Wanderings in Ireland

Lunching at Londonderry we made a rapid run to Bundoran on the Atlantic coast. The ride was pleasant with good roads nearly all the way, part way over the highlands and part by the shores of Lough Erne. Bundoran is a desolate, bleak sort of watering-place, lonely and dispiriting, but with a comfortable hotel of the Great Northern Railway Company.

We depart next morning with every feeling of satisfaction. It is a dreary place and the life led therein is dreary also. The power of the ocean is so great here that it has carved the whole coast with caverns and gulches until the observer wonders whether it will not eventually carry off Bundoran, town, hotel, and all.

So we roll off into the sunshine and from the moment we enter County Sligo the fun begins. A spirited sprint with half a dozen young steers leads us through a group of jaunting-cars from which our passing causes men and women to descend in anything but a dignified manner. One portly dame in a white cap slips and sits down upon mother earth with much emphasis. Her remarks, though few, were to the point. Another gathers her skirts well around her waist, and regardless of a foot or more of panties takes a flying leap over a mud wall, and "Glory be to God's" resound on all sides. A flock of geese in attempting escape through the bars of a gate get wedged therein, and keep the gate going by the motion of their wings, and as it swings to and fro rend the air with their squawking. On the whole the excitement would satisfy the most exacting and there is more to come.

This being the feast of Sts. Peter and Paul has been seized upon for fairs, and in all the villages great preparations have been made for their celebration. Towards each town droves of animals, mostly cattle but also many pigs, the latter scrubbed to cleanliness, make stately progress, the pigs in carts bedded with straw—not a mortal in any of the fairs is as clean as the pigs.

We were approaching one of these fairs, and moving as slowly as could be if we were to move at all. Cattle and pigs were all around us and generally paid no attention to our car, but one sportive young heifer decided otherwise, and with a snort and a whisk of tail she was off in the opposite direction. Evidently a leader of fashion in her circle, she created a fashion there and then for there was scarce a pig or cow which did not follow suit, urged on by many dogs. The noise and confusion was appalling, and the manner in which old men and women, comfortable Irish "widdies," young men and maidens, took to trees and stumps gave added animation to the landscape. By this time we had come to a halt. I did not want to laugh, and the suppression of that emotion caused the tears to course down my face. Just then a man advanced towards us, his face aflame, his raised right arm grasping a bowlder, while as he came onward he shouted furiously, "I'll larn yez, I'll larn yez." There was nothing to do save sit silently, and this we did. The nearer he came, the lower got his arm, until he had passed us as though we were not there. Then the arm went up again and all the fury returned while the air rang with his "I'll larn yez," but towards whom directed it was impossible to determine as he walked steadily away from us all the time. I cannot say that I altogether blame him as it must have been somewhat difficult for the owners to separate their new purchases from that concourse of rushing animals. What a good time they had to be sure!

The man was our first instance of hostility in Ireland. In fact the people were generally very friendly towards us, assisting whenever assistance was required, which fortunately was not often. Certainly we met with none of the jealous hatred which often greets a prosperous looking man in France, and causes him to think of the guillotine, or the lowering glances and sometimes violence of the Swiss. Still the Swiss have some justice on their side. The passing machine covers the meadow grass with dust and the cattle will not eat it, which to the people spells ruin.

However, auto cars cannot be kept out of Switzerland, and her government should take the matter in hand and, by oiling the highways, obviate the difficulty.

No oil will, however, ever be needed in Ireland. While we had but one rain during the entire tour of the first summer, the night dews did away with all dust. As for the highways and lesser avenues and byways, I expected to find much that was rough and almost impassable, but on the whole they are all very good indeed. Except in Galway I remember none that were bad, and I circled the entire island and crossed and recrossed it many times.

From Sligo we take a run through the county of Roscommon, which seems to suffer most from these evil days, and to carry on its face a look of sadness and neglect. Things are not at rest here and the press daily holds its records of "outrages" in Roscommon, but let us leave that until to-morrow. Certainly there are no traces of it as our car rolls up the broad avenue of Mantua House, the estate of Mr. Bowen, where as the rain comes down a warm welcome and bright fire cause us to forget that there is storm and darkness outside and perhaps sorrow and trouble all around.

Mantua House is a spacious, square building, in a large park. It has some three centuries to its credit but yet it is a cheery, pleasant abiding-place and smiles at the passer-by like a saintly old lady. It is said that the fairies abided once under its doorstep and when some few years ago a vestibule was added an old woman appeared and kneeling down cursed the workmen for disturbing them. But the little spirits do not seem to have minded it much and the inhabitants of the "House in the Bog" live on in peace. My night's slumber under its roof was undisturbed and dreamless.

