Traditions of Omey Island

Traditions of Omey Island

Family names: Faherty, Toole, Mulkerin, Flaherty, King, Lacy, Kane, Bodkin

If the tourist, who contemplates a journey through the majestic scenery which intervenes between the towns of Clifden and Westport, consent to leave the high-road after crossing the bridge of Streamstown, about a mile and a half from the former place, and turn with us in a due westerly direction, we undertake to conduct him along one of not, the least interesting bye-ways of the wild region of West Connaught. The road lies for about two miles by the northern shore of the narrow channel or inlet known as Streamstown bay, which indeed in some places is scarcely a hundred yards across, and is frequently enclosed among rugged and blackened rocks of huge dimensions. We pass the old church-yard of Tempul Athdearg, or the church of the Red-ford; and a little further on, the ruins of the old house or castle of Doon, which stands on our side of the inlet, while on the other side of the water are the ruins of the ancient church of Kill, covered with ivy. This inlet was once a favorite resort of smugglers, and a good story is told of a contrivance by which they succeeded, on a certain occasion, in escaping from the crew of a revenue cruiser who pursued them in boats; a number of spade-handles having been so placed to resemble a formidable array of muskets projecting from a steep bank, and the king’s people being induced by these “threatening” preparations to make a rapid retreat to their vessel.

At length we obtain a view of the vast ocean, with the islands of Inisturk, Croagh, Omey, and others, scattered over its bosom, and the grandeur of that prospects compensates for the dreariness of the scene which immediately surrounds us; although this same granite wilderness of Claddaghduff rivals for barrenness and wretchedness any other spot in all Conamara. The road here deserts us at the low beach from which, at ebb-tide, we may cross almost dry-shod to the once famous island of Omey. But why do we call it famous? Can there be anything to distinguish that flat unpicturesque abode of misery from any other spot in which human wretchedness prevails along the most desolate tracts of the Irish coast? We answer, yes: that poor unfavoured island in the remote west, nearly half the surface of which is covered by a lough and spewy marsh, while the other half is little better than drifting sand, the scanty vegetation on which is frequently blasted by the “red wind” of the Atlantic—that island, we say, has a history of its own. It was the “Imagia insula” of the old Latin hagiologists, and was, as far as we know, the very last spot in which paganism lingered in Ireland. In the latter half of the seventh century, St. Feichin, the holy abbot of Fore, in Westmeath, found the inhabitants of Omey still pagans, and encountered violent opposition from them when building a monastery there, although he obtained the island from the good King of Connaught, Guaire the Generous. We are not, however about to ransack the pages of Colgan or Ussher for ancient references to Omey, but shall for the present content ourselves with such incidents of its history as we find preserved in the traditions of the islanders.

The sands which separate the island from the mainland may be a half a mile across at the point where they are most frequently traversed by the people at low water. Sometimes the sea which rolls over them is lashed by the storm into gigantic waves; but in calm weather the inhabitants venture to ride or wade across even when the tide covers the greater part of the intervening strand. When the wide expanse of sand is deserted by the sea, an immense accumulation of small stones may be seen below the high-water mark, in a long ridge on the island side, parallel with the store. These stones are said to have been collected there preparatory to a conflict celebrated in the traditions of the neighbourhood, as having taken place on the occasion of the invasion of the O’Flaherties of Moycullen. The sept of O’Flaherty are generally represented in those traditions as fierce and relentless aggressors, and the chieftain of Moycullen in this case appears to have been eminently entitled to that character. He demanded tribute from the lords of Bunowen, Ballinahinch, and Doon, and proceeded to extract his claim with a strong force of his retainers, at whose head he rode accompanied by his two sisters, who were as warlike as himself; while the alarmed vassals resolved to resist the oppressive extraction, fled with their cattle and other moveable property, and all the men they could muster, to Omey, where, under the command of O’Toole, the chief of the island, they made the best preparations they could to defend their families and chattels.

