The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that soul were fled."
And there are many to whom its melodies will recall those better days when voices long since sunken into silence sang them off into dreamland with those words.
Green grow the grasses to-day over this site of Ireland's most ancient capital. Gone are its garland-hung walls, silent its harps for ever.
Leaving the present behind, one passes into the remotest recess of the island's past as one mounts the hill. To-day wavering misty shadows close in around me as I move upward, even as though the spirits of the ancient kings and minstrels were yet about, and the winds moan as though driven across the strings of many harps, and there seems melody all around me.
Tara is not a great hill, but a fair green mound from which the ancient kings were wont to spy out all the fair land around them. It was the most sacred spot in the kingdom and none could wear the crown who bore blemish of any sort. Cormac Mac Art, the great King, was, upon the loss of his eye, forced to retire to the hill of Skreen near-by. For twenty-five hundred years, Tara was the palace and burial-place of the kings of Ireland, who every third year met here in great convention. To-day as I stand on its summit nothing of that period, save some long mounds, breaks the green carpet of grass thrown like the covering of our holy communion over this holy of holies. Tara was mentioned by Ptolemy and he called it "illustrious." Its name by some is supposed to be taken from that of the wife of a King, Heremon, the first monarch of Ireland. "Thea" was her name and the place was called Temora (the house of Thea), but others call it "the house of music" (Thead, a musical chord, and mur, a house).
Photo by W. Leonard
Castle of King John Trim
The main hall stood nine hundred feet square and "twenty-seven cubits in height." It held its thousand guests daily and on great days the monarch sat on his throne in its centre, his flowing yellow hair bearing the golden crown, his stately form clothed in a brilliant scarlet robe laden with rich ornaments of gold. Golden shoes ornamented with red buckles and bearing stars and animals in gold, were upon his feet; the King of Leinster sat, facing him, the King of Ulster sat on his right, the King of Munster on his left, while the King of Connaught sat behind him. On long rows of seats before him were the druids, bards, philosophers, antiquaries, genealogists, musicians, and the chiefs of all the towns of the kingdom. The assembly was opened by the chief bard, followed by the druidical rites, after which the fire of Saman, or the moon, was lighted. Not until then was the business of the convention taken up. In one part of the palace, the youths were instructed in poetry and music and initiated into the hidden harmony of the universe. Evidently in those days a city must have surrounded the base of this hill, but of the houses of the people little seems to be known and nothing is left.
In these long mounds the traveller to-day may trace the outlines of the hall composed of earth and wood from whence one hundred and forty-two kings ruled the land, the great King Cormac dating back to A.D. 227, and he it is who is supposed to have built this hall. Some claim that the celebrated "Stone of Destiny" now in the coronation chair in London was taken from here to Scotland. Of this there is no proof, but so runs the legend.
There is only the music of the wind-swept grasses on Tara Hill to-night, yet surely the moon rising so grandly yonder still holds her feast and is summoning her worshippers from the mists of the valley rising in fantastic forms all around us,—but the only thing bearing semblance of human form which she illumines is a crazy statue of St. Patrick here on the spot where he met and, by the power of the Lord, vanquished the magicians of the king. There could be no fitter heir to inherit and so we leave him in sole possession and go down to our car, which rolls us silently away through the green lanes and on towards Trim's ruined arches and towers. Now the tall "yellow steeple" of the Abbey of St. Mary's, founded by St. Patrick, and close into the town the great Castle of King John loom up in the moonlight. Vast in extent, the castle appears doubly so in this shadowy light, as we glide by it, a huge empty shell covered with clambering ivy.
Rolling on through the town we pass to Navan, dear to hunters. All this is a fair green country where the grass is good for the cattle, where the poultry thrive, and the Boyne is full of fish, hence one notes on all sides the ruins of many monasteries, for those old monks were always to be found where their stomachs could be well taken care of; and yet with all that they were the power in the land, as the priest is still the power in southern Ireland.
