Railway deposited me at Tralee. I was uncertain as to whether the
place was a terminus, but the gintleman who dhrove the cyar I hailed
marvelled greatly at my ignorance. He surveyed me from top to toe with
a compassionate expression. No doubt he had heard much of the
ignorance of the uncivilised English, but this beat the record. Not
to know that Tralee was on the sea, not to know that the little port
frowned o'er the wild Atlantic main, as Mr. Micawber would have said.
He struggled for a moment with his emotion and then said,
"Musha, the next parish is Amerikay!"
I apologised for my imperfect geographical knowledge, but the cyar-man
was immovable. No pardoning look stole over his big red face, which
was of the size and complexion of a newly cut ham. Nor would he enter
into conversation with the inquiring stranger. He cursed his horse
with a copiousness which showed his power of imagination, and with a
minute attention to detail which demonstrated a superior business
capacity. Put him in the House amongst the Nationalist members, and he
is bound to come to the front. The qualifications above-mentioned
cannot fail to ensure success. We have the examples before us, no need
to mention names. A hard cheek, a bitter tongue, and a good digestion
are the three great steps in the Irish Parliamentary _gradus ad
Parnassum_, the cheek to enable its happy possessor to "snub up" to
gentlemen of birth and breeding, the tongue to drip gall and venom on
all and sundry, the digestion to eat dirt _ad libitum_ and to endure
hebdomadal horsewhippings. Such a man, I am sure, was the dhriver of
my cyar, who may readily be identified. His physiognomy is very like
the railway map of Ireland, coloured red, with the rivers and mountain
ranges in dark-blue or plum-colour. As a means of ready reference he
would be invaluable in the House of Commons. How interesting to see
Mr. Gladstone poring over his cheek (Connaught and Leinster), his jaw
(Munster, with a pimple for Parnellite Cork), and his forehead
(Ulster, with the eyes for Derry and Belfast). The G.O.M. would find
the Kerry member invaluable. Like the rest he would probably be devoid
of shame, untroubled by scruples, and a straight voter for his side,
so long as he was not allowed to go "widout a male." Who knows but
that, like the Prime Minister's chief Irish adviser, he may even have
been reared on the savoury tripe and the succulent "drischeen"?
All the Tralee folks are shy of political talk. They eye you for a
long time before they commit themselves, but when once started they
can hardly stop, so warm are they, so intensely interested in the
great question. Running down the line, a Cork merchant said "The Kerry
folks are decent, quiet folks by nature. Do not believe that these
simple villagers are the determined murderers they would seem to be.
No brighter intellects in Ireland, no better hearts, no more
hospitable hosts in the Emerald Isle. They are very superstitious.
There you have it all. 'Tis their beautiful ingenuousness that makes
them so easily led astray. What do these simple country folks, living
on their farms, without books, without newspapers, without
communication with large centres--what do they know about intricate
State affairs? What can they do but listen to the priest, regarded as
the great scholar of the district, reverenced as almost--nay, quite
infallible, and credited with the power to give or withhold eternal
life? For while in England the people only respect a parson according
to the esteem he deserves as a man, in Ireland the priestly office
invests the man with a character entirely different from his own, and
covers everything. These poor folks felt the pinch of hard times, and
the agitators, backed by their Church, saw their opportunity and
commenced to use it. Hence the Kerry moonlighters, poor fellows,
fighting in their rude and uncouth way for what they believed to be
patriotism and freedom. They should be pitied rather than blamed, for
they were assuredly acting up to their light, and upon the advice of
men they had from childhood been taught to regard as wise, sincere,
and disinterested counsellors.
