by J. M. Synge
Further on, as I was going up a long hill, an old man with a white, pointed face and heavy beard pulled himself up out of the ditch and joined me. We spoke first about the broken weather, and then he began talking in a mournful voice of the famines and misfortunes that have been in Ireland.
‘There have been three cruel plagues,’ he said, ‘out through the country since I was born in the west. First, there was the big wind in 1839, that tore away the grass and green things from the earth. Then there was the blight that came on the 9th of June in the year 1846. Up to then the potatoes were clean and good; but that morning a mist rose up out of the sea, and you could hear a voice talking near a mile off across the stillness of the earth. It was the same the next day, and the day after, and so on for three days or more; and then you could begin to see the tops of the stalks lying over as if the life was gone out of them. And that was the beginning of the great trouble and famine that destroyed Ireland. Then the people went on, I suppose, in their wickedness and their animosity of one against the other; and the Almighty God sent down the third plague, and that was the sickness called the choler. Then all the people left the town of Sligo — it’s in Sligo I was reared — and you could walk through the streets at the noon of day and not see a person, and you could knock at one door and another door and find no one to answer you. The people were travelling out north and south and east, with the terror that was on them; and the country people were digging ditches across the roads and driving them back where they could, for they had great dread of the disease.
‘It was the law at that time that if there was sickness on any person in the town of Sligo you should notice it to the Governors, or you’d be put up in the gaol. Well, a man’s wife took sick, and he went and noticed it. They came down then with bands of men they had, and took her away to the sick-house, and he heard nothing more till he heard she was dead, and was to be buried in the morning. At that time there was such fear and hurry and dread on every person, they were burying people they had no hope of, and they with life within them. My man was uneasy a while thinking on that, and then what did he do, but slip down in the darkness of the night and into the dead-house, where they were after putting his wife. There were beyond twoscore bodies, and he went feeling from one to the other. Then I suppose his wife heard him coming — she wasn’t dead at all — and “Is that Michael?” says she. “It is then,” says he; “and, oh, my poor woman, have you your last gasps in you still?” “I have, Michael,” says she; “and they’re after setting me out here with fifty bodies the way they’ll put me down into my grave at the dawn of day.” “Oh, my poor woman,” says he; “have you the strength left in you to hold on my back?” “Oh, Micky,” says she, “I have surely.” He took her up then on his back, and he carried her out by lanes and tracks till he got to his house. Then he never let on a word about it, and at the end of three days she began to pick up, and in a month’s time she came out and began walking about like yourself or me. And there were many people were afeard to speak to her, for they thought she was after coming back from the grave.’
Soon afterwards we passed into a little village, and he turned down a lane and left me. It was not long, however, till another old man that I could see a few paces ahead stopped and waited for me, as is the custom of the place.
‘I’ve been down in Kilpeddar buying a scythe-stone,’ he began, when I came up to him, ‘and indeed Kilpeddar is a dear place, for it’s three-pence they charged me for it; but I suppose there must be a profit from every trade, and we must all live and let live.’
When we had talked a little more I asked him if he had been often in Dublin.
‘I was living in Dublin near ten years,’ he said; ‘and indeed I don’t know what way I lived that length in it, for there is no place with smells like the city of Dublin. One time I went up with my wife into those lanes where they sell old clothing, Hanover Lane and Plunket’s Lane, and when my wife — she’s dead now, God forgive her! — when my wife smelt the dirty air she put her apron up to her nose, and, “For the love of God,” says she, “get me away out of this place.” And now may I ask if it’s from there you are yourself, for I think by your speaking it wasn’t in these parts you were reared?’
I told him I was born in Dublin, but that I had travelled afterwards and been in Paris and Rome, and seen the Pope Leo XIII.
‘And will you tell me,’ he said, ’is it true that anyone at all can see the Pope?’
I described the festivals in the Vatican, and how I had seen the Pope carried through long halls on a sort of throne. ‘Well, now,’ he said, ‘can you tell me who was the first Pope that sat upon that throne?’