Leaving Navan we turn northeastward towards Drogheda. The road winds all the way by the banks of the Boyne and while that name recalls to mind most prominently the famous battle of the kings, James and William, still the region was celebrated long ages before either was thought of. The whole valley was a vast necropolis for the ancient kings and druids, and on both sides one sees the remains of a remote antiquity, especially at New Grange where one finds a tumulus covering some two acres. At first glance it resembles an Indian mound in America, but it is far more satisfactory to explore as one finds in its interior a tomb of extraordinary size and rich in carving, which is supposed to date as far back as the earliest bronze age, but who was buried here is a question which has never been settled.
We enter by a passage on its southern side about fifty feet long,—a stone corridor formed by upright slabs about seven feet high and roofed by stones of great size. Our glimmering candles show the centre tomb to be a lofty domed chamber, circular in form, its roof composed of horizontally placed stones projecting one beyond the other and capped by a single slab some twenty feet above the observer. There are three recesses branching off from the rotunda, probably the tombs of the lesser mortals, while the body of the monarch evidently occupied the centre space.
There is another sepulchre of equal size at Dowth, and doubtless every hill or mound in sight holds others. If the Boyne as it winds and murmurs past them could speak, it could doubtless tell us tales of kings and druids, of royal coronations and priestly ceremonies, of life and death in the long dead past. How was it all, I wonder? Was it picturesque and beautiful or did the barbaric side crowd all that down and out, leaving nothing save a shuddering feeling of horror as one gazed on the rites of the druids?
These tombs were rifled by the Danes a thousand years ago, and therefore, aside from the carvings on their walls, have yielded but little of interest to the antiquary. There is nothing of animal or human life represented, merely coils, lozenges, and spirals, with now and then a fern leaf, but nothing which tells their story as do the Egyptian inscriptions. This valley of the Boyne is beautifully wooded and the roads are fine. Our route lies past the obelisk marking the famous battlefield where the sun of James II. set for ever. The valley is lovely and reminds one greatly of that of the Thames near Richmond. It has taken most of the day to make the chauffeur understand that we are not out to kill time and distance. At the rate he would like to travel we should reach Iceland in time for tea even with the ocean to cross, but, as I have forced him to retrace the route several times, he seems at last to understand our determination not to rush.
Photo by W. Leonard
Monument on the Battle-field of the Boyne
The whole day's ride has been charming. We did not stop at Drogheda, but passed on to Newry, a twelve-mile ride over a very fine road, and rested at the Victoria Hotel, having covered one hundred and three miles since eleven this morning, with long stoppages several times. The auto has done splendidly and will do better as it gets down to work.
This is the Protestant end of Ireland, prosperous and contented apparently, but not picturesque. That goes with the state of affairs to be found in the southern half.
Newry is a clean town with neat shops and houses, and a good hotel, still there are Irish characteristics which those of us who remember the Irish maid of long ago in America will recognise at once. Many things are broken, "jist came that way"; a complete toilet set is unnecessary where there are windows; and I notice that the salutations sound always wrong end first,—when people meet they say "Good-night," a form never used elsewhere except when parting.
Apparently the hotel is the social club of the town, where the men of a certain class gather in the evenings, and drawing their chairs in a circle before the bar, spend an hour or so in chaff with the barmaid, drinking porter the while. To-night the talk is of a more serious nature and turns on trade.
It is claimed that what kills all chance of Ireland being a profitable country are the railway rates, that, for instance, it costs more to get corn from Galway to Dublin than from America to any point on the island.
I asked an Irishman whether Gladstone had benefited Ireland, and he replied, "he was the cause of all our trouble, he cost Great Britain two thousand millions sterling and countless lives, and yet they put up statues to him."
The traveller of to-day sees no sign of the upper classes in Newry, though there are estates all around it, and in turning the pages of its history he will discover that it is a place of great antiquity, though its streets to-day show no signs thereof. Prosperous and commonplace would best describe it. However, it is just the prosperous and commonplace which the traveller most welcomes as night comes down upon him, for there, and not amongst the romantic and picturesque, in Ireland at least, does he find comfortable quarters and good food. So it is to-night and so to bed and dreams.
