CHAPTER VI.
DEPARTURE FROM KENMARE—A BAILIFF UNDER PROTECTION—HOW PLAIN DAUGHTERS CAN BE ADVANTAGEOUSLY DISPOSED OF—BLARNEY CASTLE—TRALEE—BARON DOWSE’S SPEECH—AN IRISH MARKET—THE GRAND JURY AND ITS PRESIDENT—MEDITATIONS.
July 9th.—To-day the grand jury opens at Tralee, the capital of county Kerry. In his double office of magistrate and grand juryman, my host, Mr. Trench, is obliged to attend this ceremony. Besides, this year his presence is doubly necessary, because he must plead the cause of the taxpayers in the barony,[3] according to the promise given yesterday. He kindly suggested that I should accompany him, an offer which I hastened to accept, for I am very curious to see how this strange institution works.
In consequence of these arrangements, the faithful Dick brought his carriage to the door about eight o’clock this morning, just as we finished breakfast. Experienced travellers assert that if one would have a correct idea of a country, one should see it at the season which most characterises it. Thus one should see Russia in the month of January, when it is covered with snow, and Naples in the month of August. A cold country is only curious when it is cold; a moujik sweating violently being as little interesting as a lazzarone shivering in a corner by the fire.
This being so, one must arrange to see Ireland under heavy rain, for it is only necessary to consult the meteorological charts to be convinced that more rain falls in Green Erin than in any other country in Europe. But this is not my fate, at least not at present. It appears that I have unusual luck. Since I have been in Kerry, particularly, the weather has been splendid. This morning a brilliant sunshine illumined the lawns and old oaks of Lansdowne Lodge, when I turned round to give them a last glance, as the carriage passed through the gate. During breakfast, Mr. Trench and I had commenced a serious theological discussion. It had no visible result, as far as our conversion is concerned, for we still remain, he a Plymouth brother, and I an Apostolic Roman Catholic; but it continued with increasing animation during the whole journey from Kenmare to Killarney, and by this time we had reached such transcendental heights, we had “talked and retalked” with so much animation, that, absorbed in seeking my arguments, I had allowed myself to forget my duties as a conscientious tourist, and had scarcely paid any attention to the country we were passing through. I am, however, almost sure that the road we followed was the same as that we had arrived by the day before yesterday. I can therefore affirm, with a quiet conscience, that Derrygariff is always in the same place, that we have again followed the valley of Coom-a-Dhuv; that we skirted the lakes of Cummeen and Thommeen and I distinctly recollect that some one called me to admire the cascade of Derrycunihy, explaining to me that the mountain from which it issues is no other than majestic Garranthuohill! (I am anxious to give the exact facts, for à propos of my first articles an influential critic reproached me in his paper the other day because I did not give sufficient details.)
We found great animation reigning at the Killarney railway station when we arrived there. Mr. Trench met there, first of all, a number of his colleagues, who, like himself, were going to Tralee, and who, as a rule, profited by the opportunity to take their families for a little excursion. Whilst he was speaking to them I went to a corner of the station from whence nasal exclamations had reached me, riveting my attention. They proceeded from a group of American tourists of both sexes, who were contemplating with much interest a fat Irishman, dressed like a farmer, who passed to and fro, attended on each side by an enormous constable, as stiff as though he were made of wood, his little black jacket fitting his figure without a wrinkle, his policeman’s cap inclined 45° over one ear, his stock mounting to his teeth, a small staff in his hand, and a revolver at his side.
This unusual spectacle interested me greatly. Could this stout man be a victim of perfidious Albion, who was about to expiate his patriotism by rotting on the mouldering straw of a dungeon? Is he a common criminal? These two hypotheses are manifestly inadmissible. The stout man has not the air of a prisoner; far from wearing handcuffs, he grasps an enormous shillalah, and his two guards, instead of leading him, appear to regulate their movements by his: in any case they allow him to communicate freely with the Americans, who all, one after the other, advance and ask him to inscribe his name in their albums. Trench is too far off to explain this enigma. Luckily, I noticed close to me a native, well dressed and benevolent-looking, whom the stout man had greeted as he passed. I spoke to him, for he looked very polite—but that all Irishmen are, at least as long as they remain in Ireland. From the time they arrive in America, they too often become as rough as barley bread. “Certainly, sir,” replied the obliging native, “I can tell you. I know that man very well. His name is Denis McGrath, and he lives near to me. He is bailiff to one of my neighbours.”