Soon the belligerents were only separated by the narrow strait which divides St. Feichin’s island from the mainland, and the ebbing of the tide was to be the signal for O’Flaherty’s attack. The only thing in the shape of firearms which the beleaguered force possessed was an old matchlock of enormous length of barrel, and the stock of which was held together by several convolutions of twig-wythes; but it was entrusted to a famous marksman named Brian-na-broig, or Brian of the shoe, who took up a convenient position to direct it with advantage against the approaching enemy. Brian-na-broig soon spied the leader of the assailants, whom he covered with the muzzle of his unerring matchlock, and addressing his favourite weapon, he said: “You make a great boast, with your gad-match, that you are able to wing a water-wagtail; now let us see how you behave!” And the matchlock maintained its character, for the next instant, it shot of the leg of O’Flaherty, and spread consternation among the Moycullen army. O’Flaherty’s sisters, however, soon rallied their men; causing the wounded chief to be placed on a hurdle, and carried at their head, they charged with great fury across the sands. The assailants were received with a shower of stones that darkened the air; but they persevered, and succeeded in obtaining a footing on the shore of Omey, where the battle raged for sometime with great fierceness; the ladies urging on their people with great determination. In the midst of the conflict, O’Flaherty died of his wound, and his loss decided the fortune of the day; the Moycullen men fled, leaving the strand covered with their slain, and the sisters having dipt their kerchiefs in their brother’s blood, swore by it to be revenged; and then, putting spurs to their horses, fled with all possible speed through Ballynakill and Joyce country, never looking back, it is said, until they reached Maam Turk, where they halted and wept over their disaster. There is a small cemetery on the island near the scene of the battle, and it is said to have been first opened to receive the bodies of those slain on that occasion; its name of Ulla-brean, or the fetid burial ground, being very probably derived from that event.

The O’Tooles (O’Tuathail) who were unquestionably a branch of the great Leinster sept of that name, were for many centuries, the lords of Omey, but only as vassals of the O’Flaherties who exercised over them a tyrannical sway. An instance of this is preserved in a whimsical tradition of the country.

It happened that a certain chief of Omey, named Tohishteul O’Toole, was married to the daughter of Teighe Arna, or the O’Brian of Aran; and at the same time there lived not many miles distant, at Ballynakill, a chief of the O’Flaherties, generally known as Brian-na-n’oinsioch, or Brian of the fools, from the circumstances that he had twelve daughters, all of whom were idiotic. The despot of Ballynakill, accompanied by one of his silly daughters, paid a visit on a certain occasion to the lord of Omey, and without further ceremony, insisted on the latter discarding his lawful wife and taking the lady whom he had brought with him in her stead. O’Toole remonstrated, but was compelled to submit, and received the oinsioch as his partner, instead of the daughter of Aran.

What became of the outraged wife, or what revenge her friends proposed to take, tradition saith not; but as to the fate of the silly daughter of O’Flaherty, it is sufficiently explicit. It appears that after a certain lapse of time she was visited by her eleven sisters, whom, at their departure, she considered herself bound in good manners to escort home. However, at their arrival at Ballynakill, the sisters resolved not to be outdone by her in politeness and accompanied her back again. Thus was the obligation imposed on her once more of seeing her guests home, and thus did they, in their turn, feel it their duty to repay the civility; and so they continued going and coming, and might have continued, no one can say how long, had not their attention been attracted, on the way, by a pleasant lake, in which it occurred to them, as their journeying to and fro had caused some fatigue, that they might enjoy a refreshing bath. The lake selected for the purpose is said to have been Loch-an-gerrane-bane, or the lake of the white horse at Ballynakill; and here their wearisome ceremoniousness terminated; for one of the ladies having got beyond her depth, was drowning, and another of them who went to lend her assistance, was about to share her fate, and so required the aid of a third; and so on until the twelve daughters of Brian-na-n’oinsioch sunk to rise no more in the boggy waters of Loch-an-gerrane-bane. Tohishteul O’Toole thus found himself without a wife, but he was blessed with a pair of sons, one the offspring of each wife; and these, when they grew up, quarreled incessantly, calling each other certain naughty names, to which, in truth, the grandson of Brian-na-n’oinsioch was alone entitled; and such, says tradition, was the origin of the two branches of the family of O’Toole of West Connaught.

The first prosperity of this family is attributed, in the legends of Iar-Connaught, to one of the progenitors of Diarmot Sugagh, or Merry Dermot, of whose good fortune we shall relate the story as we have it from the seanachies of the west.