CHAPTER II
Through Newry to Tanderagee Castle—Life in the Castle—Excursions to Armagh—Its History—The English in Armagh.
Our route lies from Newry north-west through Pointz-pass, beyond which as we approach Tanderagee, the castle, a stately stone structure, is seen towering high on a forest-crowned hill with a flag denoting its owner's presence floating from the main tower.
While the castle is a modern structure of some seventy-five years of age,—originally built by the Count de Salis,—it stands on the site of the very ancient stronghold of Redmond O'Hanlon, the most noted outlaw of Ireland. As we roll through the quaint town clustering around the hill, where every soul appears to have gone to sleep or gone dead long since, the sound of the motor brings a few pale faces to the doors of the houses, but it is very quiet withal.
Looking upward from this street the growth of trees is so dense that no sign of the castle is visible. We pass through almost a tunnel cut through the rocks and trees, and emerging in a spacious courtyard, draw up at the main portal where the maître d'hôtel meets and conducts us within, our hosts being off somewhere in their motor but will return shortly.
This gives us time for a quiet inspection. We find ourselves in a long, wide, and lofty corridor having a row of windows on its right, while on the left one has entrance first to the main hall and chapel, stately apartments very richly decorated, and then in order follow several drawing-rooms, a library, and a spacious dining-hall, and from the walls of each and all, the painted faces of those who walked these chambers long ago look down upon us with questioning gaze as though they still retained some interest in this world of the living, and yonder dame would, I know, like to hear the latest news from London; but take my advice, my lady, and let it pass, it is productive of just the same unrest and discontent now as when you trod the boards of that great theatre of life,—Dead Sea fruit, the whole of it.
Wondering what part she played in life, my eyes wander to an open window and straightway all thoughts of Madam vanish as I gaze downward through the glades of one of those beautiful parks which abound in these dominions. A stately terrace of stone shrouded in ivy runs below these windows and from it the land drops away into a gentle valley filled with great trees and blossoming banks of rhododendrons with here and there a stretch of grassland and a gleam of water, a vista which must have been a perpetual delight to the Duke who collected these books in this library, for a lover of books is generally a lover of nature.
Photo by W. Leonard
Tanderagee Castle
Passing onward you will enter the courtyard and at the end of the long arcades on one side find the billiard and smoking rooms. On the upper floors, aside from the state and family apartments, one finds long rows of bachelor apartments, twenty or thirty of them I should say, and in the middle of the row a cozy octagon chamber where much high revel has held forth, and which looks very lonely just now. There are small closets in the walls which certainly did not hold holy water.
But times are changed at Tanderagee, and while there is to-day high revel within its walls, it comes from the fresh young voices of children and would in no way appeal to the ghosts which haunt the octagon chamber.
After luncheon we visit the little ones in their rooms high up in the sunlight, and very happy, fine children they appear to be. Round-eyed little Lady Mary did the honours and presented her brother, who at the time was making vain attempts to stand on his head in a corner, while the new baby dreamed his days away in a crib by the fire. I am told that the present Duke dying without an heir the estate would pass to a Catholic owner, much to the distaste of the tenants here, who are mostly Protestants, and that when little Lord Mandeville was born the rejoicings were immense,—every man as he heard it having a pull at the church bell. Now there are two sons and hence little chance of the dreaded misfortune,—though it often happened during the Boer war that many estates in the empire fell to those so distant that no hope had been entertained for an instant of their so passing. Let us trust it will not occur here, for these are fine children.
Passing downward, we spend some hours in wandering over the park, pausing at last by the grave of the late Duke in the little churchyard. I did not notice the graves of any other members of the family. I believe former dukes are interred at Kimbolton, the family seat in England. The church holds some very beautiful windows erected by the present Duchess to the memory of her mother, Helena Zimmerman. As we return to the castle the voices of the children have roused all the echoes of the courtyard into wild replies and now the sunlight streams downward as though in thorough approval.
