CONSTABULARY AND DISPENSARY DOCTORS
An Englishman once asked me, if I could suggest any way by which all
Ireland could be made loyal. I inquired if he thought the Irish
constabulary a loyal body.
'Most decidedly,' said he, without hesitation.
'Then,' I replied, 'if you will pay every Irishman seventy pounds a year
for doing nothing, but look after other people's affairs--a thing by
nature congenial to him as it is--you'll have the most loyal race on
earth.'
That Englishman went away thoughtful, but I had shown him the solution
of one Irish problem which may be stated thus:--
Why do one half of the sons of farmers in Ireland, who have been or are
members of the Irish constabulary, represent a body of men unequalled
for their respectability, loyalty, and courage, while a large proportion
of the other, at least in the eighties, made up the bulk of the ignoble
army of moonlighters, cattle maimers, and cowardly assassins crouching
behind stone walls to shoot at an unsuspecting victim in the opening?
The answer is _£ s. d._, not an agreeable one, but truth is not always
composed of sweetstuff.
The constabulary are recruited from the sons of peasants and farmers.
They are drilled, disciplined, well fed, well clothed, well paid, and
show themselves well conducted. During all the bad times, there was not
a single case of a disaffected man, though every sort of inducement must
have been brought to bear on them. The prevailing characteristic of all
ranks has been the high sense of duty, so that they composed the most
mobile and the most effective corps in Europe.
As detectives, they have, however, proved quite ineffective, because the
peasant has everywhere been too shrewd for them; 'yet the relative
position of the police to the people, and the intimate connection with
America, marked it out as a force peculiarly adapted to the prevention
and detection of crime committed in Ireland, but often inspired from
America.' So wrote one of the most experienced resident magistrates, Mr.
Clifford Lloyd, afterwards Minister of the Interior in Egypt, and
subsequently Lieutenant Governor of the Mauritius and Consul at
Erzeroum, where he died at the age of forty-seven.
The constabulary are enlisted without any consideration of creed, but
when Sir Duncan MacGregor was at the head of the force he arranged that
of the five men in every police barrack, two should be Protestant, and
three Roman Catholic, or _vice-versa_. This check has subsequently been
swept away, by no means to the advantage of the service.
Very recently the Inspector General, and the Assistant Inspector General
retired, and their places were filled by an Englishman and an Irishman,
neither of whom had been in the force, which gave rise to great and
well-founded dissatisfaction. One of the pair is a warm friend of my
own, but that is no reason why I should approve of the appointment.
While the bulk of the officers are Irish gentlemen, educated in Ireland,
Englishmen are also to be found among them. Officers enter by nomination
after passing an examination designed to show that they are not
'crammed,' but the perversity of the examiners has always thwarted this
excellent intention. That is like the admirable purpose of Cabinet
Ministers, bent on reforming their different departments, but
dexterously 'blocked' by the permanent officials.
Before the reduction commenced by Mr. Wyndham, the Constabulary numbered
10,679, and cost £1,390,917. In my opinion it will be found necessary in
the future, not only to keep the force up to its full strength, but to
materially increase its number so soon as the Government becomes the
sole landlord in Ireland, especially now that they are going to have
Volunteers in the country.
The existence of this force merely means that landlords will be shot at
half price; so, for the sake of their own skins, the latter had better
get clear of the country before the recruits have had much musketry
instruction. The badness of the shooting saved many a landlord in the
eighties, and if that is remedied, why they will be popped as easily as
my grandson knocks over rabbits.
There is a story of an English tourist seeking for information about the
distressful country, he being at Tallaght near Dublin.
He asked his carman whether there were many Fenians about.
'A terrible lot, your honour,' replied the fellow.
'I suppose a thousand?' the tourist suggested, somewhat apprehensively.
'That is so, and twenty thousand more,' answered the carman without
hesitation.
'Are they armed?' was the next question.
'They are that, and finely into the bargain.'
'And are they prepared to come out?' the tourist being much perturbed,
and thinking it would be his duty to write to the _Times_.
'Prepared to come out in the morning, your honour.'