I hesitated for a moment, and he went on:
‘I’m only a poor, ignorant man, but I can tell you that myself if you don’t know it, with all your travels. Saint Peter was the first Pope, and he was crucified with his head down, and since that time there have been Popes upon the throne of Rome.’
Then he began telling me about himself.
‘I was twice a married man,’ he said. ‘My first wife died at her second child, and then I reared it up till it was as tall as myself — a girl it was — and she went off and got married and left me. After that I was married a second time to an aged woman, and she lived with me ten year; and then she died herself. There is nothing I can make now but tea, and tea is killing me; and I’m living alone, in a little hut beyond, where four baronies, four parishes, and four townlands meet.’
By this time we had reached the village inn, where I was lodging for the night; so I stood him a drink, and he went on to his cottage along a narrow pathway through the bogs.
The People of the Glens
HERE AND THERE in County Wicklow there are a number of little known places — places with curiously melodious names, such as Aughavanna, Glenmalure, Annamoe, or Lough Nahanagan — where the people have retained a peculiar simplicity, and speak a language in some ways more Elizabethan than the English of Connaught, where Irish was used till a much later date. In these glens many women still wear old-fashioned bonnets, with a frill round the face, and the old men, when they are going to the fair, or to Mass, are often seen in curiously-cut frock-coats, tall hats, and breeches buckled at the knee. When they meet a wanderer on foot, these old people are glad to stop and talk to him for hours, telling him stories of the Rebellion, or of the fallen angels that ride across the hills, or alluding to the three shadowy countries that are never forgotten in Wicklow — America (their El Dorado), the Union and the Madhouse.
‘I had a power of children,’ an old man who was born in Glenmalure said to me once; ‘I had a power of children, and they all went to California, with what I could give them, and bought a bit of a field. Then, when they put in the plough, it stuck fast on them. They looked in beneath it, and there was fine gold stretched within the earth. They’re rich now and their daughters are riding on fine horses with new saddles on them and elegant bits in their mouths, yet not a ha’porth did they ever send me, and may the devil ride with them to hell!’
Not long afterwards I met an old man wandering about a hill-side, where there was a fine view of Lough Dan, in extraordinary excitement and good spirits.
‘I landed in Liverpool two days ago,’ he said, when I had wished him the time of day; ‘then I came to the city of Dublin this morning, and took the train to Bray, where you have the blue salt water on your left, and the beautiful valleys, with trees in them, on your right. From that I drove to this place on a jaunting-car to see some brothers and cousins I have living below. They’re poor people, Mister honey, with bits of cabins, and mud floors under them, but they’re as happy as if they were in heaven, and what more would a man want than that? In America and Australia, and on the Atlantic Ocean, you have all sorts, good people and bad people, and murderers and thieves, and pickpockets; but in this place there isn’t a being isn’t as good and decent as yourself or me.’
I saw he was one of the old people one sometimes meets with who emigrated when the people we
re simpler than they are at present, and who often come back, after a lifetime in the States, as Irish as any old man who has never been twenty miles from the town of Wicklow. I asked him about his life abroad, when we had talked a little longer.
‘I’ve been through perils enough to slay nations,’ he said, ‘and the people here think I should be rotten with gold, but they’re better off the way they are. For five years I was a ship’s smith, and never saw dry land, and I in all the danger and peril of the Atlantic Ocean. Then I was a veterinary surgeon, curing side-slip, splay-foot, spavin, splints, glanders, and the various ailments of the horse and ass. The lads in this place think you’ve nothing to do but to go across the sea and fill a bag with gold; but I tell you it is hard work, and in those countries the workhouses is full, and the prisons is full, and the crazyhouses is full, the same as in the city of Dublin. Over beyond you have fine dwellings, and you have only to put out your hand from the window among roses and vines, and the red wine grape; but there is all sorts in it, and the people is better in this country, among the trees and valleys, and they resting on their floors of mud.’
