CHAPTER III.
ADVICE TO TOURISTS ON THE ART OF KISSING ENGLISH WOMEN—AN IRISH INN—CASTLE CONNELL—THE DEATH OF THE LAST OF THE O’BRIENS—BALLINACOURTY—CAPTAIN MOONLIGHT—THE SHANNON—SIR CROKER BARRINGTON—MR. CARDEN—LORD CLONCURRY AND HIS TENANTS—A LAND LEAGUE HUT—MR. PATRICK HOGAN’S OPINION OF THE LANDLORDS.
5th July.—Yesterday morning at eight o’clock I left Dublin to commence my tour in the Irish counties. Shelburne Hotel is feeling the effects of passing events for it is nearly empty. I am told that formerly at this season it would have been impossible for them to have given me a room—at all events to have kept one for me in advance—for it was the time when all the upper classes of Irishwomen met in the capital to pay their respects to the Viceroy, and to be kissed by him, for it appears that this is the essential point in the viceregal receptions. The Viceroy should kiss every lady presented to him, and when duels were still fashionable in Ireland, it would have been most imprudent for the Viceroy to show indifference whilst kissing any of the beauties who passed before him; the father, brother, husband, or betrothed would certainly have inquired his reason for such unjustifiable coolness. And, moreover—I cite this fact for the benefit of any travellers who may wish for instruction in the matter—the art of kissing Englishwomen is extremely delicate, and involves a number of important details. It is scarcely necessary to say that as a rule it is more prudent to abstain even from kissing the hand, which our custom recognises, but which on the other side of the Channel is considered full of mental reservations. But under certain circumstances this reserve constitutes an unpardonable offence. For instance, if you should be invited to pass Christmas in an English family, take care as you enter to glance at the chandelier. You may make a bet that a large branch of mistletoe will be hanging there. In that case, if you do not wish to pass for the most ignorant or vulgar of men, you are in duty bound to immediately and unhesitatingly kiss every female in the house, from the grandmother to the smallest girl. Custom imperatively demands this attention, and the English of both sexes cherish it so greatly that in colonies where mistletoe does not grow it is imported by shiploads in time for that festive season.
But then, we have only to consult English history to see what an important part has often been played by kissing, both in military and political cases. They say that in the last century a Duchess of Marlborough, hearing that her husband’s regiment had sustained heavy losses and that the recruiting sergeants had some trouble in filling up the ranks, on one occasion accompanied one of them to the market, holding a shilling between her lips, which she offered to every recruit who would take it with his own; and the story-teller gallantly adds that in an hour the total strength of the regiment was fully reached, and that they could have recruited a whole brigade in the same way had they wished it.
At the present time a kiss can still have great political influence. In order to oppose the Land League, Lady Randolph Churchill has founded a counter-league solely composed of women, which has been marvellously successful. Each member of the Primrose League undertakes to neglect no means, during the elections, of enticing voters to the Conservative party, and it is stated that some of the prettiest women unhesitatingly adopt the same method that the Duchess of Marlborough found so successful. But in spite of all these precedents we should advise tourist novices to be very careful. They had better sin through omission than by commission, for exaggerated eagerness or warmth might be misunderstood. A manual might be written on these serious questions.
Did or did not Lord Aberdeen, the late Viceroy, impartially kiss all the ladies of the Irish nobility and gentry who were suffering from the Land League, or did they wish to punish him for his Gladstonian tendencies by not giving him even a chance? I do not know. But in any case there is no season this year and the Shelburne is almost empty. The proprietors endeavour to console themselves with the aid of a few rich American tourists, and I must own that when a passing Frenchman falls into their hands, they treat him precisely like the Americans. It was after experiencing this fact that I confided my portmanteau and its owner to the tender mercy of a car-driver to take me to Kingsbridge station. But, since yesterday was Sunday, I explained to him that I wished first to be driven to a Catholic church to hear mass, instructions that might have lowered me in the opinion of a French carriage-driver, but which in Dublin won for me the most unequivocal marks of consideration from this son of green Erin.
He first drove me to a chapel built on the banks of the river, in one of the poorest and most miserable districts, not far from Guinness’s brewery. I was extremely struck with all I saw.
When I entered, mass was about to commence; five or six hundred persons were kneeling on benches or on the ground. I do not think that amongst the whole number there was a single one whose appearance did not indicate the deepest misery. By my side five or six men were telling their beads. They were almost colossi, with bull-dog heads, very short cropped hair and unshaven chins. They wore patched woollen shirts and looked like dock porters. A little further away there was a group of twelve or fifteen women, frightfully thin, with the hungry worn-out look one sees on so many faces over here. All these miserable creatures had evidently attempted to tidy themselves for Sunday. Most of them wore shoes. I am told that these shoes go to the pawnbroker regularly every Monday, and are redeemed on Saturday evening for Sunday’s mass. The dresses have lost all their colour and their lank folds show there is nothing worn underneath, but the poor owners all pray with marvellous fervour. I have never seen in any church the striking and sincere faith then visible amongst these unfortunate Irish whom Providence seems to have condemned to such a hard life.
At the station I gained some information that made me a little anxious. It appears that on Sundays the trains run very irregularly. They could, therefore, only give me a ticket to Limerick Junction, about twenty or thirty miles from the city; but the officials told me that excursion trains often ran on Sundays from Cork to Limerick, perhaps I could catch one of them; so I entered the train on this rather doubtful chance.
The appearance of the country through which we pass is very strange. I now understand the names “Green Erin” and the “Emerald Isle” which are so often found in Irish poetry. Green is the scarcely undulating plain which extends on each side of the railway; green also are the slightly elevated hills which bound the horizon. We may say that there is no agriculture. Only from time to time we catch sight of some fields of potatoes and oats. Not a single tree. The fences are only heaps of earth—the same enclosures that in Brittany are called fossés, only here there is seldom any hedge. My fellow-passengers explained to me that when a landowner wishes to make a plantation, everything is at once cut down by the tenants, or else they let their horses feed on the young trees, because they say no one has any right to deprive the people of the land by which they live.
