Monastery of Burrishoole—Queen Grace O'Malley and Her Castle of Carrig-a-Hooly—Her Appearance at the Court of Elizabeth—Dismissal of Her Husband—Wild Scenery of the West Coast—The Ancient Tongue—Recess—Kylemore Castle—Crazy Biddy.

Leaving Mallaranny we retrace our route towards Newport and pass near Burrishoole, the ruined monastery of the Dominicans, and then the castle of Carrig-a-Hooly, from whence that Amazon Queen of this section and of the island of Clare, Grace O'Malley, dismissed her lord and husband of a year's standing.

Carrig-a-Hooly is to-day a square pile of very solid construction, standing upon a rock, and at one time protected by a massive surrounding wall. The few windows or loopholes are far apart and very narrow. From which one Queen Grace dismissed her approaching lord is not related but that the dismissal was short, sharp, and to the point, effective, there seems no doubt, as she continued to hold sway over all the County of Mayo and the adjoining islands, to say nothing of as much of the neighbouring counties as she could cowe into submission.

The monastery of Burrishoole is said to have been her burial-place, and there her skull was for a long time preserved as a precious relic, but it is also stated that, together with those of many others buried there, her bones were stolen and being carted to Scotland were ground up for manure, enriching the land as those of CÆsar were used to stop the chinks and keep the wind away.

It was well for the thieves here that they worked and escaped in the night, for such desecration would have resulted in their quick dispatch had the superstitious peasantry caught them.

Many of the latter believe that the skull of the Queen was miraculously restored to its niche in the abbey, but if so it has mouldered into dust long since.

The skulls still to be seen here are regarded with deep veneration and are often borrowed by the peasantry to boil milk in, which being served to the sick one is a sure antidote for all ills.

Queen Grace of Mayo strongly reminds one of another Queen in a far-off country,—Tamara, whose ruined "Castle of Roses" still keeps watch over the Caucasus.

This castle of Queen Grace, like so many old towers, is supposed to cover buried treasures, guarded at night by a mounted horseman.

There is, however, another scene in her life which, whilst not productive of such results as the one at Carrig-a-Hooly, must have been picturesque and startling in the extreme.

Imagine the court of the great Elizabeth, with the daughter of Henry VIII. on the throne in all the heyday of her fuss and feathers, robed gorgeously and wearing a great farthingale—beneath the hem of her short skirt one notes the jewelled buckles on her high-heeled shoes,—from her pallid face flash a pair of reddish eyes and above her pallid brow her red hair is piled high and adorned with many of the pearls and jewels which have come into her possession from the robbery of her Scottish prisoner by the rebel lords. Huge butterfly wings of gauze rise from the shoulders but give nothing ethereal to the appearance of the sovereign,—Elizabeth was of the earth earthy. Around her are grouped all the splendid of that golden age,—the grave prime minister, Cecil Burleigh, the gallant Leicester, the boy Essex, the splendid Sir Philip Sidney, together with all the foreign diplomats and beautiful women of the court.

In the space before her stands an equally imperious figure,—the sovereign of this island of Clare. What could have been her dress in those days three hundred years agone? How did they robe the dames of high estate in Ireland then, I wonder, and must continue to wonder, for there is no account left us, but I am sure she was a beauty with fair skin, brown eyes and a glory of red gold hair.

The Queen of England has just offered to make her a countess, and we can imagine the half amazed and wholly amused expression of her majestic countenance when the offer is coolly refused with the remark that "I consider myself just as great a Queen as your Majesty."

Then the Irishwoman went home and did things, short, sharp, and to the point, effective: secured possession of all the fortified castles of the island and all the treasures and men at arms, and there occurred that dismissal already recorded.

It had been agreed on her marriage that either party could terminate the matrimonial arrangement at a year's end by a simple announcement to the other. On the day in question the countess observed from one of the loopholes of Carrig-a-Hooly the approach of her liege lord, and thereupon, to surely forestall such action on his part, hailed him and announced that "all was off" between them, making no mention of a return of any of the castles, men, or treasures be they his or not. She should have been Queen of Scotland. She would promptly have settled the cases of each and every rebel lord from Moray down, and John Knox would have heard a truth or two which would have made his ears tingle,—neither could her Majesty of England have meddled so easily in the affairs of the northern kingdom.

As our car rolls onward round the bay towards Louisburgh, her island of Clare blocks the entrance to the westward. Rearing sharply its cliffs against a glittering sky, it strongly reminds one of the island of Capri and occupies about the same relative position here as that island does in the bay of Naples.

