The almost permanent distress on the Aran islands during much of the 19th century is a recurring theme of newspaper reports of the time. The islands, like the rest of the country, suffered occasionally from excessively wet seasons, but the shallow soil on the porous limestone rock made long dry spring/summers, an even more feared event.
When fishing was bad, the village of Cill Éinne suffered even more than the rest of the islands as the villagers had very little land. 1879 saw a general crop failure all over Ireland and relief efforts at the time avoided a catastrophe like the Gorta Mór of the 1840s.
When Michael Davitt decided to visit the islands in February 1888, things on the islands had not really recovered and only relief in the years before had avoided deaths from hunger. There had even been a successful battle over rents between the islanders and the police in 1887. We wrote about this before. https://www.aboutaran.com/2016/11/battle-of-chaircir-mhor-aran-islands.html
Davitt himself was well aware of what hunger felt like as his family had been evicted in Mayo, when he was just a boy of four and his family later fled Ireland and settled in Lancashire. When little more than a boy, he went to work in the mills, where, as a teenager, he lost an arm. A generous benefactor had seen to his education and the rest is history.
This article is a reproduction of a harrowing account of Michael Davitt and Fr Michael O’Donohoe visiting a starving family in Cill Éinne and it makes for very disturbing reading. It’s obvious the Michael O’Donohoe showed Davitt one of the very worst cases but it’s shocking nonetheless. Murtagh Farragher was curate at the time and makes a brief appearance.
Before that, the account has some humorous moments, when the 25 year old American journalist, Blakely Hall, London correspondent of The Sun newspaper, gives some background on giving Castle detectives the slip at Galway dock and a rambling story they were treated to by the mainland jarvey on their way to Casla Bay.
Reassuring that the mainland jarveys were as gifted in 1888, at spinning a good yarn about the vineyards of Connemara, as some on the islands are today. The stage Irishman dialogue can be grating after a while but Blakely’s age might explain and even excuse this. We give it to you more or less as it appeared.
Michael Davitt and Fr O’Donahoe would later clash over relief funds. They came to the problem from different angles, with Davitt believing that relief was fine short term but long term, he was a revolutionary, who wanted the whole system overthrown. Davitt regarded the destitution as being the will of the system rather than the will of God. Davitt may also have suspected the priest of downplaying the help that emigrants had sent back.
Interesting that of the three men in Irish history who were most committed to this type of thinking, Davitt, Larkin and Connolly, two spoke with an English accent, Lancashire and Liverpool and the other, a Scottish.
This account of what Davitt encountered in Cill Éinne is both long and disturbing and some readers will find it very upsetting. Be warned. The very last lines of Blakely Hall’s account will stay with readers for a long time.
He wrote “ The face of the dying woman was livid. I could not look at her and I went out into the night, leaving the wretched family with the priest, for Davitt had followed me out. Presently the priest came out and led the way silently back to the cottage“
------------------
Three Thousand in Want.
Michael
Davitt's Visit to the
Arran
Islands
------------------------
The
Great leader ideolized by the
Starving
people.
---------------------------
Hunger
and death in Fisherman's cabin.
-------------------------
Arran
Islands, Galway Bay. Feb 10th 1888
by
Blakely Hall
Michael
Davitt 1846-1906
Michael
Davitt, accompanied by your correspondent, arrived here yesterday
after a final and heartless piece of diplomacy directed towards the
British detectives.
The
misery and destitution on the islands is so great that imperative
relief was demanded. A fund was placed in Mr Davitt's hands for the
purpose of supplying the people with food. When we left the hotel in
Galway early yesterday morning, three detectives followed us to the
wharf.
There was but one sailboat there and we engaged it.
"How
far is it to the Arran islands ?”
"Thirty
miles” said the boatman with a glance at the clouds.
"It'll
take us 'till night to get there with this wind”
"Is
there a shorter way?”
"There
is”
"What
is it ?”
"Take
a car along the shore till you come to Costello bay, and thin sail
tin miles across the channel.”
"If
we don't take your boat” remarked Mr
Davitt, gazing dreamily at a great disturbance at an upper pier,
“What will you do ?”
"Faith
your honor, I'll sail down the bay and git a mass av fish”
"How
Far ?”
About
twelve miles
"Could
you make it double the distance ?”
"I
could sail ahead then and be sure our friends there do not catch you”
 |
| The type of men and boat that led the detectives on a wild goose chase. |
The
skipper looked ahead, grinned delightedly and calling his men, ran up
the mainsail, shook out the jib and moved away.