"Ah me, what terrible times we had in Cork! Belfast may boast, but
Belfast is not in it. We were in the centre of the fire. The
shopkeepers of Patrick Street deserve the fullest recognition from the
British nation. They had to furnish juries to well and truly try the
moonlighters of Kerry, Clare, and several other counties. They sat for
eight months, had to adjourn over Christmas, and those men returned
true bills at the peril of their lives. The venue was changed to Cork
for all these counties, and every man jack of the jury knew full well
that any day some fanatic friend of the convicted men might shoot or
stab him in the street. The loyalty of Belfast is all the talk, but it
has never undergone so severe a test. There the Loyalists have it all
their own way. Here the Loyalists, instead of being three to one, are
only one to three. The Ulstermen are the entrenched army; the Cork
Unionists are the advanced picket. More judges got promotion from Cork
than elsewhere. We changed the barristers' silk to ermine, too. All
this shows what we went through. Everything is quiet now; Balfour
terrified the life out of them, and Captain Moonlight at the mention
of that name would skip like spring-heeled Jack."
The Kerry folks turned out bright as their reputation. It was hard to
believe that these simple, kindly peasants had ever stained their
beautiful pastoral country with the bloodiest, cruellest deeds of
recent times. They have a polite, deferential manner without
servility, and a pious way of interpolating prayer and thanksgiving
with their ordinary conversation.
"Good morning, Sir."
"Good mornin', an' God save ye, Sorr."
"Fine weather."
"'Tis indeed foine weather, glory be to God."
"Nice country."
"Troth, it is a splindid country. The Lord keep us in it."
A prosperous-looking shop with a portly personage at the door looked
so uncommonly Unionistic that I ventured to make a few inquiries _re_
the antiquities of the district. The inevitable topic soon turned up,
and to my surprise my friend avowed himself a Home Ruler and a
Protectionist. His opinions and illustrations struck me as
remarkable, and with his permission I record them here.
"Yes, I am a Home Ruler--in theory. I think Home Rule would be best
for both. Best for you and best for me, as the song says; but mark me
well--NOT YET.
"You are surprised that I should say Not Yet so emphatically, but the
fact is I love my country, and, besides, all my interests and those of
my children are bound up with the prosperity of the country. This
ought to sharpen a man's wits, if anything could do it, and I have for
many years been engaged in thinking out the matter, and my mind is now
made up.
"Home Rule from Gladstone will ruin us altogether. We must have Home
Rule from Balfour. We _must_ have Home Rule, but we must have it from
a Conservative Government. You smile. Is that new to you? It is? Just
because Home Rulers in this country cannot afford to express their
views at this moment. But the hope is entertained by all, I will say
all, the most advanced Irish Home Rulers. By advanced I mean educated,
enlightened. Let me give you an illustration which I heard from a
friend in Cork.
"Here is Ireland, a delicate plant requiring untold watching and
careful training. Around it on the ground are a number of slugs and
snails. Or call them hireling agitators if you like. I sprinkle salt
around the roots to kill off the brutes and save my darling plant.
That salt is Conservatism. It is furnished by people of property, by
men who have interests to guard. Salt is a grand thing, let me tell
you! Balfour is the man to sprinkle salt. Home Rule from him would be
safe. He is the greatest man that ever governed Ireland, but that must
be stale to you. You must have heard that everywhere. He put his foot
on rebellion and crushed it out of existence. On the other hand the
poor folks of the West coast would lie down and let him walk over
them. They hold him in such esteem that they would regard it a favour
if he would honour them by wiping his feet on them. He might walk
unarmed and unattended through Ireland from end to end with perfect
safety. But which of the Nationalist members could do that? Not one.
The city scum, the criminal, irreclaimable class, shout 'Hell to
Balfour,' but these poor readers of the _Freeman's Journal_ and
such-like prints, prepared for their special use and written down to
their level, must not be classed with the people of Ireland at all.
Every country has its ruffian element, every country has its poisonous
press. Ireland is no worse than other countries in these respects."
My Irish Conservative Home Ruler would have gone on indefinitely,
furnishing excellent matter, for he improved as he warmed up, but
unhappily a priest called on him to make some purchase, and he had to
leave me without much notice. "Over the way," he said. "Trip across to
the opposite shop, and you'll find another Tory Home Ruler."
As I "tripped" across I thought of the Pills and Ointment man who
amassed a colossal fortune by fifty years' advertising of the fact
that wonders never will cease. Mr. Overtheway was not quite so Tory as
might be supposed, after all. He said:--
"I have no objection to Home Rule, but, although a Catholic, I have
the greatest objection to Rome Rule, which is precisely what it means.
