LORD LIFFORD--THE DUKE OF ABERCORN--WHOLESALE EVICTIONS--GOING SOUTH--
ENNISKILLEN--ASSES IN PLENTY--IN A GRAVEYARD.
On the banks of the Finn, near Strabane, was born the celebrated hero
Finn ma Coul. I think this just means Finlay McDougall, and, therefore,
claim the champion as a relative. Strabane lies in a valley, with round
cultivated hills, fair and pleasant to the eye, swelling up round it.
Near it is the residence of Lord Lifford. I have heard townspeople
praise him as a landlord, and country people censure him, so I leave it
there. His recent speech, in which he complains of the new Land Bill,
that, if it passes into law, it will give tenants as a right what they
used to get as a favor from their landlords, has the effect of
explaining him to many minds.
Leaving Strabane behind, went down or up, I know not which, to Newtown-
Stewart, in the parish of Ardstraw (_ard strahe_, high bank of the
river). In this neighborhood is the residence of the Duke of Abercorn,
spoken of as a model landlord.
The Glenelly water mingles with the Struell and is joined by the Derg,
which forms the Mourne. After the Mourne receives the Finn at Lifford it
assumes the name of the Foyle and flows into history past Derry's walls.
At the bridge, as you enter the town of Newtown-Stewart, stands the
gable wall of a ruined castle, built by Sir Robert Newcomen, 1619,
burned by Sir Phelim Roe O'Neil along with the town, rebuilt by Lord
Mountjoy, burnt again by King James.
Upon a high hill above the town, commanding a beautiful view of the
country far and wide, stand the ruins of the castle of Harry Awry O'Neil
(contentious or cross Harry), an arch between two ruined towers being
the only distinct feature left of what was once a great castle. This
castle commanded a view of two other castles, owned and inhabited by two
sons or two brothers of this Harry Awry O'Neil. These three castles were
separate each from each by a river. Here these three lords of the O'Neil
slept, lived and agreed, or quarrelled as the case might be, ruling over
a fair domain of this fair country. I do not think the present
generation need feel more than a sentimental regret after the days of
strong castles and many of them, and hands red with unlimited warfare.
Towering up beyond Harry Awry's castle is the high mountain of Baissie
Baal, interpreted to me altar of Baal. I should think it would mean
death of Baal. (Was Baal ever the same as Tommuz, the Adonis of
Scripture?) In the valley beyond is a village still named Beltane (Baal
teine--Baal's fire), so that the mountain must have been used at one
time for the worship of Baal. The name of the mountain is now corrupted
into Bessie Bell.
In the valley at the foot of the mountain is the grand plantation that
stretches miles and miles away, embosoming Baronscourt, the seat of the
Duke of Abercorn, and the way to it in the shade of young forests. There
are nodding firs and feathery larches over the hills, glassing
themselves in the still waters of beautiful lakes. Lonely grandeur and
stately desolation reign and brood over a scene instinct with peasant
life and peasant labor some years ago. The Duke of Abercorn was counted
a model landlord. His published utterances were genial, such as a good
landlord, father and protector of his people would utter. Some one who
thought His Grace of Abercorn was sailing under false colors, that his
public utterances and private course of action were far apart, published
an article in a Dublin paper. This article stated that the Duke had
evicted over 123 families, numbering over 1,000 souls, not for non-
payment of rent, but to create the lordly loneliness about Baronscourt.
His Grace did not like tenantry so near his residence. Those tenants who
submitted quietly got five years' rent--not as a right, but as a favor
given out of his goodness of heart. They tell here that these evictions
involved accidentally the priest of the parish and an old woman over
ninety, who lay on her death-bed. He had called upon the priest
personally and offered ground for a parochial house; he forgot his
purpose and the priest continued to live in lodgings from which he was
evicted along with the farmer with whom he lodged. Of the evicted
families 87 were Catholics and 36 Protestants. If they had been allowed
to sell their tenant right they might have got farms elsewhere. Of those
cleared off seventeen who were Protestants and six who were Catholics
got farms elsewhere from His Grace. Some sank into day laborers, some
vanished, no one knows where.
