Our year abroad; random rambles in the old world

Foreword

Considerations of health and pleasure took the different members of my family, — my husband, three daughters, and son, — abroad for periods varying from several months to two years. Traveling in different groups, and in places widely separated we found many interesting sights and experiences. These were recorded at the time in the form of newspaper letters, principally by myself, but in several cases by one of my daughters. They are now rewritten and issued in this more enduring form in order to give them greater permanence, and with the hope that they may serve as a reminder of pleasant scenes to many who have made similar journeys, as well as inspire others to visit these places, not only for the genuine pleasure they afford, but especially for their great educational value.

Most of the illustrations are from photographs taken by my husband.

Angie Warren Perkins

Knoxville, Tennessee,

January, igi2.

THE VOYAGE

Adieu, adieu ! my native shore

Fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,

And shrieks the wild sea-mew.

Yon sun that sets upon the sea

We follow in his flight ; Farewell awhile to him and thee.

My native Land — Good Night!

Childe Harolde.

Contents

Chapter ^^^^

II From Windermere to Bonnie Boon. 19

IV Glimpses of Wales and Southern

CHAPTER I The Land of the Shamrock

THE revolving light of Fastnet Rock is hailed with joy as the "Cymric" comes In sight of this bit of land, after an eight days' voyage. Head winds and high seas have greatly retarded her progress during the latter half of the course. In the darkness the ship's name is signalled, and then she hastens on toward the harbor of Queenstown. About midnight we descry the red and green lights of a tender putting out from the wharf to take off the passengers who wish to land at this port. As it comes flitting over the waves wc realize that our voyage is over. Soon the good-byes are said to fellow-passengers who have sat up to see us off, and we have gone down the long gang-plank. From the hurricane deck of a great ocean liner down to the cabin of a tender is a long distance, but we do not realize It till, standing near the stern of the little bobbing boat, we look up with awe at the great steamer, as it towers so far above us. It Is with a feeling akin to respect that a passenger thus views the mammoth vessel which has brought him In safety over the turbulent seas.

Farewells are waved to the friends on the deck which has been our world for a week, and now we turn our gaze toward the city which is reached In about half an hour. Four torpedo boat destroyers In the harbor make us think of England's navy, whose boats were seen by us throughout our trip on lo OUR YEAR ABROAD

all seas. The next morning we are reminded of the quickness at repartee of the Celt, when, as we are out viewing the town, and it begins to sprinkle, we ask some children on their way to school, if it is going to rain, and a bright eyed girl of about eight years replies: '"Tis raining." The natives are ever ready with a reply to any question, no matter what it may be, as was shown when a party of tourists were passing through Dublin, and one of them asked the driver who the three figures on top of the postoffice building were, and he replied: "The twelve apostles, sir."

"But," said the man, "there are only three, where are the other nine."

"Oh," said Pat, "the others are down below sortin' mail."

As one enters Ireland from Queenstown he begins to see beauties of nature and luxuriant vegetation which well nigh rival that of California. Flowers of all kinds are most abundant. Hedges of fuchsias, twelve feet high, remind one of those on the Pacific coast, except that the blossoms are much smaller. Even palms flourish In the southern part of the country where It is moist, and the air Is "soft," as the people say. A few miles from Cork we seek

"The Groves of Blarney They look so charming, Down by the purling Of sweet silent streams."

And find the old castle all that Imagination had pictured it. We climb the well worn stone steps and have a fine view of the surrounding country from the turret. It is only the most intrepid who are brave enough to be held In an Inverted position down over the edge of the wall till they can kiss "the stone that contains all the Blarney."

The region around Cork is extremely fertile and has some good farms. They told us in the butter market of that city, where hundreds of kegs, holding seventy pounds each, are sold every morning, that Cork county butter is used extensively in England and in other countries. To prove the almost world-wide fame which this brand of butter has had for so many years they say, that when the relief expedition was sent in search of Sir John Franklin, they found

The Blarney Stone

a keg of Cork county butter in the ice of the Polar seas, and when the English soldiers went to the Nile under Wellington, he insisted that they should be supplied with Cork county butter.

The prices of many things in the general market in Cork are not unlike our own, while others differ greatly. Irish beef is considered superior to American, but, perhaps it would not be, if, as one dealer said to us, half apologetically, fearing we might feel hurt, it were not kept in cold storage for three months. Native sirloin cuts are worth eleven pence per pound, while American are some two pence less.

