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.