Merry Dermot O’Toole was a very poor man—whether he spent all of his wealth or never had any to spend, we cannot precisely determine—and like many poor men who cannot devise any ordinary means to obtain money, he conceived a strong desire to employ supernatural means for procuring it. He had often heard that the fairy hills are open on All Hallow’s Eve, and as there was a remarkable bri or hill of that description in his immediate neighbourhood—namely, the famous Kroc-a-dun, or hill of Bunown, in Errismore—he determined on repairing hither the next November eve, and trying his fortune in a search for the istre buidh, or fairy halter, which would answer for him all the purposes of the philosopher’s stone.

November eve arrived, and Dermot did not fail to hover, after dusk, under the shadow of Kroc-a-dun, watching very carefully those parts of the hill, where he supposed the “good people” were most likely to have their grand portal. At length he observed a long cavalcade approaching the hill. He soon perceived that it was a funeral; moreover, that the corpse was that of a beautiful young lady, and there could be no doubt that these were the fairies who were bearing her on their shoulders with great pomp to the hill, Dermot understood very well the pranks of his mischievous race, and he felt quite sure that the lady they had thus got into their power was not dead at all; so he resolved to forfeit the chance of making his own fortune and at all hazards to try to rescue her. Accordingly he took a steady aim with his cross-bow—‘tis needless to say that he lived before the age of gunpowder—and shooting one of the foremost of the four bearers, the others scampered off in consternation, leaving the lady behind with Dermot, who carried her to her cabin, and used every means in his power to relieve her from the effects of the diabolical drugs which had been administered to her. To some extent he succeeded, but unfortunately, the lady remained dumb and was unable to convey any information about her family or home. Dermot, however, could perceive that she was a person of high rank, and, as he was a man of honour and a merry fellow, he treated her with the profoundest respect, and confided her to the care of his sister, still hoping to be able to discover her family.

The next November eve arrived, Dermot Sugagh again went in search of the istre buidh. He now understood the ways of the place so well that he actually got inside the door of the fairy hill; and while he lay there concealed, he overhead the conversation of two of the “good people,” who had a violent dispute as to which of them should go and fetch some water. Their words ran so high that at length one of them threatened to knock the other down.

“A pheist! You despicable wretch! exclaimed the insulted fairy, “tis long until you think of doing that to Dermot Sugagh O’Toole, who took away your bride this night twelve months!”

“And what if he did take her?” replied the other, who was evidently a poltroon; “tis little good to him, as she cannot speak!”

“Oh,” said the other wizen-faced elf, with a knowing wink, “it would be easy enough to make her speak, if only he plucked out the traneen that is sticking in her hair.”

Dermot did not wait to hear any more of the altercation or even to look for the istre buidh; but, returning home in all haste, he immediately searched for the traneen in the young lady’s hair, and having found it, and having extracted it without delay, she at once began to speak, and returning him thanks most fervently for all his kindness, she told him that she was no less a personage than the daughter of the King of Leinster.

Next morning Dermot and his fair charge set out for Leinster, nor did they make much delay until the latter was restored in perfect safety to the arms of her royal parents, who, shortly after, gave her in marriage to her noble-minded deliverer as the very proper reward of his gallant and noble conduct. Dermot Sugagh became a great man at the court of Leinster, and such, according to the Connaugh seanachies, whose authority does not always agree with the published annals, which are indeed in direct variance with them in this instance, was the origin of the renowned sept of O’Toole, in the eastern province. The spot where Dermot rescued what appeared to be the corpse of a young lady from the “good people,” is called, to the present day, lahach-na-mna-marava, or the dead woman’s pool; which circumstance, we presume, will be deemed a sufficient verification of our story—at least we know that it is considered by some persons who reside near the locality, although, to be sure, the beautiful princess whom Dermot Sugagh saved was not a dead woman at all.

Duffy's Hibernian Magazine:

A Monthly Journal of Legends, Tales, and Stories, Irish Antiquities, Biography, Science, and Art, Volume 2 – J. Duffy, 1861

Harvard University, March 15, 2007

Transcribed from Duffy's Hibernian Magazine - January to June 1861
http://tinyurl.com/k9pcov3

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Letters Written during the Winter of 1880-81

Just before the Ulster invasion as it is called here, I was induced to go to Omey Island. It is a place of evil repute for poverty, but is as healthy as it ought to be, having the blue Atlantic for one lung and the brown hills of Connemara for the other. It is one of those interesting islands which became peninsulas at low tide, a charming natural feature making it a matter of tidal calculation whether one can drive on board of them or not. It is not as bad as Innishark, which required a trained gymnast to effect a landing, for it only needs nimbleness of brain instead of that of limbs.