In quality all this pasturage is very indifferent. The soil is not worth anything, but I expected at least to see the fields well kept. But, in reality, this is far from being the case. There is not one in fifty that does not manifestly require drainage, for they are all overrun with rushes. A fanciful agriculturist with whom I travelled gravely assured me that these rushes are much appreciated, because in winter the cattle know how to pull them up and eat the white part that is hidden in the earth. I was too polite to laugh in his face; I was content to point out to him that the intellectual effort and intelligence which the cattle must develop in order to procure this food seems to interfere with their growing fat; the blade wears out the sheath; this explains why all those we pass are in such poor condition. Besides, the quantity as well as the quality is deficient. The pasturage would feed more animals than are now grazing upon it, for the grass is not sufficiently cropped. This all indicates a lack of capital.
Sir Thomas Esmonde told us yesterday that we should not find land to be compared to Ireland anywhere else. I suppose he was scarcely alluding to this district. Still, I read in a book of statistics—and the fact is confirmed by my fellow-travellers—that County Kildare and Queen’s County, which we are now passing through, both rank amongst the most fertile parts of Ireland. At all events there is less misery in them now than in any other counties. Whenever, in Dublin, the poverty of the population was spoken of, I was always told that I must go to the south and west to really appreciate it.
This leads me to make a comparison that again seems to contradict the assertions of the orator at Rathmines. Sir Thomas told us that emigration was one of the chief causes of the ruin of Ireland. Now, Queen’s County, which suffered enormously from famine in 1847, is precisely the county where there is the most visible diminution of the population. Queen’s County contained about 160,000 inhabitants in 1847; 153,000 in 1841. Its superficial area is 425,000 acres, of which 55,000 acres are absolutely unproductive. It was therefore necessary that 370,000 acres should feed 150,000 inhabitants. This makes almost one inhabitant to each two and a half acres, which is a very heavy average for a stock-raising country. It is not nearly so high with us, and it was evidently too much for the country, since many of the people died of hunger.
The population has diminished by more than one-half; there are now only 75,000 inhabitants, and if it seems proved that it suffers less than other counties from the present crisis, how can they declare that emigration is a source of ruin?
Turf pits are noticeable in every part of the land. Most people know how this curious combustible is formed. During the summer some cold damp countries become covered with an abundant vegetation of moss and herbage that forms a very close and thick undergrowth. These plants die every autumn. During the winter their decomposition produces a layer of leaf mould, in which a new vegetation of plants of the same species springs up again, and its rich growth mingling in its decay with that of the preceding year, the soil is thus annually raised by successive layers. Sometimes it reaches twelve or fifteen feet in height. Whilst digging in this mass of vegetable matter, enormous oaks are frequently discovered, after being buried for thousands of years, and the wood having become very close and perfectly black is much in request for cabinet-making, etc. They are called bog oaks. A quantity of stag and elk horns are also found, which prove that formerly Ireland was richer in large game than she is now; for, with the exception of a few found at Killarney, the stag has completely disappeared. The peat is formed by these accumulations of roots. The lower layers which have been compressed by the others are the most appreciated. They are dug out with a spade, in black bricks, which are afterwards dried in small heaps. This is the sole fuel used by the Irish peasants, for it is now a long time since the forests were destroyed, and there is not a single coal-mine in the whole country. On a hearth, well-dried peat makes a fairly good fire; but its extreme lightness renders it almost useless for any industrial purposes. The smallest draught draws up the tall chimney all the fuel that is between the bars. Still, a little is used in a few factories in Germany.
Peat is therefore a very indifferent resource as fuel. This is very unfortunate for Ireland, as she has a great quantity of it. It forms the subsoil of at least half the pasturage we pass through. Every moment we see a large black trench at one corner of the field. Here the farmer digs out his fuel.
I am told that this indifferent, badly-kept pasturage is usually let as 2l., 3l., and 4l. the acre. The Irish acre is larger than the English. It is almost as large as one of our arpents, viz., an acre and a quarter. The hectare, nearly two and a half acres, is therefore let at 4l. to 10l. This is certainly much too dear. A Normandy farmer would not pay that price. In Calvados, pasturage resembling that which I have seen here would not be worth more than 3l. 10s., or 4l. an hectare. And then the farmer would be in a better position for working it, since first he would derive some profit from his apples; and besides this, he would have the command of sufficient capital to buy the necessary herd of animals, a capital that none of these people seem to possess.
I compare this country to Normandy for two reasons. In the first place, they have the same productions; in the second, the same market. London prices regulate those of both countries. And we must also remember that Normandy is nearer to London than Ireland. On the other hand, the burdens that weigh upon the French farmer are much the heavier. The land-taxes are dearer with us than in England. The expenses of registration, so onerous in our country, do not exist on this side of the Channel. I saw the deed of sale of a property worth 4,000l.; the only duty to pay was a fee of 30s. In France the registration would have absorbed about 400l. Military service also weighs very heavily upon our agriculturists. And, evidently, all these things should be taken into account. However, when the Land Leaguers say that the rents are too high, I think they are right. But then, why do the tenants take the land at that price?
In the country we seldom see a group of houses; there seems nothing resembling our villages. Only at long distances, three or four cottages are visible clustered round a pond; as a rule, they are isolated. Externally, the houses do not look so miserable as I had imagined them to be. They are certainly small and low, but they are all carefully whitewashed, and their thatched roofs are generally in good order; but the gardens appear very badly kept.
I can boast of wonderfully good luck. Can it be my introduction to Messrs. Biggar and Shackleton that has brought it to me? When I reached Limerick Junction I saw a locomotive getting up steam in a corner of the station. It is one of the excursion trains that I had been told to look out for; I hurried into a carriage and arrived at Limerick just in time to catch another which conveyed the Limerick people, who were fond of nature, out of the town to pass their evenings at Athlone; about five o’clock it deposited me at Castle Connell Station, about a mile from my destination.
But I had not found anything to eat on the road; all the refreshment-rooms are closed on Sunday. Luckily Castle Connell is frequented by a good many Englishmen who fish for salmon, and for their benefit one of those good little inns has been established where one can never find anything but an enormous piece of roast beef, but where this roast beef, the roast beef of Old England, is always delicious. Consequently five minutes after my arrival I was seated before one of those excellent products of English civilisation, from which I cut formidable slices that only just touched my plate. Whilst I was thus occupied, the landlady, a woman of respectable appearance, who called me “sir” with every three words, sent for a jaunting-car to take me to Ballinacourty, Colonel M——’s house. In a few moments I saw a tattered personage ornamented with a very red nose, and cheeks framed with a superb beard cut like a Russian Grand Duke’s, enter the room. It is wonderful how hairy the Irish race are! It is probably the damp air of the country which produces this great development of the capillary system. This individual is the driver to whom I must confide myself.
