The Irish tourist; or, Tales of the people and the provinces of Ireland

Contents

Preface . . . Page v.

CONNAUGHT.

Introductory , . PagexL

Preface

My intention in writing the following pages has been to present juvenile readers with as lively and graphic a view of Ireland as a diligent study of the best tourists, some personal knowledge of the coun¬ try, and a memory, early filled with details gathered from the lips of those who knew well the land they spoke of, would permit me to put before them. I know that, by means of many beautiful fictions, young people have of late years been familiarized to some of the peculiarities of the lower Irish : their le¬ gendary lore, in particular, has been offered to them •in a very fascinating form by Mr. Crofton Croker. But a book of travels in Ireland, comprehending ac¬ counts of the local curiosities, the scenery, situation of towns, and the general state of the country, they have not yet had; and a comparison of what has been written by different tourists, with a view to supplying the deficiencesofeach, together with such

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VI

PREFACE.

particulars respecting natural history, antiquities, &c. as are only to be gathered from other sources, has been accordingly instituted; with how successful a result it is not for me to say.

I have treated of the four great and peculiar di¬ visions of Ireland separately, and have conducted the traveller through each in turn. With Con¬ naught, as being the least known, and perhaps on that account the most awakening, I have com¬ menced. Connaught has, till lately, had an ill name: it is, however, rapidly undergoing that process which will alike strip it of its romance and its dan¬ gers, of some of its vices, perhaps,—but, perhaps, too, some of its virtues. Connaught, well governed, its people furnished with means and motives to in¬ dustry, and its oppressions taken "away, will not, perhaps, be less civilized a few years hence than Wales is now. But it is peculiarly hard to prophesy about Ireland. Who would believe, but through experience, that centuries of social neighbourhood should have left our sister-island what she is and has been through that long period? “ Beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole earth,” the greenest, the gayest, the softest, at times the most

PREFACE. VU majestic of countries;—there she still is, full of sor¬ row, starvation, and crime; her widows and orphans die of want in the midst of abundance : her strong men spend their energies in contests with law and government: the ministers of religion fight for a maintenance, and point the weapons of worldly war¬ fare at their own flocks : pitiable superstitions close the minds of the poor against purer doctrines; while a general sense of the injustice of a system steels their hearts against the kindest of individual coun¬ sellors.

Such is Ireland’s state. Some dawning hope of better days is rising upon her, for even the wild Con naught man sees that he is in the hands of a govern¬ ment kindly disposed towards his country. Her condition is looked into, her people will be fed, her wastes will be cultivated, her worst grievances re¬ dressed. Such anticipations make Ireland once more a land of hope and promise. The book need not necessarily, we feel, be dismal, which has that name stamped on its pages; and it is sent forth into the world not to ask for tears and sighs, but to ga¬ ther up cheerful smiles and glad welcomes.

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CONNAUGHT.

[Counties—Five.]

GALWAY.

MAYO.

SLIGO.

LEITRIM.

ROSCOMMON

CONNAUGHT, &c.

INTRODUCTORY.

As I am about to conduct a traveller through one of the four great divisions of Ireland, it is proper to come to an understanding with any reader who may not be already tolerably well acquainted with the geography of Con¬ naught ; and I would at once advise him to study the an¬ nexed map, and inform himself respecting its general situation and boundaries. He will find the Atlantic bat¬ tling with its broken and deeply indented coasts on the west, to the north, and to some extent the south also, while its eastern boundary is distinctly marked by the noble Shannon. If the map be what it ought to be, he will observe many peculiarities in this part of Ireland, especially as he approaches the west. Bays and creeks and nests of islands innumerable present formidable barriers to navigation, from the winding nature of the channels, and the heavy sea which rolls unbroken from the American coast to this point. He will also see ridges

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INTRODUCTORY.

