we left galway for clifden at 9.30 next morning. the public conveyance is a large-paper edition of the outside car, with an elevated seat for the driver. there is one place to be avoided on some of these vehicles, that nearest to the horses on the off-side, on account of the iron bar of the drag, which operates from time to time very disagreeably on the back and shoulders of the contiguous traveller. the scenery gradually increases in interest. first we have trees, farms, houses, and the quiet aspect of country life; then, we have delightful views at intervals, of lough corrib and its islands, and the landscape becomes diversified, less under culture, and more wild in consequence; and, lastly, the sublime and solemn beauty of the mountains and lakes of connamara.
some of the residences amused us greatly. you see a large lodge by the wayside, and look out, in the distance, for some princely castle, or baronial hall, at any rate; but there is no need for any such optical exertion, the mansion being close to you, eighty yards perhaps from the entrance, and only a size larger, (a small size larger, as they say at the glove-shops), than the lodge itself.
some of the gateways, too, would have been very imposing, if most of their principal ornaments had not been mutilated or missing. our favourite among the more perfect specimens, was adorned with a stone pine-apple on one pillar, and a swede turnip or pumpkin on the other; and had a rich effect. most of the field-gates have massive pillars of stone, and would render the inclosures most secure, if there were not, now and then, easy apertures through the turf-dykes, which form the fence hard by, suggesting the idea of a front door barred and locked against thieves, with one of the hall-windows wide open!
as to the people, there is little difference, so far as appearance is concerned, between paddy in england and paddy at home; the same flaccidity of hat; the same amplitude of shirt-collar, which would cut his ears off if it were severely starched; the same dress coat of frieze; drab breeches (aisy at the knees), grey-stockings, and brogues. the same in aspect, but in action how different! in england, he will rise with the sun, reap under its burning heat until it sets, and dance in the barn at midnight. in ireland, he seems to be always either going to his work, or looking at his work, or resting from his work, or coming away from his work, in brief, to be doing nothing, cordially assisted by his friends and neighbours. the potatoes will prevent his famishing from hunger, if the season be propitious; the peat-stack will keep him from perishing by cold; and his royal highness, the pig, will pay the landlord his rent.
the women are, for the most part, good-looking, erect, and graceful movers (for there are no corns in connaught); and, from the bright colours of their costume, their red petticoats and blue cloaks, are ever a pleasant refreshment to the eye, and picturesque addition to the scene. they are uniformly and painfully shy. francis, and i, are both of us what may be termed remarkably handsome men, but they wouldn't look at us; and i shall never forget the agony of a young housemaid, who, assisting the waiter one morning with a tub of water to my room, caught sight of my dressing-gown through the open door, and instantly, though the garment is of a pleasing pattern, and descends quite to the ground, rushed off, like dorothea from cardenio and his companions, and, i verily believe, is running now.
as regards children,—there are crosses in ireland, which are saluted by wives, who would be mothers also; and these crosses, or something equally efficacious, appear to be universally embraced. every cottage sent forth a running accompaniment (allegro) to the car, healthful, cheery children, and would be beautiful, in spite of their wretched homes, and meagre diet, and rags, if their mothers could be induced to recognise the utility of soap and a comb. their raiment is very scant and curious. ould larry's coat, with the tails cut off, makes young larry “an entire juvenile suit,” and the inexpressibles of phelim père form a noble panoply for phelim fils, with his little arms thrust through the pocket-holes. these tatterdemalions beg as they run by the car, but seem indifferent as to the result, enjoying their “constitutional,” and parting from us with a pleasant smile whether we gave to them or not. some of a literary turn of mind asked rather urgently for “penny buy book,” but the imposition was a little too patent, so very far from a bookseller's shop, and we recommended them to quench their thirst for knowledge in the only volumes to be perused (and that gratuitously) in the neighbourhood, the “books in the running brooks.”
a few professional beggars come round, when there is a change of horses (excellent horses they are), but are neither so frequent nor so importunate, as we had been led to expect. one old lady had evidently got the last new thing in begging, a letter to her “poor darlint boy as was gone to merrikey, and would ye bestow a thrifle, good gintlemen, to pay the bit o' postage, god bless yer bewtifle young faces.” of course, we would, every mother's son of us. what an affectionate, exemplary parent! when we returned, a few days afterwards, she was again in correspondence with her beloved son, far away from her yearning tenderness, beyond the broad atlantic; and, indeed, i have reason to believe from information which i gathered from the driver and our fellow-passengers, that this disconsolate mother writes to her exile child every day, except sundays.
the miserable huts of the peasantry, seen by the feeble light which comes through the doorway and smoke-hole (to talk about chimneys would be an insult to architecture) give one the idea, not so much that the pigs have got into the parlour, but that the family have migrated to the sty. an unpaved clay floor below, a roof of straw and weeds, dank, soaked, and rotting, overhead, a miserable bed in the corner, an iron pot over a peat fire, are the principal items of the property. before the door is a sink, black and filthy, for the refuse. and yet the inmates look hale and happy beyond what one would hope to see, and the thought at once suggests itself, how much might be accomplished by such a people, awaking to assert its dignity, and to discharge its duty. here and there are roofless cottages, gravestones, on which is written, as on albert dürer's, “emigravit” he has gone to seek over the wide seas the comforts which here he could not, or would not, win; or he has gone “to the land, which is very far off,” to hunger and thirst no more,—
“there fell upon the house a sudden gloom,
a shadow on those features fair and thin;
and softly, from that hushed and darkened room,
two angels issued, where but one went in.”
it is sad indeed to see these monuments, “where memory” (as an irish poet 1 sings) “sits by the altar she has raised to woe,” monuments of suffering and dearth, amid scenes of surpassing beauty, and fields which might stand thick with corn, but where, from the shameful indolence of his creatures,
“in vain ,with lavish kindness, the gifts of god are strewn.”
1 curran.
there is no town between galway and clifden, unless we compliment with that title the large village of oughterarde, pleasantly situated hard by lough corrib, with its picturesque bridge, marvellously transparent stream, handsome constables, and (comparatively speaking) magnificent church. the roman catholic churches are, for the most part, so very plain and poor, having little but the cross, and a melancholy imitation of gothic mullions in wood, to denote their consecration, that the building of oughterarde has quite an imposing effect, and we went up the hill to see it. the leisure and liberty allowed to passengers by car are amusingly refreshing in these days of steam; and i thought, as we sauntered towards sainte terre, how astonished the guard of an express train would be, to behold his fellow-travellers quietly strolling off to inspect the cathedral, at peterborough, york, or lincoln.
we found little to admire, as to architecture without, or ornament within; but a priest, who went with us from the car, said it was “beautiful,” and looked as if to him it was so indeed, as he knelt with others reverently praying there. i thought of our grand old churches at home, locked and barred, most of them, except for a few hours on sunday (as though the soul should be treated, like a boa-constrictor, with six days sleep, and then a rabbit); and i envied that poor pilgrim through a prayerless world his privilege and opportunity.
