preach--"Don't hurt my tenants; don't make my name to stink in the
land; above all, let there be no evictions among my people; but send
me a couple of thousand pounds before Monday, or remit me at least one
thousand to Nice some time next week.--Yours, The O'Martingale." This,
I take it, has been the situation for the last quarter of a century,
since the younger sons of Irish families took to land agency as a
profession because there seemed nothing else in Ireland for them to
do. Nevertheless they are hideously unpopular, and I like to be armed
when I take a stroll with them in a lonely country district.
So we walk down to Kilfinane to look after the progress made in
arranging quarters for the soldiers presently expected, some fifty odd
redcoats or rifles as the authorities may decide. It is instructive to
observe the demeanour of the people towards us. My companion formerly
lived at Kilfinane, and took his share of the work there, but he was
the first of his family "Boycotted," and was obliged to take up his
quarters in his uncle's house. Not a blacksmith could be found to
shoe his horse, and not a living creature to cook his food; so a forge
belonging to the mounted division of the Royal Irish Constabulary was
sent down for the horse, and the master of that interesting animal
went up to the big house to eat and sleep, and the "Boycotters" were,
so far, brought to nought. But the good folk of Kilfinane eye us
terribly askant, or, to be more literally exact, do not eye us at all;
at least, their eyes betray "no speculation." Had I driven in from
Charleville alone I might have gossipped with all the idlers of the
village, but now that I am walking with a "Boycotted" person I seem to
have become invisible. A few men are on the side walks--a few women at
their doors--but they either look at us as if we were transparent as
panes of glass, or suddenly become interested in their boots or finger
nails, both which would be better for more regular attention. The
children run away and hide themselves as if a brace of megalosauri or
other happily extinct monsters had crawled out of the bog and come
into Kilfinane to look for a meal. It is altogether a strange
experience. It dawns upon me that the man who has driven me over from
Charleville might issue from the hotel and ask for my orders, but he
does not.
The edifice wherein he has established himself, his vehicle and
horses, is of a bright salmon colour, rejoiceful to the eyes of the
natives. My driver, on being asked at my arrival, greatly preferred
the rude freedom and plenty of this pink hostelry to the supposed
narrow rations of a house under ban. Possibly he loves the ruddy-faced
village inn on account of its affinity in hue to that of his own
visage, in which nose and beard contend fiercely for pre-eminence in
warmth of tone. But be this as it may, he is just now giving warmth
and colour to the interior of the establishment, instead of trying to
catch my eye as I go past.
There is absolutely no sign of life or movement in the "Salmon Arms,"
or "The Rose," or whatever its name may be. Thus we stride down the
street of Kilfinane in lonely grandeur till we come to the
schoolmaster's house, to be presently converted with the schools into
a barrack. Schoolmaster and wife are being temporarily evicted to make
room for the military, in whose behalf a quantity of work is being
done, not surely by the "Boycotters," who have already determined to
"Boycott" the soldiers as far as they can by refusing to let a car
carry a single article from the railway station. The military when
they arrive and give that sense of security attached to a redcoat in
Ireland, will be obliged to bring every kind of vehicle and transport
animal with them.
In the cabbage garden of the school-house I meet an old acquaintance,
Sub-Inspector Fraser, of the Royal Irish Constabulary, who seems to
enjoy a monopoly of posts in which the roughest kind of "constabulary
duty is to be done." Whether he esteems his "lot a happy one" I do
not know; but at any rate, he looks hearty and healthy enough upon it,
and is mightily cheerful withal. He has finished off one tough job,
for it was Mr. Fraser who was left at Pallas on the great day when
horse, foot, and artillery smote the combined "Three and four year
olds," or, rather, would have smitten them if they had been so
misguided as to show fight. I have already recorded how the Palladians
on that memorable occasion displayed a keen appreciation of the better
part of valour, and I also marked my surprise that after it had taken
"the fut and the dthragoons in shquadrons and plathoons," and "the
boys who fear no noise" to boot, to bring the "makings" of a police
hut from the railway station, where they lay "Boycotted," to Bourke's
farm, twenty-five constables should have been judged a sufficiently
imposing force to overawe the Palladians and to build the hut. But I
hear that Mr. Fraser's slender army proved quite sufficient for its
purpose, and that the hut is not only built, but very well built, and
likely to vex the souls of the Palladians for some time to come. There
is plenty of work to do in getting ready for the soldiers. Masons and
carpenters are hard at work--that is to say, as hard as anybody ever
works in this part of Ireland.
