Realities of Irish life

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IRISH LIFE.

BY

W. S. TRENCH.

REALITIES

OF

IRISH LIFE

BY

W. StEUART TRENCH.

it

MMES lEOPATL

BOSTON :
ROBERTS BROTHERS,

1880. ^

FRAHK SIMMONS,

BOOKSELLER,
8P8INCFItli). ILt

/

7^/^'

Univbrsity Prkss:
John Wilson & Son, Cambkidgb.

N

PREFACE.

Cardtown, Mountraih^ Ireland,
August, 1868.

Dear Lord Dunraven:

The following sketches of the " Realities of Irish
Life'* have been penned by me from time to time within
the last few years. The idea of placing them on record
was first suggested by your Lordship and your iaccom-
plished cousin Miss Gallwey. During the many pleas-
ant hours we have passed together in boating and other
excursions on the beautiful bay, and amongst the moun-
tains and valleys of Kenmare, Ireland in her various
phases was often discussed between us. Those incidents
which have occurred to me during a somewhat eventful
experience amongst her people on their native soil were
not unfrequently the subject of conversation ; and your
-Lordship and your cousin often urged me to commit
them to paper. I have done so in the following pages,
and I now venture to lay them before the public.

(V)

vi PREFACE-

My reasons for publishing them are mainly three-
fold : —

First. My tales are of real life. Many of the inci-
dents described therein have been told in various forms,
often very incorrectly, in the newspapers and journals
of the day. My desire has been to give a clear and
truthful account of occurrences which virulent party
spirit or local prejudices have placed before the public,
distorted through a false medium. I have endeavored
calmly and dispassionately to relate the facts as I believe
them to have occurred, and in most cases as I know
them to have happened to myself in person. From this
latter cause has arisen a more frequent use of the first
person singular than I should otherwise have desired;
but under the circumstances, this could not be avoided.

My second reason for publishing these tales is to give
the English public some idea of the difficulties which
occasionally beset the path of an Irish landlord or agent
who is desirous to improve the district in which he is
interested. If he be willing to adopt the ^^Laissez
alter ^* system, and let everything take its own course,
he may have an easy life of it in Ireland ; but if he
ventures to interfere with old . habits, old prejudices, or
old ways, — however loud may be the call for improve-
ment, — he must be prepared to contend with difficulties
which none but those who have experienced them could
have imagined.

Thirdly. I would wish to add my testimony to the
fact that Ireland, — notwithstanding the many difficulties

PREFACE. vii

which may beset the path of those who earnestly desire
to improve her condition, — is nevertheless not altogether
unmanageable. They will doubtless meet with many
disappointments, many acts of apparent, and some of
real ingratitude ; but justice fully and firmly adminis-
tered is always appreciated in the end. I admit it will
require much firmness and discretion to carry justice to
its legitimate conclusions, torn as Ireland is by con-
tending parties ; but if this be truly done, I have never
yet known it fail.*

I have purposely abstained from offering any opinion
of my own on the various political and social grievances
of which Ireland complains, — real or imaginary. It is
not that these questions have not attracted my earnest
attention, and perhaps they may hereafler form the
subject of another volume. But Englishmen frequently
complain that they cannot obtain facts concerning Ire-
land. I have here endeavored to supply some which
have come under my own observation. Whether they are
worthy of being recorded or not, the public must decide.

It may perhaps be objected that some of my tales are
abrupt, and have no obvious or necessary connection ;
and also that they are descriptive of varied scenes of a
class and nature totally different from each other. I fear
I must to some extent plead guilty to the charge. Were
I to supply the missing links, I should simply give a
history of my life, and this could scarcely prove gener-
ally interesting.

* I grant there may be, and are, individual exceptions to this
rule, but they are very rare. — W. S. T.

Viii PREFACE.

From you^ to manhood, and from manhood to the
verge of age, it has been my lot to live surrounded by a
kind of poetic turbulence and almost romantic violence,
which I believe could scarcely belong to real life in any

other country in the world.

»

I could describe numerous other scenes in which from
time to time I have been an actor or spectator, more
interesting perhaps to some than those I have selected
in this volume; but they would not be so essentially
characteristic of Ireland, or of the life which they who
attempt to grapple with Irish difficulties are sometimes
compelled to lead.

I need hardly say that the several noble proprietors
whom I now serve, have kindly given me leave to
publish those portions of my sketches which refer to
their several estates.

Believe me sincerely yoursj

W. STEUART TRENCH.

TJU Earl of Dunravem.

;^

CONTENTS.

our. rAOB.

I. School • • • i

n. The Barring Out 17

in. Early Life 33

IV. The Ribbon Code 39

V. Farney. 1843 52

VI, Battle of Magheracloon 65

Vn. The Potato Rot 80

VIII. The Exodus. Kenmare . • • . . 92

IX. Mary Shea in

X. The Seal Hunt 125

XI. Joe McKey . 140

XII. The Conspiracy 152

XIII. The Murder 165

XIV. Alice McMahon 177

XV. The Arrest ..•••••• 188

(ix)

K CONTENTS.

CHAP. PAGB.

XVI. Thb Confession ao5

XVII. The Prisoner ai8

XVIII. The Execution • 336

XIX. Patsy McDeri^ot ajS

XX. Geashill Manor 355

XXI. The Revival 373

XXn. Farney. 1865-1868 384

Conclusion •••••••• S96

/>

REAUTIES

or

IRISH LIFE.

CHAPTER L

SCHOOL.

T THINK it was about the year 1821, that I was sent, — then a
very little boy, — alotfg with my elder brother, to the College, as
it was called, of Armagh. It was then in high repute as a leading
Irish school. The master was a most learned Doctor of Divinity.
He had been a Fellow of Trinity College, Dublin, was admitted by
all to be a first-class scholar, and was a most amiable and estimable
gentleman. His wife was worthy of her husband, — kind, affec-
tionate, and sensible ; and they had a large and clever family of
sons and daughters. The college itself was a cold and dreary-
looking place enough, — bare stone walls being almost the only
object which met the view within its precincts. It is still standing.
It is one of the endowed schools of Ireland, to inquire into the
condition of which an important commission, with the Marquis of
Eildare at its head, was issued a few years ago. An able report,
and several large blue books of evidence, appear, as yet» to be the

X

2 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. x.

only result which has come before the public. It is not many years
since I visited this scene of my early youth ; and it then appeared
to be in almost exactly the same condition as it was when I first
saw it, some forty-five years ago.

The College of Armagh, in the year 1821, and during the whole
six years of my residence therein, was one of those old-fashioned
Irish schools into which reform had never penetrated. The former
master had been an excellent one ; he was a good scholar himself,
and knew how to teach others, — the latter qualification being quite
distinct from the former. He was also a man of considerable
administrative ability. He understood the management of men
(and boys are little men), and, partly by his scholarship, partly by
his powers of administration, he had raised the character of the
school to a position of some celebrity. *'The Doctor," as the
new master was called, had been appointed on the death of his
predecessor; and he succeeded to a thriving school with about
one hundred boarders, and a considerable number of day-boys.

The old master had died, and the new master had begun to reign
in his stead, before I first entered the school. All the old fashions
had been retained ; and no alterations in the customs, — or what
the boys called '* the rights of the school," — had been introduced.
*^ Fagging," in its most extensive application, was in full force ;
and, as I was a little boy, and put down into the lowest class, I was
seized on as a fag by one of the boys in the head form. I was
somewhat rudely treated at first ; and I commenced my studies at
the college by learning how to clean my master's shoes, — an art in
which, I must admit, I had not been previously instructed.

There were no railways in those days ; and it took twelve hours
to travel by the stage-coach from Dublin to Armagh, — a distance
now traversed in less than one-third the time. *'The Armagh
Lark," — such, I think, was the name of the coach (and if early
rising could give any title to the appellation it certainly deserved
the name), — started from Dublin every morning at six o'clock.

It was the middle of the month of January, but we were up very
early on the morning of our departure ; and, resolving not to be
outdone by '* The Lark," we had secured seats on the outside of the

i82i.] * SCHOOL, 3

coach by half-past five a.m. We started what the g^ard called '* a
fiill coach " ; and, with the usual blowing of his horn, — a dreary
attempt at hilarity, it seemed to me, of a cold winter's morning, •—
and a flourish and cracking of whips by the coachman, we cleared
safely out of the streets of ^ Dublin.

'^ The coach " breakfasted at Ashbourne. The road was bleak
and treeless, and eyen at present it does not abound in shade ; but
the novelty of sitting behind four fast-trotting horses kept my spirits
up, and what with the fresh air and the exhilarating influence of gal-
loping at full pace for the last mile before reaching Ashbourne, —
as if we were in a most tremendous hurry for breakfast, in which
eren the horses seemed to participate, — I got down in good heart
from my perch behind the coachman, and rejoiced to see a roaring
fire and a smoking breakfast already laid out most invitingly before
us. I hesitated for a moment to sit down to anything so delightftil ;
but I was cheered and encouraged by a kind-hearted gentleman
near me. He sweetened my tea with plenty of sugar, poured half
the contents of the cream-jug into my cup, and heaped my plate
with an abundant helping of a hot beef-steak. I soon succeeded in
eating such a breakfast as I doubt if I have ever eaten since.

In twenty minutes we were all astir again. The guard blew his
bugle loud and cheerily, and somehow it seemed to me that he
sounded it much better than he had done in the morning when
leaving Dublin. No doubt he did, for he also had had his breakfast
of a good beef-steak, with plenty of bread and butter ; and even the
weather-seasoned g^ard himself was not insensible to these cheering
influences. We all scrambled up again to our seats ; conversation
became general amongst the passengers, — all of whom seemed
wonderfully thawed by the breakfast; the coachman began to crack
his jokes as well as his whip ; and, the morning being fine, though
cold and crisp, we were all merry enough as we trotted on towards
Drogheda.

" Where are you going to-day, my little fellow ? " said the kind-
hearted gentleman who had put the sugar in my tea at breakfast,
and who I now saw was seated next me on the outside of the coach.

«* I am going to school at the College of Armagh, sir,*' replied I,

4 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap, I.

laying stress on the word ^* college,** as I was rather proud of the
name.

'^ Have you ever been at school before, my little man? "

" Oh, yes, sir,** replied I ; ** I was at a preparatory school, where
there were only little boys ; but now I am going to the College of
Armagh, where there are a great many big boys."

'* Have you any sisters at home? " inquired my companion.

*<Ye8, sir, — five."

*^ Well, take my advice, my little man, and don't tell their names
to the boys when you go to this same College of Armagh," re-
plied my companion. ** If you do, I think you will be sorry for
it afterwards."

'* Thank you, sir," said I ; '* I am much obliged. I'll try not
But then, if the boys ask me, I don't see how I can help it ; besides,
I don't think my sisters' names are at all bad ones."

** Never you mind that," returned the kind gentleman; " you will
find, as soon as you arrive, some one or other of the boys will ask
you to tell him your sisters' names, quite in a confidential manner,
as if he knew them before, and felt a deep interest in their welfare.
But don't you tell him one of them. Say, * you know a trick worth
two of that'; put your fingers to your nose this way" (spreading
out his fingers longitudinally from his nose), '* or anything else you
like, to put him off*; but mind you don't tell him your sisters' names,
or you will be sorry for it many a day after."

" Thank you, sir ; I'll tiy not," I replied. I was sorely puzzled,
however, to know why I was not to tell my sisters' names ; but I.
resolved, nevertheless, to act on the kind gentleman's advice. He
got down at Dundalk, and I never, to my knowledge, saw him after-
wards ; but the strange nature of the only piece of advice he gave
me, as I was just about to enter on my career in the far-famed
College of Armagh, has remained strongly impressed on my mind
ever since.

We changed horses at Drogheda, in the narrow streets of which
we very nearly ran over a little boy, and, upon our arrival at Castle
Bellingham, some bread and cheese appeared upon the table in the
little inn, accompanied by a long glass of foaming ale from the

i8ai.] SCHOOL. 5

renowned brewery of the town. I did not feel hungry at the time,
and the glass of ale looked far too good for a little boy like me ; so
I was about to decline taking it, when the coachman, who I suspect
had been privately '' tipped " to look after me, kindly insisted on
my eating a morsel of bread and cheese, and swallowing off the
whole glass of ale. I must confess it was sound advice, and I felt
much the better when I had done so.

From Castle Bellingham we trotted on to Dundalk, after leaving
which the evening began to close in, and the air grew cold and
frosty ; and by the time Newtown Hamilton was reached, — a dreary
and desolate town, situated among the Fews mountains, — -I was
cold, tired, and exhausted. We had changed our coachman at
Dundalk, and the new driver knew not the poor little Joseph who
sat behind him. And as we passed on stage after stage, the horses
tired, the coachman cross and weary with flogging them up the
steep hills by which the Fews mountains were then traversed, I
have seldom felt more utterly desolate and down-hearted.

But the longest day must have an end ; and at length we arrived
at Armagh. I was stiff, hungry, cold, and tired ; and, though I was
an active little boy enough, I was wholly unable to get down off the
coach by myself. The guard kindly lifted me down, and handed us
over to the porter, who had come to meet us from the college.

Ned Grimes was the college porter. I remember him well to this
day. He was a short, thick-set, strong little fellow, as hard as a
nail, strong as an ox, and untiring as a steam-engine. He was up
to any amount of work which could be put upon him. He could
clean sixty or seventy pairs of shoes of a night with as much ease
as I could clean my master's boots, though he did not produce the
same polish upon their surface ; and he would have all ready for
the little boys, — who had no fag but him, — on a Sunday or holiday
morning. It would be hard to recapitulate the multifarious duties
of Ned Grimes, but he performed them all cheerfully and well ; and
when struck by the boys, as he often was in somewhat rude fun, he
would return blow for blow with a good-humored severity that made
his tormentors think twice before commencing an attack upon him
•gain.

6 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. x.

'* Welcome to the college, young masters/' said Ned, addressing
mjself and brother in a loud cheery Toice. But we were too cold <
and too tired to answer him in the same strain. And when he took
our trunks upon his brawny shoulders, and trudged off lustily
towards the college, — talking all the way in a familiar manner
peculiar to himself, but by no means offensive, of the jolly life we
were now about to enter on, — I could hold out no longer, and burst
out crying.

" Ah, my poor little fellow," said Ned, kindly, " I fear you are
not hardened to these things yet ; and maybe you have left a kind
mother behind you, and are fretting after her ; my own little chaps
would do the same. But these wild lads at the college would only
laugh at you if they saw you crying. So come along, and I'll
bring you into the Doctor's own room, where all the kind ladies
are, and to-morrow you may join the school."

He led me accordingly into a warm and well-lighted room, where
a large family, consisting chiefly of ladies, were collected round the
tea-table ; and having respectfully stated that the new young gen-
tleman was too tired and cold to go to the school-room tliat night,
he left me to the care of the kind family of the Doctor. I was
given a cup of warm tea, and plenty of bread and butter; and
immediately after, I became so sleepy from my long journey and
exposure to the open air, that I could hold up my head no longer ;
so I was placed in bed, — I knew not where or how, — and slept, and
dreamed of home.

I breakfasted with the Doctor and his family next morning ; and
aft^r breakfast, I was taken by my kind-hearted master into the
school-room. He examined me in several books, — not one of which
I had ever seen or heard of, — and, finding that I knew nothing
about them, he placed me in the lowest form, to begin at the begin-
ning of the school. My brother was placed in the fifth form, which
id school life separated us necessarily a good deal from each other.

No sooner was my first lesson over, and the usual half-hour's
play in the middle of the day commenced, than a boy, considerably
bigger and older than myself, came up to me, and civilly asked my
name. I told him at once. He then asked me to join him in the

i82i.] SCHOOL. 7

play-ground, to which of coarse I assented; and we walked out
together in a most confidential manner.

^' Is it a long time since you left home? " inquired my new com-
panion — home was rather a sore suhject with me, just then, and I
felt my eyes fill with tears. He perceived this, and said, in a con-
solatory voice, —

" Don't cry, don't cry, you will be very happy here ; we are all
so fond of new boys, and do all we can to please them."

"Thank you," returned I; " but when one thinks of home, and
all the kind people there, one can't help crying a little."

"Of course, of course," replied he, "quite right and natural; all
the boys do the same on first coming to school. And so you left a
great many people behind that you were fond of? You have some
brothers, I suppose ? "

" O yes," said I, " I have three brothers ; but it was not of them
I was thinking."

" Perhaps it was of your mother, or your sisters you were
thinking? "

" Indeed it was," replied I, and my tears flowed afresh.

" And how many sisters have you ? " asked my kind and sympa-
thizing friend.

" I have five," I answered, " and I love them very much."

"Of course you do," replied he; "and tell me now, are they
handsome girls? But first tell me what are their names? Tho
name of the eldest is — ? "

Just at this moment I recollected the advice of the gentleman
who had put the sugar in my tea, at the breakfast at Ashbourne.
So, afiecting a very knowing smile, and putting my spread-out
fingers to my nose in the well-known form which implies a superi-
ority of wit and knowledge in him who does it over all his fellow-
creatures, I answered, with a wink, —

" I think I know a trick worth two of that ! "

The words were scarcely out of my mouth, or my hands down
from my nose, when I received a tremendous kick behind, and a
cuff on the side of the head, which sent me spinning into the grass
beside the walk.

8 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. i.

** You infernal 70ung scoundrel/' cried he, in the utmost indig-
nation, "is it humbugging me you have been all this time? I'll
teach you to humbug your betters I " And thereupon he gave me a
most tremendous thrashing, Toeiferating all the time that "he
would teach me to humbug my betters."

I need hardly say that I was as devoid of any intention to hum-
bug him as the child unborn ; and I fancied I was doing quite the
right thing in carrying out the advice of my breakfast friend. It
certainly cost me a severe beating ; but it was some comfort that
my sisters' names remained unknown all the time I was at school,
though tof this day I could never understand the importance which
was laid upon this secret in almost every school in Ireland, — and,
for aught I know, in England too, at that date.

This rough treatment, so early commenced, soon initiated me into
all the mysteries and " rights " of the College of Armagh. The
strictness with which these "rights" were maintained and adhered
to, by all parties, was one of the most remarkable features of the
school. It was true they consisted of an ancient and unwritten
code; but they were wonderfully well understood. Certain big
boys in tho school were considered as the 'expounders of these
rights; and when once a formal decision was given, — after due
reference to these parties, — there was usually no appeal from their
verdict. But the strange part of it was, that the masters and
teachers were considered quite as much bound by the code of rights
as we were ourselves ; and the Doctor submitted to these rights,
and acknowledged them with a willingness which even at that time
surprised me.

It was, no doubt, a rude, rough school, but it had stringent and
wild codes of honor of its own. There was a constant affectation
of manhood amongst the boys, — carrying them so far, that upon one
occasion, the elder boys agreed to settle some quarrel which had
arisen between them with the pistol, rather than the ordinary course
of fighting it out with their fists. I well remember the mysterious
purchase of the pistols, the buying at difierent shops of the powder
and ball, and the whispering and grave deliberations of the seconds
on this momentous occasion.

i83i.] SCHOOL. 9

The intended duel was talked of and discassed amongst all the
elder boys for at least a fortnight before it took place. Of course,
it was kept a dead secret from the Doctor, and I doubt if he ever
knew of it even to his dying day ; as one of the main points in onr
code of honor, — and one rigidly adhered to, — was, never, under
any circumstances, to inform upon a school-fellow, no matter what
his crime might be.

The duel at length came off with all the gravity of experienced
performers. The spot chosen for the combat was* an out-of*the-way
corner of the play-ground, near some steps to a former landing,
which bore the suggestive title of " the marrow-bone door." The
principals were duly placed, the seconds retired the proper distance
aside, and dropped a handkerchief as the signal for both parties to
fire. The combatants fired precisely together, and then the two
boys, — who had really no enmity between themselves, but fought
out of vanity to ape this supposed manly pastime of the day, —
stared in real terror at each other, lest either should have hurt his
adversary. Fortunately, however, neither party fell, or showed
«ny symptom of being wounded. So they each declared themselves
.'* perfectly satisfied," and a cordial reconciliation took place. It
was considerably enhanced by one of the seconds finding a flattened
bullet immediately behind the boy who had been placed against the
marrow!-bone steps I

It is remarkable how the introduction of one vicious boy into a
school, — conducted as this was, upon somewhat republican prin-
ciples, — can change the whole current and tone of thought of boys
not originally ill-disposed. We were a wild lot, it is true; but
though we adhered rigidly to our rights, our code of honor was also
strictly enforced. I had risen in a few years, by regular gradations,
from the first to the fourth form, when, unfortunately, a new boy
came to the school, who, had he been a Fenian or a Ribbonman,
would have set the whole side of a country in a flame. He was an.
idle, bad, good-for-nothing boy ; and, having been severely flogged
more than once for his lessons (flogging was the order of the day if
a boy failed in his task at the College of Armagh), he conceived a
real hatred for the Doctor, whom he looked upon, and endeavored

lO ' REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap, i-

to 8et forth amongst us, as a tyrant and persecator, whose aim and
object was to iigure and ill-treat the boys. He so far succeeded in
establishing these sentiments ag^ainst the really kind-hearted Doc-
tor, that a series of annoyances of the most yexatious and perplex-
ing character was planned, and set on foot to annoy him. The boys
at Armagh had long had a fancy for dabbling in gunpowder experi-
ments, and, upon more than one occasion, had scorched the skins
off their own faces, and nearly blown the roof off the house, by
accidental explosions which took place during the manufisusture of
their fireworks.

The new boy resoWed to turn this fanciful peculiarity to the
detriment and annoyance of the authorities. One of his contrir-
ances^was to make up small parcels of gunpowder, wrapped tightly
in numerous folds of brown paper. These he placed at the back of
the fire, amongst the coals which had been recently heaped on the
grate, but which had not yet ignited. This performance he effected
in play-hours, just as school was about to open ; and explosion after
explosion, to the amazement of all the assistants, was of course the
result.. This he called ** blowing up the ushers," as the assistant
teachers were then called; and he generally so contrived it that the
explosion should take place just as the usher had gone to warm
himself at the fire. Hitherto, however, he had confined his prac-
tice to the assistants; but having been soundly flogged by the
Doctor for some piece of mischief or idleness, he intimated con-
fidentially to some of the choice spirits whom he had seduced to
join him, that he would certainly blow up the Doctor I He accord-
ingly purchased about half a pound of gunpowder, and having
wrapped it in brown paper, and placed it behind the coals, just
previous to the hour when the Doctor, according to custom, came
into the school, — he retired to his desk, and gravely awaited the
result.

The school bell rang for business soon after this bomb-shell had
been deposited ; and, as usual, the Doctor slowly entered the room,
and took up his place with his back to the fire, and with his hands
behind his back. He was of a literary turn of mind, and an author
^ some celebrity ; and the whole of the school-business being

i83i.] SCHOOL. II

somewhat distaatefal to him, I suspect he often allowed his mind to
wander far away from the annoyances of his position into the culti-
yated fields of a Uterary elysium, which he was so fully capable of
enjoying.

Suddenly, — in a moment, — he was recalled to actual life, and
his position rudely forced upon his attention. A loud explosion
took place, which violently burst open the door, and shattered every
window in the large and lofty school-room. At the same time, a
volley of grape-shot, — in the shape of small pieces of coal, aided
by the severe concussion of the air, — sent the Doctor flying into
the midst of the school-room. He looked around in astonishment,
not knowing in the least what had happened ; but feeling his hands
in pain, he looked at the palms, and found them blackened with
the coal. Turning round rapidly, he perceived that the fire was
blown about the floor, and at once the whole of the unworthy plot
rushed upon his mind.-

He looked round gravely upon the school, and said, —

" Boys, which of you has done this ? "

There was a dead silence. Gradually the absurdity of the whole
scene forced itself upon the imagination of the boys, inclined as
they were to make fun out of everything, and an almost universal
titter ran through the school. The Doctor waited until the titter
had subsided, and then firmly saying, —

^'I will stop all the holidays until I know who did this," he
walked out of the school-room.

I have already stated that the boys at Armagh were universally
tenacious of what they termed the ** ancient rights of the school."
They submitted to those rights themselves without inurmuring,
although some of them were occasionally very severely exercised.
Amongst these rights was the allowance of a half-holiday every
Wednesday, or, if a premium had been obtained in Trinity College,
Dublin, by any undergraduate who had been educated at the school,
a whole holiday was granted. The right to these holidays had been'
the rule of the school from time immemorial, and the privilege was
guarded by the boys with the utmost jealousy. It may, therefore,
be supposed that the Doctor's announcement met with no sympathy

I a REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. x.

whaterer. Had he appealed to onr honor and good feeling, and
said, *' Boys, this Is a vile and dishonorable aet towards one who
has ever treated yon kindly and fairly, — an act quite unworthy of
gentlemen. I know it is against yonr code to tell of each other,
and therefore I do not ask yon who did it; bnt I expect you will of
yourselves punish the ungentlemanlike indiyidual as he deseryes,"
I firmly believe we should have cheered the good old Doctor with
all our might ; and having seized the mischievous culprit, we should
have made him run the gauntlet (our school punishment for any
breach of our code), and '* licked" him to our heart's content. In-
deed most of us would have been only too glad to have an oppor-
tunity of doing so consistently with our laws, and would have felt
rejoiced at so honorable an escape from the predicament in which
his pranks bad placed us. But the Doctor made a fatal mistake in
the course he now pursued; and, instead of enlisting the well-
iisposed upon his side, this unlucky announcement banded every
boy against him. We were well aware it would be eternal disgrace
for any boy to inform upon the evil-doer, and we knew he was
utterly deficient in that generosity of character which would in-
duce him to come forward and confess his own fault ; but we con-
aidered we had a tail right to our holidays, notwithstanding his
vicious propensities.

But one ii^udicious act, even though well meant, will sometimes
turn a whole people against a ruler. And so it was in this case.
We considered it unjust in the Doctor to class us a22 as accom-
plices, and punish us as such, unless we sacrificed an acknowledged
rule.

The whole bearings of this important case were fully discussed
by the boys. The threatened infringement of our rights was looked
upon as a most serious afiair. The head boys of the school sat day
after day in deliberation on this knotty point ; and to this hour I
cannot look back without surprise upon the calm judicial spirit in
which the whole case was taken up and fairly argued out, before
any decision was arrived at.

At length the head boys gave out their final verdict; — that
in threatening to stop the holidays, because we would not break

x82i.] SCHOOL. 13

through our well-known code and turn informers upon our school-
fellow, the Doctor had exceeded his power, and broken through the
long-established rights of the school ; and, although we deprecated
the act which had been done, we would not give up the delinquent.
A statement to this effect was written out upon a round piece of
paper, and left, neatly folded and directed to the Doctor, on the
table at which he usually sat.

This document was received on Tuesday morning. And as it was
usual for him, on the breaking up of the school on each Tuesday
evening, to announce whether the following day was to be a half or
whole holiday, according as we might be entitled to either, the
announcement of that evening was looked forward to, -*I sus-
pect by both parties, but certainly on our side, — with the utmost
anxiety.

At four o'clock in the afternoon, the bell rang as usual, and the
boys all stood up, preparatory to dismissal for the evening. The
Doctor then announced, in a grave voice, —

** Boys, there will be no holiday to-morrow."

Not a word was spoken. The Doctor left the room in silence,
instead of being cheered, as he usually was when a whole holiday
was granted. We soon went in to dinner. Not a word was uttered
during the meal ; and it was evident to him as well as to ourselves that
war had broken out between the parties. From that time, I regret
to say, the boy whom we all knew to be mischievous and vicious,
became a popular hero amongst us. He was now completely in his
element.

"I told you," he cried, "that the Doctor was a tyrant and
oppressor, who delighted in harrassing us by every act of injustice
in his power. Look at what he now wants to do : to stop our holi-
days, — one of the most ancient rights of the school. I, for one,
will never submit to it. Let us rise up against it, and carry the war
into his ovm quarters ; and you may depend on it we will put him
down."

Irritated as we were at the moment by our supposed wrongs,
these sentiments were loudly cheered, and an aggressive course was
determined on. It happened, at this time that one of the ushers

14 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. i.

had rendered himself very unpopular amongst the boys. He had
'* reported" this youngs scoundrel. on more than one occasion, and
the boy had been flogged in consequence, — a punishment which
he richly deserved. That the usher should report him if he de-
tected him in improper conduct, was considered all fair and right
amongst the boys. It was his acknowledged duty to do so ; and no
ill-will was ever entertained towards him for performing it. Not
so, hDvever, with this worthy, who had now become our hero. And
possessing, as he did, the peculiar art of making us the avengers of
his own private hatred, whilst we fancied we were performing a
public duty, he soon turned the current of popular indignation
against the unfortunate assistant.

In accordance with this tone of feeling, the assistant was de-
nounced as an enemy to the rights of the school ; and it was resolved
to punish him by giving him a judicial beating. But inasmuch as
he was a strong man, and we were well aware that the consequences
of such an act, if the perpetrators were discovered, would be im-
mediate expulsion from the school, he invented a plan for meeting
all difficulties. He arranged, that in the evening, when the boys
were preparing their lessons for the following day, a little boy
should be sent up to the u^her to ask the explanation of some Latin
passage ; and, whilst he was thus engaged, some boy, bolder than
the rest, was to come behind, and put a bag, with running strings
attached, over the head of the unfortunate assistant; and the strings
being drawn tightly around his neck, his enemies were then to be
let loose upon him, and thrash him to their hearts' content.

This diabolical plan was shortly afterwards put into execution.
A little boy, carefully kept ignorant of the intended assault, was
sent up to the usher to ask him the explanation of a passage in
Ovid ; and, whilst he was engaged in the study of the sentence, a
linen clothes-bag was suddenly popped over his head. Two other
boys, at a little distance, immediately pulled tight the strings, which
were made sufficiently long for the purpose, and, before the unfor^
tunate man had an idea of the real position in which he was placed,
every candle in the school-room was "doused," and shoes, candle-
sticks, dictionaries, school-books, and every kind of rubbish, were

x83i.] SCHOOL. 15

hurled at him by the dim light of the fire, till he became the centre
of a storm of missiles. The wretched man, not knowing what had
happened or was about to happen, shrieked in the agony of his
terror, and haying at last succeeded in tearing the bag off his head,
he rushed from the school-room amidst the shouts of the boys and
an mcreased storm of books and shoes, and disappeared like a flash
of lightning I

^* Now boys," said our clever and malicious leader, in a rapid
voice, ''he is gone for the Doctor. Light all the candles again;
gather up the shoes and dictionaries ; and be all hard at work learn-
ing your lessons like mad I "

In a moment all set to work. Feet were slipped into every out*
lying shoe, no matter whjse it might be, or whether it fitted or not;
the dictionaries and books were collected in the twinkling of an eye ;
the bits of candles, which were lying in every part of the room,
were crammed into their sockets ; and, in a surprisingly short time,
every boy was hard at work at his own table or desk, with his hands
up to his ears in an attitude of intense study ; and a general hum
of business, such as one hears in a busy, crowded school-room,
pervaded the whole assembly.

In less than five minutes the Doctor rushed into the room, with a
heavy horsewhip in hand, followed by the unhappy usher as pale as
death.

" What is all this? " cried the Doctor. "Who has been guilty
of this outrage ? "

He was going to proceed in his denunciations of this most nefa-
rious act, when he stopped short not two paces within the door.

" How is .this ? " said he, turning round to the usher behind him ;
"I thought you told me the whole school was in an uproar; they
seem all quiet enough, and minding their business, as usual ! **

The wretched man could scarcely speak a word ; he was com-
pletely confounded and overcome. And to this day, if he be still
alive, I have no doubt he looks back upon the whole scene as the
hallucinations of a frightful dream.

There was nothing, however, to be done ; he had not the faintest
conception who had bagged him; and even the name of the innocent

l6 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. i.

little boy who had been put forward as a stalking-horse, to capture
him, had wholly escaped his memory.

No action was, therefore, taken in the case ; but a more stringent
determination than ever was arrlTed at by the Doctor to allow no
holiday, until the perpetrator of the bomb-shell scene should be
brought to justice.

x835.] THE BARRING OUT. ly

CHAPTER II.

THE BARRING OUT.

•

XITAB was now openly proclaimed. Plotting and conspiracies
became the order of the day ; lessons were neglected, and
frequent floggings, not unaccompanied by angry feelings on both
sides, were the result. At length another Tuesday came round,
and again the Doctor announced there would be no holiday on
Wednesday. The boys became highly exasperated ; whether rightly
or wrongly, they firmly believed that a deep injustice was being
done them ; and, after the most anxious consultation amongst the
influential leaders of the school, it was resolved, that if another
holiday was stopped there should be a *' barring out I **

A ''barring out" at school may appear a very small and foolish
afiair to some people now ; but it was neither one nor the other to
us then, nor did it prove either one or the other to the Doctor. We
looked upon it as "the last resort of a down-trodden and injured
community i ** and, to us, it assumed all the importance of a serious
and desperate rebellion.

It was remarked that the mischievous young scamp who had
brought all this trouble and anxiety upon the school, no longer
appeared to take any active or leadiag part from the time that a
" barring out " was decided on. Forward as he was in all petty
mischief under cover of our code of honor, so long as he knew that
no boy would betray him to the authorities, yet he shrank from the
responsibility of open rebellion, from the consequences of which he
foresaw he could not possibly escape. And, having made some
mean excuse, he, — who had been the sole cause of the war, —
withdrew from our councils, and left the planning of the rebellion
to the bolder and more daring spirits.

2

l8 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. n.

Up to this period I had not been taken much into conncil as to
the issues of peace or wax; but now, that war was practically
declared, I was accepted as a Yolunteer, — though only in the fourth
form, — and was one of the youngest who joined in the <* barring
out." The delight I then felt at the prospect of a rebellion was
beyond anything I can describe, and, indeed, I may add, beyond
anything I can now clearly understand. But I was convinced our
cause was just. I had taken no part whatever in the bomb-shell
assault upon the Doctor ; I had, in fact, entirely disapproved of it,
and would most gladly, if I could, have dragged the perpetrator to
condign punishment, — for I disliked him personally as much as I
disapproved of his proceedings. My feelings were generally par-
ticipated in by the leaders of the '* barring out ; " but we all felt so
deeply indignant that the most valued of our ancient privileges
should be wrenched from us as punishment for a crime of which
we were not guilty, that we finally resolved, — with a feeling of
patriotism which it is not easy to describe, — that if one more
holiday was stopped we should ^' bar out " on that day week.

0*Connell used to say that *^ Ireland was the most justice-loving
country in the world," and also that she was "a country of com-
binations." And certainly, it does seem as if there was not only a
keen love of justice, but also a propensity to rebellion, circulating
in the blood of almost every Irishman. I cannot otherwise account
for the universal joy which the prospect of a '^rising'' occasioned
amongst us all. We could not even claim the excuse of being
sprung from an oppressed race. We were all Protestants ; all of us
amongst those who are now called the *' dominant class." We were
all gentlemen's sons, — most of ms landlords' sons, — and, as such,
we had never suffered under any obnoxious land code ; and, with
the exception of this one act of doubtful justice on the part of the
Doctor, I am not aware that any of us had ever suffered an in-
justice in our lives. And yet there is no denying that our delight
was unbounded whenever we thought of a rebellion.

The momentous day again came round, and again the Doctor
announced that ther^ would be no holiday I Not a word was spoken
by the boys ; he left the room in silence ; and, after dinner, wo

i835] THE BARRING OUT. 19

assembled in our asual place of meeting to organize an immediate
*' ridng." We had been so long plotting it beforehand that our
plans were quickly matured, and it now only remained to put them
into active operation. What fun I a rising in a just and righteous
cause I A '^ barring out " that would maintain inyiolate the ancient
rights of the school, and hand them down unsullied to posterity I
We felt certain that our names would be emblazoned in all future
records of the school as the successful leaders in a glorious revolu-
tion. Our enthusiasm, — which was now at its height, — had, per^
haps, been somewhat stimulated by a little whiskey punch which
had secretly been introduced into our meeting, and with which, when
business was over, we sat down to recruit our exhausted spirits.
Then and there we resolved to conquer or die I

But, however absurd the object of our rebellion might be, our
preparations were by no means contemptible. There had been one
or two previous, but abortive attempts at a riot which had lasted only
a fiew hours, — in one of which, however, the poor usher's hand
had been nearly chopped off with a hatchet; * but these had been
speedily put down. Now we firmly resolved to enter upon a
'* barring out," which should last for days or weeks, if necessary,
until we gained our sacred cause.

The most active preparations were immediately set on foot.
Rope ladders were made with grappling irons attached, to enable
us to scale the walls of the play-ground in the dark. And, having
thus secretly effected our liberty, we made extensive purchases in
the town. An enormous quantity of bread, — suffidient to last our
garrison for a month at least, — was provided, and loaf after loaf
was pitched over the wall into the play-ground. Some large cheeses
were also purchased as a food that would keep for any length of
time. Abundance of whiskey found its way in. Some wine was
also secured, and several rounds of salt beef, ready cooked, were
bespoken from different butchers. Some small kegs of beer were

*Tlie gentleman who lo nearly effected the amputation of the usher's hand
Is stiD alive; no one less likely now to be accused of such a performance; but
■l¥mld tliese pages ever meet his eye, he will not tail to remember the event.

20 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. n.

also with much difBlcnlty landed inBide the wall ; and our prepara-
* tions for a siege were crowned by the purchase of seven or eight
pistols, a* few bullets, some flasks of gunpowder, and a quantity
of '* sparrow-hail," — a name giren to the smallest kind of shot
in use. We also arranged that some tubs should be prepared
for getting in a supply of water on the night of the actual
rising.

The collection of these numerous stores, and the stowage of them
in safety, was a labor of considerable difficulty and some danger.
We hid them chiefly in caves which we had excavated in the play-
ground for the purpose. It was necessary that every article we
required should be got over the play-ground wall at night, or rather
during the long, dark evenings. The wall was twelve feet high, so
that this was no light task, and the danger of detection was immi-
nent. Our code of honor stood by us on this occasion ; and not a
single boy '* peached,'' though all knew perfectly well what was
going forward. I have no reason to think that the authorities had
any precise idea of our intention.

The arrangements being now completed, twenty-four volunteers
were selected to take part in the rebellion ; and they were formally
sworn ** on their honors " to stand by their leaders, and never to
surrender as long as their leaders held out. We arranged to bar
out in. a large dormitory, situated at the top of the house and in the
western wing of the building ; and our plan was, — that when we
went up to bed in the evening, and were, as usual, locked in by the
usher, we should wrench back the bolt of the lock, let out some
little boys, who were unfit to take part in the enterprise, admit some
big boys who slept in anotiier room, take in our supplies, — which
had been brought up from the play-ground cave to the head of
the stairs ; and, all being ready, on a given signal, hammers and
nails were to be openly and freely used, the doors fastened firmly
with iron spikes on the inside, the banner of rebellion raised,
and war declared.

Such were our plans; and they were by no means feebly
executed. At nine o'clock the boys ascended gravely and silently
to their dormitory. The usher waited, walking up and down the

18350 THE BARRING OUT. 21

room, until he saw us all undressed and in bed« He then took
away the candle, locked the door, and left us, as he thought,
quietly settled for the night. No sooner were his footsteps heard
on the lowest landing-place of the stairs, than every boy leaped
from his bed. It was a moonlight night, and there were neither
shutters nor curtains to our windows; so we had abundance of
light for our operations. In a few minutes each boy was com-
pletely dressed, — the bolt of the lock was silently forced back with
tools we had prepared for the purpose, — the little boys were quietly
slipped outside, and our prorisions as noiselessly introduced, — a
few of the larger boys were let in from an adjoining dormitory, out
of which they had escaped by the same means as we had opened
our door. Mattresses, three deep, were crammed against the door,
and beds were dragged into the vicinity of the entrance to prop
them up; and when all th^se preparations were completed, the
pistols were carefully loaded with handfuls of sparrow-hail, and we
gravely assured each other that, though we were most anxious to
avoid taking away any man's life, yet, if attacked, we would defend
ourselves and our rights to the last drop of our blood I

'^ Well now, this is what I call fun ! " shouted one of the boys at
the top of his voice, wholly unable to contain himself. We had
scarcely slept for a fortnight before in anticipation of this very
hour; and now it was come at last. We could hold no longer,
and we burst out into a ringing cheer I

'* Strike home, boys, for your lives 1 " shouted the leader of the
party, the moment his voice could be heard. In an instant a dozen
hammers were dashed against the heads of a dozen enormous nails,
and the door was made as secure as iron spikes could possibly
fasten it.

'*Up with the mattresses against the door," again shouted our
leader. " Let three rows of bedsteads be put against them, nail
the bedsteads firmly to the floor so that they cannot possibly be
pushed in, and let two of our steadiest hands lie down under the
bedsteads close to the door, with their pistols cocked, and be ready
to fire when I give the signal."

These orders were immediately obeyed; and in less than five

1

22 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. n.

minutes we were all quiet again, trembling and panting with
excitement, but ready for instant action at the word of our leader.

Scarcely half a minute had elapsed after our preparations were
completed, when we heard the step of the usher, — startled by the
noise of the hammers above, — hastily ascending the staircase,
lie could almost have heard our hearts beating within if he had
listened. He applied the key to the door, but the key-hole had
been tightly plugged.

'* Let me in," said he in a trembling voice.

** Not until we obtain our rights," returned our leader in a firm,
steady tone.

"Boys, this is dreadful work,** replied the usher; "I beseech
of you to let me in. Let us talk a little over this matter, before I
call the Doctor. I will speak to him myself in your favor — and,
perhaps, something might be done.*'

** Never,'* cried our leader. " Never, until we obtain our rights :
we have tried fair means long enough. We will not open the door
unless the holidays are at once restored.**

The usher perceived in a moment that a rebellion, — which for
some time past he had half suspected was brewing, — had now
openly broken out. The rebels had taken the field; so he
attempted no further parley, but instantly went off and reported
the case to the Doctor.

We had no means of knowing the precise effect produced upon
the really amiable and excellent Doctor by the sudden announce-
ment of his assistant ; but I believe it was a very painful one. I
think he had some reason to doubt whether the course he had
adopted was the most judicious; but, having so far pledged
himself, he now felt bound to adhere to it. He told me afterwards,
that he had long suspected some serious mischief was being con-
cocted, from the manner in which the boys collected in little knots,
and dispersed as soon as he appeared ; but he had no idea what-
ever that so formidable a rebellien was on the point of breaking
out in the school.

The Doctor, however, was by no means deficient in personal
courage or pluck; so he summoned the gardener, whom he

i&sO THE BARRING OUT. 33

directed to arm himself with a heavy hatchet. The porter, Ned
Grimes, was not long in putting in an appearance with an iron
crow-bar in his hand ; and all three came steadily up the staircase.
A loud knock was heard at the door of the dormitory. We all
knew perfectly well that the Doctor himself was outside ; no one
made any reply.*

"Boys," said the Doctor calmly, "I fear you are acting rery
unwisely. I presume you are what you call * barring out ' ; but
you must know, upon calm reflection, that such an attempt is
perfectly futile; I have men beside me with hatchets and iron
crow-bars who can force in the door in a moment. If you open it
now quietly I will endeavor to forget what has happened; and
perhaps we may be able to make arrangements for the future which
will satisfy all parties. If you refuse, I will have the door
instantly broken open by force, and you may then take the con-
sequences of your folly."

If the Doctor had stopped at the conclusion of his first sentence,
and had waited for an answer to his appeal, — no matter what his
ultimate determination to force his way in might be, — I believe
it was not unlikely the door would have been opened to him on
the spot, as, although we were deeply irritated, we all bore
feelings towards him of personal respect and regard. But hit
threat of breaking open our door so easily, with his hatchets
and iron crow-bars, which we had taken such pains to barri-
cade, and which we now believed to be as impregnable as the
rock of Gibraltar, wounded our pride and aroused our anger.
Our better feelings were driven back, and we determined on
"no surrender."

" No surrender I " "no surrender I" ran in a whisper round the
room.

" Sir," said our leader, respectfully, " we mean you no harm, and
we bear you no ill-will; but we consider we have been unjustly
deprived of our rights; our holidays hav« been stopped. We
cannot, and will not surrender, unless you promise to restore them
to us."

" Break in the door ! " cried the Doctor to his men. Hitherto he

24

REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. n.

had kept his temper well, but now he had eyidently lost it, — and
no wonder.

"Look to yourselves outside," shouted our leader; "we have
fire-arms, and we will use them."

With a single stroke of his heavy hatchet, the gardener smashed
to pieces the lower panel of the door, whilst Ned Grimes, — who
knew the boys thoroughly and saw we were bent on mischief, —
dashed his crow-bar into the opening, and endeavored to wrench
the door off its hinges.

" Smash it all to bits ! ** shouted Ned at the top of his voice, as he
worked with a will at the heavy crow-bar; and thoroughly enjoying
the fun, made the door creak with his exertions. ** We'll show the
young gentlemen for once in their lives what a man can do when
he goes at it I "

Again another stroke of the heavy hatchet sent the second panel
flying in splinters against the mattress ; and then the steady voice
of our leader was heard as he said distinctly, —

" Give them the sparrow-hail in the legs; maybe the shower will
be a little too hot for them, — fire ! **

Bang went one of the pistols right through the opening which
the gardener had made in the panel. Ned leaped high in the air,
and, with a loud scream, sent the crow-bar flying from his hands.
A d^ad silence ensued. The awful sound of fire-arms in such a
place, discharged in real anger, produced an overwhelming effect.
But the silence was only momentary. A tremendous scuffle was
soon heard upon the stairs as of persons hurrying away, — the
hatchet was dashed loosely against the door, — the crow-bar fell
with a crash upon the boards; and the gardener wildly shouting
" Murder ! " " Murder I " (as he saw the blood oozing through Ned's
stockings ) rushed past the Doctor down the stairs.

" Give it to him in the back of his calves I " shouted our leader;
and another volley of sparrow-hail took the gardener behind, and
tumbled him head-foremost down the first flight of the stairs.

Ned Grimes, who, though startled at first, was really as stout as
a lion, refused to budge an inch, and muttering in a voice of his
own, which we all knew perfectly well, he growled out, —

1825.] THE BARRING OUT. 25

*• Well, no matter ; my shins won't forget ye for some time to
come I*m thinking ; but see if I don't make the bones of every one
of ye sore enough for this job yet."

A roar of laughter from inside followed Ned*s threat ; in fact it
was a great relief to us all, as we were by no means certain that, in
the excitement of the moment, we had not killed one or other of
the party on the stairs. Ned was going to lift the crow-bar, —
though his legs were full of sparrow-hail, — and to set to work
again at the door ; but the Doctor told him to desist ; and it was
with no small feelings of gratification that we heard them both go
down the stairs. The gardener picked himself up as well as he
could, shouting '* Murder" until he reached the bottom flight, and,
probably, for some time after.

But the events of the night were not yet over. No doubt we had
repeUed the first attack with considerable loss to the enemy, and
we heartily 'congratulated each other on our success. Hands were
warmly shaken, and we renewed our protestations to stand by each
other to the last. But we did not forget our defences : the bed-
steads were removed in a twinkling, — fresh boards, wrenched from
the backs of spkre bedsteads, were nailed across the breaches the
enemy had made with the hatchet, — the mattresses were placed
anew against the broken panels, so that we could fire from behind
them whilst they would stop any fire from the enemy; and,
replacing the bedsteads, firmly nailed to the floor again, we awaited
in anxiety any further attempt upon our citadel.

We did not wait long. The gardener, upon a close examination
of the calves of his legs, found that the hail, though exceedingly
painful, and smarting him much at the time, had only entered skin-
deep, fired as it was from an overcharged and short-barrelled pistol.
Moreover, he was somewhat twitted by Ned, for his hasty and in-
glorious retreat. So, resolving to recover if he could his character
for courage, he commenced, along with Ned, reconnoitring the
premises, in the hope, — if they could manage it safely, — of re-
newing the attack upon the door. They accordingly procured a
high barrel with one end open, which, with some difficulty, they
carried to the top of the landing. We could not conceive what

a6 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. n.

they were about, as we heard them laboriously rolling the barrel
upstairs. But they soon let us know their plan ; for, standing in-
side the barrel so as completely to ward off our shot from their
legs, they again smashed in our defences like egg-shells, and Ned
Grimes began, once more, to apply his crow-bar to the door ; but a
fresh discharge made him drop the weapon as if it were red-hot
iron, and sent him and his companion again growling away. Our
marksmen had perceived '* the dodge'* of the barrel; and, aiming a
little above its topmost rim, had peppered their hands and sides,
instead of their legs, as before.

During the whole of that eventfhl night, repeated skirmishes
took place between the besiegers and besieged. The engagement
had now become general, and we kept up a continuous fire upon
the enemy the moment we heard footsteps upon the landing. At
length the attack was abandoned, and the enemy seemed content to
abide the result, and endeavor to starve us out.

It is all very well to look back upon this and call it a mere boyish
frolic ; but, in truth, it was fast assuming a very serious aspect,
and both parties, beginning to feel that the contest was of doubtful
issue, exerted their energies accordingly. Having silenced the at-
tack at the door, and placed sentinels with cocked pistols in their
hands, — giving them stringent orders to fire forthwith through the
broken panels the moment they heard footsteps upon the landing, —
we now turned our attention to the means of a lengthened resist-
ance. In doing so, we found to our dismay, that water was the
only article in which we were really deficient. All washing was
immediately prohibited; water and beer were served out to the
garrison, duly measured, and only in as small quantities as was
consistent with the quenching of natural thirst. Of provisions we
had abundance, for at least a fortnight or three weeks; but the
water we calculated could scarcely hold out three days. We made
the best of the matter, however ; and taking care always tb keep
sentinels at the door and windows, and at every point where a sud-
den attack could possibly be made, we endeavored to pass the time
in a jolly, idle way. Lessons of course we had none ; and that, at
least, was somethnig gained. Books had not been taken into ac-

1825.] THE BARRING OUT. 27

coimt in lading in our stores, so jokes, and jibes, and plans, and
anticipations for the future held sway amongst us. But it was very
plain to each of us, though not admitted by any, that anxious
thoughts and perplexing doubts as to how all this wild work would
end, rendered it, in our inmost thoughts, very bad '* fun " indeed.

The Doctor had retired from the contest immediately after the
first repulse ; but, having gone to consult the Sovereign (as he was
called) of the town of Armagh and some of the other magistrates,
it was resolved to apply for the military to quell the riot which the
<* College boys " had raised. A requisition was accordingly sent to
the ojQicer in command for a company of soldiers, the mere appear-
ance of whom it was supposed would terrify us into submission ;
but the commanding officer had a keener knowledge of human na-
ture than either the Doctor or the Sovereign, and on learning
the nature of the duty for which the soldiers were required, he
positively refused to furnish them. ^' Those young scamps," he
promptly replied, '* will fire their sparrow-hail into the men's faces,
and put out the eyes of half the regiment, whereas, you well know,
I can neither run away nor return their fire. I will take upon
myself the responsibility of positively refusing soldiers for such a
duty as endeavoring to frighten those young scapegraces; and,
moreover, I tell you plainly they would only laugh at such an idea,
and perhaps commence to fire bullets, instead of sparrow-hail, at
my men."

The officer was not far wrong in his estimate of the probable
conduct of the rebel forces.

The excitement of the first night's attack, and the arrangements
of the following day, had kept us all employed both in mind and
body ; but no attack having been made during the course of the
second night, and being left during the following day entirely to
our own resources, it may well be supposed that time began to hang
heavily on the hands of four-and-twenty boys, — shut up in one
room, and ^'with no fighting to keep them alive.*' As to books, I
have already stated we had none ; and even had we such, reading
was out of the question. We amused ourselves, therefore, by tor-
menting every person who passed along the road, — which our

28 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. n.

r

dormitory completely commanded, — leading into the town of Ar-
magh. Some of the boys who were adepts in the art of slang,
kept up a constant fire of that weapon of annoyance upon every
one, high or low, whose avocations compelled them to pass along
that road. The passengers at last became justly irritated at this
very doubtful species of fun ; and some of them, of the lower sort,
began to pelt us with stones as we leaned out of the open windows.
A council of war was immediately held to consider what should be
done to the stone-throwers ; and the majority were of opinion that
we owed it to our dignity to fire upon any one who assaulted us.
Accordingly the next volley of stones hurled against us by the
indignant passengers was returned with interest from the dormi-
tories, and a shower of sparrow-hail fell thickly around the assail-
ants. In a short time a rumor ran through the town ''that the
College boys were firing on the people, and had shot several of
them as they went to market/* It must be admitted that the rumor
was partially true ; as, though the sparrow-hail did not do much
damage at the distance from which we fired, yet it was rather
startling; and the stoutest amongst the crowd by no means liked to
see a pistol fired right at him, followed immediately by a shower of
small shot around his person.

The contest between the passengers and ourselves soon became
so vigorous that a complete blockade took place at that entrance
into the town. It happened to be market-day ; and, having voted
that every one who passed the road must necessarily be our enemy,
we fired promiscuously at all, no matter what their calling might
be. There were many respectable people, who, although they saw
the crowd, and heard upon inquiry that ''the College boys were
firing on the people," yet could not bring themselves to believe that
therie was really any danger. And, accordingly, pushing their way
through the crowd, they walked gravely past across the now un-
occupied space opposite the college windows. But the delight of
the boys was to undeceive these unsuspecting innocents, and no
sooner had they attempted to " run the blockade," than three or
four pistol-shots* fired in quick succession, and accompanied by a
shower of small shot falling around them, immediately dispelled

18350 THE BARRING OUT. 39

their illusion. There was something irresistibly Indiennu in seeing
persons walk gravely into the open space, with a defiant air, as if
'* they would like to see who would touch them" ; and then, when
the ToUey came from the College boys, and the shot began to fall
thick around them, draw their coat up about their ears, and rush
past, amidst roars of laughter, not only from us, but also from the
crowd of lookers-on.

An incident occurred in the course of the second night, which
contributed to afford us some amusement. The gardener managed
to send up a letter to the boys, stating that he was sorry he had
gone against us in the beginning, and that he would prove the sin-
cerity of his repentance by supplying us with water, if we would
lower down a vessel. Water was the only thing of which we stood
in need ; we therefore broke a hole in the floor over one of the
dormitories below, so as to let down the vessel which the gardener
promised to fill. We had our suspicions, however, and did not
quite trust his good faith. So we placed guards over the hole with
cocked pistols, to be ready for action if occasion arose. The
moment we let down our vessel, the gardener made a tug at the
rope, and endeavored to snatch it out of our hands, but the guards
were too quick for him, and a shower of sparrow-hail, fired right
down upon his head and handsj sent him off again howling with
pain.

At length on the third day we became seriously in want of water;
and, though we scarcely confessed it to ourselves or each other, yet
we certainly beg^n to wish that some compromise could be effected.
Whilst these thoughts were anxiously passing through our minds,
the Sovereign of the Town appeared opposite our windows, with a
flag of truce in the form of a white handkerchief in his hand, and
asked us could he be the medium of any conmiunication with the
Doctor.

We replied that if our rights were granted, we would submit
immediately.

'* But," said he, '* what punishment do you expect for the out-
rageous proceedings of the last three days ? You cannot suppose
that such conduct can be passed over by the Doctor ? "

30

REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. ii.

We replied that he might do as he pleased as to punishment, but
that we would never yield our rights.

" Well," returned the Sovereign, " I come authorized to make a
proposition : the Doctor cannot pass over what has happened ; but
if you will now surrender at discretion, and submit every one o£
you to be well flogged, and leave the question of the holidays to
the Doctor himself and his own kindness of feeling towards you, I
will guarantee that none of you shall be expelled, or any further
punishment inflicted for* conduct, that, if x>ressed against you,
would send every one of you to jail, and probably to the tread-
mill."

The idea of being sent to the tread-mill for our pranks had never,
strange to say, occurred to any of us, and it now alarmed us not a
little. So we asked for an hour to consider, and this having b<*€n
granted, we retired to discuss the terms which had been offered.
Much angry altercation followed. Some were for holding out to
the last. Others thought the Doctor would never give in about the
holidays, and that the present proposition was only a trick to get us
into his power. But the majority were of opinion that it was an
honorable and bond fide offer. And as it was impossible, from want
of water, that we could hold out for twenty-four hours longer, it
would be well to close with the proposal. These better counsels
prevailed; and when the Sovereign of the Town again appeared
before us, we told him we would accept the terms.