While that zealous and hard-working young minister of the gospel, Father Rhatigan, was saying mass, and visiting that part of his flock congregated at Claddaghduff Chapel, I made my way over the intermittent isthmus of dry, hard, fine, sand. It was an agreeable change from the road, which for some distance had lain over a “shaved bog” – that is a locality from which the peat had been cut away down to its rocky bed. For some distance nothing was visible but stones, on which the rain came splashing down like a cataract. But the aspect and situation of Omey Island are such as to suggest to the speculative mind another and better Scheveningen [the Netherlands] without anything between it and Labrador. The island is not, however, purely sandbank as Scheveningen appears to be, for it has a nucleus of rock, the sand being a later accumulation, every year increasing in volume, after the manner observed in Donegal, or as stones are amassed at Dungeness. I had heard wild stories of Omey Island, of troglodytes, hungry dwellers in rocky seaside caves, and rabbit-people burrowing in the sand. As Maundeville observes, “Verily I have not seen them,” but I can quite understand how the story was spread.

Over against the inhabited part of the island is what is now a mere sandbank. It is covered with sand, and not a soul dwells thereon. But there were people who once clung to their stone cabins till the sand finally covered them; so that they might fairly be described as dwellers or burrowers therein. At last their cabins became sanded up, and the poor folk moved to their present situation. Now I have seen superb potatoes grown literally in the sand at Scheveningen, and was not surprised to hear that Omey Island was once so famous for the national staff of life that few cared to grow anything else. But there are difficulties everywhere, and it is parlous work to break up the ground at Omey. There is too much fresh air; for it blows so hard that people are afraid to disturb the thin covering of herbage which overspreads the best part of the island. “If ye break the shkin of ‘um, your honour, the wind blows the sand away and leaves your pitaties bare. And, begorra, there are nights when the pitaties themselves ‘ud be blown away.”

Statements like this must be taken at a reduction, but, judging from my own experience, Omey is a “grand place for weather entirely.” Half of the island is rented by a considerable farmer, for these parts. He pays a hundred pounds a year for his farm at Omey, and a hundred and fifty for another cattle farm up on the hills. When I said he “pays,” I am not sure whether he has paid up this year or not, but he has flocks and herds, and of course is a responsible tenant. Yet he lives with his family in but a “bettermost” sort of cabin. His wife treated me with most hospitality; in fact, she paid me too much honour, for she insisted that I should not sit round the fire with the countryfolk, but occupy the best parlour, a room large enough, but blackened with smoke, and utterly depressing, despite the cabinet pianoforte opposite the fireplace. Musical instruments of torture appear to be considered a necessary mark of competence in Western Ireland, just as a big watch-chain is in certain parts of England. Not a soul on Omey Island could play the pianoforte, thank heaven; so it remained with its back against the wall, as mute evidence of solvency. There was no carpet on the floor, which was a fine dirt-colour, and the chickens, ducks, and geese circulated freely about.

Here now was a man paying, or promising to pay, £250 a year in rent, and who yet seemed to have not the faintest idea of comfort. It should be recollected that my visit was paid on a Sunday, when his family would be seen at their best; but the girls were running about with bare feet and dirty faces, and the neighboring gossip, also barefooted and dirty beyond all imagination, were hanging around the fire, talking amongst themselves about the stranger, and half mad with curiosity concerning him. The farmer lived, it is true, in a wild place; but the sand is so clean a thing in itself that it is a mystery how his tribe of children got so abominably dirty.

The drive homeward past Streamstown was wet enough, but still interesting in many ways. In no part of Ireland has the curse of middlemen been felt more severely than in Connemara. The middleman is especially abhorrent to the people when he is one of themselves. He  is “not a gentleman sure,”  is a deadly reproach in this part of the country. Practically he is objectionable because, being one of the people he is aware of their tricks and their ways, and suspects them as they hate and suspect him. What would be an urbanity on the part of the real “masther” is in the middleman viewed as deceit. The sharp tone of command endurable in a superior is resented when employed by a person of low origin. And it would seem that middlemen are not as a race persons of disagreeable character. All the old rags of feudalism which have hung about Connemara long after their annihilation elsewhere, have been saved wherever it was possible by the middleman.

