And it is a desolation,
indeed. Broken down walls here and there, singly and in groups, mark the
place where there was a contented population when Mr. Adair bought the
estate. He had made plans for turning his purchase into a veritable El
Dorado. The barren mountains are fenced off, surely at a great expense,
that no sheep or lamb might bite a heather bell without pay. It was to
be a great pasture for black-faced sheep. The sides of the mountains,
which are bog in many places, are scored with drains to dry up the bog
holes and give the sheep a sure footing. I did not see many sheep on the
hill or many cattle on the deserted farms. It is an awfully lonesome
place; desolation sits brooding among the broken-down walls. My guide, a
lonesome-looking man, enlivened our way by remarks like these: "This was
a widdy's house. She was a well-doin' body." "Here was a snug place.
See, there's the remains of a stone porch that they built to break off
the wind." "That was Jamie Doherty's, he that died on the road-side
after he was evicted. You see, nobody dare lift the latch or open the
door to any of the poor creatures that were put out."
And this has been done; human beings have died outside under the sky for
no crime, and this under the protection of English law. Many of these
people lost their reason, and are in the asylum at Letterkenny. Some are
still _coshering_ here and there among their charitable neighbors,
while many are bitter hearted exiles across the sea. After walking up
and down amid this pitiful desolation, and hearing many a heart-rending
incident connected with the eviction, a sudden squall of hail came on,
and we were obliged to take shelter on the lee side of a ruined wall
till it blew over. To while away the time one of the guides told me of a
local song made on the eviction, the refrain being, "Five hundred
thousand curses on cruel John Adair."
Across the Gartan Lake we could see from our partial shelter the point
to which Mr. Stewart wasted the people off his estate. Mr. Stewart's is
a handsome lonely place, but when one hears all these tales of
spoliation it prevents one from admiring a fine prospect. "He is dealing
kindly with the people now," said my guides, "whatever changed his heart
God knows."
The shower being over we returned to the house of the dummy. In our
absence dinner had been prepared for us. She had no plates, but the
table on which she laid oat cakes was as white as snow. She gave us a
little butter, which, by the signs and tokens, I knew to be all she had,
boiled eggs, made tea of fearful strength, and told us to eat. My guides
enjoyed the mountain fare with mountain appetites. I tried to eat, but
somehow my throat was full of feelings. I had great difficulty to make
this mountain maid accept of a two shilling piece for her trouble. We
returned by the way we came to a point where we had a view of a rectory
which was pointed out to me as the abode of another good rector. These
people do seem to feel kindness very much. Here we took another road to
visit Glenveigh and see Adair's castle. On the way we were informed by a
woman, speaking in Irish, that a process-server near Creeslach was fired
at through the window of his house. He had been out serving processes,
and was at home sitting with his head resting on his hand. Three shots
were fired, two going over his head and one going through the hand on
which his head was resting. Two men are taken up to-day.
* * * * *
I have secured a copy of the ballad referred to by our guide, which
records the desolation of Derryveigh. All such actions are celebrated in
local poetry; but this is one of the fiercest; you can publish it if you
think best: -
DERRYVEIGH.
"The cold snow rests on levelled walls, where was a happy home,
The wintry sky looks down upon a desolate hearthstone.
The hearth by which the cradle song has lulled our infant's sleep,
Is open to the pitying skies that nightly o'er it weep.
There is rippling in the waters, there is rustling through the air,
Five hundred thousand curses upon cruel John Adair.
"It is not we that curse him, though in woe our sad heart bleeds,
The curse that's on him is the curse that follows wicked deeds.
He suspected and he punished, he judged, and then he drew
The besom of destruction our quiet homesteads through;
So it's rippling in the waters, it is rustling through the air,
Five hundred thousand curses upon cruel John Adair.
"We little dreamed upon our hills destruction's hour was nigh,
Woe! Woe the day our quiet glens first met his cruel eye!
He coveted our mountains all in an evil hour,
We have tasted of his mercy, and felt his grasp of power;
Through years to come of summer sun, of wintry sleet and snow,
His name shall live in Derryveigh as Campbell's in Glencoe.
"A tear is on each heather bell where heaven's dew distils,
And weeping down the mountain side flows on a thousand rills;
The winds rush down the empty glens with many a sigh and moan,
Where little children played and sang is desolate and lone.
The scattered stones of many homes have witnessed our despair,
And every stone's a monument to cruel John Adair.
"Where are the hapless people, doomed by John Adair's decree?
Some linger in the drear poor-house - some are beyond the sea;
One died behind the cold ditch - back beneath the open sky,
And every star in heaven was a witness from on high.
None dared to ope a friendly door, or lift a neighbor's latch,
Or shelter by a warm hearthstone beneath the homely thatch.