I object to this great Empire being ruled from Rome. The greatest
Empire that the world ever saw to be bossed by a party of priests! Do
the English know what they are now submitting to?
"Let me put the thing logically, and controvert me if you can.
"If Mr. Gladstone wished to go to war to-morrow, is he not at the
mercy of the Irish Nationalist party? Could he get votes of supply
without their aid? In the event of any sudden, or grave emergency, any
serious and critical contingency, would they not hold the key of the
position, would they not have the power to make or mar the Empire?
Surely they would. And are not these men in the hands of the priests?
Surely they are. That is a matter of common knowledge, as sure as that
water will drown and fire will burn. A pretty position for a sensible
man like John Bull to be placed in by a blethering idiot, who can
argue with equal volubility on either side, but with more conviction
when in the wrong. Bull must have been drunk, and drunk on stupid
beer, when he placed his heart strings between the finger and thumb of
a quack like that, who, whatever the result, whether we get Home Rule
or not, has ruined the country for five-and-twenty years.
"Yes, I am a Home Ruler. But for heaven's sake don't thrust
self-government on an unfortunate country that is not ready for it.
That country cries for it, you say. The snuffling old air-pump across
the Channel says the same thing. Says he: 'Beloved brethren, I greet
you. I fall on your neck and kiss your two ears, and give you all you
ask. For why, beloved brethren? Why do I this thing. Let us in a
spirit of love enquire. Because it is the wish of the country; because
it is the aspiration of the people; because I feel a deep-seated,
internal affection for your beautiful land, in whose affairs, during
my eighty-four years' pilgrimage in this vale of tears, I have, as you
know, always shown the strongest, the warmest, the most passionate
interest, and on whose lovely shores I have during my seven dozen
years spent (altogether) nearly a week. It has been said that I have
never been in Ulster, and that, therefore, I am unable to appreciate
the situation. An atrocious falsehood. I have spent two hours (nearly)
in the northern province, having landed from Sir Somebody's yacht to
see the Giant's Causeway. I have studied the Irish question by means
of mineral specimens gathered from the four provinces, and I am,
therefore, competent to settle the Irish question for ever. Do you
know a greater man than myself? I confess I don't. Bless you, my
children. You ask for Home Rule. Enough. The fact that you ask proves
a Divine right to have what you ask for. You are a people rightly
struggling to be free,' says owld Gladstone. 'Hell to my sowl,' says
he, 'but that's what ye are,' says he.
"And he starts to murder us by giving what the most ignorant,
unthinking, unpatriotic, self-seeking people in the country have asked
for, and swears that because they ask they must have.
"As well give a razor to a baby that cried for it.
"Ireland must be treated as an infant.
"An Irish Legislature would lead to untold miseries. We might arrive
there some day, but not at a jump. The change is too sudden. We want a
little training. We want to grow, and growth is a thing that cannot be
forced. It takes time. Give us time for heaven's sake. Give us Home
Rule, but also give us time. Give us milk, then fish, then perhaps a
chop, and then, as we grow strong, beefsteak and onions. A word in
your ear. This is certain truth, you can go Nap on it. Tell the
English people that the people are getting sick of agitation, that
they want peace and quietness, that they are losing faith in
agitators, having before them a considerable stretch of history,
which, notwithstanding the scattered population, is filtering down
into the minds of the people, with its morals all in big print. The
Irish folks are naturally quick-witted. They are simple and confiding,
many of them very ignorant, if you will, but they find out their
friends in the long run. Look at Balfour. Not a man in the whole world
for whom the people have so much affection. Which do you think would
get the best welcome to-morrow--Balfour or Morley? Balfour a hundred
thousand times. Ah, now; my countrymen know the real article when they
see it. Home Rule we want for convenience and for cheapness. We don't
want to be compelled to rush to London before we can build a bridge.
But rather a million times submit to expense and inconvenience than
hand the country over to a set of thieves who'd sell us to-morrow.
We're not such fools as ye take us for. Don't we know these heroes?
