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DISTURBED IRELAND:
BEING THE LETTERS
WRITTEN DURING THE WINTER OF 1880-81.
BY
BERNARD H. BECKER,
_SPECIAL COMMISSIONER OF THE "DAILY NEWS."_
WITH ROUTE MAPS.
London:
MACMILLAN AND CO.
1881.
LONDON:
R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR,
BREAD STREET HILL.
PREFACE.
Having been most cordially granted permission to republish these
letters in a collected form, it is my duty to mention that my mission
from the _Daily News_ was absolutely unfettered, either by
instructions or introductions. It was thought that an independent and
impartial account of the present condition of the disturbed districts
of Ireland would be best secured by sending thither a writer without
either Irish politics or Irish friends--in short, one who might occupy
the stand-point of the too-often-quoted "intelligent foreigner." Hence
my little book is purely descriptive of the stirring scenes and deeply
interesting people I have met with on my way through the counties of
Mayo, Galway, Clare, Limerick, Cork, and Kerry. It is neither a
political treatise, nor a dissertation on the tenure of land, but a
plain record of my experience of a strange phase of national life. I
have simply endeavoured to reflect as accurately as might be the
salient features of a social and economic upheaval, soon I fervently
hope, to pass into the domain of history; and in offering my work to
the public must ask indulgence for the errors of omission and
commission so difficult to avoid while travelling and writing rapidly
in a country which, even to its own people, is a complex problem.
B.H.B.
ARTS' CLUB, _January 6th, 1881._
CONTENTS.
PAGE
I.
AT LOUGH MASK 1
II.
AN AGRARIAN DIFFICULTY 18
III.
LAND MEETINGS 26
IV.
MISS GARDINER AND HER TENANTS 52
V.
FROM MAYO TO CONNEMARA 70
VI.
THE RELIEF OF MR. BOYCOTT 120
VII.
MR. RICHARD STACPOOLE 153
VIII.
PATRIOTS 160
IX.
ON THE FERGUS 166
X.
PALLAS AND THE PALLADIANS 191
XI.
GOMBEEN 207
XII.
THE RETAINER 215
XIII.
CROPPED 225
XIV.
IN KERRY 232
XV.
THE "BOYCOTTING" OF MR. BENCE JONES 262
XVI.
A CRUISE IN A GROWLER 279
XVII.
"BOYCOTTED" AT CHRISTMASTIDE 307
XVIII.
CHRISTMAS IN COUNTY CLARE 328
* * * * *
[Illustration: (foldout Map of Ireland, showing author's route.)]
[Illustration: (foldout detail map of western Ireland, showing author's route.)]
* * * * *
DISTURBED IRELAND.
I.
AT LOUGH MASK.
WESTPORT, CO. MAYO, _Oct. 24._
The result of several days' incessant travelling in county Mayo is a
very considerable modification of the opinion formed at the first
glance at this, the most disaffected part of Ireland. On reaching
Claremorris, in the heart of the most disturbed district, I certainly
felt, and not for the first time, that as one approaches a spot in
which law and order are supposed to be suspended the sense of alarm
and insecurity diminishes, to put it mathematically, "as the square of
the distances." Even after a rapid survey of this part of the West I
cannot help contrasting the state of public opinion here with that
prevailing in Dublin. In the capital--outside of "the Castle," where
moderate counsels prevail--the alarmists appear to have it all their
own way. I was told gravely that there was no longer any security for
life or property in the West; that county Mayo was like Tipperary in
the old time, "only more so;" and that if I would go lurking about
Lough Mask and Lough Corrib it was impossible to prevent me; but that
the chances of return were, to say the least, remote. It was in vain
that I pointed out that every stone wall did not hide an assassin, and
that strangers and others not connected either directly or indirectly
with the land were probably as safe, if not safer, on a high road in
Mayo than in Sackville-street, Dublin. It was admitted that,
theoretically, I was quite in the right; but that like many other
theorists I might find my theory break down in practice. I was
entertained with a full account of the way in which assassinations are
conducted in the livelier counties of Ireland, and great stress was
laid upon the fact that the assassins were always well primed with
"the wine of the country," that is to say whisky, of similar quality
to that known in New York as "fighting rum," "Jersey lightning," or
"torchlight procession." It was then impressed upon me that
half-drunken assassins, specially imported from a distant part of the
county to shoot a landlord or agent, might easily mistake a stranger
for the obnoxious person and shoot him accordingly, just as the
unlucky driver was hit in Kerry the other day instead of the land
agent. Furthermore, I was taken to a gunsmith's in Dawson-street,
where I was assured that the sale of firearms had been and was
remarkably brisk, the chief demand being for full-sized revolvers and
double-barrelled carbines. The weapon chiefly recommended was one of
the latter, with a large smooth bore for carrying buck-shot and
spreading the charge so much as to make the hitting of a man at thirty
yards almost certain. The barrels were very short, in order that the
gun might be convenient to carry in carriage or car. This formidable
weapon was to be carried in the hand so as to be ready when
opportunity served; a little ostentation as to one's habit of going
armed being vigorously insisted on as a powerful deterrent.