I have seldom felt more ashamed than when we issued, one by one,
from 1)ehind the barricades in the dormitory. We had fastened the
door so tightly with nails, that we could not open it from the inside,
and the gardener's hatchet and Ned Grimes's crow-bar had again to
be brought into requisition. The Doctor, and his wife and several
members of his family, all stood at the head of the stairs, looking
very solemn and grave, to see us emerge from our fortress. We
came out singly through the narrow opening which had been
made, — unwashed, uncombed, dirty and ragged, and with eyes
red and blood-shot, having scarcely slept from the commencement
of the barring out. Not a word was spoken ; we passed slowly
down the stairs, and then we all assembled in the school-room

i835.] THE BARRING OUT. 31

below* A vast pile of birch rods heaped upon the table was the
first thing which met our view ; and, then and there, we were each
stripped in turn, and being held by Ned Grimes and the gardener,
neither of whom could conceal their delight at the turn matters had
now taken, we were flogged to the heart's content eyen of the gar-
dener himself I

The holidays were never afterwards stopped.

31 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. m.

CHAPTER TIL

BARLY LIFE.

IMTANHOOD leads to manhood's thoughts and manhood's ways ;
and, before I had left school, I had grown to be almost a man.
I was very happy at Armagh during the last two year^ of my stay.
The barring out' had cleared the college of all the troublesome
spirits, and, after a year or two, only sixteen or seyenteen boys
remained. The Doctor therefore dismissed several of his assistants,
and I being now high up, and having entered upon the responsible
position of **■ Head of the school," — that is, tlie highest in the head,
form, — I saw much of the kind old Doctor and his family. Nothing
could exceed his attention to me, and to the few other boys who
remained with him, and I often deeply regretted the pain and an-
noyance our previous misconduct must have caused him. He,
however, seldom alluded to it, and, though he knew I was one of
the rebels on that occasion, yet he forgave me with a frankness and
generosity for which I shall ever feel grateful, and which contrasted
strongly with the bitter feelings of animosity which had been en-
tertained towards him, — not certainly by me, — but by some of
those who had left.

At length it became my turn to leave ; and, having studied assid-
uously during the last year of my school days under the special
tuition of the Doctor himself, I took a warm and friendly farewell
of the kind old man and his family. Immediately after leaving I
entered the University, and took my place as an undergraduate in
old Trinity College, Dublin.

Having been born a younger son, I soon began to feel that I
ought to do something for myself. My father, — a brother of the
late Lord Ashtown, — lived in the country, surrounded with all the

1829.] EARLY LIFE. 33

luxuries and refinements of a highly educated and polished gentle-
man : so that while residing in his house, as a young man, I lacked
neither amusements nor society; and I passed a pleasant time
between home and my university career. But I always felt that this
could. not and ought not to last ; and in my secret heart I resolved,
if possible, to obtain some employment stiitable to my natural
tastes, and which, at the same time, might afford an opportunity of
a useful and active life. I had long set my heart upon the profession
of an agent, as being the most suitable, in its higher branches, to
my capacities, and as likely to afford the gn'^&test opportunity of
being useful in my generation ; and, though I did not announce my
intention, yet I lost no opportunity of acquiring information which
might qualify me for such an office. Meantime I passed steadily
through my University course, living sometimes in Dublin, and
sometimes at my father*s place in the country.

These were the days of O'Conneirs supremacy ; and all Ireland,
and England too, rang with his fame. His usual habit, at that
period, during term time, was, to walk home from the ''Four
Courts," — the Irish Courts of law, — with an immense gathering
of wild and ragged followers at his back. These he called, in jest,
his police ; and " O'ConnelFs police " became, for a short time, one
of the. institutions of Dublin. But the College young men could
never be forced into an acknowledgment of their authority, and
the consequence was that repeated rows took place between the
parties.

One of the rules this strange police insisted on establishing was,
that all those walking in the streets should take off their hats as
O'Connell passed by on his triumphant return from the courts ; and
any one who refused was mercilessly mobbed, and his hat knocked
off or forced down over his eyes. In general, for peace sake, most
of the passers-by took this new order of things good-humoredly,
aud raised their hats rather than submit to the unpleasant conse-
quences of a refusal. * But the College lads generally resisted this
homage ; so that a fight was almost certain to take place whenever
they and O'Connell's police chanced to meet in the streets.

It happened, one evening, that a young college friend and I were

3

34 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. m.

walking down one of the main streets of Dublin, when O'ConneU
and his police appeared in yiew. We consulted for a moment
whether we should cross over to the other «ide of the street, and
tlius avoid a collision, but we considered this would be ^^ infra dig/*
And we therefore kept our course, resolving not to take off oar hats.

''Hats off I hats off I" shouted the ragged police who preceded
'' the Liberator," as soon as we approached; but we did not ac-
knowledge the order, and continued to walk steadily on. In a
moment we were attacked, and sundry attempts were made to force
our hats over our eyes, or knock them off in the street. My com-
panion, however, — a very powerful young man, — gave two or
three of the foremost of these '' policemen " such a hearty smash in
the face that they kept their distance for a little, and we walked by
O'Connell in safety. I well remember his* smile as he nodded good-
humoredly to us as we passed him, and I must say it was one of
approval, rather than otherwise, at our refusal to do him homage.
No sooner, however, had we got completely to the rear, — O'Connell
never allowed his police to commit any violence in his immediate
presence, — than a large party detached themselves on special duty,
and followed us with a full resolve to force us into compliance. Wo
continued to walk rapidly towards home, but we soon heard the
double-quick footsteps of a number of men behind us, and again the
cry of '* Hats off I " resounded through the streets. It had a new and
most unpleasant effect upon the nerves to find one's self pursued by a
pack of hungiy-looking, ragged men, — the scum of the populace
of Dublin (there were no Poor Laws in those days), — who were de*
termined to force us into compliance with what we considered a
deep indignity.

" Hold on," whispered my young friend to me ; " we may get
home before they become too many for us." So we held on still,
and refused to take off our hats. ^

A violent blow in the back of the neck which sent me staggering^
forward, was the reply of one of the party to my companion's whis-
pered suggestions ; but it was scarcely given when the man who
gave it was laid flat on his back, bleeding and almost senseless,
by a blow in the face from my friend. After this, for some little

1829.] EARLY LIFE. 35

time, thejkept a more respectful distance, but they still followed us,
shouting '^Hats off I " and increasing in numbers as ire proceeded.
We were frequently assailed, but the moment we turned round,
drawing our clenched fists for a blow, the ragged policemen fell
back, having evidently a keen recollection of the punishment which
the chief of their police had received a few minutes before.

At length, however, the party became reinforced by bolder mem-
bers of this wild constabulary, and we began to feel, as they pressed
closer and closer upon us, that we had no chance of reaching home
in safety ; and resolving, if we could, to make a stand until some
relief might be afforded, we rushed up a flight of stone steps, out-
side a gentleman's door, and, presenting our front to the crowd, we
showed that we were determined to resist any farther aggression to
the utmost.

There were no Metropolitan Police, if I recollect right, in those
days, — and if there were, none certainly came to our assistance ;
and, in a wonderfully short time, the street was filled with a motley
crowd of the very worst roughs of Dublin, who came running from
every quarter to take part in their favorite pastime of a row.
Twice, a rigorous and direct attack was made upon our fortress ;
but partly from the determined resistance of my young friend, who
forced back his a;sailants, staggering amongst the crowd by the
dint of his powerf i blows, and partly from the advantageous nature
of our position, the enemy was repulsed with loss, and blood flowed
freely from our enemies. At length I bethought me of seeking
admission to the gentleman's house, on the steps of which we were,
and I knocked loudly at the door. It was opened immediately.

" Let us in," cried I. ** Let us in, or this mob will murder us."

*^ Sir," replied the man in a hissing yoice, and with his teeth
clenched and grinning, *'I hate the rascals ten times as much as
^ver you can do, but this is Lord Norbury's house, and the gen-
tleman within is old, and those villains would pull it down about
his ears if I let you in, should they find out whose house it is ; and
to you must only fight them as best you can." And before I could
answer a word he slammed the door in my face I

But the act of the man had not been unobserved by the mob ;

36 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. m.

and, seeing that now all chance of our retreat was cut off*, thej
resolyed to make a final rush upon our citadel and tear us down
from it. This was soon effected. The strongest and boldest
amongst them drew up two deep before us, and, with a wild shout,
or rather scream, went at us. In a moment we were surrounded,
our hats knocked off, and we ourselves hurled violently into the
middle of the street. I got off with a bloody nose and the loss of
one of my shoes, and my friend with a split car ; but our hats were
carried off by our assailants as trophies of war, and were set on
high on broomsticks, whilst the victorious ** police " of the Liberator
marched off shouting and hurrahing with their prize. Whether
they laid the hats at O'ConnelFs feet or not I never heard; prob-
ably not, as we never saw them after.

Such was Dublin in my College days. Lord Anglesea was then
Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, and, in the midst of a hundred scenes
similar to that which I have just described, levees, drawing-rooms,
castle balls, and private entertainments, in all of which I freely
joined, flowed on, and people never thought of these outrages but
as passing trifles, whilst the pleasures and business of life pro-
ceeded as if all was going on in the natural course of things.

In the country parts of Ireland, the same wild ways, though in a
different and more dangerous form, prevailed. The predominant
idea amongst the peasantry at that time was, — and still to a certain
extent is, — that "a big war " was coming, and, in preparation for
this, the *' taking up arms ** was one of the most frequent outrages.
Many gentlemen living in remote districts, lost their lives in defence
of their arms ; and, in not a few cases, the assailants were shot down
in their attempt to take them. My father's residence was in the
Queen's County, about three miles from Portarlington, and I well
remember how, in disturbed times, when several murders had been
committed in the neighborhood, we habitually took our arms with
us into the dining-room, and ate our meals with our loaded pistols
on the table beside us, and our guns leaning against the chimney-
piece. It is surprising, when one gets accustomed to it, how little
this affects the appetite, or weighs upon the mind. It went on with
us as a matter of course, and without the least feeling of uneasinesa
or apprehension affecting our spirits or our daily life.

i8a9-3 EARLY LIFE. 37

A remarkable instance of a successfiil raid to take up fire-arms
Dccurred about this time. * My eldest brother lived on his estate
at Kilmorony, in the south-east portion of the Queen's County.
His house was large, and surrounded by extensive grounds, so that
no one could approach it without passing through at least half a
mile of the '^ demesne." It was a Sunday afternoon, and my
brother had gone to church at Athy, leaving his wife. Lady Helena
Trench, and one of my sisters and their several children, at home.
He had taken his men-servants with him, — so that none but women
and children remained in the house.

My sister was sitting in the drawing-room, a little before dinner
on this fine summer's evening, her children playing around her,
when her attention was attracted by observing one of the children
standing in a fixed and frightened manner near the door. She
looked up immediately, and saw a man, who had so quietly opened
the door that she had not observed his entrance, standing and
looking in with a large blunderbuss in his hand. My sister and he
stared for a moment at each other.

'' We want arms," said the man, in a husky, coarse voice; "we
don't want to hurt any one if we can help it ; but we want arms,
and must get them."

My sister's nerve did not fail her in the least. She rose quietly
from her seat, took one of her little children by the hand, and, going
towards the door where the man was standing, she said, —

" I am not the lady of the house ; she is upstairs ; I will go and
call her."

The man seemed a little abashed by a bearing so different from
what he probably expected. He made no reply, but followed my
slater upstairs.

She walked straight into Lady Helena's room, who at that mo*
ment was washing her hands before dinner ; she was followed by
the man with the blunderbuss.

*' This man says he wants arms," said my sister, addressing Lady
Helena, " and he says he must get them."

*I think this happened about the year 1890.

u I

38 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. m.

" I^et him wait a little until I hare dried my hands,** replied Lady
Helena calmly, ^' and I will get them for him."

She continued the operation of drying her hands as she would
have done on the most ordinary occasion, and then slowly led the
way into her husband's dressing-room, and, pointing to some guns
which were locked in a case over the fireplace, she told the man
that those were the only arms in the house.

" The case is locked," obseryed the man. ** Give me the key."

** I hare not got it," replied Lady Helena. '* Mr. Trench is from
home, and has the key with him."

The man tore the holdfasts out of the wall, and, without saying
anything more, or doing any further damage, although there were
silver forks and spoons laid out in abundance on the table in the
dining-room, which he could have carried off with perfect ease, he
walked away with his prize of arms, and disappeared.

The whole thing was done so quickly and so quietly, that none
of the female servants knew anything of what had happened. One
of them, however, afterwards observed five men, all armed, assem-
bling, as it were, from different stations outside the house, and
walking away together.

' Such was the state of the country at the time of which I speak,
and many of the resident gentlemen in Queen's County, Carlow,
and Ealkenny, were accustomed to ride armed to the cover's side,
and to hunt all day with their pistols in their pockets, lest they
should be attacked going home in the evening.

During all this time my earnest endeavors were turned towards
the acquisition of knowledge, which, in addition to my classical and
scientific course through College, would tend to fit me for the pro-
fession I had set my heart on to follow ; and, after some time, I
exerted myself much, without any emolument, in the improvement
of the dwellings and farms of the tenants on my brother's estate.
In course of time, I found myself a married man, settled in the
county of Tipperary, not far from Cangort Park, the residence of a
much-loved and valued uncle, from whose vast experience and
knowledge of country life I derived many and lasting advantages*

1838.] THE RIBBON CODE. 39

CHAPTER IV.

THE RIBBON CODE.

npHERE are few who hare not heard of the Ribbon Societies of
Ireland ; those dark and mysterious confederacies, which,
springing up from time to time in different localities, have spread
terror and dismay into the hearts of both rich and poor, which have
done so much to discourage the influx of capital into Ireland, and
to promote the absenteeism of hundreds of wealthy proprietors,
who would be only too glad to be allowed to reside upon their Irish
estates, and in the midst of their Irish tenantry, could they do so
in peace and safety.

But the terrible Ribbon Code is too formidable for most men to
face, who have the means of living elsewhere, and who are not
bound by any peculiar ties to Ireland. It is the fashion to blame
absentees ; but can they always be justly blamed ? It is a fact, the
bitter truth of which has been felt and can be attested by many,
that those who have been most earnest and anxious for the
improvement of their estates, have come most frequently under the
ban of the Ribbonmen ; whilst the careless, spendthrift, good-for-
nothing landlord, who hunts, and shoots, and drinks, and runs in
debt, who even exacts the most exorbitant rents from his tenants,
provided only he does not interfere with their time-honored customs
of Bubdividing squatting, con-acre, and reckless marriages, may
live in peace and careless indolence on his estate, in high favor
with the surrounding peasantry, and with no fear or danger of
being ever disturbed by a Ribbonman.

It is not my intention to enter at present upon any dissertation
on this curious and strange phenomenon ; neither is it my intention
to enter into any analysis of the causes which produced this state

40 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. nr.

of things. We must look back into the history of Ireland for
these. Would that some abler hand than mine would investigate
and laj bare the truth I My present purpose is only to deal with
facts, and to tell of scenes and occurrences which have from time to
time come under my immediate observation.

The effects of the Ribbon Code were more keenly felt in Ireland
some fifteen or twenty years ago than they are now ; and indeed we
might go back even farther than that. Tipperary County might
perhaps be named as the head-quarters of the confederation ; and
the King's County and Queen's County, Meath and Westmeath,
Louth, and even Monaghan, where, as '^ the gap of the north," it
adjoined the midland counties, were from time to time the scene
of its unhallowed operations.

It is a mistake to suppose that the Ribbon Code was terrible to
the landlords only. The tenant, quite as frequently as the land-
lord, became the victim ; and many and many a thriving, harmlessf
well-conditioned man has perished under its terrible laws.

The main object of the Ribbon Society was to prevent any land-
lord, under any circumstances whatever, frOm depriving a tenant
of his land. ^'Fixity of tenure," which has lately been so boldly
d^anded by the advocates of tenant-right, was then only secretly
proclaimed in the lodges of the Ribbon Society; and '* fixity of
tenure ** it was determined to carry out to the death, which almost
necessarily followed.

The second object was to deter, on pain of almost certain death,
any tenant from taking land from which any other tenant had been
evicted. These main principles of the society were carried out
with relentless severity ; and numerous indeed were the victims in
all ranks of life, from the wealthy peer to the humblest cottier,
who fell under the hand of the assassin, sworn to carry out its
decrees.

But it may well be supposed that a society, thus constituted in
utter lawlessness, was not very likely to adhere long or accurately
to the precise objects for which it had originally been formed ; and,
accordingly, by degrees it assumed the position of the redresser of
all fancied wrongs connected with the management of land, or with

1838.] THE RIBBON CODE. 41

landed property in any form whaterer. I hare known frequent
ittstinces of landlords receiying threatening notices for evicting
tenants, although these tenants had refused to pay any rent what-
ever, and of tenants receiving similar notices for taking the land
of the evicted occupiers. I have also seen a notice, announcing
certain death to a respectable farmer, because he dismissed a
careless ploughman ; and a friend who lived near me, was threat-
ened with death, because he refused to hire a shepherd who had
been recommended to him, and who was approved of by the local
Bibbon lodge. I myself received a letter, illustrated with a coffin
in flaring bloody red, and adorned with death's head and cross-
bones, threatening the most frightful consequences to myself and
family, if I did not continue to employ a young profligate car-
penter, whom I had discharged for idleness and vice !

It was during a period when the system was in full force and
Tigor, — about the year 1840, — that I was living at Sopwell Hall,
an old family residence, which I rented from my cousin. Lord
Ashtown. The small town of Cloghjordan was about three miles
distant from The Hall, and I usually attended church there. The
^ev. P. F. Trench was at that time curate of the parish. The
country was very much disturbed, by which I mean that wild deeds
had been enacted by the Bibbonmen, within a short distance of our
residence. A most respectable tradesman, habitually in my em-
ployment, had been barbarously murdered in the open day, on his
way between Shinrone and Cloghjordan, and a well-to-do farmer,
living within half a mile of our house, had also been murdered for
no cause that we could possibly ascertain, unless that he had taken
two acres of land, which had recently been thrown on the landlord's
hands by an insolvent tenant.

We were at church one Sunday, about this time, at Clogl^ordan,
and whilst the Bev. F. F. Trench was preaching, a messenger came
to tlni^w of Mr. Hall, a gentleman of considerable fortune in the
neighterbood, a kind and amiable and much respected man, and
wluspered a few words to his son, who immediately left the church.
A few minutes after, another messenger came and whispered to his
son-in-law. He also instantly left the church. The congregation

4a REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap, it,

became somewhat nervous at witnessing this strange pantomime ;
and I was on the point of leaving to ascertain what had happened,
when the preacher observing the attention of the congregation t%
be diverted from him, brought the sermon to an abrupt conclusion.

On going out, I heard that Mr. Hall's house, situated about three
miles from Cloglyordan, had been attacked during church-time by
four armed men ; that they had carried away 200L in cash, with all
his arms, and behaved rudely to the young ladies of the house, his
daughters, who had remained at home that day. Mr. Hall, if I
recollect aright, was himself absent.

Immediately on leaving the church, I mounted my horse and
galloped off to Mr. HalPs residence. I there found that matters
were not so bad as had been stated. Four or five armed men had
entered the house and demanded arms and money from the young
ladies. They told them the money, about 2001. , was in their
father's iron chest. The chest was an immensely strong and heavy
one. The robbers carried it outside the house, and did their
utmost to force it open with crow-bars, but it was too strong for
them to break, and too heavy to carry away ; and I saw the chest
afterwards, lying on the lawn outside the house, all battered and
dinged, but the 2001. were safe and untouched inside. They then
returned to the mansion, and took a few stand of arms ; and the
leader went into the parlor, where the young ladies were, and asked
for some wine. One of the young ladies having heard the footsteps
of the men, and fearing they might become excited with diink,
with much presence of mind privately emptied out of the window
the contents of a large square flask of whiskey which was on the
side-table, so that when they came, there was nothing but water to
be found to drink. They treated the young ladies courteously, and
decamped.

The point now was to find out whither they had gone. It was
broad daylight, the country was tolerably open, knd yet no traces
of the robbers could be found. I galloped along all the roads
leading in the most likely directions, but could obtain no tidings
whatever of tbem. Mr. Charles Trench, Lord Ashtown's brother,
then staying at Sopwell Hall, — which lay on the opposite side of a

i838.] THE RIBBON CODE. 43

large bog, from Mr. Hall's, — beat, as he thought, every part of a
thick holly wood immediately adjoining the bog, in which it ap«
peared not unlikely they might have hidden themselves, but could
see nothing of them, and evening closed in M^thout our coming on
their track. At night the police searched some houses of bus*
picious character, and in one of them several men with blackened
faces and stained with bog-mould were found concealed. They
were arrested and brought before a magistrate, and four of them
were ultimately prosecuted to conviction by the young ladies, and
were transported beyond the seas. We discovered afterwards that
two of the men with loaded fire-arms were actually lying under a
holly bush, in the small thick wood called '* the Paddock," where
Mr. Charles Trench had searched for them. Had he come upon
them at such a time and so prepared, bloodshed would probably
have ensued. Several stand of fire-arms and some swords were
afterwards found in the Paddock, where the men had lain con-
cealed.

Thenceforth, without any reasonable cause that I could ascertain,
Mr. Hall became exceedingly unpopular and obnoxious to the
peasantry.

A few months after this occurrence, on the 18th of May, a beau-
tiful bright sunny day at noon, I was riding with a friend to the
sessions at Borrisokane. I heard a faint report at a little distance
in the fields as of a gun or pistol, but took no notice of it, when
almost immediately afterwards a man came running up a lane to
meet us, saying,' —

"Oh, sir, Mr. Hall has just been shot I **

" Shot I " cried I, pulling up my horse, " do you mean mur-
dered?"

^ Oh, yes sir," replied the man, "he is lying there in the field."

"Is he dead? "I asked.

" Stone dead! " was the man's reply; and as he said so, I never
shall forget the strange mixture of horror and of triumph which
pervaded his countenance.

We rode on rapidly down the lane, and just where it emerged
upon a little grass lawn, was the body of Mr. Hall. He was a man

1

^ REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. nr.

apparently about fifty years of age, and his bald head lay nncoy*
cred on the ground. He was quite warm, but '' stone dead," lying
in the open field. Numbers of people were working all around,
planting their potatoes ; but not a trace of the murderer could be
found.

It was a sessions day. at Borrisokane, and several other gen-
tlemen who were also going there joined us almost immediately
afterwards. There were a few country people standing by. I
shall not easily forget my feelings on this occasion. There lay the
body of a murdered gentleman, with whom I had been on terms of
friendly intercourse, — shot on his own estate, and in his own field,
in the noonday, whilst on the faces of the peasantry could be
plainly seen an expression of triumphant satisfaction ; and there we.
stood, several mounted horsemen, — many of us armed, burning to
avenge his death and to arrest the murderer, and yet we looked
like so many fools not knowing what to do, though it was scarcely
more than ten minutes since the fatal shot had been fired.

I turned to a gentleman of well-known courage, and a daring
rider, and said, —

''Can we do nothing, Mr. Smith? The murderer cannot have
gone far ; surely we might make a circuit round the place across
the country, and though no one will tell us which way he ran, vre
may by this means come up with him or see him. We are both
well mounted and armed, — let us try."

'' Hush ! my dear sir," replied he, *' the murderer never ran ; that
would at once betray him. He is surely in the field with us at this
moment, and is probably one of those now looking at the body and
expressing his wonder at who did it."

I saw the possible truth of his observation, and was compelled to
repress my feelings and remain an inactive spectator. The police
and stipendiary magistrate came up soon afterwards ; and the body
having been brought into a neighboring house to await the inquest,
we rode from the scene veiy sorrowful. On arriving at home I
told a man in my employment what I had just witnessed. He
showed neither surprise nor excitement, and his manner left a full
conviction on my mind that he had been aware beforehand that
such a deed was to be done.

1838.] THE RIBBON CODE. 45

liarge rewards were now offered for the discoyery of the mur-
derer, and a sum amounting to fifteen hundred pounds was raised;
but for some time no one would come forward to give intelligence
and claim the reward. At last it was announced by the magistrates*
that an accomplice had turned informer, — that the murderer was
arrested and would be tried at the ensuing assizes at Nenagh.

I was on the grand jury at those assizes, and attended closely to
the trial throughout. Mr. Blackburn, late Chief Justice of Appeals
and then Attorney-General, came down from Dublin specially to
prosecute. It was a most interesting trial. The informer was a
dark, intelligent, powerful, and desperate-looking man of about
forty years of age. The prisoner was pale, slight, and thin, appar-
ently about twenty-five years of age, and without anything in his
countenance to indicate ferocity or passion.

The story told by the informer was a strange one. He said that
a farmer on Mr. Hall's estate had hired him for five pounds to do
the deed, and that the young man was to have three pounds for
accompanying him ; that the only cause for the murder was that
Mr. Hall had prevented the farmer from burning some land for
con-acre, and '* that it would be a good thing to rid the country of
such a tyrant " ; that Mr. Hall was expected that day on the estate,
and that he (the witness) and his companion agreed to go there also
and see how the job could best be done. That he saw Mr. Hall
walking in the field with a sword-cane in his hand, — that he stole
up quietly on the grass behind him with the pistol up his sleeve,
and that when he was quite close, Mr. Hall heard him, and turned
round and asked him what he wanted; he feigned some excuse,
saying '* he came to ask his honor leave to sow con-acre," which
Mr. Hall refusing, he passed on. Again he stole up behind his
victim near a hedge, and again Mr. Hall turned round still unsus-
picious of his design, but surprised at the occurrence. The intend-
ing murderer, thus twice bafiled in his design, went aside to his
companion, and dashing down the pistol on the ground beside him,
said with an oath, '* I see it is unlucky, I will have nothing to do
with it.*' The young man coolly took up the pistol : '* You are an
infernal coward," said he, '' watch me if I don't do it." *

^6 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. nr.

Mr. Hall was still walking in the fields, enjoying the freshness
of this sunny day in May. The young man came up unperceived
within twenty yards of him. Mr. Hall heard him, and turned
round and faced him. The murderer walked on still without speak-
ing or showing his pistol, straight up to Mr. Hall. Mr. Hall was
amazed ; but seeing him still coming steadily and silently on, he
half-drew his sword-cane, at last suspecting that mischief must be
intended. The man still continuing to approach, Mr. Hall sprang
back a step or two in order to get his sword-cane free, and in doing
so, stumbled over a tussock and fell. The young man then went
steadily up to him, and before Mr. Hall could get up or recover
himself, he put the pistol do^n close to his head and shot him dead
upon the spot. The moment he had done so he threw the pistol
into the ac^oining hedge, walked quietly to meet his companion, pnt
his hands into his pockets, nerer left the ground, and was one of
those whom we afterwards saw standing near the body.

Such was the story as told by the man who had been originally
hired to murder Mr. Hall, but who had now turned informer ; and
his testimony was corroborated by a chain of evidence, so clear and
conclusive, that not a doubt of its truth was left upon the mind of a
single grand juror who heard him.

The trial was rather a peculiar one; and, contrary to general
expectation, the judge's charge was decidedly in favor of the pris-
oner. The jury were evidently puzzled, but they threw the benefit
of the doubts entertained by the majority in favor of the prisoner
at the bar, — as they were justly bound to do, and it was afterwards
openly announced, that eleven were for an acquittal, and only one
for a conviction. Nothing could turn this man from his unwavering
belief that the prisoner had done the deed ; and after the usual
time the jury was discharged, and the prisoner remanded to jail.

The result of this trial, which excited the deepest interest on all
sides, both amongst the gentry and the peasantry, was looked upon
as a decided triumph by the latter. They naturally thought that if,
after such evidence as that given on the occasion of the trial, the
prisoner had all but escaped, no jury could now be found to convict
him, and the^ threatened and persecuted the unfortunate juror who

iSjS.] THE RIBBON CODE. 47

had alone held out for a verdict. In consequence of this failure on
the part of the Crown, the state of the country became rapidly
worse, and three more murders were committed. One of them was
brought particularly under my notice. I was on my way one Sun-
day with my family to the church at Cloghjordan. My two sons,
then little boys, were riding on ponies by my side, and were slowly
ascending a steep hill beside the carriage on the borders of Knock*
nacree Wood. One of the boys suddenly called my attention to a
crowd in a field, not very far from the place where we were. I
looked, and seeing a number of people bending over one object in
a ditch, and making gesticulations of grief, I immediately rode into
the field to ascertain the cause. The people made way for me as I
came up ; and the sight which then presented itself was yery hor«
rible. A man comfortably dressed as a peasant, lay flat on his back
in the gripe ; nearly one half of the hinder part of the head was
severed from the other half, apparently by the blow of some heavy
instrument, — as his brains were dashed out, and sprinkled on the
stones around. Close beside him lay the weapon with which he
had evidently been killed, — it was a hatchet, with blood and hair
still adhering to it. The position of the body was peculiar, and
had an awful efiect upon the spectators. When first he was struck
down, he had fallen on bis side, and had lain with his arms project-
ing from his body, and his hands clenched in the agony of death ;
but when I saw him, the people had 'turned the body on its back, in
order more clearly to identify the face. The arms had stifibned
and grown cold, and remained in their first position, stuck out in
front, projecting from the body; the hands were shut close and
tight, and were exactly in the attitude of a man sparring desperately
with his adversary, and defending himself even in death. The sight
was very dreadful. A neighbor soon after brought a linen cloth,
and threw it over the body. I rejoined my family on their way to
church, and told them what I had seen. Soon after I gave infor-
mation to the police resident in Cloghjordan, who went out and
scoured the country, but without success. He was a tenant who
had dared to take some vacant land.
Such scenes as these could not fail to produce a strong efiect

48 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. tv.

upon the gentry resident around, and urgent letters were written by
myself and other gentlemen to the Government; and at last a
** Special Commission " was ordered at Clonmel for the trial of
several Ribbon cases, and of Mr. Hall's murderer in particular, of
the guilt of whom the authorities had not a doubt.

The Special Commission was looked upon, and justly so, as a
very formidable affair. The judges chosen by the Government to
preside, were Judges Doherty and Fennefather. They sat together,
as is usual in a special commission. Almost all the gentlemen in
the county attended, and were prepared to serve as jurors ; and
Clonmel, where the Commission was held, was crowded to excess.
The opening of the Commission had a very solemn effect. The
first trial was that of Mr. Hall's murderer. The prisoner was
again brought to the bar and arraigned. He was paler than when
tried before at Nenagh, but he still preserved the same impassive
resolution. The grand jury was duly sworn, the bills were found,
and then came the swearing-in of the petty jury, who were to try
the case, and on whom the cause of justice and the life of the
prisoner depended. The prisoner was allowed twenty challenges
peremptorily, and as many more as he could show cause for. It
was an exciting scene, and great quickness and knowledge of char-
acter were required on the part of the prisoner's counsel and
attorney. Of course their object, so far as their right of challenge
would allow them, was to challenge and reject all the firm, fair,
and upright men in the county, and to place upon the jury the
timid, or those whose sympathies, from political, religious, or other
reasons, might be supposed to lean towards the prisoner.

But they had not much time to decide. As the name of each
juror resounded through the court, and the person called answered
to his name, the crier handed the small Testament to the man now
about to be sworn, and said aloud, slowly and solemnly, ^* Frisoner,
look upon the juror, — juror, look upon the prisoner"; and then
he commenced the oath. At tliis moment, and with no more time
to consult or determine than I have stated, the prisoner's attorney
cried out in a loud voice, ** Challenge ! " if he thought the juror
likely to be unfavorable to his cause. The effect was very striking.

1838.] THE RIBBON CODE. 49

And as gentleman after gentleman, and magistrate after magistrate
were " challenged," it became a decided compliment to be rejected.

At length my name was called ; I answered, came forward to the
front, and took the Testament in my hand. I felt that all eyes were
upon me. It was well known that the murder had been committed
near my residence, and that I had been almost present at the scene.
** Prisoner, look upon*the juror, — juror, look upon the prisoner."
We both looked steadily at each other, and, just as I thought the
oath was about to be administered, ^^ Challenge ! " resounded
tlirough the court. I cannot describe my emotion as I felt relieved
from the onus of such a trial.

At length a jury, — and by no means a bad one, — was sworn.
So many good jurors had attended that the prisoner had, indeed, no
great choice; his challenges were soon exhausted, and a jury,
admitted in general to be a fair one, proceeded now to listen to the
intensely interesting statement of the Attorney -General, who began
to open his case. - The trial proceeded with all the grave solemnity
which was suited to such an occasion. The witnesses gave their
evidence clearly, consistently, and well, nor did the cross-examina-
tion of the prisoner's counsel, though conducted in the ablest
manner, shake their testimony in the least. All who heard the
evidence plainly saw that a conviction must ensue.

The disclosures which the informer had necessarily made when
examined on the previous trial, gave the prisoner's counsel a great
advantage over him. He now knew the whole of the informer's
Btory, and made the most of his knowledge in his cross-examination ;
but still he failed to shake the frightful truthfulness of his evidence.
One scene struck me much. After the witness had detailed how he
had himself undertaken to be the murderer, and had twice stolen
behind Mr. Hall for the purpose of shooting him in the back, and
had only given up his design because he fancied it was " unlucky,"
the prisoner's counsel said, —

" Then it was not your conscience which smote you? "

" Not a bit I " replied the man.

'* And you stole up behind the poor old gentleman to shoot him
for money ? " said the lawyer.

4

50 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. iv.

** / did:'

" I suppose you would do anything for money? **

<*/ woidd" replied the man, quite unappalled, and growing
desperate.

The lawyer still continued to excite him : r—

" You would shoot your father for money, I suppose? "

" / would,** exclaimed the man furiously. -

" Or your mother t "

" / would:*

" Or your sister f**

''I would:*

" Or your brother t ** continued the counsel.

''*' Ay, or yourself either !** cried the infuriated ruffian, almost
leaping from his chair, and turning round so suddenly within a few
feet of his cross-examiner's head, that his usually undaunted nerve
seemed almost appalled by the ferocity of the savage. A thrill of
horror ran through the court, whilst some, however, could not help
smiling, and some laughing outright at the unexpected start given
to the able cross-examiner. The effect upon the jury, however,
seemed to me to be the reverse of what the counsel had intended.
His- object had been to impeach the witness's veracity by making
him admit his own depravity, never for one moment believing that
he would have acknowledged to such frightful recklessness in
crime ; but the admissions he made of his willingness to commit
any barbarity, and the ferocity with which he turned upon his
cross-examiner, left not a doubt upon the mind of any one who
had witnessed the scene, of the truthfulness of his testimony.

The jury soon after retired : no one left the court ; and, during
their absence, no new trial was commenced. A painful suspense
pervaded the whole assembly, and whispers only were heard. The
prisoner had been allowed to sit down;. but he soon rose again,
and stood undaunted in the dock with the eyes of all upon him.
At length the door of the jury-room opened, — the jurors slowly
took their seats, — the prisoner gave one rapid glance at the im-
penetrable countenance of the foreman, and, being unable to read
his fate, immediately withdrew his eyes. The names of the jurors

1838.3 THE RIBBON CODE. 51

were called over, and the foreman was asked whether they had
agreed upon their verdict. *' Guilty I " was his grave reply, as he
handed in his written paper. A suppressed murmur ran through
the court. I could not say that it was either approbation or tho
reverse ; it seemed to be the letting loose of pent-up feelings. The
two judges simultaneously assumed the black cap, and Judge
Doherty pronounced the sentence of the law in the awful terms, -—
so dreadful to hear when pronounced against a living being, — telling
him to his face as he stands in health and strength before you, that
he must be taken from the place where he now stands to the prison
from whence he came, and from thence to the common place of
execution, and be there hanged by the neck till he is dead, and that
his body must be buried within the precincts of the jail, — and, —
** May the Lord have mercy on your soul ! "

The prisoner did not utter a word ; but, during the momentary
and oppressive silence which prevailed after the last solemn words
were spoken, an agonized and piercing shriek rang through the
hall, — and a young woman was carried out fainting. A terrible
sensation thrilled through the whole court, — I saw the young man's
frame quiver convulsively as if a sharp knife had entered into his
flesh, but he did not otherwise move. He looked his judge steadily
in the face, — gave one glance around the court, — saw his last
hope was gone, — and then, with a compressed lip, but quietly and
unmoved as before, he stepped down from the bar, and I never saw
him again. He was executed in a fortnight after Ids conviction.

Tipperary for a long time after was quiet.

52 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. ▼.

CHAPTER V.

FARNEY. 1843.

A BOUT three years after the occurrences described hi the pre-
"^ ceding chapter, whilst still residing at Sopwell Uall, in the
month of March, 1843, 1 received a letter from a friend in England,
stating that Mr. Shirley's agent in the County Monaghan had died
suddenly, and that he had recommended Mr. Shirley to offer the
agency to me. He mentioned further that Mr. Shirley had con-
sented to do so, on certain conditions specified, and that if I was
desirous of obtaining a first-class agency, with a high salary at-
tached, it would be advisable that I should proceed at once to
London, and wait on Mr. Shirley in person.

I immediately resolved to accept of this proposal, and in a few
hours I was on my way to London. After a satisfactory interview,
during which all was arranged, and the terms mutually agreed on,
it was settled that I should return to Ireland in company with my
new employer.

We arrived in due course at Carrickmacross on March 30, 1843,
and we immediately put up at Shirley House, the agent's residence,
situated close to the town. But I was somewhat startled on hear-
ing during the first evening of our arrival, that no sooner had the
tenants ascertained that Mr. Mitchell, the late agent, had suddenly
expired in the Court House of Monaghan, than that very night,
they lighted fires on almost every hill on the estate ; and over a
district of upwards of twenty thousand acres, there was scarcely a
mile without a bonfire blazing in manifestation of joy at his decease.
So remarkable an occurrence as this could not pass unobserved by
one who was now about to succeed him.

The next day, being Friday, Mr. Shirley and I went early into

1843] FARNEY. 53

the office, where we had a long conrersation with the chief clerk, a
most intelligent man. I foand from him that the tenants on the
estate were much excited, that they considered themselves (whether
rightly or wrongly he did not say) ground down to the last point hy
the late agent ; that they had for some time preyiously meditated an
open rebellion against him, but now that he was dead, they deter-
mined to rise and demand a reduction of rent, and the removal of
the many grievances with which they stated that they were op-
pressed.

After two or three hours of anxious consultation, without any-
thing very definite having been arrived at, we left the office ; and
on emerging into the open space before the door we found our-
selves surrounded by a large body of men, who had quietly gathered
outside whilst we were talking within ; and the moment we appeared
they demanded in loud and threatening tones, a reduction of their
rents, and the removal of all their grievances.

Mr. Shirley was taken much by surprise at this unexpected aspect
of affairs : —

*'What do you want?" said he, when some little silence was
restored.

" We want a reduction of our rents," said a man who seemed to
be the spokesman. ** We are determined to pay the present rents
no longer. We are pressed and ground down, and we must have a
removal of our grievances." Here shouting commenced, and sticks
were whirled in the air.

The sub-inspector of police now appeared upon the scene, and
offered Mr. Shirley assistance from that body; but Mr. Shirley,
under the impression that there was no danger, declined it.

As soon as silence was restored, Mr. Shirley replied, —

'^ Well, I must say I am much surprised at your conduct, which
is anything but what I expected from my tenants ; but if you will
come to me on* Monday next, you shall have an answer to your
demands."

*' Monday I Monday I " was shouted on all sides. The most fren-
zied excitement ensued. Hats were thrown in the air, sticks were
flourished on all sides, and the men actually danced with wild

54 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. v.

delight. After a little time, however, the crowd cleared away, and
the news flew like wildfire over the town and country that the
whole tenantry were told to come in on Monday next, that they
might know the amount of the reduction to be granted, and have
all their grievances removed I

Such was the story put about; and the tenantry resolved accord-
ingly to get up an imposing demonstration. Emissaries were sent
round on Sunday to urge every man on the estate to be in Carrick-
macross next day. Those on the Bath Estate adjoining were also
invited to come in with a view to add to the demonstration.

No sooner had the crowd dispersed than Mr. Shirley saw the
consequences of telling his tenantry to come in on Monday withotit
having limited them to a respectable deputation. He therefore
directed that a placard should be printed and posted up, of which
the following is a copy : —

** Mr. Shirley begs to inform the tenantry of the Shirley property
that having received an application from them requesting a reduc-
tion of rent, in consequence of the past and present depressed state
of prices of grain and cattle, and having given that application the
fullest consideration in his power, he has to inform the tenantry
that as it is his opinion that the present distress has not been
caused, so far as the Shirley tenantry are concerned, by high rents ;
and that, therefore, although both willing and anxious tb relieve the
really distressed, yet he does not feel bound to make, at present,
either a temporary or a permanent reduction in the rent of the
Shirley Estate, as it is generally admitted that considering the rents
charged on other properties, the rental of the Shirley property is
not unreasonable.

'* Under these circumstances, Mr. Shirley mast decline meeting
the tenantry on Monday next as proposed, and he trusts the ten-
antry will on that day remain at home and attend to their ordinary
business.

" Cabbickmacboss, April 1, 1843."

This placard, posted up on Saturday, was torn down by the

i

1843] FARNEY. 55

people •on Sunday. It exasperated them more than before, and
they now foresaw and prepared for a fierce struggle. Nothing
could exceed the excitement which prevailed throughout the entire
day, especially at all the chapels, and it was resolved that about ten
thousand men, selected from both estates, which comprised almost
the whole barony of Famey, should march on Monday into Car-
rickmacross to receive Mr. Shirley's statement, and act as circum-*
stances required.

Up to this period I had scarcely spoken a word, and had ventured
no advice whatever. The whole thing was so sudden and unex-
pected by me, who had just arrived an entire stranger in the
country, that I resolved to remain passive and see the issue of thii
strange adventure.

I may here mention that the people of the barony of Farney are
a very peculiar race. The whole barony was formerly granted by
Queen Elizabeth to Walter, Earl of Essex, in the year 1576.* It
was then a wild and almost unenclosed alder plain, and consisted
chiefly of coarse pasturage, interspersed with low alder scrub. The
inhabitants at that time were few, and industrial pursuits were
almost wholly unattended to. War and plunder were the chief oc-
cupations of the male portion of the population, and under the
leadership of their chieftains the Macmahons (Farney was then
called *Hhe Macmahons* country"), they carried on an almost con-
tinuous slrife with the neighboring clans of the County Monaghan,
sometimes fighting amongst themselves, and sometimes joining
against the common enemy, — the English, who had then a difficult
task to subdue the native inhabitants, and to locate themselves in
Ireland.

Even up to the year 1606, the country of the Macmahons was
only partially subdued, so that when the Lord Deputy, the Lord
Chancellor, and the Chief Justice of Ireland found it necessary to
pass through this wild district on their journey to the north of
Ireland, to hold a commission of assize, they were accompanied by

* For many of the facta contained in this chapter, relating to Farney,
" Some Aoooant of the Territory or Dominion of Farney,'' by E. P. Shirley, Seq*

56 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. v.

'* a guard of six or seyen score of foot, and fifty or thi^score
horse, which," adds Sir John Davis, who writes the account, ^* is
an argument of a good time and a confident deputy, for in former
times (when the state enjoyed the best peace and security) no Lord
Deputy did ever yenture himself into those parts without an army
of eight hundred or one thousand men.*'

At this time, 1606, the estate of the Earl of Essex appears to
have been but of trifling yalue to its noble owner, inasmuch as a
lease of the whole barony, with all its profits, etc., was granted to
Ever Macmahon for a yearly rent of 2502. payable in Dublin, the
latter clause being apparently an important provision, and one not
very easily accomplished.

In the peaceful times which followed the accession of James I.,
the lands began to rise considerably in value, and in the year 1618,
the territory of Farney appears to have been let to Brian Mac-
mahon for one year, at the greatly increased rent of 15002.

In the year 1636, it appears by a *^ Bent Role " now in my pos-
session, and signed by Thomas Cromwell, that *' the Earl of Essex'
land in Femey and Clancaruile for i ye : 1633," amounted in value
to 10212. 195. 2d,, and the total number of tenants (a full list of
whom is given together with the names of the lands they occupied)
amounted to thirty-eight. Patrick McLoughlin and Richard Blaney,
Esq., appear by this curioi^s document to have been the highest rent
payers on the estate, the one paying 602. Is. Sd, and the other 402.
hidf-yearly. The total yearly rent then amounted to 20222. 18^. 4d,

At this time also, 1636, a complete survey appears to have been
made, probably the first ever made of the barony, and a beautiful
set of maps were laid down on vellum, executed in a masterly man-
ner. This survey and set of maps complete, giving all the denomi-
nations of the several lands very nearly corresponding with the
names at present in use, are now in existence, carefully bound up
in a large volume, and are still in perfect preservation at Longleat,
the seat of the Marquis of Bath, in Wiltshire, the present owner of
one moiely of the barony.

In 1646, Robert the third Earl of Essex died, and his estates de«
Tolvad on hit sisters Lady Frances and Lady Dorothy Devereux»

1843-3 FARNEY. 57

the fonner of whom married Sir William Seymour, afterwards
Marquis of Hertford, and the latter married Sir Henry Shirley,
Bart., the ancestor of the present proprietor of the other moiety of
the barony.

The barony (the chnrch lands excepted) continued for a consid-
erable time in the joint possession of these two families who
derived from the co-heiresses Lady Frances and Lady Dorothy
Devereux, and at length in the year 1692, Thomas Thynne, Vis-
count Weymouth, ancestor of the present Marquis of Bath, being
possessed of one moiety, and Robert Shirley, Lord Ferrers, being
in possession of the other moiety, a final division was agreed on
and made between the parties.

The division of the territory of Farney, effected in the year 1692,
was made under the direction of Mr. John Mainwaring and Mr.
Bichard Drakeford, and the value of the eastern moiety, or present
Bath property, was set down by them as worth 1318Z. 145. 4id. per
annum, and the value of the western moiety, or present Shirley
property, was set down as worth 13132. lis. 2d. per annum. The
centre of the main street of Carrickmacross formed the boundary
line between the two estates.

In the year 1729, the estates above described appear to have been -
estimated at 2000Z. per annum each, and in 1769 Lord Weymouth's,
now the Bath Estate, was estimated at 3000Z. per annum, and the
Shirley Estate at 50002. Total, 8000Z. per annum.

During almost the entire of the eighteenth century, the lands of
Farney were held by '' middle-men," as the intermediate tenant,
between the landlord and the occupier of the soil, was called, and
it was during this period that the native inhabitants, few or none of
whom were ever displaced by the aristocratic owners of the soil,
increased and multiplied t$ a vast extent ; and that thejraste and^
wil d lands were fe nced ^n ^ enc losed, and ultimately brought into
cultivation to meet the wants of this rapidly-increasing population ;
so that in the year 1843, only seventy-four years after the estimated
value of the year 1769, 1 found on my arrival at Carrickmacross,
that the rent-roll of the two estates together amounted to upwards
of 40,0002. per annum, whilst the inhabitants had incrc^d in^ch^ ^

-b

58 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. v.

an extraordinary manner that by the census of 1841 the population
amounted to something upwards of 44,107 souls.

The brief outline which I have thus given of the history of this re-
markable barony will assist in explaining the position in which I
found matters at Carrickmacross on my first arrival in the month
of March, 1843. The Celt in all Lis purity had been allowed to
increase and multiply. Irish was the language at that time chiefly
spoken by the people. Schools for the education of the young
were then few and far between. The ' national system of education
was only in its infancy, and though the people were most docile and
easily led, and generally obedient to their superiors, yet when once
assembled in masses or roused by any common cause, their old
natflral temperament seemed suddenly to rise to the surface, and
they became capable of the wildest and most frenzied excitement.

The population of Farney amounted, as I have stated, at that
time to 44,107 souls. The extent of land was 41,567 acres Irish,
or 67,333 acres statute measure. The valuation of the land, in-
cluding Church lands, was about 46,395Z. per annum. So that by
the above it will appear that there was taore than one human being
for every Irish acre of land in the barony, and nearly one human
being for every IZ. valuation per annum of the land. Such were
the masses with whom we had now to deal.

Monday, April 3, was a warm and lovely day, and the sun shone
out in all the brilliancy of spring. The people poured into the
town by thousands, and it was generally considered that not less
than ten thousand men, inclusive of strangers and the tenants of
the Bath Estate, had assembled in Carrickmacross.

Shirley House, the agent's residence, is situated about two. hun-
dred yards outside the town of Carrickmacross. There is an open
space before it, and exactly opposite, feceding a little from the
road, is the agent's rent-offlce. So that there is room for a very
large crowd to assemble on the road and in the space between the
office and the house. Looking out of the screened window, which
commanded a view of the open space, it was rather formidable to
see the vast and excited mass of people which had assembled to
hear. Mr. Shirley's ultimatum.

1843] FARNEY. 59

Mr. Eyatt, agent to the estate of the Marquis of Bath, had also
been called into council ; and it was his decided advice not to yield /

to the demands of the people, that if one estate gave waj the other
must follow, and the barony would be completely disorganized ; but '

that if the people were steadily met and their demands refused,
they would, he thought, all go home quietly at once. From what
I saw going on outside, I doubted much that matters could so «
easily be disposed of. I was, however, an utter stranger, sup|K>sed
by all parties there to know nothing of the country or the people,
and I therefore remained silent.

At length it became, necessary that some one should address the
tenantry, as Ihey were becoming restless and very noisy, and
accordingl/ Mr. Shirley requested me to go outside and tell them
hir determination : That he would not reduce their rents. That
they might give up their land if they pleased, but that they had
little or no cause of complaint. /

r~went ouFaccordingTy, having received these instructions, and
passing through the people and across the open space to the office,
I endeavored to address the crowd.

*' A chair I a chair I " was shouted on all sides ; '* put him on a
chair that we may hear him." So a chair was brought, and on it I
stood facing this wild mob.

When raised on a chair I addressed the people. I told them that
I was a perfect stranger ; that at present I knew nothing of their
case, that I believed Mr. Shirley was a most kind and indulgent
landlord ; and that after the fullest and most mature consideration
he had come to the conclusion that no reduction of rent was
necessary. I said that I hoped by better management, and more
careful husbandry, they would yet find that they could pay their
rents without any serious distress, and, in short, I softened off as
well as I could a most unpleasant task. I added further that as to
the other grievances of which they complained, Mr. Shirley had
not yet had a full statement laid before him concerning them, but if
any such really existed he was willing and anxious to afford a
remedy, — that I should be happy to visit as many of the tenants
at I could personally, and wherever I found a real grievance

6o REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE [CHAP. V.

or injustice to exist, they might be assured I would have it re-
moTed.

There was a dead silence when I stopped speaking. It waa
broken by a stentorian voice, —

** Then you won't reduce pur rents ? "

''I have already given you Mr. Shirley's answer upon that
point," said I. '' Stranger as I am, it is impossible for me to form
any opinion as to whether they are too high or not."

'* Down on your knees, boys! " shouted the same voice ; *' we will
ask him once more upon ourknees ! " and to my horror and amaze*
ment the vast crowd, almost all at least who were in my immediate
vicinity, dropped suddenly on their knees, and another dead silence
ensued.

It was a dreadful spectacle. Their hats were on their heads, and

their sticks in their hands, some leaning upon them as they knelt,

others balancing and grasping them. It was fearful to see the

/^attitude of supplication, due only to a higher power, thus mingled

\Vwith a wild defiance.

*' We ask you upon our knees, for God's sake to get us a
reduction of our rents! " again the same voice cried aloud.

^J!!!^Un^!^!!^!!^^S^^* ^ instantly got down o£f the chair. I
entreated them to rise. I told them that I was distressed beyond
measure, but that I had given them the only message I was author-
ized to give ; and quite overcome by such a scene, I endeavored to
move again across the crowded space from the office, in order to
enter the house, and report proceedings to Mr. Shirley, intending
to request that he would himself appear and address his excited
tenantry.

The moment I moved towards the door, the vast crowd leaped
again to their feet ; I was instantly surrounded, hustled, and pre*
vented from getting near it. I bore this good-humoredly, and the
door being quite close to me, I had no doubt they would ultimately
let me in. But whilst this scene was going on, a shout was raised
by those who were at a distance up the road leading to the town,
and who had not heard what had been said^ "Bring him up, —
bring him up, and let us see him I " In a moment I i^as seized.

1843O FARNEY. 61

and though I resisted to my utmost, I was dragged up the narrow
road which led from the house to the town. I was kicked and
beaten, and pushed and bruised, my hat knocked off, and my
clothes torn ; and in this state I was dragged into the main street
of Carrickmacross.

Here a scene of the wildest excitement took place, some cried
one thing, — some another. I was beaten again^ my clothes torn
off my back, and sticks whirled over my head. Four or fire
policemen met me as I was being dragged along, but they might as
well have attempted to stop the rushhig of an Atlantic wave, as to
stem the crowd that had assembled around me; and they only
looked on and let me pass.

When in the main street, the people again wanted me to get upon
a chair and speak, but I refused. I could not do so in the first
place, and in the next I knew it would be useless, — so I kept as
quiet as I could, determined to reserve my strength till I should
see the issue of this strange affair, but with little hope, at the time,
that I should ever get out of their hands alive.

After a time, the people themselves being I believe as ignorant
of what to do next as I was, a rumor, — totally unfounded as it
turned out, — ran through the crowd that Mr. Shirley had fled from
the agent's residence, and had gone out to his castle at Loughfea,
about a mile and a half from the town. A cry was at once raised
by those, around me, ** Bring him out, bring him out to the castle,
and we will put him face to face with Mr. Shirley " ; and imme-
diately the whole body began to move towards the castle, dragging
me along with them.

By this time, however, all those who were tolerably well-disposed,
and who had no wish at all events to be participators in a murder,
began to move off from my immediate neighborhood; and some
who had at first spoken kindly to me, when they saw the ill-
treatment I received, fearing now that matters were becoming
serious, and that murder was likely to ensue, deserted me ; and I
was left in the hands of the vilest and most furious of the mob.

At length alter walking some distance, I was so beaten and ill«
treated, that I felt myself becoming faint, and well knowing that if

62 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. v.

once I fell, I shonld be trodden down without a chance of my li&,
I asked to stop for a few minutes to breathe. I shall never forget
that moment. I was then about a mile from the town on the broad
and open road leading to Lougbfea castle. I turned and looked
around me, thinking my last hour was come, and anxious to see if
there was one kind face, one countenance, I had ever seen before,
who at least could tell my friends how I had died. But I looked in
Tain. The hills were crowded with people. The long line of road
was one mass of human beings, whilst those immediately around
me, mad with excitement, seemed only to thirst for my blood.

Having got a few moments^ breathing-time, and seeing all appeal
to be vain, I turned again on my way, determined, however, to hold
out to the last, as I felt that to fall or to faint must be certain death.
Just then I became conscious of an able hand and a stout heart
beside me, and I heard a whisper in my ear : '* They are deter-
mined to have your blood, but hold up, they shall have mine first."
The speaker grasped my arm firmly under his own, and walked on
steadily by my side.

By this time I was completely naked with the exception of my
trousers. My coat, even my shirt, had been torn off, and I walked
on, still beaten and ill-treated, like a man to execution ; my head
bare, and without any clothes from my waist upwards. To increase
the misery of my situation, I found that my friend had been beaten
and dragged away in spite of himself, and again I was left alone in
the hands of those merciless men. I felt also I could now go no
farther, and that a last effort must be made before my. senses left
me from exhaustion. Stopping therefore once more, I asked to be
led towards a high bank at the road-side, and leaning against this I
turned and faced those whom I now believed would soon become
my murderers.

*' I can go no farther," said I ; *< what have you brought me here
for? What do you want me to do? " Again the same voice which
I had first heard at the office, though I could not identify the person
£rom the shouting and conf\ision around me, cried aloud, '^We
want a redaction of our rents ; will you promise to get us that? "

There are times of instant danger, when it is said that the whole

1843.] FARNEY. 63

of a man's past life rushes before him in the space of a single
moment. If ever there be such a time, this was such to me. I
stood there, exhausted, without one friendly face on which to rest,
and surrounded by the worst of ten thousand men who seemed
determined to have a victim. I knew and felt all this. So I said
very quietly, as a last effort to save my life, and hoping they would
name something I could promise to ask for, —

" And what reduction will you be content with? "

Again the same voice replied, —

« We will never pay more than one-half our present rents."

''Then," said I, ''there ends the matter. / never will promdse

There was a pause, and a dead silence. I stood naked and bare-
headed before them. They stood opposite to me, with their sticks
clenched in their hands, ready to strike. I looked at them, and
they at me. They hesitated ; no one would strike me first, I saw
that they wavered, and instinctively, in a moment I felt that I had
won. This sudden revulsion of feeling, — though I was still
externally motionless, — sent the blood throbbing to my temples
with a rush that became almost oppressive. But the strange pause
continued, — when at length a shout was raised from the old sten-
torian voice again, " Stand oflT, boys, — for your lives ! no one shall
harm him, — he is a good man after all I " and in a moment I was
surrounded by a new set of faces, who dashed furiously towards
me. They raised me on their shoulders, swept my old enemies
away from me, procured me some water to drink, and carried me,
new completely overcome, exhausted, and almost fainting, into the
demesne of Loughfea.

