The Letters of "Norah" on Her Tour Through Ireland Part 24

The first accounts put the number of wounded at twenty, to-day they are reduced to five--perhaps that is the proportion of exaggeration in newspaper accounts of outrage generally. The newly-made bride and bridegroom went to see the wounded, leaving cordials and money at every house.

One thing is observable in Cork, the determination to make an effort to restore native industry from its present languishing condition. Pa.s.sing along the streets I notice clerks in the windows affixing labels on goods with the words, "Irish Manufactures," "Cork made goods," "Blarney tweeds," "Irish blankets," "Cork made furniture." There have been meetings held on the subject since I came here. No city in the world could appear to be more quiet and law-abiding than Cork to all appearance.

As one instance of the exaggeration of reports concerning outrages, I see the disturbance in Cork that took place at the rejoicings about Sir George Colthurst's marriage advertised with the heading 20 men shot. The local report says five injured, one shot, but not fatally.

Went down the river Lee to Queenstown. It did not rain except a few drops during the whole time. The sun shone, the clouds, some of them were billowy and white, and ma.s.sed themselves on a deep, blue sky. The little steamer was crowded fore and aft with holiday pa.s.sengers, and a large quant.i.ty of small babies. The river Lee, from Cork to Queenstown, wears a green color, as if it were akin to the ocean. Flocks of sea gulls flying about, or perching on the ooze where the tide is out, make one think of the sea, but the green banks of the river are there to testify against it.

We expected to find that the scenery from Cork to Queenstown was beautiful, and so it is. There is no use in trying to praise it, for all praise seems flat compared with the reality. There are glorious, steep slopes leading up to fair, round hills, waving with golden grain, or green with aftermath, checked off into fields by gay, green hedges or files of stately trees. On the slope, half way up the slope, snuggling down at the foot of the slope, are residences of every degree of beauty.

Houses, square and solid, with wide porticos; houses rising into many gabled peaks; houses that have swollen into all sorts of bay windows running up to the roof, or stopping with the first story. Houses that fling themselves up into the sky in towers and turrets, and a.s.sert themselves to be, indeed, castles.

Queenstown comes at last, a town hung up on a steep hillside, and on the very brow of the hill is an immense cathedral, unfinished like St. Finn Barre's, of Cork. In these cathedrals two forms of religious belief are slowly and expensively trying to express themselves in stone, chiselled and cut into a thousand forms of beauty, in marbles, polished and carved, in painted windows, in gildings and draperies of the costliest.

Looking at these costly fanes erected to be a local spot where Jehovah's presence shall dwell, one can scarcely believe that He will dwell in the heart of the poor who are willing to receive Him in the day of His power. Is the soul of the beggar more dear to G.o.d as a dwelling place than these lofty temples? Forever the world is saying "Lord, behold what manner of stones and what buildings are here?" And the Lord cares more for the toiling fisherman, the poor disheartened widow, and the laboring and heavy laden peasant than the grandest buildings. The cost of these churches would buy out Achil island and the appurtenances thereof, I think. It would maybe purchase the wildest tract of the Donegal mountains. I wonder if a hardy mountain people, who could live on their own soil, and begin to feel the stirrings of enterprise and energy, would be as acceptable to Him who came anointed to preach the gospel to the poor as these poems in stone. Who knows?

We sat on a bench under the trees and looked at the harbor--its waters cut by many a flying keel, at Spike Island lying in the sun, all its fortifications as silent and lonely looking as if no convict nor any other living creature was there. Steamboats for "a' the airts the winds can blaw," were pa.s.sing out and away, leaving a train of smoke behind them, and big sail vessels, three-masted and with sails packed up, are waiting to go, and revenue cutters and small pa.s.senger boats are flying about each on their way.

