ADVICE TO TOURISTS ON THE ART OF KISSING ENGLISH WOMEN--AN
IRISH INN--CASTLE CONNELL--THE DEATH OF THE LAST OF THE
O’BRIENS--BALLINACOURTY--CAPTAIN MOONLIGHT--THE SHANNON--SIR
CROKER BARRINGTON--MR. CARDEN--LORD CLONCURRY AND HIS TENANTS--A
LAND LEAGUE HUT--MR. PATRICK HOGAN’S OPINION OF THE LANDLORDS.
_5th July._--Yesterday morning at eight o’clock I left Dublin to
commence my tour in the Irish counties. Shelburne Hotel is feeling
the effects of passing events for it is nearly empty. I am told that
formerly at this season it would have been impossible for them to have
given me a room--at all events to have kept one for me in advance--for
it was the time when all the upper classes of Irishwomen met in the
capital to pay their respects to the Viceroy, and to be kissed by him,
for it appears that this is _the_ essential point in the viceregal
receptions. The Viceroy should kiss every lady presented to him, and
when duels were still fashionable in Ireland, it would have been most
imprudent for the Viceroy to show indifference whilst kissing any of
the beauties who passed before him; the father, brother, husband,
or betrothed would certainly have inquired his reason for such
unjustifiable coolness. And, moreover--I cite this fact for the benefit
of any travellers who may wish for instruction in the matter--the
art of kissing Englishwomen is extremely delicate, and involves a
number of important details. It is scarcely necessary to say that as a
rule it is more prudent to abstain even from kissing the hand, which
our custom recognises, but which on the other side of the Channel is
considered full of mental reservations. But under certain circumstances
this reserve constitutes an unpardonable offence. For instance, if you
should be invited to pass Christmas in an English family, take care
as you enter to glance at the chandelier. You may make a bet that a
large branch of mistletoe will be hanging there. In that case, if you
do not wish to pass for the most ignorant or vulgar of men, you are in
duty bound to immediately and unhesitatingly kiss every female in the
house, from the grandmother to the smallest girl. Custom imperatively
demands this attention, and the English of both sexes cherish it so
greatly that in colonies where mistletoe does not grow it is imported
by shiploads in time for that festive season.
But then, we have only to consult English history to see what an
important part has often been played by kissing, both in military
and political cases. They say that in the last century a Duchess of
Marlborough, hearing that her husband’s regiment had sustained heavy
losses and that the recruiting sergeants had some trouble in filling
up the ranks, on one occasion accompanied one of them to the market,
holding a shilling between her lips, which she offered to every recruit
who would take it with his own; and the story-teller gallantly adds
that in an hour the total strength of the regiment was fully reached,
and that they could have recruited a whole brigade in the same way had
they wished it.
At the present time a kiss can still have great political influence.
In order to oppose the Land League, Lady Randolph Churchill has
founded a counter-league solely composed of women, which has been
marvellously successful. Each member of the Primrose League undertakes
to neglect no means, during the elections, of enticing voters to the
Conservative party, and it is stated that some of the prettiest women
unhesitatingly adopt the same method that the Duchess of Marlborough
found so successful. But in spite of all these precedents we should
advise tourist novices to be very careful. They had better sin through
omission than by commission, for exaggerated eagerness or warmth might
be misunderstood. A manual might be written on these serious questions.
Did or did not Lord Aberdeen, the late Viceroy, impartially kiss all
the ladies of the Irish nobility and gentry who were suffering from
the Land League, or did they wish to punish him for his Gladstonian
tendencies by not giving him even a chance? I do not know. But in any
case there is no season this year and the Shelburne is almost empty.
The proprietors endeavour to console themselves with the aid of a few
rich American tourists, and I must own that when a passing Frenchman
falls into their hands, they treat him precisely like the Americans.
It was after experiencing this fact that I confided my portmanteau and
its owner to the tender mercy of a car-driver to take me to Kingsbridge
station. But, since yesterday was Sunday, I explained to him that
I wished first to be driven to a Catholic church to hear mass,
instructions that might have lowered me in the opinion of a French
carriage-driver, but which in Dublin won for me the most unequivocal
marks of consideration from this son of green Erin.
He first drove me to a chapel built on the banks of the river, in one
of the poorest and most miserable districts, not far from Guinness’s
brewery. I was extremely struck with all I saw.
When I entered, mass was about to commence; five or six hundred persons
were kneeling on benches or on the ground. I do not think that amongst
the whole number there was a single one whose appearance did not
indicate the deepest misery. By my side five or six men were telling
their beads. They were almost colossi, with bull-dog heads, very short
cropped hair and unshaven chins. They wore patched woollen shirts and
looked like dock porters. A little further away there was a group of
twelve or fifteen women, frightfully thin, with the hungry worn-out
look one sees on so many faces over here. All these miserable creatures
had evidently attempted to tidy themselves for Sunday. Most of them
wore shoes. I am told that these shoes go to the pawnbroker regularly
every Monday, and are redeemed on Saturday evening for Sunday’s mass.
The dresses have lost all their colour and their lank folds show
there is nothing worn underneath, but the poor owners all pray with
marvellous fervour. I have never seen in any church the striking
and sincere faith then visible amongst these unfortunate Irish whom
Providence seems to have condemned to such a hard life.
At the station I gained some information that made me a little
anxious. It appears that on Sundays the trains run very irregularly.
They could, therefore, only give me a ticket to Limerick Junction,
about twenty or thirty miles from the city; but the officials told
me that excursion trains often ran on Sundays from Cork to Limerick,
perhaps I could catch one of them; so I entered the train on this
rather doubtful chance.
The appearance of the country through which we pass is very strange.
I now understand the names “Green Erin” and the “Emerald Isle” which
are so often found in Irish poetry. Green is the scarcely undulating
plain which extends on each side of the railway; green also are the
slightly elevated hills which bound the horizon. We may say that there
is no agriculture. Only from time to time we catch sight of some fields
of potatoes and oats. Not a single tree. The fences are only heaps of
earth--the same enclosures that in Brittany are called _fossés_, only
here there is seldom any hedge. My fellow-passengers explained to me
that when a landowner wishes to make a plantation, everything is at
once cut down by the tenants, or else they let their horses feed on
the young trees, because they say no one has any right to deprive the
people of the land by which they live.
In quality all this pasturage is very indifferent. The soil is not
worth anything, but I expected at least to see the fields well kept.
