The women, too, in their white caps, with their
serious, devotional comely faces, reminded me of faces I have seen in
dear old Glengarry.
There were not half a dozen bonnets in the whole congregation - snow-
white caps covered with a handkerchief for the matrons. They wore cloaks
and shawls, and looked comfortable enough. I saw some decent blue cloth
cloaks of a fashion that made me think they had served four generations
at least. The lasses wore their own shining hair "streeling" down their
backs or neatly braided up; abundant locks they had, brown color
prevailing. Fresher, rosier, comelier girls than these mountain maidens
it would be hard to find.
The men's clothing, though poor, and in some instances patched in an
artistic fashion, was scrupulously clean. In the congregation were some
young men well dressed, bold and upright, whose bearing, cut of
whiskers, and watch chains, showed that they had lived among our trans-
Atlantic cousins of the great Republic.
The priest of the hills is the one man whom these people trust. The
prevailing type of landlord has been their enemy and oppressor. The
priest has been friend, counsellor, sympathizer, helper, as well as
clergyman, and so he is _soggarth aroon_.
The storm continues at intervals. I get one clear, cold bit of fair
weather to climb to the top of Doune hill, where the Ulster kings used
to be crowned, a sugar-loaf shaped hill with the top broken off, rising
in isolated grandeur up high enough to give one a breather to get to the
top.
The weather returned to its normal condition of storm, and I was shut up
again. I became a little homesick, had the priest to tea, and enjoyed
his conversation very much, but he had to go off in the storm on a sick
call. A priest in these mountains has not the easiest kind of life in
the world.
Illusions took possession of my brain. I fancied myself a great queen,
to say the least of it. A whisper got among the hills that a great
American lady with unlimited power had come seeking the welfare of the
country, and so any amount of deputations wafted on me. I will give a
few specimens.
Two men to see my lady in reference to a small still that had been
misfortunately found on the place of an old man upward of eighty. He was
fined L12, and would my lady do anything?
Two women under sentence of eviction, my lady (I saw the place of one of
these, the roof was on the floor, and a little shelter was in one corner
like the lair of a wild beast, and here she kept possession in spite of
the dreadful Captain Dopping; the agent). Would my lady send out their
two daughters to America and place them in decent places?
And here was old Roseen, old and miserable, without chick or child, or
drop's blood belonging to her in the wide world, and would my lady
remember her?
Here's the crature of a widow from the mountain with four small
children, and no man body to help her with the place, and not a four-
footed beast on it belonging to her; all went in the scarcity; would my
lady look to her a little, sure she was the neediest of all?
And here was the poor cripple boy that his reverence was so good to,
&c., &c., &c., in endless file.
Nothing kept this over-dose of "my lady" from going to my head like
Innishowen poteen, but the slenderness of my purse. Determined at last,
warned by my fast-collapsing _portmonnaie_, to refuse to see any
more deputations and keep ben-the-house strictly. A cry arose that
Captain Dopping and his body-guard, on evictions bent, were coming up
the hill. I rushed out, mounted a ditch of sods for one more look at the
little tyrant of their fields. As I stood shading my eyes with my hand
and looked across at the dreaded agent, a plaintive "my lady," bleated
out at my side, drew my eyes down. It was a woman; she did not speak any
more, but looked, and that look drew out my fast collapsing purse. I
walked slowly into the house, determined to escape from the hills while
I had the means left of escaping.
XI.
THE JAUNTING CAR - SCENERY IN DONEGAL - MOUNTAIN PASTURES - A VISIT TO
GLENVEIGH CASTLE.
I have returned to pleasant Ramelton, and will write my visit to
Glenveigh Castle from here. This town will always be a place of
remembrance to me on account of the Christian kindness, sympathy,
encouragement and counsel which I have received in it.
It was my great good fortune to get an introduction to Mr. and Miss
McConnell, a brother and sister, who are merchants in this place. They
are of the stock of the Covenanters, a people who have left the stamp of
their individuality on the piety of the North of Ireland. Sufferers
themselves from Lord Leitrim's tyranny and greed, they sympathize with
other sufferers, and sympathize with me in my work to a greater extent
than any others since I left home. I can say with feeling, I was a
stranger and they took me in.
I have been driven in many directions sight-seeing in their cosy little
pony carriage. It is a nice little two-wheeled affair. I believe the
orthodox name of it is a croydon. It carries four, who sit back to back,
while the back seat turns up when not wanted. It was in quite a
different trap that I rode in on my visit to Glenveigh. During my
journey there we talked, my guide and I, of what constitutes a good
landlord.