People here say that the reason why there are Fenians in America and
people inclined to Fenianism at home is owing to these large evictions--
clearances that make farmers into day laborers at the will of the lord
of the land. The people feel more bitterly about these things when they
consider injustice is perpetrated with a semblance of generosity.
Nothing--no lapse of time nor change of place or circumstances--ever
causes anyone to forget an eviction. Now they say that the Duke of
Abercorn holds this immense tract of country on the condition of rooting
the people in the soil by long leases, not on condition of evicting them
out; therefore, he has forfeited his claim to the lands over and over
again. This article, published in a Dublin paper, was taken no public
notice of for a time, but when sharply contested elections came round,
the Duke and four others, sons and relations, were rejected at the polls
because of the feeling stirred up by these revelations. Such is the
popular report of the popular Duke of Abercorn.
Omagh is a pretty, behind-the-age country town. The most splendid
buildings are the poor-house, the prison, and the new barracks. The
hotels are very dear everywhere; they seem to depend for existence on
commercial travellers and tourists. Tourists are expected to be prepared
to drop money as the child of the fairy tale dropped pearls and
diamonds, on every possible occasion, and unless one is able to assert
themselves they are liable to be let severely alone as far as comfort is
concerned, or attendance; but when the _douceur_ is expected plenty
are on hand and smile serenely.
Left Omagh behind and took passage for Fermanagh's capital, Enniskillen
of dragoon celebrity. The road from Omagh to Enniskillen showed some, I
would say a good deal, of waste, unproductive land. Land tufted with
rushes, and bare and barren looking--still the fields tilled were
scrupulously tilled. The houses were the worst I had yet seen on the
line of rail, as bad as in the mountains of Donegal, worse than any I
saw in Innishowen. I wonder why the fields are so trim and the homes in
many cases so horrible. Not many, I may say not any, fine houses on this
stretch of country.
Arrived at Enniskillen on market day, towards the close of April. The
number of asses on the market is something marvellous. Asses in small
carts driven by old women in mutch caps, asses with panniers, the
harness entirely made of straw, asses with burdens on their backs laid
over a sort of pillion of straw. I thought asses flourished at Cairo and
Dover, but certainly Enniskillen has its own share of them. The faces of
the people are changed, the tongues are changed. The people do not seem
of the same race as they that peopled the mountains of Donegal.
A little while after my arrival, taking a walk, I wandered into an old
graveyard round an old church which opened off the main street.
Underneath this church is the vault or place of burial of the Cole
family, lords of Enniskillen--a dreary place, closed in by a gloomy
iron gate. A very ancient man was digging a grave in this old graveyard,
sacred, I could see by the inscriptions, to the memory of many of the
stout-hearted men planted in Enniskillen, who held the land they had
settled on against all odds in a brave, stout-hearted manner. None of
the dust of the ancient race has mouldered here side by side with their
conquerors. There was a dragoonist flavor about the dust; a military
flourish about the tombstones. A., of His Majesty's regiment; B.,
officer of such a battalion of His Majesty's so-and-so regiment; C., D.,
and all the rest of the alphabet, once grand officers in His Majesty's
service, now dust here as the royal majesties they served are dust
elsewhere. Went over to the ancient grave-digger, who was shovelling out
in a weakly manner decayed coffin, skull, ribs, bones, fat earth--so fat
and greasy-looking, so alive with horrible worms. He was so very old and
infirm that, after a shovelful or two, he leaned against the grave side
and _peched_ like a horse with the heaves.
"How much did he get for digging a grave?"
"Sometimes a shilling, sometimes one and six, or two shillings,
accordin' as the people were poor or better off."
"How were wages going?"
"Wages were not so high as they had been in the good times before the
famine. A man sometimes got three-and-six or four shillings then; now he
got two shillings."
"And board himself?"
"Oh, yes, always board himself."
"Some people now want a man to work for a shilling and board himself,
but how could a man do that? It takes two pence to buy Indian meal
enough for one meal. You see there would be nothing left to feed a
family on."
A stout, bare-legged hizzie appeared now, and kindly offered the old man
a pinch of snuff out of a little paper to overcome the effects of the
smell, and keep it from striking into his heart. This was one errand; to
find out who was talking to him was another. She did not; we gave the
poor old fellow a sixpence and moved away.