I am not quite certain that any one of these has ever “hung out his flag for fish” after the manner of the old proprietors who, when they wanted fish for dinner, made their tenants obey their signal and put back, whatever might be the chance of the night’s catch. This flag was so “men seyn,” hung out often by the Bodkins, the ancient owners of Omey Island, but how long it is since it was last done is hardly worthwhile to inquire. Far more interesting is the much talked of “survival” of feudalism in the shape of what is called “duty work” clash oddly on the ear, and yet I am assured that in the lesser island of Turk “possessed” for within twelve or eighteen months. Vexatious processes are not undertaken just now for obvious reasons.

“Duty work,” so far as I can gather, is, or was – for no such work will be done again in Ireland – a modified form of corvée. Here and there it was enforced in various shapes. At Omey, in Aughrisbeg, at Fountainhill, and at the lesser isle of Turk, the conditions varied greatly. The general principal appears to have been that besides rent in money, fine on entry, and dues analogous to tithes on stock of pigs and poultry, a certain number of days in the year were the property of the landlord. The usual term was about a week in spring and a week in harvest-time. In some places five days were only extracted; in others three. In the case concerning which I am best instructed five days in the spring and five in harvest-time were demanded, together with any one day in the year on which the tenant might be wanted, at a wage of sixpence, If the tenant refuse “duty work” he may be sued in court – the damage incurred by his default being generally assessed at five pounds.

Now it does not require any very clear perception to discover that among agriculturists or fishermen “duty work” is an improper mode of levying tax. In spring and autumn, and especially in the latter, the tenant requires for getting his own crop precisely the week that the landlord is entitled to claim. Yet he must leave his own to assist his landlord. On one of the little islands, let to a middleman, all the evil features of the corvée are brought into prominence. The island produces three types of seaweed, the so-called “red weed” on the shore, used for manure for potato-fields – often the only manure to be got; and the drift, or mixed weed.

After spring tides there is a great mass of drift-weed on the rocks, half of which is on the territory reserved for the middleman, and the other on that half rented by the tenants. The latter must give their master his day’s work first to get in his weed and take advantage of seeing their own washed away during the night.

From Ballynakill - where the ribs rising in the green grass-land, like waves in an emerald sea, tell of extinct cultivation, of depopulated villages and an “exterminated” people – to the supremely wretched islands of Bofin and Turk, the record is fearfully consistent. A people first neglected, and then crushed by evictions has sunk quite below the level of civilization.  

Disturbed Ireland: Being the Letters Written During the Winter of 1880-81

By Bernard Henry Becker

pp. 146-152

London: Macmillan and Co. 1881

Original: University of Michigan

Digitized: June 16, 2008, 338 pages

http://tinyurl.com/lr9hv2n

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Kitchen Midden on Omey Island, Co. Galway

Omey is a half-tide island off the coast of Galway. It is chiefly a Porphyritic Granite rock, on the north-west portion of which are wind-blown sands that are forever changing their positions, the houses of the inhabitants being covered to such an extent by them, that, in order to reach the interior, they are compelled to descend through rabbit-burrows. The oldest record we have in connection with the island is that St. Fechin built an Abbey there previous to A.D. 664. This abbey is said to be buried in the sands, but its exact site cannot be pointed out; however, there is supposed fifteenth-century church that is now sunk 12 feet deep in the sand.

At the present day the sea-weed gatherers may be seen cooking shell-fish, by placing them on a stone that they had previously heated to a redness in a fire; and many of the stones here found may have been similarly used, as they are usually flattish, roundish boulders from four to seven inches in diameter.

The Geological Magazine of Monthly Journal of Geology

Edited by Henry Woodward

Vol. V, January – December, 1868

pp. 266-67

Kitchen Midden on Omey Island, Co. Galway.

By H. Leonard F.R.G.S.I., of the Geological Survey of Ireland

Geological Magazine, Volume 5

Publisher: Cambridge University Press, December 1868

Original: Ghent University

Digitized: March 9, 2011

http://tinyurl.com/mdm6hc6

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A sketch of a pocket-shaped celt, found in Omey Island, by a man named Michael Lacey, a few weeks since, in a graveyard, where none but women are buried, according to a custom originating in the belied of St. Festie’s mother having been interred there. Report adds that the only man who was ever buried there was found the next morning lying on top of the grave; presented by Edwin A. Eyre, The Rookery, Clifden, Galway.

Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, Volume 11

By Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, p. 570

http://tinyurl.com/l32gwox

Publisher: Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 1878

Original: University of Chicago

Digitized: May 16, 2013

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The Church of England Magazine - Church Pastoral-aid Society, London

Under the superintendence of Clergymen of the United Church of England and Ireland

The two following were received in acknowledgement of some of the parcels of clothing sent by kind friends. I answer to the last appeal:

From the missionary at Sallerna: “With feelings of the most lively gratitude I beg to inform you that the parcels of clothing for the schools at Omey Island and Sallerna have all been disposed of according to your directions. The poor children are most wretched for want of food: a poor widow told me yesterday that her children had not tasted for two days; and it was truly lamentable to witness the distress of herself and her four little girls, You will rejoice to hear that the attendance has been very little decreased notwithstanding the want of food. There have been about sixty girls in Sallerna school yesterday; and, while I was speaking to them, one poor thing fainted from the effects of hunger and exhaustion. Our enemies are rejoiced at the state of things. The trial is a severe one; but the faith of the children fails not. A little boy told me yesterday that he knew by experience what is to pray for daily bread. The school at Omey Island has been quite full the whole week: the poor children expressed their determination to pray, and asked me to pray with them, at the same time remarking that when their heavenly Father thinks it fit he will send them food.”

London: John Hughs, 12 Ave-Maria Lane

The Church of England Magazine, Volume 35, pp. 111-112

J. Burns 1853

Original from the New York Public Library

Digitized, August 29, 2006

http://tinyurl.com/o56nwmz

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Omey is a very desolate island, all sand-banks and short grass – no trees of any kind; but as we walked up to the Schoolhouse, what was our surprise to see a pond full of the most lovely water-lilies, in full bloom – some of them nestled under the long reed-grass, and some spread themselves out on the blue water, basking in the sunshine.

In the schoolroom, decorated with lilies, we found a hundred and twenty people – children and their convert relations, very ragged and poor, most of them, but a few had strong home-spun garments and bright handkerchiefs covering their clean, well-starched caps. We had plenty of bread and butter and tea, but drinking vessels were scarce; however, we managed by giving one between two or three, and filling it the oftener.

It was a very social meeting; we talked over the words of Jesus, “Consider the lilies,” and drew from them a lesson of trust; and then a baby-boy, giving some of his bread-and-butter to his brother, suggested the thought of blessings and teaching others the good things we have learned.

Poor Omey Island! Persecution has broken out since then. One of the priests of the Church of Rome seems to have made up his mind to get all the children away from the Mission School. He entered one after another and tried to drive the children out. One day he came to Omey, and brought a mob with him, strangers in boats. They kept out of site for a while, and the priest entered the schoolhouse, with a stick, and seemed very violent. The master requested him to leave the room, but was obliged, for the safety of the children, to put him out. It appeared that he then threw himself down and cried that he was being murdered. Then the men rushed up from the boats and broke all the windows in the schoolhouse. It was a long time before the poor children could get to their homes, and for many weeks, the schoolhouse was in a state of siege. None may go in or out, and only in the darkness of night dared anyone bring food or water to the family they loved so much.

It was a very remarkable providence that, the Tuesday before, the schoolmistress was in Clifden, and finding a cart going to Omey, she laid out all the money she had with her in meal and groceries and took it home. Her husband wondered at her bringing such an unusual supply, but when the siege began, he saw that the Father knew she would have need of these things, and He directed her actions. On the day of the first trouble, the cow had been driven into the house for safety, but no food for her could be procured, and at length she dies of want. When the schoolmaster went out one day to Clifden, he was waylaid and severely beaten, and had to be sent up to Dublin. His assistant was left in charge of the schoolhouse and the sorrow-stricken family, for they could but seldom get letters to tell them any news. I have a copy of a letter from this young school-teacher, dated April 7. He says – “Poor P --- has had all is potatoes dug up. One of his sons was here. He says it is only making them stronger, shewing that the Roman Catholic Religion is wrong.