A lady sits by me and is drawn to talk to the stranger of the greenness of the gra.s.s here winter and summer, of the beauty spread out all around. She tells of one who died away in another land brought home to lie under the daisies here, just twenty years ago to-day. Other people, she says, are proud of their country, are fond of their country, but none have the same love for their country as the Irish have for green Erin. Every inch of ground; every blade of gra.s.s in Ireland is holy, says this lady with tears in her eyes. She is thinking of the dust that Irish gra.s.s covers from her sight. It is on an anniversary we meet; she cannot help speaking on this day of sacred things. The steamboat is wading up to the wharf. We do not know one another's names, but we have drawn near to each other--we clasp hands and part with a mutual G.o.d bless you. The little boat swallows up all that are willing to come on board, and like a black swan she sails up over the calm river, under the bright sky, past the handsome houses and the lovely grounds, among the cl.u.s.tering masts back to the rich city of Cork.

All the people injured in the attack on the rejoicing at Sir George Colthurst's marriage are p.r.o.nounced recovered to-day, except the one who was wounded by a shot; he is still in the infirmary. A dignitary of the Catholic Church who preached at Millstreet, where the disturbance took place, introduced into his sermon remarks on the state of society there, when his hearers became affected with coughing to such a degree that the rev. gentleman had to stop for a time and speak directly to his hearers.

After the sermon most of the congregation left the church before ma.s.s-- few remaining.

The sun has come out and the harvest will be greatly benefited by this tardy warmth, I am sure.

There has been some marching of soldiers--dragoons--fine looking men on fine horses--through the streets to-day, to the blare of a military band, accompanied and escorted by all the loose population of Cork. I was much interested to see among the running crowd the good pace made by a man with a wooden leg, who really could hop along with the best of them. This is all the apology for a crowd which I have seen in Cork. I have not heard the roar of one belated drunkard; such sounds have broken slumber in other towns. Whatever excitement may be in the county, the city of Cork seems as quiet, as orderly and as thriving as any city in the kingdom.

I have discovered that, though the lower part of the river Lee is crowded with masts and alive with traffic, the upper part, flowing along under the shadow of green trees and bordered by wide meadows, is as quiet as if it were flowing through the country miles from any city. I have discovered the magnificent promenade called the Mard.y.k.e, a wide, gravelled road overarched with trees, running along by the river. When the evening lamps are lit, the susceptibility of Cork wander here in pairs and "in couples agree." There are plenty of comfortable seats in which to rest, for the promenade is a very long one, and the shimmer of the many lamps among the green foliage has a pretty effect.

LIV.

CORK, TO BANDON, SKIBBEREEN AND SKULL.

From Cork by the new railway to Skibbereen there is one rather noticeable feature by the way. All the way stations in small places are wooden houses built American fashion, either clapboarded or upright boards battened where they meet. The road is through a hilly country and therefore lies mostly through deep cuttings that shut out the scenery.

There is one long tunnel not far from Cork that educates you into a sense of what utter darkness means. It is pleasant to look over rich pastures back to the city crowding its lofty hills, and to notice what a grand steeple-crowned city it is.

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

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

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

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

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

The road from Skibbereen to Ballydehob and Skull runs along the coast mostly. All that grand rocks and great stretches of water dotted with many islands can do to make this scenery grand, wild and romantic has been done by Dame Nature. It is not satisfying to merely pa.s.s along. One would like to tarry here and get acquainted with nature in these out-of- the-way haunts of hers. The cottages are most miserable, most ruinous.

There is no limestone here. It resembles Achil Island in this respect.

The houses are built of stones and daubed with clay. The clay soon filters away under the combined action of winter wind and winter frost, and the houses look like piles of stones tottering to fall.

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

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

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

A little way, maybe two miles, out of Clonakilty is the property of Mr.

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

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

At one of the first way stations, where is the little clapboarded waiting-room, two policemen entered our compartment with a prisoner.

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

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

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

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

In the evening I had the pleasure of hearing "the bells of Shandon"

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

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

LV.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A little fiddler was playing in the car for halfpence, and the Irish gentleman paid him to play Scotch tunes in our honor, thinking we were both Scotch, I and the old Scotch gentleman. I asked the child to play "Harvey Duff," as I wanted to hear that most belligerent tune. The poor child looked as frightened as if I had asked him to commit high treason and shook his head. At Mallow the fine old Scotchman got off the train.

We had had a long talk on country and country's needs, and his fervent "G.o.d bless you" at parting was a comfort and encouragement to me, indeed it was.