The broad heather-clad bog, where the
road to Ballycroy winds along between the bay and the mountains, past
houses of mortarless stone, hard to be distinguished from the heath; for
over there in a certain spot occurred the shooting affray which has made
young Mr. Smith, the son of the then agent for the Marquis of Sligo, a
man of renown.
The hard feeling between the exterminating Marquis, the agent who
executed his will and the tenantry was intense. Four men were lying in
wait here with the intention of shooting Mr. Smith, who was expected to
pass that way. He drove along accompanied by his son. The would-be
assassins fired; they were concealed above the road; the shots passed
harmlessly over the heads of the two Smiths. Young Mr. Smith, who is an
exceptionally good shot - can hit a small coin at an immense distance -
saw the men run and fired after them, killing one, fired again, wounding
another, and would have fired again, but was prevented by his father.
Young Mr. Smith is quite a hero among the people on this account. There
is an expressed regret that Mr. Smith the elder interfered to prevent
the young marksman from shooting them all; very few would blame him if
he did, as the men, though too nervous to do harm, lay in wait for the
purpose of murder. Still it is revolting to hear people in cold blood
regret so heartily that there was not more bloodshed.
The scenery - as scenery - was as grand as bare heathery mountains and
wide desolate waters could make an almost treeless solitude, but viewed
as a home for human beings, viewed as land that has rent and taxes and
existence to be carved out of it, it has a hopeless look.
The houses are something dreadful, to consider them in the light of
human habitations. Limestone does not abound here, and therefore the
houses of the poorer sort are built like a cairn or a fence of loose
stones without mortar. When the Atlantic winds sweep in here in winter
time, the crevices in these houses will be so many chinks to whistle
through. God pity the poor!
The people along the road here had a thrifty look; the men wore homespun
coats; the pinned-up dresses of the women showed petticoats which were
homespun of warm madder red, well dyed, good and comfortable looking. Of
course the majority of the women were barefoot, but they were used to
it.
At Molraney we stopped to deliver mails. In these cases the passengers
sit on the car in the street, while the driver hands in the mail,
gossips awhile, goes into the convenient "licensed to sell" for a taste
of something, and the police saunter down for the mail and look you
over, judiciously but not offensively, and at last you make another
start.