Tea-time, that most pleasant hour of the day, finds me in the chapel listening to the soft tones of the organ. My hand quite haphazard picks up a volume lying near me whose title at once chains my attention and in view of the base manner in which the author afterward sold his talents to her enemies and slandered his Queen it may be well to quote what he says of that Queen in this preface:
"To the Most Illustrious Mary Queen of Scots.
[An Epigram of George Buchanan.]"Madam:
"Who now happily holdest the sceptre of the Caledonian coast conveyed from hand to hand through a long line of innumerable ancestors, whose fortune is exceeded by thy merits, thy years by thy virtues, thy sex by thy spirit, and thy noble birth by the nobility of thy manners,
"Receive (but with candour and good nature) these poems upon which I have bestowed a Latine Dress, etc. etc. I durst not cast away this ill-born product of mine lest I should reject what thou hast been pleased to approve. What my poems could not hope for from the wit and genius of the composer perhaps they will obtain from thy good-will and approbation."[1]
Deep in thoughts of that most interesting period of Scotch history I do not even hear the dressing bell until its clangour becomes too insistent to be disregarded, and I mount to my room to dress for that most important function of the day—dinner. A bright fire makes the chamber warm and cozy so that it is difficult to resist the temptation to further reverie.
Evidently Tanderagee has been greatly improved of late years. In the building have been placed several modern bathrooms, a Turkish plunge, and an electric light plant and steam heat, so that the damp, penetrating cold and musty, mouldy smell usually so ever-present in these houses, where fortunes are so constantly spent in decorations and so little done for actual comfort, are absent. From my window I can see on the lake of the park an ancient swan named Billy, alone in all his glory and from choice and bad temper, not necessity. He has killed off all his kind and all other kinds, is in fact a degenerate bird, and when evening comes on he betakes himself with the rest of the "boys" to the village street, and loafs around all night, no dog in the place daring to molest him. I saw him outside of a public house there with a desire for strong drink expressed in his eyes. He is a rake of the worst character but you dare not tell him so. He leaves the park every night before the gates are closed and returns next morning.
There are fine drives in all directions hereabouts, and the roads being good we have many a rush in the motor-cars,—one to an old ruin where the devil is supposed to leave the impress of his foot upon a plank in the floor each night. I doubt if to-day even the devil could reach the plank through the accumulation of dirt thereon.
Photo by Wm. Lawrence
Chapel, Tanderagee Castle
As we wait in the quadrangle one morning for our motors, to my astonishment I am accosted in salutation by a name used only at home, and by those I have known for years. "How de do, Mr. Mike?" Around me rise the walls of the castle, but aside from the expressionless faces of the house servants standing near I can see no one until in a dark corner of the court a yet blacker spot suddenly shows a white gleam of teeth, and out into the light comes the speaker. "How de do, sir?—I'se de cook on de boss's car, and I knowed you all your life. Don't you remember nigger John and Miss Nancy Ballentine?" Convulsed with laughter, I can scarcely answer. This explains the hot bread and waffles on the breakfast table, which surprised me for the moment, but which I had entirely forgotten. Bowing and scraping came black "Tom" into the sunshine and it seemed to do his heart good to talk of the old times, of Black John our own cook, and Miss Nancy Ballentine, who "tended de ladies' waitin' room in the C. H. & D. station" when she was not assisting at the marrying or burying of most of us, at the latter wearing a dress composed of the crêpe from many a doorbell. That it did not match in degrees of blackness mattered not at all to the good dame. She arranged it in stripes and she could tell you which particular funeral each of those stripes came from. She has been dead many years, and to have her recalled here was strange indeed, but—the cars come with a rush, and we are off with a rush, speeding through the beautiful park whose trees certainly equal any I have seen except of course those of California.
I find that my fifteen horse-power Clements keeps up very fairly with the Duke's motor of sixty horse-power. Of course on the wide straight roads of France this could not be, but on these narrow and crooked lanes of Ireland we are never very far apart, and have had many good runs together.