But, in reality, this is far from being the case. There is not one
in fifty that does not manifestly require drainage, for they are all
overrun with rushes. A fanciful agriculturist with whom I travelled
gravely assured me that these rushes are much appreciated, because
in winter the cattle know how to pull them up and eat the white part
that is hidden in the earth. I was too polite to laugh in his face;
I was content to point out to him that the intellectual effort and
intelligence which the cattle must develop in order to procure this
food seems to interfere with their growing fat; the blade wears out the
sheath; this explains why all those we pass are in such poor condition.
Besides, the quantity as well as the quality is deficient. The
pasturage would feed more animals than are now grazing upon it, for the
grass is not sufficiently cropped. This all indicates a lack of capital.
Sir Thomas Esmonde told us yesterday that we should not find land to be
compared to Ireland anywhere else. I suppose he was scarcely alluding
to this district. Still, I read in a book of statistics--and the fact
is confirmed by my fellow-travellers--that County Kildare and Queen’s
County, which we are now passing through, both rank amongst the most
fertile parts of Ireland. At all events there is less misery in them
now than in any other counties. Whenever, in Dublin, the poverty of the
population was spoken of, I was always told that I must go to the south
and west to really appreciate it.
This leads me to make a comparison that again seems to contradict
the assertions of the orator at Rathmines. Sir Thomas told us that
emigration was one of the chief causes of the ruin of Ireland. Now,
Queen’s County, which suffered enormously from famine in 1847, is
precisely the county where there is the most visible diminution of the
population. Queen’s County contained about 160,000 inhabitants in 1847;
153,000 in 1841. Its superficial area is 425,000 acres, of which 55,000
acres are absolutely unproductive. It was therefore necessary that
370,000 acres should feed 150,000 inhabitants. This makes almost one
inhabitant to each two and a half acres, which is a very heavy average
for a stock-raising country. It is not nearly so high with us, and it
was evidently too much for the country, since many of the people died
of hunger.
The population has diminished by more than one-half; there are now
only 75,000 inhabitants, and if it seems proved that it suffers less
than other counties from the present crisis, how can they declare that
emigration is a source of ruin?
Turf pits are noticeable in every part of the land. Most people know
how this curious combustible is formed. During the summer some cold
damp countries become covered with an abundant vegetation of moss and
herbage that forms a very close and thick undergrowth. These plants die
every autumn. During the winter their decomposition produces a layer
of leaf mould, in which a new vegetation of plants of the same species
springs up again, and its rich growth mingling in its decay with that
of the preceding year, the soil is thus annually raised by successive
layers. Sometimes it reaches twelve or fifteen feet in height. Whilst
digging in this mass of vegetable matter, enormous oaks are frequently
discovered, after being buried for thousands of years, and the wood
having become very close and perfectly black is much in request for
cabinet-making, etc. They are called bog oaks. A quantity of stag and
elk horns are also found, which prove that formerly Ireland was richer
in large game than she is now; for, with the exception of a few found
at Killarney, the stag has completely disappeared. The peat is formed
by these accumulations of roots. The lower layers which have been
compressed by the others are the most appreciated. They are dug out
with a spade, in black bricks, which are afterwards dried in small
heaps. This is the sole fuel used by the Irish peasants, for it is now
a long time since the forests were destroyed, and there is not a single
coal-mine in the whole country. On a hearth, well-dried peat makes a
fairly good fire; but its extreme lightness renders it almost useless
for any industrial purposes. The smallest draught draws up the tall
chimney all the fuel that is between the bars. Still, a little is used
in a few factories in Germany.
Peat is therefore a very indifferent resource as fuel. This is very
unfortunate for Ireland, as she has a great quantity of it. It forms
the subsoil of at least half the pasturage we pass through. Every
moment we see a large black trench at one corner of the field. Here the
farmer digs out his fuel.
I am told that this indifferent, badly-kept pasturage is usually let
as 2_l._, 3_l._, and 4_l._ the acre. The Irish acre is larger than the
English. It is almost as large as one of our _arpents_, viz., an acre
and a quarter. The _hectare_, nearly two and a half acres, is therefore
let at 4_l._ to 10_l._ This is certainly much too dear. A Normandy
farmer would not pay that price. In Calvados, pasturage resembling that
which I have seen here would not be worth more than 3_l._ 10_s._, or
4_l._ an hectare. And then the farmer would be in a better position for
working it, since first he would derive some profit from his apples;
and besides this, he would have the command of sufficient capital to
buy the necessary herd of animals, a capital that none of these people
seem to possess.
I compare this country to Normandy for two reasons. In the first place,
they have the same productions; in the second, the same market. London
prices regulate those of both countries. And we must also remember
that Normandy is nearer to London than Ireland. On the other hand,
the burdens that weigh upon the French farmer are much the heavier.
The land-taxes are dearer with us than in England. The expenses of
registration, so onerous in our country, do not exist on this side of
the Channel. I saw the deed of sale of a property worth 4,000_l._; the
only duty to pay was a fee of 30_s._ In France the registration would
have absorbed about 400_l._ Military service also weighs very heavily
upon our agriculturists. And, evidently, all these things should be
taken into account. However, when the Land Leaguers say that the rents
are too high, I think they are right. But then, why do the tenants take
the land at that price?
In the country we seldom see a group of houses; there seems nothing
resembling our villages. Only at long distances, three or four cottages
are visible clustered round a pond; as a rule, they are isolated.
Externally, the houses do not look so miserable as I had imagined them
to be. They are certainly small and low, but they are all carefully
whitewashed, and their thatched roofs are generally in good order; but
the gardens appear very badly kept.
I can boast of wonderfully good luck. Can it be my introduction to
Messrs. Biggar and Shackleton that has brought it to me? When I reached
Limerick Junction I saw a locomotive getting up steam in a corner of
the station. It is one of the excursion trains that I had been told to
look out for; I hurried into a carriage and arrived at Limerick just in
time to catch another which conveyed the Limerick people, who were fond
of nature, out of the town to pass their evenings at Athlone; about
five o’clock it deposited me at Castle Connell Station, about a mile
from my destination.
But I had not found anything to eat on the road; all the
refreshment-rooms are closed on Sunday. Luckily Castle Connell is
frequented by a good many Englishmen who fish for salmon, and for their
benefit one of those good little inns has been established where one
can never find anything but an enormous piece of roast beef, but where
this roast beef, the roast beef of Old England, is always delicious.