of mountains and numerous chains of inland lakes, and if the map can portray bogs, bogs will certainly be there. The counties into which Connaught is divided are five in number, Galway, Mayo, Sligo, Roscommon, Leitrim; the three former are the highlands of Connaught. But there are subdivisions even here: at the north-west extremity of Galway there is a line of country, a sort of wild border¬ land, standing between the mountains and the sea, which is called Cunnemara,—literally, bays of the sea. Higher up still, and partly stretching into the adjoining county of Mayo, is a tract locally called Joyce’s country, which owes its appellation to the predominance of a family, or clan, bearing that name, the principal individual of this family being a substantial proprietor, familiarly called Big Ned .Joyce, but more respectfully King Joyce. The Joyces are all a large race, and King Joyce is pre-eminent in size; but he appears to rule among his kindred more by the better qualities of good sense and superior understanding than by any of those advantages which in former times were derived from superior personal strength. The lakes and mountains of Mayo, Sligo, and part of Galway, are numerous, but there is a general want of wood. More minute particulars, however, of the interior condition of this part of Ireland will be, it is hoped, supplied by the following pages.

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Chapter I. The Return

The sun was just spreading his last beams in great glory over the Bay of Ardbear, and the fine back-ground of mountains, on which the eye rests when it turns inland, looked more black than usual by the contrast with the flood of light on the waves, when an American ship was observed standing in for the shore, and a signal was made for a pilot-boat from the nearest town of Clifden. There ■were some in Clifden who well guessed for whose use that boat was summoned. “ Sure, had not his Honour’s young son been a stranger long in Cunnemara; and was not it high time for him to leave off his roving ways, and settle among his own people ,—natural ?” u It was not for them to be blaming the youth because he had a taste for the foreign air and skies yonder, over the wide water ; but his Honour was growing older, and the young lady, every one knew, wanted one to help her and cheer him between whiles; and it w T ould not be like himself to keep the bless¬ ing from his father’s roof any longer.” And many were heard to say that u a welcome should young O’Ryan have, and a hearty one, let him come soon or late.”

But there were those at a short distance from Clifden, who, though they knew not exactly what might be passing

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at this moment in that place, had the keenest of all inte¬ rests in the subject of discourse. Mr. O’Ryan had lived in Cunnemara for the last twenty-eight years ; during five of which he had been left a widower, with one son and daughter. Arthur O’Ryan, the son, had been absent in Mexico during the greater part of this time : he was now returning to Ireland, having transacted some very tedious matters of business, much to the satisfaction of his em¬ ployers : and the father and daughter had been taught to look for his appearance for several weeks past. They would have preferred his landing at a more distant point; for the coast of Cunnemara is rugged, and the winds sweep with tremendous force over the Atlantic, driving many a hapless vessel right upon the shore. But young O’Ryan had found a ship bound for this part of Ireland, and he could not resist the temptation of making his way at once almost to his father’s door, “ in the next parish,” as he said, “ to America.”

It was gusty, uncertain weather; but the weather is always uncertain in Cunnemara. Sometimes torrents Of descending rain remind the traveller of what he lias read of tropical regions. A dozen times in a day will the vast water-spout pour out its deluges upon him, and between every shower the rainbow will be stretched from the dis¬ tant islands of the sea to the hills of Ennis Turc, or across the sides of Mull Rea. Beautiful, broad, and bright are

those rainbows, beyond the imagination of those who have never beheld such; and perhaps they are hailed with a more religious feeling in these regions than amid tamer scenery. After such deluges as the Galway resident is often called to behold, the pledge of promise seems more than commonly welcome.