We
were sheltered from view by a pile of bales. The disturbance at the
adjoining pier had at last settled down into a bargain and the three
detectives set out to sea in a long rowboat manned by four men.
They
evidently thought we were in the cabin of the little sloop and the
Irish skipper of that stanch little vessel kept up the delusion to
the immense delight of himself and his crew by holding long and
exited conversations with nobody in the cabin. The sloop sailed away
and after it struggled the rowboat, with the spray dashing over the
huddled figures of the detectives in the sternsheets.
Our
jaunting car started along the smooth roads an hour later and we saw
no more of the chase of the fishing boat that day.
 |
| Connemara
mail car 1880s Photo by Major Robert Routledge-Fair |
The
long drive of 24 miles was broken by the crowds that cheered Mr
Davitt whenever we passed through villages.
Finally
we came to the end of civil action and stopped for a bite before
crossing a bleak moor to the edge of Costello bay. It had grown late
and very cold. The driver alone was impervious to the weather.
"Dis
here place is famous Mr Davitt” he said, indicating the road with a
sweep of his whip, “f'r bein de scene av a wish bein gratified. A
young man wuz wa'kin along here about four years agho, all alone wid
his pig, whin a fairy sez t' 'im,
"Phat'll y'
'ave, young man ?”
"Faith,
I'll hev a coompanion av me own age t' talk an sing wid”
"Shall I
change yer pig into a young man ?”
"Aye”
So
sayin, the fairy up an' done it an' the pair av thim walked along
happy and chatty till dey cooms to a vine where tousands of grapes
wuz growin. Th' first young man ate his full an'stopped as a
gintieman should.
Th'
sickond, which wuz wance a pig, ate like a pig an' couldn't stop.
Faith he grovelled.
Thin
th' first young man yelt, Wance a pig, allus a pig, an th' other
young man was changed back into a pig again”
"Do you
believe all that, I asked.?"
“Indade
I do. Why should I not, whin me own mudder seed it wid her own eyes”
It
was 4 o'Clock before we started for the biggest of the
THREE
ARRAN ISLANDS
 |
| A traditional Connemara sailing boat making a more recent crossing from Connemara to Arran |
We
found a fishing boat of about 40 tons burden and chartered her to
take us over. The man demanded the exorbitant sum of one shilling for
carrying us 10 miles.
“"An
Oi'll be glad t'git it” he said, “fur our luk's bin bad. We
fished fer two days an' only caught two fish. We traded wan ay th'
fish fur a busn'l av pertaties an afther carryin th' spuds tree miles
th' mate slipped an spilt th hull lot overboard.”
This
tale was told with a horror-struck face as we talked in the teeth of
a howling wind that sent the spray from stem to stern. It was rough
sailing and we were drenched half an hour after the start.
"Fer
weeks at a time” the skipper said, no boat kin git to or from the
islands so rough is the water, an thin th' poor divils have t' go
widout letters an' news an' sometimes food. Manny a boat's bin
wrecked on this bay”
I
thought of the detectives in the rowboat and wondered where they
were.
 |
| Straw Island, Oileán an Tuí Lighthouse. |
It was dark when we swung past a towering lighthouse and brought up at a small pier. But, despite the gloom the boat had been seen and the pier was crowded by a mothly group of half-clad men and women who recognised Mr Davitt in the glare of the lantern and divining that he had come on a mission of mercy and benevolence, they raised a cheer that echoed back and forth between the stony hills half a dozen times.
Some
of the people ran ahead to tell the priest the news and others
tramped silently after us. As we ascended the hill the door of a
small cottage was thrown open and the parish priest, Father
O'Donoghue, and his curate Father Farragher came out. They were on a
bluff and as they hurried down the rocks to meet us the gale blew
their robes wildly to and fro.
The
children, dancing and screeching wildly around the two priests,
looked like demons in the half light. The people broke into wild
shouts. The arrival of Mr Davitt meant food and many of them were
literally starving.
Priests
house, Arran after the erection of the cross in memory of Fr O'Donahoe in the 1890s (N.L.I)
"It's
the most mortifying thing in the world to me to be obliged to appeal
to charity again this year” said Father O'Donoghue, after we had
been warmed and fed “but what can I do. My people are literally
starving to death. The potato crop has failed and there is no market
for their kelp. They have not the money for buying the elaborate and
expensive vessels and tackle necessary to fish successfully in these
stormy seas and the result is that our 3000 people are in absolute
want. Unless they get some seed potatoes and immediate relief from
hunger, the death rate will go on increasing appallingly.”