Celery is only two to three pence a bunch, and mushrooms six pence per pound, but the celery is not so well bleached as ours is. Eggs are one shiUing and three pence a dozen, (thirty cents) . There seems to be no reason for the high price in eggs, because the climate is so mild that fowls can be kept out of doors the whole year. And the same can be said in reference to beef. In going from Bantry through Glengarriff to Killarney— a coaching trip of fifty-one miles —-one sees thousands of acres on hill and mountain side which might be utihzed for grazing purposes. Some of this pasturage is covered with furze, gorse, or heather, but in the first forty miles of this ride, I do not think that we saw a dozen sheep or twenty-five cattle. Sometimes a few pigs, hens, or a stray goat would be wandering near a cottage or cabin. These little^ houses are everywhere one story high and are built of stone, whitewashed, and covered with thatch which consists of wheat, or oat straw, though sometimes a kind of sedge is used for this purpose. This kind of a roof, if well put on with pins and cords, will last five years. These houses are usually placed beside a large boulder, or a clump of trees, and are picturesque in appearance, but inside they are dark, damp, and cold with their dirt or cement floors, small windows, and unhygienic arrangements. Some of those belonging to the Earl of Northurnberland have recently been condemned as unfit habitations.

Southwestern Ireland is attractive with its bogs, islands, and mountains, rivalling and even surpassing in some places the scenery of England and Scotland. Rains are frequent, though our driver said it was ''simply the mountains perspiring," when sheets of rain hid them from view. One never tires of the forests with the holly trees, full of great clusters of bright red berries; the arbutus trees, with the fruit of yellow and red; the pines; the giant sycamores; the hawthorne, with the dark red berries, and many others, some of which are just putting on their autumn tints. The English ivy grows in the wildest profusion, interlacing trunks and branches, while underneath, rocks and walls are covered with bright green moss in which grow the ferns and shamrock. Grouse, partridge, pheasant, rabbit and hare delight the hunter, but much of the forest is owned by the lords, and is held as a shooting preserve where one cannot hunt without paying a license. The waters abound in trout, salmon, and other kinds of fish, but here, too, the fisherman must pay for his sport. Salmon are so common that you can see them jump in the water.

The far-famed lakes of Killarney are most beautiful, but it is their setting in the midst of purple mountains which renders them especially attractive. They are very irregular in outline, dotted with islands, and fringed with fens, but they are not as large as we had expected to see them, and, as one American lady said: — "They cannot hold a candle to our Thousand Isles." Lake Gqorge would, in our opinion, equal any one of them in beauty, were it surrounded with mountains as high. But this region is in itself far more beautiful than the English lake district, though the latter has that local association which Wordsworth with his Dove cottage, and Ruskin, and many other Englishmen have given it — writers whose names and presence have rendered that region a delightful memory. Neither has there been any Walter Scott to chronicle the deeds of heroes, and to make the "Lady of the Lake," and "Rob Roy," living characters for the traveler who sails the Scottish lakes. The country becomes less mountainous and more fertile as we near Limerick while here, and in the northern part of Ireland the farms are well kept.

Better buildings, finer hedge-rows, pastures, in which herds of cattle and flocks of sheep and geese are feeding, are seen in various places — all of which betoken greater prosperity.

We wished to see the poorest part of the country, and so went to the western coast. One person told us that we should feel as if we were on the other side of the earth when we reached Galway, and to some extent that was true. This old city presents a curious combination of dilapidation and decay, but with some signs of improvement and prosperity. On some of the houses, in the oldest parts of the town, may be seen sculptured fagades and coats of arms in curious contrast with the surrounding squalor. The city is admirably situated for commercial purposes, but for some years the general trade has been diminishing. At present there are only two flour mills in the town, whereas twenty-five years ago there were twenty. And most of the wheat, ground in the present mills, is brought from Canada, Australia and Russia. In Cork are flour mills that are going to ruin because they can bring flour from Minnesota more cheaply than they can produce it at home. Even the deep sea fisheries in the vicinity of Galway are in a languishing condition, though the fishing grounds in the harbor are as good as any in the kingdom.

The fishing village of Claddagh adjoins the town, and is occupied by about 500 fishermen who may be regarded as representing the original Celtic inhabitants of this locality. In fact, this part of Ireland is the home of the very Celts themselves, as is shown by the signs over the stores which are given In both English and Irish. We ride in a jaunting car out to Menlough, about four miles from the city, and there find a hamlet where the people and their methods of living are extremely primitive. We see only two persons in the village who can speak English — even the driver cannot understand the Irish tongue. He says it was not taught in the schools when he was a boy, but now both English and Irish are taught in many places.