Annette O’Ryan had lived long enough in Cunnemara to be well accustomed to these changes ; and, for herself,

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she lovecl them. It was not the landscape, more than the lights and shades and ever-varying hues which all these fluctuations in wind and weather brought to it, that she admired; but her enjoyment was not without its draw¬ backs. Many a winter night had her sleep been broken by the gusts of wind which shook her father’s house to its foundation. As the mighty south-west gathered up all its fury, the roar of the whters could be distinctly heard beating against the rocks of the bay ; and Annette would strain her eyes in gazing over the distant waters, as a gleam of moonlight sometimes revealed a vessel drifting fast on shore. The cry of “ A -wreck! a wreck!” would now and then be repeated under the window, on the first glim¬ mer of morning light; and all hands would be off and employed in collecting the spoils on the beach. It may be well imagined that now, when autumn came, and her brother’s vessel was daily looked for, every midnight or morning gale filled her with anxiety. But Annette did her best to hide this from her old father: she could not wholly conceal her emotion, when a louder blast than or¬ dinary made the panes of glass rattle in the windows of their abode even, screened as it was by shrubs, and by the neighbouring height; but she bent down her head for a moment, played with the fine old greyhound, or touched her harp,—any thing to give a turn to her thoughts, and enable her soon to look up cheerfully.

Annette did not go often to the neighbouring town of Clifden. It required some effort to stay from the place where she was sure of hearing the first news of her brother; but she recollected that by giving way she should probably bring home a disappointed face too often to her father’s fireside. He could come but once;—but once could there be joy, and triumph, and gratitude: and before that one prize should be drawn, how many might be the

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blanks! It was thus that she strove to tend her flowers, as if for the mere enjoyment of their own beauty, and not because Arthur was coming, and all should look gay for him; she looked abroad, and strove to think less of the season as in connexion with him. On the evening we mention, in particular, she had enjoyed the day, which was unusually soft and calm; and had tried to worship God, with a heart full of confiding love. Many symptoms had of late marked the transition from summer to autumn, though the flowers and shrubs were in rich beauty. She had been sitting in the garden this evening with her father, who had now returned into the house, whither Annette was preparing to follow, when the well-known faces of two neighbouring peasants appeared at the gate. “ Miss Annette, Miss Annette ! sure here’s good news entirely. May be his Honour, long life to him ! will come out to see.”

“ What ? to see what ?” exclaimed Annette.

“ Sure isn’t it the young master himself, coming up as fast as the lame leg will let him !”

Annette did not notice the expression, in the ecstasy of her joy at the news. She ran in to her father;—stopped however ere her hand was on the handle of the door, and gathered calmness before she told her welcome news.

(( Now thanks be to God !” said her father, “ we will go and meet him and he seized his staff with a trembling

O

hand, and prepared to go down the hill-side towards the inlet on which Clifden stands. His daughter, it may be supposed, did not let him go alone. The narrow road from their dwelling to the valley took a steep descent, although it was conducted in a winding direction round many points of rock, and the two peasants who had brought the first news were anxious to assist his Honour by clearing away every stray stone in the path.

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u But, Blarney,” said Annette, suddenly struck by the recollection of his words, “ you said something about your young master being lame ; we never heard that.”

“ And how would you hear it, Miss Annette, my lady, when the leg was as complate a leg, may be, as ever you seen, till just an hour ago, when it was smashed entirely ? Sure, didn’t I see it done with my own eyes !” ,

If Annette had not lived always among the Irish she might have been alarmed at Blarney’s tidings; but well aware that to be “kilt” and “smashed entirely” meant often some petty injury not worth a thought, she ques¬ tioned the narrator in a very quiet tone. “ Well, Blarney, and how was it done ?”

“ Faith, my lady, and I’ll tell yees. Sure the American tired his gun out yonder, for a boat to bring off the young master; and all the fishermen would be striving which should be first for his Honour’s Honour. And then there’s Jack Rory, that’s not lucky any way, but will always be trying, come what will; he would go too : and when they got to the ship’s side, twenty of ’em at least, my lady,—let alone a bull, no man could roar louder for custom than Jack ; and the young master catching his eye, and seeing him so hearty, jumped at once into his boat, bad luck to him ! —and the portmantel too, and the cloak, and the bits o’ things beside, to say nothing of the dark young gentle¬ man,-”

“ Well, Blarney ?”