There is much of interest in the house in the shape of portraits, and those of seven generations, whose owners had passed their lives here, looked down upon us while at dinner. I fear I appear morose and a bad guest for I cannot keep my eyes and thoughts from these old portraits, wondering what the lives of their owners were and how I shall feel if ever my painted face looks down from some shadowy canvas on a company at dinner a century or two hence. If such portrait should exist it will probably be marked "Portrait of a gentleman" as one so often reads in a catalogue when name and owner are long, long forgotten as of no importance. How poor a thing is earthly immortality and yet how we all long for it, how we dread to be amongst those "forgotten." But they are not "forgotten" in Mantua House, as I was told the names and dates of all of them. Later, in the glow of the turf fire, those around us in the spacious hall almost quicken into life and gaze into its glowing depths as we are doing and as they have each in turn done in the old mansion, until the bell of time sounded for them and they passed away into shadowland. I think that for glowing warmth and depth of colour a turf fire surpasses all others. The brown earth burns deeply but glows to its very heart, and as it burns throws off a pungent smoke which recalls to your memory the "Princess of Thule," and finally getting into your brain drives you off to bed and the mantle of sleep falls upon the "House in the Bog."

It is a misty morning in which we bid our hosts good-bye but not to be too hard upon us the sun shines now and then as we roll off between the dripping hedgerows whose boughs, reaching at us as though endeavouring to stay our progress, scrape the top of our hood as the car glides onward. As I have stated, the county of Roscommon suffers more than any other section of Ireland in these days of "cattle driving." Here it is first impressed upon the traveller that there is trouble abroad. Numbers of men with lowering glances loaf around doing nothing save smoke their stumpy pipes and all the rich land hereabouts stands neglected and deserted.

As to this driving of the cattle which is the cause of most of the trouble, the landowners generally rent their fields for grazing, but the people are determined that they shall sell them their lands and at prices dictated not by the owners, but by the purchaser. This being refused, they will not allow the grazing, and drive a man's cattle back to him, leaving the land of no profit to its owner, and hoping thereby to force him to their methods. There would appear to be small justice in all this.

There is much trouble of this description all over the island but it is only in Roscommon that the fact has impressed itself upon us and we hear of it constantly. One man told me that he had been out with seven packs of hounds which had been poisoned and related the story of a landlord who spent not less than forty thousand pounds a year on his estate keeping it and his tenantry in the best of conditions. He was waited upon by a committee from the League, who informed him that if he allowed certain men, all his friends, to hunt with his hounds, he and his pack would be boycotted. He replied that he lived in the country because he considered it his duty to do so, that he spent all his money here for the same reason, giving employment to hundreds, keeping all in plenty, but that if such a threat was carried out, he would sell everything and leave. It was carried out, and he closed his estate, sold his horses and hounds in England, and left this island, the loss to his section being enormous, and all for the sake, as in most of our "strikes," of a few ringleaders who fatten on the poor men they hoodwink, while their families starve.

At present a man may go into many sections of Ireland and demand land, placing his own price thereon and the owner has got to accept it. What an opportunity for dishonesty lies there! It is so common for all Europe, and I have noticed several very bitter "communications" in the Irish press lately—to point to the so-called lawlessness of America, i.e., the United States, that it is something to note the present state of affairs in parts of Ireland. For instance, here in Roscommon, no man has been convicted of murder for years, yet there have been many terrible crimes of that sort committed; one where a son and daughter murdered their old father on his doorstep that they might get the little place. They were tried and acquitted. Again every one has heard of the case of Mr. and Mrs. Blake which occurred but lately in Galway. Refusing to sell their lands they were both fired upon and wounded while returning from mass and almost under the walls of the church. The people standing round simply roared with laughter. No one was apprehended for that crime though every one in the country could tell who were the assailants.

It is scarcely just for an outsider to pass upon the affairs of a foreign country, but when, as I have stated, one's own land is constantly held up to the most violent criticism, while at the same time the daily press of our critics teems with reports of like and worse in their own country, one cannot be blamed for so doing.