But the blue of these northern waters is to my thinking vastly different from that in the South. There is a sensuous cast to all the colouring around Naples, whilst here both heaven and sea are of a bright fair rain-washed blue. The air is full of health and life, the waters sparkle, and the strong winds force one to jam a cap down over the eyes and go for a brisk walk or sail, returning ravenous for one's dinner; whilst in the south

And one's body is very apt to contract a fever during the trance.

Personally in Naples, with all its charm and interest, I always feel that death stalks wide, the mortal part of me is forever in evidence. Here, a new lease of life and health comes with every intake of the glorious air.

The winds blow strongly to-day while over the mountains dense black clouds gloom, through whose shadows one brilliant shaft of sunlight strikes a white sail far out at sea.

On the rocks the kelp gatherers are abroad with their long rakes, gathering a slimy harvest. What a living thing that kelp seems to be. How quiet its slumbers in the dark pool of the rocks while the waters are afar out, but watch it when the tide turns. At the first ripple it startles into life and reaches out its long snake-like feelers towards the coming sea.

Leaving the ocean for a time and turning inland, we pass some bad roads, but finally mount upward until in the heart of the mountains and the wildest section of Connemara their surface becomes smoother and the wings come out on our hubs and the car skims birdlike onward.

Fortunately the day has become divine and sunlight and shadow chase each other in fascinating lights and shadows over the mountains. Up in the higher valleys where the white cottages are few and far between, the vast black turf fields stretch to where the brown mountains rise to the blue skies. Here and there the scarlet skirt of a peasant woman at work in a distant field glows against the brown earth, while donkey carts, each with a solitary old dame perched on a pile of turf, pass us now and then, the little beast which draws them paying us no attention, save by a pointing of the ears. This is not a holy day, so there are no fairs and fewer cattle on the highroads, hence fewer races, though now and then we do have a spirited brush, and several old women shake their fists at us as we pass by. Coasting down the hills which surround the lovely lake of Doo Lough, we come finally down by the shores of the harbour of Killary or Killary Bay, where the fleets of the nation may and do enter far inland in safety.

Lunching at Leenane in a comfortable and clean inn made an already pleasant day seem all the more enjoyable.

The road, from Leenane on, lay westward by the waters of the Sound, and then south and up until a superb panorama of sea and land was spread out before us.

Those who go yearly to some genteel watering place know little of the outer sea, never comprehend the majesty of the ocean as it rolls in on Ireland's western coast, a vast wash of wild waters, glorious and majestic, roaring around jagged cliffs, which appear actually at war with it, while the winds murmuring over bogs and lowlands one instant are in the next roaring outward to greet the ocean. All around here there is no sound of human life, and a strange sad sort of sunlight falls over the mountains and shimmers downward into the sea.

The desolation of this coast is intense to-day but how far more terribly desolate it must have appeared to the poor sailors on those hulking ships of the Armada, hurled to their destruction hereabouts. I doubt not but that the last thoughts of the poor wretches as they sank in these thundering surges were of the vine-clad sunny hills of far Andalusia with the tinkling of guitars and the music of the Danza they were never again to hear.

As we leave the sea and turn again inward, the scenery becomes wild in the extreme. Sombre mountains surround lonely valleys with here and there a lonely lake reflecting the sky. The roads on the whole are good, save for many ridges formed by the backbone of the old stone bridges. If the car does not slow down one is thrown out of one's seat, and some of these ridges would destroy if passed at full speed.

The higher we mount the more joyous the motion until we seem to be skimming like a swallow. One nasty angle almost causes our undoing, but it is passed in safety by the quick action of our chauffeur, who certainly understands well how to handle a motor, though I think he was thoroughly frightened that time; we came very near shooting down into the lake.

Orders are strict that no risk of destroying animals is to be run unless the safety of the car necessitates it, but to-day we did kill a poor pussy who jumped from a wall directly in our path, and not a yard away. It was done in a flash, and kitty's joyous days were over. Poor thing! as with us life was the best she had, and it is gone. The incident quite clouded the day for some time.