Here again these suddenly converted friends desired me to get
up on a chair, and speak to the crowd now assembled before the
castle. I did so. A reaction for the moment had taken place
within me, and I felt some return of strength.

I told the people I had never injured them. That it was a
shame, and a disgrace of which I had not believed any Irishman to
be capable, to treat a stranger as they had dealt with me that day.
That in my own county I could have as many to fight for me as

64 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE- [chap. V-

were now against me, and in short I abased them right heartily and
soundly. They bore it without a murmur. My new friends
cheered me vociferously, and I was carried, now quite unable to
walk, into the Castle of Loughfea. The excitement was past. Mr.
Shirley had not been there, and the people quietly dispersed.

In the evening I was conveyed in a covered carriage to Carrick-
macross, blackened with bruises, stiff and sore, and scarcely able
to stand, — musing over the strange transactions which had hap-
pened that day, — and wrapped in a countryman's frieze coat which
bad been borrowed to cover my nakedoesa.

1843] BATTLE OF MAGHERACLOON. • 65

CHAPTER VI.

BATTLE OF MAGHERACLOON.

TT may readily be supposed that the causes of an outbreak so
serious as that which has been described in the preceding
chapter, became a subject of veiy grare reflection with me.

I felt confident that the Ribbon Confederacy, with the operations
of which I had become conversant through my intercourse with the
peasantry of Tipperary, had nothing whatever to do with the outrage
which had recently been committed. It appeared to be a sudden
rising of the people, by no means previously planned or premedi*
tated. I had been much struck, whilst in the hands of the mob, by
the expressions which had occasionally escaped them, and which,
at the time, I did not in the least understand, but which showed that
other influences than Ribbonism operated strongly on their minds.

'* By this and by that,'' cried one, '* but we'll stand the grippert
no longer/**

"Down with the coppers! "♦ cried another; "we won't stand
their being riz a farthing I "

" We'll hang the keepers, every mother's son of them," cried a
third; and thus they continued in the midst of the ill-treatment they
inflicted upon me, making use of terms, and alluding to circum-
stances with which I was wholly unacquainted, though the entire
mob seemed to be conversant with them. These expressions, and
many others of a similar nature, accompanied as they were by the

* Where there had been odd pence in the tenants' yearly rent, the previous
agent bad raised the amount to what he called " the even shilling." Thus, if a
tenant's yearly rent had amounted to, say, 61, lOa. Od., he raised it to 62. lis*
The alteration was always on the side of Increase. This they called " the raising
of the coppers.^

5

66 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. vi.

most furious declarations that ** they would stand them no longer,"
f left a deep impression upon my mind, and convinced me that the
/ tenants, whe ther rightly or wron gly* had a firm conviction that they
I had not been fairly treated under the management of the late agent.
I therefore began, steadily, but unobserved by the tenantry, to
ascertain whether they really had, or had not, any just grounds of
complaint. Whilst thus engaged, I found, to my surprise, that I
had suddenly grown into considerable favor amongst them. They
knew they had ill-treated me ; that I was an entire stranger in the
district, and could not possibly have done them any injury, nor
influence the decisions which had been arrived at ; and, finding from
my manner and intercourse with them, that I retained no ill-will for
the past, and made no attempt, as they described it, '* to revenge
myself upon them,*' but that I spoke kindly to them, as if no feel-
ings of anger remained, — which was indeed true, — they seemed at
once to place the utmost confidence in me ; and thus I found myself
unexpectedly possessed of a strange power over this wild and ex-
citable people.

Under these circumstances I felt convinced that matters should

not then be urged to any further extremities against them ; believing

that if a little time were allowed, they would see they had made a

/ mistake in the step they had recently taken, and would soon concur

/ quietly in whatever might be really just. But my advice, urged

strongly to that effect, was unheeded by t^e authorities.

Perceiving that my motives were liable to misconstruction, I
resolved, therefore, to let matters proceed without any further
comment ; being clearly of opinion, however, unless I had learned
my countrymen in vain, that it would be no easy matter to bring
things round to a satisfactory issue. Neither party now seemed
inclined for any active hostilities. The tenants had been so far
victorious in the late struggle, that they had not only ^* carried off
the new agent " captive, but had released him again of their own
firee-will, uncompelled by any legal force.

The contemplation of this feat seemed to afford them immense
satisfaction ; and, though towards me personally they were most
respectful, and even kindly in their manner, yet my capture was

i843]

BATTLE OF MAGHERACLOON.

67

considered as a decided victory gained over the authorities at Car*
rickmacross. After much deliberation it was at length resolved by
Mr. Shirley that the rents which were due should be at once de-
manded from all defaulting tenants, and, if they refused to pay, that
the -most rigorous measures should be taken to force them into
compliance. The bailiff was accordingly sent out to warn all back-
ward tenants to come in and settle their accounts. The reply to
this summons was uniform : *< They would pay no rent until their
grievances were redressed.**

Every power conferred by the law was therefore brought to beary
upon them ; some were served with notices to quit ; some with pro-
cesses for rent; some with a legal document called a *' latitat";
and, besides all these, ^'driving" upon an extensive scale was
adopted, as the quickest and most effective mode by which the rents
could be hurried in.

Grippers, process-servers, keepers, and drivers, were now brought
into full requisition. The ** grippers "were directed to arrest all
tenants, against whom decrees for non-payment of rent had been
obtained. The * * process-servers " were employed to serve the tenants
with legal processes for rent, whilst the ** keepers" were employed
to watch the crops, lest they should be carried away in the night ;
and a numerous staff of '^drivers" were engaged to drive all the
live stock in possession of the defaulting tenants, and to lodge them
in the pound at Carrickmacross, — from which they were not to be -
released until the rent was paid.

But the tenants kept a ivtitchftLl eye upon all these preparations,
which soon became known through every part of the country, and
they took their own measures to frustrate them. To effect this
object they established a system of what they called ''Molly
Maguires." These '' Molly Maguires " were generally stout, active
young men, dressed up in women's clothes, with faces blackened, or
otherwise disguised ; sometimes they wore crape over their coun-
tenances, sometimes smeared themselves in the most fantastic
manner with burnt cork about their eyes, mouths, and cheeks. In
this state they used suddenly to surprise the nnfnrtijijxtvtfi . g^irr^^^»
keepers, or process-servers, and either duck them in bog-holes, or

?

68 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. vi.

beat them in the most unmerciful manner, — so that the ** Molly
Maguires " became the terror of all our officials. At last neither
grippers, process-senrers, nor keepers could, be got for love or
money, to perform any duty, or to face the danger of these dreaded
foes.

Under these perplexing circumstances, it was determined at head-
quarters that I and the bailiffs should go out in a body and **driTe
for rent,*' taking a sufficient force of police along with us to insiu^e
protection to ourselves and the driyers ; and thus bring the recusant
tenants to order. I may here mention that the term '* driving ** was
applied to a summary process for recovering rent, which the law in
those days conferred upon the landlord, whereby he could drive to
the pound the cattle of any tenant who owed any rent whatever,
without previous notice to the tenant,/or any statement of the land-
lord's demand having been furnished to him J and the cattle so
impounded might be kept in durance until the rent was paid.

I shall not readily forget the appearance of bur procession, as we
started on this expedition. Mr. Barry, the sub-inspector of police,
an excellent officer, attended with a large force, which accompanied
us as our escort. In front rode the bailiff of the estate. He was a
short, fat man, more suited to peace than war; and he did not
hesitate |o confide to me that he was at that moment *^ shaking
like a hare in her form.'* I rode beside him, partly in my official
capacity as agent, and partly to comfort him by my presence.
Behind us tramped our escort of police, and the rear was brought
up by three or four magistrates who had been called into requisition
for the occasion, and who seemed to consider it a most unpleasant
duty, — as it undoubtedly was.

No sooner had this formidable party appeared upon the roads in
the open country, than the people rushed to the tops of the numerous
hills with which the district abounds ; and, as we moved forward,
they ran from one hill to another, shouting and cheering with wild,
defiant cries, and keeping a line parallel to that in which our par^
was travelling.

The object of our expedition was clearly understood by the
people ; and the exact position of our company was indicated to

I843-] BATTLE OF MAGHERACLOON. 69

those in the lowlands by the moyements of the parties on the hills ;
and accordingly as we advanced, every beast belonging to every
tenant who owed rent, was housed, or locked up, or driven some-
where away. Thus, as we had no legal right to break open any
door, or take any cattle out of any house, but only to seize those we
might find in the open fields, and upon the lands of the defaulting
tenants, we soon perceived (as we might have known before we
started) that we were likely to return without success . The bailiff
declared, with a sigh, '* that not a hoof nor a horn was left in the
whole country-side."

At length, when about to return home, without having secured
any booty whatever, we came unexpectedly upon a poor little
heifer calf, browsing quietly on the long grass beside a hedge. The
bailiff having ascertained that she was grazing on the land of a
tenant who was a defaulter, we seized upon the unhappy little beast,
and drove it ingloriously home to the pound at Carrickmacross, a
distance of about two miles, amidst the jeers and laughter of the
populace, at the result of our formidable day's driving.

" Bedad, it's not every day your honor would be able to bring
home such grand stock as that ! " remarked one fellow, as the
bailiff and I Tode to the pound with our prize in all the dignity we
could muster. *

'* Ah, shure his honor comes from a good country, and should
know good stock when he sees it," said another.

'< Sorra hap*orth else he'd be contint with," said a third ; " and
shure isn't he going to set up an agricultural show upon the estate,
and that's the very baste will bear away the prize anyhow, as the
greatest show of them all ! "

Annoyed as I was at the result of our expedition, yet I felt it
impossible to avoid laughing at their ftm, and I took it all good-
huxnoredly; not so the bailiff, — he sighed and groaned at the
thought of how low he must have fallen in the opinion of the tenants
before they could have dared to use such language towards him,
whom they had always addressed with respect, — which, indeed, he
had always deserved, — and he whispered to me, in a confidential
Toice, that "he was ready to sink into the airth with shame."

»jQ REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. vx.

Fortunately, for the credit of all parties concerned, we never again
attempted a " driving " expedition.

The 'grippers and process-servers were now pressed again into
more active requisition than ever. It was no easy matter for these
men to perform their duties. A few chance ci4)tures of defaulting
tenants were occasionally made, and the victims were carried off to
Monaghan Jail ; but the process-servers, from the nature of their
duties, were unable to conceal their proceedings, and, with them,
the <* Molly Magulres" carried on a remorseless war : sometimes
misleading them by false information ; sometimes tervifying them so
that they were compelled to flee for their lives ; and sometimes
actually ducking them in bog-holes or beating them severely with
sticks; so that they soon declared they were quite ready and
willing to resign their posts, but until the '' Molly Maguires " were
put down, they would be wholly unable to perform their duties or
serve a single process.

A council of war was accordingly held to take this new position
of affairs into consideration. It was agpreed on all hands that the
<* < Molly Maguires * must be put down." But how to *' put them
down " was not so easily solved. One magistrate proposed that we
should lie in wait, and fire on them with light shot or " sparrow-
hail" in our guns when they appeared, and he was certain they
would decamp at once. But when it was announced that the
** Molly Maguires" carried pistols under their petticoats, and in
such case would certainly use th^m, this design was abandoned as
untenable.

At length it was resolved to apply to the authorities in Dublin,
for an order for " substitution of service." The process of ** sub-
stitution of service " was never adopted except where all ordinary
means had previously been fairly tried to serve a party or parties
witli a legal notice, and had failed. In such cases the law allowed
a legal document with the name or names of the parties on it, to be
I posted in certain public places in the parish, or barony, as the case
' might be ; and this having been duly performed, the law considered
that a proper .service had been effected even though the party in-
tended to be served might have succeeded in • evading or resistiiig
an actual personal service^

1843] BATTLE OF MAGHERACLOON. 71

An order for '^ substitution of seryice '* was then usually obtained
from the courts in Dublin, and upon sworn information to the effect
stated above. In this case there could be no difficulty in obtaining
the order, and it was necessary that the substitution process should
be posted, amongst other places, on the walls of the Boman Cath-
olic chapel of Magheracloon.

An expedition was accordingly arranged to carry this substitution
of serrice into effect, and the bailiff, in real terror at the new
enemy which had suddenly sprung up in the barony in the form of
the ** Molly Maguires," prepared most unwillingly to perform this
unusual duty, and to post the substitution notice upon the walls of
Magheracloon chapel.

The police who were called out in force to protect the bailiff in
the accomplishment of this feat, were headed by the sub-inspector,
and accompanied by a stipendiary magistrate. I was not present
on this occasion, having gone a few days previously to the county
of Tipperary, to arrange some business there. . The bailiff, how-
ever, minutely described the whole scene to me. He rode in front,
as he had done on the celebrated driving day, backed up and sup-
ported by the police; but as soon as he came near the chapel
grounds, a wild shout of defiance was raised by the peasantry, who
began to crowd into the chapel yard, and with uplifted sticks and
threateniifg gestures, swore that they would never allow the walls
of the chapel to be desecrated by such a notice. The bailiff, a
most respectable and temperate man, did his utmost to pacify the
excited mob. He reasoned with them as best he could ; and as-
sured them that no desecration was intended, — that he was only
carrying out the law, which required that the notice should be
posted on the chapel walls. But his voice had no more power than
if he had spoken to a storm of wind ; they leaped and danced madly
about, whirling their sticks over their heads, and shouting that they
world never allow him to touch the sacred edifice.

The stipendiary magistrate now ordered him to do his duty, and
that he would be protected in doing it by the police, and he, trem-
bling with fear) as well he might, at length approached with the
.notice in his hand to post it in due form. No sooner had he ap-

4»

tj2 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. vi.

proach^d towards the chapel than a volley of stones sent him
staggering back, though none actually struck him. The police
were now ordered to advance. They did so amidst another shower
of stones. The storm of missiles still continuing, and several of
the police having been struck and injured, they were at length or-
dered to f re. They aimed low, and directing their fire straight into
the crowd of stone-throwers, they soon checked the vigor of the
assault, — six or seven men fell under the volley, and rolled upon
the ground. There was a short pause, a dead silence ensued, —
but it was only for a moment, and before the police could recover
themselves and load again, a furious rush was made upon them by
the enraged populace. Stones were sent flying as thick as hail ;
and finally the police, apprehending that they must be annihilated
if they remained, ran to their cars, wluch were waiting at a little
distance, and drove into Carrickmacross as fast as the horses could
gallop, accompanied by the stipendiary magistrate I

The field thus quickly won, remained in the possession of the in-
surgents. One of the rioters was killed upon the spot, — shot
through the body. The others who fell were only slightly injured ;
one had his ear taken off, another was wounded in the fing^,
another shot in the arm, but strange to say, none were seriously
hurt, except the unfortunate man already mentioned.

Thus ended what the people to this day Call '* The Battle of
Magheracloon."

Matters now began to assume a very serious aspect. It was
necessary that an inquest should be held on the body of the man
who had been killed; and much angry excitement prevailed. A
great effort was made to obtain a verdict of manslaughter against
the police. But the jury brought in a verdict of ** justifiable homi-
cide," or words to that effect.

It is scarcely possible to conceive the excitement which a case of
this kind produces in the public mind in Ireland, where party feel-*
ing runs so high. The most terrible denunciations were indulged
in. '* Blood for blood I*' was the oft-repeated cry; and it was
resolved to show sympathy with the friends of the deceased by an
enormous attendance at his funeral. The f^eral was accordingly

1843] BATTLE OF MAGHERACLOON. 73

immense; but a large body of police was in waiting, — no outrage
occurred, — and after a few days, the excitement gradually sub-
sided.

Shortly after this occurrence I once more earnestly pressed the
importance, as well as the prudence, of ceasing to carry on a war
in which no possible credit could be gained, and where every petty
success on the part of the tenantry in baffling the designs of the
landlord, was hailed as an important victory. At length my coun-
sels prevailed. I was allowed to discharge all the grippers and
process-servers from employment, to discontinue all operations
against the tenants/ and to wait quietly until the following October
or November, that the harvest might come round and be gathered,
when I felt sure that property would resume its rights, and the
rents again be paid.

An incident occurred at this time which may prove interesting as
showing that the ancient Celtic feeling or superstition about ** the
trial by blood " was still to a certain extent in existence in that part
of the country. •

My wife happened, in a few days after the '* Battle of Maghera-
cloon," while driving in her pony carriage, attended only by a
single servant, to pass the chapel where the riot had taken place,
and being a stranger in the country, and ignorant of the road, she
stopped near the chapel yard to inquire the way to Carrickmacross.

A lady driving herself in a pony phaeton was not a very common
occurrence in those unfrequented quarters, and as she conversed
with the people who lived near the chapel, a crowd soon collected
around her. Having mentioned that she was my wife, the recent
battle became immediately the subject of conversation, and she,
anxious to calm their feelings, entered into the whole case, and
allowed them to tell her the story from beginning to end ; and she .
expressed deep sympathy with them at the death of the unfortunate
man who had been shot. They seemed gratified by her sympathy
and general kindness of manner, and by her trusting herself alone
in the midst of a crowd of rather wild-looking men at such a time,
and at length one of the party said, —

*' Maybe your ladyship would just come yourself into the chapel

74 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. vi.

yard, and see the place where the dead man lay ; it would be kind
in you to do so, a^ we are sure you feel tenderly for the poor man
whose blood has been spilled by the police."

She was naturally unwilling to leave her carriage and go into the
chapel yard amongst the tomb-stones and graves, escorted by this
wild-looking crowd of strangers, but they evidently wished for and
pressed it so much that she felt unwilling to disappoint or refuse
them, and having naturally a high courage in any difficulty or
danger, she at once got out of her carriage, and walked with the
people to see the spot where the dead man had lain. There was a
little heap of straw lying where he had died, and both the straw
and the ground under it were saturated with his blood.

Her courage came to her aid, and she was able even in the midst
of the somewhat excited crowd to look calmly down upon the sick-
ening spectacle, and having again heard them recount all the
circumstances of the battle, she quietly left the spot, looking stead-
ily at the blood and straw as she left, — a secret though undefined
feeling coming over her, th«t she ought not to quail even at this
painful sight, lest it should appear to the people that her husband
had been guilty of having spibed the blood.

The peasants watched her closely and attentively, — talked rap-
idly amongst themselves in Irish for a while, — and then followed
her silently from the chapel yard, with a softened, respectful, and
altered manner. They assisted her into her carriage, crowding
anxiously around to show her any little attention in their power,
and just as she was about leaving, one of them said to her in an
earnest voice, —

'* Well, Mrs. Trench, I am glad ye came to look at the blood;
ye never could have looked at it as ye did, if you or yours had any
hand in the killing of the poor boy that's gone. We all acquit ye
of it now. The blood would have welled up in your face, if it had
been ye that had done it I "

Mrs. Trench drove quietly away, the people all exclaiming,
<* Safe home to your honor, safe home." And never once did she
receive an unkind or uncivil word from any of the people of
Farney.

1843] BATTLE OF MAGHERACLOON. 75

I now devoted myself constantly to visiting the tenants in person,
listening to their complaints against each other, settling their dis-
putes, often of the most ridiculous and trivial character, and
making myself personally acquainted with them ; letting them at
the same time see the principles upon which, when left to my own
judgment, I wished in future to conduct the administration of the
estate.

During this interesting period the strangest scenes sometimes
presented themselves.

The grippers, it is true, had been dismissed from all office em-
ployment by me, but the tenants themselves continued to make full
use of them; and if any tenant held a decree against his neighbor
for debt, he employed the "grippers" secretly to watch him as he
went to the office, and lie in wait for him as he came out, and then
a struggle, a race, or a fight generally ensued between the gripper
and his victim. Such scenes were both painful anil ludicrous. I
have seen the unhappy peasant looking anxiously round as he came
out of my office, lest a gripper employed by some neighbor should
be on the watch to catch him ; and suddenly I have seen him start at
full speed, — the hitherto unseen gripper close in pursuit to arrest
him. Away both would run, taking fence after fence in stroke,
whilst numbers of people in the office rushed f>iit to see the chase,
apparently as much interested in it as if it were a steeple-chase
across country. Exclamations of excitement- and anxiety would
constantly escape the spectators : " Bedad he has him I " ** No he
hasn't ! " ** Oh, murder, he's down ! " " Hoorah, he's up again I "
"Well done, Paddy, hoorah I the gripper's beat at last I" It was
remarkable how the sympathies of the people, even when the debt
was due to one of their own class, appeared to be generally on the
side of the man who was endeavoring to evade the law.

Another singular scene came before me as a grand juror at the
assizes of Idonaghan. I was appointed one of the committee to
visit and inspect the county jail. Whilst performing this duty, we
entered the debtors' yard, and, to my utter astonishment, about ten
or twelve wild-looking men dropped down suddenly on their knees
before me.

y6 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. vi.

** What is the meaning of all this ? " I exclaimed, looking in
amazement at the kneeling figures.

** Oh, yer honor, won't you have mercy on us? here we are, all
poor tinants, and oh ! for God's sake, let us out to our families, and
we'll he good tinants evermore hereafter."

Shocked and surprised, I assured them I had not put them in
jail, and that I would make immediate inquiry into their cases.

*' Oh, long life to yer honor for that same," cried one of the party,
who still remained upon their knees, notwithstanding my earnest
entreaties to them to rise ; **but bcdad it was yer honor's own self
and no else put us in ; sure wasn't it at the suit of the landlord, and
who else set the grippers at us but his agent? "

I was taken quite by surprise. I left the yard as quickly as I
could, and, having made inquiry into the case, I found they had
stated the truth. The clerk in my oiHce had asked me, in a quiet,
business-like tone, *' Should he go on with the decrees, as usual? "
'* By all means," said I, not wishing to make any change in the
ordinary course of business, but ignorant, at the time, of the exact
proceedings he had alluded to. He had *' gone on with the decrees,"
and had placed them in the hands of the grippers ; and the result
was the sad spectacle of kneeling tenants, in the yard of Monaghan
Jail. They were sfton afterwards liberated.

The most remarkable cases, involving the question of '* tenant-
right " in its fullest northern development, used also frequently to
come before me in my office. It was then the common practice on
the estate, when a tenant became insolvent, say a man with five or
six acres of land, and when all his sources of raising money were
exhausted, that he should come to the office of the estate and con-
sent to his interest in the farm as yearly tenant being sold to some
other tenant, approved of by the landlord or his agent, and that the
proceeds should be applied to clear his rent, and pay his numerous
debts. It was the usual custom of the estate, under such circum-
stances, to appoint a day for the sale of the defaulter's '' good-will,"
and the bailifi' was ordered to give notice to all parties who had any
claims against him to appear. A regular schedule of debts was
then drawn up by the clerk ; each party stated his claim, which was

1843] BATTLE OF MAGHERACLOON. 77

decided on by the agent to the best of his ability, generally after
much wrangling and disputing among themselves, and the purchase-
money, frequently amounting to ten or twelve pounds per acre,
having been lodged in the office by the tenant selected to succeed to
the farm, was distributed to the creditors in the presence of the
insolvent, in proportion to their severally proved claims, at as .

many sj^illings in the pound as the purchase-money would afford to /

give. /Th e landlord's rent, being the first charge upon the land, was j
always paid in full.^j

I ought, perhaps, to mention that this purchase-money was given
subject to the clear understanding that a new valuation of the estate
should be made every twenty years, or thereabouts. It by no
means appeared to be given as '* compensation for improvements,"
inasmuch as the land to be disposed of under these circumstances
was generally in the most exhausted condition, and the buildings in
the most neglected state. The money was given by the incoming
tenant, simply and solely for the opportunity of occupying the land,
as a spot on which to exercise industry, or (to use the expressive
phrase generally in vogue at the time) to ** induster upon."

The system, which I have thus endeavored to describe, of holding
a petty insolvent court for the creditors of the tenants, is still in use
upon some of the most respectable and largest estates in the county
of Monaghan, and the little insolvent court is duly presided over by
the agent ; but it has been discontinued on the estate which was at
that time under my management.

At length, as the harvest was gathered in and the month of
November drew nigh, at which period I had pledged myself to
demand the rents, I began to feel very nervous lest my plan should
have failed, and the combinabion against the payment of rent be
continued. I selected, therefore, two or three tenants, whom I
knew had abundance of means to pay, and, having visited them and
talked the matter over with them in a friendly way, I expressed a
hope that they would now come in and pay their rents as usual.
They were evidently surprised and very anxious, not having in the
least expected that such a demand would be made in such a man-
ner; but, though I pressed them to come forward and pay, they

j8 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. vi.

declined, saying, '* they would do as others did, but they would not
be the first to come in."

** Well," said Ij ** remember I hare come to you now in a friendly
way, and asked you as a favor to hold out no longer against your
landlord's rights ; I know you are well able to pay your rent ; if you
decline, I shall, of course, have no altematlTe but to proceed against
you by law."

** Oh, murder ! what will I do ? " exclaimed the tenant I addressed i
*' shure I always told them not to give in, and now you want me to
be the first to break the pledge."

*' Quite true," replied I, *' that is the very reason I came to you;
I knew you were a ringleader against the landlord; but you muat
see the law will overcome you in the end."

" Oh, murder 1 " he cried again ; " what will I do at all? "

«< Drvve in your cattle to the pound " said I ; ^' I will never go out
driving again so long as I live ; so drive in your own cattle, and
then I will immediately release them, and you can pay your rent at
once. I must have your submission ; and, if you don't yield, I shall
have to come down heavily upon you and to eject you from your
farm altogether, — a necessity I should greatly regret, even though
I am well aware you have been a ringleader in this rebellion."

" Will any others do the same if I do ? " inquired he.

" I can't say," replied I ; " but I am going to one or two of your
neighbors who were nearly as bad as you, and I will put it to them
in the same way. If you and they drive in your cattle to the pound
in the morning, I will forget all your past misdeeds, and never
punish you for them ; if you refuse, you must blame yourself for
the consequences which may ensue."

I left him, went to his neighbors,, and had nearly the same con-
versation with them ; and, to my great delight, in the morning I
heard that the pound was filled with the cattle of the ringleaders
of the opposition, driven in by themselves !

I at once ordered the liberation of the beasts ; the ringleaders
came in thankfully, and cheerfully paid their rents ; others followed
these ^'beU- wethers" through the gap, and in a little time the
whole estate crowded in to pay so fast that the clerk was occupied

i&f3] BATTLE OF MAGHERACLOON. y^

receiving rent from ten in the morning till four in the afternoon, for
several months after the above occurrence.

The combination was now wholly at an end. From that time,
until I left, I never had the least difficulty in the management of that
estate. The tenants all paid up well ; and large arrears, which had
been due on my first coming, were quietly and rapidly cleared off.

When perfect order was restored, and the rents in full course of
being paid, I suggested some alterations in the management of the
estate, in a full and detailed report which I then presented to the
landlord. My reco mmendatio ns^ however, were not approved * I
thought it, therefore, my duty to leave ; and, after two years of
anxious labor, not unattended with danger, I respectfully resigned
my situation, and committed myself again to the old *' battle of
life."

(Ay\j^

I

So REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. vn.

CHAPTER VII.

THE POTATO ROT.

lyrONE of those who witnessed the scenes which took place in
Ireland during the ** potato rot" and the *^ famine years " are
likely ever to forget them. These scenes came to pass within a
year or two after I had resigned my post as agent to the Shirley
estates in the county of Munaghan.

On leaving Carrickmacross I went to reside at Cardtown, my
place in the Queen's County. It a4joins an extensive mountain
tract of land which I had purchased, and which I had for some
years previously been engaged in reclaiming. Having resigned
Mr. Shirley's agency, I was able to devote my time and energies
more exclusively to this work, and the mode of reclaiming being
chiefly through the means of the potato, as the only green crop
which grows luxuriantly in rough ground with previously imperfecc
tilth, I planted each year larger and larger quantities of that root.
Guano having been at that time (1845) recently brought into use as
a manure, was found to be particularly suited to the production of
the potato; I accordingly applied a liberal quantity to the crop,
which was most luxuriant, and well repaid the labor, money, and
attention necessarily bestowed upon it.

My plan of reclaiming was very simple. The land to be acted
on consisted generally of rough mountain pasture covered with
heather. There were no stones, or few of sufficient size, to im-
pede the course of the plough. The land was first limed with
eighty barrels '*' of lime to the Irish acre (about fifty to the statute
acre), spread broadcast upon the surface. The land was then

• The *' barrel " of the country contains thirty-two gallons.

1846O THE POTATO ROT. 8l

ploughed down into what were termed *^ lazy beds," that is, narrow
ridges about five feet in width, with a furrow between each ridge.
Into these ridges the seed of the potato was put by merely sticking
the spade into the rough ground, and dropping in the seed or '* set"
at the back of the spade ; the spade being then withdrawn, the seed
remained two or three inches under the surface. Guano, six hun-
dred weight to the acre, was then scattered over the ridges, care
being taken that the guano should not come into immediate contact
either with the seed or with the lime. And this being done, the
furrows were dug, tlie clay shovelled over the ridges, and the whole
made up into *^ lazy beds," — rough underneath where heather and
sods lay rudely massed together, but when covered up with the
fresh dug soil from the furrows, presenting a neat and finished
appearance above. The potato grew to perfection in this rude
description of tillage ; and whilst it was growing, the heather rotted
under the influence of the lime, and, together with the other super-
abundant vegetable matter, was turned by the action of the lime
into a most valuable manure. The guano stimulated an enormous
And luxuriant growth, and when the potatoes were in course of
being dug out, the act of digging mixed the lime, manure, and the
several soils together into an even texture, leaving the land which
had hitherto been scarcely worth one shilling per acre, in excellent
order for sowing corn crops or grass seeds, and permanently worth
at least one pound per acre.

I had taken much pains for some years previously in ascertain-
ing, through repeated experiments, the success of this system of
cultivation; and having found that in every case the process of
reclamation was repaid, or nearly so, in the first year by the sale
of the potato crop alone, leaving behind it land, increased from ten
to twenty-fold in value, I planted in the year 1846 about one hun-
dred Irish acres * of mountain land under potatoes, counting, as
surely as any farmer can count on reaping any crop, upon a
produce worth at least S02. per acre. I was living at this time at
Cardtown, where I had been engaged in building large additions to

* Bqoal to 162 English or statute acres.

6

82 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE [chap. vn.

my dwelling-house, in fact a new house as it stands at present.
My reclamation had succeeded beyond my most sanguine ezpec- !
tations, and in the month of July, 1S46, my potato crop, for its
extent and luxuriance, was the wonder of every one who saw it ;
and at the very moderate price of threepence per stone, — a price
potatoes could always then command, — I felt certain, humanly
speaking, of realizing by their sale at least 3,000/.

The reclamation of my mountain property had been a subject of
considerable interest to many of the most intelligent agriculturists
in Ireland. In the first instance, a silver medal, and afterwards a
gold medal, had been offered by the Royal Agricultural Society of
Ireland, ^^ For the best report on the largest quantity of waste land
reclaimed in Ireland," and in both cases I succeeded in obtaining
this honorary distinction. The whole details of the plan, and the
cost attendant thereon, were published in the Transactions of the
Society, and many people thought, and I was myself amongst the
number, that at last one of the great difficulties of Ireland at that
day, — namely, the reclamation of her waste lands, and the profit-
able employment of her superabundant labor, — was about to be
solved by this hitherto successful experiment.* For some years I
had not less than two hundred laborers, employed constantly at
those works, draining, levelling, liming, and the heavy work of
sowing and digging out again enormous quantities of potatoes. A
more cheering sight it was scarcely possible to conceive than to
witness these numerous laborers, employed at good wages them-
selvesy^ollected from all quarters where labor was abundant, pro-
ducing food for thousands of people whilst reclaiming one of the
wastes of Ireland. But all this passed away like a dream on the
sudden failure of the potato, and '* the happy valley," as the sloping
sides of my mountain property of Baureigh, with a clear trout
stream running in the hollow, was frequently called by those who
visited the works, was by that fearful calamity turned into a valley
of woe.

* All the members of the Devon Commission, accompanied by Lord Devon
himself, visited these works in their official capacity, and mentioned them most
favorably in their report.

1846.] THE POTATO ROT. 83

On August Ist of that calamitous year, 1846, I was startled by
hearing a sudden and strange rumor that all the potato fields in the
district were blighted; and that a stench had arisen, emanating
from their decaying stalks. I immediately rode up to visit my
crop, and test the truth of this report ; but I found it as luxuriant
as ever, in full blossom, the stalks matted across each other with
richness, and promising a splendid produce, without any unpleasant
smell whatever. On coming down from the mountain, I rode into
the lowland country, and there I found the report to be but too
true. The leaves of the potatoes on many fields I passed were
quite withered, and a strange stench, such as I had never smelt
before, but which became a well-known feature in *^ the blight ** for
years after, filled the atmosphere adjoining each field of potatoes.

The next day I made further inquiries, and I found the disease
was fast extending, and on rooting up some of the potato bulbs
under the withered stalks, I found that decay had set in, and that
the potato was rapidly blackening and melting away. In fields
having a luxuriant crop, the stench was generally the first indi-
cation of disease, and the withered leaf followed in a day or two
aXterwards. Much alarm now prevailed in the country; people
looked blank enough, as they asked each other if they had seen
this new and formidable disease. Those, like me, who had staked
a large amount of capital on the crop, hitherto almost a certainty,*
and at least as sure as the crop of wheat or turnips or any other
agricultural produce, became extremely uneasy ; whilst the poorer
farmers looked on helplessly and with feelings of dire dismay at
the total disappearance of all they had counted on for food.

£ach day, from the time I first heard of the disease, I went

* There is no grenXer fallacy than to suppose that the potato was at that time
an uncertain crop. I have been a tolerably extensive tillage-farmer for a great
many years, and, until 1846, 1 never had a failure. My turnips were sometimes
poor and thin in dry and parching weatlier; my wheat was sometimes smutty,
and did not turn out well under the flail ; but if I manured my land well, I was
alw^ays certain of my potato crop.

In my judgment the potato has never been of so good quality, since the diseaao
of 184ft, as It was before it.— W. S. T. ^

84 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. vn.

regularly to visit my splendid mountain crop, and each day saw it
apparently further advanced in course of arriving at a healthy and
abundant maturity.

On August 6, 1846, — I shall not readily forget the day, — I rode
up, as usual, to my mountain property, and my feelings may be
imagined when, before I saw the crop, I smelt the fearful stench,
now 80 well known and recognized as the death-sigpn of each field
of potatoes. I was dismayed indeed, but I rode on : and, as I wound
down the newly engineered road, running through the heart of the
farm, and which forms the regular approach to the steward's house,
I could scarcely bear the fearful and strange smell, which came
up so rank from the luxuriant crop then growing all around ; no
perceptible change, except the smell, had as yet copie upon the
apparent prosperity of the deceitfully luxuriant stalks, but the
experience of the past few days taught me that all was gone, and
the crop was utterly^ worthless.

I need not tell how bitterly I was disappointed, overthrown as all
my anticipations of profitable result* were by this great calamity.
Not only did I foresee the loss of my 3,000Z. — no small sum to a
man who had just surrendered an agency of 1,000Z. per annum ; but
I felt, also, that the hopes of future, success, on which I had ex-
pended a large capital, and much time and thought for years, were
gone, — that it would be madness ever to venture on the trial of
such a crop again; and that all my labor, and. patient experiments,
which had hitherto turned out so completely successful were, — by
this new and fearful calamity, sent by the special hand of God, and
the like of which had never appeared in nature before, — utterly
blasted.

But upon this I will not dwell. It is enough to say that the
luxuriant stalks soon withered, the leaves decayed, the disease
extended to the tubers, and the stench from the rotting of such an
immense amount of rich vegetable matter became almost intolerable.
I saw it fast disappearing and melting away under this fatal disease.
I tried to dig the potatoes rapidly, in the hope of saving something;
and, in accordance with the advice of Sir Robert Kane and others,
I set up a temporary machine for the conversion of the tubers into

i8«6.] THE POTATO ROT- 85

Btarch. But the final result was, that the produce of the entire crop
yielded abo'ui forty pounds in starch, whilst the cost of grinding
the pulp, and erecting machinery, amounted to cU>out twice that
sum ! My plans, my labor, my 3,0007. , and all hopes of future
profit by these means, were gone.

But my own losses and disappointments, deeply as I felt them,
were soon merged in the general desolation, misery, and starvation
which now rapidly affected the poorer classes around me and
throughout Ireland. It is true that in the more cultivated districts
of the Queen's County and the midland counties generally, not
many deaths occurred from actual starvation. I mean, that people
were not found dead on the roads or in the fields from sudden
deprivation of food; but they sank gradually from impure and
insufficient diet ; and fever, dysentery, the crowding in the work-
house, or hardship on the relief works, carried thousands to a
premature grave. The crop of all crops, on which they depended
for food, had suddenly melted away, and no adequate arrangements
had been made to meet this calamity, — the extent of which was so
sudden and so terrible that no one had appreciated it in time, — and
thus thousands perished almost without an efibrt to save themselves.

Public relief works were soon set on foot by the Government.
Presentment sessions were held, relief committees organized, and
the roads were tortured and cut up ; hills were lowered, and hollows
filled, and wages were paid for half or quarter work, — but still the
people died. Soup kitchens and ^* stirabout houses ** were resorted
to. Free trade was partially adopteiL Indian meal poured into
Ireland ; individual exertions and chanty abounded to an enormous
extent, — but still the people died. Many of the highest and noblest
is the land, both men and women, lost their lives, or contracted
diseases from which they never afterwards recovered, in their en-
deavors to stay this fearful calamity, — but still the people died.
We did what we could at Cardtown ; but, though the distress there
was far less than in most other places, yet our efforts seemed a
mere drop of oil let fall upon the ocean of misery around us, — and
still the people died I

Before the close of this year, being wholly unable from private

/

86 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. vu.

sources to grapple with the vast extent of misery around us, and
seeing also that there was no hope of the recovery of the potato,
and that my occupation as an extensive reclaimer of land through
its medium was suddenly brought to a close, I resolved to adapt
myself as well as I could to this new condition of affairs. By this
time an outcry had arisen against the public road relief works, and
every one demanded some more useful and ^^ reprodtuiwe" em-
ployment for the masses, now dependent on public charity. The
Government thus was much in want of some one to set on foot a
practicable plan to meet this public demand, and to organize a
system of reproductive works, such as draining, subsoiling, liming,
etc., and thus, as it were, draw the people from the roads into the
fields. Acting, therefore, on the experience I had already acquired
in the reclamation of land, I drew up a complete plan, embracing
forms and specifications, etc., for draining, subsoiling, and the like.
I then went to Dublin, and laid the whole project before the Board
of Public Works. Colonel Jones, Sir Richard Griffith, and Mr.
Mulvany, were then the Commissioners of Public Works engaged
in this department. They carefully examined my plans, and at
once closed with my proposal for employment, granting me a salary
of 500Z. per annum, together with my travelling expenses, and sent
me forthwith to open the whole system, and practically to test its
working in the old, well-known ground of the Barony of Farney*
Here I remained five weeks, apparently only laying out drainage
and setting the people to work, but re^ly organizing the system of
employment which was afterwards adopted and carried out under
the provisions known as '* Mr. Labouchere's letter." The whole
of the forms of estimate, specifications, etc., were there prepared
and carefully tested by me, and, at the end of five weeks* hard
work, during which I labored at least fourteen hours per diem«
either at my desk or in the field, I was able to send details of the
whole system to be printed, and, immediately on their completion,
the drainage works were commenced in every county in Ireland. I
returned soon after to the Queen's County, over almost the whole
of which I had especial charge as far as those works were con-
cerned, and I continued for about two years superintending this

1846.] THE POTATO ROT. 87

execution of improvements, which, however imperfect in conse-
quence of the weakness of the laborers, and the difficulty of organ-
izing a new and extensive working staff, yet laid the foundation for
that most valuable law, the "Land Improvement Act," and the
wide-spread system of drainage which has since prevailed over
Ireland.

Such was my first practical acquaintance with the fearful "Potato
Rot " of 1846, — the effects of which have produced a social revolu-
tion in Ireland. It hurried on the introduction of free trade. It
Indirectly brought about the arterial drainage of many of the main
rivers of Ireland. It created the Land Improvement Act. It
brought into existence the Incumbered Estates Court, one of the
most important Acts ever passed in Ireland. It drove some mil-^ /
l ions of pe onle to the other side of the Atlantic, and sent many
thousands to an untimely grave. It broke up, to a great extent,
' the small farms of Ireland. It relieved the plethora of the labor
market. It removed the needy country gentlemen, and forced
them to sell their estates into the hands of capitalists. It unlocked
millions of capital, since then laid out on the improved cultivation
of the land. It brought over hundreds of Scotchmen and Eng-
lishmen, who have farmed on an extended and more scientific
system than had before then been the practice in Ireland ; and, in
short, it has produced a revolution in the country which has lasted
ever since. Its immediate effects were so appalling, and its final
results so remarkable, that these few notes descriptive of its first
appearance, as it came under my own immediate observation, may
not prove wholly without interest. "^

But I must record some features of the potato rot as it appeared
in other districts less favored than the Queen's County. Th^
population of that county was never very excessive, the farms were
moderate in size, and, valuable as the potato was as an esculent,
and most useful as I had proved it to be in the reclamation of waste
lands, yet it rarely formed, as in other districts, the sole food of
the people. During the period whilst I was engaged in organizing
the system of drainage for the Board of Works, fearful scenes were
being enacted in other parts, and especially in the south and west / ^

/- Irvw-fUr <p^ua:^

88 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. vii.

of Ireland. There the cottier system prevailed to its fallest extent ;
and, in the mountain districts where bnt little com was grown, and
where the people lired almost exclusively upon the potato, the most
dire distress arose. Dark whisperings and rumors of famine in its
most appalling form began to reach us, but still we could scarcely
believe that men, women and children were actually dying of star-
vation i n thousands. Yet so it wtis. They died in their mountain
glens, they died along the sea-coast, they died on the roads, and
tLey died in the fields ; they wandered into the towns, and died in
the streets ; they closed their cabin doors and lay down upon their
beds, and died of actual starvation in their houses.

To us, even at the time, it appeared almost incredible that such
things should be. But a cry soon arose from the west, and es-
pecially from the district of Skibbereen and Schull in the county
of Cork, which left no further doubt as to the real position of
affairs ; hundreds* nay thousands, of people had died, and were
dying, in those districts, of absolute, direct starvation.

It is not my object or intention here to enter into any description
of the arrangements which were made by Government to meet this
dire calamity. To those who seek for accurate information on this
head, I would recommend the perusal of a small volume entitled
** The Irish Crisis, by C. E. Trevelyan, Esq., reprinted from the
'Edinburgh Review.!" Iii it they will find all the information
they can require. My present intention is merely to state what
occurred under my own observation, or that of my immediate
friends. When first this dreadful cry resounded through the land,
the question which occurred to every thinking and practical mind
was, '* Why shovM these things he f " Ireland was not liko any
part of India, cut off from extraneous supplies. It was true the
potatoes had rotted, and it was true the people had depended on the
potato almost alone for food. But there was abundance of corn,

(abundance of flour, and abundance of meal in the country, not
to speak of herds of sheep and cattle innumerable ; and, in the
midst of such plenty, why should the people die t There was also
abundance of money to purchase food : money was freely offered
from many quarters, and was ready to flow forth in a mighty stream

1846.] THE POTATO ROT. 89

from the charitable people of England, to almost any extent. If so,
I may again ask, Why should the people die t

To solve this problem some friends and relatives of mine pro-
posed to visit the then notoriously distressed district of Schull, in
tbe west of the county of Cork, and endeavor to ascertain for
themselves the cause of this extraordinary position Qf affairs.
Accordingly the Rev. Frederick F. Trench, a gentleman well-
known for his philanthrophy, and the Kev. Kichard C. Trench,
then rector of Itchenstoke in Hampshire, — now Archbishop of
Dublin, — agreed to visit the district in person. The result of
their inquiries was very simple. There was, as I have stated,
abundance of corn and abundance of meal within some few miles
of the district, and no lack of funds to purchase these provisions ;
and yet in near proximity to this plenty, the people were dying by
hundreds, of actual dire starvation, merely for want of some one
with sufficient energy and powers of organization to bring the food
and the people together. This was the apparently simple problem
to be solved,. and to effect it they set themselves vigorously to work.
In one place they found a most benevolent clergyman, who having
obtained large funds from England to mitigate the famine, appeared
Vd the morning at his own hall door, and threw handfuls of shillings
and sixpences amongst the crowd who had collected to receive the
cbMity. Amiable gentleman no doubt he was, and most honorable
in the distribution of all he had received ; but he forgot that starving *
people could^ot cat sixpences or shillings, and the food was some
ten miles off.* The people had no strength nor energy to seek,
purchase, or cook meal or flour, and with the silver in their hands,
they died. In another place they found the priest of the parish
utterly paralyzed by the magnitude of the desolation around him.
He had given all he had to the people, there was no food whatever
in his house, and he stood really in danger of being starved him-

* This excellent and amiable man died toon after from Uie effects of his con-
stant labors amongst the poor people aroand him. His constitution gave way
under the combined pressure of anxiety, sorrow, low fever, and putrid air, and
thi^ under ordinary dronmstances, in one of the healthiest sp Jts in Ireland.

90 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. ra.

self, with money in his pocket, and abundance of com near at
hand.* Such was the position of affairs, — the people dying,
plenty of food within reach, plenty of money to purchase it, plenty
of fish in the sea acfjoining, — but no one with forethought and
arrangement enough to cook the victuals, catch the fish, ^tbm the
corn across the mountains, and bring the food and the people to-
gether I

The plan adopted by these energetic philanthropists was very
plain and simple. They first sought for funds ; and the appeal was
immediately and most generously responded to. They then en-
gaged active earnest men, as temporary agents, over a district
containing some sixty-seven townlands. And having selected the
places most suitable for their operations, they opened what they
then termed *' soup kitchens," but what were really depdts of boiled
meal, made into a thick nutritious food which in Ireland is called
'* stirabout,** It is perhaps the simplest and most palatable form in
which a wholesome well-cooked food can be obtained cheaply in
half an hour. These dep6ts, of which there were nineteen in the
district, were placed within two or three miles of each other,
sufficiently near to enable all those who wanted food, and who were
willing and able to walk a short distance, to obtain at least one
good meal each day, the only condition or stipulation being that
they should come as clean as their case admitted, to the food
dep6t.

I will not venture to Ascribe the harrowing scen^i which pre-
sented themselves to these gentlemen and their assistants. I will
not dilate upon the ** sliding coffin," f through which so many
bodies were passed into the same open grave, it being impossible to
procure coffins for all ; nor upon the emaciated forms which crawled
for food to the newly-established dep6ts. Suffice it to say, that in a

* The sea along the coast abounded with fish, bat there were no nets, no boats,
and no one to organize the simplest fiishing operations.

t A cofSn made with a sliding bottom, so that, by drawing out the bottom,
the body fell into the grave, and the coffin could be used again for the same
purpose.

i&|6.] THE POTATO ROT. 91

veiy brief period, namely, from April 1, until May 10, 1847, they
distributed, free, to the starring population, 102,129 meals within a
district comprising sixty-seven townlands; in other words, they fed
with one good meal per diem 2,553 persons for forty consecutive
days at the wonderfully moderate cost of 2d, per meal, inclusive
of all expenses.

A full statement of receipts and expenditure, by the Eev. F. F.
Trench, at SchuU and other places in the south-west of the county
of Cork, which was published at the time, gives a faithful, but brief
description of the efforts there made to save life. After giving a
detailed list of subscribers, and the sums subscribed by each, he
gives a *' statement of the receipts and expenditure " of this trust
money ( by far the greater portion of which was subscribed amongst
bis own friends and relations in Ireland), showing that he had
received on the whole 17872. IBs. 2d.y and had expended 101 6Z. 65.
i<2., leaving a balance, then placed in the funds for ulterior charity,
of 771Z. Qs. lOd.

Mr. Trench's statement *' to the subscribers ** might be read with
interest by those anxious to inform themselves on this subject, and
also tlie letters addressed to him by the Kev. James Barry, Roman
Catholic priest at the Ballydehob. They set forth in strong lan-
guage the estimation in which the efforts of these gentlemen were
regarded; nor were they suspended until the Government under-
took the task of feeding the people upon itself, which was here
Initiated by the philanthropic men alluded to.

I have purposely avoided giving any details of individual suffering
in the harrowing forms in which they presented themselves to
myself during that fearful period. A book could be written on this
subject; but of what avail would it be now? It is generally
admitted that about 200,000 persons died of the famine in Ireland ;
and my object is to show that if proper precautions had been taken
in time, — by energetic men capable of undertaking the task, — to
feed those who were unable to work, the famine would have been
stayed, and most of the people saved.

j ^0 , C d VxJ^ .

/ t i

ga REAJLITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. vm.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE EXODUS. KENMARB.

rN the winter of the year 1849, 1 had nearly concluded my public
labors under the Land Improvement Act ; and I was then en-
deavoring, by other systems than that of the potato, to continue
the reclamation of my mountain property, when I received a com-
munication from Mr. Price, then Lord Lansdowne's agent in the
Queen's County, stating that his Lordship was desirous of appoint-
ing some gentleman upon whose judgment he could rely, to visit
his estates in Kerry, audit the accounts, and report to him gen-
erally upon the condition of his property in that district. My name
had been mentioned to his lordship, and he had approved of the
nomination.

My terms were at once arranged, and I stained for Kerry on my
new mission. On my arrival at Kenmare, I found the agent of tlie
estate waiting to receive me at the hotel. He was an elderly gen-
tleman of easy habits ; kind-hearted and honorable, but scarcely
capable of grappling with the serious difficulties which at that time
surrounded him as responsible manager of so large and important
a property.

1 spent six weeks in Kerry ; and having completed an elaborate
report, describing the past and present condition and probable
future of the estate, I forwarded it to Lord Lansdowne.

His lordship, shortly after its receipt, sent for me to London, and
offered me the agency of his Kerry property. Having accepted the
proposal thus kindly made, I left London for Ireland, and pro-
ceeded forthwith to Kenmare.

The district of Kenmare at that period, — January, 1850,— wae

1850O THE EXODUS. 93

not in a desirable condition. " The famine," in the strict accepta-
tion of the term, was then nearly over, but it had left a trail behind
it, almost as formidable as its presence. The mountain district
around Kenmare had not escaped its effects. The circumstances
of that country were peculiar. The Union of Kenmare consists of
a vast Talley, with an arm of the sea, usually called the ** Kenmare
Biver,' running up the centre for the distance of about six-and*
twenty miles. On either sidtf' of this estuary, the mountains rise
continuously to a distance of seven or eight miles from the shore,
thus making an enormous valley about thirty miles long and sixteen
wide. Within this district but little com is grown. The portions
of land reclaimed from the rocky mountains, on which alone corn
could be raised, are so small, that they are barely sufficient to grow
potatoes and turnips enough for the consumption of the people,
and their cattle, throughout the winter. The exports of the district )
may be said to consist exclusively of butter, young cattle, and/
sheep, — whilst the inhabitants subsisted on potatoes, milk, and ]
butter, together with cure d fish , bacon, and a very small supply of \ • ^
oats, grown upon the reclaimed portion of land amongst the rocks. \ y\/C\, Af
There is no access nearer than Killarney, wliich is twenty miles ( ^ / . a
distant, to any corn-growing country. ^ -

The estate of the Marquis of Lansdowne in the Union of Ken-
mare had at this time been much neglected by its local manager.
It consists of about sixty thousand acres, and comprises nearly one-
third of the whole union. No restraint whatever had been put
upon the system of subdivision of land. *Boys and girls inter-
married unchecked, each at the age of seventeen or eighteen,
without thinking it necessary to make any provision whatever for
tbeir future subsistence, beyond a shed to lie down in, and a small
plot of land whereon to grow potatoes. Innumerable squatters
had settled themselves, unquestioned, in huts on the mountain sides
and in the valleys, without any sufficient provision for their main-
tenance during the year. They sowed their patches of potatoes
early in ^ring, using sea-weed alone as a manure. Then as the
scarce seasons of spring and summer came on, they nailed up the
doois of their huts, took all their children along with them, to-

54 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. vni.

gether with a few tin cans, and started on a migratory and piratical
expedition over the counties of Kerry and Cork, trusting to their
adroitness and good luck in hegging, to keep the family alive till
the potato crop again came in. And thus, in consequence of the
neglect or supineness of the agent, who, — in direct violation of
his lordship's instructions, and without his knowledge, — allowed
Dumhers of strangers and young married couples to settle on his
estate, paying no rent, and almost without any visihle means of
subsistence, hot only the finances, but the character and condition
of the property, were at a very low ebb indeed. The estate, in
fact, was swamped with paupers.

The desolation which a sudden failure of the staple food of the
people, in a remote valley like this, must necessarily bring along
with it, may be imagined. The scenes in SchuU and Skibbereen
were here enacted over again. As the potato melted away before
the eyes of the people, they looked on in dismay and terror ; but
there was no one with energy enough to import corn to supply its
place. Half Ireland was stunned by the suddenness of the calam-
ity, and Kenmare was completely paralyzed* Begging, as of old,
was now out of the question, as all were nearly equally poor ; and
many of the wretched people succumbed to their fate alQiost without
a struggle.

The agent of the estate, who on my first arrival was my chief
informant, did not seem to consider that any one in particular was
to blame for this. He talked of it as '' the hand of God." The
whole thing had come so suddenly, and all those residing at Ken-
mare were so entirely unprepared, and incapable of meeting it,
that an efficient remedy was utterly out of the question.

In the midst of this most dire distress, Lord Lansdowne came
forward in the most generous manner, and oficred money to any

Z extent, — in fact a carte blanchcy — to save the lives of the people.
But there was no one in the country capable of undertaking the
^ task. The magnitude of the suffering seemed to paralyze all local
efforts to avert it, and his lordship's unbounded liberalitj^ was but
little tested or appliedn^ And thus almost in the midst of plenty, -—
for there was abundance of corn within^ few miles di^wt,-^

1850.]

THE EXODUS.

95

famine stalked unmolested through the glens and mountains of
Glanerought.*

It was indeed admitted to me by many intelligent men, that if
there had been one man of firmness and energy in the district, ho
might have saved thousands of lives by the adoption of the same
kind of plan as that so successfully organized by the Messrs.
Trench in the west of the neighboring county of Cork, and which
had turned out so effective even in a quarter with which they were
wholly unconnected. But the local gentry were paralyzed, the
tradesmen were paralyzed, the people were paralyzed, and the
cottiers and squatters and small ■ holders, who now saw the conse*
quences of their previous folly in unlimited subdivision, unable
from hunger to work, and hopeless of any sufficient relief from
extraneous sources, sank quietly down, some in their houses, some
at the *' relief works," and died almost without a stmggle.f

Such were the scenes which had taken place in that then secluded
valley, not long previous to my arrival.

When I first reached Kenmare in the winter of 1849-50, the form
of destitution had changed in some degree ; but it was still very
great. It was true that people no longer died of starvation ; but
they were dying nearly as fast of fever, dysentery, and scurvy
within the walls of the work-house. Food there was now in abun-
dance ; but to entitle the people to obtain it, they were compelled
to go into the work-house and *' auxiliary sheds," X "ontil these were
crowded almost to sufibcation. And although out-door relief had
also been resorted to in consequence of the impossibility of finding

room for the paupers in the houses, yet the quantity of food given

•

* The name of the barony in which Lord Lansdowne's Kerry estate is sitnated.

/ t Several of the respectable shop-keepers in the town of Kenmare informed

/ me that at this period four or five dead bodies were frequently found in the

J streets, or on the flags, in the morning, the remains of poor people who had

I wandered in from the country in search of food; and that they dreaded to open

y their doors lest a corpse should be found leaning against it.

Xi.^ The work-houses being at this time quite unable to hold the numbers who

crowded in^ large auxiliary timber sheds were erected in convenient places, and

in tbete were hoiised Immense numbers of paupers, for whom room could not be

Ibnnd in the main building.

96 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. vni.

was 80 sinall, and the previous destittUion through which they had
passed was so severe, that nearlj as many died now tinder the
hands of the guardians, as had perished hefore hy actual starvation.

In illustration of this state of things, I may mention an event
which occurred to myself, soon after my arrival in tiie district.

I was in the hahit, at this time, of attending the meetings of tlie
Poor Law Board of Guardians, of which I had not yet become a
member.

The numbers at that time receiving relief in the whole union of
Kenmare were somewhere about ten thousand. In June, 1849, six
months previous to my coming, they had reached the highest point,
about ten thousand four hundred persons being then in receipt of
relief. They had diminished slightly at the time to which I allude.