On the dairy farms, which form the principal "industry"--save the
mark!--of this rich part of the country, the life of the male kind is
of the laziest imaginable. Employing girls to milk the cows and make
the butter, the farmer appears to me to do nothing whatever except go
to market and drink himself into a disaffected, discontented
condition. He is rarely visible before ten or eleven o'clock in the
morning, except on market days, and he appears to smoke and dawdle
most of his time away. Just now he broods over his wrongs, and
declares he "will have his own again," whatever that may signify. He
says he is enormously over-rented. Perhaps he is; but I cannot forget
that it is not many years since he and his neighbours in the adjacent
county of Tipperary boasted that they had brought about an equitable
adjustment of values by an ingenious process invented by
themselves--that of "shooting down the rents." Have they gone up since
under maleficent Saxon coercion? Verily, I do not know; for the faith
I put in estimates and valuations, not excepting "The Book of
Griffith," is but small.
Information in Ireland depends entirely on the person who
"infawrrrums" one, and is rarely complete. Almost everybody seems to
think that an inquirer has some object to serve, and they either tell
him what they think will amuse him or advance their own interest if it
be repeated; but there are notable exceptions to this as to all other
Irish rules.
Chatting easily, we stroll back through Kilfinane, bewailing the
sternness of military rule, which keeps officers and men together, and
will not permit of the principal coming warriors being quartered at
Spa-hill. On one point we are most anxious, and that is, that the
troops shall be in Kilfinane by Christmas-day, to the end that the
gaiety proper to the British Army should enliven the "Boycotted"
establishment at dinner time; while the imposing presence of Thomas
Atkins should overawe the village mutineers, and bring grist to the
proprietor of the Couleur de Rose Hotel. As evening gathers in we sit
down drowsily to listen to the loud ticking of the clock and drink a
glass of sherry to the health of "all poor and distressed Boycottees"
within her Majesty's "sometime kingdom of Ireland." Soothed by sherry,
incipient sleep, and the subtle influence of the season, the little
garrison of Spa-hill gradually waxes benevolent, until one of its
number actually suggests that a fat goose should be sent to the
proximate cause of all its woes, Father Sheehy. Even as a big loaf of
bread was once thrown into an enemy's camp, at one moment this
spirited proposition is nearly carried, but it breaks down before the
remark that the coachman, gardener, and two bailiffs are "Boycotted,"
bringing up the total number to about thirty-six, and that geese would
be better distributed among these than flung away on the enemy; and
the clock goes on to tick, the ticking growing louder and louder, and
then comes the harsh, grating sound of shooting bolts and the clank
of the chain on the front door.
There is some pretence on the part of one of my young hosts of going
into his uncle's office and drawing a lease, until he is reminded that
he will probably be performing a work of supererogation, that leases
and feudalism and property are going out of date, and that the land
agents of the future, if suffered to cumber the earth at all, will be
elected by the tenants, as the New York magistrates are elected by the
persons whom they will be called upon to judge. And the clock ticks
and the fox-terrier whines in his sleep. He is dreaming of rats,
perhaps. It is pleasant to dream, even if one is a dog.
A sudden start. The long-looked-for telegram has come announcing the
arrival of the daughter of the house shortly at Kilmallock Station.
There is another skirmish for rifles, rugs, and revolvers, and a sally
out of the fortress. No sooner has the brave young lady arrived, who
with her brother and cousin, and perhaps the representatives of the
British army, will form the Christmas dinner-party, than she draws up
a bill of fare, which includes, as well as turkey, ham, and plum
pudding, lobsters brought from afar, thanks to feminine foresight. The
retainers will feast on mighty joints of beef and on plum pudding
galore. And now another telegram--The troops will arrive before the
bells ring in Christmas-day.