To any person unacquainted with the humorous side of the Irish
character a morning spent in such converse as I have endeavoured to
indicate might have proved disquieting enough; but those who know
Irishmen and their ways at once enter into the spirit of the thing,
and enjoy it as much as the untamable jokers themselves. Nothing is
more amazing to serious people than the light and easy manner in which
everybody takes everything on this side of the Irish Sea. This is
perfectly exemplified by the tone in which the Kerry murder is
discussed. I have heard it talked over by every class of person, from
a landholding peer to a not very sober car-driver, and the view taken
is always the same. No horror is expressed at the commission of such a
crime, or at the state of society which makes it possible. Nothing of
the kind. A little sympathy is expressed for the poor man who was shot
by mistake, and then the humour of the situation overrules every other
consideration. That poor people resenting what they imagine to be
tyranny should shoot one of their own class instead of the hated agent
is a fact so irresistibly comic as to provoke a quantity of hilarious
comment. As laughter dies away, however, another expression of feeling
takes place, and the slackness of the master in not being ready with
his pistol, and his want of presence of mind to pursue the murderer
and avenge his servant's death, are spoken of with the fiercest
indignation. But nobody appears to care about the general and social
aspect of the case.
Beneath all this humour and a curious tendency to exaggerate the
condition of the West, there undeniably lurked very considerable
uneasiness. It was known that "the Castle" was hard at work, and that,
before proceeding to coercive measures, Mr. Forster was getting
together all the trustworthy evidence that could be obtained as to the
state of the country. As an instance of the absurd rumours flying
about, I may mention that I was in the presence of two Irish peers
solemnly assured that a "rising in the West" was imminent, and not
only imminent, but fixed for the 31st October. Now, who has not heard
at any time within the memory of man of this expected "rising in the
West"? It is the _spectre rouge_, or, to be more accurate as to local
colour, the _spectre vert_ of the Irish alarmist, and a poor, ragged,
out-at-elbows spectre it is, altogether very much the worse for wear.
Flesh and blood could not bear the mention of this shabby, worn-out
old ghost with calmness, and I conveyed to the gentlemen who
volunteered the information my opinion that the _spectre vert_ was, in
American language, "played out." Will it be believed that I was the
only person present who ridiculed the "poor ghost"? I soon perceived
that my scornful remarks were not at all in accordance with the
feeling of the company, who did not see anything impossible in a
"rising in the West," and refused to laugh at the Saxon's remark that
things did not "rise," but "set" in that direction. County Mayo and
parts of county Galway were beyond the law, and could only be cured by
the means successfully employed in Westmeath a few years
ago--coercion. It was of no avail to say that very few people had been
shot in the disaffected counties during the last ten years. The answer
was always the same. The minds of the people were poisoned by
agitators, and they would pay nobody either rent or any other just
debt except on compulsion.
Beyond Athlone the tone of public opinion improved very rapidly, and
in Roscommon, once a disturbed county, I found plenty of people ready
to laugh with me at the _spectre vert_. There was nothing the matter
in that county. A fair price had been obtained for sheep and cattle,
the harvest had been good, everything was going on as well as
possible. There was some talk, it was true, about disturbances in
Mayo, but there was a great deal of imagination and exaggeration, and
the trouble was confined to certain districts of the county, the
centre of disturbance being somewhere about Claremorris, a market
town, on the railway to Westport, and not very far from Knock, the
last new place of pilgrimage. At Claremorris I accordingly halted to
look about me, and was surprised at the extraordinary activity of the
little place. Travellers in agricultural England, either Wessex or
East Anglia, often wonder who drinks all the beer for the distribution
of which such ample facilities are afforded. A church, a public-house,
and a blacksmith's shop constitute an English village; but there is
nobody on the spot either to go to church or drink the beer. At
Claremorris a similar effect is produced on the visitor's mind. The
main street is full of shops, corn-dealers, drapers, butchers, bakers,
and general dealers in everything, from a horse to a hayseed; but out
of the main track there are no houses--only hovels as wretched as any
in Connaught. It is quite evident that the poor people who inhabit
them cannot buy much of anything. Men, women, and children, dogs,
ducks, and a donkey, are frequently crowded together in these
miserable cabins, the like of which on any English estate would bring
down a torrent of indignation on the landlord. They are all of one
pattern, wretchedly thatched, but with stout stone walls, and are,
when a big peat fire is burning, hot almost to suffocation. When it is
possible to distinguish the pattern of the bed-curtains through the
dirt, they are seen to be of the familiar blue and white checked
pattern made familiar to London playgoers by Susan's cottage as
displayed at the St. James's Theatre. The chest of drawers is nearly
always covered with tea-things and other crockery, generally of the
cheapest and commonest kind, but in great plenty. House accommodation
in Claremorris is of the humblest character. At the best inn, called
ambitiously Hughes's Hotel, I found that I was considered fortunate in
