July 8.—When I came down stairs this morning, the sitting-rooms presented a most animated scene. The library floor had disappeared under a litter of papers, and of half-opened deed boxes. Mr. Trench stood before his bureau emptying the pigeon-holes, where all his correspondence had accumulated during his absence. His two secretaries, seated in a corner, classed all the letters, as soon as he had looked through them, making notes, in large registers, of the instructions given them by their chief. Mr. Trench appeared to be discharging the double duties of “agent” and magistrate.
To me he even seemed, at times, to be filling a third office; that of doctor—of amateur doctor, to be sure, but all the more appreciated, because his advice and his remedies were given gratuitously. From time to time, the door opened and a bundle of rags appeared, from which issued a voice of lamentation. This was an old woman, who had come to ask for a prescription. Special aptitude is required to practise medicine in this country; for it appears that, as a rule, every village possesses an old woman, who, for a small salary, undertakes to go in search of the doctor, giving as though for herself an exact account of the illness from which the real patient, who does not show himself, is suffering, but to whom she faithfully delivers the medicine that has been given to her. This system has the advantage of avoiding journeys and expense on the patient’s account, for the old woman, who is always the most miserable in the district, receives the medicine and advice gratis from the county. But these customs render the diagnosis curiously complicated.
It is not only invalids who, this morning, flock to Mr. Trench. There are also a great many farmers. Twenty-five or thirty are waiting grouped before the door. They are tall, thin fellows, with short breeches, and high-crowned hats pulled down over their eyes, each holding a blackthorn shillalah under one arm. Still smoking their little short pipes, they gesticulate, talk and laugh, with so much animation that from time to time one of the secretaries interposes with “Hush, hush!” Each man, when admitted in his turn, begins by carefully putting out his pipe, and placing it in his waistcoat pocket; then, taking off his hat, his whole physiognomy suddenly changes its expression. The man, lively a minute before, assumes a broken-hearted attitude as he crosses the threshold of the office, and begins in a dolorous voice the litany, now so well known by every landowner in the country: “The year is very bad. The cattle will not sell!”
However, a good many bring something on account, and it is easy to see that the relations are much less strained here than in many other parts. These sums on account are not large. Mr. Trench told me yesterday that usually at this season he receives 400l. per week, but that this year he does not receive more than 40l. This is not brilliant certainly; but, however, they must not complain. The priest at Kenmare, a president of the Land League, is a gentle, conciliating man; he is on the best terms with Mr. Trench, and through each doing his best, they have, until now, prevented a complete rupture.
Knowing that Mr. Trench would be very busy this morning, one of our guests of the previous evening had offered to fetch me in order to do the honours of Kenmare. I could not be in better hands. Mr. C—— is the greatest merchant in the town; he knows the country thoroughly, and has always managed to keep good friends with everybody. There are not many Irishmen who can say as much at the present time.
We remained for some time talking to the farmers at the door. I made the acquaintance of one of them, who is the director of the dairy founded on the estate by Mr. Trench—a dairy which has produced such good results that a second is now being started.
This creation deserves some notice. The Land League declares that the landowners and their agents are leeches that are exhausting Ireland, and that they never attempt to develop her resources. Is this true? It appears to me that here is one instance proving the contrary. Judge for yourselves.
The production of butter is the great industry of the country. We may almost say it is the only one. Now this industry is worked under the most deplorable conditions. As a rule, the very poor farmers only possess four or five milch cows. They are therefore obliged to keep their cream some time before churning it. Besides, we can imagine what the dairies must be in a country where the people are lodged as they are here—usually the milk-pans stand in a corner of the single room where the whole family sleep together. Under these circumstances the butter can only be very inferior, and it is so much so, that it is always sold in London for sevenpence or eightpence per pound less than our Normandy butters. Some qualities are so bad that they never sell for more than tenpence the pound, and an Irish member, Major Saunderson, lately stated in the House of Commons, that the merchants could only use it to mix with margarine: it was only fit to adulterate butterine.
It was this unsatisfactory state of things that Mr. Trench wished to improve by creating a central factory, where the milk is brought every day, and where the butter can be made under the most favourable conditions. Mr. C—— related to me how the business had been arranged. This is another curious specimen of social customs.
First of all, it was necessary to obtain the farmers’ co-operation. Mr. Trench therefore assembled the inhabitants of two or three villages, in order to explain the proposed scheme to them. Irishmen will walk ten miles to be present at a meeting, so on the day named, Mr. Trench, arriving at the spot appointed, found himself in the presence of a crowd of two or three thousand persons.