Stacpoole because he "can't get at 'um"--a phrase which requires some
explanation. I had, with an eye becoming practised in such matters,
scanned the house and its approaches as I drove up to the door, and
had discussed with the friend who introduced me to its master the
chances of "stalking" that gentleman on his own ground. Trees and
brushwood grew more closely to the house than a military engineer
would have permitted, and I hazarded the opinion that it would be easy
to "do him over," as it is called. But on talking to Mr. Stacpoole I
quickly discover that the real reason why he is now alive is that
ninety-nine out of a hundred of his enemies are as afraid of him as
the Glenveagh folk up in Donegal are of Mr. J.G. Adair. Brave and
resolute to a fault, he has openly declared his dislike for what is
called "protection." "But," he observes, quietly and simply, "I always
carry my large-bore revolver, and I never walk alone, even across the
path to look down at the lake. Whenever I go out, and wherever I go, I
have a trustworthy man with me carrying a double-barrelled gun. His
orders are distinct. If anybody fires at me he is not to look at me,
but let me lie, and kill the man who fired the shot. And I am not sure
that if he saw an armed man near me in a suspicious attitude that he
wouldn't shoot first. I most certainly will myself. If I catch any of
them armed and lurking about here near my house, I will kill them, and
they know it."
There was no appearance of emotion in the speaker, whose collection of
threatening letters is large and curious. His position was clearly
defined. There was no longer any law in Clare. It was everybody for
himself, and he would take care of himself in his own way. Mr.
Stacpoole's situation is certainly extraordinary. He is not an
"exterminator," but perhaps he is a "tyrant," for everybody is
considered one who tries to exact obedience from any created being in
the west of Ireland. He has incurred the ill-will of the popular
party, mainly through his debate with one Welsh, or Walsh, a small
farmer.
So far as it is possible to understand the matter, this Welsh and two
other persons held a farm of about fifty acres among them as
co-tenants, paying each one-third of the rent. Whether Welsh had
reclaimed bog and increased his store is not clear, but it is certain
that when the lease fell in he had about half of the farm and the
other two tenants the other half between them.
Moreover, the land was not "striped" in blocks, but remained in
awkward patches, so that each man was obliged to cross the other's
land, and perpetual squabbling occurred. So when the question of a new
lease arose, Mr. Stacpoole sent a surveyor to divide the holding into
three equal shares as justly and conveniently as might be with
reference to the tenants' houses. This was done, the land was
re-valued at 12s. 6d. per acre, the tenants preferring to hold it
without a lease. Thus two were pleased and one displeased by the new
arrangement, and the displeased one, Welsh, or Walsh, was finally
evicted a short while since, and his house pulled down. Only the other
day a mob assembled, rebuilt Welsh's house, and reinstated his wife
and family, who occupy it at this moment. Welsh himself is not with
them for the reason that Mr. Stacpoole has an attachment out against
him. However, the family remains, and no process-server would show his
face at the rebuilt house for fifty pounds. Mr. Stacpoole could, of
course, go and turn the people out as trespassers, but does not think
it worth while until he joins issue with all the recalcitrant tenants
under his control. Some forty of these will neither pay up nor
surrender their holdings, and Mr. Stacpoole declares that he will get
Dublin writs against the whole of them, and that if they do not yield
he will evict them all and compel the authorities to support him.
There is no concealment about all this, and it is quite certain that
if Mr. Adair's action in the Derryveagh matter is imitated it will
only be by aid of the military. The landlord declares he will "have
his own," and the tenants talk ominously of the "short days and long
nights" between this and spring.
Meanwhile they carry on the war after their fashion. Only a few days
ago they levelled the walls of a holding which had not been
administered to please them by Mr. Vesey Fitzgerald. The week before
last when Mr. Stacpoole's harriers met there was a crowd assembled of
men on foot and on horseback, and the huntsman was ordered by the
fugleman of the mob to go home. Luckily Mr. Stacpoole himself was at
Liverpool, winning races with Turco, or something serious might have
happened. As it was, Mr. Healey and Mr. Studdert, well-known
cross-country riders, and very popular here, being present, as well as
one lady, the sport of hare-hunting was allowed to go on; but this
week, although ordered to go out with his hounds, the huntsman thought
it wiser to stay at home, and a meeting of the Hunt has been called to
consider what shall be done.