After a day of painful toil in the duty of admitting paupers, I
was obliged to leave before the board broke up, as I had important
business in Killarney, and I started on horseback to ride across the
mountains. I had not gone far, when a messenger came posting
after me to say, that the government officer, then in attendance at
the board, was very desirous to see me. I asked if the case waa
urgent, and was told that it was very urgent indeed.

I returned of course, and found the members of the board look*
ing certainly blank enough. The officer immediately informed me
that the contractor, to whom a very large amount of money was
due, had positively refused to give another sack of meal unless he
received an instalment in cash that day. No one could well blame
him. The board was bankrupt ; repeated promises had been made
to him of payments, which had not been fulfilled, and credit was
utterly gone. At length I proposed that we should all put our
hands in our pockets, and offered, on my own account, to double
whatever total the rei^t of the board would subscribe amongst them,
and take chance for the umon refunding the money afterwards.

CThe board however declined, land I could not get a lOZ. note sub*
scribed. I called the government officer aside into another room,
and said, ** Will you tell me exactly what you think will be the
consequence if the contractor refuses to let us have another load
of meal?"

1850.] THE EXODUS. 97

**I hare thought over this," he replied, "and considering the
numbers who are depending exclusively on this food and who are
already in the last stage of destitution, on out-door relief, in distant
parts of the union where this meal should now be sent, I feel con-
fident that not less than from twelve to fifteen hundred persons will
be dead before twenty-four hours are over."

" Is it possible ? " said I, — " Can this really be true ? "

<* I think, sir," said he, " I am rather under than over the esti*
mate."

I could no longer hesitate. I fortunately happened to have some
private funds in bank. I made the necessary arrangements for the
payment of a portion of the debt, and the contractor forwarded the
meal. Even now I tremble to think what might have occurred,
either if I had gone too far towards Killamey to be recalled, or if I
had not happened, at the time, to be in a position to make the
necessary arrangements.

-It may readily be supposed that this was a very serious state of
things for a stranger to enter upon as the agent of Lord Lans-
downe's estate in this union, and consequently, as such, the most
responsible person in the district. I can hardly describe my
anxiety of mind, as day after day the increasing responsibilities of
the post I had assumed developed themselves before me. No one
else would now stir. They had not done much before ; and now
that I . took a prominent part amongst them, they held back and
would do nothing. All, indeed, cried aloud that " something ought
to be done," but few were able or willing to subscribe, and none
had energy enough to attempt to grapple with the difficulty. Thus,
by degrees, I felt myself placed almost alone, to meet, as I could,
this fearful mass of pauperism.

The position was a most anxious one ; but I endeavored to meet
it steadily. Lord Lansdowne had kindly intimated to me that funds
on the most liberal scale, — in fact to any amount required, — would
be at my disposal for anything which would be for the advantage
of the district ; and the development of my plans was looked
forward to with much anxiety. I remember a curious scene which
took place about this time.

7

^8 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. vm.

I iras sitting one evening in my study, — I think it was in tiie
month of May, 1850, — when I heard rather a strange hnmmixii^
noise, as of the suppressed Toices of many hundred people. It
came from the direction of the '' Brewery," a short distance from
Lansdowne Lodge. The noise was a very peculiar one, and unlike
anything I had ever heard before. I was on the point of rising to
ascertain the cause, when the servant rushed into the room^ ex*
claiming, ''Oh, sir, the Brewery is on fire I" This brewery was
an enormous building, formerly used for the purpose designated by
its name, but now converted into an auxiliary poor-house, in which
about three hundred pauper children were lodged. I went down
without a moment's delay ; and, just as I entered the premises, I
met the school^master, who had charge of the building and all the
children in it. I found him in great alarm.

" What is the matter? " I asked.

" I don't know, sir," he replied. " I believe the brewery is on
fire ; but I dare not open the door to see, as the children have got
the alarm inside, and have become actually mad with fright ; they
would surely rush down the high stone steps, and half of them be
killed in the panic."

'* Is there only one way out for the whole three hundred chil'*
dren?" I asked.

" That is all," replied he.

'' Give me the key ; " and I went up the stairs to the door. A set
of stone steps, with a stone parapet along them, led to a smoUy
square-flagged platform immediately outside the door of the build-
ing. I saw at once that the man was so far right, that if the door
were suddenly opened, a rush from the inside would inevitably be
made, which must drive numbers over the parapet, and many would
probably be killed by the fall, or smothered by the others passing
over them, before such a number of children, in the wild state of
panic in which they then were, could emerge from the building.

Seeing all this at a glance, I nevertheless opened the door, and
pressing my foot against the low stone parapet on the opposite side
of the platform, so as to retain firm possession of the door-way, I
looked into the building. The sight which presented itself was

i8so.] THE EXODUS. 99

strange and wild. Inside was a large room, in which as many
cfaiidren as it conld possibly hold were crammed. The panic of the
fire had seized them, and they were fast losing their senses with
terror. The eyes of some were already staring wide, almost idiotic
in expression. Others clenched their little fists, and ground their
teeth, and threatened me in the most furious manner. And, in some
cases, grown-up women, — nurses they appeared to be, — with
infimts in their arms, cursed and swore at me, insisting that I was
tb^e to prevent their getting out, and that I was determined to
burn them all together in the house. It was a dreadful scene of
terror and despair, and the panic was evidently increasing.

I immediately entered the room, closing the door behind me,
and raising my hand, I said, in a loud voice, —

*'I will let you all out this moment. There is no danger what*
ever. Be quiet and you shall all get out."

But I might as well have spoken to maniacs in Bedlam. They
raised a panic-stricken shriek in reply, and struggled to get at the
door. There was nothing now to be done but to let them out as
carefally as I could. So I got outside the door again, and opened
a few inches to prevent a rush of the children over the parapet ;
and thus, letting them out one by one, kicking, screaming, and
some of them actually biting at my legs, they all got safely down
the stone steps, and not a single one of them was hurt. I then
went inside to examine the house for the fire. There was none : it
was altogether a false alarm !

On my return to the door, the scene in the court-yard below was
a very curious one. About eighteen or twenty children, chiefly
boys of about twelve years of age, were lying on the gravel, some
with their eyes staring and their bodies working in hideous contor-
tions, completely idiotic from the fright. Some were quite motion-
less, but doubled ba^ as if under the influence of cramp or tetanus.
Some were apparently dead. So strange a scene of killed and
wounded I jaever saw in my life. The excellent doctor ♦ of the

* Dr. G-eorge H. Mayberry. Nothing could exceed hie courage and attentioii
to the poor In those trying times, as medical attendant at the workhouse. I am
happy to say he still holds his post, with advantage to all concerned.

too REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. vin.

union soon afterwards arrived, and I handed over the patients to
him. To my surprise, he seemed to think but little of the matter,
and assured me they would soon recover. But he admitted that
had I opened the door suddenly, without insisting as I stood by that
each should have time to reach the bottom of the steps in safety,
vast numbers must inevitably have been killed.

In an hour or two most of them had recovered, and, with tome
difficulty, we got them all again into the building and to bed. I
walked all through the wards just as the children were going to rest,
and it was curious to watch the starts, and mutterings, and con-
vulsive sobs which numbers exhibited as they gradually dropped
asleep. It was evident that the panic had greatly affected the
entire mass of children. I had never seen a panic, though I bad
often heard of one, before. It is not, by any means, a pleasant
thing to witness.

Such was the state of things in Kenmare at the time to which I
allude.

My first step was to endeavor to relieve, in some degree, the
plethora of the poor-house ; and for this purpose I offered employ-
ment, outside, to all those who had entered it chargeable to Lord
Lansdowne's estate. I promised them reasonable wages in drain-
ing, subsoiling, removing rocks and stones, and su^-like out^of-^door
labor. No sooner had I made this proposal, than about three
hundred gaunt, half-famished men, and nearly as manyboya and
women, appeared in my field the next morning, all of them claiming
my promise, but none of them having any tools wherewith to lab<»r 1
Here was a new dilemma. The offer of employment had been
accepted with only too great avidity ; but the creatures had not a
spado, nor a pick-axe, nor a, working tool amongst them. Fortu-
nately, a large dep6t of these articles h^d lain stored in a tool-house
hard by, — remnants of the public works. These I immediately
appropriated, and, before noon, about, one-half the people were
employed. The remainder I sent again to the poor-house, telling
them, however, to return the next day and I would endeavor to
procure implements to lend. them. They did so. And, partly
by buying, partly by borrowing, and by making some of them

I850-] THE EXODUS. lOl

work with their hands alone, I managed to keep most of them em-
ployed.

But although at first this system met with great approbation in
the district, yet I found it quite impossible to continue it. In the
first place, not much more than one-fourth of a reasonable value in
labor could be obtained from those who proposed to work ; and in
the next, being now in employment, they had of course to leave the
workhouse. Where then were they to lodge at night? Every
lane, every alley, every cabin in the town was crowded to excess
with these unhappy work-people, and they slept by threes and fours
together wherever they could get a pallet of straw to lie upon. But
I plainly saw that this could not go on. The towns-people began to
complain of the scenes in the town at night ; and when a wet day
came and the people could not work, nearly one-half of them were
obliged to return for the day Hh the poor-house, creating immense
confusion by the sudden influx of such a body of famished new-
comers, and the remainder wandered about, objects of the utmost
compassion.

Accordingly, after the most anxious deliberation, I arrived at the
^nal conclusion that this system could not be carried on. I felt it
would be madness in me to assume the responsibility of keeping
three hundred paupers in employment, most of them removed only
one step from the grave, as, if any accident should happen to pre-
vent them from obtaining daily pay, whether they had work or not,
which I had hitherto managed at great inconvenience to give them,
many lives might be lost in a night; a result for which I, — not in
law, but perhaps in public opinion, — might immediately be called
to account.

X therefore resolved to put into practice a scheme which I had
meditated for a long time previously, namely, to go myself to Lord
X4Ui8downe at Bowood, to state to him the whole circumstances of
the case, and to recommend him to adopt an extensive system of
▼nlupt^ ry emigration as the only practicable and effective means of
relieving this frightful destitution.

This plan, accordingly, I carried into effect. And in the month
of November, 1850, I went over to England ; and having been

lOl REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. vui.

invited to risit his lordship at Bowood, I remained there five
days.

During my stay I had frequent and lengthened interviews with
that most enlightened and liberal statesman. The broad sketch of
the plan I laid before him was as follows : I showed him by the
poor-house returns, that the number of paupers off his estate and
receiving relief in the workhouse amounted to about three thou-
sand. That I was wholly unable to undertake the employment of
these people in their present condition, on reproductive works ; and
that if left in the workhouse, the smallest amount they could pos-
sibly cost would be 5^ per head per annum, and thus that the poor-
rates must necessarily amount, for some years to come, to 15,000J.
' per annum, unless these people died or left, — and the latter was
not probable. I stated also, that hitherto the people had been kept
alive in the workhouse by grants fVom the rates in aid and other
public money; but that this could not always go on. That the
valuation of his estate in that district scarcely reached 10,000Z. per
annum ; and thus, that the poor-rates necessary to be raised in the
future off the estate to support this number of people, would
amount to at least thirty shillings in the pound. I explained fur-
ther to him, that under these circumstances, inasmuch as the poor-
rates were a charge prior to the rent, it would be impossible for his
lordship to expect any rent whatever out of his estate for many
years to come.

The remedy I proposed was as follows : ' That he should forth-
with offer /rtftf emigration to every man, woman, and child now in
the poor-house and chargeable to his estate. That I had been in
communication with an emigration agent, who had offered to con-
tract to take them to whatever port in America each pleased, at a
reasonable rate per head. That even supposing they all accepted
this offer, the total, together with a small sum per head for outfit
and a few shillings on landing, would not exceed from 13,0007. to
14,0007., a sum less than it would cost to support them in the work-
house for a single year. That in the one case he would not only
free his estate of this mass of pauperism which had been allowed
to accumulate upon it, but would put the people themselves in a far

185a] THE EXODUS. 103

better way of earning their bread hereafter; whereas by feeding
and retaining them where they were, they must remain as a mill-
stone around the neck of his estate, and prevent its rise for many
years to come ; and I plainly proved that it would be cheaper to
him, and better for them^ to pay for their emigration' at once, than
to continue to support them at home.

His lordship discussed the matter very fully, and with that kind-
ness> good sense, and liberality which characterized all his acts ;
and on my leaving Bowood he* gave me an order for 8,000Z. where-
with to commence the system of emigration, with .a full understand-
ing that more should be forthcoming if required.

I shall not readily forget the scenes that occurred in Kenmare
when I returned, and announced that I was prepared at Lord Lans-
downe's expense to send to America every one now in the poor-
house who was chargeable to his lordship's estate, and who desired
to go ; leaving each to select what port in America he pleased, —
whether Boston, New York, New Orleans, or Quebec.
. The announcement at first was - scarcely credited ; it was con-
sidered by the paupers to be too good news to be true. But when
it began to be believed and appreciated, a rush was made to get
away at once.

The organization of the system required, however, much care
and thought.

The mode adopted was as follows: Two hundred each week
were selected of those apparently most suited for emigrration ; and
having arranged their slender outfit, a steady man, on whom I
could depend, Mr. Jeremiah O'Shea, was employed to take charge
of them on their journey to Cork, and not to leave them nor allow
them to scatter, until he saw them safely on board the emigrant
ship. This plan succeeded admirably; and week after week, to
the astonishment of the good people of Cork, and sometimes not a
little to their dismay, a batch of two hundred paupers appeared on
the quays of Cork, bound for the Far West.

A cry was now raised that I was exterminating the people. But
the people knew well that those who now cried loudest had given
them no help when in the extremity of their distress, and. they

c

104

RCALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. vm.

^

<^

roshed from the country like a panic-stricken throng, each only
fearing that the fUnds at my disposal might fail before he and his
family could get their passage.

So great was the rush from the poor-house to emigrate, and so
great was the influx into the house to qualify (as I generally re-
quired the application of that sure test of abject poverty before I
gave an order for emigration), that the guardians became uneasy,
and said the poor*house would be filled with those seeking emigra-
tion, even faster than it could be emptied. But I told them not to
be alarmed, — that all demands should be met. And thus, two
hundred after two hundred, week after week, departed for Cork,
until the poor-house was nearly emptied of paupers chargeable to
the Lansdowne estate ; and in little more than a year 8,500 paupers
had left Eenmare for America, all free emigrants, without an/
ejectments having been brought against them to enforce it, or the
slightest pressure put upon them to goTT

Matters now began to right themselves ; only some fifty or sixty
paupers remained in the house, chargeable to the property over
which I had the care, and Lord Lansdowne's estate at length
breathed freely.

It must be admitted that the paupers despatched to America on
such a sudden pressure as this, were of a very motley type ; and a
strange figure these wild batches of two hundred each, — most of
them speaking only the Irish language, — made in the streets of
Cork, as well as on the quays of Liverpool and America. There
was great difficulty in keeping them from breaking loose from the
ship, not only in Cork, but in Liverpool, where the ships touched
before they left for the West. Their chief device was to escape
out of the ships almost naked, to hide all their good clothes which
had been furnished them as an outfit, and to appear only in their
worst rags. In this costume they took delight in rushing through
the streets of Cork and Liverpool in large bodies, to the real terror
of the inhabitants. In short, I do believe that so strange, unman-
agggble>4knd iciUL^ crew had never before left the shores of Ire-
landy But notwithstanding their apparent poverty, they were all
1»Hllie most uproarious spirits ; there was no crying noV lamen-

|U-(+

1

iSso.1 THE EXODUS. 105

tation, &8 18 usual on siich occasions; all was delight at haying
escaped the deadly workhouse.

I need hardly dilate upon the abuse and vituperation which the
adoption of such an eztensire system of emigration brought down
upon me from many well-known quarters. The whole thing had
been done so quickly, that no efforts of opponents could in the
least prevail against it; but no sooner was it completed than I
became the object of the vilest and most bitter abuse. I was ac-
cused of an extensive system of '* clearing the land by eviction "
though I had not evicted a single tenant for the purpose, nor sent
one person away, except by the earnest entreaty of the emigrant
himself. But I pass over the system of falsehood and misrepre-
sentation which then prevailed and which has since then prevailed,
even in a more virulent degree. When necessary, I explained my
conduct to my noble employer. Lord Lansdowne ; and his lordship
in every case thoroughly approved of what I had done. By degrees
this abuse subsided, and the most sensible people in the district
admitted that an inestimable benefit had been rendered to Kenmare.

I am happy to say that the most favorable accounts have been
received, — and are to this day coming back, — from every quarter
to which the emigrants were despatched.^_^,Motreys.in large quan-
tities has been sent home bj^ th em'- jD^hftir frirnrfr Happily no
r accident ever occurred Jto^'fi single ship which carried out the Ken-
mare emigrants. Almost all, down even to the widows and children,
found employment soon after landing, and escaped the pestilence
of the workhouse ; and to this hour I can never experience any

o^ber' feelings but those of pleasure and -gratification at having
^^*-% been the means of sending so many miserable beings to a land far
richer and more prosperous than Ireland. The condition of the
estate outside the poor-house was also vastly improved. Great
numbers of the smaller class of tenantry, men whose holdings
amounted in value to five shillings, ten shillings, or one pound per
annum, and who could scarcely be expected to find the means of
decent support on such a holding, — even though they paid no rent
at all, — now voluntarily gave up their plots of land, and most
gladly emigrated to the Ear West. These plots were added to the

1^ 'pfe ^w^^ \^^^>^

io6 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. vm.

ai^oming tenants' farms ; and thus the nnmher of tenants on the
rent-roll were considerably reduced. Vast numbers of cottiers, or
under-tenants, also, as well as the small farmers, left ; and at last a
fair equilibrium was established between the demand and supply of
labor. In short, the famine was over, and Lord Lansdowne's
estate was righted. ,

I will here mention an anecdote of a newspaper reporter, which
occurred to me about that time.

I was walking one day in company with some other guardians,
from the poor-house to Lansdowne Lodge, after a meeting of the
Board, when a man dressed in thread-bare black, but with a jaunty
and impudent air, came up to me and said, —

** Are you Mr. Trench, sir? "

" I am," replied I.

" A few words with you apart, if you please,** said he.

I dropped a little behind with him, and asked him what he
wanted.

*' A nice country this, sir,** he remarked.

" Yes,*' said I, — ** tolerably so.**

" Strange doings down here, I beliere 1 *'

*' Really, sir,*' I replied, *^ I am at a loss to understand your
meaning, or what you can want with me, — will you be good
enough to state your business ? **

** I will, sir. I am the reporter of the ; we hare heard

strange accounts at our office of your conduct, and the people
where we publish our paper are anxious to know the truth of them.
I am come down to examine into these matters myself, — to go over
the ground myself, — you know, «ir, it is the only way; and to
report the facts to the public.*'

"Well, sir,** replied I, "as that is your mission, I wish you
every happiness and fine weather. I have no doubt you will meet
many who will tell you a great deal which it may suit your viewa
to publish, and you will probably be able to make out a yer7 inter-
esting story. I wish you a good-morning."

" Good-morning, sir," returned he ; and we parted.

In about five minutes after, I heard his step behind me again;

i8so.] THE EXODUS. 107

and turning round, he once more addressed me, and asked me still
more mysteriously for a few moments' private talk. I fell back
with him again behind my friends.

'* You dorCt happen at present to have any money about you,
sirt " he asked in a confidential manner. '* I have just been at the
post-office, and to my great surprise, I find that the remittances I
expected have not come, and you know I can't travel over the
country without money."

*• Really, sir," I replied, "your position is no doubt perplexing;
but in the first place, I have very little money about me, and in the
next, you could hardly expect me to lend it to .you if I had much."

" Oh, sir, that is no doubt very natural in you, but, — you havenH
got even five shillings about you at present, — have you t "

'* Sir," said I, "this is a most extraordinary application' upon
your part. I have just five shillings about me, neither more nor
less ; but surely you, the reporter to a public journal, cannot be in
want of five shillings ! "

" Look at me, sir," he replied, assuming at once and in reality
an air of the most abject poverty, casting suddenly off his jaunty
air, and relaxing every muscle of his frame as he stood before me
the picture of hungry want. "Look at me, sir, — I want food.
Do I look like a man who had broken his fast to-day ? Not want
five shillings ? Give me one shilling, sir, to get something to eat,
and I will give you my heart-felt blessing."

I was much shocked; I saw that truth was stamped upon his
face.

"Oh, sir," said I, "this really quite alters the case between us.
I cannot bear to see a man of your probable education in want of
so trifling a sum. Here is the only money I have about me, and if
I had more, I assure you it should be yours ; " and I handed him
the only five shillings in my pocket.

" God bless you, sir," he returned, with a look of deep thank-
fulness ; " you may depend on it I will never forget it."

He left, and I saw him no more ; but in a short time afterwards
my attention was called to an article setting forth the vast improve-
ments which had taken place under my " enlightened superintend*

REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. vra.

ence " on Lord LanBdowne's estate in Keny, and describing it as »
Garden of Eden.

I can never think of this little incident without reflecting what a
strange amount of good or evil, usefulness or mischief, truth or
falsehood, — nay, even the making or the blasting of a man's
character in the ejes of a large portion of the world, — may be
thus placed in the hands of one who was so pressed by want as to
be influenced in the whole tone of his remarks, — which go forth to
thousands on the wings of the daily press, — by the gift of a
five-shilling piece I By me I can truly say it was given in sheer
pity for his hungry and wretched state, but if given with the basest
motives, it is possible the effect might in this case have been the
same. ^

It may here be asked what was the cause of all this misery, and

all this after-cost upon the estate of a kind-hearted and generous

nobleman ? I answer at once, the pernicious system of subdivision

and subletting of land^'^o one who has not tried it can conceive

the difficjUt^Mn-'^ffiicH an Irish landlord or agent is placed with

regaira to this matter. X can truly say its prevention has been the

,, ^greai dijwidty of my life as a land agent. The collection of rent

is almost always easy on a well-managed estate ; but the prevention .

of subdivision is almost always difficult. The desire to subdivide

is by no means confined to the larger tenants, nor even to those

who hold land to the moderate value of SO/., or 20/., or even 102.

' j per annum; but tenants possessed of holdings valued at only 12. or

^ -^^ 2Z. per annum frequently endeavor, openly or by stealth, to sub-

^ Y divide these little plots of land, and erect huts or sheds upon them

.^^•'s for their young people to marry and settle in, utterly regardless of

/ M JM the certain poverty which must necessarily await them where there

***? ^ are no other means of support. And yet if any landlord or agent

X is determined to resist this system, and to evict those who in spite

^ -^ of all remonstrances and entreaties persist in this pernicious

^ \ course, — though the plot of land be scarcely sufficient to feed a

^ ^ goat, and the hut be of the most degraded class, — he is attacked

with a virulence and bitterness of hostility which none who do not

live in Ireland can imagine ; sogietimM by the local press, sotA»-

1850.3 THE EXODUS. 109

times hj local agitators both lay and cleAcal, who hold hhn up to
public odium and indignation as an exterminator, and sometimes
(though not in Kerry) by the blunderbuss or bludgeon of the assassin ;
that really it requires no little moral as well as physical courage to
face the storm which is certain to be raised against him !

I am convinced that Lord Lansdowne's former agent, — an ami-
able and kind-hearted gentleman, who had presided over the estate
for more than thirty years, — would have resisted this system if he
. dared ; but he dreaded to meet the storm of abuse which he knew
awaited him from so many quarters, if he attempted it. He there-
fore quietly shut his eyes to the state of things which he must have
known was going on, in the vain hope, I presume, of '^making
things pleasant" to his noble employer in England; and thus, when
the potato suddenly failed, the whole system collapsed, spreading
death and misery around.

The extent to which subdivision and subletting to squatters had
been carried may be estimated from the fact, that notwithstanding
the vast number, — 4,600 people, — that were sent to America at
Lord Lansdowne's expense, off this estate alone, within a period
of three or four years from the commencement of the system ; and
although little or no subdivision has taken place since then, yet at
this moment the average rent of each farm is only IIZ. per annum;
an average far too small to enable tenants to support and educate
their families in tolerable comfort and respectability, y^

Ever since that terrible period,. however. Lord Lansdowne*s estate
has, in general, advanced rapidly in prosperity. The numerous
consolidations which were then effected have invariably been attended
with advantage; and although it is still very far from what one
would wish it to be, yet no one who knew the estate before, and
who visits it now, can be otherwise than struck with the extraor-
dinary change which has taken place upon it for the better. His /
lordship did not confine his expenditure to emigration ; he entered ' *'
largely upon the improvem ent of the dwellings of the peop le and
the better cultivation if the land./ And after a period of eighteen -
years I was enabled daring the last session of Parliament to give a
statement before the Select Committee of the House of Lords on

I lo REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. vra.

the Irish Tenure of LaiM Bill, — of the improyements carried out
by Lord Lansdowne on this property, such as I question if many
of the most liberal landlords have exceeded on their estates in
England.*

* Extract from Minntes of Evidence taken before the Select Committee on the
Tenure of Land (Ireland) Bill ( W. Btenart Trench under examination) : " On
another estate, situated in the south of Ireland (Marquis of Lansdowne^s), the
rental of which Is about 11,0002. per annum, there has been expended, within the
last seventeen years, on drainage and land improvement, 8,829{. ; on buildings
and repairs of tenants' houses, 13,9932. ; on compensation for surrender of ten-
ements, 8;9482. ; on emigration (4,616 persons), 17,0592. ; and on sundry improve-
ments, not included in the above, 11,1292. ; making a total, in seventeen years, of
54,3582.: average, inclusive of emigration, 8,1972.; average, exclusive of emi-
gration, 3,1942. The number of new houses built on this estate (by the pr»>
prietor) within the above period has been about fiftiy." ^

tSja] MARY SHEA. lit

CHAPTER K.

MARY SHBA.

TNCIDENTS of a tonching and sometimes of an almost romantic
■^ character came frequently before me, in my official capacity,
during the course of those trying years. One of these I partic-
ularly remember, and, as I had an opportunity of tracing out the
tale from the commencement to the end, I will give it a separate
chapter.

I have gone through much laborious work during my life, but I
never went through any which pressed so hard upon my powers of
endurance as the arrangements for the emigration at Kenmare.
The tide of emigrants was so enormous, each pressing his individual
claim, and terrified lest all the money should be exhausted before
his or her name could be entered upon the emigration list, that I
was compelled to station several stout men at the door of my office
to keep the place clear, or the pressure of the crowd outside would
absolutely have burst it in. These strong though kind-hearted
porters prevented unnecessary crushing, and, having selected those
from amongst the applicants who seemed, from their appearance,
least able to wait, they let them in, one by one, to me. I carefully
investigated the case of each ; and, having granted or declined the
application, as the merits of the case deserved (and at that time I
refused very few), they were passed on, their names having been
entered for America. The joy depicted on the countenances of
those who came out, and to whom immediate emigration was
promised, contrasted with the anxiety of those who were still
awaiting the decision of their fate at the entrance door, was one
of the most striking incidents of the scene.

I frequently passed eight hours a day at this most disagreeable

/

il3 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap.

and laborioas work. From the yeiy nature of the case, none
came before* me except those upon whom want in its severest fona
had fallen. A similar state of things when these creatures were
pressing for admission to the workhouse, had brought many a
poor-law guardian, goTernment official, and many a kind-hearted
Irish lady and gentleman to their graves, by violent typhus seizing
them in the midst of their anxious duties.

One rule I felt compelled to make, namely, that I would speak
to no applicants during the short intervals of my release from
business. There was a constant but natural endeavor on the part
of the peasantry to waylay me, as it were, in the private grounds
of Lansdowne Lodge, thinking they might thus obtain greater time
and a more quiet opportunity to state their several claims, and press
their title to a share of Lord Lansdowne's bounty in the free
emigration which was going forward. So difficult did I find it tQ
prevent this constant invasion of my very few hours of privacy, ^^
hours which were almost as essential to my health as breathing to
my existence, — that I found it necessary to place guards around
the premises ; and, as the grounds were then wholly unenclosed,
and consisted chiefly of wood and underwood, through which shady
walks had been cut, I found myself frequently face to face with aa
applicant for emigration, notwithstanding all the vigilance of d^
patrols.

I was walking one evening. in those private pleasure-grouxidsy
after a day of heavy labor in the office, when I thought I perceived
a pair of bright eyes watching me through the leaves of some holly
bushes with which the wood abounds. I stopped immediately,, and
asked who was there.

*^ Oh, indeed, your honor, it's only me ; and I know it's against the
rules of the office to come here. But shure wasn't I waiting at the
office door all day, and they wouldn't let me in, because they said I
was well able to hold out still, and wasn't nigh so weak as many of
Uie creatures that was there. And that was true enough ; but then
they didn't ftnow that I had ten long miles to go home before night;
and so, as some said your honor was a good man, though some said
not, I thought I would just chance it for once, and maybe yonr

1850.3 MARY SHEA. 1 13

honor would find lime to speak to a poor desolate orphan like me,
eycn though it is against the rules."

'* The desolate orphan," who now came forward and ei^iibited not
merely her bright eyes -hut her full form to mj Tiew, was somewhat
singular in her appearance. She had but little of the original Celt
in her features. Her beauty was purely Spanish, of which I have
leen many perfect specimens in Tuosist and around Kenmare:
large soft eyes, with beautiful dark downy eyelashes, the mouth
well formed, and cheek of classic mould ; whilst the figure, perfect
in its symmetry, is erect and active, and exhibits a lightness of step
and grace of motion which can rarely be attained but by constant
practice in walking over the mountains. The form which now stood
before me was a beautiful specimen of this perfect Spanish type.
She was clean and neat in her person, though her clothes were of
the coarsest kind. Her gown, made of \he light gray fiannel or
frieze, manufactured in the mountains where she lived, was crossed
upon her bosom and extended up to her neck. Her hair, as black
as jet, was neatly parted on her forehead, and hung in careless
folds down her back. She had neither shoes nor stockings, and
her dress did not come down to within seven or eight inches of her
feet. She wore no shawl, which is common in the district, about
her neck. She held her head as erect as a startled fawn. Her
hands were clasped in an attitude of wild supplication, and the
symmetry of her form was enhanced by the unusual addition of a
leather strap buckled aroimd her waist, which, though neither new
nor ornamental in itself, had the efiiect of showing off her naturally
beautiful figure to the best advantage.

The moment she appeared from behind the holly bush, she com-
menced her oration. And, talking with a voiubility and amount
of action which it would be impossible to describe, her features
became animated, and the blood mounted to her cheeks. In truth,
I hare rarely seen so beautiful and so natural a girl. I think she
knew she was a beauty, and had *' chanced" a little of the success
of her Tisit upon that score, as well as upon my ** goodness"; but
there was no vanity or coquetry in her manner, — she was perfectly
natural and simple, and, as regards beauty, so intelligent a girl as

8

1 1^ REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap, du

the was could not possibly look at her reflection in one of her own
dark mountain lakes, and not see that she was different £rom her
neighbors.

She had watched my countenance with the quickness of an Iri«1i
peasant during the whole time she was speaking ; and, in fact, I fiatt
sure she had prolonged her staten^ent for that sole purpose, in ord^r
to form an estimate of her success, or vary her line of adTanee
according as circumstances revealed themselyes. I saw this per*
fectly at the time ; but my interest in her yivacious courage was bq
great, and my admiration of her beauty so impossible to conceal^
that she saw in a moment, though I had not yet spoken a word, thait
she had won her point.

'* Ah ! well I knew your honor had a good and kind heart wkldii
you," said she, coming forward with graceful anim&tion, and UndeY
cover of her well-turned flattery. ** And now, maybe, Fd never
have another opportunity, and oh I just listen to me till I tell yo«
what I have to say, for mine is a sore, sore sorrow."

In a moment her whole countenance, — almost her form, had
changed. Her courage, — some of whicli she had evidently derived
from her beauty, seemed to have departed. Xears filled her e>f«a
as she looked down upon the ground, and even her form seemed to
lose many inches of its height. I could scarcely have thought that
the same human being was before me, as she now stood about to
tell her tale of sorrow.

** What is your name ? " I asked, " and where do you live ? "

** Mary Shea is my name," said she, *' that is, my maiden name,
and indeed for that matter I am not married yet."

^* Married ! " I exclaimed, <* why you seem scarcely seventeen
years of age." '

" True for you," replied she, "you guessed it very nigh, as Tli
only be seventeen next Shrove-tide."

*^ And what is your case? what do you want me to do? "

" I'll tell your honor that," replied she, resuming in a moment a
portion of her previous animation. *' What I want your honor to
do is, to put down Eugene's name in the books, as tenant for the
little place I have up in the mountain."

1850.1 MARY SHEA. 115

'* And who is Eugene? and how came 70a to hare a little place
)f your own, and you so young as you are ? "

"Til tell your honor all about it," she replied; " the way of it
all was this " ; and again in a moment her countenance changed,
her eyelids drooped, her form seemed to lose its height, and with a
Uttle hesitation as to where she should begin, she commenced her
tale of woe.

** The way of it all was this : your honor was not here in the
'hungry year ' " (a term frequently used amongst the peasantry to
djQscribe the famine), *' but them was terrible times. I was only a
little slip of a girl then, — and sure for that matter I'm not much
more this minute. But my father had a little place up in the moun-
taw, the same as what I was now talking about. Well you see, he
was an ould man, and my mother was sickly, and they had no other
ohild but me, and the place was rery small, and when the potatoes
Uaekened, sure they had no one but God to look to. * Father,'
says I, * I fear ye'U die, and mother too, if ye don't get something
to ate.* * True for ye, child,* says father, * but where are we to get
it? The great God has rotted the potatoes in the ground, and what
other support had we all ; and sure the neighbors are as bad off as
we are.* Mother said nothing ; she looked at father and me, she
kissed me once or twice, as if to wish me good-by ; and when I got
up in the morning, I found her sitting in her clothes beside the
fire, quite dead aiid stiff, — not a month after the potatoes had
blackened.

'* Well, ye see we lired far up in the mountains, and no meal or
anything could be got there, except what I brought myself, — and
it was ten long miles from Kenmare. ' But still,' says I, *■ I won*t
let father die if I can help it I ' So we had a few hires of honey
which the' gentlemen liked, because the bees made it all on the
heather ; and I used to slip oyer to Kenmare, now and then, .with a
hive, and bring back a little meal to father, — we had no cow, as
tbo place was too small to rear one. And I won't tell your honor a
Ue when I say that sorra ha'porth we had to live on, except just the
fiaw faiyes of honey; and I knew when they were out, and I had no
money to buy meal, we might just lie down and die. Howeyer, I

1 16 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap.

iaid nothing to father about this, for I was only a slip of a girl ; but
I thought it for all that.

*' Well, sure enough, after a time the honey was all sold, and I
smothered the last bee I had, — though in troth I was sorry to do
so, a» I had reared them all myself, and I think they knew me, as
they never once stung me, though I used to sit close to the hire
watching them. However, I knew well it was better for them to
die than father, so I had to smother them ; and I went down to
Kcnmare with a sorrowful heart, and got 15s. for the hive. Well,
with that I fed father and myself for another weary month ; and
when the meal was out, father says to me, — * Mary dear, it's no
use striving any longer against the hunger. I can't stand it. I'm
weak and faint, and not able to go out to the public works, and I
might as well die in the house as on the roads ; and now mind,
Mary dear, when I die, bury me beside your mother in the garden,
and don't be making any noise about it, — calling a wake or a
funeral, for all has enough to do these hard times for themselves.*
* Oh father dear j don't talk that way,' says I, * I'll just go out and
see if I can't get something that will keep the life in ye yet.' So
father said nothing, but just lay down on the bed, as if to wait tiU
I came home. Well, I had some strength and spirit in me yet.
And as Eugene and I had known each other since we were little
children, I thought I would just go to him and see if he could help
me. But when I went to his house he was far away on the public
works. So I had no more heart nor strength to go any farther,
and I had enough to do to get home. But oh I sorrow came heavy
on me then ; for when I called on father as I came in to ask him if
God had sent him any food, he did not answer ; and when I came
to his bed, and put my hand upon his forehead, I found that he
was dead and cold, and I was left alone in the world."

Here the poor girl's voice failed ; and, commencing to weep bit*
terly, she turned her head away. I found the tears rising in my
own eyes too, but endeavoring to turn her thoughts f^om this sad
scene, I said, —

** You have mentioned Eugene once or twice, — who is Eugene?"

She dried her eyes in a moment; and, resuming the natural

i850.] MARY SHEA. 1 17

viTaclt7 of her manner, she called aloud to some one who was
evidently near at hand, —

^' Eugene 1 where are you, Eugene? I wouldn't wonder if lie
was here this minute I ''

And, truly enough, he was ; for slowly emerging from the same
holly bush where I had observed the young damsel's eyes in the
^rst instance, came a tall, good-looking youth, clean and fair, with
a cheek as smooth and free from beard as a woman's. He was
about nineteen or twenty years of age, and as bashful as a youth
detected under such circumstances, — though she had evidently hid
him there herself, — could be.

«' Don't be afeared, Eugene," cried the damsel, — '* don't. be
afeared. The gentleman isn't angry. Come and spake to him this
minute, — he is shy, your honor," said she, turning to me in a
• conciliatory voice, as if excusing and patronizing her lover, over
whom she evidently considered she had a great advantage in facility
of speech and general knowledge of the world, — '* he is shy, and
doesn't know how to spake to a gentleman ; and I hope you'll ex-
cuse him ; but he is a good, kind boy for all that, and well able to
become a tenant for the little place, if you will only put his name
in the book."

**■ Well, but," I urged, *< if I put his name down in the book, he
will be the tenant and not you ; and how would that answer your
purpose ? "

" Oh, sure your honor, it would be all the same; we would get
ma.rried at once, and we would have the little place between us, as
I feel lonesome in it all by myself."

*^ How large is the little place? " inquired I.

** Well, for that matter, it is big enough," she replied; ''but
indeed it is not good for much, as it's able to feed nothing but the
bees. And, troth, I don't know where they find anything to gather
except in autumn, when the blossom comes upon the heather."

'' What is the value of the place? " asked I.

'* Well, indeed, it is not much. The late agent said it was good
value, little cabin and all, for 7s. 6d. a year, and the rent was never
raised since, and we made a few perches of potato-garden near the
house."

liS REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [crap, nc

'* And to 70a and Eugene really want to many and set ap honae
upon a place only worth 7s. 6d, a year, cabin, mountain land,
garden, and all ? "

** Well indeed, your honor, I don't see what better we could do.
You see Eugene and I hare known each other a long time now,
and all the neighbors knows we loves each other yery much, —
and why wouldn't I love liirn, poor boy, when it was himself tbat
saved my life."

'* How did he save your life? " I asked.

*< Well, you see, I was teUing you all about it," she resumed,
'*when you asked for Eugene, and I had to present him to your
honor. But shure enough, it was Eugene, and no one else^ that
saved my life, that night I was telling you of when father died. I
found him cold and stiff in the bed when I came home ; and I had
nothing in the house myself, — no meal, nor bread, nor potatoes,
nor a ha'porth ; so I just sat down on the bedside near him, and, —
God forgive me I — I prayed that He would take me too ; for I was
helpless and sorrowful, and weak and down-hearted, with the
hunger. And then I beg^n to cry ; and I thought of mother, how
she had died, and how father was dead, and no one to bury hinau
' And,' thinks I, ' if I die too, the cabin will make a decent little
grave over us all, and no one will know anything about it I ' So t
was crying on, thinking of all these things, and wondering how it
all came about, when I heard a footstep at the door, and I guessed
at once it was Eugene's. So he never said a word to me at first,
but he sat himself down beside me. And after a little, he says, -^
< What is it, Mary dear? ' *Oh, Eugene,' says I, * mother is dead,
and now father is dead : there he is before you, and I'm going to die
too, for I'm broken-hearted, and have nothing to eat.' 'Eat this,*
said Eugene, and he pulled an elegant loaf out of his pocket, — ' I
guessed ye came up to look for me to-day ; and when I came home
from the works and mother gave me my supper, I just put it in my
pocket as I wasn't hungry myself, and came off with it to you. So
eat it, Mary dear ; for I couldn't eat it if a basket-full of bread was
before nie ! * Well, I knew the poor boy had stinted himself to
give it to me ; but I was well nigh gone, so I just gave him a loving

i850.] MARY SHEA. ng

look, and says I, — * Eugene, dear, I know well how it is ; but FU
eat it for all that for vour sake, and for fear I*d die before your face.*
And so I did ; < And now, Mary,' says he, ' come home with me, and
mother will take care of you for a bit ; and in the morning I'll come
Out myself and bury father for you.* And so he did, — the brave
boy that he is, shy as he looks before your honor now. And we
dug the grare between us, and put father into it, just as he was, —
for we had no coffin, — where would we get one that year? and we
laid him beside mother. And when the g^eat day comes, sure they'll
both rise together as well as if they were in a coffin of gold I "

Again she began to weep ; but it was of short continuance this
time.

*' And now, won't you put Eugene's name in the book? and we'll
go live there again, for it's hard to keep him away, and he is always
l^ressing me to go with him to the priest. And we have put a new
coat of thatch upon the little cabin, and maybe God would be good
to us, and the bees would thrive, and the hungry year may never
come on us again."

It was hard to resist such an appeal, — especially when so easy
an act would make a young and attached couple happy. But when
I reflected upon the prospects in life upon which they were about
to marry, — nothing but a few acres of worthless heather, the cabin
and all the land attached worth only 7s. 6d, a year, and fit for
nothing but to feed bees, — I felt that in granting her request, I was
only perpetuating the very system which had killed her father and
mother ; and, if extended now again, could not possibly lead to any-
thing but the utmost want and misery. To think of this noble
youth*and innocent and lovely maiden, — such a handsome, loving
couple as they were, — squatting on this miserable plot of irre-
claimable mountain side I I could not bear to think of it, so I
resolved, if I could, to save them from so unworthy a fate.

" Well, Mary, I have heard all you have to say, and I would
gladly do anything in my power to serve you and Eugene,* but I

* " Eugene " is a common Cbiietian name amongst the peasantry in that part
of the country, probably of Spanish origin.

130 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap, nc

cannot bear the thought of a handsome gvl like yon, and a fine,
manly boy like him, settling down for life on this miserable patch
on the side of a barren mountain. I am thinking it would be far
better to try your fortune in America together, and go out like the
other emigrants, so many of whom were pressing to get their names
down to-day."

Mary was silent for a little. At last she said, •—

"Well, your honor, I often thought it would be better, — sfaure
enough, — to try our fortune in America, than to marry and settle
on that small* patch of barren land where my little place is; but. I
couldn't bear to think of going out on charity as a pauper. I neyer
yet got poor relief from the workhouse ; and I wouldn't wish to
go to America with the likes of the emigrants your honor is now
sending out."

"I understand your scruples," I replied, "so I will propose
another plan. What do you think if Eugene were to go out first, —
just for one year, — and see whether the country would suit you
and him ? Let him return at the end of the year ; and, if he does
not like America, then I will put his name in the books as tenant
for your own little place, or probably I shall be able to giye you
and him a better farm by that time.**

" I would be loth to part with him for a whole long year," said
Mary, looking lovingly upon the bashful Eugene ; " but still I think
it might be the best way after all ; for no doubt it is a poor place to
settle on. But Eugene has no money to go out with, and I have
little or none to help him, and he couldn't go without that."

" He shall not fail for want of funds ; I will lend him the money
for his voyage. If he return rich, he will repay me ; if not, Vrhy it
can't be helped."

" Tour honor is very good," replied she, looking mournfully at
Eugene; "but what will I do without him? and where will I go
while he is away ? "

" You can stay at mother's, dear, while I am away," broke in
Eugene, who seemed suddenly to awake to an energy he had not
before exhibited. " Tou well know she always loved you as, a
daughter, and she will care for you for my sake as well as for your

own."

1850.] MARY SHEA. 121

" I beliere your honor's right," said Msaj, turning to me ; " let
him go and tiy his fortune for one year ; but mind," she added, as
she looked towards the lad, ** mind, £ugene, you must swear to me
on the Book you will come back, — rich or poor, I don't care
which, — within the one year.".

*' I will swear it to you freely," replied Eugene, who seemed sud-
denly to find his tongue and all his other energies at the prospect
of such an opening.

** And will your honor promise, on the word of a gentleman, to
give us back the little place, or get us ^Lnother better one when he
returns, if he won't take me out with him again?" asked Mary,
with an appealing look.

^' Indeed I will ; I faithfully promise it, if I am alive and here."

'* Well then, let it be so," said the weeping Mary; *^ and now the
sooner the better. When will your honor give him the money that
he may go at once ? "

*' To-morrow morning. He shall also have a new suit of clothes,
as fast as the tailor can make them, and I have no doubt he will
get into immediate employment."

Mary looked at her intended husband, and at once perceived that
a man's energy and courage had suddenly risen within him. He
was no longer a sheepish boy, patronized and brought forward by
her ; and he took upon himself the unaccustomed task of comfort-
ing and patronizing her.

*' Mary dear, don't fret; as sure as the sun is in the heaven, I'll
come back ; I know I will, and this will be the last parting we will
ever have. The gentleman has advised us for our good. The
barren lot on the mountain side is no place for the likes of you and
me to settle. . I'll go seek my fortune in America ; and, please God,
I'll surely succeed ; and then I'll come back for my own darlin',
and take her out along with me. For God's sake, master, let us be
quick; for I dar'n't rest, or think of leaving Mary, or maybe I
couldn't go out at all."

Mary threw her arms about Eugene's neck, and, — utterly re-
gardless of my presence, — sobbed and wept like a little child.
Her patronizing air was utterly gone, and she addressed him as a
lover who had proved himself worthy of her affections.

123 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap, nc

« Eugene," said she, ^ I know well I need not fear for yonr love
if you were ten thousand miles away. Ye hare proved it too often
for me to doubt it for a moment now. Go, and God be with you ;
but, — mind you come back within the year, whether ye he rich or
whether ye he poor, — if rich, ye will be welcome, and if poor, ye
will then be doubly welcome to your own darlin' Mary. Never
forget that** * *

She then turned to me, and, — holding out her hand as a countess
might have done, — she continued, -*

** Thank your honor much for your kindness ; I'll nerer forget it,
either in this world or the next.*'

In a few days Eugene appeared before me, clad in a new and
comfortable suit.

I gaye him his passage-money, and a couple of pounds over, that
be might be able to go up the country, and look for employment at
once. He thanked me in a manly open way, and departed.
. My time and attention were so much .occupied with the onerous
duties in which I was then engaged, that though I often thought of
Mary and her lover, yet I never had an opportunity of making
special inquiries about her ; but one day, she sought me again as I
was walking in the same grounds ; and, coming up to me with a
countenance beaming with pleasure, she showed me a letter from
Eugene. It was not long, nor what most people would call very
interesting ; but he told her he was in full employment with a good
and kind man^ — that he had already saved 11, out of his earnings,
and he hoped, before very long, to come back and claim his prize,
and carry his darling Mary off to a far home he was even then pre-
paring for her. This was about six or seven months after he left ;
and she had remained sometimes in her *' own little place," as she
called it, and sometimes with his mother, ever since.

About five months after the last interview, I was walking alone
along the sea-shore at Kenmare, when I was again waylaid by the
handsome Spanish beauty ; but this time she was accompanied by a
young man. She looked grave, though happy, as she walked lov-
ingly by his side, and her patronizing ways had altogether departed
from her. I looked carefully at the young man. He was tall and

i8so.] MARY SHEA. 123

strong; his beard was massive, and reached almost to his chest;
his face was handsome, but sunburnt and weather-beaten ; and his
whole appearance was as little like her lover Eugene as it was
possible for it to be.

I stood still as the pair approached me, looking intently from one
to the other. Mary and the man came quite close up to me, and, —
as neither of them addressed mc, — I was the first to speak.

*' How is this, Mary? " said I, '* and who is this man who accom-
panies you ? You surely do not mean to say you have cast off
Eugene, and taken up with another man? "

Mary leaped nearly a foot from the ground as I said so. " I
knew your honor wouldn't know him I " cried she in a sudden
ecstasy of joy. ''Why this is Eugene himself I sure didn't he
deceive me, when he first came into the cabin, and why would your
honor know him I Look at him now, and tell me if he is not
grown a real man in earnest. Turn round, Eugene, and show
yourself"; and assuming her old patronizing way for a moment,
she turned him round and round for me to look at and admire,
whilst he submitted with a loving, tender look of admiration at his
bride.

'* And so this is indeed Eugene come back," I exclaimed, '< and
such a fine, manly-looking fellow too. I hope you have prospered,
Eugene, and that you will now take out Mary to. a new and happy
home far better and richer than her little place on the barren
mountain ? "

Eugene was about to reply, when Mary leaped up, and caught
him round the neck with her arms.

" Oh, Eugene ! " cried she, — almost in hysterics between joy and
anxiety, — '* take me away with you soon, oh take me away; we
cannot go too soon to please me!" Then, — turning rapidly to
me, — she said, in a joyous and altered voice, —

'^ He has got a fine place of his own now, and twenty acres of
good land, and a grand wooden house, in which he says I can live
as comfortable as any lady. Oh, Eugene darling," cried she, turn-
ing to him again, '* take me away, — take me away, and let us go
to our new home, and never know sorrow or hunger more I"

124 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap dc

She bunt into tears, and clinging to his neck, kissed him over
and oyer again, till he gently took her in his arms, and placed her
sittiag, — still sobbing like a child, — on a bank of grass close by.

*^ Sir," said he, *' I have to thank you for your kindness. I hare
brought back with me the money you lent me, and I am now ready
to repay you. I have a neat place to bring Mary to, and all reason-
able comforts for her. I could have made it better, had I waited
another year ; but I promised in your presence not to let more than
one year pass without returning, — whether I came rich or poor.
I have corae back according to my promise. If not rich, at least
with enough to give 'her plenty to eat, and a warm comfortable
home ; and I hope soon to make it better. To-morrow we go to
Cork ; we arc to be married there. The next day we sail for the
West. May Goid bless you, sir I I will never forget your kind*
ness." And he placed his passage-money in my hand.

Mary sat listening while he spoke, sobbing and crying all the
while. He lifted her gently up. She seized my hand and kissed it,
coyering it with her tears. Then suddenly smiling, whilst the
large drops trembled in her eyes, she gave me one grateful and
happy look, and left the sea-shore with her loyer.

i8^0 THE SEAL HUNT. 1 25

CHAPTER X.

THE SEAL HXWT.

'T^HEKE are few places the climate of which is more delightful
than that of Kenmare in summer, or for ahout eight months in
the year. It is seldom cold in that region, even in winter; hut,
during the months of August, September, and October there is a
balmy softness combined with freshness in the atmosphere which I
have nerer felt in any other part of Great Britain. The warm
Gulf Stream, which runs across the Atlanticj strikes full upon the
Bay of Kenmare, and as this is guarded by lofty mountains at the
entrance, about twenty-six miles from the upper end of the bay,
the moist and rain-charged clouds, striking these guardian giants,
are arrested and converted into rain, ere they float inland from the
sea.

These natural features have a strong tendency to render the
district immediately around Kenmare more free from rain than it
otherwise would be if exposed to the first action of the clouds from
the Atlantic. And many a time I have seen shower after shower
breaking on the distant hills at the mouth of the bay, wliilst all is
sunshine at Kenmare. But though the mountains arrest the clouds
and showers, they do not hinder the free access of the soft breezes
which find their way up the long valley and the narrow neck of sea ;
and I know of nothing more delightful than pushing off in a skiff
upon the bay on a summer's evening, and enjoying the freshness of
the delicious air after a day of fagging business.

I fear it was our practice to carry our love for boating a little too
far upon these charming waters, and to run risks which were any-
thing but prudent, merely for the pleasure of adventure and the
novelty of the scenes which every aspect of the sea produces. My

126 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. x.

Bon, Townsend Trench, now Lord Lansdowne's agent at Kenmare,
was very fond of boat-building, and contrived a sea-going skiir
which has been much admired, and many similar to which have
since been built for those residing on the coast. He had long con*
templated a trip in his skiff around the wild headlands of Derrynane
and Lamb Head to Valentia. One could hardly undertake anything
more dangerous, but he fancied that his skiff could accomplish it,
and I plainly saw that he had made up his mind to the experiment.

I confess, however, I was somewhat startled one morning, when
away from Eenmare, by receiving from him the following letter,
which, as it affords a full description of his voyage, I give in hit
own words : —

'^Eenmabe, Aprily 1856.

" Mt deas Fatheb,->~I have just successfully accomplished my
long-cherished hope of running round to Valentia in ike skiff.*
The weather being settled, with a steady south-east wind, I left
Kenmare the day before yesterday, at half-past two in the afternoon.
Bury and Thade Downing accompanied me.f We carried full sail,
and, as the breeze freshened, we ran with our gunwale to the water's
edge all the way to Lamb Head, intending to sleep at Lord Dun-
raven's cottage at Derrynane, and proceed to Waterville next
morning. The sMi, however, was so smooth, and the wind so fidr
and the aneroid so high, that Bury proposed we should go on and
sleep at Valentia I

*' It was now eight o'clock in the evening, and we calculated on
reaching Valentia about an hour before midnight. Of course it was
no joke to venture such a run as that across Ballinskelligs Bay and
round * Bolus Head ' at night. However, we reckoned that if we
could live by day, we could live by night, and the nights just now

* The Bea-going skiff in which this voyage was made was 25 feet long, 4 feel
width of beam, and 8 inches deep amidships, drawing about 4 inches of water.
The bow, which is very hollow-shaped, as well as the stem, is slightly turned up
or raised ; there is also a 4-inch combing round, where the party sit. Two m«Q
could carry the boat.

fTwo active boatmen.

1856.] THE SEAL HUNT. 1 27

bein^ usually calmer than the days, we resolved to " chance it,**
and in a few minutes we were flying along with all sails set, at the
rate of seven miles an hour, — Bolus Head right before us, and
Derrynane behind us. Thus in about an hour we crossed Ballins-
kelligs Bay, — that most dangerous of all dangerous places, — the
sea still curiously flat, working a little as if it intended mischief,
bat the breeze perfection.

'^ At Bolus Head of course our greatest danger began. It was
now nearly dark, but the crescent moon was up. My two boatmen
did not seem at all to me to realize the danger. However, I know
well I never can describe to you half the charms of that delightful
run. We had tolerable light to steer by, except when we went
down into the troughs of the sea, and then it was sometimes hard
to discern between the hill which stood beside us, and the waves
which seemed like mountains. ^

** Leaving Bolus Head, we scudded on at a clipping pace, and the
^UiT yielded so much to the breeze that Bury said we must reef the
madnsail. I said not, that we would carry on whilst we could, and
tben take it down altogether. About this time we ran over some
very foul ground just off Bolus, and the sea every now and then
gave a vast * hoist ' under us tlrat was really nothing short of terrific.

'^ Puffin Island soon came in view. We held a short consulta-
tion, and decided to run inside it, — that is, right through the Puffin
Sound I We reached it I think about 10 p.m., and now the sea
became rougher, and began to tumble us about fearfully, which was
Yery serious, running at the pace we were going before the wind.
So we took down the mainsail, running still under the mizen, and
with two oars rowing. Nearer and nearer we came on to the
Sound, and the awful roar of the Atlantic swell was magnificent.
We saw nothing but a sheet of foam between two gloomy clifis.
But it is needless to say that by this time return was impossible, —
ahead we must go.

'' * Now, sir, keep the island side for your life! ' shouted Bury.
And immediately we found ourselves between two dark masses of
mountain, with roaring crested swells on the left, and on the right
a terrible breaker off some rocks close to the shore.

128 REALITIES OP IRISH LIFE. [chap. x.

<* At this moment a dark canoe,* with biz men in her, glided out
of the gloom like a phantom, and passed us.

" * Where are you from ? * cried they.

" * Kenmare/ was onr brief reply.

'* * A dangerous craft for such a sea as this.'

'* * Yes, good night ! ' and we shot past them like an arrow.

*' The Puffin Sound looked little else than a mass of foam and
breakers. I kneeled up in the boat to look ahead, but could see no
way through. So I instantly put the helm about to try and catch
our phantom friends, and perhaps get an escort through the pass.
But they had disappeared in the gloom, and no calls could be heard
ten yards off in the midst of the roar around us. So I prayed to
God for guidance, and went straight at the easiest and smoothest-
looking spot we could see. I never can forget the power and peace
of knowing Christ as my l^aviour at such a time as this. It re*
moved all fear of death.

*^ We found the Sound one sheet of white foam, but no breakers
in the middle of it. In a few moments we were through, and once
more scudding like mad before the wind, the sea being compara-
tively smooth, as the wind was partly off the shore. During the
whole of this critical period, and indeed throughout almost the
whole night, one man was continually baling to keep the little crafi
from filling with water, as she dashed on her way through the sea.