“Well, sir, what has happened to him? Why is he followed by those two constables? Is he a prisoner?”
“Oh, no! Quite the contrary. For the last two years he has been protected by the police.”
“But why do the police protect him?”
“Ah! That is because he was mixed up in an eviction case that ended badly. The Land Leaguers in our barony have condemned him to death. He has been shot at already three times during the night through his window. He was not hurt; the balls went into his mattress. But since he has every reason to believe they intend trying again, the police have given him two men to protect him. The parish defrays the expenses.”
“Sir, you interest me greatly! Do these constables live with him?”
“Certainly. Since they never leave him, day or night!”
“That must be a great inconvenience in a small household.”
“Ah! you see the administration does all in its power to render the existence of those whom it protects as agreeable as possible. Before choosing the men for this office, the officials first make thorough inquiries respecting the people with whom they have to deal; and they try to send them constables whose similarity of tastes can make their society pleasant to them. Thus, for instance, they are careful not to send a Protestant constable to a Catholic household. McGrath certainly has nothing to complain of. He has five daughters, all freckled, and very plain. He would assuredly have had a great deal of trouble in marrying them. They sent him two bachelor constables, both very fine men. You see them there. Naturally, living amongst the five daughters, they inevitably commenced a courtship. They have married two of them!”
“Then are they now all living together?”
“Yes; but things no longer go smoothly.”
“Ah, the deuce! What has happened then?”
“Listen. The three younger daughters are very anxious to marry too. That’s very natural. They therefore try to persuade their father to complain of their brothers-in-law, in order that they may be replaced by two other unmarried constables. Only the two married sisters will not hear of such a proceeding, because, they say, that it would cause bad marks to be placed against their husbands, which would hinder their promotion; and, besides, they might also be sent to protect other families where they could not follow them. There are, therefore, such terrible scenes in the house that McGrath passes his life outside. He has become a real support to the public-house: only, since his sons-in-law follow him everywhere, their wives are furious because they fear their husbands will contract bad habits. They blame their father, who finds himself between the anvil and the hammer. Ah! he hasn’t a pleasant life of it. So now he is going to Tralee I shall not be surprised to find that he has decided to yield to the three younger ones. He is probably going to ask for two new constables!”
Not far from here, at Blarney, near Cork, there stands a strong old castle, dating from the fifteenth century. It was built by Cormac M’Carthy, a celebrated personage in the history of the county. Very important ruins still remain of it. Above the principal dungeon is seen a carved stone, to which a very ancient legend attributes magic power.[4] Every one who kisses it devoutly immediately receives the gift of a special eloquence known by the name of blarney, which ensures for them the most varied successes. Only this advantage is counterbalanced by one defect—they all become horribly untruthful. Unfortunately this pilgrimage is extremely run after. During the summer the railway companies organise special trains that bring excursionists from every corner of Ireland.
The amiable native who so kindly enlightened me upon the incidents of the domestic drama now being enacted by the McGrath family, can he be one of those called in this country Blarney pilgrims—the same thing that at home we call vulgar fumiste? Even whilst I effusively thank him for his extreme kindness, I ask myself this question. Another idea has also crossed my mind. I distinctly saw in the station the manager of the Killarney hotel, who only yesterday I advised to organise some evictions as an attraction for tourists. He seemed to appreciate the notion; and now he is explaining McGrath’s case to the Americans. This interesting bailiff, his five daughters and two sons-in-law, can they be only supernumeraries? After all, this is quite possible.