And when we see them and Gladstone and Morley and Humbug Harcourt with
his seventeen chins, all rowling together in Abraham's bosom (as ye
may say)--Harcourt licking Harrington's boots, when only yesterday Tim
was spittin' in his eye--we say to ourselves 'Wait yet awhile, my
Boys, wait yet awhile.' But when ye've finished yer slavering and
splathering, and when Tim Healy can find time to take his heel off
Morley's neck, then, and not before, we'll have something to say to
you.
"But you should call on my friend on the right. He is also a Home
Ruler--like myself."
Number three had powerfully-developed opinions. He said--"Home Rule on
Conservative lines is my ticket. We'll get it on no other. I console
myself with that idea. Otherwise it would be a frightful business, and
what would become of us, I cannot tell. But I do not believe that even
Gladstone would be so insane as to give it us. I cannot believe that
the middle class voters of England would stand by and see the
corresponding class in this country exterminated. Home Rule as much as
you like, if we had the right men. The very poorest peasants are
becoming alive to the fact that under present circumstances the thing
would never do for them. They want the right men, that is, men of
money and character, to come forward. And I declare most solemnly,
that I am convinced that the Irish people would fall into line, and
see the bill thrown out with perfect quietude. Now the push has come,
they really do not want Home Rule, and, what is more, they absolutely
dread it, and I firmly believe that a general election at the present
moment would send a majority of Unionists to power. The priests are
working for life and death. They see that this is their best chance,
perhaps their very last opportunity. I am a Catholic; but then I am a
Parnellite, a Tory Parnellite. And I have no intention of bartering
away my political freedom to my Church, which, in my opinion, should
keep clear of politics. The clergy have now advised payment of rent,
so that the Government may not be embarrassed at a very critical
juncture. And the tenants are paying their rent, although the present
period is one of great agricultural depression. Look at this: The
Ulster farmers are terribly hard up, are complaining that they cannot
pay. This is the Protestant province, where the priests have little
scope. But in Leinster, Munster, and Connaught, the people are paying
the landlord. The word has gone round--pay the landlord, whomever else
you don't pay! The oilcake man, the implement man, the shopkeeper, are
not getting their dues, but notwithstanding the pinch of the present
moment, the landlord (who knows all about it) is paid. And the priests
in some cases are actually remitting the clerical dues to enable the
small men to pay the rint. Pay the rint, say they, if you pledge your
very boots, if you have to go to the gombeen man (money-lender), if
you have almost to rob the Church. They want to get possession, they
want to get power, they want to get Home Rule; and then they know
that, as Scripture says, 'All these things shall be added unto them.'
Let them once get the upper hand, and they can very soon recoup
themselves.
"The priests are showing England their power, with a view to future
good bargains. 'You see what we can do,' say they. Arrange the matter
with us. We are the boys. The Reverend Father O'Codling is the man.
Have no dealings, except such as are authorised by us, with the
red-headed Tim Healy Short. The Clergy have only one idea; that is, of
course, the predominance of their Church. Very natural, and, from
their point of view, very proper. I find no fault with them, but I say
their object hardly commends itself to my undivided admiration, and,
being still friendly, we on this subject part company. I wish to let
the priests down easy. They are mostly very good men, apart from
politics. They are good customers to me, and they pay very promptly.
They spend their money in the country, and I'd have no fault to find
if they'd lave politics alone. Mind that owld Gladstone doesn't become
a Papist all out. 'Twould be better for him, no doubt, and as the
whole jing-bang that turned round with him before would no doubt
still follow at his heels, we'd get a considerable quantity of
converts, if we could say little about the quality. D'ye hear what
that owld woman's singing?"
I listened with interest. The minstrelsy of Ireland seems to have
drifted into the hands of the most unpoetical people in the green
isle. The poor old creature walked very, very slowly along the gutter,
ever and anon giving herself a suggestive twitch, which plainly
indicated some cutaneous titillation--the South is a grazing country.
This was all I heard--
Owld Oireland was Owld Oireland
Whin England was a pup.
Oireland will be Owld Oireland
Whin England's bur-r-sted up!