As I approach the end of my letter, it occurs to me that although the
place, events, and persons described would be recognised by anybody
living in the counties of Limerick, Cork, or Tipperary, this account
might appear to English readers rather as an imaginative and
highly-coloured picture, painted for the Christmas market from a
number of models, than as a simple sketch in neutral greys as exactly
and faithfully drawn as is possible to the writer. To prevent any such
misapprehension, I will observe that the events which I describe as
occurring before me, have all taken place within forty-eight hours in
and near the house of Mr. Townsend, of Spa-hill, Kilfinane, county
Limerick, and are telegraphed from Limerick city to the _Daily News_,
because there was no nearer or more convenient office from which to
send so long a message. Mr. Uniacke Townsend is one of a large family
mostly engaged in land agency, and has incurred the ire of the people
of Kilfinane, Kilmallock, Charleville, and the surrounding country, in
consequence of a difficulty with one Murphy, a fairly large farmer
according to the Irish measure of farming capacity. Murphy's farm is
known as Lisheen. It includes between 40 and 50 acres, and the rent,
240l. per annum, has, I am informed, not been changed for forty-six
years. When Murphy owed a clear year's rent and a balance on a "broken
gale," he was sued for the whole amount. By May of this year he owed
another gale of half a year's rent, and he was formally evicted and a
caretaker put in possession on the 21st June.
It has been explained in a previous letter that after receiving any
amount of credit an Irish farmer is again allowed six months'
"redemption" after eviction. After paying up everything, including the
additional "gale" incurred, less the proceeds of the farm, he
re-enters on possession at any time within the margin of six months.
Thus another "gale" fell due in November, and Murphy was still
unprovided with funds. He did, however, very well without them; for
the Land League, having become strong in the meanwhile in county
Limerick, the caretaker was frightened away from the farm and Murphy
reinstated. Mr. Uniacke Townsend requested him to give up possession,
and was refused, and it then became known that Murphy might expect
imprisonment or fine for trespass. Thereat a meeting was held, and Mr.
Townsend solemnly adjudged worthy of "Boycotting." The lead in these
disgraceful proceedings was taken by a Father Sheehy.
Whatever the merits of Murphy's case may be, and it seems that members
of his family have held Lisheen for some considerable time, there is
no doubt that Father Sheehy made an almost frantic speech against Mr.
Townsend, the agent, and Mr. Coote, the owner of the property,
declaring that "the very name of Coote smelt of blood." I am not aware
of the sanguinary deeds of the Cootes in the past; all I know of them
is that the present incumbent is a very old man, of somewhat clerical
exterior, who, like "A fine old Irish gentleman, one of the olden
time," lives in London, requests his agent to enforce the law against
his tenants without delay, and, in order to encourage him to do his
duty, sends down to Spa-hill the very best repeating rifles that money
can buy.
The upshot of the matter is that Mr. Townsend has been so threatened
that he has yielded to the entreaties of his family and left Kilfinane
for a week or two, at any rate. He is, however, like most of his
profession, a very determined man, and declared that he would come
home and eat his Christmas dinner in his own house, "despite of foes;"
but Mrs. Townsend, who, like the lady to whom I referred in a previous
letter, has borne up nobly under her severe trial, was so scared at
the thought of her husband's coming among a population banded together
against him that she set off on Saturday and joined him, as the only
way of averting some terrible disaster; for there is little doubt that
the law will be put in force against Murphy now that his six months
for "redemption" have expired; and nobody can tell what will happen at
Lisheen any more than at Ennistymon if writs are issued against the
tenants on the Macnamara estate, or on Mr. Stacpoole's property, if he
perseveres in his resolution to "Dublin writ" the people with whom he
has to deal.
So the family at Spa-hill is broken up this Christmas; father and
mother are both away--where I should hardly divulge, but assuredly
where their Christmastide will be passed peacefully, if not joyfully.
Another gentleman of these parts is being severely "Boycotted," to wit
Mr. T. Sanders, of Sanders Park, Charleville, county Cork, just over
the border from county Limerick; the Mr. Sanders, in fact, whom I saw
the Palladians roaring and yelling at on the occasion of my first
visit to the classic battlefield of the "three and four year olds." On
that occasion he had been vainly trying to get in rents for the
charitable bequest known as Erasmus Smith's Schools, and Pallas was
full of noisy and more or less drunken Palladians, who dealt with Mr.