But these reflections were rudely interrupted. The train was starting, and I was forced to run in order to catch Mr. Trench in his compartment. He introduced me to one of his colleagues, who, with his son and daughter, were, like ourselves, going to Tralee. À propos, some people have a fancy for knowing the exact pronunciation of foreign words; here are a few directions for their use:—
If you wish to pronounce Tralee in the Irish fashion, you must first commence by uttering a hoarse sound drawn from the bottom of your throat, the lower the better. Gradually swell this sound, imitating a dog growling before he bites. In this way you will modulate something that can be written thus: Trrreull! And then, when your breath is nearly gone, suddenly jerk out the last syllable lee, which you must of course pronounce ly. It is fairly difficult, but if you practise it for a little while, scrupulously following my instructions, I am convinced that you will attain such a pure pronunciation that you will astonish every inhabitant of Kerry who hears you. But, I repeat, I only mention this for those who think they must pronounce foreign words in foreign fashion. Personally, I am not of their opinion, and an illustrious Academician who honours me with his friendship, assures me that I am right; and this is the reason why, in Paris, I always say “Rue Va-sin-je-ton,” and not “Rue Washington.”
Having said this in the interest of the ultra-refined in linguistic details, I resume my narrative.
The grand juryman with whom we are travelling is a descendant of O’Connell the great agitator, as he is called. I rather suspect him of privately thinking that his illustrious ancestor succeeded in agitating Ireland only too well; for, from what he and his son tell me of the state of the country, it is certain that no one has any reason to complain of excessive tranquillity. We happened to pass through their properties. The father was installed by one door, the son by the other. Every moment these gentlemen very pleasantly directed my attention towards the ruins of some house that had been destroyed by dynamite, the remnants of a haystack that had been burnt, a meadow where all the cows’ tails had been cut off, or a tree beneath which a bailiff had been found with a ball through his head. As landlords, and boycotted landlords, they assuredly cannot approve of these acts; but, as Irishmen, they enumerate all these facts with a certain complacency. National pride is always worthy of our respect. I remember an American who described to me the collision between two trains; he spoke of carriages precipitated into the Mississippi, of two or three hundred persons drowned, and then he ended by saying, with a patronising air: “Nothing equal in Europe, I guess, stranger!”
We reached Tralee about one o’clock. I was first taken to a club, where we found most of the grand jurymen preparing for the discharge of their duties by taking an excellent luncheon. Even whilst following their example I was introduced to five or six of these gentlemen, who, like Mr. Trench, are “agents.”
The information which they gave me confirms all that I have already heard about the state of this county. The rents continue to diminish. One of them quotes figures to me. The income of the property which he superintends amounted to more than 8,000l.; its remittances equalled 4,000l., taking good and bad years together. This year it will not receive more than 600l. Besides this, the people recently placed a charge of dynamite under his windows. The explosion was so violent that the whole front fell down. Sixteen persons were in the house; no one was hurt, but it was a miraculous escape. I asked him if, on his soul and conscience, he really believed that the heads of the Land League are responsible for deeds of this kind. He replied that he was absolutely sure of it, and that if the country were not terrorised he could arrest the perpetrators; if he has not done so, it is simply because he knows that no witness dare appear against them. He is giving up the struggle. He intends retiring from business at the end of the year, and his son intends using the family capital in starting a ranche in Colorado.
The Land Leaguers are very indignant when any one predicts that their success will be the signal for the general emigration of capital. Yet here is an instance which seems to prove that this prediction has some foundation. And frankly, is it possible to blame those who adopt this course? I own that I am only astonished at one thing, and that is that it does not happen more often. Leading such an existence as this is not life.
In order to realise the point which affairs have reached in Kerry, it is enough to read the speech pronounced by Baron Dowse, President of the Assizes, at the opening of the session.
“Scarcely four months,” said he, “have elapsed since the last session, and now I am again summoned to preside over you. After a careful examination of the situation in County Kerry, in respect to the criminal law, I am forced to tell you that it is worse than ever. In four months 119 criminal cases have been inscribed on the list, and their details are very significant:—
“You see, gentlemen, that nearly all these crimes are of the same character; they are agrarian. In counting up all the events coming under the same category that have taken place in this county during one year, we find a total of more than 500. Whatever political or religious opinions one may hold, it is impossible not to consider the situation lamentable. In former times the moral state of this county was very different. Criminal cases were rather less here than elsewhere. Now there is not a single county in Ireland that can be compared to it. County Clare has certainly a very bad reputation, but yet it has not fallen so low as this.”