Colleen Bringing Home the Peat

It is difficult to tell just what has been the cause of the lack of enterprise and prosperity in southern Ireland. No doubt many of the most energetic have gone to America, while others have become lax through indifference, or because they thought that if they improved the land, a higher rent would be charged. But the Irish people can never forget Parnell who put his hand to the plough, so that some of the tenants have been able to purchase the land on the instalment plan. They claim that the farmers and laborers in the country regions, and the dwellers in cities, which depend upon the farms for their prosperity, owe their present condition, so different from what it was thirty years ago, to this man whom they call "Ireland's Uncrowned King."

The people are greatly interested in regard to the legislation pending concerning Home Rule and Land

Holdings; but there are so many conflicting opinions in regard to the merits of the bill, which will allow the farmer to own more land, that one can hardly judge concerning it. A bright lawyer told us that it would be most injurious to both landlord and tenant, while the latter class hold that its passage will insure them a continuance of the prosperity — which has come to them since 1903 when a bill was passed whereby they were allowed to purchase land till last November. This morning we asked our driver — an intelligent man — if the bill would benefit the working people and he said: — "Me and the likes of me would prefer to have the gintlemin in the counthry for they can give us more imploymint than the farmers will." An old, sweet faced Irish gentlewoman said it was hard on her because she would have to sell her "dower home." Though she had other estates, and did not now occupy this one, given her at the time of her marriage, still we could see that she had a very tender feeling for the home into which she came as a bride.

The people regard America as a friendly country. The other day in a tram a gentleman, belonging to the national party, was introduced to us by a mutual friend, whereupon the newcomer exclaimed, much to our embarrassment, and lifting high his hat: "America, ever the friend of Ireland. I would take off my hat to the stars and stripes, the flag that has given protection to so many of my countrymen." One finds churches of various denominations in different parts of the country, but they are generally recognized as Catholic or Protestant, as was shown when we asked a man if a certain church were Presbyterian, and he replied: "No, mam. it is Protestant."

But it is a beautiful country, and nowhere have we found anything more interesting than the Giant's Causeway which no one, who comes to Ireland,

TIXTERN ABBEY should fail to visit. There is nothing like it except Fingall's cave, and it has a character of its own, as peculiar as it is wonderful. Tradition says that it was built so that a noted giant in Scotland could come over and fight a giant in this country. After the former had come to Ireland, and had been defeated by his antagonist the latter invited him to remain, which he did. Then there was no need for the causeway and it sank into t.ie sea. However true may be the legend there is a similar though smaller formation on the Scottish coast opposite that on this side. The 40,000 basaltic pillars, which compose the Causeway, have either five or six sides, and many of them are about twenty feet in length and twenty inches in diameter. They are all divided into shorter sections, each with a convex base fitting into a concave top below it, and all are so neatly cut that it seems impossible to believe that they were not made by hand, instead of being produced by shrinking or contracting when they were in a very hot state. The arrangement of the columns is such that they are likened in different places to various objects. There is the amphitheatre, the pulpit, the organ, the lion's head, and many other forms, all of which can be easily discerned.

Longer would we tarry in this country so full of interest and which, we believe, has a great future. Many things are there which indicate prosperity. Industrial plants are being established, and, while some of the home industries, such as weaving and lace making, are not carried on in the homes as extensively as of yore, yet lace is made in the convents, and Lady Aberdeen has established a school in Dublin where girls can go and learn the art. The weaving is mostly done In the factories. Belfast especially is a great industrial centre for this line of work. Formerly the farmers burned their own lime used on the farms, but now it is made in the towns in large quantities. Plants for the manufacture of farm machinery are being established — all of which show the signs of the times.

As we were leaving Galway in the rain, and were looking out of the car window at the rocky, barren soil, and the general poverty of the people we were full of pity, and to divert our thoughts began to read the "Irish Times," which we had just bought. The title "Brighter Homes Exhibition" caught our eye, and we read that the Galway County Agricultural committee had offered three prizes for the "best kept cottage and holding." Then it gave the names of the winners, and the amounts of the prizes. Surely we thought this in itself is a most helpful indication, for it shows that the people are really trying to help themselves. Soon we looked out of the window again. It had stopped raining, the sun was shining brightly, and everything looked fresh and green, while, far above, spanning the heavens, with ends even touching the earth, was a most beautiful rainbow with every color of the spectrum sharply defined, and, as we gazed upon this never-to-be-forgotten scene, it seemed as if it were a veritable bow of promise for this land and people.