Consequently five minutes after my arrival I was seated before one of
those excellent products of English civilisation, from which I cut
formidable slices that only just touched my plate. Whilst I was thus
occupied, the landlady, a woman of respectable appearance, who called
me “sir” with every three words, sent for a jaunting-car to take me to
Ballinacourty, Colonel M----’s house. In a few moments I saw a tattered
personage ornamented with a very red nose, and cheeks framed with a
superb beard cut like a Russian Grand Duke’s, enter the room. It is
wonderful how hairy the Irish race are! It is probably the damp air
of the country which produces this great development of the capillary
system. This individual is the driver to whom I must confide myself.
“And it’s to the Colonel’s I’m to take your honour?” said this modern
Esau with the finest accent that can be heard.
“Yes, it is to the Colonel’s that you must take my honour. One mile
from here! You know the way?”
“Do I know my own mother? Ah, your honour, it’s just as though your
honour asked did I know the Colonel. Your honour! blessed be the
saints, and a foine gentleman he is! Every time he sees me, your
honour, he offers me a dhrink.”
“And how much do you want for the drive?”
“How far did your honour say it was from here to Ballinacourty?”
“A mile. I saw it on the map.”
“A mile!”
The idea that it was only a mile from Castle Connell to Ballinacourty
seemed so droll to him that he called the waiter, laughing heartily as
he did so.
“Hear this, Tim?” said he. “Here his honour says that to go to the
Colonel’s it is only a mile!”
Tim also found this idea so ridiculous that he laughed till his old
coat threatened to split, but feeling his dignity compromised by this
burst of hilarity, he wiped his face with a dirty napkin and politely
apologised:
“Beg your pardon, sir!” said he, “but, holy Mother of God, there are at
least four miles, and the road is very bad.”
“No, Tim, no,” replied the driver with a noble air, “the road has
been mended, and it is not four miles; it is a little over three; but
there, we will only say three. You know this gentleman is going to the
Colonel’s, a man who never forgets to offer a dhrink, does he, Tim?”
“Never!” said Tim with an air of conviction; “he offered me one the day
before yesterday.”
But as it was evident the driver had already met some foine gentlemen
who had given him a great many more dhrinks than was good for him, I
chose not to understand his hints. At last, in despair at my want of
intelligence, he decided to put my portmanteau upon his car. We seated
ourselves back to back, and in spite of the disadvantages of this
position from a conversational point of view, we soon became good
friends. He even thought it his duty to do the honours of the local
curiosities.
Castle Connell is now only a small village frequented by the fishermen,
who are attracted by a desire to tease the salmon in the Shannon; but
its past is more glorious, for it was once the capital of one of those
innumerable kings who rendered to modern Irishmen a service they now
seem to appreciate very highly, by enabling them all to claim a royal
descent. It was the O’Briens, kings of Munster, who inhabited Castle
Connell. They built on the banks of the Shannon a castle of which we
still see the ruins, not far from the spot where the hotel now stands.
To borrow a verse from king Pharaoh’s celebrated ballad, these monarchs
though legitimate were full of perversity, and this led to their
committing many crimes, thanks to which they became very rich and very
powerful; but unfortunately for them they had one virtue, and this was
enough to ruin them. They were exceedingly hospitable. But that is a
common virtue in Ireland, and has ruined many families from the days of
the O’Briens to the present time. The Irish gentry have always carried
hospitality to such a point, that it formed the most expensive of all
luxuries. The table was always laid, who ever liked was welcome, and
the best in the house was reserved for strangers, until the sheriff’s
officer intervened. Now Irish landlords no longer dine with each other,
because they dare not go out in the evening for fear of being shot. If
this wise reform now due to the benevolent watchfulness of the Land
League had taken place fifty or sixty years sooner many Irish gentlemen
would have escaped ruin. But Mr. Parnell and his agents commenced their
work too late, when the majority of landlords were already completely
ruined; and consequently they feel no gratitude towards the new
arrangements. It was therefore a taste for hospitality which ruined the
dynasty of Castle Connell. One fine day the reigning O’Brien invited
one of his friends to dinner. The latter profited by this invitation
to introduce some of his followers into the castle, and seized the too
hospitable dwelling. He then put out the eyes of his host and ruled in
his place. In analogous circumstances Samson unhesitatingly sacrificed
his life to his vengeance. He pulled down his own house and crushed the
three thousand Philistines who were in it beneath the ruins. Apparently
the last of the O’Briens did not seek to revenge himself in equally
heroic fashion. In the first place, he was assassinated soon after the
fatal dinner. Another thing, perhaps he was not so strongly framed as
the victim of the fair Delilah; and also, perhaps the Irish were better
builders than the Jews: the examination of the ruins strongly inclines
me to this latter hypothesis. They consist of two or three rather
dismantled towers, for the old fortress, which had remained intact
until 1688, was taken at this date from the partisans of King James who
defended it, by the Hanoverians, who undermined it and blew it up.
My Automedon did all in his power to awaken my sympathy for the family
misfortunes; I also think he claimed some relationship to them, but
I am not quite sure, for Irish explanations are rather diffuse and
hard to comprehend. In courses of elementary mathematics pupils are
often given very complicated formulæ to extract the unknown quantity
therefrom: the conversations of the Irish remind me of these studies
of my youth. They are so embarrassed with incidental phrases, pious
exclamations, or simply polite expressions, such as “Please your
honour,” that the unknown, that is to say, the true meaning, is hard to
extricate. Furthermore, they have a mania for answering one question
by another. For instance, when I asked my coachman if he knew his way,
instead of simply answering “Yes,” he asked me if I thought he did not
know his own mother.
Besides, the length of his discourse and his anxiety to impart to me
all the historical reminiscences which I have faithfully recorded, had
manifestly the object of deluding me about the distance which separates
Castle Connell from Ballinacourty. In reality it is only a mile, and,
in spite of his efforts, in less than half an hour we arrived in front
of Colonel M----’s house.
My host is still a victim of the Land League. This is his history.
It is curious, precisely because it resembles that of hundreds of
other landlords. All the tenants on his estate, in County Clare, had
leases of thirty-one years, which fact, in parenthesis, is a formal
contradiction to Mr. Parnell, when he claims _fixity of tenure_, that
is to say, security for the tenants, and declares that one of the chief
reasons which prevent improvements is that the landlords refuse to give
them leases, and like to retain the right of sending them away whenever
they please. I may even add that I have seen a number of these leases,
and my tenants may feel certain that I will never sign anything like
them. It seems to me that the essential point of a lease is that it
should be bilateral--that the two parties should be bound for the same
time. Each runs some risk. If the years are good the landlord does not
benefit by the rise, but if they are bad he does not suffer from the
fall.