When I read these edifying figures, I sincerely congratulated myself upon not being a landowner in County Kerry, and I thought that if I had the ill luck to possess any land there I should have real pleasure in selling it, as soon as possible, for any price it would fetch, and in getting away. I can quite sympathise with landowners who never go near their estates, and I cannot see how the Nationalists can reproach them. Still, possibly whilst creating this state of affairs, the latter may have some mental reservations. No doubt they think that by rendering life intolerable to the landowners, they will depreciate the price of land so much that they will be able to share it gratuitously amongst themselves. Perhaps they will attain this result. But as I have already said several times, what advantage will they find in that? At the commencement of the Revolution the French peasants made the same calculation; they pillaged the castles, massacred the owners when they could, and divided the estates of those who had succeeded in emigrating, to punish them for getting away. The operation has been fairly profitable for many of them. That is because at that time, and particularly a little later, the land, through the difficulty of transport, had a real value. But now the situation is quite altered; in every country in the world the land tends to have only the value which the capital employed in its cultivation may give it. What is the use of pasturage, if, on one hand, there are no more farmers, and if, on the other, one has not money enough to buy the cattle necessary to place on it before a profit can be obtained? Therefore, in our days, the emigration of capital from a country is an irremediable disaster. Now they can scarcely have any idea of making the landowners emigrate, yet of retaining their capital. I humbly venture to suggest a few of these reflections to my friends in the Land League. I think they would be wise to ponder over them in their own interest, for if they realise their programme, it may happen that as soon as the population see the results of the campaign they have led them through, a reaction may be produced, and they would be its first victims.
In another part of his speech Baron Dowse again laid stress upon the fact that a few years ago County Kerry, now so disturbed, was quoted throughout Ireland as the model county. It appears that this is absolutely true. In this little Arcadia even politics never caused any divisions. The inhabitants had discovered an excellent method of avoiding all those quarrels which they usually engender. Still there were two parties; but since the county returned precisely two members, it had been agreed, from time immemorial, that each side should have its own representative. It was always a member of the family of Herbert of Muckross, who stood for the Liberals, whilst the eldest son of the Kenmares undertook in Parliament the defence of the Conservatives. When one died, his son replaced him, and everything went smoothly in this most quiet county.
In 1871 an unforeseen circumstance put an end to this peaceful arrangement. The old Lord Kenmare died in that year. His son, Lord Castlerosse, heir to the peerage, sent in his resignation as member. Now it happened that his son was not old enough to succeed him. It was arranged that until he attained his majority the seat should be occupied by his cousin, Mr. Dease. Conservatives and Liberals assisted to secure this combination. But the opportunity seemed favourable to the Nationalists, who, precisely at the same time were commencing to draw public attention towards themselves; they decided that the party should open a struggle in Kerry. Naturally, the excitement was very great; the partisans of each candidate were soon in position. A very curious event took place, which makes the want of discipline, the weak point in the religious organisation of Ireland, very conspicuous. Mr. Dease was a great landowner in the county, a resident, highly respected and Catholic. It appeared therefore as though his candidature would be approved by all the clergy, and this seemed still more probable because Mgr. Moriarty, the bishop, had accepted the presidency of his committee.
It all went for nothing. The diocesan priests in a body openly and passionately exerted all their influence in favour of the opposing candidate, Mr. Blennerhassett, quite a young man and a Protestant! And this was only because he was the candidate for the popular party. The reason was that, in Ireland, a priest dare not get embroiled with his parishioners. This situation is often his greatest strength, but it sometimes involves him in very delicate relations with others. I believe it was M. Ledru-Rollin who one day made this striking remark: “I am forced to obey them, since I am their chief!” More than one Irish priest could say the same thing.