“Is
the soil so bad ?”
"There
is no soil to speak of. For centuries the people have dug the sand
and mud out of the sea and carried it on their backs up on the hills
of rock. They have spread it carefully and laboriously over the
surface of the rocks and when the fields thus made reached a depth of
six or 10 inches they planted potatoes and so got their food. When a
dry year comes it is good for the potato crop on the mainland but
death to the potato crop here. For the soil is so light that the sun
burns the potatoes away.
"Is
there no market for kelp” asked Mr Davitt
"No
one will buy it. Only two firms purchase it now and as they employ
the same buyer the people are swindled. Kelp” the priest said,
turning to me, “is seaweed,".
"The people wade into the water above their waists and gather a peculiar type of weed of a deep red colour. It is very difficult to get it at times, as it clings to the rocks in dangerous places. After it is brought ashore, it is thatched with potato stalks and dried in the sun for weeks.”
"In
September it is burned. From the ashes chemists get iodine. Can you
imagine the amount of work that is required to get a ton of this
stuff. When it is ready it is transported to Kilkerran. Once the
people received £9 a ton for it. Now they are fortunate if they get
£3 a ton for it. Theagent pretends that he has a chemical analysis
for testing the kelp. Sometimes he he refuses it altogether and again
he will pay 10 shilling a ton. Of course he can do exactly as he
wants to as he has no competitors.
The people must take what he offers or throw their kelp into the sea. Last year two brothers named Flaherty divided a pile of kelp into two loads. One brother recieved £3 for his share, the other was told that his kelp was worthless.
Not
a farthing would the agent give for it. Flaherty sailed away and sent
the same kelp back by his uncle O'Brien the next day. The agent paid
£4 for it at once.
It
is such dealing as this that upsets the people and ruins their
ambition. Their lot is very hard and yet they are most faithful and
good. Think of what an advanced state of morality there is here when
I tell you that there has not been an illegitimate birth among the
3000 people on these islands in 40 years".
" Is there no emigration ?”
“There
was worse luck” said the priest with a doleful shake of his head.
“America took the flower of the people. A fund was raised and the
young men all sailed away, leaving only the children and the old
people on the islands. The boys are doing well across the water,
because the people of Arran are naturally frugal and industrious, but
they have forgotten the old folks at home. Many appeals have been
made to them, but in vain. When they first arrive in the States they
send a pound and a photograph, but that is all. Once in a while they
recommend the workhouse to their starving friends.”
"Is
there a workhouse here ?”
"No
indeed. The nearest one is 32 miles away. If one of my people goes in
they might as well all go in, for the degrees of poverty are very
slight. We are all taxed to support the workhouse but I'm proud to
say there is not a man or woman of Arran under the roof. I'll show
you how the poor laws work for the Irish poor. A fisherman here- a
good steady hardworking man- found things going against him. Toil as
he would he could not make both ends meet. He worked night and day.
Once I remember he caught 120 fish. He journeyed to Galway with them
and sold the lot of four shillings. Then he travelled back with the
money, having done 60 miles. In spite of his struggles his wife died
of privation and the lack of necessaries of life. He was left with
four little children on his hands, besides his invalid sister. A man
can struggle to the limit-no more.
I
could not help him because my money is long since gone and there are
hundreds of pressing cases. The fisherman was desperate. His children
cried all day for food. Finally, one of them fell ill and this
decided him. He took them all to the workhouse. When he got there at
last, they refused to take the children in, despite their pitiful
condition unless the father would go in with them and work for their
support. Of course he couldn't do this, for his invalid sister would
have died without his care. He begged to have the youngest child
taken in even if the others were not. All of no avail. He was turned
away without a copper to help him on his long journey back.
Here
he is at home again, willing to work himself to the bone and never
complaining of his responsibilities, but his lot is hard enough. The
youngest child died not long since. He sent for me and I was going to
his cabin tonight.
"Anything
of special importance ?”
"The
sister's very low” said the priest, rising half apologetically.
"Shall we
go with you ?” asked
Mr Davitt.
"It
will be a long walk and a cold one”said Fr O'Donoghue, “but if
you wish to sound for yourself the depths of human misery, come”
It
was after 10 o'clock and the wind was whistling furiously around the
little one-story cabin as we started out. The stillness of death
reigned without but for the noise of the wind and I was startled by
finding myself face to face with a crowd of several hundred people
who had gathered silently in front of the cabin and stood there in
there in the fierce cold clad only in rags and waiting patiently to
get a look at the Irish leader.
