XLVIII.
IN THE COUNTY CAVAN—THE ANNALS OF THE POOR—BURYING THE PAST.
As an instance of hardships of which the poor had to complain, my informant mentioned the case of one very old man, whose children had scattered away over the world, which meant that they had emigrated. He held a small place on a property close beside another property managed by my informant's brother. This old man had paid his rent for sixty-nine years; he and his people before him had lived, toiled and paid rent on this little place. He was behind in his rent, for the first time, and had not within a certain amount the sum required. He besought the intercession of my friend's brother, who, having Scotch caution in his veins, did not, though pitying, feel called upon to interfere. The old man tendered what money he had at the office and humbly asked that he might have time given him to make up the rest. It was refused with contempt.
"Sir," faltered the old man, "I have paid my rent every year for sixty- nine years. I have lived here under three landlords without reproach. I am a very old man. I might get a little indulgence of time."
"All that is nothing to me," said the agent.
"Sir," said the old man, "if my landlord himself were here, or the General his father, or my Lord Belmore who sold the land to him, I would not be treated in this way after all."
"Get out of this instantly," said the agent, stamping his foot, "How dare you give such insolence to me."
"You see," explained my friend, "he was very old, it was not likely that any more could be got out of him even if he got time, for he was past his labor. Besides there was a man beside him who held a large farm, and he wanted this old man's little holding to square off his farm, so the old man had to go to the wall, but I was sorry for him."
There is a good deal of this unproductive sorrow scattered over Ireland among the comfortable classes. There are a good many also who feel like that motherly Christian lady in Clones who said to me, "When they have to go into the poor-house at the last, and they know it will come to that, why not go in at once?"
I am convinced more and more every day of the widespread need there is that some evangelistic effort should be made to bring a practical Gospel to bear on the dominant classes in Ireland.
My friend and I walked up to the church to search for some graves in the churchyard that lies around it. He drew my attention to the socket where a monument had been erected but which was gone, and mentioned the circumstances under which it had disappeared. A gentleman of the country, an Episcopalian, had fallen in love with and married a Catholic lady. The usual bargain had been made, the daughters to follow the mother's faith, the sons to go with the father. There was one son who was a member of the Episcopalian church. It seemed that the son loved and reverenced his Catholic mother, and that she was also loved and reverenced by her Catholic coreligionists. When she died she was buried in the family burying plot of ground in the Episcopalian churchyard. Her son erected there a white marble cross to his mother's memory. At this cross, on their way home from mass, sundry old women used to turn in, and, kneeling down there, say a prayer. This proceeding, visible from the church windows, used to annoy and exasperate the officiating clergyman very much. At the time of the disestablishment of the Church a committee was being formed to make some arrangements consequent upon this event. The Episcopal son of this Catholic mother was named on the Committee, and a great opposition was got up to his nomination on account of his being only Protestant by half blood. There was no objection to him personally, his faith or belief was thought sound, except that part of it which was hereditary. My friend considered this very wrong, and ranged himself on the side of the gentleman who was the cause of the dispute. The dispute waxed so hot that the parties almost came to blows in the vestry room.
During the time this war raged some bright genius, on one of the days of Orange procession, had a happy thought of putting an orange arch over the churchyard gate, in such a manner that the praying women should have to pass under it if they entered. I am not quite sure whether the arch was destroyed or not; as far as my memory serves I think it was. Something happened to it anyway. Something also happened to the monumental cross, which was torn down, broken up and strewed round in marble fragments. The gentleman prosecuted several Orangemen whom he suspected of this outrage. There was not evidence to convict them. An increased ill-feeling got up against the gentleman for a prosecution that threw a slur on the Orange organization. The Orange society offered a reward of L60 for the discovery and conviction of the offenders, but nothing came of it. My friend thought it was done by parties unknown to bring reproach on the Orange cause. The gentleman of the half-blood had not been so much thought of by his fellow church members since this transaction.
I spoke to my friend upon the unchristian nature of this party spirit, which he agreed with me in lamenting, but excused by telling me outrages by the Catholic party which made me shudder. All these outrages were confirmed by the ancient woman who kept the key of the church, and who stood listening and helping with the story, emphasizing with the key. I asked when these outrages had taken place, and was relieved considerably to hear that they happened about 1798 and 1641. Asked my friend if the other side had not any tales of suffered atrocities to tell? He supposed they had, thought it altogether likely. Why then, I asked him, do you not bury this past and live like Christians for the future.
I am often asked this question about burying the past, said my friend. My answer is, let them bury first and afterwards we will. Let them bury their Ribbonism, their Land Leagueism, their Communism and their Nihilism (making the motion of digging with his hands as he spoke) and after that ask us to bury our Orangeism, our Black Chapter, our Free Masonry, and we will do it then.