I was told later that there is much trouble around Cashel, but personally I saw no signs of it save in Roscommon. Elsewhere it is very easy to disbelieve the reports, for surely in no part of the world are the prospects more entrancing to the traveller—on the surface at least—than in this island with its lovely lakes, its beautiful mountains and seas, its picturesque people, and above all its luxuriant vegetation. Every old tower is shrouded in ivy, and the grass is soft as velvet, showing the richness of the soil, and is beautiful beyond description. With all their sorrow and tears these people appear full of sunshine and laughter, and if you smile at them you are always greeted pleasantly, while you find them at all times full of jests and quaint humour which keep you in a constant state of laughter. The other day I gave a man a sixpence as a tip. Being possessed of true politeness, he would not directly reflect upon my generosity, or the lack thereof, but gravely regarding the coin a moment, and scratching his head the while in a meditative fashion, he exclaimed, "Bad luck to the Boer war which blew the two shillings away and left the sixpence."

It is almost impossible to change the habits and customs inborn in these peasants, no matter how many years may be passed in foreign lands. It is a well-known fact that girls that have lived in cleanly, pleasant homes in America, with all which that means, on returning here, as they often do, and marrying some Irish lad, soon sink to the level from which they had raised themselves by emigrating. Their savings all gone to buy the hut from their husband's brothers and sisters and poor as when they left Ireland, they are soon seen standing barefooted in the manure and filth, pitching it into a wretched cart, drawn by a most wretched looking donkey, all their good clothes and dainty habits a thing of the past and I doubt if greatly regretted.

Occasionally, however, the reverse holds true. A lady not long since came over bringing her Irish maid with her, and on reaching Queenstown told the girl that she could, if she desired, go home for a visit and rejoin her mistress later in Dublin. The girl went, but before the mistress reached Dublin the telegraph wires were laden with messages from the maid, so fearful was she that the mistress would leave her, and when she rejoined her remarked with a gasp, "but ma'am, I did not know it was like that; why the pig slept in the room wid us." But there are not many who mind the pig and a girl returned and married here will cuff her children, dirty with dirt which would have sickened her while in her American home, out of the way of the "gentleman who pays the rent."

As for the emigration of these or any other peoples to our country, if they who come are honest and willing to work, they will find no difficulty in obtaining plenty of employment, provided they go where it is and do not expect it to be ready to their hand on landing. Most who get into trouble and, returning home, tell woful tales about impositions, etc., are those who insist upon remaining in the congested districts of the East. The whole South and great West, from St. Louis to the Pacific, and from Canada to Mexico, is open to them, a vast empire, where all may live if they will work and where there is room for all who come. The systems of irrigation in action and proposed by our government, in the west, are reclaiming a vast empire yet to be peopled, while in the South labour brings high figures and is difficult to obtain, especially in our great cotton mills in South Carolina and Georgia and in the lumber mills of Florida.

But thousands who come to us have no intention of working and insist upon remaining around and in our crowded cities and districts where the devil soon finds plenty of employment for their idle hands, and his arch agents—ward politicians—lend him most efficient assistance. I know that only last winter one of the owners of a great lumber mill in Florida, at his own expense, brought from the immigrant bureau in New York a large number of men who no sooner got to Florida than they ran off and became tramps, having from the start no intention of working.

That there is much truth in The Jungle and other books of like sort is beyond doubt, but there is no necessity for any man, woman, or child's remaining in such places unless he so desires. Most of them having lived in abject poverty and wretchedness at home, continue, by nature, to do so abroad, and will never change, and such as these by their very habits contribute largely to the state of affairs described in that book. The hope lies in the future, not for them, but for their children, who certainly will change. Such change is difficult if not impossible after man's estate is reached, not only with the poor but also with the well-to-do and rich.

To all proposed emigrants to the United States I would say again, if you are honest men and will come willing to work, you are welcome and there is plenty for you to do and space for all. If you expect or insist upon loafing around the cities, declining work, and expecting to be supported, you will be disappointed, you will end in the workhouse—stay away, we don't want you.

The roads through Roscommon from Mantua House are bad. We encountered but few good stretches for some miles from that house; then they became better. On one of these we were making rapid progress down grade, when suddenly some hundred or so yards ahead two men came out from a gateway leading a huge black mare. She was evidently restive and we slowed up but as we came to a stop a hundred feet off she reared, broke loose, and fell over backwards, then rolling over plunged forward towards a gate and succeeded in fastening the metal pointed horns upon her collar so securely under the bar of the gate that she was held immovable upon her knees. Notwithstanding her great power she could not stir an inch. When the gate was thrown open, she sprang forward in the wildest fright and her owner stood by and cursed us to the extent of his ability. He certainly heard us coming and should not have brought her out, but it's all one-sided with horsemen,—they expect to do exactly as suits them and if anything happens, the other party, no matter what they are on or in, are always to blame. In every case we come, as we did there, to a dead stop at once, and I must say that all of our accidents have arisen because the men have much less sense than the horses, which I notice in nearly every case rarely evince fright until their owners jump at them and drag at their bridles. I have never listened to a more perfect line of curses than were poured forth in that case; they seemed to linger in the air long after we had placed hills and dales between ourselves and the old man, which we did as soon as possible.