Our motoring carries us often to the town of Armagh where one comes across traces of the hatred of that Catholic Queen, Mary I., for the Irish. She burned this see and three other churches. The cruelties of that Queen to the people of Kings and Queens counties equals anything told in Irish history, but is rarely mentioned by the historians of the day. In fact, all the territory forming now those counties was stolen from its ancient owners and the name changed as above, resulting in a warfare which lasted into the reign of Elizabeth until the people finally disappeared into the mountains. No torture or cruelty was spared.
In Forgotten facts in Irish History we read that "it seems very apparent to the student of Irish history that these people received their persecutions not because they were Catholics, but because they were Irish. The most terrible persecutions took place under the Catholic sovereigns of England and not until those monarchs became so-called heretics was the Church of Rome turned against them, so that at the present time it is the effort of all to show that the persecution if it exists is because of the religion."
The history of the archbishopric of Dublin is an object-lesson on the exclusion of the Irish from the Church ever since the Conquest. From 1171 down to the Reformation, in 1549, there were twenty-three archbishops of Dublin. Of these not one was Irish. For the archbishopric of Dublin "No Irish need apply!"
The Statute of Kilkenny enacted that no religious house shall receive an Irishman, under penalty of being attainted and having its temporalities seized.
One historian of our times asks:
"But would any Irishman have the hardihood to say that if King Edward VII. were to become a Roman Catholic (which heaven forbid), and to go hand in hand with the Papacy in the prosecution of their Imperial and world-wide projects, that the Pope would oppose the King in any tyrannies he might be disposed to inflict upon Ireland which did not run counter to the interests of the Roman Catholic Church? Would the Pope risk the friendship of the ruler of a great Empire for the sake of what Italians regard as 'a mere eruption on the chin of the world'?[2]
"The centuries of oppressive treatment which Ireland received while the whole kingdom was under the 'shelter of the wings of Rome' amply explains the animosity which rankles in the Irish heart towards England and everything English. The whole story of that almost forgotten period is a series of murders, cursings, tyrannies, betrayals, rapacity, hypocrisy, and poverty, which scarcely finds a parallel in the range of history."
Armagh has suffered terribly throughout the years since St. Patrick founded the cathedral, but though abounding in memories, there is little existing of the past in the town to-day. The site of its cathedral is very fine, but the building has suffered a complete restoration.
Our days at Tanderagee have passed pleasantly but they are over at last and bidding our hosts adieu we roll off towards Newry.
Photo by Wm. Lawrence
Drawing-room, Tanderagee Castle
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The Preface of George Buchanan's Poetical Paraphrase upon the five books of Psalms.
Translated literally into English by Pat Stobin, A. M. Copied by me from the MS. copy of Stobin at Tanderagee, owned by the Duke of Manchester. The whole book is in MS.
M. M. Shoemaker.
[2] The late Professor Stokes ventured to say that an English Peer is a more welcome visitor at the Vatican than an Irish Roman Catholic Bishop.
CHAPTER III
Through Newcastle to Downpatrick—Grave of St. Patrick—His Life and Work—The Old Grave-Digger—Belfast and Ballygalley Bay—O'Halloran the Outlaw.
It is nearly six o'clock when we start from Newry towards Newcastle. Our road lies down the river, and so on by the sea the entire distance.
The highway is excellent all the way, some thirty-two miles, and the car speeds onward like a bird. The scenery is lovely, the glimpses of mountain and meadow, sea and sky enchanting.
About 7.20 brings us to the hotel at Slieve Donard, a very large costly establishment built by the railway company. It is evidently a watering-place of some importance, and next month (July) will see it crowded. The place is pleasantly situated by the sea and presided over by the Mourne Mountains. There are golf-links and the walks and drives are fine, but otherwise there is nothing of interest, and we shall move northward to Dundrum.
The morning is clear and crisp as we leave Newcastle, getting lost at once in the many byways, but that is rather a pleasure than an annoyance. All the roadbeds are fine hereabouts and we roll merrily along over hill and down dale until Downpatrick comes into view, and we pass up her streets to her ancient cathedral, and there pay our devotions at the grave of St. Patrick.