As we came down the hill from the church, I said to my friend, "You acknowledge that there are wrongs connected with land tenure that should be set right. You say that you see things of doubtful justice and scant mercy take place here, that you see oppression toward the poor of your country; why, then, not join with them to have what is wrong redressed, fight side by side on the Land Question and leave religious differences aside for the time being?" "I would be willing to do this," said my friend, "I do not believe in secret societies, although I belong to three of them, but a man must go with his party if he means to live here. There are many Orangemen who have become what we call 'rotten,' about Fermanagh, over one hundred have been expelled for joining the Land League."
Party spirit is nourished, and called patriotism; it is fostered and called religion, but it is slowly dying out, Ireland is being regenerated and taught by suffering. In all suffering there is hope. This thought comforted me when I shook hands with my friend and turned my back to Ballyconnell and to Belturbet and took the car for Cavan, passing through the same scenery of field and bog and miserable houses that prevail all over.
The only manufacture of any kind which I noticed from Clones to Cavan, a large thriving town bustling with trade, was the making of brick, which I saw in several places. These inland towns seem to depend almost entirely on the agricultural population around them.
From Cavan down through the County Cavan, is swarming with Land Leaguers they say, although I met with none to know them as such. Poor land is in many places, a great deal of bog, many small lakes and miserable mud wall cabins abounding. In every part of Ireland, and almost at every house, you see flocks of ducks and geese; raising them is profitable, because they do not require to be fed, but forage for themselves, the ducks in the water courses and ponds, while the geese graze, and they only get a little extra feed when being prepared for market. Ducks can be seen gravely following the spade of a laborer, with heads to one side watching for worms. Neither ducks nor geese, nor both together, are as numerous as the crows; they seem to be under protection, and they increase while population decreases.
As one journeys south the change in the countenance of the people is quite remarkable. In Down, Antrim, Donegal, the faces are almost all different varieties of the Scottish face—Lowland, Highland, Border or Isle—but as you come southward an entirely different type prevails. I noticed it first at Omagh. It is the prevailing face in Cavan; large, loose features, strong jaws, heavy cheeks and florid complexion, combined mostly with a bulky frame. You hear these people tracing back their ancestors to English troopers that came over with Cromwell or William the Third. They have a decided look of Hengist and Horsa about them.
The feeling against the Land League among the Conservative classes in the north is comparatively languid to the deeper and more intense feeling that prevails southward. The gulf between the two peoples that inhabit the country widens. After leaving Cavan we crossed a small point of Longford and thence into Westmeath, passing quite close to Derryvaragh Lake, and then to Lake Owel after passing Mulingar, getting a glimpse of yet another, Westmeath Lake.
After passing Athlone and getting into Roscommon we got a view of that widening of the Shannon called Lough Ree, sixteen miles long and in some parts three miles wide. A woman on the train told me of that island on this lough, Hare island, with Lord Castlemaine's beautiful plantation, of the castle he has built there, decorated with all that taste can devise, heart can desire or riches buy. A happy man must be my Lord Castlemaine. Lough Ree is another silent water, like the waters of the west unbroken by the keel of any boat, undarkened by the smoke of any steamer, the breeze flying over it fills no sail.
I have mentioned before how completely the County Mayo has gone to grass. The same thing is apparent in a lesser degree elsewhere. There is not a breadth of tillage sufficient to raise food for the people. Cattle have been so high that hay and pasturage were more remunerative, and the laborers depend for food on the imported Indian meal. The grassy condition of every place strikes one while passing along; but Roscommon seems to be given up to meadow and pasture land almost altogether. The hay crop seems light in some places. The rain has been so constant that saving it has been difficult in some places. I saw some hay looking rather black, which is an unbecoming color for hay. Roscommon is a very level country as far as I saw of it, and very thinly populated.
The town of Roscommon has a quiet inland look, with a good deal of trading done in a subdued manner. There is the extensive ruin of an old castle in it; the old gaol is very castle-like also. I drove over to Athleague as soon as I arrived, a small squalid village some four Irish miles away. The land is so level that one can see far on every side as we drive along, and the country is really empty. The people left in the little hamlets have one universal complaint, the rent is too high to be paid and leave the people anything to live on. It was raised to the highest during prosperous years; when the bad years came it became impossible.
I enquired at this village of Athleague what had become of all the people that used to live here in Roscommon. They were evicted for they could not pay their rents. Where are they? Friends in America sent passage tickets for many, some, out of the sale of all, made out what took them away; some were in the poor house; some dead and gone. The land is very empty of inhabitants.