When I reach it a compact crowd is hurrying in. Under the porch I notice a group of men surrounding a table on which a tray is placed. One of them addresses me roughly as I pass:
“Don’t you mean to subscribe?”
“Subscribe! What for?”
“Take care, Jim!” interrupted one of his companions, “it’s the Frenchman staying with the Colonel.”
“Ah! you are French. God bless the French! Now, sir, won’t you kindly subscribe something for the election expenses of those who defend the good cause [the Parliamentary Fund]?”
I placed a few shillings on the tray. I am sure that there were already 8l. or 10l. there. What a nice thing it is to be a candidate in this country! Alas! it is not like this at home!
I hope that my offering will please Mr. Harrington. In any case, it has not injured me in the opinion of the inhabitants of Castle Connell, for one of them at once led me to the front, and showered civilities upon me all through the mass.
This evening I said good-bye to my kind hosts, for I must start early in order to meet Mr. Thompson at Limerick, where he undertakes to show me Irish life under a new aspect. It appears that up to now I have only seen the Land Leaguers in rose colour. He will take me home with him, where he promises to show me the best they can do in this way. I am, therefore, on my way to a boycotted country!
July 13th.—I quite understand that, strictly speaking, the Irish complain of having too many policemen. However, seeing what is taking place amongst them, it appears as though there were more reason to increase their number than to withdraw those who are already there. But they ought, at least, to feel proud of those whom the English Government gives them. For whatever may be the connection that exists with them; whether they protect or arrest you, it is always preferable to have dealings with a clean, well-dressed policeman than with a dirty one. The lists of the Irish constabulary force are so numerous that this corps is perhaps more like an army than a police force. But I have never seen an army so well dressed. When I see some of its men passing, and I mentally compare them with those we see at home, I cannot help owning that the comparison is very painful to my national pride. Why do they not improve such a sorry state of things? Why, for instance, is it necessary, no matter what the rulers are—and yet, God knows, we change them often enough—why, I repeat, must the breeches of our army be always so badly made, whilst the trousers of all these constables look as though they had come from some great tailors’ workshops? The other day, I was sufficiently curious to ask the officer with whom I dined at Kenmare, how they managed so as to make it always quite unnecessary to address to these men the reproaches good St. Eloi so freely bestowed on his august master. He explained to me—I am speaking of the officer, not of St. Eloi—that the clothes are all kept in the shops, not made as they are with us, but simply cut out. In this state they are given to the men. Then, thanks to an allowance, given on purpose, there is a tailor in each locality, who undertakes to fit them and sew them together. The same system also prevails in the navy. Would it then be quite impossible to attempt an analogous combination amongst us? Whatever the results might be, they could not be worse than those which sadden our eyes and disgrace one half of our army—the half nearest the ground.