Now, the Irish leases--at least those that I have seen, and I am
assured that until the last few years all were drawn up in the same
form--contain a clause that absolutely destroys this principle. It is
always stipulated that the tenant should have the right to withdraw
at any time by giving six months’ notice in advance, without any
reciprocal power being reserved for the landlord. I do not therefore
see why the latter should tie his hands for thirty-one years; and if
it is true that many landowners have refused to grant leases to their
tenants, it appears to me that their refusal was clearly justified by
this extraordinary clause.
But in any case the Colonel’s patrimonial estate had always been
managed in this way, and consequently, while those of his neighbours
who had refused to be bound by leases profited by the years of plenty
that followed the famine by raising their rents 25, 50, and often 100
per cent., the rents on his property remained stationary, or at least
were only raised in a very irregular manner, since the increased rents
could only be charged when the leases had to be renewed.
When bad seasons returned the Government took the initiative by a law
known as the Land Bill, which instituted committees charged with the
regulation of the rents, but these committees ignored all previous
contracts. They commenced by reducing all rents on an average 15 to 20
per cent. Then the Land League intervened, and by methods which, if
illegal, were not the less efficacious, it obtained fresh reductions,
which generally doubled the first. On some estates, those which are
referred to when it is desirable to quote an instance, things were
restored to nearly their original condition. When this happened the
landlords protested a little, but merely as a matter of form; for even
had the committee not imposed a reduction, they would have been glad
enough to receive their rents at the same rate as before the rise took
place.
But the numerous class of those who had not raised their rents
naturally considered that it was supremely unjust that reductions
should be forced upon them when they had not profited by the good
years. And really they had some ground for complaint. Let us take the
case of two landlords who own estates of the same quality contiguous
to one another. In 1855, for instance, both of them let the land at
4_l._ per acre; in 1870 the first of them raised the rent to 8_l._ The
second, restrained by a lease or simply by moral considerations, had
not altered the price. The Government and the Land League only reduced
the former to his original sum of 4_l._, whilst the latter saw his
rent fall to 2_l._, and found himself impoverished by one half simply
because he had not ground down his tenant like his neighbour had done.
A great many resisted, the Colonel amongst them. He declared that,
under the circumstances, he preferred taking back his land and
cultivating it himself, but by thus acting he infringed the fundamental
rule of the League. Here I cannot resist inserting a parenthesis.
The idea that ownership of the soil is a property like any other is
certainly a modern idea. The old notion of land tenure, the outcome
of feudal laws, considerably limited the landlord’s rights, by
creating, amongst other things, between him and the tenant reciprocal
obligations, such as personal or military service; these are no longer
compatible with modern ideas, but we still find persistent traces of
them in every country in Europe, and particularly in France. Thus many
of the lands of Sauterre, for instance, are or have till quite recently
been subject to a law which provided that a landlord could not send
away a tenant without replacing him by one of his relations, or by
cultivating the farm himself. Of course this law has not been inscribed
in any code for a very long time. It is asserted that it dates back to
the Crusades; but it is so deeply ingrafted into the national customs
that here the land subject to it is always let more cheaply than
any other, because the owners well know that if they have reason to
complain of a tenant, and that no one of his family is disposed to take
the farm, this generally happens--they will not find any one to replace
him. The owners of land subject to these laws are therefore in a great
measure at the mercy of their tenants. Attempts have frequently been
made to evade it, but they have always been followed by repentance, for
they have invariably been punished, either by arson, or by mutilations
of cattle. But this is all avoided if the proprietor cultivates the
land himself. This is the sole proceeding that, according to custom,
will enable him to act against the tenant.
These facts are well known. I recall them because they throw a new
light upon the events now passing in Ireland. The Land League by
refusing to allow the landlord the right of dismissing his tenant,
endeavours, perhaps a little unconscionably, to revive in force
old customs that are evidently of feudal origin, and which, if
resuscitated, would completely subvert all modern notions of property,
whilst it is very curious that the League is encouraged in these
attempts by the revolutionists of the whole world. But at least the
old law acknowledged the proprietor’s right to cultivate the land
himself, and this the Land League refuses to do.
The Colonel’s decision was scarcely announced when all corners of the
estate were placarded with notices warning the public that the fields
were boycotted. A butcher from Limerick rented a meadow, he had reason
to regret it; during the night the tails of all his oxen were cut off.
Then things became worse; the Colonel had left the service in order to
manage the property himself. Soon after he first returned, he wished
to make an example, and sent away two tenants who were pointed out to
him as ringleaders in mischief. He immediately received several letters
signed _Captain Moonlight_, couched in the most polite terms, but in
which he was advised to have the measure for his coffin taken as soon
as possible. A few days later he had dined with a neighbour and was on
his way home towards eleven o’clock at night. It was fairly light; on
leaving the park the road led up a rather steep incline, to the right
there was a field of oats separated from the road by a low wall.
As they drove through the gate the coachman, who probably had partaken
too freely of the hospitality of the servants’ hall, suddenly whipped
up his horse. The Colonel, who was sitting on the second seat of the
jaunting-car, turned round to tell him to drive more slowly; at the
same time he heard the report of a gun; his hat was pierced, and by
the light of the shot he distinctly saw the man who had fired from
the other side of the hedge. He seized the gun that was always in the
carriage, and jumped down; unfortunately the horse was still going so
fast that he rolled into the ditch. When he got up again the man was
already some distance away, running across the oats. He fired twice
but could not reach him. A few weeks later in his turn he had some
friends to dinner. The dessert had been served, and, according to the
English custom, the ladies had risen to return to the drawing-room; the
Colonel drew back against the wall to allow his neighbour to pass when
a shot was fired outside through the dining-room window; this time the
bullet passed through his coat.
Two years later an Irish priest, settled in America, wrote to him
saying that the author of the two attempts had just died in hospital,
and that before receiving absolution he had asked his confessor to
write to the Colonel to implore his pardon and to tell him all the
details of the crime. He had received 100 guineas for the attempts, the
result of a donation from all the tenants on the estate.
This is the position of affairs in the country, and the situation
is rendered particularly serious by the offenders being very rarely
arrested; their secret is too well kept. Besides, when they are
arrested, it is not of much use; the juries know what to expect if
they give an adverse verdict, and therefore the few culprits brought
before them are nearly always acquitted. The other day there was a very
amusing case of this kind.