In Wicklow, as in the rest of Ireland, the union, though it is a home of refuge for the tramps and tinkers, is looked on with supreme horror by the peasants. The madhouse, which they know better, is less dreaded.
One night I had to go down late in the evening from a mountain village to the town of Wicklow, and come back again into the hills. As soon as I came near Rathnew I passed many bands of girls and men making rather ruffianly flirtation on the pathway, and women who surged up to stare at me, as I passed in the middle of the road. The thick line of trees that are near Rathnew makes the way intensely dark even on clear nights, and when one is riding quickly, the contrast, when one reaches the lights of Wicklow, is singularly abrupt. The town itself after nightfall is gloomy and squalid. Half-drunken men and women stand about, wrangling and disputing in the dull light from the windows, which is only strong enough to show the wretchedness of the figures which pass continually across them. I did my business quickly and turned back to the hills, passing for the first few miles the same noisy groups and couples on the roadway. After a while I stopped at a lonely public-house to get a drink and rest for a moment before I came to the hills. Six or seven men were talking drearily at one end of the room, and a woman I knew, who had been marketing in Wicklow, was resting nearer the door. When I had been given a glass of beer, I sat down on a barrel near her, and we began to talk.
‘Ah, your honour,’ she said, ‘I hear you’re going off in a short time to Dublin, or to France, and maybe we won’t be in the place at all when you come back. There’s no fences to the bit of farm I have, the way I’m destroyed running. The calves do be straying, and the geese do be straying, and the hens do be straying, and I’m destroyed running after them. We’ve no man in the place since himself died in the winter, and he ailing these five years, and there’s no one to give us a hand drawing the hay or cutting the bit of oats we have above on the hill. My brother Michael has come back to his own place after being seven years in the Richmond Asylum; but what can you ask of him, and he with a long family of his own? And, indeed, it’s a wonder he ever came back when it was a fine time he had in the asylum.’
She saw my movement of surprise, and went on:
‘There was a son of my own, as fine a lad as you’d see in the county — though I’m his mother that says it, and you’d never think it t look at me. Well, he was a keeper in a kind of private asylum, I think they call it, and when Michael was taken bad, he went to see him, and didn’t he know the keepers that were in charge of him, and they promised to take the best of care of him, and, indeed, he was always a quiet man that would give no trouble. After the first three years he was free in the place, and he walking about like a gentleman, doing any light work he’d find agreeable. Then my son went to see him a second time, and “You’ll never see Michael again,” says he when he came back, “for he’s too well off where he is.” And, indeed, it was well for him, but now he’s come home.’ Then she got up to carry out some groceries she was buying to the ass-cart that was waiting outside.
‘It’s real sorry I do be when I see you going off’ she said, as she was turning away. ‘I don’t often speak to you, but it’s company to see you passing up and down over the hill, and now may the Almighty God bless and preserve you, and see you safe home.’
A little later I was walking up the long hill which leads to the high ground from Laragh to Sugar Loaf. The solitude was intense. Towards the top of the hill I passed through a narrow gap with high rocks on one side of it and fir trees above them, and a handful of jagged sky filled with extraordinarily brilliant stars. In a few moments I passed out on the brow of the hill that runs behind the Devil’s Glen, and smelt the fragrance of the bogs. I mounted again. There was not light enough to show the mountains round me, and the earth seemed to have dwindled away into a mere platform where an astrologer might watch. Among these emotions of the night one cannot wonder that the madhouse is so often named in Wicklow.
Many of the old people of the country, however, when they have no definite sorrow, are not mournful, and are full of curious whims and observations. One old woman who lived near Glen Macanass told me that she had seen her sons had no hope of making a livelihood in the place where they were born, so, in addition to their schooling, she engaged a master to come over the bogs every evening and teach them sums and spelling. One evening she came in behind them, when they were at work, and stopped to listen.