“And it’s to the Colonel’s I’m to take your honour?” said this modern Esau with the finest accent that can be heard.
“Yes, it is to the Colonel’s that you must take my honour. One mile from here! You know the way?”
“Do I know my own mother? Ah, your honour, it’s just as though your honour asked did I know the Colonel. Your honour! blessed be the saints, and a foine gentleman he is! Every time he sees me, your honour, he offers me a dhrink.”
“And how much do you want for the drive?”
“How far did your honour say it was from here to Ballinacourty?”
“A mile. I saw it on the map.”
“A mile!”
The idea that it was only a mile from Castle Connell to Ballinacourty seemed so droll to him that he called the waiter, laughing heartily as he did so.
“Hear this, Tim?” said he. “Here his honour says that to go to the Colonel’s it is only a mile!”
Tim also found this idea so ridiculous that he laughed till his old coat threatened to split, but feeling his dignity compromised by this burst of hilarity, he wiped his face with a dirty napkin and politely apologised:
“Beg your pardon, sir!” said he, “but, holy Mother of God, there are at least four miles, and the road is very bad.”
“No, Tim, no,” replied the driver with a noble air, “the road has been mended, and it is not four miles; it is a little over three; but there, we will only say three. You know this gentleman is going to the Colonel’s, a man who never forgets to offer a dhrink, does he, Tim?”
“Never!” said Tim with an air of conviction; “he offered me one the day before yesterday.”
But as it was evident the driver had already met some foine gentlemen who had given him a great many more dhrinks than was good for him, I chose not to understand his hints. At last, in despair at my want of intelligence, he decided to put my portmanteau upon his car. We seated ourselves back to back, and in spite of the disadvantages of this position from a conversational point of view, we soon became good friends. He even thought it his duty to do the honours of the local curiosities.
Castle Connell is now only a small village frequented by the fishermen, who are attracted by a desire to tease the salmon in the Shannon; but its past is more glorious, for it was once the capital of one of those innumerable kings who rendered to modern Irishmen a service they now seem to appreciate very highly, by enabling them all to claim a royal descent. It was the O’Briens, kings of Munster, who inhabited Castle Connell. They built on the banks of the Shannon a castle of which we still see the ruins, not far from the spot where the hotel now stands. To borrow a verse from king Pharaoh’s celebrated ballad, these monarchs though legitimate were full of perversity, and this led to their committing many crimes, thanks to which they became very rich and very powerful; but unfortunately for them they had one virtue, and this was enough to ruin them. They were exceedingly hospitable. But that is a common virtue in Ireland, and has ruined many families from the days of the O’Briens to the present time. The Irish gentry have always carried hospitality to such a point, that it formed the most expensive of all luxuries. The table was always laid, who ever liked was welcome, and the best in the house was reserved for strangers, until the sheriff’s officer intervened. Now Irish landlords no longer dine with each other, because they dare not go out in the evening for fear of being shot. If this wise reform now due to the benevolent watchfulness of the Land League had taken place fifty or sixty years sooner many Irish gentlemen would have escaped ruin. But Mr. Parnell and his agents commenced their work too late, when the majority of landlords were already completely ruined; and consequently they feel no gratitude towards the new arrangements. It was therefore a taste for hospitality which ruined the dynasty of Castle Connell. One fine day the reigning O’Brien invited one of his friends to dinner. The latter profited by this invitation to introduce some of his followers into the castle, and seized the too hospitable dwelling. He then put out the eyes of his host and ruled in his place. In analogous circumstances Samson unhesitatingly sacrificed his life to his vengeance. He pulled down his own house and crushed the three thousand Philistines who were in it beneath the ruins. Apparently the last of the O’Briens did not seek to revenge himself in equally heroic fashion. In the first place, he was assassinated soon after the fatal dinner. Another thing, perhaps he was not so strongly framed as the victim of the fair Delilah; and also, perhaps the Irish were better builders than the Jews: the examination of the ruins strongly inclines me to this latter hypothesis. They consist of two or three rather dismantled towers, for the old fortress, which had remained intact until 1688, was taken at this date from the partisans of King James who defended it, by the Hanoverians, who undermined it and blew it up.
My Automedon did all in his power to awaken my sympathy for the family misfortunes; I also think he claimed some relationship to them, but I am not quite sure, for Irish explanations are rather diffuse and hard to comprehend. In courses of elementary mathematics pupils are often given very complicated formulæ to extract the unknown quantity therefrom: the conversations of the Irish remind me of these studies of my youth. They are so embarrassed with incidental phrases, pious exclamations, or simply polite expressions, such as “Please your honour,” that the unknown, that is to say, the true meaning, is hard to extricate. Furthermore, they have a mania for answering one question by another. For instance, when I asked my coachman if he knew his way, instead of simply answering “Yes,” he asked me if I thought he did not know his own mother.
Besides, the length of his discourse and his anxiety to impart to me all the historical reminiscences which I have faithfully recorded, had manifestly the object of deluding me about the distance which separates Castle Connell from Ballinacourty. In reality it is only a mile, and, in spite of his efforts, in less than half an hour we arrived in front of Colonel M——’s house.
My host is still a victim of the Land League. This is his history. It is curious, precisely because it resembles that of hundreds of other landlords. All the tenants on his estate, in County Clare, had leases of thirty-one years, which fact, in parenthesis, is a formal contradiction to Mr. Parnell, when he claims fixity of tenure, that is to say, security for the tenants, and declares that one of the chief reasons which prevent improvements is that the landlords refuse to give them leases, and like to retain the right of sending them away whenever they please. I may even add that I have seen a number of these leases, and my tenants may feel certain that I will never sign anything like them. It seems to me that the essential point of a lease is that it should be bilateral—that the two parties should be bound for the same time. Each runs some risk. If the years are good the landlord does not benefit by the rise, but if they are bad he does not suffer from the fall.