As we stopped for luncheon later on I questioned a car driver as to a large building near by.

"Is that a court-house over there?"

"Yis, sir, but we haven't much use for it. Only open it wanst a fortnight, and shortly we won't open it at all, at all. Thim lawyers've 'ad their own way long enough, it's time the car drivers had a show." (Wherein lawyers interfered with car drivers was not stated.)

"Are you mostly Catholics around here?"

"Yis, sir."

"Is not that a Methodist chapel yonder?"

"Yis, but not much good at all, and would shut up altogether only some old man with more money than sinse left it twenty pounds a year."

Passing onward into the highlands, we stopped for water at a little stone house, from which the children swarmed out like flies,—seven,—belonging to one man, and his wife ventures the statement that if we come back in seven years there will be seven more. She speaks feelingly; evidently there is no race suicide here.

This far western Ireland is much like the highlands of Scotland, but far wilder. Auto cars are rarely seen here. While the land is still orderly and apparently prosperous, I think I note the change towards the shiftlessness so prevalent in the south. There are many roofless and abandoned cottages and the heaps of manure are becoming more frequent.

We shall shortly reach Newport near Clew Bay and pass on to Mallaranny and Achill Island, the wildest part of Ireland. Well up into the hills, we pause for some slight repairs, and the usual group of men and boys, a girl and a dog, appear as from nowhere and squat on the adjacent bank. They say they can speak the ancient tongue and that all the old customs and usages are still in vogue hereabouts. I ask for a wake, but that puzzles them. "It might be difficult to arrange, sir." However, I shall probably attend one before I leave the land, hoping that it may not prove my own. I ask if these boys live near here.

"They all do, sir."

"Well, it's a beautiful spot." His eyes and mine wander off over the solitary moorland and up to the more solitary mountains.

"It is indade, sir."

"I have a streak of Irish blood in my own veins," I venture to add.

"Have ye, now, sir, and were ye born in Ireland?"

"No, we left here more than two centuries ago."

"Time you war havin' a wake indade, sir." That turns the laugh on me, and I throw a shilling at the crowd for drinks, which results in a wild scramble down into a muddy ditch and a wilder waving of legs in the air as each and all go head first into the mud.

Quiet restored, my former conversationalist, somewhat the worse for mud, remarks. "And indade, sir, ye seem to have a good time, 'tis wishin' I am that all the people here had the likes," and with an echo to the wish and a wave of the hand we glide off and away into the valley.

This ride has indeed been beautiful, but just as we enter the village of Mallaranny (County Mayo) and are speeding down a steep incline, a little yellow-headed urchin toddles directly across our track; a catastrophe seems unavoidable; women shriek and howl, and men stand paralysed, but one old crone grabs the boy just as Robert brings our car to a halt, with not six inches to spare. The baby, not at all frightened, howls with rage because his progress has been cut short. The old crone proceeds to spank the child until I tell her that if any one deserves punishment it is herself for her neglect. A few more miles brings us to the hotel and in a very sleepy state, as the air all day has been chilly; but we are not so sleepy that we cannot see at once that this is not such a chamber of discomfort, such a cold storage as that place at Bundoran. In point of situation and objects of interest there can also be no comparison. As a centre to explore this beautiful section and study these people Mallaranny could not be improved upon. The house stands high and overlooks land and sea for miles, and in whichever direction the eye roams the prospect is attractive, while Bundoran Hotel stands on a bleak moor over which the howling winds from all the North Atlantic sweep with terrible force. The town is dreary and of no interest, and the mountains too far away, while the climate is raw and unpleasant, whereas Mallaranny, much to the south, is swept by balmy winds and well sheltered on the north. Both places have salt water in the house, but here the bathrooms are large and the tubs are small swimming-tanks. There is a man at the head of that house and a woman at the head of this, and there lies the difference so far as the houses are concerned. Of course I do not mean to state that it is warm here. In fact the air is cold all over the land, and while there have been no rains so far, we wear fur coats and use fur robes all the time, and would be most uncomfortable without them.

CHAPTER V

The Island of Achill—Picturesque Scenery—Poverty of the People—"Keening" for the Dead—"The Gintleman Who Pays the Rint"—Superstitious Legends.