** We soon sighted Bray Head, that is Valentia! The strain of
anxiety and work, — having run over fifty miles in a state of tension
of both mind and body, — was now beginning to tell on us. Still
we were, thank God, fresh and game. Shortly afterwards we
reached Portmagee Harbor, and turning in from the Atlantic, we
glided suddenly into a smooth, calm channel. I cannot describe the
efiect this marvellous change had upon us. In another hour we
had our boat on Valentia Strand, after having run between fifty and
sixty miles in nine hours and forty minutes.

<< We roused up the hotel folk, who did not know what to make

*The canoe of that dlBtrict is made of canvas, painted black, and stretched on
light timber ribs. It floats, In a marvellous manner, on the top of the roughest
waves.

1856.3 THE SEAL HUNT. 129

of us. We were all drenched to the skin ; but we got a good fire
in the kitchen, and some hot tea. The men slept on the kitchen
table, and I got a kind of bed, in which I slept soundly. Next
morning having visited one or two friends, we turned towards home.
But a stiff sea turn having set in, I resolved not to venture round
the headlands. So I ran the skiff ashore near a road, and having
hired a cart, I got her and her traps on it, and started across the
hills for Ballinskelligs. The horse was young, and never before
having had such a load behind him, became frightened and ran
away, skiff and all, up the hill. The driver, however, held on, but,
breathless and frightened, he declared he would not try it again.
We said he must. But just as the dispute was rising high, we
observed an old horse quietly grazing on the road-side. So we
turned out the young one into the old horse's place, put the old one
into the shafts where the young one had been, and away we went once
more, and got safely to Waterville late that evening, skiff and all.
Kezt day I launched the skiff again at Westcove, and reached
Kenmare early this evening.

'* Such has been our most delightful adventure. I anticipate
your rebuke for such monstrous rashness, but really the chance
waa too attractive to resist. I may never again get such a pet day,
and, thank God, the most perfect success attended us throughout.
After all, I half suspect that your chief rebuke will be, that I have
made the trip without you 1

'* Your affectionate son,

"J. TowNSEND Trench.

*< W. Stenart Trench, Esq."

I have given the above letter in extenso, as showing the wild
scenes and many charms which may be amply enjoyed at Kenmare.

The Bay of Ballinskelligs is well known to fishermen, not only
for its abundance of fish, but also as a deceitful and dangerous
harbor. I remember on one occasion taking round a small
** hooker " or fishing smack from Kenmare, and making a trial of
the celebrated trawling ground in the bay. I can truly say that in
one " scrape " we almost filled the little hooker with fish ! We took

9

130 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. x.

siziy-two pairs of soles, four turbots, I don't recollect how many
scores of plaice, — but I think at least eight or ten, — sixty-three
of the largest and finest crabs I ever saw, and a quantity of skate
and other waste fish. The bank is still there, aliye with fish as
ever. Some few adventurers now and then take a haul ; but as
there is no good shelter from storms in Ballinskelligs, should it
come on to blow, which, some way or another, generally happens,
the fish have it all their own way in those regions, and devour each
other at their leisure. I found upwards of twenty small fish of
various kinds in the Inside of one skate which I opened.

But interesting as all this may be to those who love such scenes,
it is nothing to the excitement of seal hunting, if any be adven-
turous enough to enter upon that wildest of wild sports of Ireland.
Having accompanied an expedition against the seals myself, I will
endeavor to describe it in detail.

In one of the most remote and unfrequented spots in Ireland^
amongst the crags and rocks near Derrynane Abbey, long oelA-
brated as the seat of Daniel O'Connell <*the Liberator," there is a
strange and curious cave. It lies nearly opposite to Scarriff Island,
and is protected by a cordon of rocks which rise up out of the sea
as if to guard its mouth. But the great peculiarity of it is, that the
interior of the cave is only accessible for an hour or two during
spring tides, and as these only happen periodically once a fortni^^t*
or every month at full moon, the cave's mouth may be considered
as practically closed to mankind. But though closed to men, it is
at all times open to the seals, and these remarkable animals have
found it a most secure retreat; and when weary of fishing or
amusing themselves sporting in the Atlantic, they retire to this
cavern in security, and make it their resting-place at night.

To attack these seals in their own cave was the object of the
expedition. This required much care, and to attempt it was a
service of some danger. But we heard that it had twice been
attempted before, and once with success. . On the first occasion the
native who had agreed to accompany us, had gone into the cave
with his brother. But the seals came down on them in force in a
narrow part of the passage and got entangled in his brother's legs,

x856.] THE SEAL HUI^. 131

who lost his nerve, and falling backwards on one of the beasts was
seized by him and dragged into the water, whence he was rescued
by his companion with a loss of a considerable piece of the flesh
of his leg. We resolved, nevertheless, to make the trial.

The necessary conditions were as follow : A calm sea, tolerably
warm weather, a fall moon, and of course the high spring tides and
consequent low strand which accompanies the full moon. Without
calm weather no power could get a boat into or even near the cave,
as the swell of the Atlantic would inevitably dash it on the rocks.
The high strand of the spring tides is necessary, lest the entrance
to the cave should be covered with water, as it is at all other times ;
and as no man could dive into its unmitigated darkness and live,
the spring tide must be waited for to reveal its mouth and render
its inner caverns accessible. Warm weather is also an almost
necessary condition, as the length of space necessary for the seal
hunter to swim is so considerable, that he might otherwise become
numb with cold at the very moment when all his energies and
8&*eng^h would be required.

All these conditions appeared to be fulfilled during our stay at
Waterville in September, 1856. ' My son and I had taken up our
abode at ** Tom Danahey's," a little road-side inn well known to all
fishermen at Waterville. Tom Danahey has his own way of doing
business ; his establishment is not showy, I admit, and cannot com-
pare in appearance with the *^ Lake Hotel," which has recently been
built in the locality. But, some way or other, Tom generally
manages to have his rooms pretty full in the season, and whether
it is that he understands how to cook the delicious white trout
which his customers catch, and the curdy salmon fresh from the
river, with the *' sea louse " still clinging to its sides, more delicately
than (hey can manage at the Lake Hotel, I know not; but this I can
vouch, that Tom will do his best for his company, and Tom's best
is sufficiently good for any man fond of true sport, and who is
prepared to rough it a little in trying his luck at the well-known
salmon fishing in Waterville.

Tom Danahey is also celebrated for his port. Where he gets it
I never could make out, and I believe nobody but he knows ; it is a

] 133 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. x.

' little secret which he likes to keep to himself. Bat if any one

i- wishes for a good glass of port wine, well suited to the cnltivated

taste of the English or Irish gentleman, he may calculate on find-
"i ing it at Tom's simple little way-side inn.

As I stated before, all necessary conditions for the seal hunt
appeared to be fulfilled whilst staying a few years ago at Tom
Danahey*s with my son^ and we resoWed upon an attack on ^e
seals. Mr. Clementi, — a gentleman residing in that neighborhood,
and who had explored the cave once before with success, haring
killed a magnificent seal there, — kindly offered us his escort; «nd
having secured the services of the guide, who had first discovered
this abode of the seals by observing them swimming towards it In
the evening, our party was complete. We hired a good strong
fishing boat manned with ten oarsmen, and commanded by a shrewd
old *^ captain," as he was called by the crew, who was w^ ac-
quainted with every rock and shoal between Ballinskellig^ add
Derrynane.

Our equipments were not numerous. My son and Mr. Clem^fstiy
both of them good swimmers, had prepared formidable clubs, which
of course floated, and which they towed with them when in the
water by a string which they held in their teeth, so as not to impede
their swimming. In the bands of their low-crowned hats they had
each a long pliable sort of candle, made of a large double-plaited
wick, dipped repeatedly in tallow, which stuck up in a strange #ay
from their hats, resembling a broken eagle's feather. Inside their
hats they had a supply of lucifer matches, lest by any chance the
candle should be extinguished. Their dress consisted of two pairs
of woollen stockings each, to save their feet from injury on the
rocks. The guide wore a waistcoat on his body, — nothing els«.
Ic his hat was the same strange-looking candle, and he had besicbs
a quantity of chips of split bog-wood stuck round its sides, which,
in fhe moonlight, gave him the appearance of an American Indin
Chiefl

I took nothing with me but my ordinary clothes and a swimming
belt, as I did not feel equal to such an adventure as that now pro-
jected ; but should occasion require it, I was prepared to go in aad

1856.] THE SEAL HUNT. 133

render any necessary assistance. The distance from Wateryille
round Ballinskelligs Bay to the scene of action near Scarriff Island,
is not less than eight or ten miles. Little more than an hour
brought us round the headlands and near to the outside of the
rocky cordon. <

Hitherto I had been steersman, but now the old " captain " t>f the
seine boat came to the stem, and without speaking a word pushed
me quietly aside, as if I were a log of wood, took the helm from
my hand, and giving one or two quick orders to the men in Irish,
yfe found ourselves suddenly amongst the breakers, and so close to
the rocks, with their dark shadows overhanging, that the men were
compelled to row with shortened oars.

*' Hind what you are about, captain I " shouted Clementi.

** Never fear, sir," replied the old man in his quiet, steady voice.
He stood firmly in the boat with an expression of intense watchful-
ness, courage, and confidence in himself. Though an old and poor
and small man, so complete was his influence not only over the
men, but over ourselves, that I think had he dashed us straight at a
rook, I should have looked with confidence to a safe result.

Our passage amongst the breakers was a dangerous one. Though
tiie sea appeared comparatively calm outside, yet amidst the rocks
a considerable swell was apparent. Sometimes we rowed with
.shortened oars, the rocks jutting out so near that the men had
scarcely room to pull. Sometimes a sudden cry from the captain
of " Back water, boys I back water for your lives 1 " made us aware
that we were proceeding at imminent risk. And when, at last, after
poising the boat for a few minutes on the top of each swell as it
rolled on, the captain wildly shouted, ** Now boys, pull, pull for
jffar lives I " I found he had been calmly waiting for a wave of suffi-
cient volume, oh the swelling top of which we might actually leap
the. cordon of rocks which surrounded the mouth of the cave. In a
moment we were inside the rocky barrier, the immediate danger
was past, and we found ourselves within the smooth amphitheatre
in which the mouth of the cave is situated. The entrance is diffi-
cult to find. It stands right opposite to Scarriff Island. A bold
crew, however, commanded by an experienced captain, can at any
time make it out.

J

I'

134 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. x.

We now rowed on, preserving the most perfect silence, lest the
seals should be disturbed. The hunters stripped for work, and by
degrees we approached the cave. The entrance is very narrow,
and the split on the outside of the rock which forms it appears to
be immensely high ; but the spot was so gloomy, and we came so
suddenly under its shadow, that I could not measure its propor-
tions. No one spoke aloud, but the guide came stealthily up, and
asked me for a knife. I lent him one, and he put it into his waist-
coat pocket.

The time of action had now arriyed ; my son and Clementi struck
each a light, and applying it to the strange candles in their hats, a
bright flame blazed forth, which set off the dark shadows of the
cave in formidable contrast. Both now fixed their hats firmly on
their heads, looked carefully to their clubs, and slipped up quietly
to the bow of the boat. In a few moments we had entered the cave,
and, pushing the boat forward with our hands (the sides of the rocka
being so close that we could not use the oars), we advanced some
thirty yards into the dark cavity. I now lit a match, and applying
it to a torch made of split pieces of bog-wood tied tightly together
and saturated with tar and turpentine, a complete illumination of
the cave was the result. We soon came to a stop, the boat having
no room to proceed farther within the narrow creek. In a moment,
— silently, like a cormorant gliding from a rock, — down dropped
the guide from the bow of the boat into the water. He was instantly
followed by my son and Clementi, all of them as silent as death,
and away the three hunters swam, right up into the darkness of the
cave.

To us who remained in the boat the whole scene had the strangest
effect, and raised feelings within us of the most intense interest and
excitement. Instantly, almost before we could realize the fact, the
three adventurers were seen swimming rapidly into the depths of
the narrow cavity, the water many fathoms deep, and so clear that
we could see every stroke of their limbs by the torch-light, whilst
the candles in their hats gave a lurid and most unnatural effect to
the scene. And when we remembered that they were bent on
attacking the formidable seal in his own element, and in his own

i8s6.] THE SEAL HUNT. 135

chosen home, it may well he imagined that feelings of no ordinaiy
anxiety prevailed over our minds.

"My God I" briefly exclaimed one of the men as he saw the
three swimmers drop silently and suddenly into the sea. It was the
only exclamation which escaped the lips of any of us ; but the men
rushed so yiolently to the bow of the boat to watch them, that I had
to force them back with my torch. On they swam, the three lights
rapidly diminishing as they penetrated deeper and deeper in, until
at length they appeared like little twinkling stars glowing in a
canopy of jet.

' I confess I felt nervous and excited to a degree I have rarely felt
before. My son was one of the three; .and the strangeness of the
whole scene, the gradual disappearance of the lights, the darkness
rendered visible by the blazing torches, and the knowledge that if
disabled by any accident it would be almost impossible they could
return alive from a contest with the seals, produced feelings of
undefined apprehension which it is difficult to describe.
' At length we heard a strange, sharp cry, and a curious flapping
noise, whilst we could plainly see the water splashed violently about
the distant lights. We were much alarmed, and could not conceive
the cause, but we afterwards ascertained it had been occasioned by
an absurd adventure. A large cormorant, seeing the swimmers
approach in this unusual fashion, had dashed at them with extended
wings and open beak, and seized my son first by the cheek and
afterwards by his bare arm. He caught the bird by the neck, and,
dragging it under water, cast it behind him. No sooner had he let
it go than it dashed still under water at Clementi, who was close
behind him, and caught him by the foot. He, being ignorant of the
attack the bird had made upon my son, and finding himself caught
beneath by some unseen animal, naturally thought that a seal had
laid hold of him, and uttered a sharp cry I The cormorant, how-
ever, soon let him go, and, seeing that the invaders were passing
on, and that no evil was intended to her brood, returned to her place
of ambush.

On the adventurers swam, deeper and deeper into the cave ; at
times the lights were scarcely visible to us, — sometimes only one

136 REALITIES OF IRJSH LIFE. [chap. x.

appeared, and sometimes they disappeared altogether. Again we
could see them rise high in the chasm as the bearers scrambled oyer
rocks in their way, and down they sank again as they plunged
into the water, until at last they reached a part of the cave where a
great rock projects down like an inverted cone from above, and
chokes up the entire mouth of the cave, except a small opening of
about eighteen inches wide by two feet high, which is exposed at
low-water spring tides. Through this narrow gate they passed, and
we saw them no more for a while.

But they soon reached the bed of the shelving beach where the
seals had made their home. We could not now see even a twinkle
of the lights, and all was perfectly silent for a space of five or six
minutes. Our anxiety increased in intensity.

I knew that my son was deep in the recesses of the cave, and In
the act of attacking the seals. At last we heard a distant shout,
which •! fancied was his voice ; and, disabled as I was by a recently
sprained knee, I was just going to fasten on a swimming-belt, and
' place 4 lighted torch in my hat, that I might make my way into the
cave and render what assistance I could, when I heard another
shout, and again another, repeated in a cheery tone. *' All right I "
exclaimed the boatmen. '* Stay where you are, sir; they surely
have one now ! " We all sat silent as the grave, and in ten minutes
more we could again perceive the distant twinkle of ^le lights:
nearer and nearer they approached, until at last we could plainly
discern the swimmers.

We had brought a blue-light with us ; and anxious to cheer them
and show them where we were, I struck it against a rock; it
instantly ignited, and, to the amazement of all in the boat, the
scene became as light as day in a moment, only tinged with the
lurid color of the blue-light. Clement! was the first to arrive, and
we hauled him into the boat, his teeth chattering with cold. Then
came my son, his club broken in his hand. The light in his hat
was out, and he appeared to be much exhausted. We got him up
also, with some difficulty, into the boat, where he sat for a time
trembling with excitement and cold. Behind him, about fifty yards
distant, came the wild Indian Chief. He iwam slowly but steadily

1856.] THE SEAL HUNT- 137

along, towing by a cord behind him a dead seed ! The men gave a
ringing cheer of delight, as the guide and his seal were lifted in
triumph into the boat.

** Who killed him? *' said I, in a low voice, to my son.

'* I did," returned he, in a tone equally low. This was all that
passed between us.

The Indian Chief was in great delight ; he laughed and talked and
chattered Irish, and dashed about the boat, rushing from time to
time at my son, and almost upsetting him by the encouraging blows
he dealt him on the back. And in less than two minutes every
oarsman in the boat was thoroughly acquainted by our loquacious
guide with all that had passed in the cave.

The swimmers now dried themselves as well as they could, and
put on their clothes and great-coats. They had had a long swim.
The cave into which they had ventured could not have penetrated
less than two hundred yards under the land. The ocean swell was
difficult to manage; and as they neared the shelving beach, it
dashed them against the rocks and stones. The passage, though
long, was very narrow, scarcely ten feet wide ; so narrow that had
the seals rushed down in a body to the sea from their resting-place,
the conflict might have been most serious. It appears, however,
that our party «had arrived too early. '*The seals had not come
home ttom. fishing " — as our guide expressed it ; only one was found
in the cave, and that met its fate from my son's club. Down the beast
came shuffling along close beside where he was standing ; and so
texrible was the blow he dealt it as it passed, that it fell quite dead
at his feet, the skull shattered like an egg-shell, and the club broken
across in his hand. Had several seals happened to be '^ at home,"
the encounter might have been most formidable.

There has been no attempt to interrupt the resting-place of the
seals since the attack I have described in September, 1856. They
have ever since enjoyed, — and are likely still to enjoy, — their
wild solitudes in the deep dark cavern of Derrynane unmolested.
Bat should any adventurous sportsman, on reading these pages, be
inclined for an expedition against these sea-girt animals, I doubt
not some hardy fisherman of the coast will guide him, as they did

138 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap, ac

U8, to this most remarkable care; and, for aught I know, the
Indian Chief may still be alive and well, and if so I doubt not he
will be most willing to lead them in the wild pursuit.

The clear bright rays of the blue-light discoyered the strangest
variety of birds, who had nestled high upon the rocky ledges to
roost. Some shrank back into the crevices of the rocks almost
paralyzed with terror at the strange light which had so suddenly
penetrated the cave ; others peered down in wonder at the unusual
scene in the boat. And right under the very bow of the boat
swam the still infuriated cormorant, — no quailing with her, not-
withstanding our apparent superiority ; she seemed to have no idea
of fear. There she stayed, swimming about, ducking her head,
and challenging us in the most defiant manner, by every gesture
she could exhibit, to come down and fight her fairly in her own
element. She seemed so determined upon battle, that one of the
men was about to strike her upon the head with an oar, but I for-
bade him. I could not allow the gallant little challenger to be
injured.

Having pushed the boat backwards from out of the cave into the
open se^, we found the tide had risen considerably, and the break-
ers were no longer formidable, — the cordon of rocks being now
well covered with water ; we flung the still blazing torches and the
blue-light into the water, and turned our boat towards home. The
seal lay dead in the bottom of the vessel, his skull crunched and
broken. Beside him lay the broken club. The excitement was
passed, and all save the rowers were silent. These latter kept up
a continual'Chatter in Irish with the Indian Chief, rowing vigorously
all the while, and after an hour's hard pulling we arrived safely at
Tom Danahey's again, having been only three hours and a half
absent. Some warm tea and a little hot punch put us all into
famous spirits. The seal hunt was over : a seal had been bagged ;
the danger was past ; and we all went in high heart to bed.

It is not necessary to go to Africa to obtain that excitement in
sport which is now so greedily sought. It may be obtained much
nearer home in the wild caves of Derrynane. It is but right,
howevery to worn any one who may be induced to engage in an

1856.] THE SEAL HUNT. 139

adventure -such as I have described aboye, that should the seals
come down upon him suddenly as he is struggling out of the water,
and in a narrow pass where he cannot jump out of the way, he will
run a serious risk of having his bones crunched like a nut.*

• The body of a dead seal la generally worUi ftom 40«. to 60«., and when
boiled down, makes oil of a superior quality.

i^ REALITIES OF IRISH LtFE. [cbap. xl

CHAPTER XI.

JOE MCK£Y.

TN the year 1851 I received a letter from my relative, the Bev.
Richard Chenevix Trench, then rector of Itchenstoke in Hamp-
shire, and now Archbishop of Dublin, to say that the Marchioness
of Bath had requested him to offer me the agency of Lord Bath's
estate in the County Monaghan. After some inquiry and corres-
pondence, I wrote to say that I should be happy to. undertake it, on
certain conditions and under certain arrangements. These having
been all agreed to, I left Kenmare for Longleat, where I remained
a few days with Lady Bath. Lord Bath was then a minor, travel-
ling with a tutor abroad.

It is unnecessary here to say more, than that I made it one special
ition, — heartily acquiesced in by Lady Bath, — that I should
not be required to eject any tenant off the estate without being at
liberty to provide for him by emigration or otherwise, at the land-
lord's expense; and thus that no one should be turned out in
misery on the road-side or into the poor-house, without at least the
offer being made him of providing for himself and family by free
emigration to America.

On Lord Bath's estate the tenants had been allowed to fall into
heavy arrears, so that not less than 30,000Z. were due upon the -estate
when I undertook its management. Many of the tenants had not
paid any rent whatever for periods varying from two to six years.

My first step on coming to Carrickmacross, — a locality with
which my previous experience on Mr. Shirley's estate had made me
well acquainted, — was to offer free emigration, at the expease of
the landlord, to any tenant who chose to accept it, and to his imme-
diate family, provided he would surrender his land ; giving him, at

1851.] JOE McKEY. 141

the same time, his stock and crop and all that he had or could make
money of, and forgiving him all rent and arrears, — no matter how
much he owed. I was aware that in making this proposal it would
not be accepted by any except those who could not pay ; and from
those, all I required on the landlord's part was the bare, worn-out
land.

A large number of the utterly insolvent availed themselves of this
proposal, — resigned their land, and took shipping forthwith for
America ; but, liberal as the offer was, it provoked the bitter hos*
tility of the most reckless and daring of the tenantry. These at
last saw that they must now be forced to come to terras ; they must
settle their accounts or emigrate. Hitherto they had declined to do
either. They had paid no rent, and yet they held possession of their
land. This they plainly saw could now go on no longer.

The plan acted most advantageously over the property. Large
sums were paid in by those who found themselves able to do so, and
the paupers prepared for emigration. A few, however, stood out,
and would neither emigrate nor pay ; and one man, named Traynor,
plainly told me ** that he had held the land for six years without
paying any rent, that it was worth fighting for, and 'by the powers'
he would never pay while he could still hold out against the law I "
This man afterwards narrowly escaped being hanged for conspiracy
to murder Patrick MacMahon, one of my bailiffs. He was arrested
and put into jail, climbed over a high prison wall, and ran for it,
got himself packed amongst a hamper of eggs, slipped over thus
to Liverpool, and was never heard of afterwards.

Amongst the most obstinate and rebellious of this portion of the
tenantry was a man named Joe McKey. He called himself a Pres-
byterian. He held a considerable farm in a wild district bordering
on the mountainous part of the county of Armagh ; and he had paid
no rent for the past five years. Frequent ** latitats " and other legal
missiles had been hurled at him, but no one ventured to arrest him.
He was a man reputed to be of singular courage and daring, — able,
active, and desperate ; and he prided himself on having defied any
man in Ireland to take him prisoner.

I was informed that this man was the acknowledged leader of all

142 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xi.

the recusants orer a lar^ district of the estate^ — that many had
bound themselves to act as he did ; and, in short, unless Joe McKey
were put down or overcome, that district would hold out in defiance
of both law and order.

My first step, accordingly, was to issue a warrant against him for
debt, and to offer 50Z. to any man who would arrest him. But my
surprise was considerable to hear that no one could be found who
would undertake a mission so dangerous ; and a bailiff to whom I
especially remarked upon the large premium for the arrest of one
roan, replied, ** Thank your honor ; 50Z. is very good, and not to be
earned every day ; but life is sweet ! " and nothing I could say
would induce him to attempt it. The report, whether true or not,
was that he always went about with a loaded horse-pistol in his
breast, that many people had seen the brass handle sticking out of
the pocket of his coat, and that he had sworn solemnly to put the
contents of the pistol into the body of any bailiff who should ever
attempt to take him.

Such was the leader with whom I had now to deal. I had only
been about six months in office ; and I was plainly, but reluctantly,
told by the head bailiff and clerk, '' That whilst Joe McKey held
sway, no good could be got of a large portion of the northern end
of the estate."

I confess I was much puzzled ; it would have taken a year or
more to eject him by the ordinary notice to quit, and resistance to
authority was beginning to spread over the district. I determined
accordingly to go myself and at least take the measure of this
redoubted hero, and see if he was as formidable as he was reputed
to be. I cannot say that I had any specific plan in view ; but I
wished to see him and speak to him, and be guided afterwards by
circumstances as they might arise. Nothing was then ftirther from
my intention than to arrest him myself.

The country at this time was very seriously disturbed. Several
murders had been committed in that immediate vicinity bordering
on the county of Armagh ; and the people had become excited, and
were in a very dangerous temper. I therefore careAiUy loaded a
brace of double-barrelled pistols on which I could thoroughly

1851.3 JOE McKEY. 143

depend ; and, having determined to go to the man's ahode alone, but
wholly unexpected, I took with me a tracing of the estate map to
show me the way to his Jiouse, without the necessity of making any
inquiries along the road. And mounting my horse, I started from
Carrickmacross at ten o'clock in the morning, telling no one of my
destination.

McEey*s residence was about seven miles from Carrickmacross.
I rode quickly to prevent the possibility of my intention being sus-
pected or anticipated, and I arrived at the house of course wholly
without notice. It had once been respectable, but had fallen much
into decay. The hall door stood in the centre of the building, with
a long, narrow window on either side. I knocked iat once, and,
a^er a short interval, a man dressed only in his shirt and trousers
came to the narrow window and asked what I wanted.

'* I want to get in,'' said I.

**You can't get in here," he replied curtly, and with a clear,
determined voice.

I at once suspected that this was the man I sought, and I asked
hina inmiediately, —

" Are you Joe McKey ? "

'^ And what if I am ? " said he boldly.

** Nothing," I replied, " but that I want to speak to you, and
should be obliged if you would let me in."

** Speak to me as you are, — you can't get in here."

** Do you know who I am ? " I asked.

" No," said he, ** nor I don't care a rap."

" I am Mr. Trench."

*' Oh ! " returned he, "I beg your pardon, sir, — I did not know
it was you ; but I am sorry to say I can't possibly let you in."

It was something, I thought, to have made him change his
tone, — so I immediately changed mine.

'^ I. heard that you were a stout and daring fellow, and that you
feared no man when alone. I want to speak to you, so I came
alone, and I suppose you will let me in."

He looked at me suspiciously for a few moments, cast an eye
round to see if there was a bailiff concealed, seemed very undo-

144 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xi.

cided in his mind, but at length shook his head and said again, " 1
am sorry to refuse you, sir, but I can*t possibly let you in."

I was annoyed ; and partly forgetting myself for a moment, I
replied, —

*'I belieye you are but a coward after all. I told you I was
alone. I pledge you my word of honor no one is with me, or near
me, nor knows that I am here. I came to speak to you and to
see you entirely alone, — are you afraid of one man ? "

He did not hesitate now ; but, going to the door, unbarred and
unbolted it, and throwing it wide open with an air of offended di^
nity, he said, —

*^ Walk in, sir, walk in, if thafs the way you talk, — walk in and
welcome ; you shall never say / hindered you ; ** and he strode on
before me into the kitchen or living room, pushing that door also
as wide as it could be opened.

I gave my horse to a boy to hold, who came out at the same
moment, and I followed my conductor in. I felt very much as £f I
was walking into a lion's den ; but there was no help for it now, so
I determined to make the best of it.

The room into which he led me presented rather a singular scene.
The furniture was of the meanest class ; but sitting at the fire we?e
two men, — each between thirty and forty years of age, — able,
athletic fellows, and they did not seem to welcome me. They also
were in their shirts and trousers, and their eyes looked somewhat
bleared and inflamed; but they were all perfectly sober. They
stood up, however, as I entered, made a slight obeisance, and 6too4
quietly in their places. Near them was a young woman, neat in
her dress, and very good-looking, though perhaps somewhat care-
worn, and apparently about twenty-three years of age. She seemed
frightened and uneasy, not at me, — whom she scarcely noticed, —
but at McKey, off whom she never for a moment took her eye«>
Her gaze was so intense upon him, that I turned round from the
others whom I was going to address, and sitting down to show ihsA
I intended no personal violence, I faced McKey himself. A bright
fire was burning, and the rays of the morning sun, which made
their way through a narrow window, threw a light over his entiro

i8si.] JOE McKEY. 145

frame. It was not a common one. His hair and whiskers were
black, and a dark 'stubble was on his chin and upper lip, as of a
beard unshaven for a day or two. His neck was bare, and his shirt
sleeves were tucked up above his elbows, revealing an arm like a
knotted rope. His trousers were fastened by a red handkerchief
round his waist. He stood perfectly motionless, following me with
bis eyes ; his arms were folded, and he leaned somewhat back, with
a half-savage, half-sneering smile upon his face. His frame was
veiy muscular ; he stood above five feet eleven inches in height.
He was apparently in perfect health, but without one bit on him save
hard sinew and muscle strung as tight as whip-cord. Though I was
by no means a weak man at the time, yet I felt I could be no match
for such an antagonist in a personal struggle ; and as I looked at
the man before me, a model of activity and strength, with a daring
and almost insolent look in the manner in which he threw back his
bead, I thought I had never seen a finer or a bolder figure.

♦' You wish to speak to me, sir? **

"Yes," said I, — " but who are these men, and what are they
doing here?"

" We were distilling poteen," returned one of the men, — " would
;^ur honor like to taste some ? "

^^ No, thank you," I replied; and drawing my chair near the fire,
I began to chat.

They were civil enough, but seemed perfectly unconcerned as to
what I might think of their illegal proceedings. McKey stood apart
all the time, his arms still folded, and the young woman watching
him intently. I suddenly addressed him, —

** And so, McKey, you are the terror of the country, and no one
dares take you ? "

He made a quick and uneasy movement as I said this, and cast a
rapid glance at the window.

'^ No one has taken me," he replied, — " but you said you wanted
to speak to me ? "

" Yes ; I wanted to ask you how you expect all this to end. You
owe five years' rent; you will pay nothing, and I hear you have
BWom to shoot any one who attempts to arrest you."

10

1^6 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. n.

He went over quietly to a great-coat which was hanging against
the wall, and turning the coat upon the peg on which it hung, ex-
posed the large brass-mounted handle of a horse-pistol projecting
out of the pocket.

" Just so," said I, — " no wonder they are afraid of you."

" You have a pretty set of bailiffs to be afraid of ihaif** returned
be, — and he drew the pistol out, and I saw it had neither lock
nor barrel I

** That's what I frighten them with," said he, as he replaced the
pistol in the coat-pocket, and laughed heartily, — his recollection
seeming to recur to some ridiculous scene, which probably had
passed. The men laughed too, and so did I ; and for the first time
also the young woman smiled, and seemed a little more at ease.

** Oh, that's all yery well," I remarked, — rather put out of sorts,
however, as the laugh was decidedly against me, — '* but you know
well that you keep the whole country at bay, and no one dares take
you."

The laughter left his face now. <*And why shotdd they take
me ? or, — what I think worse of, — why should they want to take
my little place? I built the most of this house myself, — look at
the garden there," he continued, as he flung open a back door. '* I
have planted every stick, and I have raised every stone ; and they
hunt me now to give up my little place, and I will never give it up
but with my life."

He was much excited, and he breathed very quickly, — not from
speaking, but from anger.

<* Never mind, Joe dear," urged the young woman; ''this gen-
tleman doesn't want to take it; no one does."

McKey was quiet again. *' Will you walk this way, sir? we had
better speak on this matter alone ; " and without waiting for an
answer he left the kitchen, went past the hall door, and entered a
room at the other end of the house.

He held the door open for me to follow. I did so; and as I
entered, he gave the door a peculiar slam after him, which made
me look at it attentively, and I saw that the handle which turned
the lock was gone, and that when the door was shut, no one could

i8si.] JOE McKEY. 147

open the lock without some square instrument to turn it. Another
glance thrown around the room showed me that there was nothing
in it but two chairs and a small table, a bed, and beside the bed, a
bill-hook, — a most formidable-looking weapon, — leaning against
the wall. I took care to place myself between him and the bill-
hook, and we both sat down at the table.

'^ That is your defender," I remarked, pointing to the bill-hook.

" It is," he briefly replied.

He then opened a drawer and took from it a petition or statement
which he had drawn up himself, intending to send it to Lady Bath.
This he read with great emphasis and unction. It was not badly
drawn up ; but it could only state his poverty, and the hardship of
being required to leave his place because he was unable to pay
for it.

**I fear,*' said I, "that this will hardly induce Lady Bath to
leave you your land, unless you pay your rent, — you will never
pay it by making illicit whiskey. I have come to ask you seriously
what you are going to do, for you must know that things cannot go
on with me as they did before."

He rose up hastily, and stood opposite to me at the table : *' I
never saw you before, sir, and I don't know what brings you of all
men here now, but I tell you plainly, I never will surrender ; I
never will give up my little place. I have planted every stick, — I
have raised every stone," he continued again, '' and I never will be
taken, or give up my place but with my life."

He became so excited, and glanced so often at the window and so
often at the bill-hook, that I rose quickly too. His nerves seemed
wrought into a most extraordinary state of tension, and he seemed
gathering himself as if to spring at the bill-hook. I drew my
pistols from my pocket, cocked them, and held one in either hand»
my eye still fixed upon his. We stood opposite to each other, the
small table only between us. I knew that if once a personal
struggle should commence with such a frame as that, I had not a
chance of my life, and feeling now convinced that he had got mo
into that room to kill me, I was determined, if he stirred, to shoot
him. But a far different suspicion was in his mind, yet urging him

148 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap, xl

on equally to riolence. He thought that I had collected the bailiff^
or police outside, — that I had deceired him, — that I had got into
his house to arrest him myself; and he was determined either to
take Diy life or lose his own, first. And there we stood, like two
tigers, watching who would spring first. His eye met mine, but it
did not quail in the least ; and after watching one another for nearly
half a minute, — during which time almost a quiyer of his eye
would have made me shoot him, so great was the tension of my
own nerves, — I slowly and gradually raised the pistol, — without
losing for a moment the hold of my eye upon his, — till it fairly
covered his head. He watched me till he must have seen straight
into the barrels of my pistol ; when quietly drawing himself up,
and folding his arms very slowly, as if to show that no suddiefti
movement was intended, he seemed to defy me to fire. A feeling
came over me as quick as lightning, with a conviction and sudden-
ness which only moments such as these can bring, — that I hid
mistaken him, that he was acting on the defensive rather than the
offensive, and, with an impulse which to this hour I am wholly
unable to account for, I flung the pistols on the table within his
reach, and said in relief of my own excited feelings, —

'* You scoundrel, you know you dare not hurt me I "

He looked at me steadily, and then sitting down gradually and
quietly on the chair, without trusting himself to look at the pistols
which lay loaded and cocked on the table before him, he put hk
hands to his head, leaned his arms on the table, and said in a low
voice, —

" What do you want me to do, sir? '*

*' To give me possession of your house and place at once,*' uid
I, '* and to come with me now into Carrickmacross."

" I will, sir," he replied.

He rose, put his iron finger into the place where th^ handle of
the door should have been, and turned the bolt ; and walking up to
the other men in the kitchen, he said, *' Begone out of that till I
give up the place." They stared at him and were perfectly as-
tounded. '^ Begone I say," he repeated, and he pushed them out
of the room.

r

j85x.] joe McKEY. 149

The young woman then came up to him. ** What is this, Joe ? "
she asked.

'*You must go>" said he kindly. "Don't talk, — leave the
house.*'

She went at once. He put out the fire by kicking it about the
fioor, took " sod and twig " from the garden, and handed me legal
possession of the house and grounds I

** And now," I continued, " come with me into Carrickmacross."

He hesitated. ** Sir, I will follow you in, but don't ask one to go
with you."

"Why not? "I asked.

" Because I always swore no man should erer take me alive, and
if I was seen to go in with you the people would say you had t«ken
• me prisoner."

" I understand you," said I ; " can I trust you then to follow
nae?"

He seemed almost hurt at the question. " I would not fail in my
t^ord for a thousand pounds I "

" I have not a doubt of it," replied I ; and I mounted my horse
and galloped into Carrickmacross.

I told my head clerk and confidential man all that had happened.
ELe could not believe his senses, and thought I had lost mine.
•* Well," I said, " McKey will be in here within an hour, or I have
-been dreaming all the morning."

" He will never come," was his reply.

As the hour approached, I confess I became very nervous and
anxious ; and at length about the time I had stated, the clerk came
into my inner room looking somewhat pale, and said, "McEey
wants to see you in the office, sir."

There he was, quiet but firm as ever. I told him to return to his
home for the present, and that I would see him handsomely provided
Ibr in America. He left and said no more.

The sequel was sad enough. He never reached America. The
JPresbyterian clergyman came to me soon after, and told me that
HcKey was ill, but that I had need to mind myself, as he had it
from a sure source that he was determined to take my life. In

I50 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xi.

abont a month after this, faeaiing again that he was Teiy ill, I
resolved to go and see him once more. I rode to the honse, and
found poor Joe McEey lying on his bed, a corpse. The same stem
mouth, the same noble forehead, but hollow and sunken cheeks.
The young woman knelt beside him weepings

** When did he die ? " I asked.

** This morning, sir," she replied, and her tears flowed fresh and
fast.

" What did he die of ? "

*'A decline, sir. He nerer got the better of that day. TM
people said you took htm, — which your honor well knows was a
rank lie, — and it broke his heart that they should say so."

**He was a noble fellow in his way," said I; *'but he had nerer
been tamed, and I always feared he would come to grief."

** Oh, sir," replied she, in an agony, ''you did not know him, you
did not know him ! his heart was as tender as a little child's, and he
was the kindest of the kind to me."

" I fear you were never married to him? " I observed.

<' And if I never was," she replied almost angrily, ''what matter
was it, when in the sight of God we were man and wife ? I loved
him as few wedded wives love their husbands, and wasn't Joe the
best and truest of husbands to me ? You did not know him, sir, —
you did not know him I He would not have hurt a hair of your
honor's head for worlds, but he was well-nigh maddened by the
people."

"And how did the people madden him?" I asked.

" Sure didn't they tell him over and over again that tl^e land was
his, and not the landlord's at all ? And then they swore all the oaths
you could think of, they would soon hav^ it all to themselves again.
The poor boy that's lying there before you, had a darin' heart, so he
had, more than all the rest of them together ; so they put him on
for beginning the war, which the bloody cowards were afeared to
face tHemselves. Oh Joe, my darlin' Joe I " cried she in an ag^ny
of grief, as she turned to the corpse again, "it was yourself that
had the kind and darin' heart, and now they've broke it on you by
saying you were took a prisoner, when no one knows better than

1851.] JOE McKEY, X51

his honor here that the power of man could never, take my darlin'
Joe aliye. It was the kind word that made him give in, and never
the fear of mortal man."

He was buried the following day. She soon after left the country.

From the moment that McEey had appeared in my office the
feeling of that district changed, and the effects which I had antici-
pated followed. The people came in and paid their rents, or settled
with me as best they could. Some went to America, some paid up
by instalments ; but the district over which Joe McEey held sway,
succumbed.

153 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xii.

CHAPTER Xn.

THE CONSPIRACY.

npHE death of Joe McKej threw a temporary damp oyer the plots
of the Ribbon Confederacy ; but I soon perceived that active
steps were being taken by other parties to rouse the people to re-
sistance, and to effect the much-desired object of '^putting Mr.
Trench out of the way.*' A cautious and organized conspiracy was
now set on foot. I was informed from private and trustworthy
sources that large subscriptions were being collected to pay the
murderer who would consent '* to do the job " ; that 50/. were offered
to any one who would shoot me ; . and I was warned in the most
earnest but friendly manner that my life was in imminent danger.

At first I could scarcely credit the truth of all these warnings.
I was unconscious of having done one harsh act ; I had not ejected
one single tenant from the estate. I had availed myself of my
original compact with Lady Bath, as arranged on my first accepting
the agency of the estate, that I should never be required to turn
out any tenant, even for non-payment of rent, without being able
to offer him a free passage to any port in America he chose, giving
him at the same time his stock and his crop, forgiving him all
arrears, and allowing him to take away all that he had, provided he
would only surrender the worn-out land whenever he became un*
able to pay for it. Liberality such as this, I well knew, had n^t
been always exercised by landlords in similar cases ; but I took
care that there should be no misunderstanding about it; and 1
announced these regulations in the most public manner in the
estate office, at the Poor Law Board, and whenever opportunity
occurred. Notwithstanding all this, however, I found a deep-
rooted determination growing and increasing amongst a large body

1851.] THE CONSPIRACY. 1 53

of the tenantry that they would not, under any circumstances, quit
the land they had so long held almost rent-free ; and perceiving
that measures had heen taken to provide them with the means of
living elsewhere if they could not pay for their holdings, they res-
olutely determined to have me murdered, which would at least
afford them a temporary respite, and perhaps deter, by the terror
thus likely to be established, any other man from undertaking so
dangerous a task as that of enforcing the payment of rent from that
portion of the tenantry of the Bath Estate who felt disinclined
to pay.

I need not say, that by no means all the tenants on the estate
joined in or approved of these proceedings. Amongst the higher
classes of tenants there were many who I firmly believe would
have risked their own lives to save mine ; and the many friendly
peasants who gave me private warning of my danger, proved also
• that amongst a large portion of the lower classes the system now
entered on was against their wishes. But partly through the terror
established by the Kibbon Confederacy, and partly from a general
feeling which then prevailed in the country, that all landlords and
agents ought to be ''put down," there could be no question that a
considerable number of the tenantry, comprising even men '* well
to do " in the world, subscribed, or tacitly approved of the meas-
ures which were now in progress for getting me put out^ of the
way, — the ugly word '* murdered " is seldom used in IrelaiA when
alluding to the killing of a landlord or agent.

The temper of a portion of the peasantry at this time aroutid
Carrickmacross, and on the borders of the counties of Armagh and
Louth, was very bad indeed. Mr. Mauleverer, a gentleman re-
siding near Crossmaglen, had been most barbarously murdered a
short time before.* He was a magistrate and a land agent, and of
a bold and fc irless disposition ; but mere boldness without caution
is an unsafe protection from the stealthy attacks of the Ribbonman.
Mr. Mauleverer usually carried pistols about him ; but on this oc-
casion he was going to meet the train at Culloville station, only a

* Mr. Mauleverer was murdered on May 23, 1850. Two men were tried for
the murder, but acquitted.

154 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xn.

■hort diBtance from his house ; and thinking that there could be no
danger during so short a joumej, he put his pistols in his hat-box
and locked them up, intending on his return to have them ready for
use, and to be well prepared. He drove to the train on a hired
outside car, and just as he came to a lonely part of the road about
a mile from Culloyille station, two men leaped out with bludgeons
in their hands. Mr. Mauleverer instantly snatched at his hat-box
to get his pistols ; but his arms were suddenly seized, and he was
pinioned so that he could not unlock the hat-box ; and in this state
held down by a false ruffian upon the car, he was brutally mur-
dered, and his brains dashed out upon the road. Mr. Morant of
Carrickmacross was in the country at the time ; he rode to the spot
soon afterwards, and saw the blood lying in pools upon the road
where the murder had been committed.

Occurrences like this had a decided tendency to rouse the worst
passions of the ill-disposed amongst the peasantry; and having
once, as it were, tasted blood, there was no crime that some of them
were not ready to commit, to put down a landlord or an agent.

At length my secret friends informed me that matters were draw-
ing to a crisis ; that a meeting had been held amongst the leaders
of the Ribbon Association ; that I had been formally tried by a
judge and jury in a large bam at one of the tenants' houses ; that I
had been found guilty of being "an exterminator" (though I had
not evicted a single tenant); and that they knew they had na
chance of having things any longer their own way " unless Trench
was put off the walk " : such was the expression used for a final
determination that I should be deliberately murdered.

Steps were accordingly taken to have this sentence carried into
effect. The money was collected ; and after a little time two men
were chosen (neither of whom lived on the estate, and neither of
whom had I ever known or injured), as the instruments of the in-
tended crime. One of these was a bold, active young man named
Hodgens, — I believe he had been a navvy employed at some rail-
way works near Castleblaney, and was quite a stranger in the
locality. The other was an idle, good-for-nothing fellow, living in
a small hut between Carrickmacross and Inniskeen, near the estate

i85i.] THE CONSPIRACY. 155

but not actually on it. He wa& a weak, small man, but clever and
cunning to a degree, of great resource in difficulties, and, I suspect,
an arrant coward at heart. His name was Thornton. He did not
seem to be naturally of a cruel or bloody disposition, but he took
delight in waylaying, and plotting, and hiding, and contriving my
death, much in the same way that a deer-stalker of the present day
enjoys the various contrivances of stealthy approach by which he
can get a shot at the antlered monarch of the glen.

The description afterwards giveu to me of this Ribbon trial, by
Thornton himself, who was present at the whole scene, was strange
and curious. Notice had been sent round a short time before to
some of the most active and trusted Bibbonmen that ** Trench was
to be tried " on a certain night. The parties met accordingly at
one of the chief Bibbonmen's houses situated centrally on the
estate. They did not confine themselves to the orthodox number
of twelve, as I believe there were fifteen or sixteen present. , They
'were presided over by the owner of the farm, a man well known
to me, and holding a considerable quantity of land. The house
where the trial took place was a large barn, in which was placed a
long table ; forms were arranged for seats, and plenty of whiskey
was supplied by a bare-footed girl in attendance. The president or
judge sat on a chair at the head of the table. The party drank for
some time in silence, or speaking to one another only in whispers ;
and when all were well steeped in liquor, the president, — with a
curious, silent leap over the whole of the accusation and pros-
ecution, and even the name of the accused, all of which the jurors
were supposed- perfectly to understand, — broke the silence for the
first time, and said aloud, —

" Well, boys, can any one say anything in his defence? "

There was a short silence, when one of the conspirators said, —

** He gave me an iron gate."

** May your cattle break their necks in it I" replied the president.

'^ He gave me slates and timber to roof my house," said another.

'' May the roof soon rot and fall I " replied the president.

*' He drained my land," said another.

<* May the crop sour in the heart of it I " replied the president.

156 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xn.

*^ He gave a neighbor of mine wine for a sick child," obserred
another.

'^ The child died I ** said the president.

All were again silent.

** Guilty/' said the president. "Boys, he must die; and now let
us draw lots for the one that will do it."

There was some hesitation when this terrible process was pro-
posed ; at last one of the men said, —

" There is no occasion to draw lots ; the men to do the job are
here, and are both ready and willing."

And so it proved. The two assassins had been introduced, and
were present at the whole scene ; and then and there were sworn to
follow me and hunt me from day to day, from night to night, and
from place to place, to watch my moyements, to make themselres
acquainted with my person, and never to leave my track night or
day, until they should leave me a bloody corpse.

The oath having been sworn, all again set themselves round the
table to drink. More liquor was introduced; and the business of -
the evening having been satisfactorily concluded, much merriment
and hilarity were indulged in. Many wild and exciting stories were
told of landlords and agents who had been murdered, of the plots-
and contrivances by which they had been successfully waylaid, of
the hair-breadth escapes of the " boys who had done it," and many
jokes were passed at the victims being so suddenly '^ sent to hell! "

By degrees, as the liquor told upon the party, the conversation
grew fast and furious, and various subjects were introduced and
commented on in their own wild way.

" They say," observed one of the leaders, " that if the boys had
held out well when they rose in 1641, they could have had the
country to themselves, and driven every Saxon out of it. I hear
there was great sport up at the Castle at Carrickmacross that time,
and that they put a rope round the agent's neck and were going to
hang him at his own hall door."

" Bad luck to them for spalpeens that they didn't hang him," said
another. " If we had the country all to ourselves now, I know
how it would be I "

i8si.] THE CONSPIRACY. 157

'*Some says it's the land laws that's mighty bad," observed
another; ** that it's them that*8 crushing us down, and that they are
going to bring in a bill, — as they call it, — to alter them."

** A curse upon the land laws," cried the president, '* and all con-
cerned in them. It's the land itself we want, and not all this bother
about the laws. The laws is not so bad in the main, barrin' they
make us pay rent at all. What good would altering the laws do
us ? sure we have tenant-right and fair play enough for that matter,
for Trench never puts any one off the land that's able to pay his
rent, and stand his ground on it. Bid why wotdd we pay rent at
all t That's the question, say I. Isn't the land our own, and wasn't
it our ancestors' before us, until these bloody English came and
took it all away from us? My curse upon them for it, — but we
will tear it back out of their heart's blood yet."

** In troth then ye'U have tough work of it before ye do," rejoined
another. *' Them Saxons is a terrible strong lot to deal with.
They beat down ould Ireland before, and I doubt but they'll hold
on the land still, and beat her down again, rise when ye may."

" None of your croakin'," cried the president. ** Sure it's not
more than three hundred years since they took it aU from us, and
many a country has risen and held its own again after a longer
slavery than that. I say, the land we must have, and cursed be
the hand and withered the arm that will not strike a blow to gain
It I"

" Some say it's the Church that's crushing us," suggested one of
the party who had not spoken before.

** Damn the Church, and you along with it," cried the president
in a passion. ** What harm does the Church do you or any one
else ? The gentlemen that owns it are quiet, dacent men, and often
good to the poor. Ifs the land, I say again, if 8 the land, we want.
The Saxon robbers took it from our forefathers, and I say again
we'll wrench it out of their hearts' blood ; and what better beginning
could we have than to blow Trench to shivers off the walk ? "

" True for ye," said another, ** so far as that goes, but ye are
wrong about the Church for all that. Sure isn't it what they call
the dominan' Church, and what right has it to dominate over oar

158 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xn.

own ciargy, who are as good as them any day. Up wid onr clargy,
and down with the dominan' Church I nay I. Besides," continned
he more softly, ** maybe if we had once a hold of the chnrch lands,
the landlords' lands would be 'asier come at after."

''Why then that maybe true too," said the president; ''down
with the Chnrch, down with the landlords, down with the agents,
down with everything, say I, that stands in the way of our own
green land coming back to us again."

" What wonderful grand fun we*Il have fightin' among ourselves
when it does come ; " said a thick-set Herculean fellow at the lower
end of the table.

" Well now I often thought of that I " replied his neighbor in a
whisper. " It'll be bloody work then in airnest, as sure as you and
I live to see it. Anything that has happened up to this will be only
a joke to what will happen then."

"And what matter?" cried the advocate for fighting. "Sure
wouldn't it be far better any day to be fightin' among friends,
than have no fightin' at all, and be slaves to our enemies ? By the
powers," cried he, and he gave the table a salient stroke with his
shilelagh that made the punch-glasses leap, "but I would rather go
out as our ancestors did before us, with the skeine in our hands,
and the skins of wild beasts upon our backs, and fight away till the
best man had it, than be the slaves we are now, paying rint in the
office, and acknowledging them Saxons as our landlords I " *

"True for ye, Larry," said the president; "and now, boys, be
'asy, and don't make so much noise, lest maybe the polls would be
down upon us. Ned dear," continued he, in a gentle voice, as he
saw the .necessity of appeasing the rougher spirits of the gang,
" couldn't ye give us a song, or a bit of poethry, or anything of that
sort, just tcK sweeten the liquor a bit, as sugar is mighty scarce down
at this end of the table? "

iThe young man thus addressed was a pale, delicate-looking

'* That a strong feeling ezinted then amongst the peasantry of Ireland (and to

^.a certain extent exists even now), that the ancient fieunilies would yet recover the

rftited estates, there Is no doiibt. In my intercourse amongst them this idea has

mam^m

1851.3 THE CONSPIRACY. 159

.j^outhy possessing a form and features which one conld hardly
expect to find amongst such companions. In early life he had been
intended for the priesthood ; but feeling a repagnance for that pro-
fession, — being fond, as he said, of poetry, and still fonder of the
girls, — he commenced reading for the situation of a national school-
master. Whether the girls were unkind to him, or whether he liked
the excitement of a wild, idle life, — plotting and conspiring, and
telling tales to the unlettered peasantry of the tyranny and op-
pression under which his native land groaned at the hand of the
relentless Saxon, — I know not ; but at that time he had joined the
Bibbonmen, and was a favorite at their meetings, from his minstrel
tendencies and capability of finishing the evening with a song.

** Well indeed, Mr. President," said the minstrel modestly, ** I
don't remember any neat and suitable song just now, unless it be
the great song of '98 ye would have, — they call it the * Shan Van
Voght.' "

'' The Shan Van Voght ! the Shan Van Yoght I " shouted all the
party vociferously ; ** give us the Shan Van Voght T*

'* Well ye see,'' continued the minstrel in the same modest voice,
** I'm loth to give it to ye, as it was made a present to myself by a
boy from a far country, and an illigant poet that same boy wa;^*
Oh, if ye only heard liim I he would talk poethry as 'asy as say his
A. B. He told me he came from the far-oflf county of Kerry, and
that they were singing them songs night and day on the mountains
in those parts."

*' Ah then how did ye come across him," asked one of the party,
** and he all the way from the County Kerry? "

^t In troth then I came across him 'asy enough," replied the min-
etrel. '* I met him in the fair of MuUacrew, where he came up the
country with some of the weeniest little bastes that ever ye saw in
all your life. Ye'd think they were all young calves only for the
horns of them ; and when he had nothing better to do, and couldn't
sell the little bastes to his mind, ye'd hear him singin' and repatin*
poethry to himself. * What's that you're saying?' says I to hitn
when I heard him singin' to himself. * Only a bit of poethry,' says
he. 'What is it?' says I. ^It's what they sing on the mountains

l4o REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xii.

down in Kerry,' says he, and he repated as much poethry and music
as ever you heard tell of in your life.*'

'* They're a cliver people down in them parts ? " said t^e pres-
ident.

*' Ye may say that and tell no lie,*' replied the minstreL <* I only
remember a few lines of all he told me ; but they were something
like this : —

m

*0h the landl the land I

Oar own green landl
And the song of *' God speed the plough," my boys,

And Erin shall stand

With a harp in her hand,
And an emerald crown on her brow, my boysP"

** Hurrah, well done ! '* cried the Ribbonmen. " That's your
sort ! give us some more of that I *'

" Troth and I can't," replied the minstrel. ** Them is the only
lines I remember. But if we had the Kerry boy with us, it's he
that would keep you going all night."

" * Our own green land /'" repeated the president thoughtfully;
" Them will be glorious times, no doubt. I wonder will they ever
come round."

" I doubt it," replied the minstrel. ** They say the mills of Louth
will turn round three times with blood before the land becomes our
own again, but faix I often do be thinking it's our own blood will
turn the wheel I and troth if that be the case I would sooner it
stood still for many a twelve-month longer. Man alive I " continued
the minstrel, who in the midst of all his wildness and folly had
acquired some scattered knowledge from reading the newspapers
and books of the day, ** man alive, you'll hear the people say that
if Ireland would only rise against England in airnest, she'd soon
show them she'd be free. But I tell ye they know nothing about it
that says so. Ireland will never rise against England, /f « one"
half of Ireland must rise against the other half — the Catholics
who haven't the land, against the Protestants who have. ' It would
be hard to say which would win if they were left alone to fight it
out between themselves, for the Protestants are ti^rrible chaps for

1851.] THE CONSPIRACY. 161

figfatin' when they're put to it, and moreoyer mayhe some of the
Catholics would join them. And then down comes England with
her army of soldiers and all her cannon at her hack to help the
bloody Protestants, and what chance would the people have then ? "

" It's too true," replied the president. " It's all too true entirely,
but howld you your tongue about that, and don't be putting it that
way before the people. Wait till the big war comes any way, and
then we'll see what will turn up."

'* All right," replied the minstrel. <' Leave it so ; but mind I tell
ye it's a worse look-out than many of ye think. And now for the
* Shan Van Voght.'"

His voice was sweet and musical, and possessed a rich, mellow
softness that would have touched the sympathies of a far more
refined audience than that around the Ribbon table. He rose from
his seat, passed his hand conceitedly through his hair, and, assuming
what he considered to be an effective attitude, as he was, in truth,
somewhat of a coxcomb, he sang, —

C(

THE SONG OF 'OS.

1.

" Ob, the French are on the tea,

Said the Shan Van Voght;

Ob, the French are on the eea.

Said the Shan Van Voght;

The French are in the. bay.

They'll be here without delay,

And the orange shall decay.

Said the Shan Van Voght.