One of the Colonel’s neighbours, also an ex-officer, Major F----, had
some difficulties with a drover who occupied a very small farm. He
gave him notice to quit. The man complained to the Land League, and
the president wrote to the Major telling him that he had received a
complaint against him and requesting him to give some explanation about
the motives that had led him to act so harshly. The Major considering
this summons a simple piece of impertinence naturally took no notice of
it. But he suffered for his neglect. A few days’ later as he finished
breakfast, he noticed five or six cows feeding in a field of clover in
front of his windows. He went out, for he could not understand how they
had entered. When he reached the field he found they had passed through
a gap in the wall that had evidently been made on purpose.
He drove them before him, intending to make them go out by the same
gap, when he suddenly perceived, not ten paces from him, a man on the
other side of the wall deliberately aiming at him with a long holster
pistol. He instantly recognised his drover. The shot followed; he
realised that he was not hit, but he turned on his heels and ran back
into the house to find a weapon. When, ten minutes later, he returned
to the fields, he made a curious discovery--the pistol had burst; this
accident had saved his life. The fragments of the weapon were on the
ground. The drover had disappeared, but he had been severely wounded;
his right hand thumb had been blown off, and was found in a pool of
blood.
Five or six days later the assassin was arrested in a hospital where he
had gone to have his wounds attended to. He was sent to the assizes;
but on the eve of the trial each juryman received a letter signed
“Captain Moonlight,” informing him that the man had only obeyed orders,
and that if he were condemned, others would be found ready to avenge
him and to make them suffer the same fate from which the Major had so
narrowly escaped.
The man denied everything, and was acquitted. As he came down from the
prisoner’s bench, when the judge had informed him that he was free, he
had the impudence to turn round and say:
“Excuse me, your Lordship, but won’t they give me back my thumb? I
should like to bury it!”
The Colonel told me this story as we strolled on the banks of the
river. The Shannon is not navigable above Limerick. At the place where
we now are it is a fine stream between two and three hundred yards
wide. The water is clear as crystal, except where it foams round
numerous rocky boulders, over which it descends from cascade to cascade
until it reaches a kind of lake formed by a bend in the river which
there suddenly turns westward.
The two banks are covered with fine trees which reach to the water’s
edge, forming a lovely picture, which would exactly resemble a creek
in the Rocky Mountains if one could not see pretty country houses in
every direction, so near together that the parks join each other.
From Lord Massy’s garden, where we stand, we can see five or six.
The salmon-fishing is the great attraction; no one could imagine the
follies Englishmen will commit for its enjoyment. Our own custom is
repeated here, the owners of the river banks claim the fishing to
the middle of the stream. I was shown the boundaries of one of these
claims, which is only about four hundred and forty yards long. It is
let during the season for 200_l._; and the lessee must also employ two
keepers, a boat, and two boatmen. Altogether, without counting the
other expenses of his change of residence, the whole costs between
280_l._ and 320_l._ A rather longer reach, situated a little more up
the stream, has been let for £400. I inquired whether these liberal
fishermen catch plenty of salmon, and was at once informed that I
had made use of a very terrible barbarism. One must not say “catch a
salmon,” but “kill a salmon.” This important point settled, I then
learned that this has been rather a bad season, but that when the
stream has risen well, lucky and skilful fishermen can kill as many as
eight salmon in a day.
This morning I asked the Colonel’s permission to walk about the
neighbourhood alone. After the events he related to me yesterday, he
shut up his house in county Clare and settled on the other side of
the river, in the small house at Ballinacourty, which he rented from
a friend, and which is situated in county Limerick. He has therefore
no interest in this district, and up to a certain point this takes him
out of the category of landlords, and places him amongst the strangers.
Consequently the Land League leaves him quite alone, and his relations
with the country people are comparatively good. Yesterday we went out
for a short time with a neighbouring landlord, and I noticed that
whilst he was with us not one of the peasants whom we met saluted us,
but when we were alone they all bowed to us, and some of them even
greeted us with a few friendly words.
In spite of the personal sympathy evidently felt for him, Colonel M----
is still a landlord, the friend and neighbour of every landlord in the
country. He is therefore certain to inspire some distrust, and I fancy
that the people will talk more freely with me alone than if they see me
in his society. After walking for some time in the country, I entered
several houses in succession, under various pretexts; and I must at
once own that I was very well received. In a moment, when I said I was
French, my welcome became even enthusiastic. The whole family, and
often even the neighbours, crowded round me, asking me about France,
the name alone seeming to contain a wonderful attraction for them.
I am told that this sympathy for France exists all over Ireland, but it
is particularly visible in the south, because in the last century most
of the soldiers of the brilliant Irish Brigade, that has filled such
glorious pages in the annals of our military history, came from this
district. The recruiting agents of the kings of France were naturally
pursued by the English authorities, and consequently they experienced
some very great hardships, but this circumstance has been invaluable
to the Irish novelists, whose works are usually based on adventures of
which these men are the heroes.
The coast of Bantry Bay was almost deserted at that time, and it was
therefore from there that the recruits embarked in search of the
French schooners that conveyed them to Dunkerque, where the depôts
of the brigade were stationed. It is said, that, in order to avoid
compromising themselves, the consignees had the habit of describing the
men in their bills of lading as _wild geese_.
Few of them ever returned to the country. It is calculated that more
than one hundred thousand died under the French flag; but those who did
come back have left such vivid recollections of themselves, that here
every one seems to look upon France as a second country, and imagine
that they will ultimately regain their liberty through us.
Yesterday, when from the railway I saw the country cottages, I
thought the descriptions I had received of their poverty were greatly
exaggerated. But to-day I realise that these accounts did not overstep
the truth, and that appearances had greatly deceived me. The exterior
is passable. Like many old houses in Perche and elsewhere, they are
all built of mud tempered with cow-hair or hay, and consolidated with
a few laths. As long as the roof is good, and that they are careful to
frequently whitewash the exterior, these buildings are very warm in
winter, very cool in summer, and they last a long time.
But when any one enters them the impression is quite changed. We must
first remark that the Irish are extremely prolific. Most families
include six or seven children, yet as a rule the houses have only one
room, ten or eleven yards long by five or six wide.
To enable the whole family to sleep there they formerly resorted to
very original arrangements. In one corner there was a great heap of
reeds; in the evening they spread them out for a bed; the man and
wife slept in the middle; the smallest boy by his father’s side, the
youngest girl by her mother, and so on until they reached the eldest,
who occupied the two extremities next to the pigs, who are always
allowed inside. If they offered hospitality to a stranger, and this
frequently occurred, the pigs were pushed a little further away. This
was called sleeping “straddogue.”