Now, the Irish leases—at least those that I have seen, and I am assured that until the last few years all were drawn up in the same form—contain a clause that absolutely destroys this principle. It is always stipulated that the tenant should have the right to withdraw at any time by giving six months’ notice in advance, without any reciprocal power being reserved for the landlord. I do not therefore see why the latter should tie his hands for thirty-one years; and if it is true that many landowners have refused to grant leases to their tenants, it appears to me that their refusal was clearly justified by this extraordinary clause.
But in any case the Colonel’s patrimonial estate had always been managed in this way, and consequently, while those of his neighbours who had refused to be bound by leases profited by the years of plenty that followed the famine by raising their rents 25, 50, and often 100 per cent., the rents on his property remained stationary, or at least were only raised in a very irregular manner, since the increased rents could only be charged when the leases had to be renewed.
When bad seasons returned the Government took the initiative by a law known as the Land Bill, which instituted committees charged with the regulation of the rents, but these committees ignored all previous contracts. They commenced by reducing all rents on an average 15 to 20 per cent. Then the Land League intervened, and by methods which, if illegal, were not the less efficacious, it obtained fresh reductions, which generally doubled the first. On some estates, those which are referred to when it is desirable to quote an instance, things were restored to nearly their original condition. When this happened the landlords protested a little, but merely as a matter of form; for even had the committee not imposed a reduction, they would have been glad enough to receive their rents at the same rate as before the rise took place.
But the numerous class of those who had not raised their rents naturally considered that it was supremely unjust that reductions should be forced upon them when they had not profited by the good years. And really they had some ground for complaint. Let us take the case of two landlords who own estates of the same quality contiguous to one another. In 1855, for instance, both of them let the land at 4l. per acre; in 1870 the first of them raised the rent to 8l. The second, restrained by a lease or simply by moral considerations, had not altered the price. The Government and the Land League only reduced the former to his original sum of 4l., whilst the latter saw his rent fall to 2l., and found himself impoverished by one half simply because he had not ground down his tenant like his neighbour had done.
A great many resisted, the Colonel amongst them. He declared that, under the circumstances, he preferred taking back his land and cultivating it himself, but by thus acting he infringed the fundamental rule of the League. Here I cannot resist inserting a parenthesis.
The idea that ownership of the soil is a property like any other is certainly a modern idea. The old notion of land tenure, the outcome of feudal laws, considerably limited the landlord’s rights, by creating, amongst other things, between him and the tenant reciprocal obligations, such as personal or military service; these are no longer compatible with modern ideas, but we still find persistent traces of them in every country in Europe, and particularly in France. Thus many of the lands of Sauterre, for instance, are or have till quite recently been subject to a law which provided that a landlord could not send away a tenant without replacing him by one of his relations, or by cultivating the farm himself. Of course this law has not been inscribed in any code for a very long time. It is asserted that it dates back to the Crusades; but it is so deeply ingrafted into the national customs that here the land subject to it is always let more cheaply than any other, because the owners well know that if they have reason to complain of a tenant, and that no one of his family is disposed to take the farm, this generally happens—they will not find any one to replace him. The owners of land subject to these laws are therefore in a great measure at the mercy of their tenants. Attempts have frequently been made to evade it, but they have always been followed by repentance, for they have invariably been punished, either by arson, or by mutilations of cattle. But this is all avoided if the proprietor cultivates the land himself. This is the sole proceeding that, according to custom, will enable him to act against the tenant.
These facts are well known. I recall them because they throw a new light upon the events now passing in Ireland. The Land League by refusing to allow the landlord the right of dismissing his tenant, endeavours, perhaps a little unconscionably, to revive in force old customs that are evidently of feudal origin, and which, if resuscitated, would completely subvert all modern notions of property, whilst it is very curious that the League is encouraged in these attempts by the revolutionists of the whole world. But at least the old law acknowledged the proprietor’s right to cultivate the land himself, and this the Land League refuses to do.
The Colonel’s decision was scarcely announced when all corners of the estate were placarded with notices warning the public that the fields were boycotted. A butcher from Limerick rented a meadow, he had reason to regret it; during the night the tails of all his oxen were cut off. Then things became worse; the Colonel had left the service in order to manage the property himself. Soon after he first returned, he wished to make an example, and sent away two tenants who were pointed out to him as ringleaders in mischief. He immediately received several letters signed Captain Moonlight, couched in the most polite terms, but in which he was advised to have the measure for his coffin taken as soon as possible. A few days later he had dined with a neighbour and was on his way home towards eleven o’clock at night. It was fairly light; on leaving the park the road led up a rather steep incline, to the right there was a field of oats separated from the road by a low wall.
As they drove through the gate the coachman, who probably had partaken too freely of the hospitality of the servants’ hall, suddenly whipped up his horse. The Colonel, who was sitting on the second seat of the jaunting-car, turned round to tell him to drive more slowly; at the same time he heard the report of a gun; his hat was pierced, and by the light of the shot he distinctly saw the man who had fired from the other side of the hedge. He seized the gun that was always in the carriage, and jumped down; unfortunately the horse was still going so fast that he rolled into the ditch. When he got up again the man was already some distance away, running across the oats. He fired twice but could not reach him. A few weeks later in his turn he had some friends to dinner. The dessert had been served, and, according to the English custom, the ladies had risen to return to the drawing-room; the Colonel drew back against the wall to allow his neighbour to pass when a shot was fired outside through the dining-room window; this time the bullet passed through his coat.
Two years later an Irish priest, settled in America, wrote to him saying that the author of the two attempts had just died in hospital, and that before receiving absolution he had asked his confessor to write to the Colonel to implore his pardon and to tell him all the details of the crime. He had received 100 guineas for the attempts, the result of a donation from all the tenants on the estate.
This is the position of affairs in the country, and the situation is rendered particularly serious by the offenders being very rarely arrested; their secret is too well kept. Besides, when they are arrested, it is not of much use; the juries know what to expect if they give an adverse verdict, and therefore the few culprits brought before them are nearly always acquitted. The other day there was a very amusing case of this kind.