The island of Achill lies off the west coast of Ireland. Exposed to the full fury of the North Atlantic winds it is one of the bleakest spots on the globe. The manners and customs of its people change but slightly with the passing years.

Leaving the hotel on a misty morning, we roll off towards the sea. The way is narrow for a car and we pass uncomfortably near sleeping brown bogs whose quiet waters would promptly cover us up and suck us down past all resurrection were our wheels to slip over the brink.

Reaching a hill up which a man is driving cattle, our chauffeur sounds the horn and pushes gently forward, causing the animals to give way, whereupon their owner holds up his hand in indignant protest with a "Would ye dhrive the cattle!" To his thinking we should plod slowly up that miles-long hill behind his herd rather than cause them to move to one side,—to "dhrive the cattle!" being in his eyes little short of sacrilege. Yet his sort does not hesitate to drive other men's cattle off of still other men's land, and consider it their right so to do.

The long muddy road runs on the cliffs over the sea and finally turns down towards the coast, apparently losing itself in the waste. This is not the highway and we so discover in season to prevent an accident. Just then a small boy comes racing after us shouting that we should have turned off higher up. A few half-pennies and our thanks make him smilingly offer to return and show us the route, and a lift in the car completes his happiness,—the first time he has ever ridden in an automobile, I doubt not.

The traveller does not notice anything unusual until, having crossed the Peninsula of Curraun, he enters upon one of the strangest spots on earth. In the foreground, deep in a valley is a mysterious pool, black as night: all around rise the gloomy mountains, while over the peak to the west the sun is sending long shafts of purple and gold into the distant hollows, where brown turf fields stretch away, and low-walled, whitewashed, and thatched cottages spot the landscape, and the scarlet skirts worn by all the women throw splashes of vivid colour here and there. The whole is gloomy and sombre to a degree. The winds blow coldly and we draw our furs closely about us as the car speeds onward over roads not made for such usage. This indeed is ancient Ireland and one hears the Celtic tongue on all sides.

Holiday is held here as in Sligo, and the encounters with cattle and ponies are frequent. Here is a pony drawing a load of heavy timber which he insists upon running off with on our approach. Of course, we halt until we can creep by him. Yonder is a man to whom the fair has proven a not unmixed blessing. He lies upon his face on a bank, blind drunk, and will not take home with him the drinks consumed at the fair. His wife and father stand by trying to hold an old horse, but the bridle breaks and off he goes ahead of us, losing finally both blanket and saddle, and vanishing up a mountain. Another old gentleman, held on his horse by a dutiful son, curses us to the King's taste but in Celtic which we do not understand. Only the women are sober after the day's bout, and many is the beautiful face set off by the scarlet dress, which greets us smilingly or hides its sorrow from our glances.

Now the road grows wilder and wilder,—there is absolutely no sound save the moan of the distant ocean.

As we near the remotest part of the island, where the mountains raise their heads in solemn grandeur, there are no signs of human habitation except one lonely cottage. Its door is open, but there is no evidence of life. Suddenly the air shivers with the weirdest, loneliest cry I have ever listened to,—a sustained, penetrating wail rising and falling on the sad air and then shuddering away into silence, silence, silence rendered all the sadder by the fast approaching shadows of night. It is the famous "keening" or mourning cry for the dead. There are professional keeners and when one is informed of a death she starts for the house of sorrow and commences this melancholy cry as she goes. All the way over hill and dale, by these dark pools and through the bog pathways she goes, her cry bringing the women and children to the doors of all the huts. As she approaches the dead the cry dies away and ceases as she enters the cottage. Walking round the bier she commences anew and passing outward and away fills all the silence of the deepening night with her melancholy plaint. To hear it any place in Ireland is sad enough, to hear it amidst the desolation of Achill is almost terrifying and never to be forgotten. To-night it sounds like the voices of lost souls from the depths of the dark Atlantic.

I have heard a cry like that from the Arab women of a desert town, but nowhere else on earth, and I doubt if any other people possess one of such concentrated, desolate sorrow as this,—a sound which almost makes the heart stand still.

Why should these people mourn the advent of peace? Surely it is better for them to sleep than to wake; better to die than to live.

Through the open doorway of this hut as we pass we catch but a glimpse of an old woman bowed in sorrow and a sheeted, silent form on the bed in the corner.