It appears that this rather primitive couch is still used in many
houses. But moralists have some reason to say that luxury is
penetrating everywhere. In all the cottages that I have yet visited,
the inhabitants have already mounted one step on the ladder of comfort.
I have always seen one, and sometimes two beds, but never more. When
there is only one bed, the father, mother, and daughters sleep side
by side at one end; the sons at the other. When there are two, the
parents and daughters occupy one, and the sons repose on the other.
The pigs had also profited by this innovation; they sleep under the
bed, and the hens generally perch above it. I have never seen such
arrangements even amongst the savages on the African coast.
This system, deplorable from a human point of view, seems, on the
contrary, to have the happiest effect on the development of the
intellectual and affectionate qualities of the pig. To him is confided
the education of the children, who, almost naked, play in the mud
outside the cottage. I saw two this morning, nearly of the same age, a
little boy and a little girl, sleeping in the glare of the sun, their
heads comfortably resting on the side of a great sow. The latter was
evidently quite conscious of her important charge. When I advanced she
first moved her ears, then uttered some little grunts, intended to
herald the approach of a stranger, but she did not move for fear of
awaking the two children. A little further on three others, of four and
five years old, were filling an old tin box with dirty water, which
they afterwards poured over their legs, with great satisfaction. Their
guardian lying full length in the pool, watched this innocent amusement
from one corner of her eye, and seemed to take extreme pleasure in it.
What have all these people to live on? And here I must assert that
they have no appearance of suffering. The race is not remarkable for
physical beauty. But though they are ragged and half naked, they do not
look famished with hunger as the people do at Dublin. The children are
very fat. We are now at the commencement of the hay season, but yet all
the men seem idling about the cottages. The Colonel assures me that
many of them have money deposited in the banks, and that it is not rare
to see a man living like those whom I have visited give his daughters
when they marry a dowry of 40_l._ or 50_l._ each. Where do they get all
this money, besides the sums they spend? More than a shilling a day is
never paid for a man’s labour. The mystery is explained to me by the
information that in a few days they will all go to England to assist in
the harvest and hop-picking, and they live in idleness through the rest
of the year on the money then made. Formerly, part of it went to pay
the rent; but those good times are quite past now.
I have already had one long discussion with the Colonel. He says that
the land is good. I persist in considering it very indifferent as a
rule; moreover, the climate is very bad. Vegetation is so backward
that haymaking has scarcely commenced. They never secure more than one
crop. The bad weather comes too soon for it to be possible to get any
aftermath. I have not yet seen a field of wheat. When it was grown, the
harvest was rarely successful. I had the curiosity to visit a large
garden which has some reputation in the county, for the owner sells
the produce of it. I am certain that it is fully three weeks behind
Normandy, and even more behind the suburbs of Paris. In my garden in
the Avenue Friedland, the rhododendrons have flowered a month ago. Here
they are just opening. It is the 6th of July, yet there are scarcely
any strawberries. The gardener proudly showed me a cherry-tree, which,
thanks to an excellent situation, has already some ripe fruit! They are
being sold at 1_s._ 6_d._ per pound to a dealer, who retails them at
2_s._ 1_d._!
How can agriculture prosper under such circumstances? Owing to the
Gulf Stream, the winter is not severe; but how can the poor work in
January and February? Yesterday we sat down to dinner at eight o’clock.
We left it soon after nine, and it was broad daylight. The lamps were
still unlighted. I therefore conclude that in six months it will be
dark until nine o’clock in the morning, and we are in the South of
Ireland. What must it be in the North? And what is a day’s labour worth
if it only contains five or six working hours?
After lunch, the Colonel took me for a drive. We first went ten or
twelve miles to visit Sir Croker Barrington’s beautiful seat. The
Castle is placed in the midst of a lovely park; it is modern, but it
has several towers, machicolations, and battlements, which give it a
look of feudal ferocity, completed by four or five old cannon, placed
like a battery on the terrace which overlooks the road we drove up
by. Alas! they did not suffice to intimidate the Land Leaguers of the
neighbourhood; for one morning, three or four years ago, they came in
broad daylight and organised a battue in the park. They killed all the
deer without any one daring to oppose them. The deer have since been
replaced, and we have even seen some of them. But what was done at Sir
Croker Barrington’s is repeated, more or less, in all directions, on
a smaller scale. In many counties it is now impossible to preserve at
all. Poaching is openly carried on.
“We ourselves, the landlords, are now the game,” said the Colonel in a
melancholy tone, “and for us there is no close season.”
However, sometimes the game resists. The instance of a Mr. Carden was
quoted to me, who at last succeeded in getting the best of the whole
population.
Like every one else, he had serious difficulties with his tenants, who
would neither pay their rents nor leave their farms. He had been shot
at several times, but had never been hit. One day he was riding on
the Nenagh road in full daylight, when, at the same moment, he heard
two balls whistle past his ears. The would-be murderers were two men
who had fired from a neighbouring field, and who ran away seeing that
they had missed their aim. Mr. Carden jumped his horse over the wall
and pursued them. He stunned the first with a blow from his loaded
horse-whip, then throwing himself upon the second, he managed to knock
him down with blows of his fists. He bound them together with his
stirrup-leathers, and triumphantly conveyed them to Nenagh prison.
Wonderful to relate, the jury, suddenly carried away by his courage,
consented to find them guilty, and they were hanged!
Mr. Carden had another rather droll adventure with his tenants. One
day, during the Fenian insurrection, he was warned that the inhabitants
of the neighbouring village, taking the Socialist theories in earnest,
had divided his park between them, and intended solemnly coming to
take possession on the following Monday. Mr. Carden, assisted by his
men-servants, immediately carried an old cannon, worked on a pivot,
that he possessed, to an upper room. On the day named the tenants
arrived with horses and carts, and commenced, in presence of an immense
crowd, to dig up the lawn. At this moment they heard a window open, and
they saw Mr. Carden ostentatiously leading his cannon up to the mouth
with packets of grape-shot. He then turned round, drew out his watch,
and informed the spectators that he gave them ten minutes to get away
in. They did not require five, and no one has since dreamt of digging
up Mr. Carden’s lawn.
Sir Croker Barrington was away, and this unfortunately prevented us
from seeing the interior of the castle, but we had a short walk through
a small narrow copse that ran along the hill, on the top of which the
castle was built, and which is really charming. The dampness of the
country renders the vegetation of the underwood deliciously fresh, and
of incomparable luxuriance by the side of anything we have at home. And
I must add that Irish poachers are less destructive than ours. They
kill the large game, but apparently disdain the thrushes, blackbirds,
and wood-pigeons, for numbers of them flew up, literally from under our
feet.
