WHY THE RENT IS RAISED--THE HISTORY OF AN EVICTION FROM ONE OF THE
EVICTED--A DONEGAL CONGREGATION--A CLIMB TO THE TOP OF DOONHILL--DOON
HOLY WELL--MAKING THE BEST OF A STRANGER.
In the silence of the night when sleep would not come, and when my
imagination rehearsed over and over again sights I had seen and tales I
had heard, I made an almost cast-iron resolution to escape to the estate
of Stewart of Ards and have one letter filled up with the good deeds of
a landlord. Alas for me! another storm, a rain storm, and a touch of
neuralgia conspired to keep me "ben the house" in the little room upon
the mountain side. One can weather snow or hail easier than a mountain
rain storm. The rain is laden with half-melted snow, and the wind that
drives it is terribly in earnest.
It is one queer feature of this mountain scenery, the entire absence of
trees. The hills look as if the face of the country had been shaved. Up
the hill sides the little fields are divided off by high, broad stone
fences, the result of gathering the stones out of the fields. The bog
land to be reclaimed requires drains three feet deep every six feet of
land.
To trench up a little field into ridges six feet apart, to gather stones
out of a little field sufficient to surround it with a four feet high
stone fence, to grub out and burn whins, to make all the improvements
with your own labor, and then to have your landlord come along with his
valuator and say, "Your farm is worth double what you pay for it; I can
get thirty shillings an acre for it," and to raise the rent to its full
value, which you must pay or go out. This sort of thing is repeated, and
repeated, in every variation of circumstances and of hardship, and the
people submit and are, as a whole, quiet and law-abiding.
I was called out of my little den to see a woman, one of the evicted
tenants of Mr. Adair. She was on her way to Letterkenny to see her son,
who is in the asylum since the eviction. It was hard enough to wander
through the ruins and hear of the eviction scenes from others, but to
sit by the turf fire and listen to one who had suffered and was
suffering from this dreadful act, to see the recollection of it
expressed in look and tone was different. This woman--husband dead, son
in the asylum--was a decent-looking body in cloak and cap, with a
bleached face and quiet voice.
"We were all under sentence of eviction, but it was told to us that it
was for squaring the farms. Then we were warned to pay in the half-
year's rent. It was not due till May, and we had never been asked to pay
the rent ahead of us before. But the landlord was a new one, and if he
made a rule, why, we must obey him; so we scraped up and sold this and
that and paid it. If we had known what was coming we might have kept it,
and had a penny to turn to when we were out under the sky. It was to get
the rent before he turned us out that he made that plan. We were put out
in the beginning of April; our rent was paid up to May. Oh, I wish, I
wish that he had driven us into the lake the day he put us out. A few
minutes would have ended our trouble, but now when will it end! I have
been through the country, my lady, and my boy in the asylum ever since."
Went to the Catholic chapel up here in the mountains. It was quite
convenient to my lodging. It is a very nice building with a new look. I
was surprised to see such a fine building in the mountains, for, owing
to the poverty of the people, there were no chapels at all in some
places a little time ago. Mass was celebrated in _scalans_, a kind
of open sheds, covered over head to protect the officiating priest from
the weather, while the people clustered round in the open air. When I
spoke of the nice appearance of the chapel I was told that the children
of these hills scattered through the United States, Canada, New Zealand
and Australia, had helped in its building. There were between seven and
eight hundred people present. There were no seats on the floor of the
chapel. I could not help admiring the patient, untiring devotion of
these people, and the endurance that enabled them to kneel so long. The
prevailing type of face is eminently Scottish, so is the tone of voice,
and the names, Murrays, Andersons, and the like.
Were it not for the altar and the absence of seats I could have imagined
myself in a Glenelg Presbyterian congregation. The Irish spoken here,
and it is spoken universally, has a good deal of resemblance to Glenelg
Gaelic. I was surprised at how much I understood of the conversations
carried on around me. The women, too, in their white caps, with their
serious, devotional comely faces, reminded me of faces I have seen in
dear old Glengarry.
There were not half a dozen bonnets in the whole congregation--snow-
white caps covered with a handkerchief for the matrons. They wore cloaks
and shawls, and looked comfortable enough. I saw some decent blue cloth
cloaks of a fashion that made me think they had served four generations
at least. The lasses wore their own shining hair "streeling" down their
backs or neatly braided up; abundant locks they had, brown color
prevailing. Fresher, rosier, comelier girls than these mountain maidens
it would be hard to find.
The men's clothing, though poor, and in some instances patched in an
artistic fashion, was scrupulously clean. In the congregation were some
young men well dressed, bold and upright, whose bearing, cut of
whiskers, and watch chains, showed that they had lived among our trans-
Atlantic cousins of the great Republic.
The priest of the hills is the one man whom these people trust. The
prevailing type of landlord has been their enemy and oppressor. The
priest has been friend, counsellor, sympathizer, helper, as well as
clergyman, and so he is _soggarth aroon_.
The storm continues at intervals. I get one clear, cold bit of fair
weather to climb to the top of Doune hill, where the Ulster kings used
to be crowned, a sugar-loaf shaped hill with the top broken off, rising
in isolated grandeur up high enough to give one a breather to get to the
top.
The weather returned to its normal condition of storm, and I was shut up
again. I became a little homesick, had the priest to tea, and enjoyed
his conversation very much, but he had to go off in the storm on a sick
call. A priest in these mountains has not the easiest kind of life in
the world.
Illusions took possession of my brain. I fancied myself a great queen,
to say the least of it. A whisper got among the hills that a great
American lady with unlimited power had come seeking the welfare of the
country, and so any amount of deputations wafted on me. I will give a
few specimens.
Two men to see my lady in reference to a small still that had been
misfortunately found on the place of an old man upward of eighty. He was
fined L12, and would my lady do anything?
Two women under sentence of eviction, my lady (I saw the place of one of
these, the roof was on the floor, and a little shelter was in one corner
like the lair of a wild beast, and here she kept possession in spite of
the dreadful Captain Dopping; the agent). Would my lady send out their
two daughters to America and place them in decent places?
And here was old Roseen, old and miserable, without chick or child, or
drop's blood belonging to her in the wide world, and would my lady
remember her?
Here's the crature of a widow from the mountain with four small
children, and no man body to help her with the place, and not a four-
footed beast on it belonging to her; all went in the scarcity; would my
lady look to her a little, sure she was the neediest of all?
And here was the poor cripple boy that his reverence was so good to,
&c., &c., &c., in endless file.
Nothing kept this over-dose of "my lady" from going to my head like
Innishowen poteen, but the slenderness of my purse. Determined at last,
warned by my fast-collapsing _portmonnaie_, to refuse to see any
more deputations and keep ben-the-house strictly. A cry arose that
Captain Dopping and his body-guard, on evictions bent, were coming up
the hill. I rushed out, mounted a ditch of sods for one more look at the
little tyrant of their fields. As I stood shading my eyes with my hand
and looked across at the dreaded agent, a plaintive "my lady," bleated
out at my side, drew my eyes down. It was a woman; she did not speak any
more, but looked, and that look drew out my fast collapsing purse. I
walked slowly into the house, determined to escape from the hills while
I had the means left of escaping.