At another time a fine dog, a collie, sprang at us and was thrown down and the motor passed over him. I looked back, quite expecting to see his mangled body lying on the highway, but instead of that saw him take a stone wall in a fashion creditable to the best hunter in Ireland, and none the worse for his experience. But that does not often occur.[4]

It does not strike the traveller as singular that—while English is spoken by all—he hears so much of the ancient tongue in remote sections; there is the natural home for it: but I confess I was much astonished during a recent visit to Canada to find that, after one hundred and fifty years, from Montreal east, French is the language of the people. While in the larger cities English is of course spoken, it is not the prevailing tongue, and in all the small towns and rural districts French is the tongue, and thousands of the people cannot speak English at all. In one of the greater cities if a man would obtain a position in the police or fire departments he must be able to read, write, and speak French, but a Frenchman is not obliged to read, write, and speak English. All the estimates for public improvements are in French alone, though the bidders are all English or Americans, generally the latter. Of course, they must be translated into English by the bidders, and what an opportunity is here presented for breaking a contract by a claim of incorrect translation. In fact, it would seem to an outsider that Canada is much more loyal to France than to England, even after a century and a half of Saxon rule. Giving due allowance to the treaty with France and to the power of the Church of Rome, such a state of affairs at this date is singular to say the least.

As for the attempt in Ireland to revive the ancient Celtic amongst these people, personally I do not think it will be successful, nor do I understand the move; while it is well to keep it alive for students and savants, what possible good can it serve the desperately poor and ignorant of the land, how can they use it? At least so it appears to a looker-on. (I have not been able to extract a good reason for the move from any of its many advocates with whom I have conversed on this tour.)

Surely English is destined to be the language of men, not only in Ireland but all over the world, and to my thinking this is the greatest work accomplished by that nation. After all, is it not a case of the survival of the fittest, and can any one deny that that tongue is already the most widely spoken and more rapidly spreading than any or all others?

Go where you will you will find that next to the language of each country it is the one in use, and I believe that in generations to come it will wipe out all the trouble caused by the inhabitants of Babylon in their desire to get above high-water mark.

For professors and students it would be well to maintain these ancient tongues as long as possible, but surely the poor of Ireland could be benefited to a greater degree by other means than an attempt to restore to daily use the ancient, almost forgotten, and fast dying tongue of their forefathers.

As for the travellers in this land to-day it is confusing and irritating to be confronted by a sign-post of absolutely no value, intelligible only to those who know the Celtic tongue. The peasants cannot read them and do not require them, hence, to all concerned, they mean as much here as the verst posts do to a stranger in Russia.

As for the milestones, they tell a story hereabouts concerning what happened between two towns separated some eighteen miles from each other. The figures on the stones having become almost obliterated by time and weather an order was given to a workman in one of the towns to recut the lot. He took them up one by one and placed them in the proper order in his stoneyard, but when completed it is evident that, before the work of replacing them began, he must have celebrated the event in the usual manner. Certainly the fact remains that he began at the wrong end of the pile, placing the one marked "17" where the first stone should have been, and so on with the lot, the result being that sundry gentlemen the worse for wear coming from one town discovered that their utmost endeavours to reach home only took them farther afield—where they finally brought up is not related. As for the man from the other town, when at the end of the first mile "17" stared at him from the stone he became convinced that the devil was after him and shook his first at a solitary magpie which had just flown over his head. I must confess that I doubt these tales. However but for our maps we should have been completely astray in western Ireland for all the use the sign-posts were to us.

There is a charming little town at Recess, but unless you are a sportsman, not much of interest.

Letters from home necessitate B.'s return, and we must call at Kylemore Castle before we start. Distanced from Recess some thirteen miles, a journey thither and back would with horses necessitate a whole day's time, but with a motor it's only just around the block so to speak.

The morning is sunny and fair, and we drink in the rushing sea-breeze as we roll away over gentle hills and valleys between the higher mountains, and though the hills are treeless the whole panorama is attractive.

Our driver reports his petrol low, with none to be had at Recess, hence we must fill the tank at Kylemore sufficiently to get us to Galway if it can be done.

Kylemore Castle stands in a sheltered valley close by the sea though not in view of it. It faces a lovely lake and is really built on the side of the mountain which rises directly behind it to the height of two thousand feet.

Across the lake the view is blocked by a similar range. While the shrubbery is fine and the grass very luxuriant and green around the mansion, all the hills and mountains are absolutely treeless.

The place, but lately purchased by the Duke of M., was built by Mr. Henry at an expense, on the estate, of a million sterling. Reverses forced its sale, and it was bought by its present owner. There is nothing ancient, the house having but some fifty years to its credit, but it is capable of being, and, in the present owner's hands, will be made a charming dwelling-place, and certainly, swept by the winds of the North Atlantic, it must be at all seasons very healthy. Filled with a large company or with a few congenial people it should be an enjoyable spot.