The road that has brought us back from Sir Croker Barrington’s to
Ballinacourty passes through Lord Cloncurry’s estate. I much wished
to visit this property, for it has been frequently mentioned for some
time past. It is, in fact, the theatre where very extraordinary events
have taken, and are still taking place, showing plainly the state of
disorganisation which now prevails in Ireland.
Lord Cloncurry is a very rich man, who usually inhabits another estate
in the vicinity of Dublin. His property in county Limerick is managed
by an agent.
The tenants paid their rent neither better nor worse than their
neighbours, when after Easter, 1884, they all went to the agent
together. They carried their money in their hands. The agent, believing
that they had come to pay him, began complimenting them on punctuality
to which he was unaccustomed, when the priest, who was with them,
stepped forward, and, speaking in the name of his parishioners, told
him that the tenants were ready to pay, provided that the rents were at
once reduced ten per cent. If this reduction, which was to affect not
only the quarters now due, but also those that were in arrears, were
not accepted, nothing more would be paid.
The agent replied that he had not the requisite authority to accept
these propositions, which to him seemed very unjust. The land was let
in a very unequal way, for as the rents had not been raised for a long
time the relative value of the land was much changed, so that whilst
some paid a full price, others paid much too little. If they wished the
arrangements re-made on a new basis it would not be just for the same
reduction to be made for them all. The tenants would not listen, and
they all left him without paying a penny.
The following day they assembled at a meeting, the priest still acting
as president. It was agreed that five delegates should go to Dublin to
see Lord Cloncurry and to lay the matter before him.
He did not receive the embassy very graciously, but replied to them
in the same words as the agent had done. He did not refuse them all a
reduction, but he would not admit that a reduction should be the same
for all; lastly, and above all, he would not allow them to impose upon
him, by threats, terms that he thought were undesirable. If the tenants
would not pay, he would show himself lenient towards arrears, but he
would get rid of them all, even if he cultivated the land himself.
Before they separated, they had roused a great deal of anger towards
each other. It is easy to see that the whole business was badly managed
from the commencement. Lord Cloncurry had not the reputation of being
a hard or exacting landlord. On the other hand, any one who is in
the habit of managing land, and who is acquainted with the state of
agriculture, not only in Ireland, but nearly all over the world, will
see at once that the demand for a reduction of ten per cent. was not
excessive. Only it is quite certain that the tenants owed the rents in
arrear. In asking for a reduction on this portion of their debt, they
were soliciting a favour, and to begin with threats is not the way to
obtain a favour. Lastly, in spite of my sympathy for the Irish, I can
never understand one thing--namely, that the landowner can be denied
the right of sending away a tenant who will not pay.
However, this is of daily occurrence in Ireland, and the most singular
thing is, that it frequently happens that tenants who refuse to pay
because others have refused, send their money by post or let one of
their children carry it over during the night, entreating the agent not
to say that they have paid it, because they are afraid of the others.
One small estate was named to me, on which all the tenants, with the
exception of one or two, have regularly paid in this way for some
years, each persuading himself that he is alone in doing so.
Lord Cloncurry lost no time before putting his threats into execution.
The tenants all received a summons to pay. They took no notice of it,
and it was soon known that they were to be evicted.
On the day named, everybody from two or three leagues round, assembled
to witness the proceedings. Lord Cloncurry’s representative soon
appeared, accompanied by an imposing escort of police and about fifty
soldiers from the Limerick garrison. The priest was there encouraging
his parishioners to struggle for the good cause. However, considering
the customs of the country, the crowd was not very threatening. They
threw a good deal of mud and a good many stones at the police; but
that always happens, and no one attaches any importance to it. Every
tradition was minutely observed on both sides. In each house, the
whole family lay on the ground and refused to move. Two policemen then
took men, women and children, in succession, and gently deposited them
on the manure heap; then they carried all the furniture outside, and
lastly the landlord’s agent took possession--carefully shutting all
the doors and windows, or else the evicted persons would hasten in
again, and nothing would be gained; whereas, if they broke open a door
after the seals were once placed upon it, they would fall under the
power of the law. All these operations are extremely delicate. If any
member of the family is still in the house when the seals are put on,
the eviction is invalid. Consequently, those interested in possession
being retained often try to hide a child in a corner, or, better still,
in a hole prepared in the wall or in the thatched roof, and if this
manœuvre is successful, the unfortunate landlord is obliged to obtain a
fresh writ, and, with another hundred men, to attempt a fresh eviction,
for it all must be done over again. “The fôôôrme!” said Bridoison, “is
substance.”
All the “fôôôrmes” were therefore duly observed on either side, and,
on the whole, the affair passed off quietly. But it was scarcely
ended, when an incident occurred which produced a deep impression.
Lord Cloncurry’s representative was about to retire with the police,
when a personage, whom no one had noticed until then, approached him,
and intimated, in the name of the Land League, that all the land on
the estate was boycotted, and that, in order to secure obedience to
the orders of the League, the tenants would be installed, by its
precautions, at the doors of their old houses, in such a way, that no
interference would be possible. At the same time, the crowd opened,
and he saw a number of carts filled with materials. Every one at once
set to work; and before the day ended, fifty or sixty wooden huts, for
which the frames had been sent all ready, were put up on the side of
the road, and each evicted family was comfortably installed in one of
them the same evening.
We may judge of the effect produced by this unexpected scene that the
League had organised to give a new proof of its power. The arrangement
has now lasted for two years; the seventy evicted families are
supported at the expense of the League; the land on which these huts
are built belongs to farms in the neighbourhood; they are regularly
let to the tenants who occupy them. Some landlords wished to protest;
but they were threatened with Lord Cloncurry’s fate, and so their
opposition subsided.
At the same time, Lord Cloncurry has not yielded one inch. He put some
cows into the boycotted fields, and curiously enough, their tails
have not been cut off--an immunity that they probably owe to the fact
that, on its side the authorities have stationed two or three bodies
of police in the empty farms, and that the fields are patrolled by
well-armed constables every night.
At Dublin, Mr. Harrington had told me about this business, recommending
me to go and visit the Land League huts. It appears that the
Association has profited so much by their action on this occasion, that
in spite of the great expense entailed, it has built other huts under
similar circumstances in other parts of Ireland. It is certain that
the seventy men whom the League has supported in idleness during the
last two years must be invaluable agents, and the whole proceeding also
serves as a very fine advertisement for the League.