It was a grand electoral campaign. Political veterans still speak feelingly about it. At that time the votes were given openly. The landowners brought their tenants to the poll under safe escort and never lost sight of them until their votes had been registered. Besides, each party had recourse to heroic measures. The Isle of Valencia, which is entirely owned by the Knight of Kerry, had no polling office. Its electors, who were fairly numerous, were believed to be thoroughly devoted to their landlord, who had energetically declared himself in favour of Mr. Dease. He chartered a steamboat to take them over to the mainland to Cahirciveen, where they ought to vote. The Nationalists managed during the night to stove in the bottom of the steamer and to hire every fishing boat in the neighbourhood for the day, so that not one of the Knight of Kerry’s men was able to vote. Elsewhere, when they came in contact with timid folks, who, although partisans of Blennerhassett, dared not run full tilt at their landlord, the Nationalists made them vote not for Mr. Dease but for Lord Kenmare, so that their votes were lost; afterwards they assumed a dismayed expression and excused themselves to their furious landlord by saying that they thought they were voting for the candidate he patronised.
Is it necessary to add that Blennerhassett was elected by a large majority? Alas! the world becomes sadder. Every time one meets with a really lively institution, one feels sure that it will speedily be abolished! Open voting has submitted to the universal law. The Blennerhassett election was the last of its kind that took place in Kerry. Some months afterwards, in 1872, the new electoral law was passed. Since that time the Irish elections are, like all others in the world, horribly dull.
It is needless to add that now the county only returns Nationalists to Parliament. Tralee, the capital, which is a small town containing 10,000 inhabitants, claims to be a sea-port because they have made a canal two miles long between it and the coast, and this enables a few coasting boats to anchor in a miniature dock situated near the town. They probably come in search of pigs, for I have met almost as many of them in the streets as at Limerick. But I do not think they bring women’s shoes, for I do not remember seeing a single one walking except with bare feet.
But the streets are full of animation when we leave the club. The market has just ended. Buyers and sellers are preparing to return home. Before the smaller inns men commence harnessing grey donkeys to little two-wheeled carts which stand in rows two deep, the shafts in the air. Five or six women squeeze into each of them, their backs leaning against the sides of the cart, the chin between the knees, or even lying flat one against the other lengthways, their muddy feet and bare legs hanging outside. The husband or brother seats himself at the side on one of the shafts, and when they have wished the neighbours good-bye, they slowly start on their way home to the small thatched house standing on the edge of some bog, which they will only leave once more during a whole week, when they go to mass on Sunday next.
In front of the houses on the market-place there is an interminable line of old women; each has in front of her on the edge of the pavement a small heap of nuts, potatoes, or turnips. The purchasers do not seem numerous, but the poor old women do not appear uneasy about it. They evidently return there every market day, less to sell anything than to see the people, to meet each other, to gossip together about the good old times, when potatoes were more plentiful, the sun hotter, the girls prettier, and the “boys” more gallant than they are now! There they are, seated in the mud, their bare legs twisted on one side to leave room for passers by, their heads wrapped in old shawls, a few grey locks peeping through the holes in them, the majority smoking short black pipes. Myriads of children, charming, but very dirty, roll in the gutter around them. Poor old women! In their dull, sad lives these market days stand out like nails placed at intervals in a wall, on which their recollections are hung. I remember at Tamatave seeing the old Malagachy women arrive from all sides, almost naked, their ribs projecting under their sickly skin, emaciated, hideous, yet having walked twelve or fifteen miles to sell two eggs and a cabbage palm—in reality to gossip with their neighbours. Human nature is the same everywhere.
But I have not time now to continue my observations. As soon as the grand jury had finished luncheon they started to go to the town-hall, and since these gentlemen had kindly invited me to be present at their work, I hastened to accompany them.