CHAPTER II From Windermere to "Bonnie Doon"

TO visit the homes and haunts of those who have made England and Scotland famous in the world of letters redoubles one's interest in the works of these writers and gives an additional charm to their message, whether it be in prose or poetry. One cannot see the Lake region of England, with its mountains and hills, without realizing that nature has done her part toward inspiring those who appreciated its grandeur. Lake Windermere is really the beginning of the English Lake District and, throughout its length of twelve miles, it is dotted with islands, large and small, most of which retain the ancient Saxon name of Holme, meaning island. Although the scenery around the southern part of the lake is very beautiful, yet it has none of the grandeur which characterizes the northern half where the hills or fells become promontories, and mountain peaks overlook them all. Occasionally one finds a castle which was the scene of many strifes in the days of the Tudor kings. Mrs. Hemans lived for a time in Wray castle, situated on the western shore, and she was "so delighted with the spot that she scarcely knew how to leave it."

Furness Abbey, which stands some distance from the lake, is the most interesting ruin in the north of England. This monastery was founded in 1 127, but all that is left to attest its ancient splendor are the walls, pillars and arches. There is something almost pathetic in this pile, as one thinks how, —

"Long years have darkened into time since vespers here were rung,

And here has been no other dirge than what the winds have sung;

And now the drooping ivy wreaths, in ancient clusters fall,

And moss o'er each crevice hath grown upon the sculptured wall."

Not far from Windermere is Coniston Lake, where one finds the grammar school in which Wordsworth, his brother, and several other well known men received their early education. Wordsworth's name is cut in one of its benches and it was probably done by himself when a pupil. Nearly opposite is the cottage where he roomed for nine years when he was at school. In one of the two small bed rooms above, the boy must have slept, for to it he refers in the "Prelude," when he says —

"That lowly bed whence I had heard the wind Roar, and the rain beat hard; where I so oft Had lain awake on summer nights to watch The moon in splendor couched among the leaves Of a tall ash that near our cottage stood."

The embryo poet would seem not only to have lain awake at nights, but to have been an early riser, for we find him in the same poem saying: "Oft before the hour of school I traveled round our little lake, five miles of pleasant wandering." Here, perchance, this boy imbibed that love of field and flower that made him the great poet of nature.

Near here is Brantwood where Ruskin lived for thirty years and here, in sight of the mountains and lakes he loved so well, was he interred. At the head of his grave is a beautifully carved cross, bearing the simple inscription: — John Ruskin, 1 8 19-1900.

WINDERMERE TO BONNIE BOON 21

It is made of the hard green stone of the Coniston Fells, and the carvings symbolize his works in the order in which they appeared.

From Ambleside, at the head of Lake Windermere, one can traverse the district by coach and from its top obtain a fairly good idea of the beauty of the region. Ambleside is practically the center of the lake district and no matter which way one travels he is reminded of the noted persons who have lived in the vicinity. Here in this little town, which is half encircled by stately hills, dwelt Harriet Martineau, while just north of the village is Rydal Mount, the house in which Wordsworth spent his married life and the place where he died in 1850. It is a plain two-story house, mantled over here and there with roses, ivy and jasmine. A foot-path, "a little hoary line and faintly traced," as the poet describes it, leads from the rear of the house along the hillside to Grasmere. Across the road is Rydal Water with its several islets, while the hills, by which it is surrounded, are strikingly beautiful.

"Like a fair sister of the sky, Unruffled doth the blue lake lie, The mountains looking on."

On the right Nab Scar rears its rocky front, and at its foot is Nab cottage, with its little porch, where Hartley Coleridge, son of the poet, lived and died in 1849.

The road leads to Grasmere and on the edge of this village is Dove Cottage, where Wordsworth and his sister lived before his marriage, and which was afterwards the residence of De Quincy for twenty-seven years. The latter gave this description of it when he visited Wordsworth in 1807: — "A white cottage with two yew trees breaking the glare of its walls. A little semi-vestibule between two doors prefaced the entrance into what might be considered the principal room of the cottage. It was oblong, not above eight and a half feet high, sixteen feet long and twelve feet broad; wainscoted from floor to ceiling with dark polished oak. One window there was, a perfect and unpretentious cottage window, with little diamond panes, embowered in summer with roses and in autumn with jasmine and shrubs. We were ushered up a flight of steps, fourteen in all, to a little drawing room, or whatever you may choose to call it." Wordsworth himself has described the fire-place of this room as his "half kitchen and half parlor fire." "It was not quite seven feet six inches high," De Quincy goes on to say, "and in other respects pretty nearly of the same dimensions as the rustic hall below. There was, however, in a small recess a library of perhaps 300 volumes, which seemed to consecrate the place as the poet's study and composing room, and such occasionally it was. But far oftener, he both studied, as I found, and composed on the high road."