2.

*< What will the yeomen do ?

Said the Shan Van Voght;
What will the yeomen do ?

Said the Shan Van Voght;
What should the yeomen do,
Bat give np the red and Mae,
• And promise to be true

To the Shan Van Voght.
II

1^2 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. zn.

8.

*< Where will they pitch their camp ?
Said the Shan Van Voght ;
Where will they pitch their camp ?

Bald the Shan Van Voght;
On the Curragh of Eildare,
And Lord Edward will be there,
And our pikes in good repair,
Said the Shan Van Voght.

■
4.

*< What color shall be seen ?

Said the Shan Van Voght;
What color shall be seen ?

Said the Shan Van Voght;
What color should be seen ?
But our own immortal green I
■ That's the color shall be seen,
Said the Shan Van Voght.

6.
'< WiU Ireland then be free ?

Said the Shan Van Voght;
Will Ireland then be free ?

Said the Shan Van Voght;
Yes, Ireland shcUl be fi^e,
From the centre to the sea,
And hurrah for Liberty !

Said the Shan Van Voght."

At length the party seemed inclined to hreak up, when the presi-
dent, with whom I was well acquainted, as he rose, called out to
the sworn assassins, who were sitting drinking behind some sacks,—

** Well, boys, don*t shoot him until after next Thursday, anyhow;
he promised to give me two iron gates for my farm on that day, and
I may as well get that much out of him before he dies."

A roar of laughter followed this disinterested respite of my life,
and the party were about to separate, when one of them called out,—

** Boys, oughtn*t we to give him fair notice? "

<* For why and for what? " asked the president, grimly )k< isn't he
condemned to die, and what notice would he want? "

*■ By this and by that,*' returned the first speaker, *' but I say he

1851] THE CONSPIRACY. 163

I

, must hare notice. I will never consent to his death until he be

t . fairly warned first ; it is the rule and the law, and notice I say he

must get."

" Give it yourself, then," said the president; " and you had bet-
' ter make a clean job of it while you are about it, and inform on us

all, and go off with the blood-money in your pocket."

" I'm as true and darin* a man as you are," said the bold Ribbon-
man; '* but I say he should get wamin'. Maybe he'd be off quick
enough if he heard that he was sure to be shot, and then we'd have
the land to ourselves without rint, as we had before he came."

** Sorra foot he'll go," said another; *^ I know him well, and ye'll
only put him up to what's coming, and maybe not find it so 'asy to
come at him afterwards, for he's a terrible sure shot."

'* What's the good of them that's paid to do the job," said the first
speaker, *' if they can't bring him down, and they at it day and
night? I say he must get warning, and I'll have it drawn out my-
self and sarved on him."

** That's but fair, that's but fair," shouted the other conspirators.

*^ Let it be posted on all the chapels next Sunday, and he'll be
sure to hear of it."

** In troth I'll just do that same," said this hero of *' fair play ";
and all severally went their way.

In accordance with this specimen of Ribbonite '* fair play," a
document was drawn up, and the next Sunday the police found a
notice formally posted on every Roman Catholic chapel in the dis-
trict, of which the following is an exact copy. I have the original
at this moment in my possession : —

** To Landlords, Agents, Bailiffs, Grippers, process-servers, and
usurpers or underminers who wish to step into the evicted
tenants' property, and to all others concerned in Tyranny and
Oppression of the poor on the Bath Estate.

"TAKE NOTICE.

" That you are hereby (under the pain of a certain punishment
which will inevitably occur) prohibited from evicting tenants,

l6^ REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xn.

execating decrees, serving process, distraining for rent, or going
into another's land, or to assist anj tyrant, Landlord, or Agent in
his insatiable desire for depopulation. Recollect the fate of Maul-
everer, on this his anniversary. Dated May 23, 1851."

From the moment this notice appeared, I was considered by the
tenantry in general as a doomed, or, as they termed it, a *' dead
man." It had a strange and depressing effect upon the spirits \o
mark the difference in the bearing and manner of the peasantry,
from the moment that this document was issued. It was thoroughly
known that such a document as that, posted simultaneously on
three different chapels in the district, could only have emanated
from the leaders of the Ribbon Conspiracy ; none others would have
dared to take such a step ; and it was equally well known that
chosen men were under heavy pay to carry the threat into execu-
tion. This being now well understood by the whole population, I
was looked upon, as it were, as a criminal condemned to die ; and
men who before had saluted me in a cordial and friendly manner
when we met, now passed me in silence with half-averted faces and
pitying looks, and a silent touch of the hat in salutation, as if they
scarcely dared to recognize the man who was doomed to be so soon
a corpse.*

* I quite feel that I have by no means done Juetlee to the graphic descrlpttoa
given to me of this remarkable scene, by Thornton, when in his prison cell in
Monaghan.

1851O THE MURDER. 165

CHAPTER XIIL

THE MURDER.

TT may be supposed that my own feelings at this time were any-
thing but agreeable. I could not but perceive that I was indeed
*'a doomed man;" and unless I threw up my post and left the
country, I was well aware I had but a small chanpe of my life.
There is something very terrible in the knowledge that a cruel and
vindictive enemy is determined to pursue you, and to kill you
whenever an opportunity may occur, — whether with bludgeon,
stone, pistol, or blunderbuss, — that you are watched day and night,
your habits noted, your most private actions marked, and that
whether abroad or in the house, in your bedroom or on horseback,
never for one moment are you safe from a murderous attack. It is
a position which tells severely upon the nerves. I knew all this,
yet had no alternative but to face it or leave the post of duty. So
I resolved to look the whole position of affairs calmly in the face.
I began by a thorough reconsideration of all my past measures,
and endeavored to ascertain if I had in any degree outstepped the
plainest and most absolute duties of my office. The mind at such
a time becomes singularly lucid and unclouded, and if one has
done anything harshly or hastily, conscience is sure to bring it out
in the most uninviting colors. But after the calmest reflection, I
carae to the conclusion that I had done nothing but my duty ; that
in offering emigration to America at the landlords' expense, besides
forgiveness of all arrears, and his full stock and crop to every
tenant and his family who could not pay his rent, I had done all on
behalf of the landlord which he ought or could be expected to do ;
and hence I was bound to see either that rent was paid, or that
these liberal terms were accepted. Accordingly I determined to

l66 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. mi.

remain and fa« i my enemies, and see this quarrel to the end. My
health was good, my nerves were firm ; and hoping to be as watch-
ful as my foes, I let it be clearly understood that I had entered the
lists with the Ribbonmen and- would fight this matter out.

Both parties now began to take their measures cautiously. The
first step of the Ribbonmen was a clever and a curious one. I
have mentioned that the men chosen **to do the job'* were alto-
gether Unknown to me. They were ignorant even of my appear-
ance. But lest there should be any mistake as to my identity, the
following plan was adopted. The two men were taken into the
Court House of Carrickmacross, on Petty Sessions day, where I
happened to be sitting as chairman, amongst the magistrates, and
they were told to watch my countenance carefully.

''You will see him,** said the stealthy Ribbonman who conducted
them, *' sometimes pleased and sometimes vexed ; sometimes he
will speak loud, and sometimes low ; sometimes you will see anger
on his countenance, and sometimes you will see him pleased and
laughing ; and if you watch him cleverly all day in court, and then
watch him as he leaves it with his hat on, and follow him down the
street as he walks, you cannot fail: to know him again, whether by
night or by day.'* One of the villains afterwards confessed to me
personally, that he had done all this, and that he '* would have
known me out of ten thousand.** Their next step was to procure a
blunderbuss. The history of this blunderbuss was a strange one.
It had been purchased and brought over from England by a man
named Muckian, who lived not very far from TuUyvara, with a
view, no doubt, to the performance of some deed of blood. So
careful and adxious was he that no one should detect its presence
on his journey, that he hid it under his shirt, and placed it next his
bare flesh. From what cause I know not, but probably from the
verdigris acting on an unhealthy skin, a large sore appeared upon
the spot where it had lain so long touching his person. The sore
increased gradually in size and virulence, until at last he died of its
efiects in the most excruciating pain. From him it passed into the
hands of those who had undertaken to be my assassins, and they
kept it as bright as if it had always been in a police barrack. One

1851.] THE MURDER, 167

of the men was armed with this, the other with a brace of pistols ;
and the plan agreed on was to fire the blunderbuss first, and if I
was knocked over to finish me with the pistols ; and if the blun-
derbuss failed in its aim, then the pistols were to be used ofiensively
or defensively, as circumstances might require. Thus armed and
prepared, they lay in wait for me day and night. But neither had
I been idle in my preparations. I purchased two reyolvers, each
of them having six barrels ; these I always carried about me when
I went out to any distance, and day and night, when in the house,
they were on a table close beside mc, carefully loaded and capped.
Besides these I had two small double-barrelled pocket-pistols to be
used at close quarters if occasion required, and a pair of double-
barrelled horse-pistols of a larger size in holsters before me on my
saddle ; thus having twenty shots always around my person when
1 rode out on horseback, which was my usual mode of locomotion.

I could not, however, avoid perceiving that all this preparation
would probably be utterly valueless in a case of cautious waylay-
ing, as the Ribbonmen would thus have the first shot at me, — and
if I were hit, my armament would be of little use; so I made up
my mind never to leave the house, as long as this state of things
lasted, without two able young men (one of them usually my own
son), well armed and riding one on either side of me, if I went on
horseback, and if I went on a car, accompanying me with loaded
double-barrelled guns in their bands, ready to fire at a moment's
notice.

Having also observed from several preceding attacks which had
been made on other people, that the moment any one was shot a
rush of his friends was made to rais^ and support him, and that
thus the murderers in the confusion made their escape, I made it a
request with my young friends that if I was shot, and fell, no at-,
tention whatever should be paid to me until they had first arrested
or shot the murderers, and then, and not till then, were they to
come to my assistance. And it was fully agreed amongst us that
we should all act on this principle, no matter which of us might
fall. The driver of the car also got solemn warning, — on the pain
of being considered an accomplice and perhaps struck down aa

l68 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xiu.

•uch, — that the moment a shot was fired he was instantly to stop
his horse ; the young men, and all who should happen to be unhurt,
were then to leap off the car with the double-barrelled guns in their
hands, and pursue, capture, fight, or shoot upon the spot, as cir*
cumstances might require, whoever might be t!?e assassins, — but,
dead or alive, to secure them.

The vigorous measures which were thus adopted soon got wind
amongst the conspirators, mainly, I suspect, through the car-
drivers. We never concealed where we were going. I mado
frequent appointments to be at certain places at certain times, and
always kept them, anxious if possible to bring matters to a crisis,
and have it out with the assassins in oi>en fight. But they were far
too cautious ; and one of them afterwards confessed to me that he
had let us pass over and over again, he and his companion lying
quietly with cocked blunderbuss behind the hedge, " knowing," a«
he said, ** that it would be sure death to himself if he fired."

At length having cjixried on this warfare for nearly a year,
during the whole of which time I steadily persisted in my deter-
mination never to go out without my young, stout, friendly guards,
the assassins gave up the plans they had agreed on, and proposed
more stealthy arrangements. One of these was to watch me as I
passed at night from my office to my dwelling-house across the
street of Carrickmacross, and to shoot me in the middle of the
town. The house I lodged in at the time was almost exactly oppo-
site my office, I was in the habit of sitting up late at business,
and between ten and eleven o'clock at night I was accustomed to
leave the office and cross the street, usually without guards, not
thinking there could be any real danger in the midst of a public
street. But I soon received private information that even here
they were on the watch for me, and I was warned to let no one
near me whilst crossing to my lodgings, as an attempt would be
made to present a letter and shoot me while accepting it. The
assassin was then to drop his pistol on the ground, and be amongst
the first to rush to the aid of the ** poor gentleman that was hurt I *'

I soon discovered that the information of this formidable plot
wa« not given a day too soon, as several attempts to approach me

xSsi.] THE MURDER. 169

in the manner described were made immediately afterwards. Fore-
warned, however, I was forearmed ; and I now never passed to my
lodgings without a brace of large double-barrelled pistols openly in
my hands, and the moment any one, no matter who, came near me
as X crossed the street in the night, I presented the pistols at him
while yet within fifteen or twenty paces, and requested he would
kn^p at a respectful distance, as 1 would allow no one to come near
mjB there. Thus all were kept away; and I believe I very much
a&tonlshed some innocent people by accosting them in this strange
manner.

. Another plan was to shoot me as I walked alone from the town
of Carrickmacross to the poor-house, when attending the meetings
of the Board of Guardians, of which I was chairman. Between
the town and union-house there is a space of open ground, without
any houses immediately near. This road I sometimes walked un-
accompanied by any guards, for the town was so close that I
conceived there could be but little danger in doing so. In this,
however, I was mistaken. Twice was I waylaid there, the assassin,
armed with a pistol, intending to shoot me by putting the pistol to
my breast as I passed, fire it, then drop the pistol, and run for his
Hfe across the country. His companion afterwards confessed to
me that on one occasion I escaped only by his having failed to
bring the assassin a light pair of shoes in sufficient time, before I
passed, to enable him, after the attack, to run more quickly than
he could in his ^* brogues" ; and on another occasion, by my friend
Mr. Morant appearing at the very moment round a corner close by,
just as he was about to fire. Thus for upwards of a year I was
watched and waylaid, bunted and pursued by my intended murder-
ers, they being supported by subscriptions all the time; until at
last, quite disheartened at their want of success, they went to their
employers, and swearing that all the luck was on my side, and
against them, they determined *' to give me up as a bad job, but
that they had no objection to shoot Faddy McArdle (the bailiff),
who would do nearly as well, and maybe the luck might not be so
much with him."
It was very difficult during the whole of this trying period to

lyo REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xm.

keep sufficiently on the alert. One soon becomes familiar with
danger, especially a hidden danger ; and were it not for some fear-
ful lessons which occurred about this time in the neighborhood, to
w;arli me, I feel conyinced that by degrees I should have relaxed
my caution, and thus become an easy victim.

Two of those I particularly remember. One was an attack made
upon Mr. Chambre,* a magistrate, who lived in a somewhat remote
district in the mountains in the county of Armagh. I was not
personally acquainted with this gentleman, but I had heard of him
as a most active and improving resident landlord. As is usually
the case under these circumstances, he had incurred the displeasure
of the Ribbon Society, and they determined to put him out of the
way. The plan adopted was to lie in wait for him as he returned
on his car from Petty Sessions, and shoot him near his own house.
On the evening of the day appointed for his murder, he was return-
ing on an outside car, accompanied by his servant and one or tw6
friends, all, I believe, well armed, as he was aware of his danger;
when, from behind a low wall, a volley was fired which soon
emptied the seats of the car. Mr. Chambre fell to the ground
severely and dangerously wounded ; none of the others, I believe,
were hurt; but, as is usual under such circumstances, seeing Mr.
Chambre wounded and bleeding on the ground, his friends and the
servant rushed to his assistance, and in the meantime the mur-
derers, — of whom it was generally believed there were four or five
behind the wall, — ran away and escaped detection at the time,
though a man named Barry or Barret was afterwards hanged for
the ofience. When the car was emptied, the horse, terrified by
the shots, — and, I believe, wounded and bleeding, — dashed ofi^
towards the house, and Mrs. Chambre, who was anxiously expecting
her husband home to dinner, was startled, as she walked out with
the hope of meeting hiin, by seeing the horse and empty car coming
furiously up the approach. Her feelings may be imagined. Assist-
ance was immediately procured, and Mr. Chambre was brought
home bleeding and weak, and with but little hope of his recovery.

*]£r. CharnVre, if I recollect aright, wm attacked in January, 1862.

i8si.] THE MURDER. 171

Contrary to general expectation, hovever, he did recover, after a
long and serious illness, and I believe he is now alive. Such was
the correct account of this attack.

It was the example of this case which made me and my young
friends agree, that, as soon as a shot was fired at the party, all who
were unhurt should immediately dash at the assassins, without
waiting for a moment to give assistance to the wounded party, who-
ever he might be, as two or three minutes' delay could make but
little difference to him. ,

But another most serious lesson of warning was brought more
immediately under my own observation. The circumstances having
happened to an acquaintance and Mend, with whom I was in
familiar social intercourse, I will relate them more in detail.

Mr. Bateson was a gentleman of good family and position in the
north of Ireland. He was a well-educated and intelligent man, in
appearance about sixty years of age. He was kind-hearted, social,
and liberal ; and he had undertaken the management of the Temple-
town Estates, near Castleblaney.

Mr. Bateson, being a bachelor, lived in the excellent hotel in
Castleblaney, close to which the main bulk of the Templetown
Estate in that district is situated. '* Tenant-right," in the full
northern acceptation of the term, had always prevailed over the
estate,- and the tenants were for the most part comfortable and
respectable.

With a view to improve the agriculture of the district, Mr. Bate-
son had formed the plan of establishing a model agricultural farm,
on which could be tried every new experiment, at the cost of the
landlord, and for the information and instruction of the tenants.
On this farm the newest improvements in draining and subsoiling,
green cropping, manuring, and machinery of every kind, were in
daily use and operation ; the whole was open to the inspection of the
public, whilst the tenants of the Templetown Estate were specially
invited to visit the works, and derive what advantage they could
from the improved systems of husbandry which were there adopted.

I have not any accurate knowledge of the details with reference
to the process of taking up the land for the purpose of establishing

lya REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. hii.

this model farm ; but I was given to understand that it had been
taken into the Undlord's hands in\he famine years of 1848 and 1849.
Although a considerable portion of it had then lain vacant, yet to
form a compact farm, lying well together and fit for the purposes
designed, it was necessary to make several small changes and con-
solidations, and to remove some of those tenants whose land lay
contiguous to the model farm, and was required for its completion.
These tenants were placed in other holdings on the estate; yet,
from these changes, which were absolutely necessary to the estab-
lishment of the proposed design, some^ill-will appears to have been
created towards Mr. Bateson. Such was the account of the matter
which I heard at the time from apparently reliable sources, and I
have every reason to believe that the account was substantially
true.

The spirit of disaffection, which has been already described, was
not confined to the district of Carrickmacross ; it extended into the
county of Armagh, and the town and neighborhood of Crossmaglen
obtained an unenviable notoriety. Castleblaney had hitherto been
quiet, but it was determined that the ramifications of the Ribbon
Confederacy should extend there also ; and Mr. Bateson being an
improver, and, above all, having established a model farm (a pre-
cedent which it was thought might lead to other and more important
innovations), it was arranged that he should be <* put out of the
way."

I had no eye-witness in his case, such as was afforded me by &
strange* accident in my own trial, to describe the details of the scene
which was enacted when Mr. Bateson*s death was determined on.
But doubtless in his case also a jury of '* the right sort" was sum-
moned, whiskey in abundance being probably on the table; his
guilt, I suppose, was also silently presumed, and the g^lf of the
indictment against him was leaped oyer in a silent bound, as it was
with me ; and when any one ventured, half in mockery, to suggest
a few words in his favor, or to tell of any acts of kindness which he
might have shown, — perhaps to some of the jurors themselves, — !
doubt not they were silenced by the president in the same grim and
cruel manner as had been done in my own case. To Mr. Bateson

1851J THE MURDER. 1^3

also it appears that the strange law of Ribbon '* fair play ** was
accorded, and he duly received a "threatening notice," warning
him of his intended niurder.

Mr. Bateson was a man of a bold and confident disposition ; and«
though his friends were much alarmed when he received this notice,
yet he scarcely paid any attention to it. He also received sundry
warnings of a friendly nature, apprising him of his danger ; but
these also he disregarded, and continued day after day walking out
alone to his favorite model farm, which was situated about a mile
from the town, armed sometimes with a pocket-pistol, and some-
times not armed at all. His friends seeing him so confident as time
passed on without any attempted violence, at length began to forget
the danger, and it was hoped the notice he had received might only
have been an idle threat.

But Ribbonmen in a disturbed district do not generally threaten
idly. They had abided by their wild rule of fair play in giving their
victim warning, and they were now steadily and stealthily plotting
his sure destruction.

On the evening of December 4, 1851, Mr. Bateson was quietly
and without the least suspicion of danger returning home from his
model farm along the public road leading from Castleblaney to
Armagh. He was walking carelessly and slowly along the footpath,
not half a mile from the town of Castleblaney, when a man over-
took him, and touching his hat with the usual salutation of a
peasant, bid him a '* good-evening,'* remarked on the fineness of the
weather, and entered into friendly discourse. Mr. Bateson, who
was of an accessible disposition, kind and courteous to the humblest
peasant, at once joined with him in conversation, and thus they
continued walking and talking for a few hundred yards. Suddenly
Mr. Bateson felt his collar grasped f^om behind by a person hitherto
unseen, and a pistol was fired into his neck ; the ball penetrated
and. passed through the tiuroat. As he was staggering from the
shot, and about to call on his companion for help, he received a
violent blow from the miscreant to whom he had been talking, which
felled him to the ground ; and when down, both assassins set upon
him, and beat in his skull with the pistol, and with stones, until hii

1^4 . REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xni.

brains protruded. In this state he was fonnd by a carman who
drove a public ^onyejance from Armagh to Castleblaney. He was
then unconscious, but still breathing. Immediate information was
given to the police and to his friends in the town, and the unfortu-
nate gentleman was carried, still senseless, into the hotel where he
resided.

The news of such a murder as this spread like wildfire over the
country, and early the following morning Mr. Morant and I received
information of the event. The intelligence that a friend, with whom
you have been on kindly and intimate terms, has been harbarously
murdered in your immediate neighborhood, has a peculiar effect
upon the nerves and temper. I was well aware that Mr. Batesoa
was a marked man, — that for him, as well as for myself, assassins
were lying constantly in wait ; but when the news arrived that they
had actually succeeded in laying low their victim, it was hard to
keep down a feeling of the most intense revenge.

Mr. Morant and I resolved' at once to ride to the scene of the
murder. I cannot say that we expected any good result from doiag
BO ; but we wished to manifest our abhorrence of the deed, to offer
our services in any form in which they could be effective, and to
show sympathy with the sufferings of our friend, whom we heard
was still alive.

Feeling assured, however, that our ride to Castleblaney would
not be unattended with danger, we resolved to go well armed and
prepared. I duly arranged my fire-arms around my person, and
Mr. Morant, — who had also passed through some trying scenes,
— rigged himself out in a most extraordinary suit of armor. On
his head he wore a steel hat covered with black cloth ; a short coat
of buffalo-hide encased the upper part of his person ; so stiff, tough,
and thick was this coat, that though certainly not proof against a
modern rifle-ball, yet I really believe it was fully capable of turning
aside any' slugs or bullets likely to be discharged from an ill-loaded
blunderbuss or pistol. He delighted to think, '* how disappointed
the rascals would be when he did not fall to their shot " ; and though
he admitted '* being hit on the legs would not be pleasant," yet he
seemed certain that he would get the better of the Ribhonmen in an
encounter.

1851.] THE MURDER. 175

We vere accompanied by my son, J. Town send Trench, also well
armed ; and in this trim we mounted our horses opposite my tem-
porary lodgings in the street at Carrickmacross. It was ludicrous
to watch the faces of the peasantry who had collected in the street
to see us mount. There was a curious mixture of triumph, fear,
and amusement on their faces at the appearance of Mr. Morant's
buffalo^hide, which had a most comical effect ; and as I proceeded
before them all to put my pistols carefully into my holsters, the
winks and nudges were incessant. Several other pistols peeped out
from the breast-pockets of my coat in all the brightness of their
silyer-mounted handles. Mr. Morant, who had mounted at his own
hall door, and had now called for us, sat upon his horse, coolly
smoking his cigar, looking down upon the admiring peasantry, with
the most supreme indifference and contempt for his enemies
expressed in every feature of his face.

We met but few people upon the road during our ride, a distance
of some ten Irish miles, and the town of Castleblaney seemed
admost deserted as we entered it. Those we met did not offer the
usual salutation, and a dark scowling air of triumph was expressed
upon their faces as we passed. We rode straight to the hotel,
where we dismounted, and gave our horses to the hostler, taking
care to withdraw our pistols from the holsters, lest they should be
tampered with whilst we were absent.

On entering the hotel we asked for our friend, and found that he
was still alive, though wholly unconscious. His relations had been
summoned, but had not yet arrived. His clerk, taking a small roll
of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it, and exhibited a handful of
bones, which he told us were shattered fragments of the skull
which the doctor had succeeded in removing from his unfortunate
patient.

As usual in such cases, we found that we were wholly useless. A
set determination existed among the peasantry to £^ve no informa*
tion whatever ; we were told, falsely as was afterwards proved, that
no one had seen the deed except the assassins themselves; that
** the police were on the alert," as usual, but that no information
existed which afforded the slightest clue to the motive for the
murder, and still less to the detection of the murderers.

176 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xin.

We were pressed to go upstairs and see Mr. Bateson in his agony -
but this we declined. A sickening feeling stole over our hearts,
though unacknowledged by any of us, that we might soon perhaps
be in the same state ourselves, and delicacy forbade any useless
intrusion on so painful and sorrowful a scene. He breathed his last
soon after we left the hotel.

With hearts sad, shocked, and angry, we mounted our horses to
ride home. It was a bright moonlight night ; and though we knew
we were in imminent danger, and likely tobe waylaid on our return,
as our destination was known to all, yet I well remember, as we
trotted briskly on in the sharp and fresh night air, how our spirits
gradually rose within us, and a reaction of almost joyous light*
heartedness came over each ; and, as our horses bounded towards
home, we mutually, though silently, determined to throw off the
painful feelings which had so lately filled our minds and pressed so
heavily on our spirits. Like soldiers in the midst of a campaign^
we talked and laughed, and planned for the future, as if the cer*
tainty of long and happy lives lay before us. And yet that very
night, as I afterwards ascertained, we were waylaid by the sworn,
assassins ; and had not two mounted police been sent out to meet
us, through the forethought and care of Mr. Barry, the sub-inspector
of the force, to escort us home as the night closed in, a fierce attack
would certainly have been made upon our lives. One of the assas*
sins afterwards confessed to me that *' their blood was up at th&
boys in Castleblaney being before them in having Bateson down,
and Trench still upon the walk," and that they were determined <* to
chance their lives," and fire a volley on us as we came home that
night. But just as we rode up, and they were preparing for the
attack, we were joined by the mounted police within a few hundred
yards of the very spot where they were lying in wait !

We reached our homes in safety, and in perfect ignorance of the
imminent danger we had escaped.

x8si0 ALICE McMAHON. 177

CHAPTER XIV.

ALICE MCMAHOX.

T WAS sitting in my office one evening in the month of December,
^ 1851, and shortly after the occurrence narrated in the preceding
chapter, when an incident took place so characteristic of the people
and of the times, that it may be worth recording.

It had been an '* office day," and a great variety of cases had
come before me for adjudication. I was tired, and weary of my
work ; when just as darkness closiE^d in, a young woman presented
herself and requested a private audience. Her appearance was not
altogether that of an ordinary peasant. She wore a neat, modem
bonnet, a veil so thick that I could not see her features, and her
dress in other respects showed symptoms not only of comfort, but
of taste.

No sooner had I taken her into my private office, than to my
utter astonishment she dropped down upon her knees before me,
and placing her hands in an attitude of agonized supplication, she
exclaimed, —

'' Oh, Mr. Trench, what shall I do, what shall I do ! you only
can help me I "

I was shocked and distressed at the attitude assumed towards
me ; and insisting upon her rising at once, which she seemed some-
what unwilling to do, I placed her on a chair, and requested her to
let me know her name, and what it was that distressed her.

She appeared very uneasy lest our conversation should be over-
heard, and went herself to the door to make sure it was closed and
that no one was listening outside; then, having in some degree
recovered her composure, she said, —

'*My name is Alice McMahon, — though that does not matter

13

lyS REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xnr.

much ; but oh I tell me, sir, isn't it true that the police have a war*
rant in their hands to arrest Ned Cunningham ? "

** Really," replied I, ** I am not sure ; I don't recollect at present
any man of that name for whose apprehension I hare issued a
warrant."

*'Mr. Trench, I may as well tell you the real truth, and when
you know all, perhaps you will tell me what I had best do, — for
God knows I am fairly broken-hearted. Ned and I were to be
married soon. My people were not satisfied with the match, for
they always held their heads high amongst the neighbors ; and Ned
had only a few acres of land, and they said he wasn't good enough*
for me. God help me I if they knew what a poor, miserable, un*
happy girl I am now, they would think anything good enough for
the like of me. Well, as I was saying, my people weren't satisfied
at the match, and mother was stifi" and distant, and father swore he
would never consent ; and at last they made me promise to tell Ned
I would never see. him any more."

** Was that Ned Cunningham a fine, tall young man, with san^
hair, and as active a chap as any in the barony? "

*' The same," said she ; '' I knew well you must have' known hiniy'
for reasons there is no use in telling now."

" I know him well," replied I; '^that is, he was pointed out to
me more than once ; but his character is none of the best, and I
fear he is in danger of being arrested even now."

" I know it," said the girl, calmly, " I know it but too well. But
let me tell you my story, — it won't keep you very long ; and then
yon can do what you please."

Here she took off her bonnet quietly, and laid it on the table
beside her ; then for the first time, by the light of a lamp which was
burning, I saw the face of' my visitor. She appeared to be about
twenty or twenty-one years of age. Her countenance was de-
cidcdly prepossessing, but of a cast which is generally termed
interesting rather than strikingly handsome. Her features were
very ;*egular, and she had a quiet, composed manner, and a clear,
calm eye, which indicated a mind not devoid of thoughtfulness as
well as courage. Her figure was slight and feminine, rather below

i85i.] ALICE McMAHON. 179

the aycrago height, but sing^ularly well-proportioned, and, — if I
may use the term, — lady-like. All her motions were graceful,
and appeared to be those of a girl who had been educated far be-
yond the ordinary average of an Irish peasant.

Her manner was so calm, that I could scarcely believe it to be
the same figure who, a few minutes before, had been kneeling in
the attitude of supplication ; and when she laid her bonnet on the
table, and pushed back her hair from her pale and somewhat care-
worn cheek, I thought I had seldom seen a more interesting girl.

** 1 knew well," shd continued, *' that you must have heard some-
thing about Ned ; but now just listen to me till I tell you what you
never heard from his enemies. I was telling you a wliile ago, that
I promised father to let Ned know I would never see him more ; so
one night about a month ago we met as usual — he never could stay
long away ; for when his work was over, he was always coming
about the house, where he thought he*d see me. And then we'd
have a little walk together, and Ned was always pressing me to go
away with him ; but I never would, for I told him whatever I did I
would never bring disgrace upon my family. Well, one night Ned
came as usual, and after we had walked a bit in the moonlight, —

* Ned,' says I, ' father says we must never marry, and that Tm not
to be walking or talking with you any more.' Ned stopped short
and stared in my face by the moonlight, — ' You're not in airnest,
Alice,' said he, * you're surely not in airnest ; I knew they were
never free to like the match ; but sure you're not in airnest that
you're not to walk with me or see me more? ' 'Ned,' says I, < I am
in airnest ; father and mother was always good to me, and I can't go
against their wishes now, — and I fear I must break off with you.*

* Alice, you were never fond of joking, — is it truth you're telling
me? ' 'It is, Ned,' says I, as quiet to him as I am this minute. ' I
believe it* a yourself that don't care for me,' says Ned angrily ; * but
any way you would never say what you now do, unless you were
in airnest. The boys were often wanting me to join them, but I
always refused up to this. Alice, — though I never told them so, —
it was for your sake I refused; but now I'll refuse no longer.
There's to be a meetin' to-night, and I'll go straight and join them
that's bound to give freedom to Ireland.'

I So REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xiv.

** ' Oh Ned, Ned/ says I, * for God's sake don't join the bloody
Bibbonmen that'a bringing all this trouble on the country, and
some of them will be sure to suffer yet. Oh, Ned dear, don't join
them ! whatever you do, don't join them ; they'll sorely bring you
to the gallows ! ' ' What matter what they bring me to,' says h^,
' when you draw off from me. Alice, you are the only living being
I care for in (he world. I've neither father nor mother, nor brother
nor sister; but I thought I had you for my own, and that yim
would soon be my wife. And now^y ou tell me that'9 all over ; and
what can I do better than join them that's striving to free our
country? But come away with me now, Alice, dear,' says he,
* come off with me this minute, and I'll do whatever you bid me,
and never take the oath, let them all talk as they will.' "

Here she stopped for a few moments in her story ; her face grew
paler than before, and her eyes filled with tears ; then, after a few
convulsive efforts to overcome her feelings, she continued, —

** I think I we^ild have gone with him that very minute, for I
loved Ned dearly ; but just then, father came to the door, and called
out to know what was t doing so. long out of the house. So I told
him I was coming in ; and, givjng one last look at Ned, I saidi
*.Ncd, don't ask me ; I can't do it.' * Very well,' said Ned, ' mind
you have refused, and you are not the girl to refuse unless you
meant it, — good-by, Pll join the hoys to-night ! * And he was gouB
across the ditch by. my side before I could say another word."

*' I fear," said I, '' he has kept to his.threat ; for I know he is on«
of the Bibbonmen now."

"I will not deny it," replied she, calmly; ** I knew well your
honor knew it, and that is what brings me to you here to-night."

*' And what do you want me to do ? " asked I.

'* The police have nothing against him yet," she replied; ''th«j:
have a warrant in their hands to arrest him, but that is onljr £or
some assault, — as they call it, — which one of his enemies swore
against him. He has done nothing yet with the boys which could
bring him into trouble, Except taking the dreadful oath. But oh I
sir, I'll tell you what I dare scarcely tell to mortal man, — he is on
for the next J ol,**

1851.J ALICE McMAHON. 181

" On for the next job I " said I ; " what do you mean? '*

** Your honor knows well what I mean," replied the girl, calmly.

** Do you mean," said I, '' that he is to murder the next man that
those blood-thirsty villains condemn to die ? — perhaps it may be
myself ? "

** There is no fear of his hurting a hair of your honor's head,*'
said she, steadily. '* They tried him about that, but he was near
killing the man that said it to liim, and they never spoke to him of
it since ; but they have put him on for the next job barrin' yourself;
wid now that he is regularly sworn in, he can't refuse."
■ '^ Well/' said I, '* and what do you propose that I should do?"

** I'll tell you, sir," replied she. *^ Ned came to ine the other
night ; I was sitting up late, thinking. Father and mother had gone
to bed ; but I said I wanted to sew a bit, so I sat up thinking, over
the fire. After a while I heard a tap at the window, and then a low
whistle, which I knew well was Ned's. So I made no noise nor
stir, but I just put out the candle as if I was going to bed, and then
went to the door and opened it, and sure enough there was Ned
before me. Oh, sir, you wouldn't know him, he was so changed in
that one month. It was full moon again, and when he turned to
look at me, the moon shone bright upon him ; and it wasn't Ned at
all, but some ghost that was like him, I saw. ' Ned,' says I, * is
that you ? ' * It is,* says he, and his very voice sounded different
from what it used. Well, I was glad to see him anyhow ; so I took
his hand in mine, uid says I; * Ned, what has happened, for you're
not the same as you were ? ' ' How could I,* says he, * when you
told me you wouldn't see me any more ? ' ' Ned,' says I, * don't
deceive me, that's not it, there is worse than that come over you.'
< Nothing could be worse than that,' says he. ' Ned, you must tell
me. I know you well, and I know there is worse than the loss of
me upon you now.' *■ Well, Alice,' says he, ' and if there is, it was
tiie loss of you that drove me to it.' * I won't deny but that might
be true too,' says I ; * but, Ned, you must tell me what is the matter
now. Are you sworn in ? ' 'I am,' says I^ed, *• though the bloody
villains would murder me if they knew I told you.' * You have
done nothing jet, Ned? ' says I. * No, Alice,' says ho; ^ hut Pm

l83 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xnr.

on for the next job, after Trench.' Well, sir, what came over me
then I don't know ; but I lost my sight and my senses, and I never
knew where I was or what had happened, till I found myself down
at the well below the house, and Ned pouring water on my face
with his two hands. He looked so terrible when I first opened m/
eyes, that he brought me to my senses quick enough; and in a
minute all that had happened was before me. ' Ned,' says I,

* break ofi* with them villains, and 1*11 go with you where youplease,*

* My God ! * cried Ned, * why didn't you say that before ? I'm sworn
in now, and I must be true to my country ; though it's little of their
country that them bloody villains thinks. But I'm sworn in now,
and I'm bound to obey.* "

** * Ned,' says I, *you shall do no such thing, — I'll go with you
where you go ; I'll leave father and mother now. You know, Ned,
I always loved you ; and what's the use of love if it wouldn't stick
by a friend in trouble ? You must leave the country, Ned, and that
at once ; and I'll go with you, and they'll never know where we are.
Let us go ofi' at once to America.' Well, sir, Ned was silent for a
minute, and then he says, * Alice, dear, don't ask me to peach, or
tell on one of them, for I'll never do it, — no, not even to win you.'

* I'll never ask you, Ned,' says I ; ' only come away and leave them
there, before any job turns up that will ruin your soul and body.'

* There is a warrant out against me,' said Ned, ' for a stroke I bit
another boy a few days ago ; it's in the Police Barrack this minute*
and they will be out searching for me soon. And if they arrest me
on this warrant, I'll be kept to see if they can get anything else
against me, and maybe something bad will happen before it's all
over.'

♦* ' Will you come away if I get the warrant stopped?' says I.

* Alice,' says he, ' I'll have to break a solemn oath if I do ; but it's
better to be damned for breaking an oath to those bloody villains
than for killing some one ; so if I'm not taken this week, I'll go, if
you will come with me ! ' "

She stopped and looked at me. **Well," said I, <'and what do
you want me to do ? "
*<I want you to stop the warrant just for one week," said she:

1851.] ALICE McMAHON. 1 83

« he has done nothing yet ; the warrant is only for cuttmg another
hoy*s head, which did him no great harm ; and moreover, that same
boy deserved it well. But if Ned stays in the country, he'll surely
do whatever the bloody villains he's joined with bid him. Keep
back the warrant for one week, and you'll save his soul and body."

The poor girl could hold out no longer, but dropping on her knees
before me again, she put her hands to her eyes, and as the tears
streamed through her fingers, she sobbed out, almost choking with
agitation, — "Oh, sir, save him if you canl save poor Ned, who
never would hurt the hair of a child's head if he was not sworn to
it by them terrible men."

I have seldom felt in a greater difficulty. Here was a man who
it was now acknowledged was a sworn Eibbonman, and I was asked
to hold back the warrant for his arrest so as to enable him to leave
the country and escape the law. True, but then I reflected, he had
done nothing yet as a Bibbonman that the law could lay hold of,
except taking the oath. I fully believed the weeping girl before me,
that they were deeply attached to each other, and I also believed
her statement that in a moment of anger at her father's rejecting
his suit, he had joined the Ribbonmen, and was sworn in to their
bloody code. She saw in a moment that I hesitated between what
at first sight appeared to be my duty as a magistrate, and my desire
to save her lover from crime and death. I have said she was edu-
cated above her class, and she perceived my difficulty in a moment.

" Oh, sir," said she, rising gently from her knees, and calming
down her countenance again, *' you'll do no wrong in holding back
the warrant for a week ; though Ned is sworn in, he has done no
bad act yet ; and surely it is better to save him now, than to hang
him after he has committed some terrible crime. I know him well :
he is as daring when his blood is up as he is gentle and kind in
heart ; he would not hurt a little child. But they have told him it's
for the good of Ireland ; and when he gets warmed with that, he'd
kill a huadred men."

** And does he really believe it is for the good of Ireland," I
asked, indignantly, " to waylay and murder some unfortunate man
who has never iiyured or wronged him?"

184 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xiv.

'^That's a long story, sir," replied she ; ''and maybe you wouldn't
understand it all if I told you. But they think the English have no
right to the land at all, and they hope to get it all back again yet,
if they can only frighten you, — and such as you, — out of it, and
kill any of themselves that takes the land over the old stock's head ;
and they have persuaded Ned it's all right, — or at least they were
near doing so. But I think he hates them in his heart; and though
nothing would make him come out anfi inform against them, — and
I would be the last to ask him, — yet if he can only slip away
quietly it will be all well yet, and I have promised to go with' him."

'* Have you money enough to go ? " I asked.

'' I'm sorry to tell you I have not," replied she ; '' father has
plenty, and would give me what I wanted if it was for anything
else ; but I dare not ask him for it now. Ned, too, has been idling
and drinking with those blackguards, and they took care to get out
of him all he had. I must trust to your honor to give us the means,
and that is another thing I came for."

** Well," I said, at last, '' it is a serious thing, and a great respon-
sibility to take upon myself to hold back the warrant in such a case
as this ; but considering that Ned has done nothing yet except to
take the oath, and we have nothing to prove against him as a Rib-
bonman, I think that if I could see him myself, and make sure of
what his real intentions are, I would manage to hold back the war-
rant, so that it should not be executed for a few days, at all events."

'' May God bless you, sir! may God for ever bless you I" cried
she ; but suddenly checking herself, she added, in a frightened tone,
— " But did your honor say you wanted to see Ned yourself ? '*

'' Yes," Replied I, '' certainly ; I will do nothing unless I see him
myself. He may have deceived you, and sent you on this mission
only to enable him more securely to perpetrate some dreadful

crime.**

** Ned is as surely true to his word as your honor would be your-
self,*' replied the girl, a little indignantly. ''But after all," added
she, gently, "why should you not see him? I am sure I can trust
you to take no advantage of Ned. He is not far from the town this
minute ; I could go for him, for I know where he is, and he would
meet you anywhere you please."

iSsi.] ALICE McMAHON. 185

" If I meet him it must be alone," said I ; *' I cannot hare you
with me."

'^ Just as your honor pleases," replied the girl.

" Very well. Let Ned meet me at the back of the Gallows-hill,
near the old windmill, at eight o'clock this evening. It will be dSrk
then, and no one will know anything about it."

The girl looked at me very steadily fot a few moments, evidently
endeavoring to pierce into my inmost thoughts, and then quietly
taking her bonnet from the table, she said in a calm voice, — *^I am
sure and certain your honor would not deal unfairly with us. Ned
shall meet you at the time and place you say, for I know well he
will do whatever I bid him now."

She put on her bonnet, drew down the veil carefully over her
face, so that it would be impossible to recognize her features, and
left the office by a private door.

No sooner had she gone than I began to feel I had made a some-
wliat foolish assignation, and I felt a little uneasy as tg the issue.
However, the girl had trusted me, and I resolved tb trust her, and,
come what would, to keep the appointment.

I ate a hasty dinner, and having carefully examined a brace of
double-barrelled pistols which I usually carried with me, I muffled
myself up in a large great-coat, and walked out unobserved into
the street. There was no gas in those days in Carrickmacross, and
the night being cold and cloudy, I was not recognized by the few
passers-by I met. The " Gallows-hill " is a vacant, unfrequented
height at the back of the Court-house at Carrickmacross ; and on
such a night and at such an hour, there seemed to be no danger of
interruption. I will not deny that my heart beat a little more-
rapidly than the up-hill walk would warrant, as I ascended the
dreary, waste-looking grassy hill on the top of which stands the
windmill. However, I walked on steadily ; and holding one of my
pistols cocked in my hand, but concealed inside my great-coat
) ocket, I found myself at the place of appointment. I could see
no one; but having given a low whistle, a form emerged from
inside the old windmill walls, and I stood feice to face with Ned.

I was the first to speak.

1 86 REALITIES OP IRISH LIFE. [chap. xnr.

" Yon hare come here at Alice's request? "

''I have; and she tells me she has let you know all. It is
dangerous work for me to he here ; but I*m sure jour honor won't
betray me.**

** You need not fear my betraying you," replied I ; "but you have
entered on a fearful course ; and unless I am satisfied that Alice's
story is true, — that you are not deceiving her, and that you are
really willing to leave at once for America, — I shall certainly
think it my duty to do my utmost to have you brought to justice."

"And wliat makes you doubt Alice*s story? do you think she
would deceive you ? **

" Certainly not,** replied I ; " my only doubt is, whether you are
not deceiving her.'*

" Did she throw any doubt upon that herself? "

** She did not ; she firmly believes every word you told her, or
she would not have brought me to meet you here to-night : she is
ready and willing to go anywhere with you, provided you will only
leave the country at once.**

" Alice was always true and good," replied Ned, in a softened
tone; "she never deceived me, and I never deceived her. Your
honor knows I am on for the next job; but, please. God, 1*11 disap-
point those blood-thirsty villains ; and if you can only stop the
warrant for three days more, 1*11 be gone forever from Ireland,
and Alice will go along with me.**

" I believe you," returned I, — "I believe you are telling me the
truth ; I do not think you would have ventured to meet me here,
if you had not intended to be true. I understand you have little
or no money : - I will give Alice what is necessary. Good-b^ ; it
is dangerous our talking here, as the police are on the patrol, and
I could not save you if they came upon you. . I will endeavor to
hold back the warrant for three days more ; so make the best of
your time, and above all, be kind and good to the girl Alice, for
she loves you dearly.**

" I would give my heart*s blood for her," said Ned, in an altered
tone. " She has saved my body and soul. I suppose your honor
would not shake the hand of a man like me, but if you would I'd
be thankful.**

1851.] ALICE McMAHON. 187

** Freely," I replied ; and I held out my hand to him at once. He
shook it warmly.

'* God bless you, sir, — I dare not and cannot say more.''

" I wish you a good life and a happy one with Alice," replied I.

He turned rapidly away, disappeared behind the ruined windmill,
and was gone.

I returned to the town, and calling a^ the Police Barrack, I
expressed a wish to one of the policemen in authority that the
warrant should not be executed against Ned Cunningham for three
or four days more. The policeman touched his hat in acquiescence,
but said, — .

** I fear, sir, he is a bad boy.*'

*' I know it," replied I, *' but I have reasons for what I do."

The policeman bowed.

The scene I have described happened on a Thursday. On the
following Saturday, Alice came into my office again. A look of
intelligence from her was enough to make me take her again into
my priyate sitting-room.

" Well, Alice, is aU ready ? "

'' He is outside, sir," she replied ; *' he said he would nerer leaye
Ireland without one word more of blessing to you for your good-
ness. He has a new suit of clothes .and all ; but he was afraid to
put it on, for fear the boys would find out what he is at. But our
passage is taken, for he borrowed a few pounds from a neighbor,
who will pay himself out of the crops Ned leaves behind him ; so
we are off on Sunday to Dundalk, we will get married on Monday,
and sail on Tuesday night. God bless you, sir, you have saved his
soul and body."

I put a ten pound note into Alice's hand, and went out to a back
lane near the office, whither she had preceded me. There was
Ned. He did not come near me ; but taking off his hat, he bowed
almost to the ground, his countenance beaming with joy, as he saw
Alice coming towards him. ,

They gave me one parting grateful look, walked rapidly down
the lane together, and I saw them no more.

l88 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. »r.

CHAPTER XV.

THE ARREST.

'T^HE murder of Mr. Bateson created a great Bensation in the dls*
~^ trict. He was a gentleman so well known and bo nniverBally
respected, that a general feeling prevailed that no one could now
be safe. The list of landlords and agents who had been murdered
or secretly wounded by the hands of the assassins had become
seriously large. It was well known also that several gentlemen
were under sentence of death, — Mr. Morant and myself amongst
the number, — and a general feeling of the* utmost alarm prevailed ;
the timid fled from the country altogether, whilst the bolder resi-
dents never stirred out of their houses unless armed to the teeth
and prepared for an attack.

Within a circle of a few miles, four most barbarous outrages had
been committed. Mr. Mauleverer, Mr. Bateson, and Mr. Coulter *
had been murdered, whilst others had been attacked and severely
wounded. Matters seemed to be growing worse instead of better.
Threatening notices and warnings became numerous. I received
several of both kinds myself, f and feelings of deep animosity were
rapidly springing up between the peasantry and the resident gentry.

* Mr. Coulter was murdered at Hack-bulls-crosA on May 2, 1851.

t The foUowiDg BpecimeDs I happen to have retained. I give them verbatim : —

" Take Notice. The Writer

Cautions Wm. St. Trench, Esq. from going unguarded at any Time.
This is not an Idle Notice. It's from a sincere Friend and Obliged Tenant."

Another notice ran thus : —

" Notice.

** All Landlords and Bailiffes may look out in tliis part Countery, for the will
get the same as that of Beatson, and Trench m^ look out, for he will get tlM
same as Beatson with Qun and Bludgeon."

1853.] THE ARREST. 189

»

In the midst of this state of things, it was announced bj the
stipendiary magistrate of the district that the murderers of Mr.
Bateson had been arrested; they had been identified by parties
who, having been hidden at the time in a field close by, had ac-
tually seen them do the deed ; and that the crime could now be
fully proved against the prisoners.

Under these circumstances, the Government resolved to issue a
Special Commission, mainly to try the murderers of Mr. Bateson,
and in the hope of striking terror into the Ribbon Confederacy by
a severe and immediate example. There were also some minor
oases of agrarian outrage to be disposed of on the same occasion.

A Special Commission^ — a kind of emergency assize, assembled
for the purpose of trying cases of a peculiar nature, which are either

The original of this notice was posted somewhere in the neighborhood of Car-
rickmacroBs, and underneath the copy forwarded to me was a note from the
sab-inspector of police:— ^

*< February 18, 1862.
'* Deab Sib,— The above is a tme copy, and I am happy to say everything is
quiet since the notice was found. ( 1 )

« Yours faithfully,

"Thomas R. Baret."

Another notice, of a rather curious nature, was also sent to me by Mr. Barry :

" Notice.

*' Take notice, good fiiends and neighbors, and do not censure agents, for
positively they must show either waste land or rent, and never shall there be an
Agent shot any more. But every person who shall occupy said place without
the blessing of the family who was dispossessed of it shall mark the conse-
quences of the family who shall attempt to dwell. This is a notice from the
Lady of Cross. G-od bless the Queen I "

The latter part of the above is rather obscurely expressed; but it means that
any tenant who should dare to take land from which any other tenant had
been evicted for non-payment of rent should " mark the consequences,'' i.e. be
" shot " instead of the ^gent.

Perhaps I may be permitted to take this opportunity of bearing testimony to
the active, zealous, and efficient services of Mr. Barry, then sub-inspector of the
police of the district of Carrickmacross. His services in those difficult and
dangerous times deserve my warmest approbation. He has, since then, been
most deservedly promoted to tUb office of coimty inspector of one of the northern
counties.

igo REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xv.

BO numerous or so pressing that they cannot be allowed to wait for
the ordinary assizes, — is always a serious affair. The gentry and
magistrates are summoned from their ordinary avocations to act
as grand jurors and jurors. A heary expense is entailed on the
county, and the Commission is never issued unless the Government
have good reason to calculate upon some important convictions.
The Commission being determined on, Bir. Morant and I were sum-
moned as grand jurors on the occasion.

I shall not readily forget our starting on the journey from Car*
rickmacrosa to Monaghan ; the latter is the county town, and i»
situated about twenty Irish miles from the former. We hired a
*^ long car," — that is, an outside car on four wheels, long enough
to hold several persons on each side, and drawn by two horses.
Humors of the wildest nature were everywhere afloat, — that we
should be attacked by a large body of Bibbonmen on our way, that
our progress "vould be interrupted in Castleblaney, etc. I confess
I scarcely believed all this ; the threatened attack was of too open a
nature for Bibbonmen. All parties, however, were so much excited,
that there was no saying what might happen ; and we determined to
prepare for the worst.

Our pistols and guns were accordingly fresh cleaned and loaded ;
one or two of my young friends proposed to accompany us on the
car, as they said, ''to see the -fun"; two sub-constables were told
off to attend us as far as Castleblaney, and two mounted policemen,
fully equipped, weVe ordered to ride beside us ; and in this state of
preparation for war we started for Carrickmacross.

There is a winding pass on the way between Carrickmacross and
Castleblaney, with high banks and rocks on either side, which is
singularly well suited for an attack. We used to call it the '* Ehyber
Pass," from the peculiar manner which those passing through it
on the road were in the power of an enemy on the rocks above.
Through this pass we rode slowly, our pistols cocked and our
double-barrelled guns resting upon our knees. All, however, went
off quietly, and we arrived at Monaghan without any incident of
importance.

The Commission was duly opened. Mr. Brewster, now Lord

^-J

i8s3.] THE ARREST. 191

Chancellor of IrelaDd, was then Attomej-General, and he made,
as he nerer failed to do, an admirable speech, in which he sketched
the terrible state of the country, neither life nor property being for
ono moment secure, owing to the fearfUl nature of the Ribbon
Confederacy ; and he called upon the jurors of the county to come
forward without fear, faror, or affection, and put down by an im-
partial verdict the reign of terror under which the country was
suffering.

Two prisoners indicted for the murder of Mr. Bateson were now
brought forward ; they ^ere duly arraigned, and asked were they
guilty or not guilty.

'* Not guilty," declared each of them in a fUU and firm voice.

The jury list was called over, and many were " challenged," and
bid to ** stand aside " both by the prisoners and the Crown. At last
a jury was chosen, and duly sworn to give their verdict '* according
to the evidence, without fear, favor, or aff^ection."

** There will be no conviction," remarked a grand juror to me.

"Why not?" I asked.

" Because," replied he, 'Hhere is a man on that jury who will
never find those men guilty."

"I trust that is not so, — that is. If their guilt can be sub-
stantiated."

" There will be no conviction I " he replied.

The trial proceeded ; and the witnesses in the clearest manner
detailed the whole of the terrible events of the murder, as they
have already been described. Nothing could be more accurate or
circumstantial than their narrative. They had been working in a
field close by at the time, and seeing Mr. Bateson walking slowly
towards them, they stooped down to hide, not wishing him to see
them. Whilst thus hiding, without any express object, as they
stated, they saw the prisoners steal up behind Mr. Bateson. One
of them entered into conversation with him, and the other put the
pistol to the back of his neck, just below the ear, and fired. Both
then attacked him when he fell ; they beat out his brains, and then
made off across the fields.

There was some little hesitation about whether a third parly had

193 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xv.

Bot been seen at a distance ; but this did not seem materially^ to
affect the eyidence as concerned the two prisoners at the bar.

-The witnesses to this terrible scene declared that for some time
they did not -know what to do. They were themselves afraid of
being murdered if they informed ; and they dreaded to keep such a
fearful secret, lest they should be accused of being parties to the
crime. Whilst thus in doubt, they saw placards posted all over the
county offering a large reward to any one who would give informa*
tion concerning the murder, and prosecute the guilty parties to con-
viction. They no longer hesitated ; but went secretly to the stipen-
diary magistrate, told him the whole story, gave him intelligence as
to where the parties who had done the deed were to be found, iden-
tified them iuWy to the satisfaction of the stipendiary magistrate,
and now appeared in court to prosecute them to conviction.

I watched the trial closely as it went on ; and it struck me that
when the witnesses were called on to identify the prisoners, and to
put the long white wand or rod of the crier upon the head of each,
there was much uncertainty and hesitation in their manner, and so
very strong was this impression, that I said to one of the grand
jurors, who was near me at the time, —

*' I don't like the manner in which the witnesses identified those
prisoners : it was by no means satisfactory to my mind ; and I should
be sorry to be one of the petty jury, to give a verdict of guilty in
such a case."

" I never heard clearer evidence in my life," said my companion,
^^ and I wonder how you can doubt it for a moment."

This matter was afterwards a good deal discussed amongst the
magistrates and grand jurors ; and I found the prevailing opinion
was BO strong against the prisoners, that throwing a doubt upon the
case seemed almost to be considered as siding with the Ribbon Con-
spiracy, and therefore as my opinion in the matter could be of no
avail one way or the other (the case being now in the hands of the
petty jury), I held my peace.

The trial did not last very long. The judge charged the jury
fairly and impartially, observing that if they believed the statement
of the witnesses, there could be but one verdict given ; but at Uie

1852.] THE ARREST. 193

same time he went closely into the eridence, and recapitulated all
that had passed when the prisoners were identified before the magis-
trate. The jury retired ; and after some hours' absence returned
into court, declaring through their foreman that there was not the
slightest chance of their agreeing.

It was not of course openly announced, but all in court seemed
fully to understand that eleven were for a conviction and one only
for an acquittal. The jury were sent back again to their room, as
is usual on such occasions ; but they returned after some hours'
absence only to repeat their decision. And at length a doctor hav-
ing been called, he declared that the lives of some of the jury would
be endangered if they were kept any longer locked up in confine-
ment without food, — which is the law on such occasions. They
were therefore called into court, and dismissed by the judge without
any verdict being obtained. The prisoners were remanded again to
their cells, to stand over for a fresh trial at the next ordinary assizes
of the county.