‘And what do you think my son was after doing?’ she said; ‘he’d made a sum of how many times a wheel on a cart would turn round between the bridge below and the Post Office in Dublin. Would you believe that? I went out without saying a word, and I got the old stocking, where I keep a bit of money, and I made out what I owed the master. Then I went in again, and “Master,” says I, “Mick’s learning enough for the likes of him. You can go now and safe home to you.” And, God bless you, avourneen, Mick got a fine job after on the railroad.’
Another day, when she was trying to flatter me, she said: ‘Ah, God bless you, avourneen, you’ve no pride. Didn’t I hear you yesterday, and you talking to my pig below in the field as if it was your brother? And a nice clean pig it is too, the crathur.’ A year or two afterwards I met this old woman again. Her husband had died a few months before of the ‘Influence,’ and she was in pitiable distress, weeping and wailing while she talked to me. ‘The poor old man is after dying on me,’ she said, ‘and he was great company. There’s only one son left me now, and we do be killed working. Ah, avourneen, the poor do have great stratagems to keep in their little cabins at all. And did you ever see the like of the place we live in? Isn’t it the poorest, lonesomest, wildest, dreariest bit of a hill a person ever passed a life on?’ When she stopped a moment, with the tears streaming on her face, I told a little about the poverty I had seen in Paris. ‘God Almighty forgive me, avourneen,’ she went on, when I had finished, ‘we don’t know anything about it. We have our bit of turf, and our bit of sticks, and our bit to eat, and we have our health. Glory be to His Holy Name, not a one of the childer was ever a day ill, except one boy was hurted off a cart, and he never overed it. It’s small right we have to complain at all.’
She died the following winter, and her son went to New York.
The old people who have direct tradition of the Rebellion, and a real interest in it, are growing less numerous daily, but one still meets with them here and there in the more remote districts.
One evening, at the beginning of harvest, as I was walking into a straggling village, far away in the mountains, in the southern half of the county, I overtook an old man walking in the same direction with an empty gallon can. I joined him; and when we had talked for a moment, he turned round and looked at me curiously.
‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ he said, ‘I think you aren’t Irish.’ I told him he was mistaken.
‘Well,’ he went on, ‘you don’t speak the same as we do; so
I was thinking maybe you were from another country.’
‘I came back from France,’ I said, ‘two months ago, and maybe there’s a trace of the language still upon my tongue.’ He stopped and beamed with satisfaction.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘see that now. I knew there was something about you. I do be talking to all who do pass through this glen, telling them stories of the Rebellion, and the old histories of Ireland, and there’s few can puzzle me, though I’m only a poor ignorant man.’ He told me some of his adventures, and then he stopped again.
‘Look at me now,’ he said, ‘and tell me what age you think I’d be.’
‘You might be seventy,’ I said.
‘Ah,’ he said, with a piteous whine in his voice, ‘you wouldn’t take me to be as old as that? No man ever thought me that age to this day.’
‘Maybe you aren’t far over sixty,’ I said, fearing I had blundered; ‘maybe you’re sixty-four.’ He beamed once more with delight, and hurried along the road.
‘Go on, now,’ he said, ‘I’m eighty-two years, three months and five days. Would you believe that? I was baptized on the fourth of June, eighty-two years ago, and it’s the truth I’m telling you.’
‘Well, it’s a great wonder,’ I said, ‘to think you’re that age, when you’re as strong as I am to this day.’
‘I am not strong at all,’ he went on, more despondingly, ‘not strong the way I was. If I had two glasses of whisky I’d dance a hornpipe would dazzle your eyes; but the way I am at this minute you could knock me down with a rush. I have a noise in my head, so that you wouldn’t hear the river at the side of it, and I can’t sleep at nights. It’s that weakens me. I do be lying in the darkness thinking of all that has happened in three-score years to the families of Wicklow — what this son did, and what that son did, and of all that went across the sea, and wishing black hell would seize them that never wrote three words to say were they alive or in good health. That’s the profession I have now — to be thinking of all the people, and of the times that’s gone. And, begging your pardon, might I ask your name?’