“ Well, my lady, and sure if there’s a bit of a rock any¬ where in the bay, it’s Jack Rory that will be hitting upon it. He knows no more than the babe unborn what he’s about; and then his boat is the worst in Clifden. The young master soon seed that he was wrong, and I warrant wished himself out; but Jack kept pulling on, talking all the while in his glory, like one mad. At last crash the

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lioat goes on the point of rock by the castle-side,—and there they were, quick as thought, all in the water. 1 wasn’t frightened, Miss Annette ; for I knew that it was lie that could swim with the best of ’em :—and so he did, bless him:—but when he was fairly out of it, och ! then the red blood streamed from the leg that was hurt-”

“ Hurt ! how ?”

“ By the rock, bad luck to it! plase your ladyship, when the boat struck. So when I sees that he couldn’t walk for the pain, I calls Mike Riley, and bids him and Tim O’Rourke whip him up between ’em, and bring him hither in no time ; but, sure, he would stay behind to look after the young dark gentleman that was kilt, and the portmantel, and the bits o’ things. So I hied up hither to tell yees all the good news.”

“ Thank ye kindly, Blarney. But the young gentleman, was he hurt, think ye ?”

“ Only drowned a bit, my lady ;—nothing more. He looked pitiful enough when they got him out of the water; and the young master stood dripping, like a duck, over him.”

“ Now Blarney, do what I say;—run as fast as ever ye can before us to the town, and ask John Spooner to see they have dry clothing and ’tendance. Tell them we will be there as fast as my father’s strength allows !”

Blarney darted off as desired. He found the comfort of the voyagers had however already been cared for: the surgeon of the little town, and several of the inhabitants, by whom Mr. O’Ryan’s family were regarded with strongfeelings of respect, had surrounded the young man and his companion, and insisted upon their changing their wet garments before proceeding further. The surgeon also had looked at Arthur’s wound, and pronounced it one which, with care, would soon be cured; but would not

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allow him, on any account, to walk up to liis father’s house that night. “ And here in good time,” said he, “ come, they who will enforce my orders,” as Annette and her father entered the room, and each in turn threw them¬ selves into Arthur’s arms. They looked at each other, they smiled and wept, were silent and talkative, all in the course of a few moments; and then Arthur presented his triend, young Vergos, who had accompanied him from Mexico, on his return to Europe. They had often heard of the young Spaniard, and Arthur had before mentioned his desire to visit Great Britain—above all things, to see Ireland, of which land he had heard many tales in his childhood, from an Irish priest, who had been his tutor; and Arthur had promised to be his guide over part, at least, of his native country. All this Arthur rapidly explained, after the first burst of pleasure at their meeting was over ; and then he laughed and said, “ To be sure we have given poor Vergos a very cool reception. I might have remem¬ bered that awkward fellow sooner; but I did not till I was fairly on board his boat; and then I could not help re¬ minding him of his upsetting me once, when a boy, near this very place. And what do you think he said ? £ Och !

sure, your Honour, and wasn’t ye as safe and sound next morning as ever ? Sure its not Rory would be harming any one, let alone yer Honour, beyant a trifling wetting.’”

“And the fellow came so easily and impudently,” added Vergos, “ for his reward just now ;—boasting that nobody else could have upset a boat so cleverly. These country¬ men of yours, O’Ryan, know how to put a good face upon the matter, at all events.”

“ Oh!” observed Arthur’s father, “an Irishman is never in the wrong, sir. Whatever he does, however seemingly inexcusable in our eyes, he will endeavour to prove was done in the best way, or at all events better than any one

CONNAUGHT.

could have expected. This is the secret of much of the content you will see in the midst of misery,—the Irishman is in general well satisfied with himself. But, Arthur, we must contrive some way of carrying you up to the lodge.”