Father
O'Donoghue was as much surprised as I was to see the assembly. They
cheered when Mr Davitt followed us out of the house. The priest
stepped forward quickly and moving to the centre of the big crowd,
held up his hands. Hats were whisked off on all sides and the men and
women pressed forward like children to listen. The moon lighted the
scene.
Then
Father O'Donoghue talked to them in a gentle and insistant way, as a
mother reprimands a sickly child. It was wonderfully impressive. The
priests low, deep-toned voice seemed enchantment to their ears.
"You
should go to your homes for the wind is sharp without and shelter is
needed to the thinly clad. Keep well within doors and prepare for the
relief that is to come. Not long will you have to suffer for a good
friend has come among you to see if you are honest and willing to
toil. If you are, work will be provided for you and from work comes
food. No money will be given away for that makes paupers of you and I
know you would rather work than beg, no matter how dire the need. Mr
Davitt is worn with long journey tonight, but tomorrow he will speak
to you all. Go now, go to your cabins and to bed.”
Without
a word they hurried obediently away. We started briskly down the path
after the priest who strode sturdily along a rocky road that ran by
the edge of the bay. The mountain of rocks rose on one side, the sea
stretched out on the other.
We marched thus in single file for half an hour, and then approaching a small village, the priest led the way to one of the houses- that occupied by the fisherman whose story he had told us before we started out. He lighted a bit of candle which he had brought along and held it aloft after we had bent almost double and passed through the low doorway.
We marched thus in single file for half an hour, and then approaching a small village, the priest led the way to one of the houses- that occupied by the fisherman whose story he had told us before we started out. He lighted a bit of candle which he had brought along and held it aloft after we had bent almost double and passed through the low doorway.
Cill
Éinne in the 1890s
The
cabin was small. The earth formed the floor. Two pieces of peat
burned in the fireplace. The smoke hung about the ceiling of the
room.
A
little bench was placed in the fireplace, almost atop of the burning
turf and on it sat three wretched little figures with naked legs,
skinny arms and drawn faces.
The
oldest of the children was about 8 years- the youngest 4. Two of them
whimpered continually, but the youngest sat with his elbows on his
gaunt knees and his chin sunk in his little hands, staring with fixed
and stony misery at the opposite wall. Nothing could avert his gaze
of absolute despair.
I dropped on one knee and spoke to the children; the two who were crying turned their red-lidded eyes towards me but the boy stared on unheeding. I never saw such an awful figure of childish agony. The face was thin and the cheeks so sunken that the eyes seemed twice their natural size. The little things all trimbled from the effects of the cold.
“Where
do they sleep” I
asked
“Where
they are sur” said the fisherman, quietly. “Its too cold in my
bed there” he pointed to a mound of moss and dried grass in the
corner near the door. It was about three feet square. “Then aunt's
too sick fur t' take them in her bed” the man added.
“Is
she bad tonight ?” asked
the priest
“Faith
she is father, I bin for two nights tryin' t' keep her warm this way”
He
was on his knees in front of the little fire holding a square bit of
carpet about as big as a napkin, so as to warm it thoroughly. He had
an honest and prepossessing face but the lines of suffering were
drawn clear and sharp. He rose as he spoke and stepped across the
little hut to a kind of doorway cut in the wall.
He motioned us to follow.
“You
kin look at the poor girl” he said “Faith she'll not know it, fur
her strength has so gone that she no longer opens her eyes.
Within
the stone doorway was an alcove abot the size of a man's coffin and
perhaps four feet high. Stretched out in this living tomb was his
dying sister, lying on her back on the earth with some moss under her
head. She was about thirty years old,worn to a shadow and dying of
consumption.
As the light fell on her, it startled us. She wore no chemise or night dress but she was partly covered by bags and pieces of carpet. Her breast, shoulders and arms were bare and wasted away beyond belief. The bit of carpet that her brother had warmed at the fire was pressed by him over her breast and held there tenderly until it was time to warm it again.
“It gives her relief” he said softly “poor crayture, she breathes
easier when I put it on her”
The
face of the dying woman was livid. I could not look at her and I went
out into the night, leaving the wretched family with the priest, for
Davitt had followed me out. Presently the priest came out and led the
way silently back to the cottage.
(Part two is less harrowing and can be read HERE )
(Feb 1888 by American journalist Blakely Hall)