getting any sort of bedroom to myself. The apartment was very small,
with a lean-to roof, but then I reigned over it in solitary grandeur,
while a dozen commercial travellers were packed into the three or four
other bedrooms in the house. As these gentlemen arrived at odd hours
of the night and were put into the rooms and beds occupied by their
friends, sleep at Claremorris was not a function easily performed, and
it was some foreknowledge of what actually occurred that induced me to
sit up as late as possible in the eating, dining, reading, and
commercial room, the only apartment of any size in the house, but full
of occupants, most of whom were very communicative concerning their
business. Here were the eagles indeed, but where was the carcass? To
my amazement I found that Mike this and Tim that, whose shops are very
small, had been giving large orders, and that the credit of
Claremorris was in a very healthy condition. Equally curious was it to
find that the gathering of "commercials" was not an unusual
occurrence, but that the queer townlet was a genuine centre of
business activity. We sat up as late as the stench of paraffin from
the lamps--for there is no gas--would allow us. Lizzie, literally a
maid of all work, but dressed in a gown tied violently back, brought
up armful after armful of peat, and built and rebuilt the fire over
and over again. There was in the corner of the room a huge receptacle,
like half a hogshead, fastened to the wall for holding peat--or
"turf," as it is called here--but it never occurred apparently to
anybody to fill this bin and save the trouble of eternal journeys up
and down stairs. It may be also mentioned, not out of any
squeamishness, but purely as a matter of fact, that in the intervals
of bringing in "arrumfuls" of "torrf" Lizzie folded tablecloths for
newcomers so as to hide the coffee-stains as much as possible, and
then proceeded to set their tea for them, after which she went back to
building the fire again. In the work of waiting she was at uncertain
intervals assisted by Joe, a shock-headed, black-haired Celt, who,
when a Sybarite asked at breakfast for toast, repeated "Toast!" in a
tone that set the table in a roar. It was not said impudently or
rudely. Far from it. Joe's tone simply expressed honest amazement, as
if one had asked for a broiled crocodile or any other impossible
viand.
There are, of course, people who would like separate servants to build
up peat fires and to cut their bread and butter; but this kind of
person should not come to county Mayo. To the less fastidious all
other shortcomings are made up for by the absolutely delightful manner
of the people, whose kindness, civility, good humour, and, I may add,
honesty, are remarkable. At Hughes's Hotel the politeness of everybody
was perfect; and I may add that the proprietor saved me both time and
money by giving up a long posting job, to his own obvious loss. But if
a visitor to Mayo wants anything done at once, then and there, he had
better do it himself. I ventured to remark to Joe that he was a
civil-spoken boy, but not very prompt in carrying out instructions,
and asked whether everybody in Connaught conducted himself in the same
way. He at once admitted that everybody did so. "Divil the bad answer
ye'll iver get, Sorr," said he. "We just say, 'I will, Sorr,' and thin
go away, and another gintleman says something, and ye're forgotten.
Dy'e see, now?" And away he went, and forgot everything. Being at
Claremorris, I tried to see a "lister," that is, a landowner and agent
on the "black list." I was obliged to make inquiries concerning his
whereabouts, and this investigation soon convinced me that there was
something wrong in Mayo after all; not the _spectre vert_ exactly, but
yet an unpleasant impalpability. All was well at Claremorris. Trade
was good "presently now," potatoes were good and cheap, poverty was
not advancing arm-in-arm with winter. It was cold, for snow was
already on the Nephin; but turf had been stored during the long, fine,
warm summer, and nobody was afraid of the frost. But the instant I
mentioned the name of the gentleman I wanted to find not a soul knew
anything about him. Farming several hundred acres of land on his own
account, a resident on Lough Mask for seven years, and agent to Lord
Erne, he seemed to be a man concerning whose movements the country
side would probably be well informed. But nobody knew anything at all
about him. He might be at the Curragh, or he might be in Dublin, and
then would, one informant thought, slip over to England and get out of
the trouble, if he were wise. In one of the larger stores I saw that
the mention of his name drew every eye upon me, and that the
bystanders were greatly exercised as to my identity and my business.
In this part of the country everybody knows everybody, and a stranger
asking for a proscribed man excited native curiosity to a maddening
pitch. Presently I was taken aside, led round a corner, and there told
that most assuredly the man I sought had not come home from Dublin
_viâ_ Claremorris. Having a map of the county with me, I naturally
suggested that he might have reached Lough Mask by way of Tuam, and,
moreover, that, having a shrewd notion he would be shot at when
occasion served, he would most likely try to get home by an unusual
route on which he would hardly be looked for. "Is it alone ye think
he'd be going, Sorr?" asked my informant in astonishment. "Divil a fut
does he stir widout an escort." This was news indeed. "He came here,
sure, Sorr, wid two constables on the kyar and two mounted men
following him." I was also recommended to hold my tongue, for that Mr.
Boycott's friends would certainly not tell whether he was at home or
not, and his enemies would probably be kept in ignorance or led astray
altogether. But it was necessary for me to find out his whereabouts.
To go and see whether he was at Lough Mask involved a ride of forty
miles, enlivened by the probability of being mistaken for him,
slipping quietly home, and cheered by the risk of hearing at his house
that he had gone to England. Telegraphing to him appeared useless, as
communications were said to be cut off on the five Irish miles between
Ballinrobe, the telegraph station, and Lough Mask House. As time wore
on, I learned that he had had cattle at Tuam Fair, but that he had not
come home that way for certain. In despair I came on to this place,
where information reached me yesterday morning that, contrary to all
expectations, he had gone on the other line of railway to Galway, and
taken the steamboat on Lough Corrib to Cong, after having telegraphed
to his escort to meet him there.
From Westport to Lough Mask is a long but picturesque drive. I was
lucky enough to secure an intelligent driver and an excellent horse
and car. Thirty Irish miles is not in this part of the country
considered an extravagant distance to drive a horse. I believe,
indeed, that under other circumstances the unfortunate animal would
have been compelled to carry me the entire distance; but I remarked
that when I suggested a change of horses at Ballinrobe I was not only
accommodated with a fresh horse, but with a fresh car and a fresh
driver, who declared that the road to Lough Mask was about the safest
and best that he had ever heard of. Now from Westport to Ballinrobe we
had met nobody but a very few people going into town either riding on
an ass or driving one laden with a pair of panniers or "cleaves" of
turf, for which some fourpence or fivepence would be paid. All seemed
thinly clad, despite the fearfully cold wind sweeping down from the
Nephin, the Hest, and other snow-clad mountains. Crossing the long
dreary peat-moss known as Mún-a-lún, we found the cold intense; but on
approaching Lough Carra came into bright broad sunshine. At Ballinrobe
the sun was still hotter, and as I approached Lough Mask the heat was
almost oppressive. I was not, however, allowed to inspect Lough Mask
House and the ruins of the adjacent castle in the first place. I had
but just passed a magnificent field of mangolds, many of which weighed
from a stone to a stone and a half, when I came upon a sight which
could not be paralleled in any other civilised country at the present
moment.
Beyond a turn in the road was a flock of sheep, in front of which
stood a shepherdess heading them back, while a shepherd, clad in a
leather shooting-jacket and aided by a bull terrier, was driving them
through a gate into an adjacent field. Despite her white woollen shawl
and the work she was engaged upon, it was quite evident, from her
voice and manner, that the shepherdess was of the educated class, and
the shepherd, albeit dressed in a leather jacket, carried himself with
the true military air. Both were obviously amateurs at sheep-driving,
and the smart, intelligent bull terrier was as much an amateur as
either of them, for shepherd, shepherdess and dog were only doing what
a good collie would achieve alone and unaided. Behind the shepherd
were two tall members of the Royal Irish Constabulary in full uniform
and with carbines loaded. As the shepherd entered the field the
constables followed him everywhere at a distance of a few yards. All
his backings and fillings, turnings and doublings, were followed by
the armed policemen. This combination of the most proverbially
peaceful of pursuits with carbines and buckshot was irresistibly
striking, and the effect of the picture was not diminished by the
remarks of Mr. and Mrs. Boycott, for the shepherd and shepherdess were
no other than these. The condition of Mr. Boycott and his family has
undergone not the slightest amelioration since he last week wrote a
statement of his case to a daily contemporary. In fact, he is in many
respects worse off. It will be recollected that about a month ago a
process-server and his escort retreated on Lough Mask House, followed
by a mob, and that on the following day all the farm servants were
ordered to leave Mr. Boycott's employment. I may mention that Mr.
Boycott is a Norfolk man, the son of a clergyman, and was formerly an
officer in the 39th Regiment. On his marriage he settled on the Island
of Achill, near here, and farmed there until he was offered some land
agencies, which occupied so much of his time, that he, after some
twenty years' residence in Achill, elected to take a farm on the
mainland. For seven years he has farmed at Lough Mask, acting also as
Lord Erne's agent. He has on his own account had a few difficulties
with his workpeople; but these were tided over by concessions on his
part, and all went smoothly till the serving of notices upon Lord
Erne's tenants. All the weight of the tenants' vengeance has fallen
upon the unfortunate agent, whom the irritated people declare they
will "hunt out of the country." The position is an extraordinary one.
During his period of occupation Mr. Boycott has laid out a great deal
of money on his farm, has improved the roads, and made turnips and
other root crops to grow where none grew before. But the country side
has struck against him, and he is now actually in a state of siege.
Personally attended by an armed escort everywhere, he has a garrison
of ten constables on his premises, some established in a hut, and the
rest in that part of Lough Mask House adjacent to the old castle.
Garrisoned at home and escorted abroad, Mr. Boycott and his family are
now reduced to one female domestic. Everybody else has gone away,
protesting sorrow, but alleging that the power brought to bear upon
them was greater than they could resist. Farm labourers, workmen,
herds-men, stablemen, all went long ago, leaving the corn standing,
the horses in the stable, the sheep in the field, the turnips, swedes,
carrots, and potatoes in the ground, where I saw them yesterday. Last
Tuesday the laundress refused to wash for the family any longer; the
baker at Ballinrobe is afraid to supply them with bread, and the
butcher fears to send them meat. The state of siege is perfect.
When the strike first began Mr. Boycott went bravely to work with his
family, setting the young ladies to reaping and binding, and looking
after the beasts and sheep himself. But the struggle is nearly at an
end now. Mr. Boycott has sold some of his stock; but he can neither
sell his crop to anybody else, nor, as they say in the North of
England, "win" it for himself. There remains in the ground at least
five hundred pounds worth of potatoes and other root crops, and the
owner has no possible means of doing anything with them. Nor, I am
assured on trustworthy authority, would any human being buy them at
any price; nor, if any such person were found, would he be able to
find any labourer to touch any manner of work on the spot under the
ban. By an impalpable and invisible power it is decreed that Mr.
Boycott shall be "hunted out," and it is more than doubtful whether he
will, under existing circumstances, be able to stand against it. He is
unquestionably a brave and resolute man, but there is too much reason
to believe that without his garrison and escort his life would not be
worth an hour's purchase.
There are few fairer prospects than that from the steps of Lough Mask
House, a moderately comfortable and unpretending edifice, not quite so
good as a large farmer's homestead in England. But the potatoes will
rot in the ground, and the cattle will go astray, for not a soul in
the Ballinrobe country dare touch a spade for Mr. Boycott. Personally
he is protected, but no woman in Ballinrobe would dream of washing him
a cravat or making him a loaf. All the people have to say is that
they are sorry, but that they "dare not." Hence either Mr. Boycott,
with an escort armed to the teeth, or his wife without an escort--for
the people would not harm her--must go to Ballinrobe after putting a
horse in the shafts themselves, buy what they can, and bring it home.
Everybody advises them to leave the country; but the answer of the
besieged agent is simply this: "I can hardly desert Lord Erne, and,
moreover, my own property is sunk in this place." It is very much like
asking a man to give up work and go abroad for the benefit of his
health. He cannot sacrifice his occupation and his property.
There is very little doubt that this unfortunate gentleman has been
selected as a victim whose fate may strike terror into others. Judging
from what I hear, there is a sort of general determination to frighten
the landlords. Only a few nights ago a man went into a store at
Longford and said openly, "My landlord has processed me for the last
four or five years; but he hasn't processed me this year, and the
divil thank him for that same."
II.
AN AGRARIAN DIFFICULTY.
WESTPORT, CO. MAYO, _Oct. 25th._
"Tiernaur, Sorr, is on the way to Claggan Mountain, where they shot at
Smith last year, and--if I don't disremember--is just where they shot
Hunter last August eleven years. Ye'll mind the cross-roads before ye
come to the chapel. It was there they shot him from behind a
sod-bank." This was the reply I received in answer to my question as
to the whereabouts of a public meeting to be held yesterday morning,
with the patriotic object of striking terror into the hearts of
landlords and agents. It was delivered without appearance of
excitement or emotion of any kind, the demeanour of the speaker being
quite as simple as that of Wessex Hodge when he recommends one to go
straight on past the Craven Arms, and then bear round by the Dog and
Duck till the great house comes in sight. Tiernaur, I gathered, was
about fifteen miles to the north-west along Clew Bay towards
Ballycroy. It is called Newfield Chapel on the Ordnance map, but is
always spoken of here by its native name. It is invested with more
than the mere transient interest attaching to the place of an open-air
meeting, for it is the centre of a district subject to chronic
disturbance, and is just now the scene of serious trouble, or what
would appear serious trouble in any less turbulent part of the
country. It is necessary to be exact in describing what occurs here,
as a phrase may easily be construed to imply much more than is
intended. When it is said that the country between Westport and
Ballycroy is disturbed, and that law and order are set at defiance, it
must not be imagined that the roads are unsafe for travellers, or that
any ordinary person is liable to be shot at, beaten, robbed, or
insulted. I have no hesitation in stating that a stranger may go
anywhere in the county, at any hour of the day or night, alone and
unarmed, and that even in country inns he need take no precautions
against robbery. Mayo people do not steal, and if they shot a
stranger, it would only be by mistake for a Scotch farmer or an
English agent. And I am sure that the accident would be sincerely
deplored by the warm-hearted natives. I have thought it well to master
all the details of the Tiernaur difficulty, because it is a perfect
type of the agrarian troubles which agitate the West. In the first
place the reader will clearly understand that English and Scotch
landlords, agents, and farmers, are as a rule abhorred by the Irish
population. It is perhaps hardly my province to decide who is to
blame. Difference of manner may go for a great deal, but beyond and
below the resentment caused by a prompt, decisive, and perhaps
imperious tone, lies a deeply-rooted sense of wrong--logically or
illogically arrived at. The evictions of the last third of a century
and the depopulation of large tracts of country have filled the hearts
of the people with revenge, and, rightly or wrongly, they not only
blame the landlord but the occupier of the land. If, they argue, there
had been no Englishmen and Scotchmen to take large farms, the small
holders would not have been swept away, and "driven like a wild goose
on the mountain" to make room for them. Without for the present
discussing the reasonableness of this plea, I merely record the simple
fact that an English or Scotch farmer is unpopular from the beginning.
Here and there such a one as Mr. Simpson may manage to live the
prejudice down; but that he will have to encounter it on his arrival
is absolutely certain.
