Part 1

THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

NUMBER 23. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 5, 1840. VOLUME I.

We have chosen the prefixed view of the Castle of Tully as a subject for illustration, less from any remarkable picturesqueness of character or historical interest connected with the castle itself, than for the opportunity which is thus afforded us of making a few remarks on the beautiful lake--the Windermere of Ireland, as Mr Inglis happily called it--on the bank of which it is situated. We cannot conceive any circumstance that better illustrates the truth of the general principle that, as Shakspeare expresses it, “what we have we prize not at its worth,” than the fact that Lough Erne--the admiration and delight of strangers, the most extensive and beautifully diversified sheet of water in Ireland--is scarcely known as an object of interest and beauty to the people of Ireland generally, and is rarely or never visited by them for pleasure. It is true that the nobility and gentry who reside upon its shores or in their vicinity, are not deficient in a feeling of pride in their charming locality, and even boast its superiority of beauty to the far-famed Lakes of Killarney; yet till very recently this admiration was almost exclusively confined to themselves, and the beauties of Lough Erne were as little known to the people of Ireland generally as those of the lakes and highlands of Connemara, neither of which have ever yet been included in the books concocted for the use of pleasure tourists in Ireland.

But Lough Erne will not be thus neglected or unappreciated much longer. Its beauties have been discovered and been eulogised by strangers, who have taught us to set a juster value on the landscape beauties which Providence has so bountifully given to our country; and it will soon be a reproach to us to be unfamiliar with them.

It would be utterly impossible, within the limits necessarily assigned to our topographical articles, to give any detailed account of a lake so extensive as Lough Erne, and whose attractive features are so numerous; but as these features shall from time to time be included among our subjects for illustration, it will be proper at least to give our readers a general idea of its extent, and the pervading character of its scenery, on this our first introduction of it to their notice; and with this view we shall commence with a description given of it by an author of a History of the County of Fermanagh, written in the seventeenth century, but not hitherto published.

“This lake is plentifully stocked with salmon, pike, bream, eel, trout, &c.

Seven miles broad in the broadest part. Said to contain 365 islands, the land of which is excellent. The largest of the islands is Inismore, containing nine tates and a half of old plantation measure. Bally-Mac-Manus, now called Bell-isle, containing two large tates much improved by Sir Ralph Gore; Killygowan, Innis Granny, Blath-Ennis, Ennis-Liag, Ennis M’Knock, Cluan-Ennis, Ennis-keen, Ennis-M’Saint, and Babha.

These are the [islands] most notable, except the island of Devenish, of which I’ll speak in its proper place; however, by the bye, in Devenish is remembered the pious St Molaishe, who herein consecrated two churches and _a large aspiring steeple_ [the round tower], and an abbey, which abbey was rebuilt A. D. 1430 very magnificently by Bartholomew O’Flanagan, son of a worthy baron of this county, and was one of the finest in the kingdom. In this island there is a house built by the Saint, to what use is not known, but it is as large as a small chapel-of-ease. It’s of great strength and cunning workmanship that may seem to stand for ever, having no wood in it; the inside lined and the outside covered with large flat hewn stone, walls and roof alike. On the east of this island runs an arm of the Lough called in Irish Cumhang-Devenish, which is of use to the inhabitants, viz, if cattle infected with murrain, black-leg, &c., be driven through the same, they are exempted from the same that season, as is often experienced. The said waters run northwards for twelve hours daily, and back again the same course for twelve hours more, to the admiration of the many.

Some authors write this Lough Erne to have been formerly a spring well, and being informed by their Druids or philosophers that the well would overflow the country to the North Sea, for the prevention of which they caused the well to be inclosed in a strong wall, and covered with a door having a lock and key, signifying no danger while the door was secured; but an unfortunate woman (as by them came more mischief to mankind) opening the door for water, heard her child cry, and running to its relief, forgot to secure the well, and ere she could return, she with her house and family were drowned, and many houses more betwixt that and Ballyshannon, and so continues a Lough unto this day. But how far this may pass for a reality, I am not to aver--however, it is in the ancient histories of the Irish. If true, it must be of a long standing, seeing this Lough is frequently mentioned in our chronicles amongst the ancientest of Loughs. Fintan calls it _Samhir_.”

