
We were told the Connemara was very picturesque, and the most interesting section of Ireland, both in scenery, in local color, and in costumes, but it is a disappointment in all three respects. The scenery is grand, as mountains always are, but it is very monotonous; the people are so poor and sodirty that they repel, and we seldom see them at work, except in the peat fields as we pass. The Connemara peasant woman always wears a red skirt, goes barefooted, and covers her tousled head under a heavy shawl. She works alongside of the men and does her share of the heavy as well as the light labor. She is expected to do as much manual labor as her husband or her brother, and judging from what we observed in the peat bogs, they give her the heavy end of the load.
We spent the night at Leenane, a little fishing village at the head of a fiord that comes up nine miles from the Atlantic into the mountains. There is a plain but good hotel, much patronized by fishermen. In the morning we continued our journey over the mountains through some very rugged country. We drove through the famous Pass of Kylemore, one of the most beautiful pieces of scenery in Ireland, and called “The Gem of Connemara.” It was particularly interesting to us because Kylemore Castle is the home of an American girl, the Duchess of Manchester, who was formerly Miss Helena Zimmerman of Cincinnati and is now the wife of the Duke of Manchester. It is one of the most beautiful residences in Ireland, and is situated upon the banks of a lovely little lake and at the base of a mountain called Doughraugh, which rises 1,736 feet behind it as a background and is covered with the most beautiful foliage. The castle is in the center of the pass, between two lofty mountains, and the roadway for miles passes through a forest and between fields that are inclosed with fuchsia hedges.
A Scene in the West of Ireland; Lenane Harbor
A Scene in the West of Ireland; Lenane Harbor
Kylemore Castle was built by Mr. Mitchell Henry, a home rule member of parliament in the ’60’s, about a hundred years ago, and cost him more than a million dollars. The chapel, which cost more than a hundred thousand dollars, was built by his son, who sold the place to the Duke of Manchester. As the latter was not able to pay for it, his father-in-law, Mr. Zimmerman, a railroad magnate of Cincinnati, president of the Cincinnati, Hamilton & Dayton Railroad, took it off his hands for £69,000 and presented it to his daughter, who spends most of her time there, because the climate is veryagreeable throughout the entire year and she loves the seclusion. There isn’t a neighbor for several miles, except the people employed on the place. There are fourteen thousand acres of shooting, several small lakes, and about forty acres in garden.
This is the kingdom of Grace O’Malley, the famous Amazon daughter of Owen O’Malley, King of Connaught. She lived and reigned here in the time of Queen Elizabeth, and her castle is now used as a police barracks. While some of the legends of Grace O’Malley are doubtless fiction, many of them are founded upon fact. She was a real woman and a real queen with pride and power and all the other qualities that are attached to royalty. Queen Elizabeth, to whom she once paid a visit, offered to make her a countess, but Grace declined on the ground that the Queen of Connaught was the equal of the Queen of England, and could accept no favors. Her first husband was an O’Flaherty and her second was Sir Richard Burke. The second was a “trial marriage,” and it was agreed that after the end of one year the union could be dissolved by either husband or wife saying, “I dismiss you,” to the other, and Grace said it first.
We passed around the base of the mountain Crough Patrick, which rises with great abruptness to a height of 2,510 feet, almost directly from the Atlantic Ocean, and has a flat plain about half a mile square upon its summit. There are the remains of an ancient chapel, and a large Celtic cross stands boldly in the foreground, where it can be seen from all the country round. This is one of the most sacred spots in Ireland, because, according to Monk Jocelyn, who wrote a life of St. Patrick in the twelfth century, and other historians, that most venerated saint “brought together here all the demons, toads, serpents, creeping things, and other venomous creatures in Ireland and imprisoned them in a deep ravine on the sea front of the mountain known as Lugnademon (the pen of the demons) as fast as they came in answer to his summons, and kept them safely there until he was ready to destroy them. Then, standing upon the summit of the Crough,St. Patrick, with a bell in hand, cursed them and expelled them from Ireland forever. And every time he rang the bell thousands of toads, adders, snakes, reptiles, and other noisome things went down, tumbling neck and heels after each other, and were swallowed up forever in the sea.” A less reverent writer says: