CHAPTER IV.
LIMERICK—ADMIRABLE SELF-DEVOTION OF THE IRISH PIGS—THE AGENTS—MALLOW—KILLARNEY—HOW ONE TRAVELS IN KERRY—MUCKROSS ABBEY—AN IRISH HUT—DERRYGARIFF—THE ORIGIN OF AN ESTATE—THE DRAMA OF GLENVEIGH—A DINNER IN KERRY.
Tuesday, July 6th.—At nine o’clock this morning, I quitted the hospitable mansion of Ballinacourty, in order to keep an appointment which I had made with one of the most well-known agents in the south of Ireland. It seems that the Irish railway companies share in the general distress, or at least are doing a very poor amount of business. This, however, is not the result of the extremely luxurious accommodation afforded, for which our own lines are reproached. The station at Lisnagry, where I took my ticket, simply consists of a miserable shed leaning against a very small house; so small that one is quite surprised to see in it a tall young man, who is very ragged, but who discharges the triple duties of station-master, gate-keeper, and porter. As station-master he sells me a ticket—“Limerick single;” as gate-keeper he closes the barriers, addressing some invectives to a dozen freckled, bare-legged girls, who were noisily discussing their small affairs on the line; and lastly, as porter, he seized my portmanteau and placed it on the seat of the compartment, responding to my tip by piously wishing that all the saints in Paradise might bear me company.
“Thank you, your honour, and may the saints be with you, your honour!”
If really they had come in answer to his prayer they would have found themselves badly off, for the carriages are indescribably dirty; the once blue cloth was torn in five or six places. The carpet was so ragged that the idea at once suggested itself to me that the company used up the remains of their worn carpets as clothing for their servants. I point out these details for two reasons. The English who travel by railway in France never fail to lament over the rapacity of our officials, and over the inferiority and the dirtiness of our carriages, etc. Besides, there is a whole class of Frenchmen who think themselves great travellers if they have made one journey from Dover to London, and who never lose an opportunity of going into ecstasies over the admirable organisation of English railways. I do not consider them superior to ours except in one respect—the transport of luggage. In the first place, every traveller has theoretically the right to have 100 lbs. carried, instead of 60 lbs. as with us. And further, in practice, the quantity is almost unlimited, for the boxes are never weighed however ponderous they may be. In other respects, as far as the service is concerned, their system appears to consist in not having any. The porter who takes your trunk from the cab, places it in the van, often without labelling it. You have nothing to prove it has been received on arriving at your destination; the box is simply pointed out to another porter, who takes it from the van without any formalities. When this succeeds, and it apparently does succeed as a rule, it is an admirable arrangement, for, by avoiding our many formalities much loss of time is also avoided. But it seems to me that luggage must often be lost, and when that happens, I ask myself, on what basis can the owner make a claim on the company.
When I reached Limerick I was informed that the train for Mallow, which I ought to take, would not leave for another hour. I profited by this delay to visit the town. My guide-book—Black’s Picturesque Tourist in Ireland—which I had consulted on my way, told me that the town now contains 38,000 inhabitants; it is renowned for its bacon; that formerly it contained manufactories of gloves, and some large tanyards. Now, it seems that these industries have disappeared, or are rapidly declining. Limerick bacon is inferior to Chicago; scarcely any gloves are now made; and if they still prepare leather, it cannot be for the boots of the inhabitants, for only the men wear shoes—and what shoes! All the women and children I have met wisely and economically content themselves with walking in the mud on the skin of their own feet.
But at all events, if we believe Mr. Black, and I have no reason to doubt his assertions, the town of Limerick offers many interesting curiosities for the traveller’s amusement. It contains a large stone which is the joy of all antiquarians, because on this stone in 1691, a capitulation was signed and by its terms Sarsfield, Lord of Lucan, who held the town, surrendered with the Irish troops under his command to General de Ginckle who was besieging it for King William. Why do these unhappy Irishmen who are such admirable soldiers when they are once away from their country, who in France formed the splendid Irish Brigade who so brilliantly contributed to the victory of Fontenoy—why do these same Irishmen always allow themselves to be defeated almost ignominiously at home when they are fighting pro aris et focis? This is one of the most inexplicable features of the national character.
Mr. Black also recommends us to visit the Catholic cathedral, a ruined castle, the bridges over the Shannon, and a number of other not less curious objects. Unfortunately I was unable to see any of them, for I was so much absorbed after I had left the station in contemplating the touching and instructive spectacle around me that the curiosity of the tourist disappeared before the emotion of the philosopher.
It is a well-known fact in history that from the origin of man the destiny of certain people is often found indissolubly bound up with that of a particular vegetable or animal. For instance, it seems proved that without the Egyptian leek the Jews would all have died of misery and regret before they had finished even the smallest of the three pyramids of Giseh. What would have become of the Arabs without the camel and the racahou, which it appears played such an important part amongst them before it invaded the fourth page of our newspapers? Suppress the seal, and to-morrow there will be no Esquimaux. This is why Jewish and Arabian poets are always most inspired when they sing of the leek and the camel; and that if ever the Esquimaux have poets, their poems ought to be entirely devoted to the seal.
The Irish are in the same case. It is proverbial amongst them that the poor man has only two friends—his potato and his pig. In days of distress—days, alas! so common—the potato has sometimes failed, but the pig never! Consequently, every historian has devoted eloquent pages to this friend of green Erin. They have described him playing with the children of the house, sharing their food after sharing their gambols, then sharing their beds, and when dead still sustaining the life of the family after having cheered it during existence. It appears that there are a number of poets who have been inspired by this subject and who have written the most touching ballads on it. Yesterday at Ballinacourty I already understood these sentiments. I comprehended them still more from the moment that I entered the street from the Limerick station.
It was market day. In the square before me there were about a hundred Irishmen, all very tipsy. If they had been alone they could never have guided themselves. Luckily each of them had confided himself to a pig which led him by means of a string tied to its foot. The man clung to the cord, the pig led him gently, stopping occasionally, it is true, to turn over the heaps of rubbish, often deviating from the path through the zigzags taken by the man, but always ending by re-conducting him to the right road; from time to time the man, losing his equilibrium, caught hold of the pig’s tail, then the latter squeaked loudly, but this was only natural. It certainly could easily have made its escape, but this it did not attempt, it so well understood the extent of its responsibility.
They proceeded in this way, the one following the other, to the doors of a large building. A flaming notice informed me that it was a bacon factory! There they separated. The man received some money; the pig, quite resigned, addressed a last affectionate grunt to him, and then plunged into the crowd of its fellows, no doubt to conceal its emotion. The man went to bury his in a tavern. It was a grand and touching spectacle!
I saw a few national costumes in the crowd, resembling those we see in Punch’s caricatures. Tall, thin fellows, wear very high-crowned hats, with slightly-drooping brims; they wear tail coats made of frieze, and short breeches. It seems to me that it is the rich who are clothed in this way—those who at some time in their lives have been able to have a coat made for them. The others are simply covered with nameless rags.
I have already said that all the women, almost without an exception, are barefooted. But, alas! they are not like the pretty mulattoes in Bourbon who are never shod through coquetry, because they wish to preserve the pretty shape of their feet and the gracefulness of their walk, which they consider incompatible with boots. Coquetry does not seem to exist amongst the women of this country. The little they show is scarcely satisfactory. Their feet are large and ill-shaped; the leg, uncovered to the knee, has scarcely any calf; and they are horribly dirty. A characteristic note is given to their costume by their always wearing a shawl on the head. Many hold it drawn together before the face with one hand, only showing, like the Lima women, one eye. This, by the way, is the best thing they can do, for they have often fine eyes, which relieve the ordinary type of the rest of the face.
It would be wrong to call them ugly, for they have a charming expression. One never sees those little, rather pert, faces, which are so pretty and so common amongst us. Here the dominant note is a very sad, gentle, timid expression, which has a certain grace. But really these poor girls ought to do like the Corsican women, who, when they go to market, are careful before entering the town always to ford the last stream, so that their feet are washed. I also fancy that those women ought to comb their hair sometimes, instead of leaving it in a state of disorder which has nothing in common with art. Many do not even fasten it up, simply leaving it to fall about.
England is the promised land of charitable associations. Some one really ought to interest himself or herself in this matter; and my sympathy with green Erin is so great that if some energetic English spinster, of whom there are so many, will found a society with the object of distributing combs amongst the young Irish women, accompanied by tracts containing instructions how to use them, I now beg her to put my name down on the first page of the subscription list.
If this subscription succeeded well enough to enable the society also to distribute some soap, it would be very fortunate; but it would, I think, first be necessary to make a complete change in the nature of the people. The English are particularly well dressed and neat. The Irish are just the reverse. The railway servants are paid almost as much here as in England. The difference in wages is probably more than balanced by the greater cheapness of living. In England even the porters are always clean; here, the station-masters are shabby.
The train that was to take me to Mallow also conveyed a whole family of Irish emigrants, composed of the parents and two or three children. These people appeared to be in comparatively easy circumstances. The woman wore a kind of cloak trimmed with fur. Very much preoccupied about her luggage, she approached the porter’s pot of paste, and, in default of a brush, she put her hand in to re-stick a label which was coming off, and this done she wiped the hand on her cloak in the most natural way. During this time the young brother and the mother, probably, who were remaining behind, uttered absolute howls. I am told that it is the usual way of crying in this country. It is called a wail. It is often alluded to in the native poetry. But no one seems to pay any attention to it.
The country through which we pass is not very remarkable. It has the same characteristics as the district I saw the day before yesterday in going from Dublin to Limerick. We travelled towards the south. To the east the horizon is bounded by a few hills. But the line is laid in the middle of a large plain, which recalls a little the American prairie. But this is distinguished by being furrowed by a number of fences, formed by a mound of earth between two ditches—the classic Irish jump of our steeplechases—scarcely any trees; miserable little isolated houses show thatched roofs and whitewashed walls at long intervals; very little agriculture—a few fields of potatoes and oats. Here, again, the meadows have a miserable appearance; everything requires drainage; still the grass must have some good qualities, for we continually see very fine horses, which start off at a gallop, frightened by the locomotive. On the other hand the cattle are indifferent and not very abundant; the pasture could easily carry a greater number of animals here, as well as in Queen’s County.
My fellow traveller was Mr. Sanders, a charming young man, who is agent for several important estates in the neighbourhood, and who only leaves me at Mallow. I had taken care to provide myself with letters of introduction to several of these agents before leaving Paris, thinking that it would be through them that I should obtain correct information respecting the state of the country. To understand the importance of their position, we must remember the manner in which land tenure is regulated in Ireland.
We may say that small holdings do not exist. But then we can hardly see how they could ever have been formed. All the estates are of considerable relative importance; at least taken with regard to their superficial area. In other countries this constitution of the domains would have been favourable to agriculture on a large scale. It is not so here, because of the excessive population. The landowners always endeavour to increase the size of the farms by diminishing the number of them, but they never succeed, because they have to contend with local customs. A farmer will take a farm of 60 acres, then without any authority he divides it between his six children as they marry, and each young couple, still without the landlord’s permission, hasten to build a small cottage on the piece of ground allotted to them. With each generation the land becomes further parcelled out; and thus holdings of two acres and a half, or even less, are formed, and these are evidently too small to feed a family.
Under these circumstances the management of an estate becomes very complicated, and morally speaking very painful; for the proprietors are continually forced to use harsh measures. For this reason, all the Irish landowners, even those who reside on the estate, confide the management of the property to professionals, who are called “agents.” These agents are very important personages. In our northern departments, we might perhaps find some receveurs who can be compared to them. As a rule they receive 5 per cent. upon all the rents they collect; but all the expenses of collection, &c., fall upon them, and these expenses are very considerable, for their receipts are so great that frequently they have regularly organised offices. One of those to whom I have an introduction receives commissions amounting to 4,000l.; only I am told that his general expenses absorb one half. I must add that the agents form a class whose respectability is publicly acknowledged, even by the Land Leaguers, who are naturally their bitterest enemies. Their duties often force them, particularly during the last few years, to incur the responsibility of measures that appear very harsh; but in spite of this I have constantly noticed that they are far from being as much hated as one would think. Latterly, however, the agents have frequently been fired at, and several have been killed. Nearly all discharge the same duties, from father to son for several generations, and it is most curious that this profession is so well known that young men intended for it commence by an apprenticeship with one of their number, and even pay very heavy sums to obtain this education. One case was cited to me where the young man paid a premium of 120l.
Few of them manage one estate only. Most of them have charge of several of varying importance. For it is a curious thing that landowners who, amongst us, would certainly never afford themselves the luxury of a farm bailiff; people who have not more than 320l. to 400l. a year, have in this country nearly always recourse to an agent; but this is of course explained by the local customs to which we have previously alluded. Most of the estates are entailed. The proprietors are therefore, strictly speaking, only life tenants. The land is transmitted from male to male, in order of primogeniture, and none of the titles can be alienated. This is called the birthright of the elder, which has existed nearly everywhere in Europe, and which, from an economic point of view, is far from having always produced bad results, since agriculture has never flourished so well anywhere as in England, where the inheritance by order of birth has been more strictly applied than anywhere else.
It is very curious that one cause of the misery in Ireland is the result of a custom which has been introduced, and which, if it does not restrict the system of entail in principle, at least renders it singularly onerous. Nearly all the deeds by which the property is entailed give a right to the owner to burden the patrimonial inheritance with annuities payable to the younger members of the family. For instance, a landowner having an entailed property which brings in 4,000l. has the right, should he have five children, to burden this property, with four annuities of 200l. each for the support of the younger ones. When the father dies, the eldest, therefore, only inherits 3,200l. per annum, whilst he still retains all the expenses and risks of managing the estate. If his son exercises the same right, he will only have 2,400l.; and thus, from generation to generation, the property becomes more and more “encumbered,” as they call it here. If one of the family is an economical man, or marries an heiress, he wipes off the mortgages, and the estate regains its nominal value; but if nothing of this kind happens—and unfortunately, in Ireland, it very rarely does happen—the land, which cannot be sold because it is entailed, at last becomes so overburdened that when a bad year comes, or the rents are not paid, the landlord does not even receive enough to pay the annuities or charges, and he is forced to borrow at enormous interest to enable him to meet his own requirements.
It will readily be seen how these customs aggravate the situation. In Ireland there are a number of estates which still pay “head rents” (or annuities) given to the younger members of the family more than two hundred years ago. The money which has been expended upon many estates has been constantly provided by English capitalists. Until within the last few years, these investments were greatly sought after. As long as the rents continued to rise all went well; but now they are diminishing, even where they have not quite disappeared, one can imagine what happens. I dare not say the majority, but I may say that a great number of the Irish landowners are really reduced to insolvency. For instance, here is a case that I can verify, because I have seen the accounts of the estate: Lord X—— has a rent-roll that, five years ago, amounted to 32,000l., but he has been obliged to agree to a diminution of 4,000l. The rent-roll is therefore now reduced to 28,000l. If the rents were paid, which they are not, only 500l. would remain as surplus in the proprietor’s hands.
It is easy to understand the terrible results of this state of things. The property I allude to has been seized by the creditors—English bankers who have never entered the country—and they have appointed an agent on their own account. Can any one reasonably expect that these men, who are not in the receipt of any interest on their money, will agree to fresh reductions?
Unfortunately, if the landlords or their representatives find themselves so placed that it is impossible for them to make the sacrifices necessitated by the situation, it must be acknowledged that on their side the Irish, or, at least, the Land League, often, by their measures, render matters worse. The Irish complain bitterly of absenteeism. The other day, at Rathmines, Sir Thomas Esmonde laid great stress upon the fact that out of rentals amounting to 17,000,000l., more than 6,000,000l. go out of Ireland every year to be spent in England. I quite admit these figures. It is evident that such a drain of capital must be disastrous. But do not the leaders of the Land League often use all their powers to increase it?
Two very striking cases have been mentioned to me. A few years ago a regiment was stationed at Limerick. The officers were all very rich, and spent a great deal of money in the town. One day, I do not know under what circumstances, the regiment openly avowed its anti-Home Rule sympathies. It was immediately boycotted; every tradesman refused to supply, not only the soldiers and officers, but even their families. Feelings became embittered; quarrels were of daily occurrence; and the regiment was recalled to England, and was not replaced—a net loss to the town of 40,000l. a year. Is it just to reproach the English Government for this state of things?
Another example: a very rich Irish officer settled at Bruree, near Limerick, and bought a pack of foxhounds, arranging the hunt on the most liberal scale. He had a hundred or a hundred and fifty hounds, thirty or forty horses, sixty or eighty keepers, grooms and men-servants, indoors and out.
After a few disputes with his tenants, the Land League boycotted him; and the first time the hounds went out they were poisoned. He at once dismissed all his servants, closed his house, and established himself in Northamptonshire. It is calculated that the county now loses 20,000l. or 24,000l. per annum through his departure. He is another “absentee”—but through whose fault?
It is the Land League’s misfortune to pursue two objects, and for the sake of one it often turns its back upon the other. The Land Leaguers are first filled with hatred against England; they wage desperate war against her by every means that they have at their disposal. We can understand a little of this feeling when we read the atrocities that the English have committed in this country even to a comparatively recent date.
“Vengeance is a divine pleasure,” says a poet; but he omitted to add that, as a rule, vengeance is a very expensive pleasure. The Irish are wrong in wishing and in endeavouring to avenge themselves and to improve their position at the same time; they must choose between the two ideas. In driving the owner of Bruree away they avenged themselves; but they have changed the situation of this little corner of Ireland very much for the worse; and the same thing that happened at Bruree has taken place in a hundred other localities.
Mr. Sanders left me at Mallow, which we reached about half-past one. He was obliged to go to a small village in the neighbourhood, where he had to carry out an eviction on the following morning. He had requisitioned a force of constabulary, of which one detachment came in our train. For a few minutes I walked alone on the platform, and then I noticed a man coming towards me, of middle height, thick-set, carefully shaved, his face quite sunburnt, under very short, quite white hair. He introduces himself as Mr. Townsend Trench, to whom some mutual friends living in Paris have given me letters of introduction, and he had been kind enough to come and meet me to take me to his usual residence, Lansdowne Lodge, at Kenmare, from which he had been absent some weeks, but he was now returning home on purpose to receive and welcome me.
Mr. Trench is one of the best known persons in Ireland; his agency is one of the most important; the estates that he manages certainly represent the superficial area of a whole county, and are situated in the most disturbed regions. Therefore, in the eyes of five or six thousand tenants and their families, he is the incarnation of landlordism; on him centres all the odium of the measures that he has been forced to take during the war that has now lasted four years, and he has never attempted to evade his responsibility. In all the Parliamentary inquiries when he has been called to give evidence, he has always spoken with unparalleled clearness. Moreover, he is not a Roman Catholic; he does not even belong to the Established Church, but is one of the most active members of a particular sect called the Plymouth Brotherhood. Nothing was therefore lacking to prevent his becoming the bête noire of the whole country side, yet it is a singular coincidence—and this proves the man’s real value—that of all the agents he is perhaps the least detested. No one has ever attempted to murder him—but this may possibly be a little due to the fact that he is credited with being one of the best shots in Ireland; he has never been formally boycotted—that is to say, the Land League has never laid him under an interdict; he has even retained personal and almost amicable relations with its principal chiefs. The other day at Dublin, Mr. Harrington, the general secretary of the League, when he heard that I was to be the guest of Mr. Trench, began to laugh.
“Oh,” said he, “you are going to Trench; you could not do better to hear the other side of the question. I knew him well formerly, and I have preserved a great esteem for him, although we have not two ideas in common. Tell him so from me. Have you heard the pun they have made about him?—’One Trench is enough to drain all Ireland!’”
Under the guidance of this man, whose personal worth is so great that he has won respect and even sympathy from his bitterest political enemies, I am now about to visit part of county Kerry, the most disturbed district in Ireland.
We took our tickets for Killarney, and from there we shall drive to Kenmare, passing through the most picturesque scenery in the country. Every year a number of tourists flock there, an excursion to Lake Killarney being an indispensable item in every tour round Ireland.
Shortly after our departure from Mallow we approached a mountainous region, and, although trees are rare in Ireland, where there are scarcely any forests, these mountains are covered with brushwood. The town of Killarney itself contains 6,000 inhabitants (again I quote Mr. Black), and it is built near to a lake. As we had nearly twenty-five miles to drive before we could reach Kenmare we went into the hotel to lunch. The landlord came forward to make a sad complaint to Mr. Trench. The poor man adjudged politics, the Land League, and above all, the newspaper reporters, to the infernal regions. There had been so many murders in the neighbourhood, so many outrages as they say here, and the journalists have painted the state of the country in such black colours, that the tourists have taken fright and have gone to quieter countries. His hotel is empty or nearly so. He appears so disconsolate that I feel I ought to say a few consoling words to him.
“Sir,” said I, “allow a stranger, who is quite disinterested in the matter, to give you a little advice. You must evidently take some steps. You must give up the timid tourist. But there exist, thank heaven, other varieties of tourists! Why do not you examine the position of affairs and find an attraction for romantic tourists—those who on their return home enjoy making their neighbours shudder while relating to them the dangers from which they have escaped during the holidays? The Neapolitan hotels are always so full when there is any chance of an eruption of Vesuvius that, if we can believe the newspapers, the innkeepers there have combined and have promised a large reward to Professor Palmieri, a man who has made the study of volcanoes his speciality, if he will organise artificial eruptions when the syndicates desire them. At Ajaccio an hotel-keeper of my acquaintance subsidises a brigand, the celebrated Ballacoscia—a wonderful man! Twice a week he leaves his house at Pentica to settle in a very picturesque grotto above Boccognano, near the railway station. He receives travellers there. I have known several old English ladies who have for five pounds bought the stiletto with which he avenged his sister’s honour. Another, to whom he gave a lock of his hair, sent to England for a capital waterproof for him to use in his professional excursions. All these small benefits or gains are amicably divided between the intelligent innkeeper and the brigand, and every one is content. Why do not you attempt something of the same kind? In your place I should ask Mr. Trench to arrange a small eviction in the neighbourhood every week. You may rest assured that amongst the evicted family you could always arrange to have a venerable looking old man and a few pretty girls who would wail together harmoniously. You could organise excursion trains. For two shillings there might be a simple eviction; for three shillings an old woman of ninety should be forcibly carried from the house by the police; and for four shillings the police should be received with volleys of stones. Take my advice, think over the idea. Perhaps it contains the solution of the Irish question. For I hope that you would give good fees to your company of performers.”
The Killarney innkeeper listened to me with great interest. I heard him mutter “Bedad! there is something in that.” And after vigorously shaking hands he accompanied us to the carriage, where I seated myself with Mr. Trench and his secretary, a tall young man, named Lewis.
“You are not afraid to sit next to me?” said Mr. Trench laughing. “We shall pass through some of our worst villages. If any one shoots at me you will have your share of the charge.”
“Bah!” I answered, “every landlord that I have met has been shot at two or three times. Your boys seem very unskilful!”
“All right! Drive on, Dick. Lewis, is your revolver loaded?”
“Yes, sir; here it is.”
“Ah! I must change the cartridges in mine.”
This is how we travel through county Kerry in the year of grace 1886.
But the surprises in store for me had not yet come to an end.
We had scarcely gone a hundred paces before Mr. Trench showed me an enormous building that we were passing on our right. “Do you see the castle down there?” said he. “Lord X—— lives there. Three years ago, after a dispute with one of his tenants, he was informed that his castle was doomed. It had been agreed that it should be blown up with dynamite. The Government at once sent off twenty constables, who are still there. Ten keep guard during the day and ten during the night. They cost the Government 2,000l. per annum.”
“Do you really believe that if the men were withdrawn the castle would be blown up?”
“I am absolutely certain of it. The dynamite is already prepared.”
The next moment we quitted the road and entered a fine park, bordered by the lake.
“We will get down here,” said Mr. Trench. “I want to show you the ruins of Muckross Abbey.”
Before us, on a small eminence, I saw a large wall pierced by pointed arched windows, which I recognised at once, for all the Irish railway carriages are ornamented with photographs of it. The abbey was founded, it is said, in 1440. Now, only a few towers and a very curious little cloister remain, and in the centre a magnificent yew tree has grown. The ground outside of the chapel is still used as a cemetery for the members of certain families. After all, in my opinion, the ruins are hardly worthy of the reputation they have acquired.
As we were re-entering the carriage a man came running out.
“There’s two shillings a head to pay, please your honours,” cried he.
“Do you take us for tourists by any chance?” said Mr. Trench, whom he had not at first seen.
The man, laughing, bowed low, and then without any further demand on us ran to a carriage full of Americans who had just driven up.
“Now look at the castle,” continued Trench. “It was built by the father of the present owner, Mr. H——, of Muckross. He spent 40,000l. upon it—something like a million of your francs. Everything that you see is derived from the estate. Still it is what is called ‘an encumbered estate.’ It has been seized by creditors, and Mr. H—— is now in America. He was an officer, but was compelled to resign his commission, and to work as clerk in a New York attorney’s office. Do you know how they keep up the paths and replace the slates on the roof?—with the shillings that poor old man makes the tourists pay him for relating the history of the abbey! This is what we are reduced to in Ireland!”
The road gradually ascended, skirting the mountains which overlook the lake. These mountains are covered with woods containing handsome beech, fir, and other trees, and even a few oaks.
“Look there,” said Trench, pointing them out to me, “those are fine trees, are they not? The Canadian and Norwegian firs are now brought to us so cheaply that the few trees we possess are not worth the expense of cutting down. The only deer now left in Ireland are here. From time to time there is a hunt to amuse the tourists. After an hour the animal takes to the water The hounds are recoupled, and the stag escapes with a bath!”
As we ascend, the landscape becomes more charming. At our feet on the right we see the largest lake in Killarney, covered with islets, that at a distance resemble bouquets of verdure. The stream that flows at the bottom of the valley feeds three or four others that we pass by in succession. By degrees the woods disappear, and the mountains seem bristling with huge grey rocks.
This rough country, however, is not a desert. Wherever the rocks have held a little vegetable earth one sees a small field, and then by looking carefully we finally perceive a small hut. There are people vegetating there.
Catching sight of one of these houses not far from the road, between us and the stream, I asked Mr. Trench to allow me to visit it.
“Wait a moment,” said he, “I will go with you. Tell them that you are French, and give them a shilling, then you are certain to be well received.”
We descended by a goats’-path. I wish to assure my readers that the details that follow are strictly true, and that all the figures were written down on the spot.
The house in front of us was about eight yards long by five wide. One of the gables is formed by the vertical side of a large rock against which it leans. The other gable and the two side walls are built of dry stone. The walls are only about six feet high, but the roof is very sloping, and this renders the inside room sufficiently lofty.
The roof is formed of a few bundles of reeds and clods of grass which rest on a dozen bare poles. There is neither chimney nor window, and the earth is the floor. The smoke escapes as it best can through the numerous holes in the roof. The little daylight that enters can only come in by the same way. The occupiers walk about on the mud. The hearth, on which a few clods of turf are burning, is formed by four or five stones arranged in a circle. The opening that is used as a doorway must also serve as the entrance for every wind, for there is not the least trace of anything to close it with. With regard to furniture, I can only discover a saucepan, a kind of watering pot, an old, broken iron bedstead, on which an old blanket is thrown, and which stands to the left of the door, between it and the rock; on the right there is a camp bedstead, formed of a few planks supported by stakes The family, which surrounds us, consists of a man about forty years old, his wife, his mother-in-law, who is about seventy-seven and quite blind, and four children from ten to two years old. I never saw such utter misery in any part of the world. The man is covered with tattered garments that can hardly, strictly speaking, be called clothes. He has also shoes. In this country agriculture is all carried on with a spade. Now in order to dig with a spade one must have shoes. This is why the men are the only members of a family who wear anything on their feet. The nameless rags that are wrapped round the women and children defy description. The old woman, who is blind, as I have said, only wears a chemise and a skirt that scarcely reaches her knees. These two garments are in such a state that she is really almost naked. When she tries to walk she drags herself from rock to rock in order not to fall, testing the ground with her feet which are covered with cuts. The other woman is dressed in about the same style. The two smaller children are quite naked, and they certainly look the best. But it is terrible to see the sickly skin, the hollow cheeks, and drawn features of these poor people who are evidently suffering from hunger.
How can it be otherwise? When the husband gets any work it is on the road, and he earns a shilling a day; but he rarely finds anything to do, and the money only pays the rent. The whole family must therefore live on the produce of two cows and the potato field. I asked if I might see it.
A few steps from the hut a bank of rocks rises at the foot of the mountain, the tableland thus formed arrests the soil that the rain brings down from the heights above, the layer of vegetable mould is therefore a little thicker there than elsewhere. It is this tableland that has been cleared. I measured it. It is about sixty-two yards long by twenty-nine wide. I notice that only seven or eight hundred yards of the enclosure are really fit for cultivation. I am then shown the cows; they are two miserable little thin beasts of the native race, called Kerry cows; they are as thin as the horse in the Apocalypse and jump like chamois over the rocks that surround them. I asked myself what they could possibly find to eat.
The man had built his own house, but, after all, that had not taken him long. His landlord has, therefore, only given him the field I have just seen, and the right of pasturage for his two cows, while for this handsome establishment, that he pompously calls a farm, the wretched man pays 3l. per annum. The price is absolutely ridiculous; but even if he paid nothing at all, supposing he was given the whole place, a field of sixty-two yards long by twenty-nine wide cannot possibly provide food for a family of six or seven persons, nor even provide work for the man. Nor is there any manufacture in the neighbourhood which could employ him. If he were the owner instead of the tenant, even if he had not one penny of taxes nor of rent to pay, he and his family would still die of hunger; and I defy all those gentlemen in O’Connell Street to prove the contrary. What, then, is the object of making him a landowner? They would attach him to the soil like a rock; and the soil will not feed him. At least, in the present state of things; he would go away if he retains any common-sense. Nothing could be droller—if it is possible to use this word in speaking of such sad subjects—than the manner in which these little inquiries are made. Mr. Trench was the first to enter the house, twirling his shillalah with an easy air. The two women, crouched in a corner near the fire, did not move; the youngest only looked askance at us.
“Good morning, ladies! How are you?” said Mr. Trench.
A grunt was the only answer.
“Here is a French gentleman who wishes to see your house. You well know what Frenchmen are!”
“Ah! your honour!” stammered the old woman. “There—I have heard of the French! may the blessed Virgin Mary be with them! Will they not come soon? When they are here we shall be less miserable! God bless them!”
The young one joined in chorus. We heard a running fire of pious ejaculations, to each of which Mr. Trench devoutly shouted “Amen!” The noise made it impossible to hear oneself speak. The old woman was particularly terrible, her voice was so piercing. Then from time to time Trench gave a great thump on the ground with his stick, exclaiming, though still with the utmost politeness, “Whish’t! my dear madam! whish’t!” I had always heard that “whish’t” meant silence. It appears that this is so, only it is not in English, but in Irish. But I never saw anything so strange as the way in which the conversation was thus carried on. It had, at all events, the effect of putting us on the best terms with the whole family—a result which the distribution of a few sixpences perhaps tended to accelerate. The women then conducted us back to the carriage, overwhelming us with the noisiest benedictions.
“Let me understand,” said I to Mr. Trench as soon as we were a little way from the cottage. “Will you explain to me how you can ask 3l. rent from those unfortunate people for less than an acre of very bad land and for the right of valueless pasturage that is absolutely visionary, for you see the state of his two cows?”
“Allow me to wait a few moments before answering your questions,” he replied.
Ten minutes later we came to a bend in the road, which having now reached the top of the hillock that we had been ascending since we left Killarney, turns suddenly to the left, and then re-descends into another valley, still wilder than the first, and where there are no more trees. The names in this country are so diabolic that I avoid writing them down as much as possible, because I foresee that the proofs would have to be sent at least four times to the printers before we could expect the compositors to reproduce them as they are spelt. Another thing is that nine-tenths of my French readers would abandon the attempt to read them. For instance, the valley we have just passed through is called Coom-a-Dhuv; the last lake we saw is the Loc-an-bric-Dearg; the mountain opposite is Cro-mag-lan; and the pass by which we go from one valley to another bears the soft name of Derrygariff. One of my old relations often excites herself about the obstinacy that leads English people to say pocket-handkerchief when it would be so much easier to pronounce mouchoir de poche. And really, without going so far as this worthy lady, I cannot help thinking that it must be very tiring in the end to be obliged to utter such long words, and that it must seriously complicate existence.
We are now at Derrygariff, since there is a Derrygariff. On the right side of the road stands a horrible house of dry stones, from which an old woman came out, very dry too, and not less tattered than those whom we had just left. On seeing her, Trench abruptly leaned back in the carriage. She rushed towards us, crying in a whining voice:
“Just a penny, your honour! And may the Blessed Virgin be with your honour!”
“Amen,” growled Trench, suddenly showing himself like a devil springing from a holy-water vase.
The old woman drew back thunderstruck.
“Tell me then, Mrs. Finnigan; will you please tell me who authorised you to settle under-tenants on your land?”
“Holy Virgin! Mother of God!” said Mrs. Finnigan, stupefied. Then, at once assuming an amiable expression:
“Eh! is it good Mr. Trench? May God protect him! He’s a sight to cure sore eyes. And I took him for a tourist!”
“I see that,” continued Trench, “and you are not ashamed to beg, although, to my knowledge, you have 500l. in the bank at Kenmare? But you have not answered my question. Who is this under-tenant that you have settled on your land?”
“Oh, Mr. Trench! To accuse us of under-letting our land. Holy Mother of God! Never! It is only a poor man who asked leave to settle there; now we can’t turn him off; and then, taking pity upon him, we engaged him as caretaker, and we are only paid for the land he occupies by his work upon ours, or upon the roads, because my husband has undertaken the care of the roads. Your honour, the poor must help each other, your honour!”
“Ah! Just so. I see how it is,” said Trench. “Drive on, Dick.”
Then, turning towards me:
“Now do you understand? You heard that impudent hussy explain in a few words the system of under-tenants, which is one of the worst plagues in Ireland, and for which they account us responsible. Finnigan, her husband, rents a farm of ninety acres; he also has the right of pasturage on the mountains. As far as I recollect, he pays a rent of 15l. or 20l. a year. You see that it is pretty moderate; and the proof that it is not let too dearly is that he has made large savings, in spite of the bad years that we have passed through. He is an active, intelligent man, but horribly avaricious. You saw the house he lives in; he would not improve it for anything in the world, because his wife and children never fail to ask alms from passing tourists, and he considers that it is especially desirable to arouse their pity. Now, without saying a word to us, he under-lets the land. You have just seen one of his tenants; perhaps he has three or four others hidden in different corners; and you have heard the money he demands from them. His rents are never in arrear; they are even paid in advance, because he is careful to have them paid by the man’s work.
“You must remember that this arrangement is strictly forbidden; first by the lease, and afterwards by the law. To avoid difficulties, the unfortunate man is reported as his landlord’s servant. He can, therefore, at any moment be turned out of the house that he has built himself.
“What can be done in the matter? I could certainly get rid of him by ejectment. But I should have to summons him, then obtain a company of soldiers, receive stones and mud from the whole population; risk a fight, in which one or two men may be killed; and then be called a tyrant by the newspapers. From time to time, when the abuse gets too flagrant, I make an example, but as a rule I close my eyes.
“Good heavens!” he continued, “I don’t know what they reproach us for! First they say that in bygone days the land was confiscated—taken from its rightful owners. We will admit that to be true. Four or five hundred years have passed since the event took place that they are alluding to. But how did the old landowners get possession of the land? By conquest, as a rule, if not always. And why should conquest create a more legitimate title than confiscation?
“Besides, I altogether deny that all the landed estates in this country were acquired through confiscation. We are, at this moment, on the Marquis of Lansdowne’s estate, the present Governor of Canada. He owns 100,000 acres here, all in a ring fence. Now this is how the estate came into the family.
“You see how bad the land is. Two hundred years ago the country was absolutely a desert. At that time all the mountains you now see bare were covered with forests; in the last century they were cut down to provide the wood required for fuel. One of the ancestors of the present marquis came over, settled here, and obtained a concession of the land on the condition that he brought it into cultivation. At his own expense he brought the labourers. He built the town of Kenmare, where we are now going. It still belongs entirely to the family. Afterwards, in recognition of his services, he received the title of Marquis of Lansdowne.
“He therefore created the property. It did not exist before he came to the country. The land was as barren as Greenland may be now. He brought the soil into good condition, and all the ancestors of the people now living here came with him. I do not say that in Ireland there are many estates that have the same history as this one; but can there be in the whole world a property which has a more legitimate and respectable origin?
“How can they say that the landowners have not done enough for their estates? Assuredly there are some of them who are not above reproach on this score. But towards many of them the accusation is most unjust. This estate never brought in more than 15,000l.; now it only produces 7,000l. Since I have managed it I have spent more than 25,000l. in improvements of every description, and, I may add, in improvements that are quite unproductive for the owner, since the income is always decreasing. Look at that small house. I built it last year for a tenant with whom I was much pleased, and whom I wished to encourage. It cost me 120l., and his rent—which was not increased one penny—is 14l.
“Now, look over there, at that group of abominable tumble-down huts, which are quite as bad as the one we visited just now. One of the tenants had six sons. He gave up portions of the farm in order to settle them upon it. Each of them, when he married, built a house, and he now lives here, cultivating the tenth part of the original farm, which did not exceed about thirty acres. These divisions were all made without our permission. Each of the sons has five or six children; there are therefore thirty acres of land—and bad land too—from which they expect to get food for forty-five or fifty persons, and this in a country which, properly speaking, is only fit for stock raising! How can they escape dying of hunger? They answer by telling me that in certain parts of China the land supports still more people.
“Apparently the climate and the land are better there than with us; here it is impossible. When one is dealing with the first tenant, one calculates that a family of five or six people can live off the farm; now they want to make it support forty or fifty. There is a limit to the earth’s productiveness, and this limit has been already passed.
“We must always return to the fact that the great misfortune is the lack of manufactures. I have done all in my power to acclimatise them over here, but I have never succeeded. I asked a celebrated geologist to come and examine and ascertain what resources the country might offer. He left at the end of a week, telling me that he should be robbing me if he stayed any longer. There is a little iron, but since we have no coal to work it with we cannot hope to make it profitable.
“I turned to another quarter for help. If we had not the raw material, at least labour was cheap. We thought that we might utilise that by establishing a manufactory which would have for its aim the production of objects that required but little raw material. Our railway companies import all their requisites from England. I wrote to some English capitalists: we had been studying to ascertain if these requisites could not be made in Ireland. Whatever combinations were adopted, even at the lowest calculation, we could never see our way to pay more than 3 per cent. on the capital invested. Another thing, who would be mad enough to establish a manufactory in a country where now every one is at the mercy of an occult and irresponsible power like the Land League, which has often prevented vessels from loading or unloading, solely because the owner of the ship had infringed or not obeyed some of its orders? Imagine a factory suddenly boycotted without warning! What would become of the shareholders?
“It is only too evident that the present state of things cannot last. Is it admissible that a Government should spend 2,000l. per annum for an indefinite period to keep policemen on guard over that castle I have just shown you? It would be easier and more economical to let the Nationalists blow it up, except for the indemnity to which the owner might become entitled. But there are ten others in the same position.
“Where is the remedy? Unhappily, we cannot see any sign of it. Mr. Gladstone has come to an understanding with the Land League, and one plan is now proposed. They wish to dispossess the landlords, and to make the peasants landowners. But let us consider what the practical results of that measure would be. Let us take, for instance, the case of the tenant of whom we were speaking just now. He has not paid one penny of rent for the last three years. Are he and his forty children and grandchildren any richer on that account? They are near dying of hunger; and if they should die of hunger, it is because they insist upon existing on the produce of thirty acres of very middling land. If we imagine him the owner of the thirty acres, in what way will the situation be improved? Will that change make the land any better, or the climate less moist?
“Besides, he would not retain the ownership very long. In every village there is a pawnbroker, on whose premises all the furniture accumulates belonging to the peasants, and who often buys their harvests before they are reaped. They are all in debt to the grocer and to the manure merchant—even the bonnets worn by the women on Sundays are all bought on credit. Three months after the land had been given to them they would have found means to mortgage it, if possible, at double its value.
“More than that, is it quite certain that they wish to become landowners as much as is pretended? It does not seem at all certain to me. As soon as the principles of the Land Act were known, a landlord, whose property I manage, wrote to me, saying that he authorised me to treat with all his tenants on that basis. He has more than eight hundred! I gave them all the opportunity of accepting the arrangement; they all refused, without a single exception.
“However, some of them told me that they were willing to treat with me, but the conditions they proposed were absolutely inadmissible. Judge for yourself.
“They desired that I should accept as a basis, not the reduced rents that had been already fixed by the Land Commissioners, who, however, had already reduced the rentals on an average from 25 to 30 per cent., but that those rents should again be reduced 25 per cent. Then instead of multiplying this figure by 20, according to the provisions of the Land Act, making the price of purchase 20 years’ rent, they wished to multiply it by 12 or 13 only. So that the owner of a property that five years ago brought in 400l., and was then worth about 8,000l. or 9,000l. first saw his rents reduced by 100l., and then by the terms of the Land Act, the price of expropriation or forced sale would have been but 6,000l. (300l. × 20); he had already therefore to submit to a loss of from 2,000l. to 3,000l. of his capital. But I was authorised to accept this valuation.
“They, however, proposed to diminish the original rental by another 25 per cent., which would thereby be reduced to 200l., and then by multiplying the 200l. by 12, the purchase-money would be 2,400l., twelve years’ purchase. They, therefore, would have it inferred that in five years the property had lost more than three-fourths of its value.
“Now on nine-tenths of all Irish estates the annual charges and expenses exceed, and greatly exceed, one-fourth of the average income. Nine times out of ten, therefore, the indemnity for expropriation would not suffice to pay off the debts. Not a single penny would reach the unlucky proprietors. Frankly, now, can we wonder that they refuse to aid in their own ruin?”
Whilst he was speaking to me I was looking at the country we were passing through. An artist would find a certain charm in it, but in the eyes of an agriculturist its appearance is lamentable. On all sides are rocky, barren mountains; we have not seen a tree since we left Derrygariff. The streams daily wash a little more of the thin layer of vegetable mould from the great schistic blocks that are visible on all sides, carrying it down to the turf pits that fill the bottom of the valley. The destruction of the forests has been another great misfortune for this country, and I asked Mr. Trench if he had never tried to re-establish plantations.
“Replant!” said he. “In the first place, as I have already told you, wood has no value here because of the timber imported from Canada and Norway; and in the second, if I replanted the mountains, the farmers would hasten to complain to the Land League that I was depriving their cattle of pasturage, and my plantations would soon cease to exist. They all have goats; and you know how little time goats require to destroy young trees. If I wished to replant these mountains or simply to cultivate them on a new method, I must begin by sending the tenants away. Mr. Adair tried to do it, and you know how that business ended.”
I had heard Mr. Adair’s history. A few years ago it was much discussed both in Ireland and England. It is one of the most typical cases that I can quote. It shows that in this unhappy country the most elementary exercise of the rights of ownership may entail serious complications.
In 1859 Mr. Adair bought the estate of Derryveigh, in Donegal. It was a very mountainous and very poor district. There was scarcely any of the land under cultivation; the tenants only kept a few cows and goats.
Rightly or wrongly, Mr. Adair thought that sheep-breeding would be profitable. But to organise that undertaking he was obliged to make some alterations in the farms, and thereby produced great dissatisfaction amongst the population. One day the sheep disappeared as though by magic. The peasants declared that they had died of hunger on the mountains, and, in fact, a great many of them were found dead at the bottom of the precipices, but Mr. Adair’s shepherds asserted that the sheep had been stolen, and the strict search instituted by the police confirmed their statements, for undeniable proofs were found that a certain number of them had been eaten. The County Court accepted the facts, and condemned the parishes to pay rather heavy damages to Mr. Adair, and this naturally considerably envenomed their relations. At length one evening the chief shepherd did not return from an expedition he had made on the mountain. His body was found—he had been murdered; but the peasants assisted the police so badly that the murderers were never discovered.
Mr. Adair was exasperated to the last degree. The crime took place near the hamlet of Glenveigh, and it was also here that traces of the lost sheep had been found. He declared that he considered the tenants at Glenveigh morally responsible for all that had happened, and that he intended getting rid of them all.
When this decision was announced the priest and the Protestant minister sent him a joint letter, pointing out that the consequences of such a determination must weigh heavily upon the innocent, and begging him not to carry out his intentions.
Mr. Adair replied that his decision was irrevocable; all the tenants must leave Glenveigh. But, in recognition of the fact that there might be some foundation for his correspondents’ observations, he declared that he was ready to find new farms on another part of the estate, and for which he would grant leases, to all the old tenants who could bring letters of recommendation from either of the reverend gentlemen.
I cannot resist entering into the minutest details of this story, for it reveals a state of affairs that, to us Frenchmen, appears quite incomprehensible. I have taken all these details from New Ireland—a very interesting book by Mr. Sullivan, one of the most eminent members of the Irish Nationalist party. Mr. Gray, the editor of the Freeman’s Journal, advised me to read it, telling me that it is one of the best written books that have appeared on Ireland. I am convinced that the author fully intended to relate these events with the utmost impartiality. But, after all, if he shows a little partiality in his recitals, it is evidently not for Mr. Adair, whose conduct he stigmatises as frightful.
Well, here are the facts. Mr. Adair believed that a small village, entirely occupied by his tenants, was a nest of thieves. And he had good reason to believe it, since the police had given him the proofs. Moreover, one of his servants had been killed, and everything seemed to indicate that the murderer, if he did not belong to the village, was, at all events, well known to the inhabitants. It is impossible, in my opinion, not to think that Mr. Adair acted very wisely. And I must add that his propositions to the priest and the minister appear to me indications of an intention to pursue a most moderate course.
But I go still further. What landowner in France has not found it necessary to join three farms into one simply to diminish the number of buildings, and to reduce the working expenses? To do this he is obliged to send away two farmers. Who dare maintain that in doing so he was committing a criminal action? Is any progress possible if this theory be admitted? But we will continue the story of Glenveigh.
Mr. Adair, therefore, gave due and formal notice to all the inhabitants of Glenveigh that they must leave their houses. Not one of them moved. On the contrary, they all intimated that they would offer every resistance, if not active, at least passive, to any endeavour to turn them out. Mr. Adair, therefore, according to custom, presented himself before the authorities at Dublin, and, having affirmed upon oath that he considered that the men employed in the eviction would be exposed to personal danger in the discharge of their duties, he demanded that they should be protected by the police. The authorities thoroughly shared his views on the subject, and at once ordered a regular army corps to proceed to his assistance. Two hundred constables assembled, and thirty soldiers, under the command of an officer from Dublin garrison, joined their party.
These operations commenced on the 8th April, and here I recite as literally as possible:
When they reached Lough-Barra the police halted. The sheriff, accompanied by a small escort, advanced towards a house occupied by a widow named M’Award, aged sixty, who lived there with her seven children—six girls and one boy.
The sheriff, forced to carry out his painful duties, entered the house and put Mr. Adair’s agent in possession.
Six men, engaged for the purpose, immediately began to pull down the house. The scene that followed baffles description. The despair of the unhappy widow and her daughters amounted to frenzy. Stretched on the floor, they at first appeared insensible, but soon recovering, they gave vent to that terrible Irish lamentation called the ‘Irish wail.’ The whole valley resounded with their cries.
All the inhabitants burst into tears.
The eviction was not ended until Monday evening. Before leaving his house for the last time an old man of eighty knelt down and kissed the doorpost. His wife and children imitated his example.
In the evening the scene became particularly distressing. None of these unfortunate people had been able to resign themselves to leave the ruins of their homes. They lighted fires and camped out under a pouring rain, sheltering themselves as they best could under the hedges.
Mr. Sullivan then relates that a subscription was immediately raised. Funds arrived from all sides. An Irish Society in Australia offered to defray all the expenses of the voyage if the unhappy people would emigrate. They had already dispersed. However, traces of them all were soon discovered; some of them were dead. One man, named Bradley, had gone mad.
When all those who were willing to leave were assembled, they first went to the cemetery to gather some blades of grass from the graves of their parents, to carry away as mementoes of their home. Their priest, the Rev. Mr. O’Fadden, accompanied them to Liverpool. This young priest had never, since their troubles, ceased to pay the most admirable and devoted attention to them.
I was on the quay at Dublin, continued Mr. Sullivan, when these unfortunate people embarked and quitted Irish soil. I prayed to God, that in His mercy He would compensate them for the misery they had endured. Six months later, I received a letter from Mr. O’Grady, telling me that they had all arrived safely at their destination, and that they started in the colony with every chance of success.
This story is certainly very touching; but, after all, the moral of it, if it contains one at all, is that those people, who were very unhappy in Ireland, are now prospering in Australia, and that if they were invited to return to Glenveigh they would probably all refuse.
But if Mr. Sullivan, with the money produced by his book, should buy a house and let it, how could he, if he felt inclined to change the internal arrangements, turn his tenant out?—this is what I should like to know. And if the old man of eighty was so unwilling to leave his native land, why did he not ask the Rev. Mr. O’Fadden to speak to Mr. Adair for him, and he would then have received a tenancy where he could have died in peace?
We reached Kenmare about six o’clock. It is a pretty little port, situated on one of the deepest of the innumerable bays that the great Atlantic rollers have washed out of the west coast of Ireland; they form havens that would be invaluable for commerce—if there were any. There is a gate in the chief square of Kenmare, I may say the only square, through which we enter a beautiful park, and in the midst of it stands one of those small English villas, which look foolish when they are placed side by side in a row, but which, standing alone, are really charming. This one is hidden under a thick mantle of climbing plants, through which the large glass panes of the bow windows glitter brightly. This is Lansdowne Lodge, the residence provided by the Marquis of Lansdowne for the use of his agent.
The interior is not less delightful than the exterior. The hall is ornamented with a number of deer and elk horns, found in admirable preservation in the turf pits. I had already seen some superb specimens the other day at Sir Croker Barrington’s. To the left opens a dining-room, where at eight o’clock some of the inhabitants of Kenmare assembled, to whom Mr. Trench wished to introduce me. The chief dish on the table was a splendid salmon that one of these gentlemen had killed two hours before. The conversation was most lively and interesting, but really whilst listening to it one feels in a dream. For instance, I discover that in compliment to me these gentlemen have consented to dine away from home, but that it is a very exceptional circumstance, and they are not sure that they may not regret it. No one dare go out at night for fear of being shot. One of them, who is employed on the estate, has just heard that he is to be boycotted, because of an eviction in which he was concerned. He expected that on the morrow the butcher would refuse to supply him with meat, but he consoled himself by the reflection that he had some biscuits and some tins of preserves in the house.
After dinner we went to Mr. Trench’s study to smoke. I sat down by a small table on which stood a candlestick, and placed my coffee by it.
“Excuse me, dear sir,” said one of the guests, addressing me, half laughing, half serious, “but you are wrong to sit there. You see, if any one fired at us through the window you might be hurt. There, allow me to move your chair a little. Now you are safe. And besides, hanging on the wall within reach of your hand you have a loaded revolver and a tomahawk—both excellent weapons. Try the edge of the tomahawk. Look, too, on the mantel-piece, there is a bowie knife; some people prefer a bowie knife, but I like the tomahawk best, and this one is extremely sharp.”
I effusively thanked this amiable gentleman. The conversation became general, and the guests discussed weapons. Each drew a revolver from his pocket and warmly defended his own theories. They all agreed that Mr. Trench’s revolver was too small. He was sitting about five or six paces from me on the other side of the chimney.
“Ah!” said they, “you may be the best shot in the country, but you are wrong to use such a short weapon, it cannot be relied on; you would miss a man at ten paces.”
“You say that I could not be sure of my aim!” cried Mr. Trench; “you shall see.”
Instantly I heard a frightful noise, in which I distinguished three reports, a sound of broken glass, and then I felt on my back and head a succession of tiny pricks, as though all the archers of Lilliput were shooting at me. Thinking it was a Fenian attack I sprang to the tomahawk, seized the revolver in the other hand, and, entrenched behind my arm-chair, I awaited events.
It was only Mr. Trench who had fired at the candle within a foot of my head. The first two bullets had simply broken the sconce, the last had cut the candle in two, and one of the balls had struck a box of steel pens that had been placed on a what-not; the pens had flown into the air, and some had fallen into my collar and had produced the pricking.
After warmly congratulating the master of the house, the guests took leave of us, we conducting them to the door. There each one grasped his shillalah with the left hand and his revolver with the right, and we saw them passing all the clumps of trees carefully and at a respectful distance. For ourselves, after watching them for a minute we securely barricaded the door, and I was then shown to a capital room, where I slept in an excellent bed.
But what an extraordinary country!