One of the Colonel’s neighbours, also an ex-officer, Major F——, had some difficulties with a drover who occupied a very small farm. He gave him notice to quit. The man complained to the Land League, and the president wrote to the Major telling him that he had received a complaint against him and requesting him to give some explanation about the motives that had led him to act so harshly. The Major considering this summons a simple piece of impertinence naturally took no notice of it. But he suffered for his neglect. A few days’ later as he finished breakfast, he noticed five or six cows feeding in a field of clover in front of his windows. He went out, for he could not understand how they had entered. When he reached the field he found they had passed through a gap in the wall that had evidently been made on purpose.
He drove them before him, intending to make them go out by the same gap, when he suddenly perceived, not ten paces from him, a man on the other side of the wall deliberately aiming at him with a long holster pistol. He instantly recognised his drover. The shot followed; he realised that he was not hit, but he turned on his heels and ran back into the house to find a weapon. When, ten minutes later, he returned to the fields, he made a curious discovery—the pistol had burst; this accident had saved his life. The fragments of the weapon were on the ground. The drover had disappeared, but he had been severely wounded; his right hand thumb had been blown off, and was found in a pool of blood.
Five or six days later the assassin was arrested in a hospital where he had gone to have his wounds attended to. He was sent to the assizes; but on the eve of the trial each juryman received a letter signed “Captain Moonlight,” informing him that the man had only obeyed orders, and that if he were condemned, others would be found ready to avenge him and to make them suffer the same fate from which the Major had so narrowly escaped.
The man denied everything, and was acquitted. As he came down from the prisoner’s bench, when the judge had informed him that he was free, he had the impudence to turn round and say:
“Excuse me, your Lordship, but won’t they give me back my thumb? I should like to bury it!”
The Colonel told me this story as we strolled on the banks of the river. The Shannon is not navigable above Limerick. At the place where we now are it is a fine stream between two and three hundred yards wide. The water is clear as crystal, except where it foams round numerous rocky boulders, over which it descends from cascade to cascade until it reaches a kind of lake formed by a bend in the river which there suddenly turns westward.
The two banks are covered with fine trees which reach to the water’s edge, forming a lovely picture, which would exactly resemble a creek in the Rocky Mountains if one could not see pretty country houses in every direction, so near together that the parks join each other. From Lord Massy’s garden, where we stand, we can see five or six. The salmon-fishing is the great attraction; no one could imagine the follies Englishmen will commit for its enjoyment. Our own custom is repeated here, the owners of the river banks claim the fishing to the middle of the stream. I was shown the boundaries of one of these claims, which is only about four hundred and forty yards long. It is let during the season for 200l.; and the lessee must also employ two keepers, a boat, and two boatmen. Altogether, without counting the other expenses of his change of residence, the whole costs between 280l. and 320l. A rather longer reach, situated a little more up the stream, has been let for £400. I inquired whether these liberal fishermen catch plenty of salmon, and was at once informed that I had made use of a very terrible barbarism. One must not say “catch a salmon,” but “kill a salmon.” This important point settled, I then learned that this has been rather a bad season, but that when the stream has risen well, lucky and skilful fishermen can kill as many as eight salmon in a day.
This morning I asked the Colonel’s permission to walk about the neighbourhood alone. After the events he related to me yesterday, he shut up his house in county Clare and settled on the other side of the river, in the small house at Ballinacourty, which he rented from a friend, and which is situated in county Limerick. He has therefore no interest in this district, and up to a certain point this takes him out of the category of landlords, and places him amongst the strangers. Consequently the Land League leaves him quite alone, and his relations with the country people are comparatively good. Yesterday we went out for a short time with a neighbouring landlord, and I noticed that whilst he was with us not one of the peasants whom we met saluted us, but when we were alone they all bowed to us, and some of them even greeted us with a few friendly words.
In spite of the personal sympathy evidently felt for him, Colonel M—— is still a landlord, the friend and neighbour of every landlord in the country. He is therefore certain to inspire some distrust, and I fancy that the people will talk more freely with me alone than if they see me in his society. After walking for some time in the country, I entered several houses in succession, under various pretexts; and I must at once own that I was very well received. In a moment, when I said I was French, my welcome became even enthusiastic. The whole family, and often even the neighbours, crowded round me, asking me about France, the name alone seeming to contain a wonderful attraction for them.
I am told that this sympathy for France exists all over Ireland, but it is particularly visible in the south, because in the last century most of the soldiers of the brilliant Irish Brigade, that has filled such glorious pages in the annals of our military history, came from this district. The recruiting agents of the kings of France were naturally pursued by the English authorities, and consequently they experienced some very great hardships, but this circumstance has been invaluable to the Irish novelists, whose works are usually based on adventures of which these men are the heroes.
The coast of Bantry Bay was almost deserted at that time, and it was therefore from there that the recruits embarked in search of the French schooners that conveyed them to Dunkerque, where the depôts of the brigade were stationed. It is said, that, in order to avoid compromising themselves, the consignees had the habit of describing the men in their bills of lading as wild geese.
Few of them ever returned to the country. It is calculated that more than one hundred thousand died under the French flag; but those who did come back have left such vivid recollections of themselves, that here every one seems to look upon France as a second country, and imagine that they will ultimately regain their liberty through us.
Yesterday, when from the railway I saw the country cottages, I thought the descriptions I had received of their poverty were greatly exaggerated. But to-day I realise that these accounts did not overstep the truth, and that appearances had greatly deceived me. The exterior is passable. Like many old houses in Perche and elsewhere, they are all built of mud tempered with cow-hair or hay, and consolidated with a few laths. As long as the roof is good, and that they are careful to frequently whitewash the exterior, these buildings are very warm in winter, very cool in summer, and they last a long time.
But when any one enters them the impression is quite changed. We must first remark that the Irish are extremely prolific. Most families include six or seven children, yet as a rule the houses have only one room, ten or eleven yards long by five or six wide.
To enable the whole family to sleep there they formerly resorted to very original arrangements. In one corner there was a great heap of reeds; in the evening they spread them out for a bed; the man and wife slept in the middle; the smallest boy by his father’s side, the youngest girl by her mother, and so on until they reached the eldest, who occupied the two extremities next to the pigs, who are always allowed inside. If they offered hospitality to a stranger, and this frequently occurred, the pigs were pushed a little further away. This was called sleeping “straddogue.”
It appears that this rather primitive couch is still used in many houses. But moralists have some reason to say that luxury is penetrating everywhere. In all the cottages that I have yet visited, the inhabitants have already mounted one step on the ladder of comfort. I have always seen one, and sometimes two beds, but never more. When there is only one bed, the father, mother, and daughters sleep side by side at one end; the sons at the other. When there are two, the parents and daughters occupy one, and the sons repose on the other. The pigs had also profited by this innovation; they sleep under the bed, and the hens generally perch above it. I have never seen such arrangements even amongst the savages on the African coast.
This system, deplorable from a human point of view, seems, on the contrary, to have the happiest effect on the development of the intellectual and affectionate qualities of the pig. To him is confided the education of the children, who, almost naked, play in the mud outside the cottage. I saw two this morning, nearly of the same age, a little boy and a little girl, sleeping in the glare of the sun, their heads comfortably resting on the side of a great sow. The latter was evidently quite conscious of her important charge. When I advanced she first moved her ears, then uttered some little grunts, intended to herald the approach of a stranger, but she did not move for fear of awaking the two children. A little further on three others, of four and five years old, were filling an old tin box with dirty water, which they afterwards poured over their legs, with great satisfaction. Their guardian lying full length in the pool, watched this innocent amusement from one corner of her eye, and seemed to take extreme pleasure in it.
What have all these people to live on? And here I must assert that they have no appearance of suffering. The race is not remarkable for physical beauty. But though they are ragged and half naked, they do not look famished with hunger as the people do at Dublin. The children are very fat. We are now at the commencement of the hay season, but yet all the men seem idling about the cottages. The Colonel assures me that many of them have money deposited in the banks, and that it is not rare to see a man living like those whom I have visited give his daughters when they marry a dowry of 40l. or 50l. each. Where do they get all this money, besides the sums they spend? More than a shilling a day is never paid for a man’s labour. The mystery is explained to me by the information that in a few days they will all go to England to assist in the harvest and hop-picking, and they live in idleness through the rest of the year on the money then made. Formerly, part of it went to pay the rent; but those good times are quite past now.
I have already had one long discussion with the Colonel. He says that the land is good. I persist in considering it very indifferent as a rule; moreover, the climate is very bad. Vegetation is so backward that haymaking has scarcely commenced. They never secure more than one crop. The bad weather comes too soon for it to be possible to get any aftermath. I have not yet seen a field of wheat. When it was grown, the harvest was rarely successful. I had the curiosity to visit a large garden which has some reputation in the county, for the owner sells the produce of it. I am certain that it is fully three weeks behind Normandy, and even more behind the suburbs of Paris. In my garden in the Avenue Friedland, the rhododendrons have flowered a month ago. Here they are just opening. It is the 6th of July, yet there are scarcely any strawberries. The gardener proudly showed me a cherry-tree, which, thanks to an excellent situation, has already some ripe fruit! They are being sold at 1s. 6d. per pound to a dealer, who retails them at 2s. 1d.!
How can agriculture prosper under such circumstances? Owing to the Gulf Stream, the winter is not severe; but how can the poor work in January and February? Yesterday we sat down to dinner at eight o’clock. We left it soon after nine, and it was broad daylight. The lamps were still unlighted. I therefore conclude that in six months it will be dark until nine o’clock in the morning, and we are in the South of Ireland. What must it be in the North? And what is a day’s labour worth if it only contains five or six working hours?
After lunch, the Colonel took me for a drive. We first went ten or twelve miles to visit Sir Croker Barrington’s beautiful seat. The Castle is placed in the midst of a lovely park; it is modern, but it has several towers, machicolations, and battlements, which give it a look of feudal ferocity, completed by four or five old cannon, placed like a battery on the terrace which overlooks the road we drove up by. Alas! they did not suffice to intimidate the Land Leaguers of the neighbourhood; for one morning, three or four years ago, they came in broad daylight and organised a battue in the park. They killed all the deer without any one daring to oppose them. The deer have since been replaced, and we have even seen some of them. But what was done at Sir Croker Barrington’s is repeated, more or less, in all directions, on a smaller scale. In many counties it is now impossible to preserve at all. Poaching is openly carried on.
“We ourselves, the landlords, are now the game,” said the Colonel in a melancholy tone, “and for us there is no close season.”
However, sometimes the game resists. The instance of a Mr. Carden was quoted to me, who at last succeeded in getting the best of the whole population.
Like every one else, he had serious difficulties with his tenants, who would neither pay their rents nor leave their farms. He had been shot at several times, but had never been hit. One day he was riding on the Nenagh road in full daylight, when, at the same moment, he heard two balls whistle past his ears. The would-be murderers were two men who had fired from a neighbouring field, and who ran away seeing that they had missed their aim. Mr. Carden jumped his horse over the wall and pursued them. He stunned the first with a blow from his loaded horse-whip, then throwing himself upon the second, he managed to knock him down with blows of his fists. He bound them together with his stirrup-leathers, and triumphantly conveyed them to Nenagh prison. Wonderful to relate, the jury, suddenly carried away by his courage, consented to find them guilty, and they were hanged!
Mr. Carden had another rather droll adventure with his tenants. One day, during the Fenian insurrection, he was warned that the inhabitants of the neighbouring village, taking the Socialist theories in earnest, had divided his park between them, and intended solemnly coming to take possession on the following Monday. Mr. Carden, assisted by his men-servants, immediately carried an old cannon, worked on a pivot, that he possessed, to an upper room. On the day named the tenants arrived with horses and carts, and commenced, in presence of an immense crowd, to dig up the lawn. At this moment they heard a window open, and they saw Mr. Carden ostentatiously leading his cannon up to the mouth with packets of grape-shot. He then turned round, drew out his watch, and informed the spectators that he gave them ten minutes to get away in. They did not require five, and no one has since dreamt of digging up Mr. Carden’s lawn.
Sir Croker Barrington was away, and this unfortunately prevented us from seeing the interior of the castle, but we had a short walk through a small narrow copse that ran along the hill, on the top of which the castle was built, and which is really charming. The dampness of the country renders the vegetation of the underwood deliciously fresh, and of incomparable luxuriance by the side of anything we have at home. And I must add that Irish poachers are less destructive than ours. They kill the large game, but apparently disdain the thrushes, blackbirds, and wood-pigeons, for numbers of them flew up, literally from under our feet.