The people can and will prevent Mr. Stacpoole from hunting unless
members of the Hunt think it worth while to turn out with carbines and
revolvers, with the possible result of bringing on a civil war.
Probably the harriers will be taken over by a Committee of the Hunt to
whom the present owner offers them, as well as the use of his kennels.
Should his harriers be effectually prevented from hunting he will have
no farther reason for remaining in the country, and will probably shut
up his house, dismiss his servants, and leave Ireland; but this he
will not do until he has "had his own."
VIII.
PATRIOTS.
ENNIS, CO. CLARE, _Nov. 22nd._
Ennis, on deliberate inspection, proves to be by far the most
interesting western town I have yet visited. To paraphrase a familiar
saying, its politics and its liquor are as strong as they are
abundant. Ennis is famous for its electioneering fights, for its three
bridges, for its public square "forenint" O'Connell's statue, said to
have held thirty thousand people on a space which would not contain a
fifth of that number, for its numerous banks, for its fine salmon
river, the Fergus, for its police barrack, once the mansion of the
Crowe family, and for its long since closed Turkish bath, the ruined
proprietor whereof is now in the lunatic asylum on the road to
Ballyalla. Ennis is also proud of its County Club, of its handsome
drapery stores, of its brand-new waterworks, of its hundred and odd
whisky-shops, and of its patriots. Of the latter by far the most
eminent is a certain man named in newspaper reports M.G. Considine,
Esq., but better known to his fellow-citizens as "Dirty Mick." Mr.
Considine is a fine specimen of the good old crusted Irish patriot. He
has pursued patriotism ever since the day of Daniel O'Connell, and it
redounds greatly to his honour that he is now as poor as when he
started in that profession.
This Milesian Diogenes is in many respects the most remarkable man in
county Clare, after, if not before, The O'Gorman Mahon himself. He is
also the dirtiest. But the grime on Mr. Considine has a romantic
origin. It is the fakir's robe of filth. When he was only a budding
patriot the great Liberator once kissed him. Mr. Considine determined
that the cheek sanctified by the embrace of O'Connell should never
again be profaned by water, that the kiss should never be washed off.
Without speculating as to the degree of cleanliness previously
favoured by Mr. Considine, it must be conceded that it is very
difficult to wash day by day, or week by week, as the case may be,
round a certain spot on one cheek which, moreover, would soon get out
of harmony with the remainder of the countenance. It is easier,
"wiser, better far," to bring the whole face into harmony with the
sacred sunny side of it.
This has been done; and the result is a picture worthy of Murillo or
Zurbaran. From the grimy but handsome well-cut face gleam a pair of
bright, marvellously bright blue eyes, and the voice which bids
welcome to the stranger is curiously sweet and sonorous. Mr.
Considine is quite the best speaker here, and his summons will always
bring an audience to Ennis. One enthusiast said to me, "Whin he dies,
may the heaven be his bed, and his statue should be beside O'Connell's
in Ennis." Now this model patriot, whom every one must perforce
respect for his perfect honesty and disinterestedness, keeps a
wretched little shop in a trumpery cabin. His stock-in-trade consists
of a few newspapers, his pantry holds but potatoes. Yet he is a great
power in Ennis, and the candidate for that borough who neglected him
would fare badly. I am not insinuating that any charge of venality can
attach to him. Quite the contrary. He is admitted to be a perfectly
disinterested citizen by those most opposed to him socially and
politically. He is not only one of those who have kept the sacred fire
of agitation burning since the days of O'Connell, but he is the
possessor of relics of '98. He owns and dons upon occasion the Vinegar
Hill uniform, and has '98 flags by him to air on great days. By dint
of sheer honesty and truthfulness this poor grimy old man has become
actually one of the chiefs of county Clare.
Another patriot came under my notice in a queer kind of way. I had
gone to look at the reclamation works on the Fergus river, and there
encountered a scene odd and peculiar beyond previous experience.