The church stands well above its ancient city and is visible from all the country round about. Several places claim the birthplace of St. Patrick, but that benign Scotchman was born near Dunbarton. He himself says that his father was a deacon and his grandfather a priest. He was a nephew of St. Martin of Tours, the sister of that holy man having been the mother of the Irish patron. His name was Succat, but it is by his Latin name of Patricius that he is known best to the millions who revere his memory.
Ireland during its first millennium was called Scotland, and its people "Scots," and by these St. Patrick was taken prisoner when he was but sixteen years of age and carried to Antrim, where he was held for six years and forced to care for the swine of Michu, a chieftain. We are told that this occurred in the mountain of Llemish near Ballymena. During this period his thoughts were ever turned towards Christianity and after having effected his escape he is next heard of at Auxerre with its Bishop, Germanus, by whom he was admitted to holy orders. His thoughts always turned towards Ireland and here he landed when he was sixty years of age near the present church of Saul on Strangford Lough in 432 A.D. This was but four miles from Downpatrick, and there the Lord promptly blessed his work by enabling him to convert the chieftain of the district, Dichu, to Christianity, receiving as a gift the barn of that same chieftain, which formed the first Christian church of this island. The present church of Saul stands on the spot and that name is but a corruption of the ancient one of "Patrick's Sabball," or barn.
From here the faith spread until it covered all the land, and here in 492 he died.
Both Armagh and Dundalethglass—Downpatrick—claimed a right to provide him with a tomb, and to settle the dispute two untamed oxen were yoked to his bier, and they stopped on this hill of Downpatrick. As to what sort of a wild ride they gave his saintship before, out of wind, they rested on this hill, history is silent, but, being Irish, there is no doubt but that he thoroughly enjoyed it.
I have always regretted that during an ocean voyage which I once made with the late Bishop Donnelly, I did not make inquiry concerning this funeral progress, for I have no doubt but that his reverence—he was not a Bishop then—knew all about it. I have never met any one who more thoroughly appreciated the sunshine and sorrow, the laughter and tears of the land he loved so well, and I greatly regret that that voyage was so short and that the good Bishop so soon thereafter entered into his rest. But to return.
As far as the actual grave of St. Patrick is concerned, there is, of course, no certainty; that he was buried somewhere on this hill appears beyond doubt, and probably near the spot the church was built on, but that his body remained long in the grave after he was elevated to the sainthood is clearly doubtful. Probably every church in Ireland has at one time contained a relic of his. As for this original church here, it is spoken of way back in the sixth century and again in the eleventh. The first claimed to have been erected by the saint himself.
The relics of Columba were brought from Iona here and it is related that it was that saint who enshrined those of St. Patrick just three-score years after his death. In his tomb were found his goblet, his Angel's Gospel, and the Bell of the Testament.
Into St. Patrick's tomb went also the bones of St. Brigid. The Danes came here, and Strongbow and King John passed by.
The present church is supposed to be only the choir of the great edifice—the second church—built by De Courcey and destroyed by Edward, Lord Cromwell in 1605; but it is so completely restored that it is of little interest, though very comfortable withal.
Photo by Wm. Lawrence
Terrace at Tanderagee Castle
Just outside there stands a venerable grave-digger amongst the tombs, who might almost have been here fifteen hundred years ago, and certainly he would resent any insinuation that he was not well informed upon all which may or may not have occurred since the death of the saint. He is leaning upon his rake near the church door, and returns our salutation in an antique manner, nothing about him as it were, belonging to this latter day or date. "Yes, the cathedral can be visited, but perhaps 'twould be as well to visit the tomb, I will show you that,—who better?"
It is off amongst a tangle of tombstones and high grasses, a great flat irregular boulder engraved with a Celtic cross and the saint's name—evidently the sinful dead have crowded as closely as possible around the saintly ashes in order perhaps to pass into the heavenly gates unobserved with such great company to chain the attention of St. Peter. But some of these around started on their last journey hundreds of years after St. Patrick,—still, as we are told that "in His sight a thousand years are but as yesterday," perhaps they all arrived together, and I doubt not that for his beloved Irish the holy Patrick would delay his entry as long as possible and even come back again from that farther shore at the calling of some late comers.
