Chapter 20

I was glad on the evening on which I climbed to the top of the fort to find little gardens lying up the slope at the back of the poorer houses. Clones is better off in this respect by being behind the age. In Antrim and Down, in too many instances, the farmers have taken the cotter's gardens into their fields. I wished to be sure if the gardens belonged to the people who lived in the thatched cottages, and I spoke across the hedge to a man who was digging potatoes in one of them, a man with a leather apron, marking him out as a shoemaker, and a merry, contented face. Yes, the gardens belonged to the cottages at the foot of the hill. All the cottages had gardens in Clones. The people had all gardens in Clones. They were not any of them in want. They had enough, thank God. There was every prospect of a good harvest and a good harvest brought plenty to every home.

A few words often change the world to us. I climbed the three-storey fort at Clones feeling sad and hopeless in the grey evening, everything seemed chill and dreary like the damp wind, and this man's cheery words of rejoicing over the prospect of good crops, over the yield of the little gardens, touched me as if sunset splendor had fallen over the world, and I came down comforted with the thought that our Father who gives fruitful seasons will also find a way for Ireland to emerge from the thick darkness of her present misery.

I was referred to the Presbyterian minister of Clones for information on the antiquities of Clones, and from his lecture, which he with great kindness read to me, I gathered what historical hints I have inserted here. At the minister's I met with a pleasant-faced, motherly looking lady who talked to me of the Land question, the prevailing topic. From remarks she made I gathered that she was an enthusiastic church member, but on the Land question she had no ideas of either justice or mercy that could possibly extend beyond the privileged classes. I referred to the excessive rents, she gave a mild shake of her motherly chin and spoke of the freedom of contract. I spoke of new landlords making new and oppressive office rules and raising the rents above the power to pay of the tenants he found there when coming into possession. She said they might suffer justly if they had no written guarantee. She actually considered that a gentleman was not bound by his word of promise, nor did he inherit any _verbal_ agreement entered into by the man from whom he inherited his property. I spoke of the hardship of a long life of toil and penury ending in the workhouse. She said when they knew they must go into the workhouse eventually why did they not go in at once without giving so much trouble. I asked her if she, who seemed to know what it was to be a mother, would not if it were her own case put off going into the workhouse, which meant parting with her children, to the very last. The idea of mentioning her name in the one breath with these people precluded the possibility of answering. She threw down her knitting and left the room.

Was it not sad to think that this Christian lady had yet to learn the embracing first two words of the Lord's prayer, Our Father. Looking at the strength of this caste prejudice, as strong here as in India, I often feel sad, but Our Father reigns. Protestant ministers belonging _ex-officio_ to this upper caste, and being, so to speak, a few flights of stairs above their people, cannot speak with the power of knowledge which our Lord had by His companionship with the poor of His people.

I was more astonished than I can describe at the sentiments that met me in this red hot corner of Monaghan. "The people were armed," they said, "the people had revolvers and pikes, they would rise and murder them if they were let up at all." They did not exactly know what this let up meant, and I am sure I did not either. I heard a great deal about '98; surely '98 ought to get away into the past and not remain as a present date forever. I cannot for the life of me see what '98 has to do with allowing a man to live by his labor in his own country. The land question affects all and is outside of these old remembrances.

I must acknowledge that I have heard no Roman Catholic mix the land question with religion; they keep it by itself. I was informed that when I passed Clones I was in Ireland, as if Clones was an outpost of some other country.

The Episcopal Church in Clones is built on an eminence and is reached by a serious flight of steps; it looks down on the ancient cross which stands in the market place. This church is being repaired and was therefore open, so I climbed the long flight of steps and went in to see it. It certainly is being greatly improved. A grand ceiling has replaced the old one, a fine organ and stained glass windows add to the glory of the house. I had an opportunity of speaking with the rector, and his curate, I imagine. They pointed out the improvements in the church, which I admired, of course, and they told me some news which was of more interest to me than either organ tone or dim religious light streaming through stained glass.

They said that the temperance cause was flourishing in connection with their congregation. Both these clergymen were strict teetotalers, they said, and workers in the total abstinence field. The number of pledged adherents to the temperance cause had increased some hundreds within a given time. There was every encouragement to go on in the fight with all boldness. Truly these gentlemen had good cheer for me in what they said on this subject, for the drinking customs are a great curse to the people of the land wherever I have been.