We shall not, any more than our old author, “aver for the reality” of this legend, which by the way is related of many other Irish lakes; but we may remark, in passing, that the story would have more appearance of “reality” if it had been told of Lough Gawna--or the Lake of the Calf--in the county of Longford, which is the true source of the river Erne, of which Lough Erne is but an expansion. At Lough Gawna, however, they tell a different story, viz, that it was formed by a calf, which, emerging from a well in its immediate vicinity, still called Tobar-Gawna, or the Well of the Calf, was chased by its water till he entered the sea at Ballyshannon. The expansion of the Samhir or Erne thus miraculously formed, is no less than forty miles in extent from its north-west to its south-east extremities, being the length of the whole county of Fermanagh, through which it forms a great natural canal. Lough Erne, however, properly consists of two lakes connected by a deep and winding strait, of which the northern or lower is more than twenty miles in length, and seven and a half miles in its greatest breadth, and the southern or upper is twelve miles long by four and a half broad. Both lakes are richly studded with islands, mostly wooded, and in many places so thickly clustered together as to present the appearance of a country accidentally flooded; but these islands are not so numerous as they are stated to be by the old writer we have above quoted, or as popularly believed, as accurate investigation has ascertained that their number is but one hundred and ninety-nine, of which one hundred and nine are situated in the lower lake, and ninety in the upper. But these are in truth quite sufficient for picturesqueness, and it may be easily conceived that two sheets of water so enriched, and encircled by shores finely undulating, to a great extent richly wooded, and backed on most points by mountains of considerable elevation, must possess the elements of beauty to a remarkable degree; and the fact appears to be, that though the Killarney and other mountain lakes in Ireland possess more grandeur and sublimity of character, Lough Erne is not surpassed, or perhaps equalled, by any for exquisite pastoral beauty. Perhaps, indeed, we might add, that if it were further improved by planting and agricultural improvements, it might justly claim the rank assigned to it by Mr Inglis, that of “the most beautiful lake in the three kingdoms.”

Long anterior to the arrival of the English in Ireland, the beautiful district on each side of Lough Erne, now constituting the county of Fermanagh, was chiefly possessed by the powerful family of Maguire, from the senior branch of which the chiefs of the territory were elected. This territory, which was anciently known as “Maguire’s country,” was made shire ground in the 11th of Elizabeth, by the name which it still bears; but the family of its ancient chiefs still remained in possession till the plantation of Ulster by James I., when the lands were transferred to the English and Scottish undertakers, as they were called, with the exception of two thousand acres, left as a support to Brian Maguire, chief representative of the family. It is not for us to express any opinion on the justice or expediency of this great confiscation, but we may venture to remark, that it was a measure that could hardly have appeared proper to those who were so deprived of their patrimony, or that would have led to any other feeling than one of revenge and desire of retaliation, however reckless, if opportunity ever offered. Unhappily such opportunity did offer, by the breaking out of the great rebellion of 1641, a rebellion originating chiefly with the families of the disinherited Irish lords of the confiscated northern counties, and having for its paramount object the repossession of their estates.

Amongst the English and Scottish settlers in Fermanagh, the most largely endowed with lands was Sir John Humes, or Hume, the founder of Tully Castle, the subject of our prefixed wood-cut, and who was the second son of Patrick, the fifth Baron of Polwarth, in Scotland. The property thus obtained, consisting of four thousand five hundred acres, remained in the possession of his male descendants till the death of Sir Gustavus Hume, who dying without surviving male issue in 1731, it passed through the female line into the possession of the Loftus family, in which it now remains.