Our car glides slowly and silently by and we move onward, more and more into the island of Achill, into the heart of ancient Ireland, until, rounding the shoulder of a desolate mountain, we come suddenly upon the sea. This is no bay or inlet, no capes guard us here, there is no lighthouse in sight to indicate that man ever sends his ships out there. That is the heart of the ocean, the deep sea. The waves, black as midnight and hurled forward with the force of the Gulf Stream, and all the currents of the North Atlantic, come thundering in with such power that one instinctively draws backward, while the coast is all cut and jagged, torn up and thrown pell-mell by the ceaseless onslaught. You realise that just out there are vast depths, awful forces, and that once within their grasp nothing save an interposition of God could save you; even this land scarcely seems a safe abiding-place.

The sky above is black as the waters beneath it and the winds sough upward from the underworld as though laden with the misery of these people of Achill.

Are there not scenes and times when the great truth of the existence of the Deity is impressed upon one? By the deep sea, amidst the solitude of the mountains and the silence of the desert, from the song of a bird far overhead, and always from the eyes of a little child does not the assurance come to man, past all doubting, that verily there is—a God? Has the atheist ever existed who has not experienced this many times throughout his wretched life?

The face of Ireland in the far western section seems constantly covered with tears. The sadness and poverty of the people passes all comprehension. Surely the love of their home land must be very great to keep them here at all.

Lady Dudley has established a most excellent charity hereabouts in the shape of contribution boxes for the establishment of district nurses in these the poorest sections of Ireland. The girls have a sadly hard time of it as often they find nothing to rest on in these hovels save a box or head of a barrel. We are stopping in front of one now that would be considered unfit for cattle at home, a low stone hut thatched in rotting straw patched up with turf. There is no window, and the door has no glass. The interior, plainly visible, is horrible in its sodden wretchedness. Before the doorstep is a bog of manure and all kinds of filth in which the pigs and ducks are at work. As our eyes wander away and up to the hills, white with stone, we wonder why in God's name with feet to walk upon every soul does not leave this island, which is not intended for man to live upon; yet here they are and plenty of them, and many seem cheery and happy. The woman of this wretched hovel before us is pitching manure into a cart, and as she stands, barefooted, in the filth above her ankles, sings and talks to me in the liveliest fashion. Just beyond is a bog whose waters, black as night, and spangled with water lilies, reflect as in a mirror a flock of geese and a woman in a brilliant scarlet petticoat. Beyond rise the mountains sombre and gloomy and over all lowers a sky dark with storms. Then the rain falls, but only for an instant, when the sunlight descending in long shafts of intense light turns even this scene of desolation into one of beauty. If these people were moved into a richer and more fertile section would they remain there, or would one shortly find these filthy hovels occupied again by their original owners? If so, their love of home passes comprehension.

One cannot but feel that many of the countless millions yearly sent to foreign missions were better spent here, where, by improving the body, the salvation of the soul would be more easily attempted, for it is impossible to believe that with such horrible, sordid conditions, there can be any deep belief in the goodness of God.

When in Teheran, Persia, I could not but observe the extensive missionary buildings, and when I asked what people the work was amongst, the reply came "Nestorian Christians." So, all the contributions from the churches are expended upon those who are already Christians. For (as is certainly not known at home) a Persian to be converted does not mean loss of caste as in India but death, and hence conversion to Christianity amongst them is impossible. Persia is the most fanatical of all nations, where one may not even look into a mosque, much less enter, yet millions continue to pour into that land yearly. Comment should be unnecessary, but I cannot help feeling that comment is needed when looking out over a scene like this before us to-day. There are plenty of plague spots in our own new land which need close attention; for instance, in the mountains of Virginia where the people are so ignorant that they not only cannot read, but do not know what reading is. It is a disgrace to our land that the ministers from these mountains are forced to go begging through the churches for money to carry on their work, but,—it is not half so picturesque and interesting to help such as to send millions to the land of the Sultan of Ispahan and perchance be able to rescue some Lalla Rookh or encounter the veiled prophet of Khorassan.

I find I am very apt—so to speak—to tumble off the island of Achill into almost any part of the world, so let us return once more.

The population of Achill is steadily decreasing, and now counts but forty-six hundred. These people have been described as a lot of thieves and murderers with, I should judge, very little justice in the charge. They had no such appearance to my eye.

The soil on the island is so thin and poor that her men cannot raise enough upon it to pay their rent and are forced to seek every year work in more favoured sections.

It is claimed these islanders consist of four great families, whose members can be easily distinguished from each other, the French Lavelles, the English Scholefields, the creole Caulfields, the Danish Morans. But there are also pure Irish to be found in the O'Malleys, Gaughans, and Monahans. The houses are but heaps of rude stones (which have been moulded by the tide), round of gable, and roofed by fern, heather, and shingles fastened by straw bands. Often there are no chimneys.

