In conversing with a very sensible gentleman in Cork, he mentioned the
competition among the farmers themselves as one reason of the high
rents. I have heard this brought forward again and again in every part
of Ireland. It is difficult to get so far into the confidence of the
southern people as to know what they really think or feel. Without an
introduction from one whom they trust they are very reticent and non-
committal. There is another party who will not be drawn into giving an
opinion for fear of their names appearing in print in company with these
opinions.
Cork is such a brilliant city, such a sunshiny city, for the sun shone
while I was there as it did not shine anywhere else where I have been
for the last two months, such a brisk, busy city, that I felt some
regret at leaving it. Cork is a busy town, but there are many idle hands
and hungry mouths within its boundaries.
The prevalence of drinking habits is deplored by many with whom I
conversed here. Speaking of the movement, now so rife, for encouraging
home manufacture, especially in the shoe trade, a lady remarked that if
there were a revival in trade without a revival in temperance many
shoemakers would only work three days a week as had been the case in
good times before.
It was a sunny day when I looked my last on the busy city on the river
Lee, on the numerous basket women that squat in its streets, some
knitting or crocheting for dear life, some sitting with arms crossed,
fat and lazy, basking contentedly in the sun beside their baskets of
miserable stunted apples that would be thrown to the pigs in Canada.
Between Cork and Mallow my travelling companion was an elderly
Scotchman, a cattle dealer, who deplored the disturbed state of the
country very feelingly. He admitted that there was undeniable need of a
revision of the land tenure but thought that the people went about
securing it in a very wrong way. I ventured to suggest that there was
likely to be an agitation in Scotland on the land question. "Aye, there
will and must be that, but they will manage it differently," said the
old gentleman. He censured my excitable country people pretty freely. I
enquired why he did not return to Scotland to live in that tranquil
country. "He had been long, out of Scotland, about forty years, and had
got into the ways of the Irish, and truly they were a kind-hearted
people and easily pleased."
Another gentleman in this compartment pointed out to me Blarney Castle
in the distance, and Blarney woollen mills nearer hand, where the
celebrated Blarney tweed is manufactured, and whispered to me that
Father ----, I did not catch the name with the noise of the cars, had
appeared in a suit of Blarney tweed. There and then I wished that every
reverend Father in Ireland was dressed in native manufacture.
A little fiddler was playing in the car for halfpence, and the Irish
gentleman paid him to play Scotch tunes in our honor, thinking we were
both Scotch, I and the old Scotch gentleman. I asked the child to play
"Harvey Duff," as I wanted to hear that most belligerent tune. The poor
child looked as frightened as if I had asked him to commit high treason
and shook his head. At Mallow the fine old Scotchman got off the train.
We had had a long talk on country and country's needs, and his fervent
"God bless you" at parting was a comfort and encouragement to me, indeed
it was.
At a station we took up some police who had been drinking--one sergeant
was very drunk; then some soldiers who had been drinking, and some
civilians who were in the same state. One fine looking young farmer of
the better sort was fighting drunk. There were sober people and a good
many women also on the car. It was one of those cars whose compartments
are boxed up halfway. The sergeant spilled a box of wafers and felt that
he did not wish to pick them up; another policeman in an overcoat set
himself to gather them up. I heard the young farmer say to him, "You're
a peeler," and in a moment every man in the car was on his feet. We had
not yet left the station, and many women rushed out of the car. The
official came and locked the doors, and we steamed out of the station
with all the men on their feet in a crowd, gesticulating and shouting at
one another at the top of their voices. As they swayed about with the
motion of the carriage, every soldier and constable with his rifle in
his hand, I found myself wondering if they were loaded or could possibly
go off of themselves.
As soon as I could distinguish words among the war of sounds I
understood that the young farmer accused the soberest sergeant of being
one of the party that shot young Hickey at Dr. Pomeroy's, and that he
was burning for revenge. The constable was a Northman, I knew by his
tongue, and he was at a northern white heat of anger. The young farmer
was almost mad with rage and drink. The drunken sergeant seemed to sober
in the congenial element of a probable row, and he and two sober
civilians exerted themselves to keep the peace, and to pacify the farmer
and get him to sit down.
In one of the pauses in the storm the peace-making sergeant wanted a
match; an old man behind me who had matches was appealed to for one and
he declined, averring with much simplicity that he was afraid of being
shot. His wife in a vigorous whisper advised him to keep his matches in
his pocket. Everyone in that car, drunk or sober, peace-making or not,
sympathised with that young farmer and were against the police.
We reached Fermoy quite late. The next morning early I took a car and
drove out to Mitchelstown, at the foot of the Galtees. Passed at a
distance, half hidden among embowering woods, the castle residence of
Lord Mount Cashel, who seems to be as much liked here as he was on the
Galgorm estate, but there were whispered reminiscences of by-gone wicked
agents.
The country on the way to Mitchelstown is partly very rich-looking now
waving with the harvest. There is a long valley in sight stretching away
for many miles, yellow with ripened corn and dotted with farm houses,
each with a few sheltering trees. Upon what is called mountain land I
saw a fine little farm that had been reclaimed from the heather quite
recently. The farmer and his sons were binding after the cradle. He
holds this land at two shillings and sixpence an acre, and hopes under
the new Land Law that it shall not be raised on him. Mitchelstown is
quite a large place, and was as quiet as Indian summer. Had my worst
experience of hotel life in Fermoy, and gladly left it behind for
Cappoquin. The road lies alongside a lovely valley of the Blackwater,
and one has glimpses of the most enchanting scenery as they steam along.
Cappoquin is quite a nice town, and seems to have some trade by river as
well as by rail.
Walked out through the fair country to Mount Mellary Monastery, a
property reclaimed out of the stony heathery mountain by the monks of La
Trappe. They have succeeded in creating smiling fields among the waste
of the mountain wilderness. They hold the land on a lease of 999 years.
No woman is allowed into the precincts of the monastery proper, but
there is a hospice attached where travellers are received and
entertained without charge, but any gratuity is accepted. There is also
a school among the buildings.
The valley between Cappoquin and Mount Mellary is strikingly beautiful.
There is tradition of a great battle having been fought here once in the
dim past when a hundred fights was no uncommon allowance of battle to
one warrior. All is quiet and peaceful here now. The crops are being
gathered in in the sunshine, and everything is smiling and serene. I
received very much kindness in Cappoquin for which there will always be
sunshine over my memories of it.