The Castle of Tully was for a time the principal residence of the Hume family; and on the breaking out of the rebellion in October 1641, it became the refuge of a considerable number of the English and Scottish settlers in the country. The discontented Irish of the county having, however, collected themselves together under the command of Rory, the brother of the Lord Maguire, they proceeded to the castle on the 24th of December, and having commanded the Lady Hume and the other persons within it to surrender, it was given up to them on a promise of quarter for their lives, protection for their goods, and free liberty and safe conduct to proceed either to Monea or Enniskillen, as they might choose. But what trust can be placed in the promises of men engaged in civil war, and excited by the demoniac feelings of revenge? With the exception of the Lady Hume, and the individuals immediately belonging to her family, the whole of the persons who had so surrendered, amounting to fifteen men, and, as it is said, sixty women and children, were on the following day stripped and deprived of their goods, and inhumanly massacred, when also the castle was pillaged, burnt, and left in ruins. Let us pray that Ireland may never again witness such frightful scenes!

The Castle of Tully does not appear to have been afterwards re-edified, or used as a residence. After the restoration of peace, the Hume family erected a more magnificent mansion, called Castle Hume, nearer Enniskillen, and which is now incorporated in the demesne of Ely lodge.

In its general character, as exhibited in its ruins, Tully Castle appears to have been a fortified residence of the usual class erected by the first Scottish settlers in the country--a keep or castle turreted at the angles, and surrounded by a bawn or outer wall, enclosing a court-yard. It is thus described by Pynnar in 1618:

“Sir John Humes hath two thousand acres called Carrynroe.

Upon this proportion there is a bawne of lime and stone, an hundred feet square, fourteen feet high, having four flankers for the defence. There is also a fair strong castle fifty feet long and twenty-one feet broad. He hath made a village near unto the bawne, in which is dwelling twenty-four families.”

The Castle of Tully is situated on the south-western shore of the lower lake of Lough Erne, about nine miles north-west of Enniskillen.

P.

THE AMERICA LETTER.

“Arrah, Judy!” quoth Biddy Finnegan, running to a neighbour’s door.

“Arrah, why?” answered the party summoned.

“Arrah, did you hear the news?”

“No, then, what is it?”

“Sure there’s an Amerikey letter in the post-office.”

“Whisht!”

“Sorra a word of lie in it. Mickeen Dunn brought word from the town this morning; and he says more betoken that it’s from Dinny M’Daniel to his ould mother.”

“Oh, then, troth I’ll be bound that’s a lie, e’er-a-way: the born vagabond, there wasn’t that much good in him, egg or bird: the idle, worthless ruffian, that was the ruination of every one he kem near: the, the----”

“Softly, Judith, softly; don’t wrong the absent: it is from Dinny M’Daniel to his ould mother, and contains money moreover;” and she then proceeded to tell how the postmistress had desired the poor widow to bring some responsible person that might guarantee her identity, before such a weighty affair was given into her keeping, for who knew what might be inside of it? though a still greater puzzle was to discover by what means the much reprobated Dinny obtained even the price of the letter-paper; and how old Sibby had borrowed a cloak from one, and a “clane cap” from another, and the huxter had harnessed his ass and car to bring her in style, and Corney King the contingent man,[1] that knows all the quality, was going along with her to certify that she was the veritable Mrs Sybilla M’Daniel of Tullybawn; and how she would have for an escort every man, woman, and child in the village that could make a holiday--compliments cheerfully accorded by each and all, to do honour to the America letter, and the individual whose superscription it bore.