It was well for the cause of justice that no verdict was obtained
on this occasion ; for it was afterwards clearly proved that the pris-
oners then at the bar had not committed the murder, — that the
witnesses who swore so positively against them, were either mis-
taken as to the identity of the parties, or swore falsely to obtain the
reward. And thus, by the so-called ^* obstinacy " of the one juror
alluded to, — the only one who saw the real truth of the case, — the
lives of these men were saved. The narrow escape which these
men had of undergoing the fearful penalty of the law for a crime
they had not committed produced an effect on me, and I doubt not
others also, which will not readily be effaced ; and shows the cau-
tion which is necessary in such matters before a prisoner, especially
in times of excitement, be condemned to die.

Before the next assizes came round, these prisoners were released
from confinement; three others were arrested, charged with the
same offence, their crime was brought home to them beyond all
reasonable doubt, and they were executed with the full belief of the
population in their guilt.

But I must now revert to a strange scene which was being enacted

13

194 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xr.

at the very time that the Special CommiMion was sitting, in all
its formidable array, at the county town of Monaghan.

On the day following that on which Mr. Morant and I had made
our journey in such preparation for battle from Carrickmacross to
Monaghan, the trusty and well-known Paddy McArdle, bailiff of the
Bath Estate, was walking through the town of Carrickmacross ,
crowded with people as it usually is on a market-day, when a maa
came up close beside him, and said in a low voice, —

*' Paddy, you are a corpse if you go home to-night I "

Paddy McArdle was, and is still, a man of considerable firmness
of nerre, and had gone through many dangers on the Bath Estate.
He could ** handle a shillelagh " and ** clear the fair " as well as the
stoutest Bibbonman of them all. He was of a powerful frame and
build, and yet as active as a wild cat upon his legs ; and few could
ride across the country, whenever occasion required, better tluua
Paddy McArdle.

But Paddy had other qualifications beside these. Bom amongst
the people, and of the people, he understood them thoroughly and
well. He was up to all their sharpest tricks, and could interpret tk,
nod or a wink more quickly and accurately than any one I ever met.
He understood every turn and twist of the wiliest neighbors he had ;
and they were all well aware that he did so. But with all theae
qualities, I ever found Paddy brave, honorable, and true ; faithful
to me and kind towards the people ; never bringing in small tales
or stories against any one, and always giving '* the good word *' and
doing the ^' kind thing " when he could, even towards those who
were his bitterest enemies. He was true in his allegiance to his
employers, stout in heart and ready of hand, and as such, a most
important party for the Bibbon Confederacy to get out of the way
of its designs.

Such was the man who now heard in a low but clear and startling
voice, —

" Paddy, you are a corpse if you go home to-night 1 "

Paddy's nerves by no means failed him at such an announcensent.
He ^' pulled up short," as he expressed it to me afterwards, gave a
rapid glance to see who had *' given him the word'' ; and, averting his
face in a moment again, as if talking to some one else, he said, —

i85J.] THE ARREST. 195

" Do you mean myself in aimest, or is it Mr. Trench you mean?"

**I mean you, — you are a dead corpse if you sUr out of the
town this night.**

" Tear an' ages I " muttered Paddy ; " take a turn tlirough the
market that no one will see you, and meet me again at the office."

The man nodded intelligence ; and both went their ways for the
time, having scarcely looked in each other's faces whilst they were
holding this singular conference. Faddy met him again at the
office door.

** In with you," whispered he, " I want to talk to you inside."

The m'an sauntered slowly in as if on the most ordinary business,
whilst Paddy. — taking a turn through the market as if to show
there was no appointment between them, — at length followed him
into the office of the Bath Estate. He beckoned him into a private
poom, where at once all his afPected calmness vanished, and, wiping
the perspiration from his forehead, he said, —

*' Is it truth you're telling me, or do you only want to frighten
mc? Do you mean to say that the boys are lying in wait for me
^is minute?"

** As true as you're a living man now, ye will be a corpse if ye
go home to-night," said the man, solemnly, again. '* They were
looking for Trench before, but now they have turned upon ye ; and
oh I Paddy dear, mind yourself or they'll shoot ye as dead as a wild
duck."

** Tear an' ages ! " ejaculated Paddy again, *' and whereabouts
are they lying now ? "

" I dar'n't tell ye," replied the man. " They'd have my life, — if
I had a thousand, — if it was known I told ye what I done ; and
if they were took now, it would be known that I had done it, and
nothing could save me.**

*< It's tar'ble news ! " said Paddy, as he reflected for a moment.
*' What will I do at all?"

"Stay in town to-night," replied his friend; "it's your only
chance. Say ye were ill and took something, and go home in the
morning fair and aisy; for they'll never stay there watching all
Bight.'

n

I^ . REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap.

''Well, anyway, Tm beholden to yon," said Faddy, ''let what
will come of it, for I don*t think yon'd desave me at such a time aa
this."

" Go home and try it, if ye donbt me," answered the man
shortly, " and then ye'U be sure to know whether I tould the tnt^
or not."

"Faix that's fair," returned Faddy. " But Fll just go and talk to
Mrs. McArdle about it, — I came in with her in the gig; and if way
one can give me good advice, she can."

" Faddy dear," whispered his friend in a soft, conciliatory tone
of voice, " sure ye won't forget me about the little bit of Tand nigli
hand to my house that ye know of? it just lies into me neatly, yon
know, and* I'd be sorry to lose it for a trifle ; and, Faddy dear, mind
now ye take care of yourself, for maybe if ye were down there wonki
be no one to spake a kind word for me in the office but yourself, to
get the bit of land ye know of."

" In troth I " replied Faddy, " but it's well for me that ye wanted
that bit of land anyhow I if it warn't for that same, maybe it's little
ye would be warning me about the boys this blessed night. How<-
Gver, I'll not forget ye if I get over this bout, come what will."

" Ye are the right sort. Faddy ; I knew ye would always stand to
a friend."

A few minutes afterwards Faddy strolled out of the office, as easily
and lazily as if the day's work had been pleasantly and well got
through, and went slowly down to the inn, where he had appointed
his wife to wait for him. The evening was beginning to close in,
and he found Mrs. McArdle ready to start for home.

Faddy called his wife aside into a private room of the inn where
he had put up his horse, and at once related to her the whole story«
" My confidence " (as he told me) " in her pluck and good sense
was unbounded, and why would I keep anything from her ? '*

" Man alive I " said Faddy to me afterwards, when describing the
whole of what had passed, " sure I know Mrs. McArdle well ; you'll
not believe it, sir, when I tell you, but never a word of lie in it, if
she wouldn't kiUfowl with the best man of them all I "

" Kill fowl," said \\ "I dare say she could do it well enough.

1853.] THE ARREST. 197

but what good would that qualification be if you were waylaid by
those scoundrel Ribbonmen, — she could not cut their throats as
easily as those of the ducks and chickens ? "

" Ahi sure it's not that I mean at all, sir I " said Paddy, rather
affronted ; *' shiB could kill fowl with the best of them. Shoot
them, sir, — shoot wHd ducks flying , so she could, and maybe make
a surer offer at it than many a chap that goes out with all them
straps on his shoulders and leggins on his thighs."

It was to this sensible and really stout-hearted woman that
Paddy now confided his cares and difficulties. She waited until he
had told her all, and then turning quietly to him she said, —

'' Well, Mr. McArdle, and what do ye intend to do now ? "

" Well, ye see," replied Paddy, "I just have my own opinion on
that same, but I would be glad to have yours also, seeing you came
in with me in the gig, and I wouldn't like to do anything in a
tarr'ble case like this without your consent."

^' Then I'll tell ye what ye will do, Mr. McArdle ; get out the g^g
this minute, and come home like a man, and I'll sit beside ye all
the way. We afraid of them chaps I never let such a thing be said
in the country. Out with the gig, man, this minute, and get your
pistols ready, and see if they dar' attack us."

Paddy, stout as he was, was scarcely prepared for such an explo-
sion as this. However, he heartily approved of his wife's advice ;
so he told her to get the gig out, and he would run over to the
office a bit to get his pistols, etc. This, however, was only a ruse ;
for as soon as he was in the office he briefly recapitulated the whole
story to Mr. Lang, my confidential clerk, and he with much
promptitude, on application to the sub-inspector, got out four po-
licemen well armed, who were instructed to walk beside Paddy and
his wife the whole way to their house, — nearly four miles from
Carrickmacross, — and to look behind every hedge and wall along
the road which could possibly conceal a Ribbonman, beating the
bushes as it were for woodcocks, all along the way.

Mrs. McArdle made no objection to this sensible arrangement
(though I believe in her heart she considered it a little infra dig.)f
provided Paddy would tit in the gig beside her, — just to show they

198 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xr.

were not afiaid. And in this position she and Paddy drore qniedy
on, greatly to Mrs. McArdle's delight, — formini^ a perfect cock-
shot to the Ribbonmen if they chose to fire. Paddy's babitnal
caution made him mentally question the prudence ttf his wife's
arrangement, but he could not think of opposing it.

The plan, however, was not a bad one, though some courage
was required to carry it into effect. Had the police gone far on in-
advance, the Ribbonmen would hare seen them, and probably
escaped ; but seeing only Paddy and his wife approaching in the
gig, their attention was turned to the execution of their murderous
designs, and they never saw the police, who were on foot, until It
was too late to run away.

The whole party had now proceeded about three miles from Car*''
riekmacross. Darkness had nearly closed in; and though th^
had entered the rocky defile, — before described as having the
name of the ** Ehyber Pass," — no sign of the Ribbonmen could te
fouQd. Here, being undoubtedly the spot of most danger, the
police drew in more closely to their companions. Suddenly one of
the men exclaimed, —

<* I think I see something on the rock above, but I can't tell
whether it is a bush or a man."

'* Jump over the fence, you and another," said the leader of the
party, " and see what it can be."

The object they saw was on a high rock at some distance froaa
them, but completely commanding a view of the road towards
Carrickmacross.

The men leapt to the crest of the fence at a bound. It was a
high grassy bank with some small white-thorn bushes on the top.
And just as they were going to leap down on the other side, thejr
perceived two men crouching close under them, not a yard from
the spot where they stood.

*'' We have them ! here they are ! " shouted the policemen ; and
in a moment they were upon them, each gripping his man. Paddy
sprang from the*gig, and the waylayers were secured almost with-
out a struggle. So sudden and unexpected had been the whole
thing, that they were taken completely by surprise.

IS52.2 THE ARREST. 199

Some little delay occurred in handcuffing and securing the pris-
oners ; when at length Mrs. McArdle, in a state of high excitement,
cried out from the gig, —

'* Ah then, what are je all about I shure it isn't going to make
prisoners of them ye are ? I wonder ye would demane yourselves
to do the like. Shoot them, the blood-thirsty villains, — weren't
they going to shoot us just now? and shure shooting is better
for them than hanging any day. Shoot them this minute, — why
don't ye?"

However sound this advice might have proved for the prevention
of such waylayings in future, the police, as well as Paddy, declined
to put it into execution. And having handcuffed the prisoners,
they proceeded to search the premises around; and close beside
where the men had lain they found the celebrated blunderbuss,
which had been so frequently described and reported to us as the
unfailing weapon by which we were doomed to die. A pistol was
also discovered upon the ground close by, and some slugs and gun-
powder were found in the pockets of the prisoners.

The whole party now set out for Carrickmacross. Paddy was
wild with excitement at having at last caught the Ribbonmen in the
very act ; though his wife seemed scarcely satisfied that summary
justice had not been inflicted upon them by a trial of the powers
of their own blunderbuss. The formidable weapon, bright and
clean as if fresh out of a royal armory, was paraded as a trophy of
war, and carried into Carrickmacross.*

The place which the assassins had selected for the performance
of their intended deed of blood had been chosen with singular
judgment. The road becomes somewhat narrow as it enters the
rocky defile, and a steep ascent commences at the foot of the pass.
About half way up there is a turn in the road, and any person at
the upper side of this winding turn,'would have an uninterrupted
view of the road both above and below it. On this spot the as-
sassins had stationed themselves. They were thus enabled to see

* This celebrated weapon to now in the posaatsion of Mr. Morant, havlnf been
given to hiin by Mr. Barry.

aoo REALITIES OF IRI§H LIFE. [chap. xv.

the road towards Carrickmacross, and to have a full view of any
one coming towards them along it ; whilst the moment the travellers
passed the turn, their backs became necessarily exposed to ttie fire
of the assassins, nor would they be able to see their enemies unless
they faced completely round.

In this well-chosen position the Ribbonmen had carefully planted
themselves ; and having cleared a small hole in the bushes, so as to
enable them, by raising their heads above the bank, to look up and
down the road, they had reason to consider themselves perfectly
secure of their victims.

We were not at the time able clearly to ascertain whether the
object which appeared to be a figure on the top of the distant rock,
and which first attracted the attention of the police, was a man or
a bush. There was a bush near the spot which might well be
mistaken, in the dusk of a winter's evening, for a human figure.
Faddy maintains that it was a man who had been placed there to
watch, so that the assassins could see a signal given from their
own side of the bank, and thus give notice of the approach of
the gig, without running the risk of discovery by raising their
heads above the bank to look out. He has even mentioned to me
the name of the man, — which was secretly confided to him, — but
which, for obvious reasons, I think it prudent to omit. It was a
wonderful interposition in favor of the intended victims, that the
very man (if man it was) employed by the assassins as a watch to
secure success in their murderous purpose, should have attracted
the attention of the police, causing them to leap over the fence at
the very spot where the Ribbonmen were lying hidden, without
having the slightest notion of their immediate proximity. The
Ribbonmen considered there had been a wonderful run of ill-luck
against them all along. There were some who traced all that had
happened to other causes rather than ill-luck.

I have already stated that on the very day that these reckless
Ribbonmen were lying in wait for my friend Paddy McArdle, the
Special Commission was actually sitting in the county town of
Monaghan, trying the supposed murderers of Mr. Bateson. The
assassins, I presume, selected this time with a strange mixture of

1852.] THE ARREST. 20l

cunning and audacity, because they knew that most of the gentry,
as well as the great majority of the police, had left their country
quarters for the county town. Thus, when they had done the deed,
they believed pursuit would not be so vigorous or immediate as if
Mr. Morant and I, and all the police, were on the spot.

Their sudden arrest, however, baffled all their plans. When the
blunderbuss was examined, it was found loaded almost to the muz-
zle, having ten inches of charge in the barrel. A large quantity of
powder was rammed down with a piece of paper torn off the comer
of a local newspaper of somewhat democratic tendency, a number
of leaden slugs and iron nails were then thrust in, and, — the paper
having, I suppose, run short, — the slugs were rammed down with
a piece of fustian, evidently torn off some coat. When the police
examined the dress of the prisoner named Hodgens, they found on
lum a fustian garment of the same quality as the piece used for
wadding ; and on placing the piece to a rent which appeared newly
torn in his coat, they found that the wadding fitted precisely into
the hole.

Under these circumstances, it was arranged to take the men
without delay for trial at the Commission then sitting ; and accord-
ingly they were despatched forthwith from Carrickmacross to Mon-
aghan, -^ Paddy, and the policemen who arrested them, starting
simultaneously for the county town.

' I was attending in the Court House in Monaghan, when I was
informed that my bailiff, Faddy McArdle, wanted to see me imme-
diately. I confess I was startled, for I knew that nothing but a
matter of importance would have made him leave Carrickmacross
at the time. And I was wondering who had last been shot, or what
new outrage had been committed, when Paddy rushed up and
seized my hand in a state of the highest excitement as he ex-
claimed, —

** By the powers, sir, we have them at last, blunderbuss and all!
we took them in the very act.*'

'^You have whom?" said I; <<whom did you take, and what
blunderbuss have you got? "

« Never you mind, sir! '' cried Paddy ; *' we have the right boys

2oa REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xv.

this time and no mistake ; and sure they can hang them now oat of
hand as the assizes has the luck to be going on."

In a few brief words, and with many lively gesticulations, he
explained to me the circumstances of the capture of the Ribbon-
men. I asked him where the prisoners were, and he told me they
were just going to be brought before Colonel Brovmrigg* for
examination.

I immediately followed Faddy to the place where the parties
were assembled in the Crown Solicitor's room. Colonel Brownrigg
sat at the table with writing materials before him. The two pris-
oners were standing in the room guarded by policemen ; and lying
on the table was the large blunderbuss, which Paddy silently pointed
out to me, with delight expressed upon his countenance.

The policemen who had effected the capture gare their eyidence
briefly, clearly, and well ; and Paddy also told his part of the tale,
though with gesticulations and language a little more earnest than
the police. The case seemed as clear as noonday as to the cir-
cumstances under which the men were found, and as to what had
been really their object; but no evidence whatever appeared to
warrant a committal for " conspiracy to murder." It was true they
had been discovered behind the ditch with ^a blunderbuss close
beside them. It was true that Paddy had got secret intelligence
of their object, and it was quite true also that he fully expected to
be '* blown to shivers," as he expressed it, if the parties had not
been discovered ; but inasmuch as Paddy's informant had not come
forward, and consequently there was no witness to prove that the
prisoners had ever entered into any conspiracy, Colonel Brownrigg
was compelled to content himself with having them indicted for the
lesser offence of ''carrying arms in a proclaimed district." And
had it not been that the Barony of Farney was '* proclaimed "f &t
the time, the men would actually have escaped altogether from
want of evidence to prove any conspiracy. They had neither fired

* Now Sir Henry Brownrigg, C.B., late Inapector-Qeneral of Police In
Ireland,
t The barony being *' proclaimed,'' no one oould legally carry arma without »

1852.] THE ARREST. 303

a shot, nor committed any overt act which could be construed into
an attack upon Paddj McArdle or any one else.

Fortunately, however, the barony being at the time proclaimed,
Colonel Brownrigg was enabled fully to commit them for trial, for
the lesser offence of carrying arms.

*^ Well, my men," said Colonel Brownrigg, addressing the pris-
oners, '* if you wish to say anything in explanation of the circum-
9tances under which you were taken, you can do so now ; but I
wish duly to caution you that you are not called on to say anything,
especially anything which may criminate yourselves ; but whatever
you do say will be taken down in writing and may be produced in
evidence against you/'

'' I have nothing to say at all about the matter,*' replied Thorn-
ton, *'■ except that I don't know ' at all at all ' what it is ye are all
about, — going on in this way against two dacent poor innocent
boys like us."

*' Oh, indeed I " said Colonel Brownrigg, ** then of course you
never saw that blunderbuss before in your lives ? "

*'0h, Ned," exclaimed Thornton, to his companion Hodgens,
'* that's a blunderbuss I Well now I often heerd tell of a blun-
derbuss," continued he, stooping down towards the weapon to view
it with the most intense interest as a rare curiosity, *' and I never
seen one before. Oh, Ned, look how bright it is, and the big barrel
of it I well, well, now, but I'm glad I seen a blunderbuss at last I "

The Colonel was a little taken aback by this entirely new light
thrown upon the transaction ; so he said somewhat stiffly, —

*' You have heard, sir, what the policeman has sworn, — that you
and your companion were taken with arms in your possession in a
proclaimed barony, and you must be sent to trial for this offence
forthwith."

*' Bedad then, your honor," replied Thornton, with as innocent
a face as before, " the policeman never swore anything of the sort.
Why would he, the dacent man ? He leapt over the ditch sure
enough, and he found him and me quietly •down there mindin' our
business ; and after a while, more of them polls came, and left one
thing or another near where we were, — that same bright blun«

204 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xr.

derbuss I suppose among the rest, and now they want to make
believe it was we had the blunderbuss! sure they will tell you
themselves, that they never found us with arms in our possession
at all."

'* Oh, indeed! " observed the colonel, *' this is quite a new view
of the matter. And pray would you have any objection to say
what business you were about at that time of night, in that remark-
able position ? "

'^ Not in the laste,^ replied the prisoner, looking a little sheepish
and modest, *'only maybe your honor wouldn't be pleased; but
sure there's many a time a poor man might hide himself behind a
bank of a ditch, and needn't be called on this way to account fior
his conduct as if he was a robber."

'* Take those men away," said Colonel Brownrigg, " and let them
be sent up for trial forthwith ! "

1852.3 THE CONFESSION. 20^

CHAPTER XVI.

THE CONFESSION.

nnHE arrest of the two conspirators created quite a sensation in
the town of Monaghan, and was a most agreeable surprise to
the officers of the Crown, who, suspecting that the jury were not
likely to agree to a verdict in Mr. Bateson's case, became uneasy
lest the Special Commission should be entirely barren of results.

Thornton and Hodgens were accordingly put at once upon their
triaL They were indicted for unlawfully carrying arms in a pro-
claimed district ; and, notwithstanding the earnest protestations of
innocence on the part of our ingenious friend Thornton, — who
insisted that he had been in the '* Ehyber Pass '' without any evil
intent, and that the police themselves had left the blunderbuss lying
close to the spot where he lay, — they were both speedily convicted
and sentenced to the utmost penalty of the law allowed for this
offence, — namely, two years' imprisonment with hard labor.

Thornton declared ^^ they might as well hang him at once as give
him two years of hard labor, for he never could stand labor at all,
let alone two years of it inside a jail " ; but the judge was inex-
orable, and the prisoners were removed and sent to Mountjoy
Prison, near Dublin.

Some other cases were then disposed of; the supposed murderers
of Mr. Bateson were remanded to take their trial at the next
assizes, and the Special Commission was closed.

The result of the Commission was not, upon the whole, con-
sidered favorable to the peace of the district. The marvellous
recklessness and audacity of men who could deliberately select the
very day when the supposed murderers of Mr. Bateson were being
tried for their lives at a Special Commission, as the best and safest

2o6 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xn.

for them to endeavor to commit another murder of equal atrocityv
struck every one as a remai^able instance of the little effect the
law or the risk of penal consequences seemed to produce on these
hired assassins. And though Paddj McArdle was highly delighted,
and I myself was not a little pleased, that the parties who had been
specially engaged for our destruction were at last captured, yet we
all returned to our homes by no means feeling that much additional
security had been acquired through any wholesome terror inspired
by the Special Commission.

In some degree, however, I now felt entitled to relax the incessant
vigilance which I had so long deemed it necessary to observe. I
was sure that for a time, at least, my life was not in danger. New
arrangements would have to be organized, and' new assassins hired,
before any serious attack could be made upon me. I was weU
aware that my intended murder was not the result of the anger or
passion of any individual, or of any number of individuals, who
fancied they had been injured by me, but rather that it was a
general precautionary measure deliberately undertaken to prevent
any person hereafter enforcing the payment of rents, or depriving
the tenants of the land which they had so long held practically free
of rent. Under these peculiar circumstances, I felt certain that no
sudden or immediate attempt was likely to be made upon my life.

Matters were thus resting for a time, — the baffled Ribbonmen
not knowing exactly what steps to take next, — when I was privately
informed that Thornton had '' peached ** in prison, that he could not
stand the hardship and vexation of constant labor, and that, sooner
than undergo, the remainder of his sentence, he was prepared to
betray his accomplice.

I was not in the secrets of the law officers of the Crown, and I
have but little knowledge as to the means by which these matters
are brought about. A ** reward" as such, cannot be offered to
bribe a man to betray his companion in guilt, but the inducement
of a free pardon can be held out, and also ^^ protection*' can be
promised, — the meaning of which is generally well understood by
those who afford this <* protection*' to others, or who receive it
tliemselves. It generally includes a free passage to some region in

185a.] THE CONFESSION. 207

the Far West selected by the indiyidual, and unknown to any one
bat the government and the informer, together with a sufficient sum
of money to enable him to purchase land, or in some way to live for
the future in tolerable comfort and independence. As far as we in
this country are concerned, all we know is that parties of this class
disappear f and we never hear of them afterwards. This may be
somewhat '< dirty work," but it is considered necessary for the
preservation of the lives and properties of honest people.

Up to the hour of the opening of the ordinary assizes, I had no
information of the course likely to be pursued, or the evidence
likely to be brought forward by the Crown. All I heard was that
Thornton had '* peached/' not only on his accomplice Hodgens, but
also upon a man named Breen, who had been concerned in hatching
the conspiracy at Carrickmacross. Breen was a mere ignorant
tool, — a "barrow-man," earning his living by wheeling sacks to be
weighed at the market-scales, and was the instrument of the two
<9lever Ribbonmen who were soon about to be confronted with each
pther.

The approaching assizes were accordingly looked forward to with
much interest by the people, especially those around Carrickma-
erosB and resident on the Bath Estate. In due course the judges
arrived ; the police mustered strongly in the town of Monaghan ; the
bugle sounded as the judges drove up in their carriage to the Court
House, and the lawyers took their places with that easy, half-jocular
air so peculiar to these gentlemen on such occasions, as if about to
enter upon the most agreeable occupation in life.

Par different were the thoughts and feelings of the two i^en who
were now placed at the bar for trial.

Hodgens, — the most active in body and daring in mind of those
who had engaged in the conspiracy, — appeared to be about twenty-
five years of age. He was a well-formed, able young man, without
any of those features expressive of atrocity which one is accus-
tomed to connect with a person who has engaged to commit a cruel
murder. His manner was singularly composed, exhibiting indica-
tions of passive endurance rather than of active violence. No one
could have dreamed, had they seen him elsewhere, that this was the

2o8 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xvi.

man who had twice endeavored to put a pistol to my breaat, shoet
me on the spot, and run for his life across the country.

His bearing in court, — calm, collected, and determined, — did not
alter from what it had always been ; and when brought up from the
dock to the rails in front, he looked round on the many hundred
faces turned towards him with an unmoved aspect, wholly devoid
of excitement, and almost impressing the beholders with the feeling
that he could not possibly be guilty.

Breen was a contrast to Hodgens in almost every particular.
His head was large and coarse, he was low in stature, thick-necked
and high-shouldered; Ids countenance was wholly devoid of any
manly expression, and he seemed to affect a kind of stupid indiffer-
ence to the scene before him. He never ventured to look around
him or gaze upon the numerous spectators, but every now and then
a close observer might have detected a rapid movement of his Bmall,
sparkling eye, when each person came into court, as if watching
for the appearance of some dreaded or hated object. His coun-
tenance presented a curious mixture of cunning, cruelty, and
stupidity.

At length the judge was seated ; the jury were sworn ; the pris-
oners were formally arraigned for conspiracy to murder Patrick
McArdle, the bailiff of the Bath Estate ; and when asked, as usual,
the solemn question, '*Are you guilty or not guilty? "each an-
swered in a clear and firm voice, " Not guilty, my lord I "

The first witness produced upon the table was the inform^*,
Thornton.

His appearance was totally different from that of either Hodgens
or Breen. He was light and small, with dark hair and sunken eyes,
ill-formed, though without any absolute physical defect. He came
upon the table with an easy, jaunty, and self-satisfied air, as if he
also, like the lawyers, was about to enter upon the most agreeable
occupation in life. I remarked, however, that with all his assumed
indifference, he never once ventured to look round upon his old
companions at the bar, who, he well knew, were standing close
behind him.

I carefully watched Hodgens' face as Thornton ascended tlie

1852.] THE CONFESSION. 209

witness table. He stared steadilj at his false friend. He evidently
tried hard to catch his eye, but failed, as Thornton gave him no
opportunity. He became deadly pale; an expression of intense
bate mingled with an almost lofty scorn, seemed to pass like a
shadow oTCr his countenance, and then all was calm, unmoved,
and passionless again.

The look with which Breen greeted his old associate, as he saw
him opposed to him on the witness table, was one of such intense
ferocity, cunning, and hate, that I almost expected to see him leap
across the rails and stab the informer to the heart.

The tale of remorseless villany which Thornton unfolded to the
attentive and astonished ears of the court and jury, has seldom
been equalled in ^ttrocity even in the annals of Ribbonism.

It will be recollected that the prisoners were indicted for
'^ conspiracy to murder *' Patrick McArdle, the bailiff of the Bath
Estate.

The informer detailed in fall, how in the beginning they had
conspired against me. He told how they had lain in wait for me
again and again, but had been afraid to fire in consequence of my
being well armed and guarded; how they had watched me and
plotted against me for upwards of a year, and how at last they
gave it up in despair, in the belief that it was *' an unlucky job,'*
as something had always turned up against them when they seemed
most sure of '* having me down." He then went on to tell how
they determined, as the next best thing, to shoot Paddy McArdle,
the bailiff. How it had been explained to them that if he were put
out of the way it would be hard to find another like him ; and that
all ejectments or legal remedies to recover rent would necessarily
be quashed for the time, and perhaps altogether abandoned. They
did not enter upon Paddy's trial with the usual formalities of the
Ribbon code, as they thought it necessary to do in my case ; they
'^ knew he was guilty as he stood," and they acted at once upon
this knowledge. They '^ sat upon him," as Thornton expressed it,
in a public-house in Carrickmacross, — a house well known to roe
and to the police for hatching conspiracies of the kind ; and having
laid their plans carefully, it was determined to shoot Padiy as he

H

aio REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap, xvi,

returned home from the market of Carrickmacross. They were welt
aware that he always carried arms, and dreaded to face him openly
even by a sudden surprise ; they therefore examined the road to
see from whence they could best shoot him in the back. They
fixed on the spot in the ** Khyber Pass/' as exactly suited to this
purpose. They watched him as he drore with his wife into tiie
town; and when some mention was made of the woman being with
him, a coarse and brutal exclamation followed, that ** it would be
well to send both of them to hell together." The conspirators then
crouched in what they considered their safe ambuscade, '* to blow
him and his wife to shivers," when they should turn their backs at
the winding of the road.

Thornton detailed with the utmost precision the whole scene at
the loading of the blunderbuss. How he himself had put in the
powder and rammed it down with a piece of the democratic news-
paper which they had been reading, — how they had put in nails
and slugs ** enough for them both"; and when the loading was so
heayy that they were afraid it might fall out at the muzzle, Hodgens
tore off a piece of his working dress of fhstian, and rammed it also
Into the barrel. Thornton mentioned further, that he had remon-
strated with Hodgens against doing this, but that he had replied^
« there was no fear, eyerything would be blown to shiyers with such
a charge as that."

. So they lay, crouching down, with a watchman set upon the rock
(whose name he did not then disclose) to give the signal when their
victims were approaching. He described their anxiety as so great,
that they could not resist looking out to see their victims as they
came on; when to their terror they perceived that they were
guarded on either side by policemen ; that the moment they saw this,
they laid the blunderbuss on the grass, and moved three or four
yards stealthily away from it, leaving it under the bank ; and in this
position they were pounced upon by the police, arrested, and made
prisoners without a struggle.

The details of this terrible plot against the lives of their unsus-
pecting victims were given without the least appearance of remorse,
ill-temper, or malignity on the part of the narrator, who had him-

i8sa.] THE CONFESSION. 211

self taken so actiye a part in the arrangements. And when his
cross-examination commenced he seemed to lay himself out to baf-
fle the able counsel for the prisoner with what he well knew was his
only chance of success, a narration of the most exact truth, how-
ever appalling it might be. During the whole course of his cross-
examination I never once saw him angry or annoyed, or in any way
discomposed; and it was manifest that he had considerable enjoy-
ment in the recollection of the plots and schemes he had suggested,
even though the result was a failure. When pressed by the cross-
examiner on the horrible barbarity of consenting to the murder of
an innocent woman rather than lose the opportunity of killing her
husband, he treated it as a mere matter of detail, — as a somewhat
unpleasant necessity, but unavoidable under the circumstances of
the case ; as if a hind had crossed the sportsman's line of sight
whilst aiming at a ^' royal stag," but that rather than lose the prize
he had gone through so much labor to secure, he would fire and let
the liind take her chance.

The other witnesses produced were sufficient to corroborate the
evidence of the approver, and to establish beyond a doubt the guilt
of the parties on their trial ; and after a most humane charge from
Judge Jackson, in which everything which could be said in the
prisoners* favor was carefully put forward, the jury, without much
delay, brought in a verdict against both Hodgens and Breen of
" guilty."

The solemn verdict pronounced by the foreman of the jury, in a
suppressed but clear tone of voice, produced no apparent eflfect
upon the firm nerves of Hodgens. He remained as unmoved as
before. His face was pale, but fixed and determined, and exhibited
no symptoms of wavering or fear. Breen was also unmoved ; his
small, fierce, cunning eye seemed to traverse the court more rapidly
than before, but no other feature in his face or member of his
body moved. They both stood steadily opposite their judge to hear
Jieir doom pronounced.

With a feeble and unsteady hand the humane and excellent old
judge proceeded to place the black cap upon his head ; and with a
faltering and broken voice he pronounced upon the prisoners the

212" REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xvi.

dreadful sentence of the Uw, — that they should be taken from the
place where they now stood to the prison, and from thence on the
appointed day to the common place of ezecutiony and that they
should there be hanged by the neck until they were dead ; and with
an earnestness, in the sincerity of which no one could hare a doubt,
he added, — *' and may the Lord hare mercy on your souls ! "

They heard their sentence without the quiver of a muscle, and
were removed from the court, amidst a silence that was painftdly
oppressive.

The informer, Thornton, — as is usual in such cases, — disap-
peared off the stage of Ireland. He was never seen afterwards by
any one but the jail officials and myself. I was on a visit at Lord
Kossmore's during the assizes ; and partly through his influence,
and partly owing to the peculiar circumstances of my position, I
obtained a private interview with the man who had just succeeded
in convicting Ids friends and accomplices, and who had been ujh
wards of a year in good pay, and under a solemn oath to shoot me.

It was on the day after the scene above described, that I was
introduced into the cell of this accomplished scoundrel ; and by
my own special desire, I was left alone, — locked in with my sworn
assassin in his cell, — having given instructions to the jailer that
we should not be disturbed for a couple of hours at least.

I carefully examined and prepared my pistols, lest the ruffian
should make any attack upon me ; but my precautions were quite
unnecessary. I found him as cheery and well pleased with himself,
— now that all was over, — as he had been at the commencement
of the task he had undertaken of giving evidence against his com-
panions. Not one feeling of remorse, — not one shade of pity or
pain at what he had done, seemed ever to cross his mind. My
object in visiting him, however, was not to attempt to raise up emo-
tions of the softer kind in his breast ; I wanted to find out from him
the truth of the deep and complex ramifications of the whole Rib-
bon Confederacy.

He appeared to be perfectly willing to tell me all he knew ; but it
was evident he had never been deeply trusted by any of the Ribbon
leaders. Their schemes and ultimate designs had never been laid

185a.] THF CONFESSION. 213

before bim. He knew, bowever, a vast deal about tbeir practices
and overt acts. To these be had himself been a witness. He de-
scribed to me the public-house in Garrickmacross in which the Kib-
bonmen met, and where they had concocted their plans, — the owner
of which is still alive, and now a wandering pauper, his house hav-
ing passed into other hands. He told me how a man named Mixy
McMahon, of Tullyvara, had agreed upon Faddy McArdle*s mur-
der, — in managing which he was to take an active part ; but bow,
going home one night ** a little the worse for liquor," Mixy McMabon
was drowned, having been found next morning quite dead, with his
face in a pool of water scarcely eighteen inches deep. He related
to me the whole scene of my trial in the bam, which has been
already described, giving me the names and residences,^ in full, of
all the parties then present. He chuckled and laughed over the idea
of the president proposing that my execution should be postponed
until he should get from me the two iron gates for his farm. He
also gave me the names of all the Ribbon leaders, and told me
traits and circumstances about them which left not a doubt upon
my mind but that he was telling the strict truth.

He described in graphic terms the means which he took so as
afterwards to be able to identify me ; how he had watched my coun-
tenance, as I sat as chairman of the Petty Sessions in the court-
bouse of Garrickmacross, examining the changes of expression in
my face, as the several cases came before me ; and how he had fol-
lowed me down the street, and marked my air and gait, — so that
be could not fail to know me wherever we might meet again. He
described the whole plan of attack which I have told in a preceding
chapter, and laughed outright at the disappointment of Hodgens
when he was baffled in his intention of shooting me between the
poor-house and the town.

By degrees, as he warmed by these tales, and by the recollec-
tion of past scenes of such pleasurable excitement, he recounted to
me the sundry hair-breadth escapes that I myself had had, and his
spirits rose immensely as he talked over these delightful expeditions 1
'* Do you remember, sir, the night you were returning, — you
and Morant and another chap ** (my son), — ^* the day after they

214 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [crap. xvi.

killed old Bateson?— well, sir, there we were, lying behind a wall,
determined to hare you down, when those bloody polls came up and
sared you ; we were angered that you should still be ' on the walk,'
and the boys in Castleblaney get down a man that was not wanted
nigh as much as you. And do you remember, sir, the eyening you
were returning home from Culloville, and two chaps riding, one on
each side of you, and you with the big pistols in the holsters ? —
and we let you pass that night too."

" And why did you not fire ? " I asked.

''Bedad we were afeard, sir," he replied; "we heard how yon
could shoot a crow on a bush with a pistol, and that the other chaps
were darlint shots too, and bedad we were afeard to fire lest maybe
we'd miss you, and then we were sure to be dead men.'*

" Then my always riding with armed men alongside of me was
not a bad plan? " said I.

" Bedad if it hadn't been for that, you were a ghost long since,
as shure as you're now flesh and blood 1 Shure weren't we watching
day and night to catch you witliout them, and didn't we try to get
at you in the street when going home at night from the office ; and
faix I suspect somebody must have told you about it, as I was just
going up to you myself, — as innocent as a lamb, — one night witli
a letter, and Hodgens, poor fellow, that's now no more (the man
was not hanged at the time), was to have put a pistol to your side,
as you took the letter, and just pulled the trigger, and sorra more
any one would know about it."

"Now did any one tell you?" he inquired, after a pause, and
with an inquisitiye smile, as if it was a little mystery he would like
to see cleared up before he left the country.

" Well, indeed, I was told of your kind intentions."

" Bedad I always said so I " he exclaimed, slapping his thigh with
satisfaction at haying his previous suspicions confirmed on the
best authority.

" Well, then," ne continued, as if he delighted in recounting his
adventures to me the intended victim, — an idea which seemed
rather to heighten than damp the zest of the recital, — "well, then,
do you remember the day you were out at Annacrofi*, and the big

i8S3.] THE CONFESSION. 215

dog with jou? We knew it was you by the sonnd of the big dog,
and we were all ready that day, for you had only one chap with yon ;
when just as you were coming up, you called out to the dog and
wheeled right round, and away with you back again. Now, did you
see us that day, sir? IVe a reason why I'd like to know."

** No,'* replied I, '^ I did not, nor had I the least notion you were
there."

*' Bedad I always said so," he broke in again. '' Hodgens and I
had a bet about it, for he said you surely saw us ; ' no,' says I, 'it's
the luck that's -always stickin' to him.' But sure there's no use in a
bet with that poor boy that's now no more, the dacent lad ; he has
only one debt more to pay now, and he's likely to pay that soon,
and without any money in his pocket! "

Thus this strange man went on, now delighted to tell me of how
nearly he had succeeded, on sundry occasions, in killing me, and
now lamenting Hodgens' fate in an easy, sentimental way ; talking
of him sometimes as **him that was no more," and sometimes as
**the deceased," as if he had nothing whatever to do in bringing
about his death. He alluded more than once to my <* big dog." I
had, at that time, an enormous Cuban blood-hound called Pluto, so
fierce that no one dared contend with him. This dog was reiy
much attached to me ; and though I had no reason to suppose he
would defend me from an attack, yet I always took him with me
when I went out riding, — partly as a companion, and partly under
the impression that his well-known fierceness to strangers might
tend to keep the assassins from attempting a personal onslaught.
His bark, or rather '* boom " of delight, as we went along the road,
had a deep musical sound, such as I hare never biefore or since
heard from any other dog, and one which those who were lying in
wait could not for a moment mistake. How little do we know what
will add to our safety, or the reverse 1 The joyous boom of the
dog I took with me as a protection was, in fact, the trumpet-sound
by which my enemies prepared for an attack upon my life.

It was impossible to be otherwise than deeply interested in this
remarkable interview. Here was I, the intended victim, taUdng
with my paid and sworn assassin, who had done all in his power to

2i6 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xvi.

kill me, and both of us chatting over old times as if the reminis-
cences were delightful, and, I must confess also, both laughing
heartily at some of the scenes of disappointment he described.
Thornton was in the height of good-humor, and seemed delighted
at an opportunity of recounting all his former exploits to one ao
much interested in them as I was.

At length I took out my pencil and paper : '* Now, tell me the
names and residences and particular acts of those who were fore-
most in hiring you, and plotting to hare me and Faddy McArdle
murdered."

H6 paused for a moment at what I proposed; then suddenly
resuming his cheerful tone, he said, ^'fiedad, why shouldn't 1?
Sure they never cared for me, and why should I care for them? I'm
going away now, and I may as well make a clean breast of it, just
to show you I never had any tU'wiU in life to you at aU, And sure
it's not ever}; gentleman would come and cheer up a poor fellow
like me here, condemned as I am to banishment, and all the world
against me ; so what does your honor want to know, and I will tell
you all the raal truth ? "

I saw he was in a communicative mood, so I asked him for the
names and residences, and particular acts and parts which each of
the leading Ribbon tenants had taken in the conspiracy.

He gave me the names of about twenty men who had been ac-
tively engaged in plotting against the lives of myself and Paddj
McArdle. He told me their sayings and their jokes, their threats
and their denunciations, and unfolded to me a history of all that
went on behind the scenes which was absolutely appalling to listen
to. I dare not tell here all that he then described. But he gave
me the occurrences and the dates, the spots where the occurrences
had taken place, and the residences of the parties involved ; so that
I soon had a minute history of the most diabolical proceedings that
I believe any man in my position ever yet possessed. His liistory
was so circumstantial, and his facts so dovetailed into each other,
and, above all, his memory was so clear and accurate when I cross*
examined him on particular points, that I could not doubt the gen«
eral truthfulness of what he told me.

1852.] THE CONFESSION. 217

t(

And now, sir, I have told 70U what I never thought to have told
to living soul on this side of eternity, and I helieve you think me a
terrible villain, — and so I am, and a clever villain too. Well I
don't deny but I am 'cute enough, or I wouldn't be here now, — it's
in the place of the poor boy that's deceased I'd be. I tell you what,
sir, the out-and-out boys never let me right into their secrets at all,
£or they always misdoubted me, and good cause they had. It was
Hodgens they let into it all. He knows twice as much as I do, only
he was always dark and silent ; but if you could get him to let it out
now, you'd have all the Ribbonmen in the barony in your hand.
I've told you some twenty of the worst of them ; but bedad your
honor could make a clear sweep of them all then, and of the others
outside the barony that's leading them on, and that's worse than
tiiem itself. You think me a clever chap I know, but bedad /
eouLdrCi hold a candle to Hodgens ! "

'* And what do you think- would induce him to tell me all he
knows?"

** His life, sir I " replied he quickly, " nothing but his life. Give
him that, and he will tell you all he knows, and he knows more
than any one else."

^' I will look to this," said I. ''And now I must leave you, and
we shall probably never meet again ; you will get money enough
from the Government, so I will not offer you that, — and I suppose
you would not thank me for any good advice even if I were dis-
posed to give it? "

'* Why then, not muchj sir," he replied rather sadly; ''what's the
use of good advice to a chap that had all a father and mother could
say, and never minded one of them ? It's too late for that now ; but
I thank your honor kindly all the same."

" Good-by, then. I wish you a better life ; and I hope what you
have seen and gone through will lead you to a change towards God
and man."'

'* Good-by to your honor any way," he answered, " and long may
your honor live and reign ! " and he waved his hand in farewell.

I left the cell, and we parted to meet no more.

2i8 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xvn.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE PRISONER.

T^HE mformation I had received in my interview with Thornton,
I considered to be most valuable and important ; and, having
taken accurate notes at the time, I had now a complete summary
of the misdoings of many persons who little dreamed that I knew
anything whatever about them in their relation to the Ribbon Con-
spiracy.

I had not, however, forgotten the last words of Thornton con-
cerningf Hodgens, that he, and he only, had been admitted into the
knowledge of all. the deeper plots of the Ribbonmcn, and that the
prospect of his life being saved was the only motive likely to in-
duce him to tell what he knew.

My first step, therefore, was to call upon her Majesty's Solicitor-
General, who was still in the town of Monaghan. I sketched gen-
erally to him the nature of my interview with Thornton ; I gave
him to understand that Hodgens, now lying under sentence of
death, knew all the ramifications of the Ribbon Conspiracy in its
darker and deeper features, and I urged upon him how important a
step it would be towards the breaking up of the whole system, if
we could get such information from Hodgens as would enable us to
arrest some of the chief leaders outside the Barony of Famey ; I
also. pressed upon his consideration my conviction that if these
men could be secured, a general rush would be made by the rest to
'* peach ** upon each other, and thus the whole system could be
imfolded and broken up.

The Solicitor-General quite admitted the importance of the mat-
ter, but said that he did not see how it could be done, as it would
be impossible for the Government to spare Hodgens' liie unless he

i852.] THE PRISONER. S19

gaye information which would lead to the immediate apprehension
and conviction of the offenders, and nnder his circumstances, as a
convicted felon, this could scarcely be.

I admitted the importance of the proposed conditions. The
difficulty was how to ascertain the nature of the information the
prisoner was capable of giving, so as to justify a promise of his
life; and I asked the Solicitor-General if he would confide thia
task to me, and if I claimed from the Government that Hodgens'
life should be spared, whether he would promise that my request
should be granted.

He hesitated a little at this proposition, and then replied: "I
assure you, Mr. Trench, if you can obtain information from
Hodgens of such a nature as that it may prove of real practical
value to the Government, you may depend upon it they will deal
fairly with this wretched man, and we shall have no objection to
spare his life."

*' But how are we to judge of this ? *' I asked ; *' you might perhaps
obtain information from him which you would not think sufficiently
valuable to warrant you in sparing his life. And if you acted on it
against his confederates, it would appear like a breach of faith."

*^ I perceive the difficulty," said he, '^ but I do not see how it can
be met, — I should not be justified in promising to spare this man's
life, merely because asked by an individual. The Lord-Lieutenant
alone could take such a responsibility upon himself, — neither
should I be justified in declining to make use of such information
as might come to my knowledge if I could thereby put an end to
this atrocious system of Bibbonism."

" I cannot deny the justice of your observations," I observed,
'< but under these circumstances it would be impossible for me to
interfere."

I' returned to Bossmore Park, sad enough, fori felt sure that such
an opportunity might never be found again of unravelling the whole
Bibbon Conspiracy, and exposing its inmost workings.

I told all that had happened to Lord Itossmore, and he recom-
mended me to go up at once to the Lord-Lieutenant, and obtain a
personal interview with him, and ascertain whether he would

aao REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xva.

promise to spare the prisoner's life on condition of yalaable infor-
mation being given ; or, — if he thought it desirable for the good of
the country that he should be executed, — to abstain from using any
of the information obtained, against his accomplices. So deeply did
I feel interested in this matter, that I resolved at once to follow his
Lordship's advice, and accordingly I started for Dublin early the
next morning.

I found no difficulty in obtaining an interview with the Lord*
Lieutenant, and he heard me patiently and kindly ; but he did not at
first seem to think it possible that my request under these con*
ditions could be granted. He stated that he could not promise to
abstain from using against the Bibbonmen any information of whic^
the government might become possessed. At the same time he
would be very glad indeed to spare the life of Hodgens, if in so
doing he could expose and bring to justice the leaders in this
dreadful system.

^* Then I fear, my Lord, under these circumstances, I can do
nothing. I would not for worlds be the means of inducing this
wretched man to betray his accomplices on the understanding that
his life would be spared, and then that he should be hanged after-
wards, if his information should not prove to be sufficiently im-
portant to justify the commutation of his sentence."

*<I see your difficulty," replied his Excellency ; *' can you suggest
anything yourself which would meet it? "

<* Nothing which I could well venture to propose," I answered,
** unless it were that your Excellency would intrust the matter to
my discretion, and promise me to spare the man's life if I ask it.
1 will then go to him and tell him plainly how matters stand. He is
clever and intelligent, and I am sure he will thoroughly comprehend
his position. I will tell him that I have your Excellency's promise
of pardon in my hand. That if he^will really tell me all he knows,
and that the information he gives is important and such as can lead
to important results, his life shall surely be spared ; but if his ijoftfS
mation is of no real value it shall never pass beyond myself, — that
no advantage shall be taken of it against his accomplices, — but that
his life cannot be spared."

\

^

1851] THE PRISONER. 221

" And will he believe you? " said his Excellency; "will he not
think you have betrayed him into giving infor.mation, and then that
you do not apply for his pardon ? "

"I think he will believe me,** replied I; "and at all events,
whether he does or not, I shall then have it in my own power to act
truly by him in the matter, as no one can know what he tells me but
myself; and I will risk the danger, if your Excellency will give me
your promise.**

" Recollect what you ask, Mr. Trench," observed his Excellency;
" you ask no less than that I should promise you to spare this man's
life, if you ask it, and on your judgment, and yottrs only, as to
whether his information may be of any value to the Crown or not I **

'* Quite true, my Lord ; I am well aware I have no right to expect
such powers to be placed in my hands, but at the same time unless
I obtain them, it is impossible I could be the medium of any com-
munication whatever with this condemned criminal."

" Do you think he is able to give you any really important intbr-
mation such as the Crown can afterwards make use of ? ** asked his
Excellency.

" I am satisfied he is able,** replied I ; " and if I am allowed to
tome to a clear understanding with him, I think also I can obtain it
from him.** I then recounted briefly my extraordinary interview
with his accomplice Thornton, and gave my grounds for believing
that Hodgens knew everything about the Ribbon Confederacy, and
that nothing but the certainty of his life being spared would induce
him to make any disclosures.

" Well, Mr. Trench,** said his Excellency, " I will take the re-
sponsibility upon myself, and I will spare Hodgens' life if you assure
me you have sufficient grounds for making the request.*'

" Then I have your promise, my Lord, that if I ask you to spare
his life you will do so, leaving it' to me to decide whether the infor-
mation I receive is worthy of such a gift ? *'

" You have my distinct* promise,*' returned his Excellency.

I thanked him for his confidence, expressed my hope that it would
not be abused, bowed, and retired.

No sooner had I left his Excellency*s presence than I felt, in all

223 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xvn.

its force, the delicacy of the task I had undertaken. I resdred,
however, to go through with it honestly, and to the best of mj

m

ability, and if I failed, to bear both the blame and the danger.

My first step was to proceed to Carrickmacross, and there to
unfold to my confidential clerk all that had passed between bis
Excellency and me ; and, thinking that Hodgens would speak more
freely to him than to myself, I directed him to proceed at once to
Monaghan, to get access through proper credentials to the cell of
Hodgens, and there explain to him, that if he would really tell all
he knew about the Ribbon Conspiracy, and those concerned in it, so
as to enable the Goyemment practically to get at his accomplices,
his life would surely be spared. But if he declined this offer,
he was a dead man, and that he had not the remotest chance of
pardon.

My clerk executed his commission with all the delicacy I had
expected. He found Hodgens calm and firm ; little or no change
had apparently taken place in him since his conviction and «en>
tence. He had braced his nerves to the worst, and he was prepared
to abide the consequences of his crime.

By de^ees my clerk began to unfold to him the real nature of his
mission. For a time Hodgens was wholly unmoved, as if he thouf^t
it. was only a plot to get something out of him which he was deter*
mined not to give.

'* Are you aware," said the clerk at last, " that Mr. Trench has
your pardon in his pocket, and that he has only io say ihe word
and your life is spared t *'

Hodgens leaped up from his seat as he heard these words.

*'Is it lies you're 'i^elling me? " he exclaimed; **why do you come
here with lies to me at such a time as this ? "

'* It's not lies," replied the clerk ; '* I'm telling you the real truth.
Mr. Trench went up himself to the Lord-Lieutenant, and got a
promise of pardon for you, if you would only tell all you know
about the Ribbon Conspiracy, and those who are concerned
in it."

" And what makes Mr. Trench think I know anything at all about
U? " asked Hodgens.

i8s2,] THE PRISONER. 223

'<He knows it right well,'* answered the clerk. ''He has got
eyerything out of Thornton, and he knows that 70U, and 7011 only,
can giye the information he now requires."

A shade passed over Hodgens' countenance as the name of
Thornton was mentioned, hut it was only momentary.

'' I always said I would die hard; but it's a terrible temptation to
a man; and sure, after all, it's no great harm to tellon all them
that brought me to this end. But how am I certain that Mr. *
Trench can save my life, even if I do peach? " he exclaimed, as if
suddenly recollecting himself.

** He will tell you so himself," said the clerk. ** He is now in
Monaghan, and has the promise of your pardon from the Lord-
Lieutenant in his hand. You know him well, and though you tried
to take his life often enough, you know he would not deceive
you."

" I'm sure of it," observed Hodgens thoughtfully, " I know he ,
would not; but it's a terrible disgrace to a man to go and do what
Thornton done, — I'd a'most as soon die hard."

" It's a terrible thing to be hanged I " — remarked the clerk.

'^That's true, too," replied Hodgens; and the clerk saw the
whole of his powerful frame beginning gradually to shake and
tremble with agitation, and large drop» of perspiration to stand out
distinctly upon his forehead.

'^ Well, maybe I might as well tell it all out. Come to me to-
morrow morning, and you shall have all I know ; but Mr. Trench
must come himself, as I will not trust any one else. I must have
it from his own lips that my life will be surely spared."

" You shall have it from himself," replied the clerk; "but why
not to-night? he is waiting now to see you; let me call him now,
and tell him all you have to say."

Again a dreadful tremor seemed to shake the whole of the young
man's frame.

" Not to-night," said he, — " not to-night; I am to see the priest
in the morning, and I will tell nothing to any one till I see him."

"Tell Mr. Trench all about it »mw," entreated the clerk ; ** let mf
call him this minute ; maybe it will be your last chance."

224 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. rvn.

'* I can't, and I won't,'* said Hodgens doggedly; ** I mnst see my
clargy first, and there's no use in pressing me any more."

His agitation now increased to the most painful degree, — his
voice trembled and his knees shook under him. He rose and
walked rapidly up and down his small cell, as if to throw off his
agitation, and at length he finally addressed the clerk.

'* It's no use your waiting or pressing me any more. Come to
roe to-morrow morning, and bring Mr. Trench with you; but I
won't see him or tell a word of anything until I see my clargy
first."

The clerk unwillingly retired ; he saw further pressing was use-
less, and he came and told me all that had passed.

** You could do no more," I said. " We must await the result of
his. interview with the priest. I trust he will induce him to tell ua
all he knows."

The clerk shook his head doubtingly, but made no reply.

At ten o'clock next morning, my clerk obtained access to the
condemned cell of the criminal. The first glance at the prisoner
showed that a great change had taken place since the interview of
the preceding day. All traces of doubt, uncertainty, and agitation
had completely vanished, and Hodgens stood before him calm and
unmoved, with a quiet placidity of manner and countenance, as if
all anxiety about his fate was gone. He could scarcely recognize
in the placid features of the man now before him, the shattered and
agitated frame he had left the evening before, and he saw at a
glance that Hodgens had made up his mind, and was at peace
within himself.

" Well," said the clerk, disguising his fears as well as he could,
" may I send for Mr. Trench, and will you tell him all you know
about what we were talking of yesterday ? "

'^ I will tell nothing,** returned Hodgens, calmly, and with a
composed and resigned countenance. '* I will tell nothing, neither
to Mr. Trench, nor to any one else. I have seen my priest, and
I'm now prepared to die, and maybe I would never be as well pre-
pared again. So I am content to die, and there is no use in asking
me any more. I will tell nothdngy except to them that has a right
to know it, and who should that be but the priest. So now let me

i8si0 THE PRISONER. 225

alone, for you'll never get another word out of me ; / am eonteni
to die for my country ! "

He calmly sat down, and remained in perfect silence, until tho
clerk, who had addressed him seyeral times without effect, was
compelled to leave the cell.

What passed between the prisoner and the priest I know not, but
Hodgens adhered to his determination, and his secret died with
him.

■5

aa6 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap, xvmu

CHAPTER XVm.

THS BXSCUTION.

'T^HE aentence of deathwhich had been pronounced against Hod-
gens and his companion in g^t prodnced a profound sensation
in Carrickmacross and the surrounding neighborhood. The people
could scarcely be led to beHeye that *' conspiracy to murder" waa
really a capital crime ; they had been so long accustomed to con-
spire, to lie in wait behind hedges, and to plot death to landlorda
and agents with impunity, that although aware if they sticceeded in
their object their lives would be in jeopardy, yet they considered
they were safe from the power of the law. so long as their bloo4y
purpose was unfulfilled. The lookers on and abettors of this fear-
ful game had held the same views ; never dreaming that by merely
subscribing to the murder fund, and debating on the best mode of
attacking those they had condemned to die, they had thereby laid
themselves open to the most extreme punishment known to the law
of England. They would admit that *' blood for blood" was a
reasonable and natural law, but blood for the mere plotting and
conspiring to kill had not become familiar to their minds.