We stop at the town of Dugort under the shadow of the sombre mountain, "Slievemore," which rises immediately behind it. The town is an attempt on the part of one church to upset the authority of another amongst these people, and judging by the absolute desolation of the place I should say that the move has not been successful. There are some good houses and a church, but the people do not appear to be about. In the dreary hotel, we spent some time in an inspection of the most marvellous collection of paintings it has ever been our misfortune to examine. There were several of them and they occupied most of the hallway. We were unable to discover what one of them was intended to portray. We asked the barmaid and she seemed equally in doubt. B. suggested the mountain of Slievemore—I thought, a leg of mutton. The artist is the hotel proprietor. We left a request that he would "Please not do it again" which seemed greatly to relieve the young woman in charge.

At the door stands a jaunting-car waiting to take the luggage of a man, who has been fishing hereabouts, to the station. We offer him a lift in our motor and I tell the barmaid to give a glass of whiskey to his car driver. It appears, when it comes, to be a fair sized drink, but the old chap cocks his eye first on it and then at me, remarking, as he touches his cap, "And did ye say, sir, it was twelve years old—indade thin it's small for its age." As we roll off he promises to pick us up when our car breaks down as he knows it will. If that is to occur it is well to start, as we are miles from Mallaranny and well know that aside from this dreary hotel no hospitality would or could be offered us in this desolate region, and that the feeling here is not, especially after the "day off," of the best, as is proven by the curses hurled at us once more by the old gentleman whom we encountered on our way out. Later we meet the load of timbers and find that the drunken man has been deposited face down on the top, while his poor wife and old father trudge along behind.

How different all here from the Ireland decked out for the tourist! How sad and stern and strange! As I turn to look back upon it the daylight departs and the shadows grow blacker and deeper, only the waters of the lake catching for an instant a fleeting glow which soon dies out into ashes; and with the coming of night silence and solitude, profound and unbroken, rest upon the island of Achill.

Yet there we saw some wonderfully beautiful women, women whose type has made Ireland famous, great blue-grey eyes and jet black hair,—or the fairest of blondes with pale yellow hair and blue eyes, like the rain-washed heaven of their native land. Again, as we rolled by some white-walled, rose embowered cottage, an ancient dame in high frilled cap would smile us a welcome, or, as once to-day, I saw such a splendid young fellow, whose eyes beamed down into those of his baby boy held in his arms. There was happiness there. He must have married "his Nora" and the boy must have had its mother's eyes. Happiness, yes truly, such as comes not often to the portals of a palace. The man smiles in my face as the car rolls by. In fact, nowhere in all the years of my wanderings have I met such quick response to a smile or greeting as in these wilds of Ireland—save when drink, the curse of the land, had destroyed the man; but always with the women one has seemed welcome.

As for the pigs, they are so clean and so pink that one imagines that they wear silk socks and pumps. Do they walk?—bless you, no,—not on holidays at least, but ride in state, and here at last you meet and understand "the gintleman phat pays the rint." I firmly believe they have all been shaved. B. says not, not till after death. But those were very lovely and complacent pigs. I was only astonished that they were not riding in motor cars.

After the desolation of Achill it is pleasant to return to the hotel at Mallaranny. Owned by the Great Western Railway Company, it is most comfortable; a cozy fire before which a tabby cat is purring greets us as we enter the reading-room and we drop rugs and books with a sigh of contentment. Dinner over, the evening is passed deep in the history, romance, and poetry of the spot just visited.

Probably in no part of Ireland does superstition persist so strongly as in Achill. Many of the legends are gruesome and cluster about death and the grave. Many are beautiful, like that of the swans, and there is one about the seals, which they believe are the people who were drowned in the great flood. Not until this world is destroyed by fire will they be permitted to enter heaven, but once in every hundred years they resume their human shape upon earth, and it was during one of these periods that an incident happened which is still talked about in the island of Achill.

"John of the Glen had fallen asleep. Now the place he had chosen to repose in was for all the world like a basket; there was the high rock above him, and a ledge or rock all round, so that where he lay might be called a sandy cradle.