Sanders in such wise that the police were obliged to see him into a
railway carriage, and stand by the door till the train moved on. I
would fain have called upon Mr. Sanders as I drove to Charleville, but
the civil and obliging landlord of Lincoln's Hotel at that place, who
supplied me with an excellent carriage and horses, politely apologised
for his inability to drive me thither. He could not possibly enter
Sanders Park, nor would any of his men go near that abhorred spot. No
orders concerning Spa-hill had been issued by the "Real Government" in
the absence of the hated head of the house, and I might be driven
there and welcome; but Sanders Park was another matter. I might walk
out of the town, and across the park if I liked, and my informant
would ensure that I went and returned in safety, as for that matter I
knew very well; but not being fond of walking against time through the
mud, I preferred going whither I could be driven in comfort. Moreover,
the novelty of the thing is wearing off, and "Boycotting" is now only
interesting when ingeniously evaded or boldly defied.
So long as a railway station is near him, the "Boycottee," if he have
only two or three servants to stand firm, can practically bring the
Boycotters to their wits' end. The railway companies being, I take it,
common carriers, dare not refuse, like the cowardly shippers of Cork,
to take the "Boycottee's" beef and plum pudding, wine and whisky, to
the most convenient railway station, whence he, if well-armed and
provided with an escort of constabulary, can bring in his supplies
under the very nose of the infuriated peasants who stand scowling
around the station gate and roar and "boo" their disgust at being
foiled. There is not the slightest fear of the "Boycotters" running
their heads against Winchester rifles and army revolvers, and the
convoy need apprehend nothing hotter or harder than curses and groans,
which, "like the idle wind, hurt not the mariner ashore."
This last quotation had the misfortune to displease one of my young
hosts, who opined that he thought, on the contrary, we were all at
sea in Ireland just now, and breakers were ahead. Perhaps he is over
much of an alarmist, but his present situation is hardly calculated to
inspire confidence in anything but conical bullets and cold steel. As
we stand together on the doorstep, he remarks that it will be long
before Christmas _à la_ Boycott is forgotten in Ireland, and then he
wishes me the compliments of the season. "Good bye," and "Safe
home"--hateful valediction! I wish him and his a happier new year than
the old one has been; but it would be a sorry jest to wish a merry
Christmas to one whose greatest happiness and consolation are that at
this time of gathered kindred, at the feast which comes but once a
year for the re-knitting of the ties of domestic affection, the kindly
voice of the house-mother is not heard beneath her own roof tree; that
the chair of the house-father stands empty at the Christmas board.
XVIII.
CHRISTMAS IN COUNTY CLARE.
ENNIS, _Monday._
In a picture exhibited a few years ago, and since engraved, was
powerfully and pathetically portrayed a scene of the early life of the
Pilgrim Fathers of New England. It was winter time, and the day was
Sunday. Clad in raiment of quaint severity, the head of the house led
his Puritan family and servants across the snow-clad fields to
worship. Living in the midst of a hostile population, the little band
of worshippers was armed to the teeth. The father carried his "plain
falling band" and steeple-crowned hat with a stiff air, and also
carried lethal weapons. His prim wife and daughters bare Bibles, and
his serving men, muskets. "Like a servant of the Lord, With his Bible
and his sword," the unflinching old soldier of the Commonwealth strode
manfully from his homestead to his religious duties, not unprepared to
deal with any foes who might turn up by the way.
As a glimpse of the remote past, as well as a work of art, this
picture struck me as valuable; but it certainly did not occur to me
that a similar sight would be seen within a short space in the kingdom
of Ireland. Nevertheless, it may be witnessed on any Sunday in county
Clare. Near Tulla, a spot of evil repute just now as the theatre of a
recent attack upon magistrates returning from doing their duty,
Colonel O'Callaghan, his wife and son, may be seen on any Sunday
morning going to church armed with rifle and revolver, and protected
by an escort of constabulary. The church is a long walk from Lismeehan
(_Anglice_, Maryfort), and the way is not safe either for Colonel
O'Callaghan himself, his wife, his child, or anything that is his.
