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.