When I ask this grave-digger whether this be indeed the grave of the holy man, he looks wise, plucks a bit of grass from a near-by grave, and seizes his opportunity for an oration. It is useless to stop him with questions, he will answer as and when it pleases him; and so, sitting upon the tomb with the sunlight falling in a glowing benediction upon us living and upon the old cathedral and its silent company, he speaks on and on. "There's many, your honour, phwat has heads but don't use thim. Is this the grave you ask. Well I have puzzled out the question for many years. I don't believe it is, as I suggested this spot to the antiquary society myself. In owlden days the spot prayed upon as his tomb was under yonder middle window of the church, but whin a bishop came along who wanted more silf-glory than one driveway would give him, he made that one there, and in so doing moved the owld tombstone,—not that I am claiming that even that was the first one laid upon the blessed corpse, for an owld woman of eighty who lived here until she was ten and then moved away, came back to bid farewell to her native town on going to America, and upon being shown the tomb undher the window asked since whin had the dead taken to moving their graves, for whin she left here it was below there in the valley. But we know it was around here some place, and this new spot is as good as any other." "Did St. Pathrick build that church?—no, sure, yer honour, he was not the kind of a man who wint around glorifying himself. If he had had as much money as that cost 't would be the poor who would have got it. Still, the church yonder is fifteen hundred years old, though it has been so built over that it is hard to believe it."
The old man would have talked on for ever, but, like most of his age, it would have been but vain repetition, and so we move off and away, feeling sure that the spirit of the benign old saint returns now and then in floods of warm sunlight to his ancient cathedral of Downpatrick.
Like most grave-diggers, the man up there knew more of the past than of the present, and when he told us that we would find a fine ferry from Strangford across the outlet of the lough of that name he spoke without advisement. We found a proposition to place some planks from one boat to another and so to ferry us and our great machine over one of the deepest, swiftest currents passing outward to the sea. It is useless to say that I vetoed this proposition, so we rolled backward almost to Downpatrick, and then turned north-west towards Belfast, which we reached for luncheon.
When I pass a city like Belfast without notice, it is not that there is not much of interest there, but that it has been so often described, and I would confine these notes to those more unfamiliar spots with which Ireland abounds, places of which the general run of travellers knows nothing. Yet Belfast, like its great neighbour Glasgow, possesses much of interest of which the guide-books make no note.
Leaving the busy city of the north, our route lies towards the sea and by the sea for some hours, the roads all very good. We pass Carrickfergus and Larne and on the shores of Ballygalley Bay, coming to a sudden stoppage, discover on investigation that our stupid chauffeur has allowed the gasoline to run out. What to do is a problem, as we are some miles from any town and the road is a lonely one. To assist in a solution of the question Boyse goes to sleep in the motor and I go out on a lonely rock at sea where O'Halloran, that most renowned outlaw in Irish history, built his tower,—all in ruins now. For ten years he kept all this district in subjection and was killed in 1681.
There is but little left of his stronghold here—an angle of a tower, an outline of a wall or two,—all on a tiny island around which murmur the waters of the Irish Sea, while far out, seemingly afloat, in the hazy distance rise the shadowy shores of Scotland. That is Cantyre and Arran over yonder. There are no sails in sight and the sea is asleep. The high-road winds away close down by the shore on either hand, while high behind it the fantastic cliffs tower some three hundred feet and more, wild and desolate. To have passed this way in the days of O'Halloran, without paying heavy tribute, if he allowed you to go at all, would have been well-nigh impossible, and our further progress, unless that petrol comes, is as effectively prohibited.
Photo by W. Leonard
The Tomb of St. Patrick
But there is peace about just now, the drifting clouds above, the lapping waters and silent hills all around, Boyse still sleeping, and the auto seemingly dead, while Yama occupies a pinnacle of an adjacent rock, a bronze Buddha on its travels, as it were. But far down the coast road a white speck shortly evolves into a jaunting-car laden with petrol cans—we had sent word back by a passing cyclist—whose contents are promptly transferred into our tank, and then with all paid for we glide away to the north, with one last glimpse at the ruined tower in its bay of Ballygalley.