It is evident that the principles on which the composition of the grand jury rest are no longer tenable. I have already said so, and I repeat it. They are contrary to every idea of right, since the taxes are voted by these men, who are, but very indirectly, the representatives of those who ought to pay them, and who at all events are not elected by them. The best medicine in the world usually works only harm if the patient takes it against his will. A peasant may be obliged to pass over the bridge in front of his house every day, but if he is asked for a shilling to keep it in repair, and if the man who imposes the shilling is the great landowner next to him, he will always remain convinced that it is only the great landowner who will profit by the shilling he has made him pay. Formerly, when the different classes agreed, it was not the same thing; but now that war is declared, it is manifestly impossible that an Irish peasant will be anything but exasperated by the thought that it is only his political enemies who have any voice on the subject, and who administer the affairs of his barony or county. This institution of the grand jury must then disappear: it is fatal. So much for the question of principle. But, this once admitted, we may ask ourselves whether, practically, matters would be improved if the people had as magistrates and grand jury men such men as the little tailor of Kenmare. It seems very doubtful to me.
I made these reflections this morning whilst watching the assembly of the grand jury. After its members had taken the oath, they honoured me by admitting me into the council hall, and giving me a chair behind the president’s, Colonel Crosbie’s, seat. He was placed in the middle of a table, shaped like a horseshoe, around which all his colleagues were seated. When I entered they were occupied with the public works. A secretary standing behind the president read aloud the contractors’ tenders—tenders which, I believe, had already been examined by a sub-committee. From time to time a member asked for a few words of explanation from the county engineer or from the contractors, who stood apart at the end of the hall. No one made any speeches. No one wished to raise an election cry by asking for impossibilities, as occasionally happens amongst us. One felt that there were only competent well-bred men present. It must be owned that that is a good deal.
Both Protestants and Catholics are here—I am even told that for some years the sheriff has always taken care to introduce a certain number of Nationalists—opinions are therefore much divided. However, politics do not appear in any way. These gentlemen only seem to occupy themselves with the affairs of the county. What a lesson for us! At this moment, in Paris, one cannot be a Republican and yet believe in the efficacy of Pasteur’s method; in revenge one cannot be a Conservative and doubt it! These Irishmen would seem very far behind the Parisian municipal councillors! At all events they are good-humoured, and that, in my humble opinion, is always an advantage. They exchange little jokes even while despatching business. The order of the day involved a most interesting discussion. “In consideration of the annual payment of a sum of 16l. 13s. the undernamed Joseph A. Connell offers to undertake the maintenance of the road from Knocknagasher to Ballinascreena, between the cross of Ballinagerah and that of Meendhorna! Does this offer conceal a trap, or should it be accepted?” At the moment that each grand jury man mentally and with some anxiety asks himself this question, a lamentable voice is heard.
“Mr. President!” exclaims an old, wretched-looking grand jury man, who is seated at the end of the table, to the left facing the door—“Mr. President! Could not the window behind me be closed? I am in such a draught that I feel my hair blowing off my head.”
“Sir,” replied the president with serene courtesy, “although I am secure myself from the danger you foresee,” (the honourable president is as bald as an apple,) “I consider it my duty to accede to your request. Constable, shut the window!”
The clerk, convulsed with laughter, buries his face in his papers; the grand jury men shake in their chairs; the contractors at the end of the hall laugh out loud; and even one of the constables smiles. He is a young man, and has not yet attained the Olympian impassibility that is distinctive of this select corps.
Unfortunately the train is due. I am obliged to hastily shake hands with Mr. Trench whilst thanking him for his kind hospitality. I penetrated, with some effort, through the groups of peasants who thronged the porch of the town-hall, and I had but just time to jump into the carriage which was to take me back to Ballinacourty.
Travelling by railway is singularly favourable to reflection, particularly when one is alone in the compartment and the country on either side utters little of interest. Whilst the locomotive speeds on, without too much hurry, in the direction of Limerick, I reflect over all that I have seen in the last three days. What a singular social organisation exists in this country. Positively, one cannot conceal it from one’s self, the country is, from a material point of view, entirely at the mercy of half a dozen agents. These agents offer, in most respects, every possible guarantee. They are men of great experience, because in nearly all cases they fill the office of estate managers from father to son. They are intelligent and upright; if they were not their business would soon suffer from it, for it is not unusual for a landowner to change his agent. But no one denies their possession of all these qualities. Every morning I read all the newspapers on both sides. I have not yet found a single accusation against the respectability of the agents. It is certain that no other nation owns a body of officials who can be compared to them.