Its gardens are very extensive and one passes through endless conservatories full of flowers and fruits. As we round a corner close to the stable, we encounter the quaint figure of a woman with straggling grey locks, tumbling down over a pallid face. In a dress of rags and barefooted, she is dancing a crazy jig all by herself. There are weird gleams in her eyes as they rove over the sombre mountains, seeking kindred spirits, I fancy, as she croons in a monotone the notes of some quaint melody which still drifts across her brain. She shows as she catches sight of our party that she is no respecter of persons as she grabs the Duke by the coat and won't let go, imploring him to "lock up the castle and I'll be round a Monday." When he implores her to put off her coming for a day or so she declines and sticks to "Monday." I cannot but doubt in some degree her insanity, at least it has not destroyed her womanly vanity, for when I tell her I want to take her picture, she at once attempts to smooth her hair and dress, and striking what she thinks will be a becoming pose, tells me to "go ahead," and after the snap remarks, "You had better take another for fear that is a failure."

Yesterday, having gone to the kitchen of the castle for her "bit of meat," she found a new cook, who, not knowing about her, ordered her out, whereupon she seized a knife from the table and there ensued a handicap, go as you please, all over the place, with the cook in the lead and Biddy a close second. After that she got her meat in peace.

As we return from an inspection of the grounds she is being conducted off the terrace by the butler. But Biddy has a mind of her own and no one save this butler could get her away, if it suited her to remain, which it generally does. We are told she is deeply in love with him and that there is a photo extant with Biddy on her knees, clasping his legs and imploring him to marry her. Now the butler is a most stately personage; he has the cast of countenance of the great Louis of France, the same beak-like nose and downward sweep of the face lines running from it, the same haughty pose of the head, in fact, deck him in a high wig, court suit, and ruffles, and great red heels and you have Louis le Grand; take them away and you have the butler, the object of Biddy's devotion, to whom it makes no difference whether he be king or butler. But Biddy in her rags is after all the most picturesque thing about Kylemore; her eyes are bright if she is crazy—but where in all the world will you find brighter eyes than amongst the beggars of Ireland, and they seem equally pleased whether one gives or not (Biddy did not beg, neither did she hesitate to take what we gave her). Like all beggars, many of them are rogues, but, ah, risk that, for you may by your half crown relieve for the time real heart-breaking misery, and such poverty as you cannot conceive of. Go to Achill if you would be convinced of that.

Yesterday while watching a train pass at Recess a boy approached and just looked at me, but with a look of such hungry suffering that a shilling was promptly forthcoming. Then I questioned him, and found that he had been ill and could at best make but a sixpence a day, that his brother drove the car for the hotel, getting as wages only the uncertain tips of the visitors, which, never many, in this remote spot are indeed few and far between in this bad season. His father had worked in the neighbouring marble quarries, but pestered and beset by a law-suit over his little hovel had, as the boy expressed it, "gone dotty," and could work no more. The mother did what she could and a sister was a cripple. So that all they had to live upon was what he and his brother could earn.

Just as he finished a ducal train rolled by. His Grace was transporting his family and effects from one great castle to another. Surely the contrasts in life are heartrending, yet I doubt not that this Duke will and does do all he can to relieve the sufferings of the poor on his estates—sufferings intensified and made all the more horrible by the unprincipled leaders of the leagues in this land, and masters of strikes in ours and others.

But to return to Kylemore, the interior of the castle at present is in a state of transition, so that it is impossible to describe it. Built against the side of the mountain, some of its staircases are literally laid on the solid rock. Many of the rooms are spacious and stately and in the hands of the present owners will doubtless be made very handsome.

The glimpses of mountains and lake from its windows are entrancing. On the whole I think one might come to love Kylemore very dearly. It has cost vast sums of money as it stands and much more will be expended before the end, if indeed the end ever is reached in these great places where the expenditure of money is concerned. This one will require a fortune to maintain.

Of the two Irish seats of the Duke of Manchester I should much prefer Kylemore to Tanderagee. While the latter is beautiful in its park and great trees, the former is a place of endless possibilities. Shooting and fishing are abundant and of the best, whilst to the lovers of the picturesque the mountains are an eternal joy, and close by is the jobling and sobbing of the sea. Its quaint people are an endless source of amusement and study. To enjoy it one must dwell there, and I depart with regret at our short sojourn or rather call.

Our petrol has run out and there is none in this locality. However, the chauffeur manages to buy some from the man at the station and with a sputter and roar we are off and away through the mountain glens, turning for a last glimpse of Kylemore, and her little church, both gleaming white amongst the forests by the lake, and guarded by the brooding mountains.