'And why don't they do so?' with English common sense.
'Begorra, because maybe if they did, the constabulary would put them in
jail.'
So the constabulary have some value after all, in spite of the sneers of
Home Rule members in the House of Commons.
Half a dozen Kerry priests screeched with laughter when I told them that
story in the train, having met them on a journey to Farranfore.
Here is another I also gave them on that occasion.
A couple of policemen were discussing the state of Ireland once upon a
time.
Says Dan to Mick:--
'Sure we'll niver get peace and quiet in the blessed country until we
fetch Oliver Cromwell up from hell to settle the unruly.'
Replies Mick to Dan:--
'Have done, you fool, isn't he a deal quieter where he is?'
Judge Keagh thought worse of his fellow countrymen than do other men
with less than his great experience, and although a Roman Catholic, he
had to be escorted by two constables wherever he went.
He was told that he ought to be guarded by four policemen, because the
two might be attacked.
But he knew the man that said it wanted to make the protection more
conspicuous, so he replied:--
'Sir, I have the most implicit confidence in the invincible cowardice of
my fellow countrymen.'
That recalls an observation of my own.
On one occasion, a telegram was sent from the Chief Inspector of
Constabulary in Kerry to the Scotland Yard authorities to say there was
to be an attempt to murder me in London, and in consequence a gentleman
from the department for providing traffic directors in metropolitan
streets called at my house in Elvaston Place, to inquire what police
protection I wanted.
'None,' said I, 'for if a man shoots me in London he'll be hung, and
every Irish scoundrel is careful of his own neck. It's altogether
another matter in Ireland, where Mr. Gladstone has carefully provided
that he shall be tried by a jury, the majority of which are certain to
be land leaguers.'
I brought out the same idea on a more important occasion.
Once, in Mr. Froude's house, Professor Max Müller--who was a great
admirer of Mr. Gladstone--remarked that after all I had not much reason
to complain, because I had had plenty of police protection in Ireland.
'I should prefer equal laws,' said I.
'What inequality of law have you to find fault with?' he asked.
'Well,' I replied, 'if a land leaguer shoots me in Ireland, he will be
tried by a jury of land leaguers. If I shoot one of them, I would
require that I be tried by a jury of landlords, and if that be granted
I'll clear the road for myself of all suspicious characters, and ask for
no more police protection than you require at Oxford.'
He subsided at that, and Froude laughed at him so heartily, that he had
not another word to say on the subject all day.
Did you ever hear the rhyme about moonlighting? It runs as follows:--
'The difference betwixt moonlight and moonshine
The people at last understand,
For moonlight's the law of the League
And moonshine is the law of the land.'
That would have clinched my argument beyond all dispute, but the
expressive poem was not written at that time.
Reverting to the topics of this chapter, it is needless to observe that
there is a bond of connection between constabulary and dispensary
doctors, for the latter are needed on many occasions to attend to the
wounds of those just arrested.
The dispensary doctors do not form a satisfactory feature of Irish life,
simply because the farmers elect individuals out of friendship.
A dispensary doctor had to be appointed at Farranfore, and I was most
anxious to get the best man for the position. So I proposed that the
candidates' papers should all be submitted to Sir Dominic Corragun, a
Roman Catholic physician of high standing in Dublin.
I could not even get a seconder to my motion, which therefore fell
stillborn, and I wrote to Lord Kenmare that if Gull or Jenner had been
suggested, neither of them would have obtained three votes.
Virtually the appointment of the dispensary doctor is vested in the
dispensary Committee, which is a local body, usually consisting of one
or more guardians, and four or five specially elected ratepayers. In the
same way are chosen all the local sanitary authorities, who are of
course under the District Council.
You remember that _Punch_ called the sanitary inspector the insanitary
spectre, but the beneficent climate of Ireland fortunately averts all
the evils his authority would not be able to arrest if it came to really
checking filth.
I remember the occasion of the election of another dispensary doctor,
when I was curtly told that only a moonlighter could hope to be
appointed.
My reply was:--
'I suppose it is easier for him to poison people when he is drunk than
to shoot landlords when in an inebriated condition.'