Dinny M’Daniel was the widow’s one son, born even in her widowhood, for his father had been killed by the fall of a tree before he had been six months married, and poor Sibby had nothing to lavish her fondness upon but her curly-headed gossoon, who very naturally grew up to be the greatest scapegrace in the parish. He had the most unlucky knack of throwing stones ever possessed by any wight for his sins; not a day passed over his head without a list of damages and disasters being furnished to his poor mother, in the shape of fowls killed and maimed, and children half murdered, or pitchers and occasionally windows made smithereens of; but to do him justice, his breakage in this latter article was not very considerable, there being but few opportunities for practice in Tullybawn. To all these the poor widow had but one reply, “Arrah, what would you have me do?--sorra a bit of harm in him; it’s all element, and what ’ud be the good of batin’ him?” At last the neighbours, utterly worn out by the pertinacity of his misdemeanours, hit upon an expedient to render him harmless for at least half the day, and enjoy that much of their lives in peace, with the ultimate chance of perhaps converting the parish nuisance into a useful character. A quarterly subscription of a penny for each house would just suffice to send Dinny to school to a neighbouring pedagogue, wonderful in the sciences of reading and writing, and, what was a much greater recommendation under the present circumstances, the “divil entirely at the taws.” To him accordingly Dinny was sent, and under his discipline spent some five or six years of comparative harmlessness, during which he mastered the Reading-made-Easy, the Seven Champions, Don Bellianis, and sundry other of those pleasing narratives whereby the pugnacity and gallantry of the Irish character used whilom to be formed, to which acquirement he added in process of time that of writing, or at least making pothooks and hangers, with a symmetry that delighted the heart of poor Sibby. The neighbours began to think better of him; but the “masther” swore he was a prodigy, and openly declared, that if he would but “turn the Vosther,” he’d be fit company for any lady in the land. Thus encouraged, Dinny attempted and succeeded, for he had some talent. But sure enough the turning of the Foster finished him.

It was now high time for Master Dinny to begin to earn his bread, and accordingly his mother sought and obtained for him a place in the garden of a nobleman who resided near the village, and was its landlord: but the dismay of the gossoon himself when this disparaging piece of good fortune was announced to him, was unbounded. He was speechless, and some moments elapsed before he could ejaculate,

“Fwhy, then, tare-an’-ages, mother, is that what you lay out for me, an’ me afther turnin’ the Vosther?”

Sibby expostulated, but in vain; his exploits in “the Vosther” had set him beside himself, and he boldly declared that nothing short of a dacint clerkship would ever satisfy his ambition. A man of one argument was Dinny M’Daniel, and that one he made serve all purposes--“Is it an’ me afther turnin’ the Vosther!”--so that people said it was turn about with him, for the Vosther had turned his brain. Be that as it may, there was one who agreed with Dinny that he could never think too highly of himself, for, like every other scapegrace on record, he had won the goodwill of the prettiest girl in the parish. Nelly Dolan’s friends, however, were both too snug and too prudent to leave her any hope of their acquiescing in her choice, so the lovers were driven to resort to secrecy. Dinny urged her to elope with him, knowing that her kin, when they had no remedy, would give her a fortune to set matters to rights; but she had not as yet reached that pitch of evil courage which would allow her to take such a step, nor, unfortunately, had she the good courage to discontinue such a hopeless connection, or the clandestine proceedings which its existence required. Alas, for poor Nelly! sorrow and shame were the consequence. The bright eyes, that used to pass for a very proverb through the whole barony, grew dim--the rosy cheeks, that more than one ballad-maker had celebrated, grew wan and sallow--and the slim and graceful figure----in a word, Dinny had played the ruffian, and had to fly the country to avoid the murderous indignation of her faction. It was to America he shaped his flight, though how he had obtained the means no one could divine; and now, after the lapse of nearly a year and a half, here was a letter from him to solve all speculations.

What a hubbub the arrival of “an America letter” causes in Ireland over the whole district blessed by its visit! It is quite a public concern--a joint property--being in fact always regarded as a general communication from all the neighbours abroad to all the neighbours at home, and its perusal a matter of intense and agonising interest to all who have a relative even in the degree of thirty-first cousin among the emigrants. Let us take for instance the letter in question, for the cavalcade has returned, and not only is the widow’s cabin full, but the very bawn before her door is crowded, and the door itself completely blocked up with an array of heads, poking forward in the vain attempt to catch a tone of the schoolmaster’s voice as he publishes the contents of the desired epistle, and absolutely smothering it by the uproar of their squabbles, as they endeavour each to obtain a better place.

“Tare-an’-eunties, Tom Bryan, fwhat are you pushing me away for, an’ me wanting to hear fwhat’s become of my own first cousin!”

