But then, we have only to consult English history to see what an important part has often been played by kissing, both in military and political cases. They say that in the last century a Duchess of Marlborough, hearing that her husband’s regiment had sustained heavy losses and that the recruiting sergeants had some trouble in filling up the ranks, on one occasion accompanied one of them to the market, holding a shilling between her lips, which she offered to every recruit who would take it with his own; and the story-teller gallantly adds that in an hour the total strength of the regiment was fully reached, and that they could have recruited a whole brigade in the same way had they wished it.
At the present time a kiss can still have great political influence. In order to oppose the Land League, Lady Randolph Churchill has founded a counter-league solely composed of women, which has been marvellously successful. Each member of the Primrose League undertakes to neglect no means, during the elections, of enticing voters to the Conservative party, and it is stated that some of the prettiest women unhesitatingly adopt the same method that the Duchess of Marlborough found so successful. But in spite of all these precedents we should advise tourist novices to be very careful. They had better sin through omission than by commission, for exaggerated eagerness or warmth might be misunderstood. A manual might be written on these serious questions.
Did or did not Lord Aberdeen, the late Viceroy, impartially kiss all the ladies of the Irish nobility and gentry who were suffering from the Land League, or did they wish to punish him for his Gladstonian tendencies by not giving him even a chance? I do not know. But in any case there is no season this year and the Shelburne is almost empty. The proprietors endeavour to console themselves with the aid of a few rich American tourists, and I must own that when a passing Frenchman falls into their hands, they treat him precisely like the Americans. It was after experiencing this fact that I confided my portmanteau and its owner to the tender mercy of a car-driver to take me to Kingsbridge station. But, since yesterday was Sunday, I explained to him that I wished first to be driven to a Catholic church to hear mass, instructions that might have lowered me in the opinion of a French carriage-driver, but which in Dublin won for me the most unequivocal marks of consideration from this son of green Erin.
He first drove me to a chapel built on the banks of the river, in one of the poorest and most miserable districts, not far from Guinness’s brewery. I was extremely struck with all I saw.
When I entered, mass was about to commence; five or six hundred persons were kneeling on benches or on the ground. I do not think that amongst the whole number there was a single one whose appearance did not indicate the deepest misery. By my side five or six men were telling their beads. They were almost colossi, with bull-dog heads, very short cropped hair and unshaven chins. They wore patched woollen shirts and looked like dock porters. A little further away there was a group of twelve or fifteen women, frightfully thin, with the hungry worn-out look one sees on so many faces over here. All these miserable creatures had evidently attempted to tidy themselves for Sunday. Most of them wore shoes. I am told that these shoes go to the pawnbroker regularly every Monday, and are redeemed on Saturday evening for Sunday’s mass. The dresses have lost all their colour and their lank folds show there is nothing worn underneath, but the poor owners all pray with marvellous fervour. I have never seen in any church the striking and sincere faith then visible amongst these unfortunate Irish whom Providence seems to have condemned to such a hard life.
At the station I gained some information that made me a little anxious. It appears that on Sundays the trains run very irregularly. They could, therefore, only give me a ticket to Limerick Junction, about twenty or thirty miles from the city; but the officials told me that excursion trains often ran on Sundays from Cork to Limerick, perhaps I could catch one of them; so I entered the train on this rather doubtful chance.
The appearance of the country through which we pass is very strange. I now understand the names “Green Erin” and the “Emerald Isle” which are so often found in Irish poetry. Green is the scarcely undulating plain which extends on each side of the railway; green also are the slightly elevated hills which bound the horizon. We may say that there is no agriculture. Only from time to time we catch sight of some fields of potatoes and oats. Not a single tree. The fences are only heaps of earth—the same enclosures that in Brittany are called fossés, only here there is seldom any hedge. My fellow-passengers explained to me that when a landowner wishes to make a plantation, everything is at once cut down by the tenants, or else they let their horses feed on the young trees, because they say no one has any right to deprive the people of the land by which they live.
In quality all this pasturage is very indifferent. The soil is not worth anything, but I expected at least to see the fields well kept. But, in reality, this is far from being the case. There is not one in fifty that does not manifestly require drainage, for they are all overrun with rushes. A fanciful agriculturist with whom I travelled gravely assured me that these rushes are much appreciated, because in winter the cattle know how to pull them up and eat the white part that is hidden in the earth. I was too polite to laugh in his face; I was content to point out to him that the intellectual effort and intelligence which the cattle must develop in order to procure this food seems to interfere with their growing fat; the blade wears out the sheath; this explains why all those we pass are in such poor condition. Besides, the quantity as well as the quality is deficient. The pasturage would feed more animals than are now grazing upon it, for the grass is not sufficiently cropped. This all indicates a lack of capital.
Sir Thomas Esmonde told us yesterday that we should not find land to be compared to Ireland anywhere else. I suppose he was scarcely alluding to this district. Still, I read in a book of statistics—and the fact is confirmed by my fellow-travellers—that County Kildare and Queen’s County, which we are now passing through, both rank amongst the most fertile parts of Ireland. At all events there is less misery in them now than in any other counties. Whenever, in Dublin, the poverty of the population was spoken of, I was always told that I must go to the south and west to really appreciate it.
This leads me to make a comparison that again seems to contradict the assertions of the orator at Rathmines. Sir Thomas told us that emigration was one of the chief causes of the ruin of Ireland. Now, Queen’s County, which suffered enormously from famine in 1847, is precisely the county where there is the most visible diminution of the population. Queen’s County contained about 160,000 inhabitants in 1847; 153,000 in 1841. Its superficial area is 425,000 acres, of which 55,000 acres are absolutely unproductive. It was therefore necessary that 370,000 acres should feed 150,000 inhabitants. This makes almost one inhabitant to each two and a half acres, which is a very heavy average for a stock-raising country. It is not nearly so high with us, and it was evidently too much for the country, since many of the people died of hunger.