I do know that a dispensary doctor not thirty miles from Killarney was
thrown out of his trap, because he drove the horse through his own front
door, when he was under the intoxicated impression he was entering his
stable yard.
He broke his leg, and as there was no one to set it, he told his nephew
to get a pail of plaster of Paris, and he himself would tell him how to
manage the operation.
First they had a glass of whisky to fortify them for the ordeal, and
then another, and after that a third to drink good luck to the broken
leg.
Finally, when they set about it, the nephew spilt the whole pail of
plaster of Paris over the bed in which his uncle lay, and then fell in a
drunken stupor into the mess. There they both stayed all night until
they were hacked out with a chisel in the morning.
It is strange that the Irish, who are brimful of shrewd sense, use no
more discretion about appointing schoolmasters than dispensary doctors.
The petty pedagogues, who are the Baboos of Ireland, are drawn from the
small-farmer class. There is great competition among the incompetent to
get lucrative posts in my native land: they probably appreciate the
Hibernian eccentricity of giving important positions to the men whose
claims in any other country would never obtain a moment's consideration.
There was a schoolmaster near Castleisland, who died of sparing the rod
but not sparing the potation. His family were anxious his nephew should
be appointed.
As he was an utter ne'er-do-weel, the parish priest justly considered
him unfit for the situation, and brought from a neighbouring county a
schoolmaster highly recommended by the National Convention.
They had a quiet way of expressing their feelings in Kerry in those
days, and the moonlighters fired by night through the windows of every
one who sent their children to the nominee of the parish priest.
The District Inspector thought he had better look into the matter
himself, for it was stated they had always fired high with the sole
purpose of intimidating the occupants of the various cabins.
However, when this inspecting authority found a bullet-hole in a
window-sill only three feet from the ground, he observed:--
'Well, that shot was meant to kill.'
One farmer standing by remarked:--
'It was not right to fire into a house where there were a lot of little
children.'
'Begorra,' cried another, in a tone of virtuous indignation, 'the
careless fellows might have killed the poor pig!'
That was sworn before me.
Here is another incident, also sworn to in my presence.
I must explain that the first poor rate was in 1848, and half was made
up by local subscription, while the rent was added by the presentment of
the county, and not paid out of the rates. It was in those days a common
practice for dispensary doctors to put down on the list imaginary
subscriptions from friends, so as to draw more from the county.
A young fellow, whose name had thus been used, fired into a Protestant
doctor's house, and threatened to murder everybody unless he was given
some money.
He obtained half a crown, with which he bought a pint of whisky and a
mutton pie; but just as he was putting his teeth into the crust of the
latter, he paused in horror.
'I was near being lost for ever, body and soul,' says he, 'this being
Friday, and me so close on tasting meat.'
The woman in the place where he bought the provisions proposed to keep
the mutton pie for him until the following day.
He thanked her civilly, and went away, but had the misfortune to mistake
the police barracks for the rival whisky store, and was promptly
arrested for threatening with intent to do injury.
The next day he asked to be allowed to eat his pie, which is how the
story came out.
The dispensaries are often worked with more attention to the pocket of
those on the premises than is compatible with the principles of honesty,
as recognised outside the legal and medical professions. At one
dispensary in Kerry the Local Government Board was horrified at the
consumption of quinine--an expensive medicine. Indeed, so much
disappeared that, if it had not been for the chronic aversion of any
low-born Irishman to outside applications of liquid, it might have been
surmised that the patients were taking quinine baths. The matter was
privately put into the hands of the police, who within a week arrested
the secretary getting out of a back window with a big bottle of quinine,
which he meant to sell.
That man, for the rest of his life, inveighed against the petty and
mischievous interference with private industry tyrannically waged by
public bodies.
I should like to claim for Kerry the honour of being the land where the
following hoary chestnut originally was perpetrated, the exact locality
being Castleisland.
A landlord, who had returned in a fit of absent-mindedness to his
property after a sojourn in England, was condoling with a woman on the
death of her husband, and asked:--
'What did he die of?'