After a few minutes’ walk, we reached a place by the roadside where
two of these huts are built. I wished to visit them, in spite of
the Colonel’s advice, for he warned me that having been seen with
him, I might expect a very cold reception, and might even be most
unceremoniously turned out. “For,” said he, “these men are the most
desperate fellows in the country!”
And, in fact, it at first seemed very probable that his words would be
verified. In the first house I entered a woman was sitting near the
door peeling potatoes; five or six children of different ages were in
the corners; the husband, a great fellow with a bad physiognomy, was
seated near the window, smoking his pipe, with his hat on and both
hands in his pockets.
“Good morning, madam!” said I pleasantly, as I entered. “Good morning,
sir!”
The woman never even raised her head; the children looked at me,
thrusting their fingers up their noses; the husband gave an ill-omened
grunt.
This sounded badly. But at that instant an idea struck me that I can
only call brilliant, although that word may cause my modesty to be
questioned. The eldest child, a horrible-looking urchin of ten or
twelve years old, frightfully dirty and half naked, was evidently
poking the fire when I entered; he still held the stick he had been
using for the purpose.
“Madam,” I continued still more pleasantly, “would you kindly allow
your nephew to give me a light for my cigar?”
Instantly the woman raised her head and pushed away the locks of yellow
hair that covered her eyes.
“My nephew!” said she. “But I haven’t a nephew!”
“But that boy there--is he not your nephew?”
“That boy there--he’s my son!”
“Your son--that great boy! But I can only beg your pardon. Upon my
word, you look so young that I should never have supposed that you had
a son of that age. I am a foreigner--a Frenchman. You must excuse my
blunder.”
I had scarcely finished my pretty little speech, when everything in
the house was reversed. First the mother, then the father, jumped from
their chairs to offer them to me.
“Ah, your honour,” said the woman, “how can you say I look young? I am
three years older than my husband, blessed be the saints! I have seven
children, your honour. Pat, finish there, are you going to give his
honour a light for his cigar?”
After that, nothing was refused to me. I went over the whole house.
It was ten yards long by six wide. To the right two partitions, which
were placed at right angles to each other, formed two rooms, each
containing one bed; the parents and daughters slept in one, the boys in
the other; the large room was used as a kitchen. Mr. Parnell’s portrait
hung on the wall. My hosts were unacquainted with Latin, or they should
have written below it: _Deus nobis hæc otia fecit_. But still this does
not prevent them from enjoying their position. The husband explained
that the Treasurer of the Land League passes every Saturday, and
gives them 2_l._ Besides this, he sometimes earns a shilling a day by
working. Through the window he showed me his old farm on the opposite
hill; it is one of those now turned into a garrison, but he appears
quite resigned to his condition. I think that, at least so far as he
is concerned, this display of military force is quite unnecessary, for
I believe that he would be quite dismayed if he were told he would be
reinstated in his old home.
I asked him whether he had ever thought of emigration. “Emigration!”
said he, with extraordinary energy. “Never; I would rather die of
hunger!”
These words confirmed the statements made by the heads of the Land
League at Dublin. I thought that the Irish peasant, unlike the French
of the same class, was easily persuaded to emigrate; but this is not
so. Every one whom I have asked in my walk this morning has made the
same answer. However, they tell me that the young men have different
ideas and that, on the contrary, most of them were going to seek their
fortunes in America and Australia.
When I had inspected the first house, I asked if I could see the
second, and since they had now made my acquaintance, I was received
there cordially at once. This one is rather larger; it is occupied
by a man about sixty years old, named Patrick Hogan. He lives there
with eight women--his wife, and seven daughters or granddaughters.
They were all bare-footed and very dirty, and in the last respect the
house rivalled them, although it bore signs of great comfort. Three or
four fine sides of bacon hung from the roof. To the right of the door
stood a large sideboard, on which a dozen blue earthenware plates were
displayed, representing a Chinese landscape, with a pagoda to the right
and a bird to the left. I recognised it as the garden of Puntin-qua, at
Canton. Many years ago some English china manufacturers made a drawing
of it, and inundated the world with pseudo-Chinese productions of their
own workmanship. On the wall Mr. Gladstone’s portrait hung between
those of Mgr. Croke and Mgr. Walsh. There were also a few religious
pictures.
Mr. Patrick Hogan is evidently in a superior position to that of his
neighbour. He told me his own history in well-chosen words. He also
receives 2_l._ per week. The rent of his farm was 40_l._, and when he
was evicted he would willingly have signed a new lease at 36_l._; but
now farming is so bad that he would not agree to more than 30_l._ He
also told me that he was two or three years’ rent in arrear.
I asked him if Lord Cloncurry had not seized his cattle.
“Oh, no,” said he with a cunning look; “I took care to get them all
away on the eve of the eviction. One of my neighbours is keeping them
for me.”
I told him that this trick was not altogether unknown amongst us;
adding that I had even seen it carried out so skilfully, that one
farmer managed to “get away” forty or fifty oxen and cows in one night.
This anecdote seemed to interest him immensely, and to confirm his
high opinion of France.
“Ah, your honour,” said he, “the French are a great people!”
He then inquired whether we also had a Land League--he pronounced
it _lague_--and was rather astonished when I told him that with us
a tenant who could not pay always tried to leave, and that often,
particularly just now, it was the landlords who compelled the tenants
to remain in their farms. We agreed at once that landlords _are a very
bad lot, all the world over_; he shook my hand with a vigour that
nearly dislocated the arm, and we parted the best friends in the world.
I have forgotten one detail which is worth quoting. When I asked Mr.
Patrick Hogan how he passed his time, he confided to me that he had
taken some lands situate some distance from here. He held them at a
very low price, and had managed to relet them at higher rents to three
under-tenants. I asked him if he had not some trouble with his tenants.
“Ah!” he answered; “I should like to see them refuse to pay me!” A
reply that completely capsized all my notions of right and wrong,
already much shaken by everything that I had heard and seen in this
singular country!
[(April, 1887.) I have received from Ireland a request to rectify
an error, which I hasten to do at once. I said that the Limerick
butcher who took Colonel M----’s field, found his cows’ tails cut
off. It appears that this misfortune happened to the cows of a
neighbour under the same circumstances. The butcher hastened to
withdraw his cows from the boycotted meadows before they suffered
the same fate.
Neither was it Colonel M----’s would-be assassin who, when lying
in a hospital in America, declared to his confessor that he had
been paid by means of a subscription in which all the tenants on
the estate had joined. The story is true, but it is applicable to
another case.]