From Clones to Belturbet Junction, where there were no cars, and there was the alternative of waiting at the station from two to seven p.m., or getting a special car. Waiting was not to be thought of for a moment, so got a car and a remarkably easy-going driver. He informed me that the rate of wages about that part of the country was one shilling a day with food. He thought the people were not very poor. The crops were good, the wages not bad, and he thought the people were very contented. Belturbet is another quiet little town, larger than Clones I should say. Like Clones it has no newspaper, no specific industry, but depends on the farmers round.

Procured a car and drove out to the village of Drumalee. The land is middling good as far as the eye can judge. This neighborhood abounds with small lakes. Here for the first time I saw lads going to fish with the primitive fishing rods peculiar to country boys. The country round here is full of people and there is no appearance of extreme poverty. The houses are rather respectable looking, comparatively speaking.

There is a fine Catholic chapel in Drumalee built of stone in place of the mud wall of seventy odd years ago. Saw no old people about and found that almost the recollection of Father Peter Smith, the blessed priest who wrought miracles, had faded away from the place, also that of his friend the loyal Orangeman who always got Orange as a prefix to his name.

The police in these midland counties are not so alert and vigilant, like people in an enemy's country, as they are in the west. They do not seem to have "reasonable suspects" on their minds. The asses of Belturbet, although some of them appear dressed in straw harness, and with creels, are well fed and sleek and do not bray in a melancholy, gasping manner as if they were squealing with hunger as the Leitrim asses do. It rained pretty steadily during the time I was in Belturbet, and the principal trading to be seen from my window was the sale of heather besoms. A woman and a young girl, barefooted and bareheaded, arrived at the corner with an ass-load of this merchandise. They were sold at one half-penny each. They were neatly made, and the heather of which they were composed being in bloom they looked very pretty. How it did rain on these dripping creatures! Being shut up by the weather I took an interest in the besom merchants and their load, which was such a heavy one that a good-natured bystander had to help to lift the load off the ass's back. It was a long while before a customer appeared. At length a stout woman, with the skirt of her dress over her head, ran across the street to buy a broom. She bargained closely, getting the broom and a scrubber for one half-penny, but as she was the first purchaser she spat upon the half- penny for luck. Then came some more little girl buyers, who inspected and turned over the brooms with an important commercial air, with intent to get the worth of their half-penny and show to their mothers at home that they were fit to be trusted to invest a half-penny wisely. They bought and others came and bought until the stock began to diminish sensibly.

A little man who had arrived with his load of besoms somewhat later sold none. I saw him glance from his load to the stock of mother and daughter, fast selling off, and become aware that his stock as compared with theirs was rather heathery, and he began to trim off roughnesses with his knife. I hope he succeeded in selling.

Drove out to Drumlane, where are the ruins of a large church and abbey and round tower. The driver, a Catholic, talked a little, guardedly, of the high rents. A broken-down looking man, who opened the iron gates for us into the ruins, complained heavily of the rents. He was only a laborer himself, the farmer he worked for was paying fifty-five shillings an acre for part of his farm and L3 for the rest. The land on which I looked was rented at L3. My only wonder is that the lands thus rented pay the rent alone without supporting in any manner the tillers of the soil. It was all pasture at this particular place. The ruins here of the church are very extensive, of the abbey only the fragment of a wall is standing. My guides informed me that there was an underground passage in old days between the abbey and the church, so that the bishop was not seen from the time he left the abbey until he appeared on the high altar.

They remarked that a story handed down from father to son as a true record of a place should be believed before a written account. They made no allowance for the coloring given to a story as it passed through the imaginations of successive generations. I assured them that I accepted all legends as historical facts to a certain extent. They were made happy, and were in a fit state of mind to _insinse_ me into the facts of the case about the round tower. It is of great thickness, the area enclosed would make a good sized room. The stone work is remarkably solid and good, and every stone smoothly fitted into the next with no appearance of mortar. It is wonderful to see how the projection of one stone is neatly fitted into a cavity made to correspond in its fellow. On one stone a bird is cut in relief, another nearly the same in the attitude of following is cut on another stone. There is also a representation of a coffin. The beautiful stone work goes up a great way, and suddenly stops, the remainder of the building being done in a much rougher manner.

Seeing that I was of a reasonable turn of mind, they informed me that the lower portion of this round tower was built by a woman, but she being jeered at and tormented by the men masons, jealous of her work, disappeared in the night, leaving the masons to finish it, which they did, but not nearly so well, as we could see.

On the way from Drumlane to Ballyconnell the driver began to talk of the bitter feeling that was kept up in the country on party subjects. He said that religion forbid it, for if we noticed in the Lord's prayer it was a prayer to forgive us as we forgave others. He thought Ireland could not prosper or have God's blessing until the bitterness of party spirit went down.