'Wishna, then, did he not die a natural death, your honour, for there
was no doctor attending him?'
A not dissimilar story is that which concerns a Scotch laird who had
fallen very sick, so a specialist came from Edinburgh to assist the
local murderer in diagnosing the symptoms.
The canny patient felt sure he would not be told what was the matter, so
he bade his servant conceal himself behind the curtains in the room
where the doctors talked it over, and to repeat to him what they said.
This is what the faithful retainer brought as tidings of comfort to the
alarmed invalid:--
'Weel, sir, the two were very gloomy, one saying one thing and the other
another; but after a while they cheered up and grew quite pleasant when
they had decided that they would know all about it at the post-mortem.'
That recalls to my mind Sidney Smith's definition of a doctor as an
individual who put drugs of which he knew very little into a body of
which he knew considerably less.
There is a rare lot of truth in some witticisms.
For some illogical reason only known to my own brain--perhaps with the
desire of keeping up the fashion for inconsecutive and rambling
observations common to all books of reminiscences--the foregoing stories
suggest to my mind the excuse made to me by a wary scoundrel for not
paying his rent.
'I had an illegant little heifer as ever your honour cast an eye over,
and who is a better judge than yourself, God bless you? But the Lord was
pleased to take her to Himself, and it would be flat heresy for me not
to say He is not as good a judge as your honour's self.'
There was an action brought against a veterinary surgeon for killing a
man's horse.
Lord Morris knew something of medicine, as he did of most things, and
asked if the dose given would not have killed the devil himself.
The vet. drew himself up pompously, and said:--
'I never had the honour of attending that gentleman.'
'That's a pity, doctor,' replied Morris, 'for he's alive still.'
The Government introduced into the House of Lords an additional bill for
the complication and confiscation of landed property in Ireland.
Lord Morris said it reminded him of the bill a veterinary surgeon sent
in to a friend of his, the last item of which ran:--
'To curing your grey mare till she died, 10s. 6d.'
Never was the Irish question more happily expressed than in his famous
reply to a lady who asked him if he could account for disaffection in
Ireland towards the English.
'What else can you expect, ma'am, when a quick-witted race is governed
by an intensely stupid one?'
Lord Morris told many stories, but for a change, here is one told of
him.
A Belfast tourist was riding past Spiddal, and asked a countryman who
lived there.
'One Judge Morris, your honour; but he lives the best part of his time
in Dublin.'
'Oh yes,' says the other, 'that's Lord Chief Justice Morris.'
'The very dead spit of him, your honour; and I was told he draws a
thousand a year salary.'
'He has five thousand five hundred a year.'
'Ah, your honour, it's very hard to make me believe that.'
'Why don't you believe it?'
'Because when he's down here he passes my gate five days in the week,
and I never saw the sign of liquor on him.'
Evidently the bigger salary the bigger profit to the whisky distiller
was the rustic's theory.
I have forgotten how the story came to my ears, but I told it to Lord
Morris, who much appreciated it.
Another Kerry story, not unlike one narrated earlier in this chapter,
runs thiswise:--
Two men came to order a coffin for a mutual friend called Tim
O'Shaughnessy.
Said the undertaker:--
'I am sorry to hear poor Tim is gone. He had a famous way with him of
drinking whisky. What did he die of?'
Replied one of the men:--
'He is not dead yet at all; but the doctor says he will be before the
morning; and sure he should know, for he knows what he gave him.'
Sometimes, however, the patient is quite as clever as the doctor.
A physician in Dublin had a telephone put in his bedroom, and when he
was rung up about half-past one on a freezing wintry night, he told his
wife to answer it.
She complied, and informed him:--
'It is Mr. Shamus O'Brien, and he wants you to come round at once.'
The physician knew this to be purely an imaginary case of illness, so
not wishing to be disturbed, said to her:--
'Tell him the doctor is out, and will not be home till morning.'
Unfortunately he spoke so near the telephone that his remark was audible
to the patient. So when the wife had duly delivered the message, the
answer came back:--
'If the man in your bed is a doctor, send him here.'