There he slumbered as snug as an egg in a thrush's nest, and he might have slept about two hours, when he hears singing—a note of music, he used to say, would bring the life back to him if he had been dead a month—so he woke up; and to be sure, of all outlandish tunes, and, to quote his words again, 'put the one the old cow died of to the back of it,' he never heard the like before; the words were queerer than the music—for John was a fine scholar, and had a quarter's Latin, to say nothing of six months' dancing; so that he could flog the world at single or double handed reel, and split many a door with the strength of his hompipe. 'Meuhla machree,' he says, 'who's in it at all?' he says. 'Sure it isn't among haythins I am,' he says, 'smuggled out of my native country,' he says, 'like a poor keg of Inishowen,' he says, 'by the murdering English?' and 'blessed father,' he says again, 'to my own knowledge it's neyther Latin or Hebrew they're at, nor any other livin' language, barring it's Turky'; for what gave him that thought was the grand sound of the words. So, 'cute enough, he dragged himself up to the edge of the ledge of the rock that overlooked the wide ocean, and what should he see but about twenty as fine well-grown men and women as ever you looked on, dancing! not a hearty jig or a reel, but a solemn sort of dance on the sands, while they sung their unnatural song, all as solemn as they danced; and they had such queer things on their heads as never were seen before, and the ladies' hair was twisted and twined round and round their heads.

"Well, John crossed himself to be sure like a good Christian, and swore if he ever saw Newport again to pay greater attention to his duty, and to take an 'obligation' on himself which he knew he ought to have done before; and still the people seemed so quiet and so like Christians, that he grew the less fearful the longer he looked; and at last his attention was drawn off the strangers by a great heap of skins that were piled together on the strand close beside him, so that by reaching his arm over the ledge, he could draw them, or one of them, over. Now John did a little in skins himself, and he thought he had never seen them so beautifully dressed before; they were seal skins, shining all of them like satin, though some were black, and more of them grey; but at the very top of the pile right under his hand was the most curious of them all—snowy and silver white. Now John thought there could be no harm in looking at the skin, for he had always a mighty great taste for natural curiosities, and it was as easy to put it back as to bring it over; so he just, quiet and easy, reaches in the skin, and soothering it down with his hand, he thought no down of the young wild swan was ever half so smooth, and then he began to think what it was worth, and while he was thinking and judging, quite innocent like, what it would fetch in Newport, or maybe Galway, there was a skirl of a screech among the dancers and singers; and before poor John had time to return the skin, all of them came hurrying towards where he lay; so believing they were sea-pirates, or some new-fashioned revenue-officers, he crept into the sand, dragging the silver-coloured skin with him, thinking it wouldn't be honest to its rale owner to leave it in their way. Well, for ever so long, nothing could equal the ullabaloo and 'shindy' kicked up all about where he lay—such talking and screaming and bellowing; and at last he hears another awful roar, and then all was as still as a bridegroom's tongue at the end of the first month, except a sort of snuffling and snorting in the sand. When that had been over some time he thought he would begin to look about him again and he drew himself cautiously up on his elbows, and after securing the skin in his bosom (for he thought some of them might be skulking about still, and he wished to find the owner), he moved on and on, until at last he rested his chin upon the very top of the ledge and casting his eye along the line of coast, not a sight or a sign of any living thing did he see but a great fat seal walloping as fast as ever it could into the ocean: well, he shook himself, and stood up; and he had not done so long, when just round the corner of the rock, he heard the low wailing voice of a young girl, soft and low, and full of sorrow, like the bleat of a kid for its mother, or a dove for its mate, or a maiden crying after her lover yet ashamed to raise her voice. 'Oh, murder!' thought John O'Glin, 'this will never do; I'm a gone man! that voice—an' it not saying a word, only murmuring like a south breeze in a pink shell—will be the death of me; it has more real, true music in it than all the bagpipes between this and Londonderry. Oh, I'm kilt entirely through the ear,' he says, 'which is the high-road to my heart. Oh, there's a moan! that's natural music! The "Shan Van Do," the "Dark Valley," and the "Blackbird" itself are fools to that!' To spring over was the work of a single minute; and, sure enough, sitting there, leaning the sweetest little head that ever carried two eyes in it upon its dawshy hand, was as lovely a young lady as ever John looked on. She had a loose sort of dress, drawn in at her throat with a gold string, and he saw at once that she was one of the outlandish people who had disappeared all so quick.

"'Avourneen das! my lady,' says John, making his best bow, 'and what ails you, darling stranger?' Well, she made no answer, only looked askew at him, and John O'Glin thought she didn't sigh so bitterly as she had done at first; and he came a little nearer, and 'Cushla-ma-chree, beauty of the waters,' he says, 'I'm sorry for your trouble.'

"So she turns round her little face to him, and her eyes were as dark as the best black turf, and as round as a periwinkle.