Arthur would have deprecated all trouble about him, and protested he could walk, if it were slowly ; but Mr. B. the surgeon was peremptory. “ My dear sir,—I must insist,— that foot must not be put to the ground for a week: if you submit to my discipline for that time, I promise you a cure ; but I will not bate one hour of the infliction. We medical men, you know, sir,” addressing Yergos, “are obliged to be strict disciplinarians and the doctor drew himself up to his full height, and looked very pompous.

Arthur smiled at his sister, well remembering the cha¬ racter of the good apothecary, which was that of a man of talent and worth, gifted, however, with a good share of self-esteem, and affectation of professional dignity. The matter was soon settled :—a sort of litter was procured, in which the wounded man was deposited, and carried to his father’s house by the willing and eager peasants; Annette, Mr. O’Ryan, and the Spaniard following on foot.

The day was now completely closed, and the moon had arisen, making the scenery rich in a different style of beau¬ ty. There were gusts of wind, and masses of cloud here and there driving up from the Atlantic, as if preparing for battle with the bright luminary which had arisen from behind the majestic hill. The Twelve Pins of Bennabola, those singular conical mountains which form the back¬ ground of the picture, and, more distant, the Mam-Turk range, each caught the light; and their outline was ren¬ dered more picturesque by the occasional changes, as the moon was sometimes hidden for a moment. The higher they mounted, (and Ardbear Lodge stood on high ground, though sheltered,) the more striking was the view. They

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were on the southern side of the bay, and traced the windings of the deep narrow inlet above which Clifden stands, to its source in the Atlantic. The whole coast appeared deeply indented, one sharp promontory after an¬ other jutting out into the sea. Beyond Clifden, to the north, looking over towards Joyce’s country, that beautiful part of the country called the Ivilleries was visible. Turn¬ ing to the south, the view was more desolate;—brown, boggy land, with lakes catching the moonbeams, and be¬ hind these the Urrisbeg mountain. This is all Cunnemara, —and it is worthy of its name,—“Bays of the Sea.” The inland lakes and creeks, and boggy tracts form a singularly wild, rugged picture, when seen from an elevation like this. Vergos looked with dismay in this direction, and was glad to turn his eyes to the nearer prospect. As they approached the lodge, all was comfort and civilization: the arbutus, the laurel, and bay grew in thick heavy masses on the lawn and shrubbery, and sheltered the house. They were soon in the hall; and Arthur, placed on the sofa, near the bright turf-fire, looked around the well-known room, stretching out his hand to the domestics as they gathered round tp welcome him. There was honest pleasure on the faces of all; but Vergos was most touched and interested by what followed. The family party was just settling into composure, the lights were brought in, and Arthur’s father had taken his seat near the couch on which his son was stretched, when a murmur was heard in the hall, of several voices raised in sharp contention : above them might be distinguished that of a woman, who seemed indignantly repelling some attempts which were made to restrain her approach to the room occupied by the family.

“Listen!” said Arthur, with a knowing look. “ Leave it to nurse Burrowes; we shall see if she will not win her way hither.” And as he spoke, the door was quickly

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opened, and a tight, matronly little old woman burst in ; and without further ceremony, running up to him, threw her arms round his neck, kissing his forehead, and exclaim¬ ing with passionate fervour, “ My darlint! my jewel; my born dimint ! may the blessing of all above be upon ye, over and over. Och ! but its I am glad to see ye in yer own father’s house again !”

“Thank ye, good nurse; thank ye kindly,” said Arthur, laughing. “ I knew I should not be long without my welcome from you.”