Shortly before me, had arrived Mr. Charles George Mahon, the nephew
of The O'Gorman Mahon, and a Mr. Crowe. These two gentlemen being
neighbours of Mr. Drinkwater, had looked in to see his works, and in a
friendly way were chatting to one of his foremen, bringing work to a
standstill, but conducting themselves with the easy affability common
to the lesser proprietors of county Clare. All was going smoothly
when, like his predecessors, disregarding the warning that no person
could be admitted except on business, a strange personage put in an
appearance. Neither Cruikshank, Daumier, nor Doré ever conceived a
more grotesque figure than that which entered the Clare Reclamation
works.
Imagine a singularly small rough-coated donkey stunted by too early and
too hard work, and on its back a cripple--a _cul-de-jatte_--carrying
his crutches with him, laid across the withers of the unfortunate
animal he bestrode. Imagine also a face, very cleanly washed, and of
that Semitic outline and expression by no means uncommon in Connaught,
dark flashing eyes, an aquiline nose, and a wide expressive mouth.
Dismounted from his steed and placed up against the wall, the decently
dressed and well-spoken man, propped up on his crutches, would have
been thought rather an object of charitable interest than of distrust,
if not of fear.
This poor and apparently helpless man is a popular speaker and
lecturer--one who does not deliver his harangues in high places, but
rides on his donkey from village to village, spreading the doctrines
now acceptable to the rural population. By the upper classes he is
abhorred as a specially obnoxious and pestilent person. He, on the
other hand, considers himself oppressed. He was a National
Schoolmaster, but got into a scrape about a threatening letter, which,
it is fair to state, was not completely brought home to him. However,
he lost his place. In the hope that he might be reinstated he passed a
science and art examination, but he fared no better, and then found
that the trade of a popular agitator was the most congenial one he
could pursue. He is also an itinerant scribe, writing letters for
people who cannot write, making aggrieved people aware of the full
extent of their grievance, and assisting them to send furious letters
to the smaller local newspapers, concerning which I hesitate to
express any opinion, lest the readers of the _Daily News_ should think
they had stumbled upon the Commination Service.
The bright-eyed, flexible-mouthed _cul-de-jatte_ was firmly planted
against a stone wall, when his eye caught the figures of the two
gentlemen talking to Mr. Drinkwater's quarrymen. Immediately the eye
before-mentioned was aflame, and in sonorous tones the owner
"war-r-r-ned" the foremen and workmen from holding any converse with
Mr. Charles George Mahon, whom he addressed personally as "a
rack-renting landlord," and otherwise held up to scorn and derision.
Perched on his crutches, the cripple defied him, and poured out a
torrent of eloquence on "the fiery dthragon of hunger" and other
direful creatures, including landlords, which would have set at
defiance Canon Dwyer's "exploded shaft of Greek philosophy." The scene
afforded, at least to many there present, as much amusement as
astonishment. That a nephew of a county member should be publicly
attacked before a large number of people and be compelled to hear them
"war-r-r-ned" not to buy an egg or a pat of butter from his tenants
would be incredible anywhere else than in Ireland at this moment. But
people are growing accustomed to strange things in these parts.
The Clare Harriers Hunt Club met on Saturday, when Mr. Richard
Stacpoole formally made the offer of the hounds, got together by
himself at great expense, to the members of any Hunt Committee that
might be found. The offer was declined. Mr. Stacpoole then declared
his resolution to sell off the pack. He cannot keep them at Edenvale,
for his "dog-feeder" has been "warned" not to give bite or sup to the
animals for his life. So the hounds go to England to be sold, and the
eviction--of landlords--goes merrily on. Such things may appear
impossible. But it is precisely The Impossible which occurs every day
in Ireland.
IX.
ON THE FERGUS.
ENNIS, CO. CLARE, _Friday, Nov. 26th._
It is noteworthy that the only two persons who are doing much
reclamation work in the West of Ireland are Manchester men. Mr.
Mitchell Henry has awakened Connemara, and Mr. Drinkwater has
performed a similar operation upon county Clare Nothing in connection
with the Kylemore and Fergus Reclamation works, which have brought to
and distributed a large sum of money in their respective districts, is
more remarkable than the apathy of the surrounding proprietors in one
case and their hostility in the other. Mr. Mitchell Henry could afford
to wait, and his patience has been attended with success; but Mr.