“I was talking to a Roman Catholic last night. He said that he believed Omey School would be the best on the Mission very soon – that they were already sorry for the steps they had taken. So I am going to open school on Monday. We got sacks and nailed them to the windows, to keep out the wind. We are still prisoners, but God is taking care of us; nothing shall be able to separate us from His love.”

And so the School opens again, and one by one the children are getting back, having the shouts and stones of the persecutors. The poor convert friends of the teachers resort to all sorts of expedients to help them. I have not been down to that part of the country this spring; but I must tell what I have heard of these poor people.

Last winter some kind friends of the teachers sent a sum of money to be laid out for the Sallerna school-children. As the boys generally fare worst when gift of clothing arrives, I, with their approval, purchased some corduroy trousers, and as they were a little soiled, I got a good many pairs for the money. Well, one of the wearers of these garments was sent on a message of kindness to Omey. He was spied by some of the persecutors, recognized as a schoolboy by his trousers and pursued by shouts and stones. Immediately understanding the state of the case, he dived into a bog-hole and divested himself of the obnoxious garment, laid it in the bog, and dodged about till his persecutors lost sight of him, and in Connemara costume (old style) he delivered his message. Next day he watched a quiet opportunity and repossessed himself of his hidden treasure.

There is great curiosity amongst the Roman Catholics all over Ireland to know what we mean to do. “Will we give up the schools?” Most certainly not, God helping us.

A band of devoted Missionaries are only waiting orders to go down and work tenfold energy, that souls may be saved. Like St. Paul, they count not their lives dear unto them, but are willing to face every danger. The schools will be well manned, more visitors will go amongst the people, and if the enemy threatens to put down the Mission, “Every Omey islander will know the reason why?”

Erin’s Hope – the Irish Church Missions’ Juvenile Magazine

“Gleanings from Connemara” – 1879

pp. 43-47

Author: Society for Irish Church Missions

Original: Oxford University

Digitized: October 19, 2006

1879

p. 43-47

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Persecution in Connemara

[Protestant Missionaries are Threatened on Omey by Catholic Residents]

In one of the far western districts of Ireland called Connemara, in the County of Galway, where the Irish Church Missions have so long and usefully laboured, a series of outrages have been poured upon the converts, school-teachers and preachers. It appears that a Roman Catholic priest went visiting the various schools of this Protestant Mission, used most vilest and insulting language, when affirming his right to make such visits. For this he was summoned to the court of Clifden and was compelled to apologize. This so exasperated the Romanists, that they gave vent to their anger by denunciations and violent harangues. These soon had their effect on an excitable and superstitious, but otherwise peaceable population, and they culminated in outrages which almost led us back to the Dark Ages.

A Mission Church, used also as a school-house in the island of Omey, was wrecked by a riotous mob on Friday, 28^th of February. Another school-house at Barnahalia was similarly treated a few days afterwards, in the most wanton and unprovoked manner, while the lives of the teachers were endangered. One of the Missionaries and his daughter were endangered, on the same island were attacked on the 1^st of March. The daughter of one of the Omey teachers says: - [“]The priest visited the school on Thursday last, and beat my dear father with a heavy stick. My father then turned him out and a crowd gathered. The priest went on waving his stick to the mob to come help him, but did not find where he was going, until he fell over a rock out-side the school door and hurt his head. So then they said father beat him – pointing to father. They then threw stones. My mother was hit with one, but not much hurt. Stephen Courrey was here too, and the priest beat him several blows. They had to get into the house and block up the doors with desks and forms. The mob broke every one of the school windows, and tried to break the doors, but did not succeed, thank God; for if they had, every one of us would, we believe have been murdered there and then.” Five or six hundred men were collected by the priest on the road from chapel to Streamstown. They insulted the converts, broke the windows of their houses, and threatened to burn two others.

Nothing but the bare wall of the Belleck school-house are standing. Someone had put a burning coal in the thatch of the house, by which it was set fire to, and burned down. The teacher, Mr. Young, with his wife and family, after passing through great peril and trial, were saved. Another teacher lay down in dread of their house being burned down any night, it also being thatched. The roof had been fired in two placed, when there was no fire inside.