The road that has brought us back from Sir Croker Barrington’s to Ballinacourty passes through Lord Cloncurry’s estate. I much wished to visit this property, for it has been frequently mentioned for some time past. It is, in fact, the theatre where very extraordinary events have taken, and are still taking place, showing plainly the state of disorganisation which now prevails in Ireland.
Lord Cloncurry is a very rich man, who usually inhabits another estate in the vicinity of Dublin. His property in county Limerick is managed by an agent.
The tenants paid their rent neither better nor worse than their neighbours, when after Easter, 1884, they all went to the agent together. They carried their money in their hands. The agent, believing that they had come to pay him, began complimenting them on punctuality to which he was unaccustomed, when the priest, who was with them, stepped forward, and, speaking in the name of his parishioners, told him that the tenants were ready to pay, provided that the rents were at once reduced ten per cent. If this reduction, which was to affect not only the quarters now due, but also those that were in arrears, were not accepted, nothing more would be paid.
The agent replied that he had not the requisite authority to accept these propositions, which to him seemed very unjust. The land was let in a very unequal way, for as the rents had not been raised for a long time the relative value of the land was much changed, so that whilst some paid a full price, others paid much too little. If they wished the arrangements re-made on a new basis it would not be just for the same reduction to be made for them all. The tenants would not listen, and they all left him without paying a penny.
The following day they assembled at a meeting, the priest still acting as president. It was agreed that five delegates should go to Dublin to see Lord Cloncurry and to lay the matter before him.
He did not receive the embassy very graciously, but replied to them in the same words as the agent had done. He did not refuse them all a reduction, but he would not admit that a reduction should be the same for all; lastly, and above all, he would not allow them to impose upon him, by threats, terms that he thought were undesirable. If the tenants would not pay, he would show himself lenient towards arrears, but he would get rid of them all, even if he cultivated the land himself.
Before they separated, they had roused a great deal of anger towards each other. It is easy to see that the whole business was badly managed from the commencement. Lord Cloncurry had not the reputation of being a hard or exacting landlord. On the other hand, any one who is in the habit of managing land, and who is acquainted with the state of agriculture, not only in Ireland, but nearly all over the world, will see at once that the demand for a reduction of ten per cent. was not excessive. Only it is quite certain that the tenants owed the rents in arrear. In asking for a reduction on this portion of their debt, they were soliciting a favour, and to begin with threats is not the way to obtain a favour. Lastly, in spite of my sympathy for the Irish, I can never understand one thing—namely, that the landowner can be denied the right of sending away a tenant who will not pay.
However, this is of daily occurrence in Ireland, and the most singular thing is, that it frequently happens that tenants who refuse to pay because others have refused, send their money by post or let one of their children carry it over during the night, entreating the agent not to say that they have paid it, because they are afraid of the others. One small estate was named to me, on which all the tenants, with the exception of one or two, have regularly paid in this way for some years, each persuading himself that he is alone in doing so.
Lord Cloncurry lost no time before putting his threats into execution. The tenants all received a summons to pay. They took no notice of it, and it was soon known that they were to be evicted.
On the day named, everybody from two or three leagues round, assembled to witness the proceedings. Lord Cloncurry’s representative soon appeared, accompanied by an imposing escort of police and about fifty soldiers from the Limerick garrison. The priest was there encouraging his parishioners to struggle for the good cause. However, considering the customs of the country, the crowd was not very threatening. They threw a good deal of mud and a good many stones at the police; but that always happens, and no one attaches any importance to it. Every tradition was minutely observed on both sides. In each house, the whole family lay on the ground and refused to move. Two policemen then took men, women and children, in succession, and gently deposited them on the manure heap; then they carried all the furniture outside, and lastly the landlord’s agent took possession—carefully shutting all the doors and windows, or else the evicted persons would hasten in again, and nothing would be gained; whereas, if they broke open a door after the seals were once placed upon it, they would fall under the power of the law. All these operations are extremely delicate. If any member of the family is still in the house when the seals are put on, the eviction is invalid. Consequently, those interested in possession being retained often try to hide a child in a corner, or, better still, in a hole prepared in the wall or in the thatched roof, and if this manœuvre is successful, the unfortunate landlord is obliged to obtain a fresh writ, and, with another hundred men, to attempt a fresh eviction, for it all must be done over again. “The fôôôrme!” said Bridoison, “is substance.”
All the “fôôôrmes” were therefore duly observed on either side, and, on the whole, the affair passed off quietly. But it was scarcely ended, when an incident occurred which produced a deep impression. Lord Cloncurry’s representative was about to retire with the police, when a personage, whom no one had noticed until then, approached him, and intimated, in the name of the Land League, that all the land on the estate was boycotted, and that, in order to secure obedience to the orders of the League, the tenants would be installed, by its precautions, at the doors of their old houses, in such a way, that no interference would be possible. At the same time, the crowd opened, and he saw a number of carts filled with materials. Every one at once set to work; and before the day ended, fifty or sixty wooden huts, for which the frames had been sent all ready, were put up on the side of the road, and each evicted family was comfortably installed in one of them the same evening.
We may judge of the effect produced by this unexpected scene that the League had organised to give a new proof of its power. The arrangement has now lasted for two years; the seventy evicted families are supported at the expense of the League; the land on which these huts are built belongs to farms in the neighbourhood; they are regularly let to the tenants who occupy them. Some landlords wished to protest; but they were threatened with Lord Cloncurry’s fate, and so their opposition subsided.
At the same time, Lord Cloncurry has not yielded one inch. He put some cows into the boycotted fields, and curiously enough, their tails have not been cut off—an immunity that they probably owe to the fact that, on its side the authorities have stationed two or three bodies of police in the empty farms, and that the fields are patrolled by well-armed constables every night.
At Dublin, Mr. Harrington had told me about this business, recommending me to go and visit the Land League huts. It appears that the Association has profited so much by their action on this occasion, that in spite of the great expense entailed, it has built other huts under similar circumstances in other parts of Ireland. It is certain that the seventy men whom the League has supported in idleness during the last two years must be invaluable agents, and the whole proceeding also serves as a very fine advertisement for the League.