Found Ballyconnell just such another sleepy little town as Clones and Belturbet. Here I had the comfort of meeting a friend who had puzzled a little over the land question in a misty sort of way, and was willing to give the benefit of his observations and conclusions.

From Clones to Belturbet and on to Ballyconnell, as I have mentioned before, I believe, is pretty much the same sort of country, good fields, middling and good pastures alternating with stretches of bog and many small lakes dotted about here and there. Every appearance of thrifty, contented poverty among the people as far as met the eye. They were better clad, the little asses shod, and sleek and fat, so different from other places. Still, the best of the common people all along here is not very good to trans-Atlantic eyes, and the houses one sees as they pass along are dreadfully bad.

I spoke of this to my friend in Ballyconnell, who informed me that the people were harassed with ever-increasing rent, that as soon as they could not meet it they were dealt with without mercy. A man who had toiled to create a clearing--put a life's labor into it--was often not able to pay the increased rent and then he was put out, while another man paid the increased rent on his neighbor's lost labor.

This friend of mine held the opinion that landlords of the old stock never did wrong, never were rapacious or cruel; it was the new landlords, traders who bought out in the Encumbered Estates Court, who had no mercy, and the agents. Here again was brought up the story denied before that the agents had a percentage on the rents collected.

One cannot agree with the fact of all landlords of the old stock being considerate and kind and all new landlords rapacious; for Lord Leitrim was of the old stock, and who would wish to succeed to the inheritance of hatred he left behind him, and Lord Ardilaun, a new landlord, is well spoken of by all his people. Every one with whom I spoke of him, including the parish priest, acknowledged him to be a high-toned, grandly benevolent man, who, if he differed from his tenants, differed as one on a height of grandeur may misjudge the ability of the poor.

XLVIII.

IN THE COUNTY CAVAN--THE ANNALS OF THE POOR--BURYING THE PAST.

As an instance of hardships of which the poor had to complain, my informant mentioned the case of one very old man, whose children had scattered away over the world, which meant that they had emigrated. He held a small place on a property close beside another property managed by my informant's brother. This old man had paid his rent for sixty-nine years; he and his people before him had lived, toiled and paid rent on this little place. He was behind in his rent, for the first time, and had not within a certain amount the sum required. He besought the intercession of my friend's brother, who, having Scotch caution in his veins, did not, though pitying, feel called upon to interfere. The old man tendered what money he had at the office and humbly asked that he might have time given him to make up the rest. It was refused with contempt.

"Sir," faltered the old man, "I have paid my rent every year for sixty- nine years. I have lived here under three landlords without reproach. I am a very old man. I might get a little indulgence of time."

"All that is nothing to me," said the agent.

"Sir," said the old man, "if my landlord himself were here, or the General his father, or my Lord Belmore who sold the land to him, I would not be treated in this way after all."

"Get out of this instantly," said the agent, stamping his foot, "How dare you give such insolence to me."

"You see," explained my friend, "he was very old, it was not likely that any more could be got out of him even if he got time, for he was past his labor. Besides there was a man beside him who held a large farm, and he wanted this old man's little holding to square off his farm, so the old man had to go to the wall, but I was sorry for him."

There is a good deal of this unproductive sorrow scattered over Ireland among the comfortable classes. There are a good many also who feel like that motherly Christian lady in Clones who said to me, "When they have to go into the poor-house at the last, and they know it will come to that, why not go in at once?"

I am convinced more and more every day of the widespread need there is that some evangelistic effort should be made to bring a practical Gospel to bear on the dominant classes in Ireland.

My friend and I walked up to the church to search for some graves in the churchyard that lies around it. He drew my attention to the socket where a monument had been erected but which was gone, and mentioned the circumstances under which it had disappeared. A gentleman of the country, an Episcopalian, had fallen in love with and married a Catholic lady. The usual bargain had been made, the daughters to follow the mother's faith, the sons to go with the father. There was one son who was a member of the Episcopalian church. It seemed that the son loved and reverenced his Catholic mother, and that she was also loved and reverenced by her Catholic coreligionists. When she died she was buried in the family burying plot of ground in the Episcopalian churchyard. Her son erected there a white marble cross to his mother's memory. At this cross, on their way home from mass, sundry old women used to turn in, and, kneeling down there, say a prayer. This proceeding, visible from the church windows, used to annoy and exasperate the officiating clergyman very much. At the time of the disestablishment of the Church a committee was being formed to make some arrangements consequent upon this event. The Episcopal son of this Catholic mother was named on the Committee, and a great opposition was got up to his nomination on account of his being only Protestant by half blood. There was no objection to him personally, his faith or belief was thought sound, except that part of it which was hereditary. My friend considered this very wrong, and ranged himself on the side of the gentleman who was the cause of the dispute. The dispute waxed so hot that the parties almost came to blows in the vestry room.