A friend writing from the west, after describing some of these outrages, says -“The police of Clifden have really saved the lives of whole families; so these misguided men had to return to their homes without being appeased by the blood of a few scattered and inoffensive Protestants. Well, at this present moment the police are night and day guarding these Protestants, who at this time are really prisoners in their own houses for they are now wrecks.” When the Rev. J. Conerney and his daughter were attacked by a merciless mob, he cried out to them not to kill his daughter, but to beat him instead; but no use, both of them were badly bruised, and their lives might have been taken away, but not for the appearance of two policemen on the scene.

Particulars of these and other outrages have been laid before the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and there is good reason to hope that the Connemara Protestant Missions will soon receive the full protection they so much need.

THE ILLUSTRATED MISSIONARY NEWS, CONTAINING MISSIONARY INTELLIGENCE FROM ALL PARTS OF THE WORLD by S.W. PARTRIDGE

Published 1879. 14^th annual volume

p. 52 – May 1, 1879

London: S.W. Partridge and Co.

Original: Oxford University

Digitized November 16, 2006

http://tinyurl.com/ohq55mv

Popish Persecution in the West of Ireland

We are exceedingly sorry to learn that the Popish persecution in Connemara still continues. That cause must be bad which needs for its promotion such cruel and unjustifiable conduct as the Roman Catholics in this district have lately manifested. The admirable schools of the Irish Church Missions have been the great object of attack. The school of Belleck, with its warm-hearted, intelligent, well-taught children, and its valuable school-mistress, was the first visited by the priest; and the teacher, her blind husband, and helpless children were nearly burned alive in their beds. The school-house is now a heap of charred ruins. The following sketch of a visit to the Isle of Omey is by the Rev. Canon Cory. He says, -

Recalling a visit to the island by a group of protestant missionaries and the police.

They followed our little party with hideous yells and the fiercest imprecations. “May the curse of God rest on ye all, ye devils,” was the mildest phrase.

THE ILLUSTRATED MISSIONARY NEWS, CONTAINING MISSIONARY INTELLIGENCE FROM ALL PARTS OF THE WORLD by S.W. Partridge

p. 143 – December 1879

Original: Oxford University

Digitized: November 16, 2006

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Outrage in Connemara

Matters have come to a terrible crisis in Clifden. The following details will speak for themselves. Mr. McNeice, the schoolmaster of Omey, who was attacked and beaten in his own school on the 28^th of February, has been practically a prisoner in his own house, and guarded by police ever since. Omey Island is a peninsula at low water, and Mr. McNeice, on Sunday, decided on going to Sallerna Church, accompanied by two policemen, and went at an early hour to endeavor to avoid annoyance. On passing the Roman Catholic Chapel of Claddaghdhuff, however, he was attacked by a multitude who were assembling for worship, and assailed with stones and sticks, kicked and beaten in the most brutal manner.  He was carried bleeding into a house, the police vainly endeavoring to defend him until they were themselves nearly overpowered, and were compelled to fire. Mr. McNeice lay wounded and bleeding until additional police and the resident magistrate and the police officer arrived, when he was conveyed under a strong escort to the police barracks. Such scenes of violence as these are a natural result of exhortations of an excited nature addressed to the bigoted passions of the people. The outrages referred to will, no doubt, be dealt with by the authorities.”

The Church Record

The Protestant Religion and the Liberties of England

Dublin, January 1, 1879, p. 98

Original: Harvard University

Digitized: September 23, 2008

http://tinyurl.com/opq4mfe

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Diabolical Outrage in Connemara

Connemara has been the scene of extreme excitement during the past few days, the climax of which was that on Thursday two of the mission schools were destroyed. It appears that a Roman Catholic clergyman went into the mission school on the Island of Omey to see about some Catholic boys, and as alleged, insulted and assaulted the teacher, when the latter retorted _____ struck the priest, and since then the scenes there have been disgraceful. All the available constabulary reserve have been sent there, and have had a hard time of it. Further outrages are threatened. Another correspondent writes that at three o’clock on Thursday morning Mrs. Young’s, the Belleck School, about two miles from Clifden, was set on fire, only the bare walls are left standing. Providently no life was lost, but the school and house are completely gutted. Mrs. Young the teacher of the school is married to a pensioner, who is blind, and is in delicate health.

The Church Record

The Protestant Religion and the Liberties of England

Dublin, January 1, 1879, p. 98

Original: Harvard University

April 1, 1879

pp. 123-124

http://tinyurl.com/od9ne78