After a few minutes’ walk, we reached a place by the roadside where two of these huts are built. I wished to visit them, in spite of the Colonel’s advice, for he warned me that having been seen with him, I might expect a very cold reception, and might even be most unceremoniously turned out. “For,” said he, “these men are the most desperate fellows in the country!”
And, in fact, it at first seemed very probable that his words would be verified. In the first house I entered a woman was sitting near the door peeling potatoes; five or six children of different ages were in the corners; the husband, a great fellow with a bad physiognomy, was seated near the window, smoking his pipe, with his hat on and both hands in his pockets.
“Good morning, madam!” said I pleasantly, as I entered. “Good morning, sir!”
The woman never even raised her head; the children looked at me, thrusting their fingers up their noses; the husband gave an ill-omened grunt.
This sounded badly. But at that instant an idea struck me that I can only call brilliant, although that word may cause my modesty to be questioned. The eldest child, a horrible-looking urchin of ten or twelve years old, frightfully dirty and half naked, was evidently poking the fire when I entered; he still held the stick he had been using for the purpose.
“Madam,” I continued still more pleasantly, “would you kindly allow your nephew to give me a light for my cigar?”
Instantly the woman raised her head and pushed away the locks of yellow hair that covered her eyes.
“My nephew!” said she. “But I haven’t a nephew!”
“But that boy there—is he not your nephew?”
“That boy there—he’s my son!”
“Your son—that great boy! But I can only beg your pardon. Upon my word, you look so young that I should never have supposed that you had a son of that age. I am a foreigner—a Frenchman. You must excuse my blunder.”
I had scarcely finished my pretty little speech, when everything in the house was reversed. First the mother, then the father, jumped from their chairs to offer them to me.
“Ah, your honour,” said the woman, “how can you say I look young? I am three years older than my husband, blessed be the saints! I have seven children, your honour. Pat, finish there, are you going to give his honour a light for his cigar?”
After that, nothing was refused to me. I went over the whole house. It was ten yards long by six wide. To the right two partitions, which were placed at right angles to each other, formed two rooms, each containing one bed; the parents and daughters slept in one, the boys in the other; the large room was used as a kitchen. Mr. Parnell’s portrait hung on the wall. My hosts were unacquainted with Latin, or they should have written below it: Deus nobis hæc otia fecit. But still this does not prevent them from enjoying their position. The husband explained that the Treasurer of the Land League passes every Saturday, and gives them 2l. Besides this, he sometimes earns a shilling a day by working. Through the window he showed me his old farm on the opposite hill; it is one of those now turned into a garrison, but he appears quite resigned to his condition. I think that, at least so far as he is concerned, this display of military force is quite unnecessary, for I believe that he would be quite dismayed if he were told he would be reinstated in his old home.
I asked him whether he had ever thought of emigration. “Emigration!” said he, with extraordinary energy. “Never; I would rather die of hunger!”
These words confirmed the statements made by the heads of the Land League at Dublin. I thought that the Irish peasant, unlike the French of the same class, was easily persuaded to emigrate; but this is not so. Every one whom I have asked in my walk this morning has made the same answer. However, they tell me that the young men have different ideas and that, on the contrary, most of them were going to seek their fortunes in America and Australia.
When I had inspected the first house, I asked if I could see the second, and since they had now made my acquaintance, I was received there cordially at once. This one is rather larger; it is occupied by a man about sixty years old, named Patrick Hogan. He lives there with eight women—his wife, and seven daughters or granddaughters. They were all bare-footed and very dirty, and in the last respect the house rivalled them, although it bore signs of great comfort. Three or four fine sides of bacon hung from the roof. To the right of the door stood a large sideboard, on which a dozen blue earthenware plates were displayed, representing a Chinese landscape, with a pagoda to the right and a bird to the left. I recognised it as the garden of Puntin-qua, at Canton. Many years ago some English china manufacturers made a drawing of it, and inundated the world with pseudo-Chinese productions of their own workmanship. On the wall Mr. Gladstone’s portrait hung between those of Mgr. Croke and Mgr. Walsh. There were also a few religious pictures.
Mr. Patrick Hogan is evidently in a superior position to that of his neighbour. He told me his own history in well-chosen words. He also receives 2l. per week. The rent of his farm was 40l., and when he was evicted he would willingly have signed a new lease at 36l.; but now farming is so bad that he would not agree to more than 30l. He also told me that he was two or three years’ rent in arrear.
I asked him if Lord Cloncurry had not seized his cattle.
“Oh, no,” said he with a cunning look; “I took care to get them all away on the eve of the eviction. One of my neighbours is keeping them for me.”
I told him that this trick was not altogether unknown amongst us; adding that I had even seen it carried out so skilfully, that one farmer managed to “get away” forty or fifty oxen and cows in one night. This anecdote seemed to interest him immensely, and to confirm his high opinion of France.
“Ah, your honour,” said he, “the French are a great people!”
He then inquired whether we also had a Land League—he pronounced it lague—and was rather astonished when I told him that with us a tenant who could not pay always tried to leave, and that often, particularly just now, it was the landlords who compelled the tenants to remain in their farms. We agreed at once that landlords are a very bad lot, all the world over; he shook my hand with a vigour that nearly dislocated the arm, and we parted the best friends in the world.
I have forgotten one detail which is worth quoting. When I asked Mr. Patrick Hogan how he passed his time, he confided to me that he had taken some lands situate some distance from here. He held them at a very low price, and had managed to relet them at higher rents to three under-tenants. I asked him if he had not some trouble with his tenants. “Ah!” he answered; “I should like to see them refuse to pay me!” A reply that completely capsized all my notions of right and wrong, already much shaken by everything that I had heard and seen in this singular country!
[(April, 1887.) I have received from Ireland a request to rectify an error, which I hasten to do at once. I said that the Limerick butcher who took Colonel M——’s field, found his cows’ tails cut off. It appears that this misfortune happened to the cows of a neighbour under the same circumstances. The butcher hastened to withdraw his cows from the boycotted meadows before they suffered the same fate.
Neither was it Colonel M——’s would-be assassin who, when lying in a hospital in America, declared to his confessor that he had been paid by means of a subscription in which all the tenants on the estate had joined. The story is true, but it is applicable to another case.]