I will not pretend for what are called "sensational" purposes that the
stranger who ventures within the gates of Maryfort is in any danger so
long as he remains within them, or that any weightier missiles than
groans and hisses are launched at him as he goes to and from the house
under "taboo." It is well known that an attack on Lismeehan would not
be bloodless, and that the defence would be far fiercer and more
deadly than that made at the Clare-street Police Barrack at Limerick.
The little garrison is perfectly armed, and small as it is, would work
mischief on any attacking mob; but the experience at Tulla the other
day proves that safety is only purchased at the trouble and
inconvenience of going everywhere armed to the teeth.
After my experience in the matter of Mr. Sanders, of Sanders Park,
Charleville, I did not think it worth while to go to a posting-house
for a carriage and horses to reach Maryfort; but being fortunate
enough to obtain the loan of a friend's victoria and servant I got a
horse "sharpened" as to his shoes at Ennis; and drove over the
frost-bound road to Colonel O'Callaghan's house yesterday afternoon.
It was a long drive to the most severely "Boycotted" house in Clare.
It was also a drive of surpassing dreariness. The sun, which had made
the hoar frost to sparkle on Christmas Day, barely pierced through the
clouds on the afternoon of St. Stephen's. Leaving trim lawns, a forest
of box-trees, budding roses and peonies, well-grown early brocoli and
York cabbages behind, we drove through a country of eternal little
fields and grey stone walls.
It is needless to say that Maryfort is a long way from Ennis. Every
place is a long way from everywhere in this western part of Ireland--a
fact, by the way, not unfrequently forgotten by critics of the
much-criticised constabulary. Where gentlemen's houses and
considerable villages are as much as fifteen miles apart, the area of
country to be watched becomes quite unmanageable. Only those who have
incurred the fearful loss of time in getting from place to place in
Connaught can form an adequate idea of it. Despite the discouraging
remarks of its critics, this well-drilled, well-grown corps of Royal
Irish Constabulary remains as staunch and loyal as of old, but it is
absurd to expect impossibilities. Galway to a person sitting
comfortably in his own library appears to be overwhelmed with
constables. I believe that there is, in fact, one constable to every
fifty adult males in that county--an enormous proportion judged
statistically, but yet slight enough when the vast area of the county
and the miles of actual desert which separate one partially civilised
spot from another are considered.
A large percentage of the constabulary is also deflected from general
to special service in affording downright personal protection, and
that modified protection known as "looking after" individuals. A
hundred and twenty persons in Ireland are now receiving "personal
protection," amounting to the constant attendance of never less than
two constables, frequently to the residence of four or more on the
premises or the property. At least eight hundred persons are being
"looked after;" so that it is no exaggeration to state that twelve or
thirteen hundred men are detached from the regular force on particular
duty of the most harassing and vexatious kind. Wherever the person
under protection chooses to go, at whatever hour, or in whatever
weather, his "escort" must accompany him; for their orders are "not to
lose sight of him" outside of his own door. This is a troublesome
duty, sometimes greatly aggravated by the conduct of the protected
persons, who take sudden fits and starts, and fly hither and thither
in the oddest kind of way. The constables get no rest; they are
perpetually harassed and exposed, and they are quite superior to the
consolation of a "tip."
I say this deliberately, for on three several occasions I tried to
give a drenched and half-frozen constable a reward for service
rendered, not for information to be given, and on each and every
occasion I met with a dignified refusal, accompanied by one man with a
friendly caution not to attempt that sort of thing, as some of the men
might be rough. I say that I did not ask for information, because I
generally knew more than the constables, for the excellent reason that
I had wider and better sources to draw upon. From the country folk it
is absolutely impossible to glean any scrap of information. A question
immediately shapes their countenances into a look of hopeless
simplicity and guilelessness bordering upon idiocy. Persons in quest
of information in the remote parts of Ireland put me in mind of the
hunter of the Rocky Mountains, who, while he was trying to stalk some
antelope, became aware that a grizzly bear was stalking him. The
people find out all about the person seeking for knowledge, but he
discovers nothing.