This being the case, it is not to be wondered at that when the late
Mr. Hunter, a Scotchman, took a large grazing farm at Tiernaur, his
arrival was at once regarded in a hostile spirit. The land he occupied
was let to him by two adjoining proprietors, Mr. Gibbings, of Trinity
College, Dublin, and Mr. Stoney, of Rossturk Castle, near at hand.
There was a convenient dwelling-house on the part of the farm looking
over Clew Bay towards Clare Island, and all was apparently smooth and
pleasant. No sooner, however, was Mr. Hunter established there than a
difficulty arose. The inhabitants of the surrounding country had been
in the habit of cutting turf and pulling sedge on parts of the
mountain and bog included within the limits of Mr. Hunter's farm. It
is only fair to the memory of the deceased gentleman to state that
such rights are frequently paid for, and that he had not taken the
farm subject to any "turbary" rights or local customs. Accordingly he
demanded payment from the people, who objected that they had always
cut turf and pulled sedge on the mountain; that they could not live
without turf for fuel and sedge to serve first as winter bedding for
their cattle and afterwards as manure; that except on Mr. Hunter's
mountain neither turf nor sedge could be got within any reasonable
distance; and, finally, that they had always enjoyed such right. And
so forth. As this was, as already intimated, not in the bond, Mr.
Hunter, not very unnaturally, insisted that if the people would not
pay him his landlord must, and asked Mr. Gibbings to allow him ten
pounds a year off his rent. The latter offered him, as I am informed,
five pounds. The matter was referred to an umpire, who awarded Mr.
Hunter twelve pounds, an assessment which Mr. Gibbings declined to
take into consideration at all. After some further discussion Mr.
Hunter warned the people off his farm and declared their supposed
"turbary" rights at an end. It is of course difficult to arrive at any
conclusion on the merits of the case. All that is certain is, that the
people had long enjoyed privileges which Mr. Gibbings declared to be
simple trespass. Finally he told Mr. Hunter he had his bond and must
enforce it himself. The unfortunate farmer, thus placed, as it were,
between the upper and nether millstone, endeavoured to enforce his
supposed rights. It is almost needless to remark that the people went
on cutting turf just as if nothing had happened. In an evil hour Mr.
Hunter determined to see what the law could do to protect him in the
enjoyment of his farm, and he sued the trespassers accordingly. I will
not attempt to explain the intricacies of an Irish lawsuit farther
than to note that, owing to some deficiency in their pleas, the
trespassers underwent a nonsuit, or some analogous doom, and went
gloomily away without having even the satisfaction of a fair fight in
court. At the instance of Mr. Hunter, execution for damages and costs
was issued against the most solvent of the trespassers, one John
O'Neill, of Knockmanus--his next-door neighbour, so to speak. On
Friday the execution was put in, and, on its being found impossible to
find anybody to act as bailiff, Mr. Hunter himself asked the
sub-sheriff to put in his name, and he would see himself that the
crops were not removed. This was done, and on the following Sunday Mr.
Hunter went with his family to attend Divine service at Newport.
Leaving Newport in the evening, he had gone not half-way to Tiernaur
when his horse's shoe came off. This circumstance, ominous enough in
the disturbed districts of Ireland, was not heeded by Mr. Hunter, who
put back to Newport and had his horse shod. As he set out for the
second time, the evening was closing in, and as he reached the road
turning off from the main track towards his own dwelling he was shot
from the opposite angle. The assassin must have been a good marksman,
for there were four persons in the dog-cart--Mr. Hunter, his wife, his
son, and a servant lad. The doomed man was picked out and shot dead.
It is obviously unnecessary to add that the assassin escaped, and has
not been discovered unto this day.
Immediately on the commission of the crime the widow of the murdered
man was afforded "protection," as it is called, in the manner usual
during Irish disturbances--that is, four men and a sergeant of the
constabulary were stationed at her house. In course of time, however,
Mrs. Hunter felt comparatively safe, and the constables removed to a
hut about two miles on the Newport road, opposite to some very good
grouse-shooting. There the five men dwell in their little iron-clad
house, pierced with loopholes in case of attack--a very improbable
event. At the moment of writing, four constables are also stationed at
Mr. Stoney's residence, Rossturk Castle, although it is not quite
certain what the owner has done to provoke the anger of the people.
This being the situation, a very short time since Mrs. Hunter elected
to give up the farm and leave this part of the country. The property
is therefore on the hands of the landlord, and is "to let." How bright
the prospect of getting a tenant is may be estimated by the remark
made to me by a very well-instructed person living close by--"If the
landlord were to give me that farm for nothing, stock it for me, and
give me a cash balance to go on with, I would gratefully but firmly
decline the generous gift. No consideration on earth would induce me
to occupy Hunter's farm." In the present condition of affairs it would
certainly require either great courage or profound ignorance on the
part of a would-be tenant to impel him to occupy any land under ban. A
rational being would almost as soon think of going to help Mr. Boycott
to get in his potatoes. For the people of Tiernaur are now face to
face--only at a safe distance for him--with Mr. Gibbings. The cause of
the new difficulty is as follows: Mrs. Hunter having given up the
farm, it was applied for by some of the neighbours, who offered a
similar rent to that paid by her. Either because the landlord did not
want the applicants as tenants, or because he thought the land
improved, he demanded a higher rent. This is the one unpardonable
crime--an attempt to raise the rent. For his own reasons the landlord
does not choose to let what is called Hunter's farm to the Tiernaur
people on the old terms, and the stranger who should venture upon it
would need be girt with _robur et æs triplex_.
Within the last few days this proprietary deadlock has been enlivened
by an act which has caused much conversation in this part of Ireland.
A house on Glendahurk Mountain has been burned down, and the cattle of
the neighbouring farmers have been turned on to the mountain to
pasture at the expense of Mr. Gibbings. Moreover the bailiff has been
warned not to interfere, or attempt to scare the cattle and drive them
off. Thus the tenant farmers are grazing their cattle for nothing,
and, what is more, no man dare meddle with them. The sole remedy open
to Mr. Gibbings is civil process for trespass. Should he adopt this
course he will probably be safe enough in Dublin, but I am assured
that the life of his bailiff will not be worth a day's purchase.
III.
A LAND MEETING.
WESTPORT, CO. MAYO, _Oct. 27th._
The way from this place to Tiernaur is through a country, as a Mayo
man said to me, "eminently adapted to tourists." Not very far off lies
Croagh Patrick, the sacred mountain from which St. Patrick cursed the
snakes and other venomous creatures and drove them from Ireland. I was
assured by the car-driver that the noxious animals vanished into the
earth at the touch of the Saint's bell. "He just," said this veracious
informant, "shlung his bell at 'um, and the bell cum back right into
his hand. And the mountain is full of holes. And the snakes went into
'um and ye can hear 'um hissing on clear still days." Be this as it
may, the line of country towards Newport is delightfully picturesque.
The great brown cone of Croagh Patrick soars above all, and to right
and left rise the snow-covered Nephin and Hest. Evidences of careful
cultivation are frequent on every side. Fairly large potato-fields
occur at short intervals, and mangolds and turnips are grown for
feeding stock. Cabbages also are grown for winter feed, and the
character of the country is infinitely more cheerful than on the
opposite side of Westport. Inquiring of my driver as to the safety of
the country, I received the following extraordinary reply, "Ye might
lie down and sleep anywhere, and divil a soul would molest ye, barring
the lizards in summer time; and they are dreadful, are lizards. They
don't bite ye like snakes, or spit at ye like toads; but if ye sleep
wid ye'r mouth open, they crawl, just crawl down ye'r throat into ye'r
stommick and kill ye. For they've schales on their bodies, and can't
get back; and they just scratch, and bite, and claw at your innards
till ye die." There was nothing to be done with these terrible lizards
but to drink an unmentionable potion, which, I am assured, is strong
enough to rout the most determined lizard of them all, and bring him
to nought. It is, however, noteworthy that stories of persons being
killed by lizards crawling down their throats are widely distributed.
There is one of a young Hampshire lady who, the day before she was
married, went to sleep in her father's garden, and was killed by a
lizard crawling down her throat. And, my informant said, the lizard is
carved on her tomb--a fact which makes it appear likely that the story
was made for the armorial bearings of the lady in question.
By a pleasant road lined with cabbage gardens we came on to Newport--a
port which, like this, is not one of the "has beens," but one of the
"would have beens." There is the semblance of a port without ships,
and warehouses without goods, and quays overgrown with grass. Beyond
Newport the country grows wilder. There is less cultivation, and
behind every little shanty rises the great brown shoulder of the
neighbouring mountain covered with rough, bent grass--or sedge, as it
is called here. Grey plover and curlew scud across the road, a sign of
hard weather, and near the rarer homesteads towers the hawk, looking
for his prey. Now and again come glimpses of the bay, of the great
island of Innisturk, of Clare Island, and of Innisboffin. Wilder and
wilder grows the scenery as we approach Grace O'Malley's Castle, a
small tenement for a Queen of Connaught. It is a lone tower like a
border "peel," but on the very edge of the sea. The country folk show
the window through which passed the cable of a mighty war ship to be
tied round Grace O'Malley's bedpost, whom one concludes to have been,
in a small way, a kind of pirate queen. As we approach Tiernaur the
road becomes lively with country folk going to and from chapel, and
stopping to exchange a jest--always in the tongue of the country--by
the way. In this part of the wild road the Saxon feels himself,
indeed, a stranger--in race, in creed, and in language. Now and then
he sees the Irishman of the stage, clad in the short swallow-tailed
coat with pocket-flaps, the corduroy breeches, the blue worsted
stockings and misshapen caubeen, made familiar by a thousand novels
and plays. These articles of attire are becoming day by day as rare as
the red petticoats formerly worn by the peasant women. On the latter,
however, may still be seen, now and then, the great blue cloth cloaks
which once formed a distinctive article of costume, and a very
necessary one in this severe climate. Presently jog by a few men on
horseback, very ill-mounted on sorry beasts, and riding in unison with
the quality of their animals. Men, women and children are in their
Sunday best, and to all outward appearance scrupulously clean. I am
constrained to believe that among the very lowest class--that which
comes under prison regulations--the preliminary washing is counted as
the severest part of the punishment; but the evidence of my own
eyesight is in favour of the strict personal cleanliness of Sunday