But they are not officials, they do not seek any part of the public power, and they are not elected for any. They have not, therefore, to render any account of their actions, either to the Government as though they were officials, nor to the electors as though they were their representatives; and yet, at a time when the system works regularly, the force of circumstances gives them over almost all the citizens power nearly as absolute as that of the pachas over the raias of the Turkish empire. They cannot impale an individual who offends them, but they can easily transport him. In fact, in this country, where agriculture is the only industry, a man can only live, on condition of having some land, the necessary tool for the exercise of this industry. Now an agent can take this tool from him, and, if he does, the man has no resource but to emigrate. One can therefore say that thousands of families are dependent upon one man to such an extent that he can transport them if he wishes to do so. It must unquestionably be very hard to feel one’s self so completely in a man’s power, however honourable he may be. This position of affairs results from an economic situation which laws cannot affect. It is not the less true that it is dangerous, for it is easily understood that in certain dispositions it produces a state of exasperation which may lead to any crimes.
You must notice that it is not the administration of the land which is the chief source of this state of things. Most of the estates are very large, that is true, but there are also a fair number of middle-sized ones. If they were managed by their owners or by different agents, the situation would be less serious. A farmer dismissed from Lord X——’s estate could find a farm under Lord Y——, or Messrs. A——, B—— or C——; but here he is prevented from doing so by the fact that the same agent manages the properties of all these gentlemen. As I said in the commencement, the whole county is therefore in the hands of five or six men, who are all interested in keeping on good terms with each other. When there has been a rupture with one of them, a man may feel sure that he will not be accepted by either of the others.
In England the situation is very different. A man dismissed from Lord X——’s land may perhaps be unable to become a tenant of Lord Y——, another great landowner in the neighbourhood, but there are twenty factories in the environs where he can always earn his living. Expulsion from the farm where he is working does not necessarily end in emigration.
It is now more than a hundred years since France commenced her evolution towards absolute political liberty. Of the orators and authors who have placed their thoughts on paper to aid their ideas, every one without exception has taken Great Britain as an example. To all those who feel alarm at the rapidity of the movement, they always answer, “What are you afraid of? The absolute freedom of the press, the right of meeting, the right of association—all these liberties of which you dread the abuse, have existed in England for centuries, and have never injured either order or property.”
I will not give an opinion on the root of this question, that would entail too long a digression. I would only prove that the comparison is fundamentally wrong, and consequently, argument is of little value. It is very true that at all epochs the Irish or English agricultural labourers have had the right of assembling, when they liked, on the highways, around one of their number, and of there comfortably listening to the most furious diatribes against the established laws. The police had no right to interfere, and so they abstained from interference.
Only, the following day the orators, and, if requisite, some of the assembly, receive notice from the agent that they would have to remove, sometimes at twenty-four hours’ notice, more frequently at the end of the lease; and this notice is equivalent to a sentence of transportation, at least as far as concerns the Irish. In England the consequences are less serious; but it is not less true that in most of the rural counties, only an infinitesimal number of electors have the right of avowing political opinions which differ from those of the chiefs of the two great national parties. The result is that an action, which, although illegal in France, would only entail a fortnight’s imprisonment to the man who committed it, is in England followed by the most terrible consequences, although it is perfectly legal in the country. The English Government, ultra Liberal in theory, which now poses to all Europe as a model of Liberalism, has therefore only worked until a very recent period through a system which suppressed in an almost absolute degree all political liberty amongst the lower classes. Now, for some years, particularly in Ireland, these classes have begun to appreciate the situation; they wish to have in fact the rights they had only in theory; and they have been able, by coalition, to paralyse the anonymous powers which formerly ruled them, and above all, which encircled them so efficaciously.
And now the Government has ceased to act at all! I require no other proof than the speech made by Baron Dowse.