If my friends are right as to the change of feeling _re_ Home Rule,
the dear old lady was hardly up to date. But the great author of
"Dirty Little England"--I judge of the author by the internal evidence
of sentiment, style, and literary merit--certainly composed the above
beautiful stanza in the sure and certain hope that the present bill
would become law.
Number Three qualified his remarks on rent, when speaking of the
County Clare. "There they embarrass the Government by refusing to pay,
and by shooting people in the good old way, just at the most ticklish
time." He said, "Clare has always been an exceptional county. Clare
returned Daniel O'Connell, by him secured Catholic Emancipation, and
from that time has called itself the premier county of Ireland. They
are queer, unmanageable divils, are the Clare folks, and we are only
divided from them by the Shannon. So the Kerry folks go mad sometimes
by contagion. I should advise you to keep away from Clare. You might
get a shot-hole put into you. Every visitor is noticed in those lonely
regions, and the little country towns only serve to disseminate the
arrival of a stranger to the rural districts. Suppose you walk five
miles out of Ennis the day after you arrive there, I would wager a
pound the first woman that sees you pass her cottage will say, 'That's
the Englishman that Maureen O'Hagan said was staying at the Queen's
Hotel.' The servants are regular spies, every one of them. I couldn't
speak politics in my house because I've a Catholic nurse. Good bye, I
hope ye won't get shot."
I thanked him for the interest expressed, but failed to share his
nervousness. After having mingled with the Nationalist crowd that
followed the Balfour column in the Dublin torchlight procession, after
having escaped unhurt from the blazing Nationalists who swarm in the
Royal Victoria Hotel, Cork, having walked down the Limerick entrance
to the balmy Tipperary, a little shooting, more or less, is unworthy a
moment's consideration. Besides which, my perpetual journeying and
interviewing and scribbling have made me so thin that Captain
Moonlight himself would be bound to miss. However, it is well to be
prepared for the worst, so--_Pax vobiscum_, and away to County Clare.
Tralee (Co. Kerry), April 20th.
No. 12.--ENGLISH IGNORANCE AND IRISH PERVERSITY.
A most enchanting place when you have time to look at it. My flying
visit of ten days ago gave the city no chance. Let me redeem this
error, so far as possible. There are two, if not three Limericks in
one, a shamrock tripartition, a trinity in unity,--English-town,
Irish-town, and New Town Perry. New Limerick is a well-built city,
which will compare favourably with anything reasonable anywhere. Much
of it resembles the architecture of Bedford Square, London. The streets
are broad and rectangular, the shops handsome and well furnished. But
it is the natural features of the vicinity which "knock" the
susceptible Saxon. The Shannon, the classic Shannon, sweeps grandly
through the town, winding romantically under the five great bridges,
washing the walls of the stupendous Castle erected by King John, the
only British sovereign who ever visited Limerick--serpentining through
meadows backed by mountains robed in purple haze, reflecting in its
broad mirror many a romantic and historic ruin, its banks dotted with
salmon-fishers pulling out great fish and knocking them on the head,
its promenades abounding with the handsomest women in the world. For
the Limerick ladies are said to be the most beautiful in Ireland, and
competent English judges--I know nothing of such matters--assure me
that the boast is justified. Get to Cruise's Royal Hotel, which for a
hundred years has looked over the Shannon, take root in its airy, roomy
precincts, pleasant, clean, and sweet, with white-haired servitors like
noble earls in disguise to bring your ham and eggs, Limerick ham, mind
you, which at this moment fetches 114s. per cwt. in London; and with
the awful cliffs of Kilkee within easy distance, where the angry
Atlantic Ocean, dashing with gigantic force against the rock-bound
coast, sends spray two or three miles inland, the falls of Castleconnel
with the salmon-fisheries under your very nose, and the four hours
river-steamer to Kilrush, with more Cathedrals, statues, antiquities,
curiosities, novelties, quaintnesses than could be described in a
three-volume novel--do all those things, and, while on your back in the
smoke room, after a hard day's pleasure, you will probably be heard to
murmur that in the general Fall some of us dropped easily enough, and
that, all things considered, Adam's unhappy collapse was decidedly
excusable.