folk in this part of the country. Near Tiernaur I find bands of men
marching to the gathering, which is a purely local affair, not
regularly organized by the Land League. But the men themselves appear
to be very strictly organized, to march well, and to obey their bugler
promptly. They are all in Sunday clothes, wear green scarves, and
carry green banners. The latter are inscribed with various mottoes
proper to the occasion. On the Kilmeena banner appears, "No prison
cell nor tyrant's claim Can keep us from our glorious aim." The
Glendahurk men proclaim on another green banner, bearing the harp
without the crown, that "Those who toil Must own the soil;" and the
Mulrawny contingent call upon the people to "Hold the Mountain," to
cry "Down with the Land Grabbers," and "God save Ireland." The musical
arrangements are of the humblest kind, and not a single man is armed,
at least outwardly, and not one in twenty carries a stick. All is
quiet and orderly, and the same tranquil demeanour obtains at
Tiernaur, or rather at Newfield Chapel, appointed as the
trysting-place after morning service. In accordance with recent
regulations there is no ostentatious display of police, but everybody
knows that a strong detachment is posted in Mrs. Hunter's house, and
that on any sign of disturbance they will promptly put in an
appearance. On the side of the Government, as on that of the people,
there is an obvious desire to avoid any semblance of an appeal to
force.
The scene at Newfield Chapel is both interesting and beautiful.
Tiernaur lies between the brown mountains and a sapphire sea, studded
with islands rising precipitously from its level. In front lies the
lofty eminence of Clare Island, below which appears to nestle the
picturesque castle of Rossturk. The bay--which is said to hold as many
islands as there are days in a year and one over--presents a series
of magnificent views. One might be assisting at one of the meetings of
the Covenanters held amid the seas and mountains of Galloway, but with
the difference that the faith of the meeting is that of the Church of
Rome, and that the scenery is far grander than that of Wigton and
Kirkcudbright. It is a natural amphitheatre of sea and mountain,
perfect in its beauty, but for one dark spot, just visible--the place
where Hunter was shot. The chapel, modest and unpretending, is a
simple, whitewashed edifice, surrounded by a white wall, over which
gleam, in the already declining sun, the red and black plaid shawls of
the peasant women who have remained after mass to witness the
proceedings. Not a dozen bonnets are present, and hardly as many hats,
for nearly all the women and girls wear the shawl pulled over their
heads, Lancashire fashion. In appearance the people contrast
favourably with those of the inland towns of county Mayo. The men look
active and wiry, and the women are well grown and in many cases have
an air of distinction foreign to the heavy-browed, black-haired Celt
of the interior. Altogether the picture is well worthy of a master of
colour, with its masses of black and green, relieved by patches of
bright red, standing boldly out against the background of brown moor
and azure sea.
The proceedings are hardly in consonance with the dignity of the
surroundings. Many marchings to and fro occur before the various
deputations are duly ushered to their place near the temporary
hustings erected in front of the chapel. When the meeting--of some two
thousand people at most--has gathered, there is an unlucky fall of
rain, advantage of which is taken by a local "omadhaun," or "softy" as
they call him in Northern England, to mount the stage and make a
speech, which elicits loud shouts of laughter. Taking little heed of
the pelting shower the "omadhaun," who wears a red bandanna like a
shawl, and waves a formidable shillelagh, makes a harangue which, so
far as I can understand it, has neither head nor tail. Delivered with
much violent gesticulation, the speech is evidently to the taste of
the audience, who cheer and applaud more or less ironically. At last
the rain is over, and the serious business of the day commences. The
chair is taken by the parish priest of Tiernaur, whose initial oration
is peculiar in its character. The tone and manner of speaking are
excellent, but alack for the matter! A more wandering, blundering
piece of dreary repetition never bemused an audience. In fairness to
the priest, however, it must be admitted that a Government reporter is
on the platform, and that the presence of that official may perhaps
exercise a blighting influence on the budding flowers of rhetoric. All
that the speaker--a handsome man, with a very fine voice--said,
amounted to a statement, repeated over and over again with slight
variations, that the people of Tiernaur were placed by the Almighty on
the spot intended for them to live upon; that they were between the
mountains and the sea; that all that the landlords could take from
them they had taken; "the wonder was they had not taken the salt sea
itself." This was all the speaker had to say, and he said it over and
over again. He was succeeded by his curate, who insisted with like
iteration on the duty of supporting the people imposed upon the land.
Out of the fatness thereof they should, would, and must be maintained.
Other sources of profit there were, according to this rev. gentleman,
absolutely none. The land belonged to the people "on payment of a just
rent" to the landlords. "Down wid 'em!" yelled an enthusiast, who was
instantly suppressed. And the people had a right to live, not like the
beasts of the field, but like decent people. And _da capo_.