During the time this war raged some bright genius, on one of the days of Orange procession, had a happy thought of putting an orange arch over the churchyard gate, in such a manner that the praying women should have to pass under it if they entered. I am not quite sure whether the arch was destroyed or not; as far as my memory serves I think it was. Something happened to it anyway. Something also happened to the monumental cross, which was torn down, broken up and strewed round in marble fragments. The gentleman prosecuted several Orangemen whom he suspected of this outrage. There was not evidence to convict them. An increased ill-feeling got up against the gentleman for a prosecution that threw a slur on the Orange organization. The Orange society offered a reward of L60 for the discovery and conviction of the offenders, but nothing came of it. My friend thought it was done by parties unknown to bring reproach on the Orange cause. The gentleman of the half-blood had not been so much thought of by his fellow church members since this transaction.

I spoke to my friend upon the unchristian nature of this party spirit, which he agreed with me in lamenting, but excused by telling me outrages by the Catholic party which made me shudder. All these outrages were confirmed by the ancient woman who kept the key of the church, and who stood listening and helping with the story, emphasizing with the key. I asked when these outrages had taken place, and was relieved considerably to hear that they happened about 1798 and 1641. Asked my friend if the other side had not any tales of suffered atrocities to tell? He supposed they had, thought it altogether likely. Why then, I asked him, do you not bury this past and live like Christians for the future.

I am often asked this question about burying the past, said my friend. My answer is, let them bury first and afterwards we will. Let them bury their Ribbonism, their Land Leagueism, their Communism and their Nihilism (making the motion of digging with his hands as he spoke) and after that ask us to bury our Orangeism, our Black Chapter, our Free Masonry, and we will do it then.

As we came down the hill from the church, I said to my friend, "You acknowledge that there are wrongs connected with land tenure that should be set right. You say that you see things of doubtful justice and scant mercy take place here, that you see oppression toward the poor of your country; why, then, not join with them to have what is wrong redressed, fight side by side on the Land Question and leave religious differences aside for the time being?" "I would be willing to do this," said my friend, "I do not believe in secret societies, although I belong to three of them, but a man must go with his party if he means to live here. There are many Orangemen who have become what we call 'rotten,' about Fermanagh, over one hundred have been expelled for joining the Land League."

Party spirit is nourished, and called patriotism; it is fostered and called religion, but it is slowly dying out, Ireland is being regenerated and taught by suffering. In all suffering there is hope. This thought comforted me when I shook hands with my friend and turned my back to Ballyconnell and to Belturbet and took the car for Cavan, passing through the same scenery of field and bog and miserable houses that prevail all over.

The only manufacture of any kind which I noticed from Clones to Cavan, a large thriving town bustling with trade, was the making of brick, which I saw in several places. These inland towns seem to depend almost entirely on the agricultural population around them.

From Cavan down through the County Cavan, is swarming with Land Leaguers they say, although I met with none to know them as such. Poor land is in many places, a great deal of bog, many small lakes and miserable mud wall cabins abounding. In every part of Ireland, and almost at every house, you see flocks of ducks and geese; raising them is profitable, because they do not require to be fed, but forage for themselves, the ducks in the water courses and ponds, while the geese graze, and they only get a little extra feed when being prepared for market. Ducks can be seen gravely following the spade of a laborer, with heads to one side watching for worms. Neither ducks nor geese, nor both together, are as numerous as the crows; they seem to be under protection, and they increase while population decreases.

As one journeys south the change in the countenance of the people is quite remarkable. In Down, Antrim, Donegal, the faces are almost all different varieties of the Scottish face--Lowland, Highland, Border or Isle--but as you come southward an entirely different type prevails. I noticed it first at Omagh. It is the prevailing face in Cavan; large, loose features, strong jaws, heavy cheeks and florid complexion, combined mostly with a bulky frame. You hear these people tracing back their ancestors to English troopers that came over with Cromwell or William the Third. They have a decided look of Hengist and Horsa about them.

The feeling against the Land League among the Conservative classes in the north is comparatively languid to the deeper and more intense feeling that prevails southward. The gulf between the two peoples that inhabit the country widens. After leaving Cavan we crossed a small point of Longford and thence into Westmeath, passing quite close to Derryvaragh Lake, and then to Lake Owel after passing Mulingar, getting a glimpse of yet another, Westmeath Lake.