Wordsworth himself remarks in his writings: "Nine-tenths of my verses have been murmured out in the open air." When Wordsworth was to receive a visit from Sir Walter Scott there was no guest chamber at Dove Cottage and a small addition was made to the study and the walls of this, the sister papered with copies of the village newspaper. Much of the furniture is the same as It was when Wordsworth occupied the house. The grates remain unchanged and his arm chair still stands near one of them where the poet used to toast bread.

In the garden, beside the back door, Is growing the syrlnga bush which the poet planted, while near by are the stone steps, that he laid, leading up to the apple trees, that were also set out by himself. Beside the well, the large leaved primroses, set out by

WINDERMERE TO BONNIE DOON 23

him and his sister, are growing. The hidden rill still sings as of yore —

"If you listen, all is still.

Save a little neighboring rill, That from out the rocky ground Strikes a solitary sound."

Small is the cottage ; very small the rooms that are in it; smallest of country gardens is the little patch of green at the back; yet one of the greatest poets of the century spent eight and a half years here, and under its humble roof wrote his best poems. Truly —

"Man wants but little here below Nor wants that little long."

The village of Grasmere is situated at the head of the lake of that name, while both are in a valley that is "among steep hills and woods embosomed." Here was the poet buried under an old yew tree in the village churchyard. It is the church of the "Excursion" and in this poem the church and the vale are most graphically pictured by Wordsworth. In his death he and the scenes he loved were not divided. Calmly he sleeps in one of the loveliest of those lovely spots which his muse has described with so much feeling, and his tombstone is in excellent harmony with that simplicity of character for which in life he was distinguished.

As we go up the valley we skirt the base of Helvellyn which rises over 3,000 feet and commands a view of the Isle of Man on the south and the Scotch hills on the north. It was from Grasmere that Wordsworth accompanied Scott to the summit of Helvellyn, and this same route was taken by the Prince of Wales in 1857.

Derwentwater, one of the most beautiful of the

English lakes, is near Keswick, and on its east bank is Friar's Crag where a monument has been erected to the memory of Ruskin. Below a medallion of the writer's head are the words: "The first that I remember was my nurse bringing me to Friar's Crag when I was three years old." At the head of the lake is the far-famed waterfall of Lodore, and Southey's well known lines: "How does the water come down at Lodore?" recur to mind. One always associates Keswick with Southey, for here the poet lived for forty years in Greta Hall which stands on an eminence in the north part of the town, and is almost hidden from view by the foliage of the trees in which it seems embowered. The scenery, visible from the library window, was, in after years exquisitely sketched by Southey himself, in the beautiful lines, beginning: — "'Twas at that sober hour, when the light of the day is receding." Like Wordsworth this poet was laid to rest in his village churchyard, and the old edifice dates back to the middle of the twelfth century. The monument, erected to his memory, was placed in the interior of the church. It consists of a pedestal of Caen stone, on which reposes a full length figure in white marble. As a faithful likeness of Southey, as well as a work of art, it is said to possess great merit. The epitaph was written by Wordsworth, his successor in the laureateship.

Leaving Keswick by rail we soon reach Carlisle, an interesting walled town which saw many an encounter between the border peoples. Before we come to the town we begin to see the hawthorn hedge replaced by stone walls, and no longer do we find an abundance of flowers and beautiful green fields. The country is more hilly, and each acre does not seem to be so well cultivated as in the south of England. Soon after leaving Carlisle we cross into Scotland,

WINDERMERE TO BONNIE DOON 25

and in some places can be seen vestiges of the old wall built by the Romans,

At Dumfries we are reminded that we are in the land of Bobbie Burns by the many ways in which the name of the poet is applied to restaurants, shops, etc. In this city did he spend the last years of his life, and here is he buried in the yard of St. Michael's church.

The house in which he died is kept by his granddaughter, who is almost as anxious to show the Americans a photograph of their President, sent her by Roosevelt himself, as she is to exhibit Burns' cup and punch bowl. As a proof of the extreme poverty in which he left his wife we see the hammer used by the auctioneer when he sold his household effects. We follow a narrow street and turn into a long alley where we find the Globe Inn in which Burns spent many an evening with his boon companions, and his chair is still standing in the corner of the room. The place has not changed and, it being Saturday night, when the men are free from the week's care, they have come here for a good time, and their condition makes the place seem all the more real.