Drinkwater was compelled to encounter, not mere passive indifference,
but active acquisitiveness. For a time stretching beyond the memory of
man the reclamation of what is called the Clare "slob" has been talked
about. This talking stage is not unfamiliar in the recent history of
Ireland.
Everything has been talked about, and some few things have been done
after a fashion. There remains in Galway a very comfortable and
well-managed hotel at the railway station, which was originally built
with a view to the American traffic scheme since become notorious; but
the Galway people still believe that their ships were wrecked by a
combination of Liverpool merchants interested in destroying them. The
Harbour of Foynes, on the Shannon, was once talked about, but never
grew into a seaport; while the fishing-piers, as they are called, lie
dotted around the coast in places to which nobody ever goes and from
which nobody ever comes. But it was seen long ago that something could
be done with the Fergus "slob" if anybody could be found to do
anything. Companies were formed and concessions were obtained, but
nothing was done, although several square miles of magnificent
alluvial deposit sixteen feet in depth were to be had for the asking.
In 1843 The O'Gorman Mahon himself, as a county member, talked about
the grand lands to be reclaimed from the Fergus, and the county talked
about it; but nothing was done. This is the pleasant way of the West.
All take an interest in any possible or impossible enterprise; but
when it comes to finding some money and doing something, the scheme is
relegated to the limbo of things undone.
The principal riparian proprietors were Lords Inchiquin, Leconfield,
and Conyngham, mostly absentees. Lord Conyngham was naturally
indifferent, for his estate in Clare was to be sold in Dublin on
Tuesday, and his interest in the county thus had ceased. Lord
Leconfield is also an absentee, without even an address in the county.
Perhaps, as the three noblemen mentioned own between them 85,226 acres
in county Clare alone, without counting their other possessions, they
thought that at any rate there was land enough, such as it is, in the
county. Judging by the Government valuation the land held by them is
not of the best quality, for it is set down at 38,188l., and probably
is not let at very much more than that sum; but at the most moderate
estimate they draw, or rather drew, more than 40,000l. a year from
county Clare. When they were invited to share in reclaiming the rich
mud-banks of the Fergus, and thus add 10,000 acres of virgin soil to
the rateable value of the county, they declined with perfect
unanimity. They did more than this. When Mr. Drinkwater had bought out
the concessionees of 1860 and 1873--who had not struck a single stroke
of work--and was endeavouring to get the necessary Bills through
Parliament, he found himself confronted by the seignorial and other
vested rights of these great landowners, who appeared determined, not
only to do nothing themselves, but to prevent anybody else from doing
anything--unless he paid handsomely for their permission.
I do not cite this as an act of special iniquity. Their action was
only part of the general system of taking as much out of Ireland as
possible and putting nothing into it. A claim of 20,000l. and 5 per
cent. of the land reclaimed for manorial rights over a mud-bank could
hardly be overlooked by the Crown; and it is, I believe, not quite
settled how this large sum of money and valuable land is to be
divided, if at all. The landowners base their claim on various grants
and charters and the Crown opposes them on public grounds, while the
Court of Chancery takes care of the money. Contending against
"landlordism" and other difficulties Mr. Drinkwater pushed vigorously
on, almost, as it has turned out, a little too vigorously for his own
interest. The English public is aware that the Government has at
various times encouraged Irish landlords to improve their property by
offering to lend, at different rates of interest, two-thirds of the
money to be spent, always with the proviso that the Government
engineer approves of the plan and sees the work well and duly
performed. Under the old Act of William IV., passed in 1835, the rate
of interest was fixed at 5 per cent. Under this statute Mr. Drinkwater
applied for 45,000l. and thanks to his ill-timed energy in urging his
application, obtained his loan at 5 per cent., just before the Act of
1879 was brought in for affording somewhat similar help at 1 per cent.
Mr. Drinkwater has thus the satisfaction of knowing that his
neighbour, Lord Inchiquin, who has commenced improvements on his own
account, has obtained 8,000l. at 1 per cent., while he pays 5 upon the
large sum employed on the Clare Slob Reclamation; a state of things
greatly enjoyed here as turning the laugh against "the Saxon."