“Arrah, don’t be talkin’, man--fwhy wouldn’t I thry to get in, an’ half the letther about my sisther-in-law?”

“Oh, boys, boys, agra, does any of yees hear e’er a word about my poor Paddy?”

The last speaker is a woman, poor Biddy Casey: for the last three years not a letter came from America that she could hear of, whether far or near, but she attended to hear it read, in the hope of getting some information about her husband, who, driven away by bad times and an injudicious agent, had made a last exertion to emigrate, and earn something for his family. Regularly every market-day from that event she called at the post-office, at first with the confident tone of assured expectation, to inquire for an America letter for one Biddy Casey; then when her heart began to sicken with apprehensions arising from the oft-repeated negative, her question was, “You haven’t e’er a letter for me to-day, ma’am?” and then when she could no longer trust herself to ask, she merely presented her well-known face at the window, and received the usual answer in heartbroken silence, now and then broken by the joyless ejaculation, “God in heaven help me!” But from that time to this not a syllable has she been able to learn of his fate, or even of his existence. Now, however, her labours and anxieties are to have an end--but what an end! This letter at last affords her the information that, tempted by the delusive promise of higher wages, her husband was induced to set out for the unwholesome south, and long since has found a grave among the deadly swamps of New Orleans.

But like every thing else in life, Dinny M’Daniel’s letter is a chequered matter. See, here comes a lusty, red-cheeked damsel, elbowing her way out of the cabin, her eyes bursting out of her head with joy.

“Well, Peggy--well--well!” is echoed on all sides as they crowd around her; “any news from Bid?--though, troth, we needn’t ax you.”

“Oh, grand news!” is the delighted answer. “Bid has a wonderful fine place for herself an’ another for me, an’ my passage is ped, an’ I’m to be ready in five weeks, an’, widdy! widdy! I dunna what to do with myself.”

“And, Peggy agra, was there any thing about our Mick?”--“or our Sally, Peggy?”--“or Johnny Golloher, asthore?” are the questions with which she is inundated.

“Oh, I dunna, I dunna--I couldn’t listen with the joy, I tell ye.”

“But, Peggy alanna, what will Tom Feeny think of all this? and what is to become, pray, of all the vows and promises which, to our own certain knowledge, you made each other coming home from the dance the other night?”

Pooh! that difficulty is removed long ago--the very first money she earns in America is to be dispatched to the care of Father Cahill, to pay Tom’s passage over to her. “And will she do such a shameless thing?” some fair reader will probably ask. Ay will she; and think herself right well off, moreover, to have the shame to bear; for though Peggy can dig her ridge of potatoes beside the best man in the parish, her heart is soft and leal like nine hundred and ninety-nine out of the thousand of her countrywomen.

Another happy face--see, here comes old Malachi Tighe, clasping his hands, and looking up to heaven in silent thankfulness, for his “bouchal bawn, the glory of his heart,” is to be home with him before harvest, with as much money as would buy the bit o’ land out and out, and his daughter-in-law is fainting with gladness, and his grandchildren screaming with delight, and the neighbours wish him joy with all the earnestness of sympathy, for Johnny Tighe has been a favourite.

Woe, woe, woe!--Mick Finnegan has sent a message of fond encouragement to his sweetheart, which she never must hear, for typhus, the scourge of Ireland, has made her his victim, and the daisies have already rooted on her grave, and are blooming there as fresh and fair as she used to be herself; and the wounds of her kindred are opened anew, and the death-wail is raised again, as wild and vehement as if she died but yesterday, although six weeks have passed since they bore her to Saint John’s.

What comes next?--“Johnny Golloher has got married to a Munster girl with a stocking full of money;” and Nanny Mulry laughs at the news until you’d think her sides ought to ache, and won’t acknowledge that she cares one pin about it--on the contrary, wishes him the best of good luck, and hopes he may never be made a world’s wonder of; all which proceedings are viewed by the initiated as so many proofs positive of her intention, on the first convenient opportunity, to break her heart for the defaulting Mr Golloher.