I should make the chauffeur pay for his stupidity about that petrol, but I don't suppose I shall do so.
The ride to Ballycastle is joyous, the road very fine and smooth, running now by the glistening sea and then far up a thousand feet amidst the silence of the hill and moors, over which flocks of sheep are browsing upon grass rich and thick.
Several towns are holding fairs, and we have met two "Irish gentlemen" returning home who would not care to-day whether the Emerald Isle got her freedom or not. One led a huge stallion which pranced and snorted at our passing, but while unable to stand straight, his keeper held on to his charge, and I doubt not got him home safely, occupying most all the roadway in his progress. It will be a very sorry day indeed when an Irishman, no matter what his condition, cannot hold on to a horse.
Ballycastle is reached at eight o'clock and we find quarters in a very comfortable inn—the Marine Hotel,—after a run of over one hundred miles.
CHAPTER IV
Ballycastle to the Causeway—Prosperity of Northern Ireland—Bundoran—Gay Life in County Mayo—Mantua House—Troubles in Roscommon—Wit of the People—Irish Girls—Emigration to America—Episode of the Horse—People of the Hills—Chats by the Wayside—Mallaranny.
It is nineteen miles from Ballycastle to the Causeway. Immediately upon leaving the former place, in fact quite within the town's precincts, we struck one of those steep short hills which seem greatly to try the temper of motors. While they will later mount much more difficult and longer slopes, with apparently no difficulty, such a hill so soon after breakfast always disagrees with them, and so it was just here. In fact, it looked as though we must get out and walk, but with an additional spurt and snort it was over the summit, and we tobogganed down the other slope at a speed which made us hold on tightly.
All this ride to the Causeway is up and down the wildest hills, close beside yet high above the neighbouring ocean, and at times the route lies down such steep inclines that I confess I take them in great trepidation, commanding Robert to go slowly. This he consents to do at the very summit, but half-way down with what a whiz and a roar do we finish the descent, rushing far up the next incline!
There is a safer, far safer, route just inland, but the vote was against that. Yet at times when the wind is roaring past us, as we rush downward and we realise that a break in any part of our car might hurl us over the wall and hundreds of feet downward, we almost wish we had selected the safer route. The road is so close to the cliff's wall that the prospect along the coast is at all times grandly impressive while from far beneath arise the vague, delusive voices of the ocean. Pausing for a space we cross the wall and creep out on to a projecting headland and drink in the superb panorama. Far below us and far out to sea spreads the great floor of the Giant's Causeway, while on either hand away into the hazy distance of this lovely day in June stretch the fantastic cliffs and headlands of this romantic coast, showing by their jagged outlines the effects of their ceaseless battle with the sea. On the headland where we stand green grasses spangled with buttercups roll inland into broad meadow lands and towards distant purple mountains. This world may hold more lovely spots than Erin's Isle, but if so, I have never seen them.
As there are very few signboards in Ireland a motor tour is a constant study of the map and one must come provided with such. Before leaving London I purchased a set of Stanford's, seven in all, covering this island, and very finely gotten up.[3] It is a pleasure to study them and a child could scarcely go wrong, though we have enjoyed the pleasure of getting lost several times.
So far my luck of two years back in France, as to weather, has followed us. Aside from one shower the first day we have had fine weather all the time, not all sunshine but no rains, and the cool grey skies with rifts of sunlight breaking through them, illuminating like a searchlight spots of the land or sea, are beautiful.
The auto has settled down to serious work by now and rushes singing along, working better and better as the hours fly by. Leaving the Causeway our route lies inland through Bushmills, Coleraine, and Limavady.
All this end of Ireland appears prosperous. The highroads and villages are well kept. The land is strongly Protestant, its men and women fine, serious specimens of humanity, and there are no heaps of manure and filth near the tidy houses, while the old mothers go smilingly along through life.
Even the hens in this island have a degree of understanding denied their French sisters. Scarce one has attempted to cross our pathway and none have gotten killed.