Being sceptical about the "slob," I went to see it. When I started the
moon was shining so brightly that it would have been impossible to
miss a landlord at forty yards. The sky was as blue and clear as that
of Como or Lugano; but the wind which swept over Ballyala's sapphire
lake was of a "nipping and an eager" quality, not commonly encountered
in Italy. The ground was as hard as steel and as slippery as glass,
and the first half-mile convinced us that the best thing to be done
was to get off the car, catch hold of the mare's head, and try to hold
her on her legs while struggling to keep on our own. It was three
miles to the nearest blacksmith's, but there was nothing for it but to
walk to Ennis as well as might be along the slippery road.
This mode of progression was very slow, and it was nearly half-past
eight when we reached that centre of political and alcoholic
existence. Leaving the mare to be "sharpened" we strolled through the
town in contemplative mood. Not a shop was open. Not a blind was
drawn. Not a soul was stirring excepting the blacksmith, who had been
knocked up comparatively early by the market folk. There was ample
time and space to inspect the fierce but sleepy-headed town. In the
main street I observed six grog-shops, side by side, actually shoulder
to shoulder, cheek by jowl. Another street appeared to be all
grog-shops but for the ominous exception of an undertaker. About nine
o'clock a few people came out of chapel, and shortly afterwards the
butchers' shops gave signs of life, one opening on each side of the
main street, and blinking like a bloodshot eye upon the slumbering
groceries and groggeries, drapery stores, and general drowsiness.
Ennis was evidently sleeping off the previous day's whisky, and
preparing to renew the battle with "John Jamieson."
Presently the mare came round to the door of the principal hotel. The
people there were just stirring, and visions of brooms and unkempt
back-hair were frequent. At last we were on the road to Clare Castle,
which might, in the high-flown language of the West, be fitly
described as the "seaport" of Ennis. The river Fergus flows through
Ennis, but it is broader and deeper at Clare Castle, a village of
ordinary Connaught hovels. There is, however, a quay here, a relic of
"relief-work" in famine time, and affording "convenience" for vessels
of considerable size. Below the bridge and alongside the quay lies a
large steam-tug, and lower down the stream is moored a similar vessel.
A large number of rafts are being laden with stone to be presently
towed down to the reclamation works. As we steam down the Fergus
towards its junction with the Shannon at "The Beeves" rock, the stream
spreads out to a great width, enclosing several islands, green as
emeralds, of which Smith's Island and Islandavanna are, perhaps, the
principal.
There is, however, a marked difference between the area of the Fergus
at high and low water. What at one time is an inland sea, is at the
other a vast lake of mud rich in the constituents of fertility. As we
reach this point of the river a mist arises compelling reduced speed,
and as we pass by the upper station of the Slob Works a low range of
corrugated iron shedding shines out suddenly through a break in the
vapour, and, as the sun again pierces through, a long, low, dark line
is seen stretching from the shore into the water like the extremity of
some huge saurian of the Silurian period reposing on his native slime
and ooze. But the lengthy monster lying in a vast curve is not at
peace, for on the jagged ridge of his mighty back a puffing, snorting,
smoking plague perpetually runs up and down. The apparent plague,
however, is really increasing the size of the saurian. Every day
hundreds of tons of stone are carried over his back-ridge and tipped
into the water at the end of him, while scores of raftloads are flung
into the water on the line staked and flagged out by the officials of
the Government. Within a few weeks the growth of the saurian will not
cease by day or night, until, as in the case of his kindred ophidian,
his two extremities are brought together. For Mr. Drinkwater has
contracted with the British Electric Lighting Company to supply him
with the electric light. The motive power is all ready, and no sooner
is the apparatus fixed than county Clare will be astonished by the
sight of work going on perpetually till it is completed, and amazement
will reach its highest pitch. The people, gentle and simple, already
confess themselves astonished at what can and has been done, and those
who at first laughed are now seeking how they may best imitate.
As the tail of the saurian may be said to stretch into the water high
above Islandavanna, so may his head be said to project from that
pretty patch of verdure. Islandavanna is already a peninsula being
connected with the mainland by a massive stone causeway, traversed
every half-hour by a locomotive, hauling a train of trucks laden with
stone, which, passing over the end of the island, runs out into the
water to the "tip end," as it is called.