“ Troth, and indeed, jewel, I would have been here sooner; but the spalpeens take advantage of me, seeing I have not the reg’lar gift of hearing as ivonst: and sure it is only by questioning and cross-questioning that I can get to know the news at all, at all: and then that smart fellow, Will Blake, his Honour’s serving-man, takes on him to say ye could not see me. Me, indeed, says I. Marry, Mr. William, times are changed indeed, an if the young master wouldn’t see me any hour, day or night, an I cornin’ on purpose. Please to let him know, Mr. William, says I, speaking quite civil, that nurse Burrowes is here. Not to¬ night, says he. O, the villain ! says I:—and I to go back to my own cabin, and not see the sweet young master. Young man, I’ll not be troublin’ you any longer. So I oped the door for myself quick ; for I thought it but right to spare his Honour getting up to let me in : and so here I am, my darlint !” and before the sentence was well finished, her arms were round his neck, and another kiss was imprinted on his forehead. “And so, cuslilamachree,” she continued, “ ye have had a hurt here : sure ye’ll let me be the nurse now, and dress it asy, wont ye ?”

“ Thank ye, nurse ; but really I don’t know what there

will be for you to do, Mr.-, the surgeon, has dressed it

already, and nothing is to be moved till he sees it again.”

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“ Oh, but wont ye be wanting whey, and cordials, and somebody to move a pillow, may be, at night; and arn’t all here young, simple things, that can’t be trusted to attend on a sick man.”

“ I see, nurse,” said Annette, “ you hold my nursing in very low esteem.”

“ Ocli, sure, I forgot yees, Miss Annette, dear ; blessings on ye; but ye won’t say ye have the larnin of a nurse, tender.”

u Well,” interposed Mr. O’Ryan, “ I see how it must be. We must have nurse Burrowes here for a few days ; and I shall only condition that she does not let her tongue run on at too great a rate, which might keep th<ypatient back. And I hope too, nurse,” he continued, “you will be patient with the servants, and not order them about quite so much as you sometimes do. I should not like it myself, if I were in their place.”

“ Indeed, an if yer Honour were in their place, it’s not nurse Burrowes that would be saying the thing ye might not like to hear; but the sarvants are another guess sort, entirely. But I’ll not forget yer Honour’s advice.”

“ Well, Burrowes, you shall go to the housekeeper now, and get your tea; and then you can see that Arthur’s room is made comfortable for him : and if you like it, you can have a shakedown for yourself, in the anti-room, and be ready if he wants any thing, to give it him. I think, in¬ deed, it would be well to let him have a little good nursing at first.”

“ To be sure it would,” said the old woman, drawing up; “ don’t I know that, and didn’t I come here on purpose ? Thank ye kindly, Miss Annette, dear : see, I put on my clean cap and apron, all ready !”

Annette smiled, and bade her go for the present; assur¬ ing her she should be the nurse, so long as she would

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but submit to the doctor’s orders, and the wishes of her patient.

“ There she goes,” said Arthur, “ a good specimen of her class,—as affectionate, faithful, and conceited as any of them ; but cleaner, cleverer, and more judicious, I will say, than most; I am glad she came, and that Yergos saw her entree.”

“ But does she really order your servants, as you say, sir ?” asked the young man of Mr. O’Ryan.

“ Oh, yes; she is the most imperious person. She thinks her connexion with our family, as the nurse of my chil¬ dren, justifies her being on the side of the quality on every occasion, and never misses an opportunity of showing her consequence. They do not like her, of course ; but yet I do not think one of them would be saucy to her. She has so much good sense and truth about her, that they cannot help respecting her.”

“ And I find,” added Annette, “ that the female serv¬ ants, if they are worth any thing, consult her with great deference in their difficulties. It is a sort of test with me of the worth of an attendant: if they are upright and faithful, they will soon learn to bear with nurse Burrowes.”

The rest of the evening was passed in quietly recount¬ ing the history of Arthur’s voyage, and in hearing Cunnemarra news in return. They separated, however, at an early hour : nurse Burrowes appearing, to announce that her young master’s room was ready, and that it was to be the “ state chamber, that the lame leg might have less way to journey.” “But indeed,” she added, in a tone of apology to Yergos, “ every room in his Honour’s house is as iligant as a state chamber; and only that the blue chamber hasn’t the new carpet, and the best chist, it is as proper a room and as beautiful a bed as ever jintleman slept in.”