Paddy at Home ("Chez Paddy")

by baron de E. Mandat-Grancey

At the station, just as he was starting, he was surrounded by four or five beggars.

“You tell me,” said he, “that you are dying of hunger; that too, must be a lie. Since I have been in this country I hear nothing but lies. Look, here are three shillings! I promise them to whoever will tell me the biggest!”

“Ah,” readily answered the most ragged of the band, addressing his neighbour, “here, at least, is a ra-al gintleman!” And he held out his hand, sure of having won the three shillings.

We must not judge this want of veracity too severely: it is the certain result of centuries of oppression, during which untruthfulness was the sole protection of the persecuted against the persecutor. Every race that has passed through the same trials has the same defect, and it is very slowly corrected. If I allude to it, it is because I perceive that the information that one receives in this country must be accepted with some reserve. An Irish peasant, in contrast to our own, is always inclined to speak of his affairs. Only if one holds two conversations with him, leaving a day’s interval between them, one finds that frequently his statements on the second day bear very little resemblance to those he had made on the preceding one. It is therefore difficult to arrive at the truth. Thus, after once visiting all their houses, I considered that the fact that these people were living in misery was conclusively proved.

But perhaps this is not so certain as I fancied. We must distinguish between them. Those who twenty or twenty-five years ago had a fair-sized and not too bad a farm have profited by the rise in the price of meat, and have made money. If they live so miserably it is because it suits them. The proof that until quite recently they were doing well, is, that when they felt inclined to give up their farms they easily found people who gave them relatively considerable sums as the price of their lease. And this often when the landlords had not received one penny of rent for some years. But a farmer’s position could not be as bad as he pretended, since he could find others who were ready to accept it, although it was aggravated by the price of the lease. I, however, believe that an enormous decrease in the number of farms is inevitable here as elsewhere, and here more than elsewhere. The price of meat is lower in all the English ports, particularly the price of medium qualities, through the immense importations of American and Australian meat: this trade is likely to increase prodigiously, for its profits are enormous. But, until the last few years, farmers who had one hundred acres, ought, at least, to have been able to pay their rents very comfortably.

We must therefore distinguish between them. The large farmers, who were able to raise cattle, pretend to be miserable, but are not really in distress. They try to profit by the situation. But the misery is terrible amongst the small farmers, who are much more numerous, since it certainly includes four-fifths of the population. Some years ago there were 300,000 holdings under 5 acres; 250,000 from 5 to 15 acres; 80,000 from 15 to 30; and only 50,000 of more than 30; and, consequently, there were more than 600,000 families who lived on farms of less than 15 acres. The great majority were therefore unable to raise cattle. Now agriculture, which has never been very remunerative in this country, on account of the climate and of the inferior quality of the soil, is absolutely impossible now that to these drawbacks foreign competition is added. The small farm has therefore no future here, as I have already said, but it cannot be repeated too often, because any policy that is not inspired by this fundamental truth, can only result in disaster. Besides, one of the reasons which have made small holdings so successful with us, is the spirit of order, economy, and industry, which so greatly characterises our peasantry. Now, I do not know whether Irishmen are very economical; I rather doubt it; but I am sure that the Irishwomen, at least, are not industrious. If they were they would never allow their own and their children’s clothes to remain in the state we see them in. Every lady tells me that there is scarcely one peasant in ten who knows how to sew. The other day I visited the convent at Kenmare, and I saw there a hundred little girls, whom the Sisters were teaching to make a lace that appeared to me to resemble the lace made at Caen. The nuns owned to me that their pupils had very little inclination for needlework. Neither have they any aptitude for cooking. When I enter a house at meal times I always see three rather dirty dishes on the table. On the first there is a piece of bacon, on the second and the third there are boiled potatoes and cabbages. The whole is as little appetising as possible. It reminds me of the horrible meals in the Far West. With the same materials a Burgundian would make a dish of which the smell alone would revive the dead.

The afternoon was passed in calling upon the neighbours, for I find that there is much sociable visiting in this country. The day before yesterday there was a grand charitable sale of work, which was attended by more than three hundred people. Every day of the week there is a tennis party held somewhere. There I met, dressed in white flannel and in an extraordinary state of perspiration, all the people whom I saw in the morning taking their constitutionals or fly-fishing. At each of these little festivals assemble at least thirty or forty people who live in a radius of about six miles at the outside—and even less, for many of the young men come on foot, carrying their tennis shoes with them. I do not know any province in France, and I do not believe there are any, where it would be possible to organise so many reunions of this kind. The ruin of Ireland through absenteeism!—this thesis so frequently brought forward is surely a legend! In any case, at least in this county, absenteeism is much rarer than is reported and than I had imagined. In the immediate neighbourhood of Ballinacourty there are at least twenty castles and country houses. All but one are inhabited. If this is empty, it is not the owner’s fault; he is dead.

To-day is Sunday. This morning two jaunting cars conducted the master and servants to Castle Connell. Since noon yesterday it rains in torrents. This does not prevent all the peasant women whom we meet on the road, walking to church, being dressed in wonderful costumes. I noticed five or six women, whom I had seen during the week, their hair falling round their faces, bare-footed, scarcely covered with a chemise and a petticoat. To-day they have bonnets with flowers, boots, and some of them silk dresses. The men, without being so brilliant, are relatively well dressed. Apparently it is only the children who do not participate in this general Sunday smartness. I see numbers of them running in the mud, nearly as naked as during the week. But they improve by being seen in the rain. They are washed.

At the entrance to Castle Connell our carriages draw up before the Protestant Church, a pretty little place, where a young English clergyman officiates who has not, like his colleague at Kenmare, joined the Land League. He is therefore not on good terms with the Catholic population. But on the other hand, his parishioners praise him highly.

The neighbouring gentry arrive one after the other. Seeing me remain in the carriage, Lord M—— graciously signed to me to take a seat in his pew; but I reply to this proposal by a horrified gesture which makes them all laugh heartily, and I go with all the coachmen and footmen to the Catholic church.