A deputation of Ribbonmen was accordingly appointed to attend
at Monaghan Jail on the day announced for the execution of Hod-
gens and Breen. They were instructed to watch the proceedings
on the part of the Famey Ribbon Lodges, and to bring back a faith-
iUl report as to whether or not their friends were really put to deatlu
It was agreed that there should be no gathering there of sympa-
thizers, no show of lamentation on the one hand, nor hectoring
encouragement to * die hard ' upon the other. A simple commis-
sion of a few trusted partisans of the Ribbon Confederacy was con-

185a J THE EXECUTION. 227

sidered to be the best mode of ascertaining the real facts of the
case ; and the members were directed to report cautiously, -so that
immediate steps might be taken, if necessary, to secure the safety
of the confederacy, either by flight or otherwise.

The scene of the execution was very thinly attended by specta-
tors. The " Famey Boys," — that is, the inhabitants of the barony
of Farney, — are not general favorites over the rest of the county
of Monaghan; and, therefore, there were but few warm sympa-
thizers with the criminals in the county town, situated twenty miles
from Carrickmacross. In Ireland an execution has not the same
attraction, on its own account, for idlers and roughs, that it seems
to possess in England, and very few such attended on this occasion.
It was expected by the authorities that there would have been a
large influx of people from Carrickmacross, and a considerable
force of police were accordingly in attendance on the ground. An
undefined notion seemed to prevail that something unusual would
take place. Some spoke of a rescue being about to be attempted
by the Famey Boys ; others that the criminals would be vocifer-
ously cheered when they appeared upon the scaffold ; and though
no one could tell why, yet there was a general anticipation that
some unpleasant event would take place at the time of the execu-
tion. None such, however, occurred,- beyond that of the execu-
tion itself. The Ribbonmen had planned it otherwise, and few
dared to dispute their arrangements. They had not yet been able
to bring their minds to realize the fact that the men were actually
about to die ; but even should this prove to be true, they knew well
the authorities would be too strong for them to attempt a rescue
with any chance of success. If the execution were really and
indeed to take place, they qonsidered that the less said about it the
better, lest they themselves might be blamed by the people for hav-
ing led the unhappy victims to the bloody end from which they had
always promised them impunity ; and if their friends should by
any means escape, they knew there would be time enough to make
arrangements for a demonstration, and to plot a surer vengeance
and a certain death to those who had endeavored to bring them to
the scaflTold. Such were the thoughts, and such the language, of

228 REAUTIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xvm.

those who attended, as the Ribbon depatatlon, to witness the aceoe
about to take place in the front of Monagfaan Jail.

Some twelve or fourteen men were employed upon this strange
commission. They divided themselves into two or three partiea on
their road from Carrickmacross to Monaghan, so as not to attract
observation. When within a mile or two of the town they dis-
persed into still smaller bodies, and entered the street singly or in
pairs, having arranged a rendezvous at a well-known public-bouae
frequented by the Ribbonmen. They were surprised, as they entered,
to find so little stir in the town. Everything appeared to go on the
same as usual, except that there was rather less bustle and leas
business doing than upon ordinary days. The inhabitants renwined
in their liouses except where some special cause required them to
go abroad. A few strangers had come in from the country, and
some idlers loitered in. front of the jail; but there was no appear-
ance whatever of any sensational excitement.

As the hour for the execution approached, the Ribbonmen
emerged singly from their rendezvous, and strolled towards the
precincts of the jail in a lazy, careless manner, as if they were the
most unconcerned of spectators. They had previously agreed not
to appear to recognize each other should they chance to meet in the
crowd ; and taking up their positions in different places, each of
them as near as convenient to *' the drop,'* they awaited with appar-
ent apathy the approach of the final catastrophe.

The spot from whence the unhappy culprit undergoes the extreme
penalty of the law, in Ireland, is not usually what is termed '' a
scaffold " in the ordinary sense of the word. In most counties it
consists of an iron balcony permanently fixed outside the jail waU.
There is a small door in the wall of the jail, commanding the bal-
cony, and opening out Upon it. The bottom of this iron cage is so
constructed, that on the withdrawal of a pin or bolt, which can he
managed from the inside of the jail, the trap-door on which he
stands drops from under the feet of the victim of the law, so that
on a signal given by the sheriff, he is instantly launched into eter-
nity. There are usually two or three trap-doors so constructed on
the same balcony, so that, if required, more than one man can be

I

■ ■
■

i

1852.] THE EXECUTION. 229

hanged at the same time. The upper end of the rope is in each case
fastened to a strong iron bar which projects over each trap-door.
. The Bibbonmen managed quietly to push their way as close as
the police would allow them, immediately under the gallows, so that
on the trap falling the bodies of the victims must hang within a few
yards of where they stood. Exactly at the hour named for the
execution, the small door leading out upon the iron balcony was
seen slowly to open, and Hodgens walked out, bareheaded, on the
platform. He was followed by Breen, each attended by a priest of
the Roman Catholic Church. Hodgens looked steadily and firmly
at the crowd below. He was very pale, but he showed no other
sign of fear, and he did not speak a word. The rope was adjusted
around his neck; but even then he did not falter nor flinch in the
least, yet neither was there any appearance of defiance or bragga-
docio in his manner. He stood like a brave, firm man, whose mind
was made up, calmly awaiting his death.

Breen was less firm; he scarcely dared to look at the crowd
below. He turned his eyes rapidly from side to side, as if looking
for an opportunity to escape, and seeing none, he cast them down
till they appeared to be almost closed, and did not raise them again
in this world. At the moment the cap, usual on such occasions
to conceal the distortions of the countenance, was drawn over
the faces of the culprits, a single wild whoop was heard amongst the
crowd. It was answered by a shrill whistle, and for a moment
there was a pause. It was only for a moment : the death-signal was
given by the sheriff', the iron bolt was withdrawn, the conspirators
dropped through the balcony, and their bodies hung suspended in
the air within a few yards of their Kibbon confederates. Hodgens
scarcely struggled at all ; he apparently died at once, his neck having
been dislocated by the shock. Breen, a strong, thick-set man,
appeared to struggle hard for life, but his efibrts became feebler
and feebler, until at last they ceased ; and after hanging perfectly
still for abou^ half an hour, during which the attentive Eibbonmen
never left the spot, the bodies were slowly lowered down to the
ground, and close under the eyes of their former confederates, the
lifeless corpses were carried within the precincts of the jail.

330 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. x¥Iiz.

If it be asked who it was that gave the "whoop," and who an*
swered it by the whistle, I answer frankly, I cannot tell. The
Bibbonman who afterwards confided to me the whole story which I
haye just related, did not himself know. By many it was not heard
at all, — or at least it was scarcely noticed, — so earnestly was the
attention riveted upon the painful scene before them. Not so with
the Ribbonmen. The moment the whoop was heard a sudden gleam
of hope flashed simultaneously upon their minds, each man grasped
his stick, and held his breath, waiting for a farther signal, when a
dash would have been made, and a rescue at all hazards attempted.
But there was no further signal. Whether jit had been intended or
not, none came in time; and in the height of this tension of the
nerves of every Bibbonman present, the bolt was drawn,- and their
companions met their doom.

Scarcely a word was spoken by the crowd. There was an audible,
deep, internal groan of pain from the lookers-on as the dreadful
trap-doors fell with a loud clang, and the bodies shot down through
the balcony till checked by the tightened rope; but beyond this
scarcely a sound was heard. The crowd silently dispersed. The
Ribbonmen again strolled with apparent carelessness towards the
public-house, and after a glass or two of whiskey each, they left for
Carrickmacross, sad and crestfallen enough, but thoroughly con*
vinced they should never see their old companions alive again in
this world.

'* It is all up with the good ould cause for this bout any way,**
observed one of the Ribbonmen, at last breaking silence to hla
companion.

" True for you," replied the' other. " The ould stock will not
come by their rights this time, I fear, but there is a good timo
coming."

*^ It is a long while about it, then," said his companion. " The
people said that if Trench and Morant and the other Saxons like
them were down or banished, the ould McMahon blood would rise
and own the country again."

" Sorra bit," replied the other. " It's our own fault, they say, for
not rising and banishing them all long ago, but now they have s

•

I

i8s2.] THE EXECUTION. 231

howld of it so long, I doubt we will ever get our own land back
again."

*< How long is it since they first took it from us ? " asked the first
speaker.

''Not a one of me knows," replied the other; '' some say it's nigh
three hundred years. It was in the time of her they call Queen
Elizabeth, any way, be that long or short."

'' That's a long time ago," said his companion, " but, long or short,
we are bet this time, any way, and I fear the English will howld their
grip for some time longer, before the Farney boys will be able to get
the land out of them."

'* I say, Ned," said one of the party, addressing the temporary
leader, '' did ye hear the shoiU and the whistle f "

" Didn't I ? " replied Ned. " If I didn't I fdt it in every vein of
my heart. I thought then in aimest we were on for work ; but who-
ever gave it, it was none of us, and of course we couldn't answer
it until we saw something more. I'm thinking it was the Armagh
boys done it ; but what good was it when they done nothing more ?
Anyhow, if they intended work they should have been quicker at it.
The signal came too late."
' <' Aye, true enough," replied his companion. <' I gave such a
start that the sight nearly left my eyes when I heard it, and if one
more shout like that had come, by the powers I'd have laid open
the head of the next man to me with the blackthorn in my hand,
and chanced it, come what would and whoever he might be ; maybe
in the scrimmage some good would be done for the poor boys that's
gone."

" It's well for ye that ye didn't then," said the leader, " or it's
dancing after them ye'd be yourself. It was too late, any way."

" Aye," replied the other, *^ too late! — everything is too late to
fr?e Ireland; " and they proceeded on their way in silence.

The moral effiect of this execution upon the Kibbonmen and their
sympathizers in Famey was perfectly marvellous, and far beyond
anything I could have anticipated. I will enter into no discussion
here about the advantages or otherwise of the abolition of capital
punishment. It may be wise and humane that it should be alto-

333 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap, xviii.

*

gether abolished. It is a fair and reasonable question for any nation
professing to be Christian, whether it can be consistent with the law
of the New Testament, hy which all Christians profess to be guided,
to strangle a fellow creature in cold blood, and in the method de-
scribed above, no matter what his crime may haye been. Oar
system of hanging criminals is not a pleasant thing to witness, and
not a whit more merciful or civilized than the simplicity of the
Turkish bowstring. But be this 4is it may, I cannot approve of the
principle which has lately been adopted by our governors. It seems
now, that no matter how diabolical the attempt to murder may be,
no matter how atrociously planned or with what ferocity carried on,
if the perpetrator fails in actually killing his victim, the punishment
awarded is different from what it would have been if he had suc-
ceeded. In the latter case it is death, in the former only penal
servitude for a limited period of time, — often a very short time. The
moral guilt appears to me to be precisely the same in each case;
and if the object of a public execution be to deter men from the
perpetration of crime, rather than to take vengeance on them alter
it has been committed, surely this object would be more effectually
obtained by punishing to the full extent the initiative rather than
the completion of the crime.

But leaving this difficult question to be determined by more expe-
rienced moralists, there can be no doubt whatever but that the
execution of these would-be murderers had a wonderful effect in
Farney; and many '* snug farmers,'* who had previously no idea
that they had placed themselves within the power of the law by
joining in conspiracies, became now thoroughly alarmed. This
alarm was increased by the arrest of two or three of their own
class upon a charge nearly similar to that for which Hodgens and
Breen had suffered ; and, feeling the insecurity of their position, and
not knowing the moment that some informer might rise amongst
themselves and convict them, the terror of a large body of ''re-
spectable farmers " was beyond what could be conceived.

Under these circumstances it occurred to me that a rare oppor-
tunity now presented itself of ridding the country of the baneful
effects of Bibbonism; and that if judicious advantage were taken

i

1853.] THE EXECUTION. 233

of the panic which the execution of Hodgens and Brcen had cre-
ated, a clearance of conspirators might he effected, which could
not he done at any other time.

In accordance with these views, I made a minute examination of
the notes I had taken during my remarkable interview with the
informer Thornton in the prison. I carefully separated the various
transactions which in his details he had huddled together, and
wrote out a concise history of the misdemeanors of each of the
several conspirators. Having completed this task, I sent for the
men, separately, to my office in Carriakmacross, and having called
each into my private room, I briefly recapitulated the evidence I
had against him. I told him the dates on which he had met his
fellow-conspirators, the places where they had assembled, and even
the very words he had spoken; and holding up a photograph of
his misdeeds to his frightened and astonished view, I charged him
point blank with his crime. The conspirators seemed confounded
beyond measure, and utterly at a loss to conceive from what source
I had derived my information. They had not courage to attempt a
denial.

One scene I particularly remember. I had sent for a man, well
known, the same who had sat as judge or president at the mock
trial where I was condemned to death by the Bibbonmen in the
large bam. He came accordingly to my office. He was a tall man,
strong and muscular, apparently about thirty-flve years of age,
with a lazy, slouching gait and manner, like that of one who would
prefer idleness and pauper indolence to active, energetic wealth.
His hair and whiskers were red and bushy, his eyes small and gray.
He had by no means a savage aspect ; cunning in his countenance
appeared to predominate over ferocity.

'^ I heard your honor wanted to see me," said he, as he entered
my private office. He spoke with a quiet smile upon his counte-
nance, having evidently determined, if possible, to master his
emotions, though I believe he suspected the object for which I
had summoned him.

'* Yes," 1 replied ; ** how are the crops down in your part of the
estate?"

234 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. rvui.

^< Pretty fair, your honor, barrin' the potatoes ; they are getting
black, and I doubt we will eyer have the raal ould mealy potato
again."

" It looks like it, certainly," I observed. •* But how is your own
farm going on? Is there any little thing you want just now, to
make it look a little neat and tidy ? "

The man looked at me for a moment, evidently doubtful of my
meaning, for he well knew that he deserved no kindness at my
hands ; but he replied with affected cheerfulness, —

** Not a ha'porth, your honor, unless maybe you would allow me
a little lock of lime for the land, — it is a long time now since it
got any ; and a barrel or two of lime would be no harm to white-
wash the dwelling-house also, just to tidy it up a little for your
honor's inspection."

*< By-the-by," said I, somewhat suddenly, keeping my eye stead-
ily fixed upon his countenance, '* did you ever get those two iron
gates I promised you some time ago ? "

** Troth I never did," answered the man, growing a little pale.

«* Why not?"

" Well, indeed, now your honor, I don't know, barrin' that I was
loth to give trouble, and you with so many things to think about."

*' Oh ! never mind that, I am always ready to fulfil my promises.
I was thinking that perhaps you might have a little delicacy in
asking me for the gates after what you said in the barn ihtU
night, when the boys were all met together, — the night I was tried
for my life and condemned, you know, — so I thought I would send
for you, and remind you of my promise about the gates."

The man turned deadly pale, and stared at me with a fixed look
of terror, speechless and almost motionless.

** Don't you remember," continued I, " that night in the big bam,

when you and Pat C , and Bryan R , and Hugh M , and

all the other true boys of the right sort, met to have me tried, and
you condemned me to be shot and put out of the way I ' Guilty,
boys,' 8a>8 you, — * he must die ! ' and Hodgens and Thornton were
there that same night ; and you remember after I was condemned,
and all comfortably settled about me, you told the boys, as you sat

x853.] THE EXECUTION. 235

at the head of the table as president, with the black cap like one of
the judges upon your head, ^ Boys,' says you, ' don*t shoot him
until afler next Thursday, anyhow; he promised me two iron
gates on that dtiy, and I may as well get them out of him before he
dies I ' And then the boys all began to laugh, and told you to be
quick about it, as not a day would they give me after that ; and
don't you remember the sport you had when the girl brought in
fresh whiskey and hot water, and all the funny stories the rest of
them told about shooting all tyrant landlords and agents ; and — "

Suddenly, as I was rapidly proceeding with my tale, my eye still
fixed upon him, I saw his countenance assume a glazed look; he
tottered for a moment, endeavoring to balance himself as he stood,
but losing all consciousness, his muscles relaxed, his whole frame
quivered, and falling back against the wall, he dropped in a fainting
fit upon the floor.

My clerk ran to his assistance ; but recovering himself quickly,
he stared for a few moments wildly around him, and then sat down
upon a chair which was near, to hear my final sentence.

'* You see I know all about you," said I, in a grave and altered
tone. ** You must not remain upon the estate ; if you give up pos-
session of your farm, and leave the country whenever I require it,
I will probably never bring up this matter against you. If you
refuse to leave, you must take the consequences."

"I will go, sir," replied the man, "whenever you require it."

I left the room. He soon recovered himself, and returned to his
home, with what feelings may be conjectured.

In a somewhat similar manner, though with scenes less striking,
I had interviews with many of the several conspirators, concerning
whom I had received information from Thornton ; and it was man-
ifest from their countenances and admissions, and even by their
denicUs, when I travelled in the least out of the correct path, that
the account the informer had given me was in each case substan-
tially true. They could not conceive, and to this day they are
wholly ignorant (they will be surprised should this book ever fall
into their hands) of the source firom which my information was
derived, and perceiving that I really knew a great deal, they fan-

236 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xvia.

cied I knew much more than I did, and their fears persuaded them
I could bring them to justice any moment I pleased. Having once
established this influence over them, I had but little trouble in
inducing them to quit the estate for good ; in fact they were them-
selves in a hurry to be off. I therefore allowed them to take their
stock and crop, and all that they had (forbidding only that they
should sell their usual tenant-right interest), and to pass away
quietly out of the country. Their vacated farms were re-let to
new tenants of more unexceptional character.

The whole of these events had a wonderful effect in Farney. The
Bibbonmen and their abettors had been everywhere worsted and
unsuccessful. After sixteen months' constant watching, they had
been unable to get a shot at me without exposing themselves to the
most imminent danger of being shot dead upon the spot themselves
— a risk they by no means fancied. They had then turned then*
attention to the murder of Faddy McArdle ; but here also they had
failed, and in preparing, as they thought with safety to themselves,
** to blow him to shivers " with the heavily loaded blunderbuss, two
of the conspirators had been arrested and hanged. Four or five
more had been confined for a long time in prison upon suspicion,
and others had been tried for their lives ; and though ultimately
acquitted, they had never recovered the loss of money and charac-
ter sustained in their imprisonment and trial. And now eleven more
of their number, who had hitherto escaped the immediate action of
the law, but who they themselves well knew were guilty, were
forced to leave their farms, and go forth wanderers upon the earth.
In short, as Paddy McArdle described it, '' we had bagged a dozen
or more of them, whilst they had never taken a feather out of one
of us ! "

All who are well acquainted with Ireland know the immense
effect which success, or the reverse, has upon the confidence of the
multitude. Indeed, it is a feeling by no means confined to Ireland ;
and seeing that in everything the conspirators had been outwitted,
worsted, or punished, the remainder of the sympathizers gave up
their losing game, and returned to industrial pursuits.

In a very short time, — so short that I could scarcely realize the

i8s3.] THE EXECUTION. 237

change, — the whole tone of the estate had altered ; industry and
actiyity took the place of apathy and indolence. Those who at one
time were fired with sentiments that Ireland would soon hecome
** free," as they chose to call it, and all landlords and agents han-
ished off the land, returned with a suddenness, which only those
who know Ireland well could believe, to the patient labor of their
farms ; a wholesome acknowledgment of the power of the law per-
vaded the mass of the population ; the Kibbonmcn suddenly col-
lapsed or disappeared out of the country ; their sympathizers no
longer seemed to take any interest in their fate ; and order, good
feeling, and comfort in the management of this large and important
district prevailed over the length and breadth of the Bath Estate,
and, with one or two interruptions, consequent upon that greatest
of all Ireland's curses, a contested election, which creates more
general ill-feeling than any other incident I have ever known, have
continued so ever since.

It is now twelve years since the last of the events I have described
above took place. Since then I have never carried arms, nor
have I thought any protection to my person neqessary. My friends
have sometimes urged upon me that my conduct in this respect was
rash. I did not, and I do not think so. My present impression is
tlAt I shall never cany them again.

238 ' REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xxz.

CHAPTER XIX.

PATSY MCDBRMOT.

^ I ^MJfiRE waa nothing which surprised me more daring the whole
of ^8 period of anxiety and excitement, than the perfect tmst
which appeared to be reposed in me by the peasantry, at the Tery
time when it was considered by a large party amongst them that I
ought to be put to death.

It is true the desire to '* put me off the walk " did not, in any
case, appear to be the result of priyate hatred or rerenge; it
seemed to be the consequence of a fixed belief that, in demanding
*' rent for the Saxoi^" I was necessarily a tyrant and oppressor, and
that if I, and such as I, were laid low, '* they would hare the coun-
try to themselyes, as of old." Strange as such an idea may now
appear to be, and absurd as in reality it was, yet there is no doubt
that it existed, and that it was the main-spring of the conspiracy
against my life.

But at the yery time that these efforts were being made to effect
my murder, the most unbounded confidence appeared to be reposed
in me by those who in difficulties sought assistance or adyice ; and
I should scarcely be credited were I to tell of the large sums of
money which, from time to time, I was earnestly besought to take
care of, and the strange secrets of which I was made the depository.

I remember on one occasion remonstrating with an apparently
pauper peasant, who, expecting that **the big war would soon
begin," entreated me to receiye from him a sum of 2007. in sot-
ereigns, in order that it might be safely kept. He asked no interest
for it ; he did not eyen require a written acknowledgment for its
receipt ; all he wanted was that I would take it and keep it for him.

xasa.] PATSY McDERMOT. 239

'' It would make my mind *&ay," he said, ^* if once I knew it was
safe in your honor's hands.''

"But," replied I, "you know well the Bihbonmen have sworn
to shoot me, and perhaps if I were down your money would not be
so easily forthcoming."

" Oh, great luck to your honor I " replied the man, " I haye no
fear of that. I always said you would bate them blackguards yet ;
neyer fear but the luck will stick to you still, and yell get the bet-
ter of them in the end, with all their devil's devices ; but sure if
you were down yourself, wouldn't the money be safe enough in the
office, and I'd have it as big as ever when I wanted it."

"Why not put it in the bank?" I asked; " it would surely be
much safer there ; and, besides, they would give you interest for
its use."

" Troth, and that is the very thing I'm afraid of," replied this
accomplished financier; "it's spending it themselves they'd be, or
maybe lending it to some one else, and then it wouldn't be 'asy to
come at when I'd want it most. Just lock it up yourself in the
office safe, and there is no place I'd be so sure of coming at it all
right again."

The importance of obtaining the identical sovereigns back again
which he was now anxious I should receive, appeared to take a
strong hold upon his mind.

I refused, however, in this, as in all sindlar cases ; and he was
compelled to decide between the bank and, — what he conceived to
be the more secure place of deposit, — the thatch of his own cabin.
The latter, I afterwards understood, had got the preference.

But it frequently happened that far more delicate trusts than
those of a financial nature were committed to my care ; and as in
the case of Mary Shea and Alice McMahon, so in others also, I
became the depository of little secrets of a very different class,
and especially amongst the iniending emigrants. In no case, I
admit, did they consult me, unless they thought they could obtain
some valuable assistance; but on such occasions they did not
hesitate, in the most open and unrestrained manner, to confide to
me all their hopes and fears.

240 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xix.

An instance of this nature, and illustratiYC of what I have stated,
occurred about this period.

There was at that time a young man living on the Bath Estate»
named Patrick McDermot, or " Patsy/* as he was generally called
in the country. He was an idle, rollicking, pleasant fellow, re-
markably good-looking, and a general favorite amongst the girls*
Not a fare, nor a wake, nor a race, nor a funeral, could go on with
advantage, unless Patsy graced it with his presence. His father
and mother had died during the famine. They had held a small
plot of ground, about two acres, and a house or cabin attached;
but not having been naturally of an industrious disposition, they
sank at once, — as did thousands of others, — when ''the hungry
year " came upon them. Patsy was only a ** slip of a boy " in
1847 ; but he was so handsome and good-natured, and of such a
genial, pleasant disposition, that he readily obtained the run of
most of the neighbors' houses ; who, partly from pity, and partly
because he seldom failed to enliven the social circle with his pres-
ence, were always glad to grant him *' his bit and sup " whenever
he chose to call in.

The natural indisposition to labor which Patsy had inherited
from his father, was by no means amended by this vagabond sort
of life ; and he grew up, as I have stated, a good-looking, attracTtive
youth, with manners superior to most of the hard-working young
men around him, but without having acquired any habits of labor
or steady industry.

This was all very well, and proved to be a pleasant life enough,
so long as he was not forced to pay any rent whatever ; but when
a firm demand was made, and a clear understanding come to, that
the rent must be paid or the land surrendered, poor Patsy *' lost his
presence of mind," as he expressed it, and frankly confessed he did
not know what to do. It was in this position of affairs that my
first interview occurred with Patsy McDermot.

** Well, McDermot,'* said I, as he appeared one day in reply to
a summons from my office, '' what are you going to do? You owe
four years' rent. Are you going to settle the amount? "

'' Couldn't your honor call me ' Patsy ? ' " replied he, evading my

i8S3.] PATSY McDERMOT. 241

question with adroitness ; ** it's a kindly sort of name the neigh-
bors has for me, and I'd know far better how to spake to jour
honor if you was to use it yourself."

** 1 have no objection," I answered, ** and shall be happy to call
you Patsy in future ; but that does not affect my question ; and I
must know at once what your intentions are, as I cannot allow you
to remain in possession of your land unless you come to some
settlement about your rent."

**For the matter of that," replied Patsy, " there are plenty
holding their land still, who owe as many years* rent as I do."

*' Quite true," said T; *' but I don't intend they shall do so long."

'* Maybe your honor won't find it so 'asy to put them out of it
as you think," remarked Patsy.

"Perhaps not," replied I; "and perhaps, also, I estimate the
difficulties of the situation quite as highly as you do. But let other
people take care of their own business, and let me bring you back
to yours, which you are so uncommonly quick at evading; once
more, — do you intend to pay up, or to emigrate ? "

"Your honor is mighty tight upon a poor desolate orphan boy
like me, without father or mother to care for him," answered Patsy,
with a slight affectation of whimper in his tone of voice. " But
truth is best," continued he, seeing this would not go down, " and
I may as well tell you at once, that I haven't a ha'porth of goods
in^the world, nor as much money this minute in my pocket, as
would buy me a breakfast of Indian meal."

'* And how have you lived up to this ? " I asked ; " you don't
seem starved, or as if you had wanted anything ; even your clothes
are better than most people can afford to wear these times. How
have you got on so well hitherto ? "

" Well, your honor," replied Patsy, " it would only be troubling
you too much, and takin' up your time to tell you all about it ; but the
neighbors was always good to me, and the girls was -kind and more
than good, as they always are ; and, what with one thing or another,
I never wanted up to this, — that is always barrin' a trifle of cash.
I could get victuals and clothes 'asy enough ; but, somehow, when-
ever I axed the loan of a few shillings, sorra farthing there hap«

16

243 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap.

pened to be in the house just then, and I never could get money to
pay my lent. And now if jour honor takes the little place from
me, maybe the neighbors wouldn't be quite the same to me as they
were ; and bedad I'm tellin' no lie when I say that maybe the girls
tUemselves, -— good as they always were, — wouldn't think me so
comely or clean-looking a chap as they always thought me before."
- '^Nonsense, Patsy," said I; '*you know well half the girls in
the country are in love with you, and there is no such fayorite, I
hear, in the barony."

**' Was your honor ever a bachelor? " asked Patsy, with an in-
nocent look.

** To be sure I was," replied I.

*' And ye got married after a while I suppose? " inquired Patsy,
still retaining his affected innocence.

*'' Of course I did," said I ; '* you know well I have a wife and
family."

<* I was thinkin* as much," rejoined Patsy, with a reflectiye air ;
** and I was just turning in my mind whether your honor ever
remarked that the noble young ladies you would be courtin* ever
found out by any chance that you were not nigh so handsome and
clean-lookin' a young gentleman after your weddin' as what you
was before it."

'' You are a shrewd fellow," replied I, laughing, ** and uncom-
monly active at changing the venue from your own case to that of
some one else. But all this won't do; you must give me an
answer. Will you pay up or emigrate ? "

*' Well, well, now," observed Patsy, scratching his head in a
puzzled manner, *' but your honor is mighty strict in wanting to
get a straight answer from a poor orphan boy like me, that's not
accustomed to give it ; but sure I suppose if you must have it, you
must ; and as I have no money to * pay up,' as you call it, and as
I don't want to put your honor to any trouble, I suppose I must
only cross the says like the rest of them, and seek my fortune in
America. And yet," he continued, in an altered tone, ''I think
there is one girl, and only one, who would fret in earnest after me.
But it can't be helped, she must put up with some other boy, for

iSsi.] PATSY McDERMOT. 243

I'm not able to paj nor stay; and I'd never ax her to bear the hard-
ship of coming out with me, even if she were willin' to do it, —
which in troth I doubt she would be ; for the g^rls likes them best
as can always sail with a fair wind, — why wouldn't they, poor
things? So when will your honor send me out? I have no money
to pay for my passage, nor to buy a ha'porth for the journey ; so I
will give you up my little place freely, and I only hope your honor
will act by me like a gentleman, as no doubt you always wor."

I told him that Lord Bath always wished those who emigrated
from his estate to go out comfortably, and that I would provide for
him as well as I could ; that he should have a free passage to any
port in America he pleased, a respectable outfit, and a sovereign in
his hand on landing.

** Well, your honor," observed Patsy, on hearing what could be
done for him, ** it's all very fair, and as much as I could expect;
and the world will go harder with me than ever it's done yet, if I
don't knock as good a living out of them chaps in America as ever
I did in ould Ireland; so I will give up my little place when-
ever your honor wishes it, and, — what is better, — I'll give you my
blessing along with it. You may put me down for Boston."

About three or four days after my interview with Patsy, a young
woman came into my office ; and asking if she could see me alone,
she addressed me in a quick and abrupt manner.

" Has Patsy McDermot got a ticket? "

*' I don't know what you mean," I answered.

'^ Has your honor given Patsy McDermot a ticket for America? "
asked the girl.

'' I never give tickets," said I ; '* but McDermot has expressed
his intention to emigrate, and I have entered his name upon the
list ; he is to have a free passage to Boston whenever he chooses
to go."

'*To Boston!" exclaimed the girl, **to Boston? and why to
Boston?"

" I don't know," replied I ; " I gave him his choice of any port
he wished to select, and I think he named Boston as the one ; but I
would as soon send him anywhere else. I suppose you are hiB
sister, from your likeness to him? "

244 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [cHap. xix.

** It would be better for me inaybe if I was," obsenred the girl,
** bat I'm not, though the neighbors often said we was like/*

When first the girl came into the room she had kept her face
partly concealed, by pressing her shawl up to her mouth ; bat ift
her anxiety to obtain information concerning Patsy, she had grad-
ually lowered her band, so that her full features were now before
me. She was a pure Celt, both in her appearance and manner.
Her hair was black as jet, her eyes dark and flashing, and as rapid
as lightning in their motion ; her nose, — though it did not warrant
the unpleasant designation of being '* cocked," — yet had certainly
a tendency upwards ; and her short upper lip and small chin ap«
peared to have a similar inclination. I have heard it remarked that
the distinctive difference between an English and purely Irish face
is, that the former looks as if the hand of nature had been passed
over it downwards, when coming into the world, whilst the Irish
face looks as if, on that occasion, the hand had been gently passed
over the features in a contrary or upward direction.

The features of the girl before me seemed exactly to answer to
this latter description. She was decidedly handsome, intelligent,
and vivacious ; but it was evident that the hand of nature had been
passed, very gently, but still in an upward direction over her ooan-
tenanue.

It struck me at once, from the excessive anxiety of the yoong
woman to obtain information concerning Patsy, that as she was not
his sister, she was probably the girl to whom he had alluded as the
** only one who would fret in earnest after him." So without ap-
pearing to take any peculiar interest in the case, I merely asked
her name.

" Catherine Farnan," answered the girl; " why does your hon<»
want to know it? "

'' You told me," I replied, *' that you were not Patsy McDermot's
sister, and 1 wanted merely to inquire why you are specially in-
terested in ascertaining what port he goes to. If you have any
good reason for wishing to know this, and if Patsy won*t tell you
himself, come to me, and I will tell you where and when he goes."

" Your honor called him * Patsy,* " observed the girl; " did you
ever know him before now ? *'

1852.] PATSY McDERMOT. 345

t(

No,** replied I ; ''that is, I never saw him to my knowledge
nntil he came before me the other day when sent for. I was forced
to bring him to some settlement, as he owed four years* rent, and I
could not get him to pay anything ; but I hear he is always called
Patsy in the country, because he is such a faYorite, and especially
amongst the girls.*'

Her countenance changed a little as I said this; but sh^ was
silent for a few moments. She then said firmly, but with a strange,
suppressed energy, —

*' He might have a nice place, and plenty in it of the best as long
as he lived, if he would only once spake the word ; but he didn't
spake it yet, and now I suppose he never will. Well, let him go ;
I*d die sooner than I'd tell him ! *'

Passion was in her countenance and resolution in her manner as
she said this ; and, without another word, or even a motion of fare-
well to me, she suddenly left the room.

I could not but see exactly how matters stood; but I did not
know how to remedy the case unless by revealing the young lady's
feelings to the object of her afiectionis. And this I did not think it
fair to do, as they had certainly been inadvertently betrayed to me.
I resolved, however, on my next interview with Patsy, to try if I
could not give him a hint as to how matters really were. I made
inquiries, accordingly, about the girl, and found that her father was
owner of some eight or nine acres of land, on which he had a com-
fortable house; that he was comparatively rich, and had saved
some money, and was, on the whol^, well to do in the world. He
had one only child, his daughter Catherine. Her mother had died
soon after her birth, and he, having been much attached to his wife,
had never married again. Catherine, accordingly, was sole mis-
tress of the establishment. Her father dearly loved her, and in
some respects she was a spoilt child. But she also dearly loved
her father; and, though wayward and quick-tempered towards
others, she was always kind and gentle towards him. She felt he
had no female companion but herself; and that perhaps it was
parHy for her sake that in after life, — when his grief for his wife
bad worn off, — he had not married another, lest he should bring in

246 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap.

one who must necessarily be put over her in the bouse. Accord-
. ingly, with the quick wit of her race, — mainly on her father's
"ilccount and in repayment for his self-denial, and partly on her own
account, lest if he should become lonesome he might supersede
her, — she did her utmost to render her father happy ; and when
this is truly done towards man what woman can ever fail ?

But Catherine soon began to have other objects, hopes, and as-
pirations besides those of attending on her father. She never
tieglected him or his household for a moment, and the latter was
well known as a model of neatness, comfort, and thrift; but as she
grew up to womanhood, and her beauty and engaging qualities
became developed, she naturally attracted many *suitors amongst
the young men of the district. She was considered in the country
as an heiress of much wealth ; and happy would the " boy " be
considered who could secure her affections and her farm.

But Catherine knew her good looks and her position quite as well,
and valued them quite as highly, as her .lovers.

Her chief amusement was satire. When her work was over on a
summer's evening, she would go out '* just for a little walk " in the
green lane near her house ; and, strange to say, she generally met
one or two of "the boys" of the neighborhood, who happened to
come out about the same time, and to walk in the same place. It
was near her father's house, so all was right in point of propriety ;
and Catherine enjoyed playing off her country lovers against each
other, and liitting them right and left in her quick-witted and
vivacious manner.

Amongst these wanderers after Catherine, Patsy used sometimes
to come. But he did not care to be so often with her as others.
The fact was, Patsy was not a marrying man. He found his course
of life so pleasant as a bachelor, that he had just then no inclina-
tion to change it. He was known to have a '' nice little place of his
own," and Patsy prudently kept his own counsel about not having
paid any rent, and the consequent accumulation of arrears. He
wras handsome, and always pleasant ; and, like many a bachelor ixt
high life, under not very dissimilar financial circumstances, he was
a capital diner-out in his own more humble way ; and he lived most

x852.] PATSY McDERMOT. 247

joyonslj on the fruits of his good looks. Under these peculiar
circumstances, and for private reasons besides, which Patsy did no.t
choose to disclose, he had no desire whatever to lay siege to the
affections of the heiress, but contented himself with such a modest
amount of attention as would secure him a welcome whenever any
amusement was on foot at Catherine's hospitable home.

But it sometimes happens that those who show least attention to
an heiress, attract her special observation; and Catherine being
naturally of a quick and jealous nature, became quite annoyed at
the easy way in which the chief beau amongst the young men of the
country treated her. She set herself accordingly to win him. In
undertaking a task of the kind, — which in the first instance was
done purely from pique, — she soon became interested beyond what
she had originally intended; and, observing the better manners,
quiet deportment, and admitted good looks of Patsy McDermot, she
was unintentionally caught by the very man whom she had intended
to capture. Patsy saw all this, and knew it quite as well, or far
better, than she did. With all his apparently careless habits, he
was a shrewd and thoughtful fellow ; and, in truth, he was rather
afraid that Catherine would be too many for him if he were bound
to her in matrimonial links. He admitted the beauty and attrac-
tions both of her person and her place ; but her temper was high,
and her wit quick, so that, ^— as Patsy acknowledged, — "he would
be afeard of his life to vex her." And accordingly, though he
perfectly saw, from her manner towards him, how matters really
stood, yet he kept a respectful distance, — always going there ac-
companied by others, and taking care to avoid anything which could
lead to a disclosure of her feelings.

Affairs were in this state when my interview with Patsy occurred ;
and, if the truth must be told, I believe his readiness to give up his
place and emigrate was accelerated by an undefined feeling which
came over him occasionally, that if he stayed long in the country
he would have to marry Catherine whether he liked it or not ; as
every one told him she was such a self-willed girl that " Faiz she'd
marry any man she pleased, and do what she liked with him after«
wards I "

248 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xix.

Under these discouraging circumstances, Patsy thought prudence
the better part of valor, and he was by no mean« unwilling to take
the opportunity now afforded him to Hy.

For about a fortnight after Catherine's appearance and abrupt
exit from my office, I neither saw nor heard anything of either
party ; but at the end of that period Patsy came to me, and told me
he was prepared to go.

" Where to? " I asked. *^ Are you going to Boston, as you told
me before ? "

" Whisht your honors spake 'asy /**" replied Patsy, dropping hi*
voice to a low key, '* that was only a make-believe ; it's to Ne^
York your honor must send me. I never intended to go to Bostoi
at all.*'

** And why did ybu name Boston to me in the first instance?" I
inquired.

" Why ye see," replied Patsy, a little confused, " I didn't want
the neighbors to know anything at all about it. When a poor boy
goes out to seek his fortune anew, it's better no one should know
anything about him beforehand."

** That depends on what sort of a * poor boy * he has been," said I.
'* But do you know. Patsy, I doubt if you are wise in leaving the
country at all ; a good-looking, likely chap, such as you are, might
have plenty of girls glad to take him ; and if you got anything of a
fortune it would be easy to clear off the little debt upon the place,
and you might live well enough in the old country yet."

Patsy watched me attentively all the while I was speaking, and at
last he said with a shy look, but without moving a muscle of his
face, —

** I heard tell she was with your honor since I saw you ? "

I could hardly keep my countenance, as I felt that I was found
out. I kept it, however, and replied, —

" You heard who was with me ? *

"It's your honor's self that knows well what I mean," said
Patsy, "for all you look so grave as if you was going to a burying;
but in troth it's no go this time neither. I'll tell your honor a
secret, — whisper ! " and he put hiB hand to the side of his mouth, as

1852.] PATSY McDERMOT. 249

if to prevent some imaginarj person from bearing the announce-
ment of his solemn but secret conviction, *^ whisper! your honor,
I'm ashamed to confess it to any one but yourself, but by this and
by that, Pm afeard of her t "

I could not help laughing outright as he committed this awful
secret to my keeping.

"Well, perhaps you are right; away with you to New York, or
wherever else you please, and no one shall know your destination
from me until you are gone six months at all events. After that
you must look out for yourself."

" All right, your honor," replied Patsy, apparently much relieved,
" only give me six months' start of her; and if she ever ketches me
after, it's not yourself I'll blame.*'

Patsy left accordingly with an order for New York, telling every
one, as he did so, that Boston was his destination, as he had often
heard his mother say that a sister's husband lived there, and '* got
mighty rich by keeping a grand hotel," where he hoped to have free
quarters for the remainder of his life, and die there eatin' and
drinkin' and no one to hinder him.

About a year after the occurrence I have related, and long after
Patsy and his affairs had completely escaped my memory, a young
woman presented herself in my office. Her dress was unusually
good, for one evidently of the peasant class ; her countenance was
intelligent, and her manner and appearance far beyond the ordinary
type. I thought I recognized her features ; but I had been in com-
munication with so many thqjisands of people since I had seen her,
that I could not remember who she was. She addressed me in a
quiet manner, —

" Could I see you inside, — in your private room, sir? "

" Certainly, if you wish it." And I rose and led the way. I
asked her to take a seat, which she did ; and then throwing back a
veil which she wore over a somewhat quaint hat, she said, —

" Perhaps you don't remember me, sir ? "

" I am ashamed to say I do not," replied I ; "I know I have
seen your face before, but I don't recollect where, or under what
circumstances."

250 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap.

« Do you remember Catherine Faman? "

The whole affair between Patsy and her rushed back upon my
memory in a moment, and I exclaimed, rather suddenly, —

'' Oh ! yes, I know all about you now. Is there anything I can
do for you?"

*' And what do you know about me? *' asked the girl, raising her
handsome and flashing eyes, and looking me straight in the face.

It was my turn now to look a little confused ; howeyer, I merely
said, —

''Are not you the young woman that I mistook for Patsy
McDermot*8 sister, when you asked me where he was going, and
were so surprised when I told you it was to Boston ? "

<< I see you remember me," obsenred the girl quietly, her sus-
picions being calmed by my reply. " But did he go to Boston? "

**Hedidnot."

«* Where did he go?"

'' He went to New York," I answered, feeling now fiilly abeolred
from my promise of six months* secresy to Patsy.

''I thought so," she observed in a reflective tone; and she was
silent for a few moments ; she then said calmly, —

" I buried father last week."

''Indeed! I did not know he was dead. I suppose then you
have come to consult me as to what you had best do about the
farm. May I ask have you been married since I saw you ? "

" No," replied the girl, " nor I won't marry in this country. I
have made up my mind to sell all I l^ave here, — for all father had
he left to me, — and I'll go out to New York at once."

"To New York! " I exclaimed; " why to New York? You don't
mean — ? "

" I do mean," said the girl, interrupting me, " though your honor
did not let on about it even to myself, — and I am obliged to you
for that same ; yet sure enough you know all about it just as well
as I do. Whether Patsy ever cared for me or not I don't know ;
but this I know, — I never cared for any one but Patsy. I'm deter-
mined to see him in New York, for I hear from others as well as
from yourself, that he is there. I am not going out poor, for

i8s2.] PATSY McDERMOT. 25 1

father had a hag of gold soyereigns that he kept secret, alwajs ex-
pecting that 'the big war' would come on, and then he'd have
some money to leave the country. I have two hundred gold sov-
ereigns with me now, and plenty of goods besides at home, which
I can sell. So, — as I said, — I won't go out poor. If Patsy is
married when I go out, why then I can set up some business for
myself, or perhaps come back to the old country again, — for I'll
never share myself or the- gold sovereigns with any one else. But
if Patsy is of the same mind as I am now, why I'll take care and
let him know it some way or other. What's the use of two people
being unhappy for life on account of a false shame ? I tried that
long enough, but I've got more sense now."

'* I think your resolution an excellent one,** said I, *' sound com-
mon sense ; and I have no doubt it will be appreciated by Patsy.
He was always a light-headed young fellow, who liked living
amongst his friends, and amusing himself up and down in prefer-
ence to steady industry. I hope if you meet him in New York,
and if matters turn out as you and all of us must wish, that you
will cure him of those idle habits."

" Maybe I won't be able to find him after all I " exclaimed the
girl, — with a look of intense pain, as if the idea had suddenly shot
across her mind. ''Maybe I'll never see him again I Oh I what
would 1 do if, after my long, weary journey, I'd never see Patsy
again?"

She sat silent for a moment, as if almost stupefied at the refiec-
tion ; and then recovering her previous train of thought with a rap-
idity and vivacity almost marvellous, she burst out in a joyous and
triumphant tone, —

" But if once I do ketch him, won't I give it to him I well, well,
— no matther 1 But if I won't give it to Patsy in earnest, when
once I ketch him, you may say my name isn't Catherine Farnan ! "

She rose, held out her hand to me ; and half crying at the possi-
bility of being unable to find him, and laughing almost hysterically
at the idea of what she would do to him if she did " ketch him,"
she left the apartment.

Her nncle came in next day to make some arrangement about
her £urm«

252 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xix.

** Catherine seems quite determined upon going," I remarked to
hira when we were alone.

'* She is, sir. She has had her mind made up to it this long time,
and notliing hut unwillingness to leave the old man kept her here
until now."

** Did her father know of her regard for Patsy? " I inquired.

'* He knew it well," replied her uncle ; ^* and good cause he had
too, as it was that broke him down in the end, though Katty did her
best to satisfy him. He was always bemoaning the fancy she took
for ' that idle spalpeen,' as he used to call Patsy McDermot, and
wanting her to marry some of the quiet, dacent boys in the neigh-
borhood."

'* Had she many offers ? " asked I.

'*Is it offers, your honor I " exclaimed he; "as many as you'd
count apples on a tree. It*s jostling one another to come near her
they were ; but faix she'd have none of them. ^ Katty,' says be,
* why ain't you willin' to take up with some of the dacent boys in
the neighborhood, and not be always thinkin' of that idle chap
that's gone out of the country ? There's Mick Callan, and Jemmy
McMahon, or Billy Cunningham, better than either, — clean, neat,
well-to-do boys, all of them ; and why wouldn't you put up with
one of them like an honest young girl as you are ? There is two
hundred goold guineas, as you well know, in the old purse up in
the thatch, and sure you are as welcome as the flowers of May to
take them, — all for your own ; and I'll gire you the little place
besides, dear, and all that's on it, if you'll only marry Billy Cun-
ningham that's always askin' me after you ; and Mr. Trench will
put his name in the book instead of mine, — that's little or no good
now. And Katty, dear, I'd lie *asy in my grave if I only knew you
war married to Billy for good and all.'

" * Whisht, father, whisht,' Katty would say, * I can't marry Billy
C'lnningham, or any one else either; and you know the reason why
well enough. And don't be tellin' me you can't lie 'asy in your
grave, for I'd be sorry to think you was walkin' and un'asy after
you was buried. Father dear, I'll never lave you while you live,
and sure that ought to be enough, and not talk to me about waUdn'

1852.] PATSY McDERMOT. 253

>

after jon was dead.' ' Well/ says the old man, < Eattj dear, 111
never say any more about it, and you'll haye my blessin' whatever
you do, for you've been a good child, ever-and-all to me. So do
what you plase after I'm gone, and it's not long I'll trouble you.
The two hundred goold guineas is your own, Eatty, and the house
and place, and all I have; and plase yourself with it, and my
blessin' rest upon you, my darlin' ; and my curse upon the man,
whether he be far or near, that ever does you wrong.' And with
that he turned in his bed, for the poor man was mighty weak, and
had been lying a couple of days before, and he just gave a long
breath and never spoke after. The priest was sent for and did all
the Church could do, and the doctor came soon after that, and said
the^e was no more to be done in his line, and troth he said true
enough, for he died that same night before morning."

'" A sad story," said I ; *' but I am glad he gave his daughter his
blessing befo|[e he died. And so now she is off to America to seek
Patsy McDermot, that has taken so strong a hold upon her, though
he hardly knew it himself."

** Just that, sir," replied the uncle ; " I did my best with her, but
it was all to no use. I even told her at the wake that maybe her
father wouldn't stay 'asy in his grave if she left the old country ;
but it was all no use, — she would go. She said she had his blessin',
and he was sure to lie 'asy enough. She bid me not sell the little
place till she'd write herself from America ; as maybe, if she failed
to ketch Patsy, she'd like to come back and die here. So I hope
your honor will let the little farm rest awhile in my name, and I'll
pay the rent regular, and be a good tenant as ever her father was
before."

" Well, let it be so," said I. " The case is a singular one, and I
would not wish to put it out of her power to come back and live
and die here, if her mission to America should turn out a failure."

** God bless you, sir," replied he ; "if anything would keep the
old man 'asy it would be that. I don't think he'll ever walk when
he hears that the little place isn't sold to a stranger."

Catherine Faman left Ireland soon after the above conversation,
and she has never since returned. I heard that she did *' ketch "

254 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap.

Patsy in New York. He was still a bachelor, and living the same
pleasant, idle life that he loved to pass in Ireland. Patsy, as might
have been expected, succumbed to his inevitable fate soon after the
arrival of Catherine. And though some of his former boon com-
panions whispered that '* he was afeard of her ** still, yet she wielded
her power well ; and with a firm and steady eye to the henefit of
her handsome, though somewhat frolicksome husband. Her uncle
announced to me with a triumphant smile, that '* she did ketch him
in the end sure enough." And doubtless, — to use her own expres-
sion, — *'she gave it to him well.*' She gave him all she had to
give: her *Hwo hundred goold guineas,*' her handsome person,
and her sweetest smile, and above all, the true, chaste, unbounded
love of a warm and faithful Irish heart. Patsy, I hope, still lives,
a happy monument of ¥»hat a spirited Irish girl can do when she
sets herself in earnest about it.

18570 GEASHILL MANOR. 355

CHAPTER XX.

GEASHILL MANOR.

TN the spring of the year 1857, a proposition was conveyed to
"*• me, — in the first instance by Lieutenant-General Porter, the
confidential friend of Lord Bigby, and afterwards by Mr. Brewster
(now Lord Chancellor of Ireland), — that his lordship was desirous
of obtaining my services in the management of his extensive es-
tates in the King's County. After some preliminary correspond-
ence, it was arranged that I should meet Lord Digby in Dublin in
the month of May with a view of settling details. An interview
accordingly took place, when all matters being finally agreed on
between us, I was installed as Lord Digby*s agent. It was also
arranged that my son, Thomas Weldon Trench, should be joint
agent with me, and make the Castle of Geashill his residence.

The circumstances under which his lordship succeeded to this
somewhat remarkable estate were peculiar. The barony of Geas-
hill has long been in possession of the noble family of Digby.
The bounds of the estate are co-terminal with those of the ancient
barony, the whole of which belongs to Lord Digby. The barony,
or estate, contains about 31,000 acres, 5,000 of which may be
considered as deep red bog. The remainder consists of arable,
pasture, and wood ; of which last there is a considerable extent.

The Digby family derive their title to this estate from the only
daughter of Gerald, Lord Ofialy, eldest son of the Earl of Eildare.
This nobleman was born on December 28, 1559, and died 1580.*
He had an only daughter, Lettice, who married Sir Bobert Digby

* See the " Barls of Kildare and th*ir Ancestors,'' by the l£arqiii« of Kildare«
p. 227.

256 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap.

of Coleshill, in Warwickshire. He died in 1618 ; but his wifoi
Lady Digby, laid claim to the barony of Offaly, and the estates of
her gprandfather, the eleventh Earl of Eildare, as heir general ; the
canse, however, was decided against her; and in order to settle
this difference, James I. created her Baroness of Offaly for her
life, and awai'ded to her and her heirs under the Great Seal of
England, on August 11, 1619, the manor of Geashill and the lands
of the monastery of Killeigh, comprising the whole barony of
Geashill in the King*s County. The castle, — some remains of
which still exist, — was besieged by Lord Clanmalicr, in the year
1642. He wrote several letters to Lady Offaly, in which he gen-
erally designated himself, ** Your loving cousin,'* but in which he
threatened to *^ burn the whole town, kill all the Protestants, and
spare neither man, woman, nor child/* unless the castle was sur-
rendered to him. Lady Offaly, who was residing in it at the timey
wrote some beautiful and remarkable letters to ^* her loving cousin "
in reply, declining to surrender her castle.* Lord Clanmalier then
besieged it, but he failed in his attempt, and her ladyship was
relieved by Lord Lisle, son of the Earl of Leicester, then Lord-
Lieutenant of Ireland, accompanied by Sir Charles Coote, with one
hundred and twenty foot and three hundred horse. Soon after
this, her castle being further threatened by the Bempsies of Clan-
malier, her ladyship retired to Coleshill, in Warwickshire, where
she died in 1658, and was buried in the church there. Her eldest
son, Robert, was created Lord Digby of Geashill, from whom, by
direct descent, the present lord derives his title to the barony.

The late Earl Bigby rarely visited his Irish estate, though it had
been in his possession for upwards of sixty years. But he was a
liberal and generous, though perhaps somewhat injudicious, land-
lord, and he intended well and kindly by his tenantry. Living in
England in his splendid residence at Sherborne, surrounded by one
of the noblest parks and finest estates in the empire, and having the
full command of all that wealth could give, he believed that he was
doing his duty by his Irish tenantry in granting them long and

* See the '* Earls of Klldare and their Ancestors," by the Marquis of Kildai^
pp. 230-232.

1857-3 GEASHILL MANOR. 257

advantageous leases. Learing them in other respects almost en-
tirely to themselves, he took no further trouble, and Inquired but
little into the state of his property at Geashill.

But Earl Digby did not know, that in granting these advan-
tageous leases, for lives and periods extending far beyond the
probable term of his own life, he was exceeding his powers, and
making engagements to which his heir-at-law had solid grounds
of objection. When, therefore, the late earl died, without having
ever mentioned his cousin, the heir to his title and Irish estates, in
his will, — and having left his vast English estates, the princely
family residence, and more than a million of money, away from
him, — the present lord, who was legal heir to the Irish property,
most naturally and fairly considered, that although the late earl had
a perfect right to leave his English domains and his vast sums of
ready money to any person he pleased,* yet he had no right, moral
or legal, to lease away his Irish property (settled as it was abso-
lutely on the present lord, — and in which he had only a life interest)
for about two-thirds of its real value.

Under these circumstances. Lord Digby determined to act upon
his legal rights, and to break the leases which his predecessor had
illegally granted, leaving the tenants to look for redress and com-
pensation to the executors and successors to the enormous fortune
of the late earl.

It may readily be supposed that circumstances so peculiar as
these created considerable anxiety in the district. The tenantry,
many of them large and respectable landholders, now learned, for
the first time, that their leases were good for nothing in law. They
had been duly " signed, sealed, and delivered" to them under a full
belief on their part that the contract was not only just and honor-
able, but also perfectly legal ; and their feelings may be imagined
when they found that they were suddenly threatened with a total
loss of the property which they had always looked upon as secure.
In this strait they naturally applied for compensation to the ex-

* The late Earl Digby left his noble estate and domains in Dorsetshire, and the
greater part of his vast funded property, to his nephew, Mr. George Digby
Wingfield, now Mr. George Digby Wingfield Digby.

17

358 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap.

ecutors of the late earl ; but they were told that no compensation
could be granted, unless they could succeed in proving their title to
it by law. Again they appealed to Lord Digby, urging, in terms
of the most unaffected distress, the serious dilemma in which they
were placed. But his lordship, though expressing deep commis-
eration for their position, could only refer them back again for
compensation to the successors of the late earl, who had promised
them, in the usual wording of their leases, that if they paid their
rents, and fulfilled the other covenants therein enjoined, they should
have and hold peaceable piossession of the premises during the
several lives or terms defined in their several leases.

Under these painful and perplexing circumstances, the tenants
found themselves threatened with a double lawsuit. In the first
issue they must appear as defendants against their landlord, the
•present owner of the estate, who had already commenced proceed-
ings against them for the recovery of the farms, which he conteiided
had been illegally leased away. And in the second issue they must
appear as plaintiffs in an action to recover from the executors of
the late earl the full amount of compensation for the losses they
might sustain by the breaking of the leases which had been granted.

Lord Bigby did his utmost, as far as his personal influence and
representations could go, to urge upon the executors of the late
earl the justice of yielding to the tenants' claims ; and in order to
facilitate a settlement he had a valuation made, at his own expense,
by a competent person, of the value of the several leases, according
to the periods yet unexpired in each case. These amounted in the
aggregate to a considerable sum, the total value of the leases having
been estimated, by an official notary public, at 80,6002.

Matters had now come to a most perplexing point upon the estate.
Lord Dlgby had already commenced the necessary legal proceed-
ings for the recovery of the leased lands ; the executors had refused
compensation, unless the right of the tenants to it was proved by
law; whilst the frightened tenantry held meeting after meeting
amongst themselves, unwilling to enter upon such extended law-
suits against two such powerful antagonists, and yet seeing no
loop-hole by which they could escape. Some were for fighting the

1857] GEASHILL MANOR. 259

matter out vigoronsly, others looked on in blank despair, whilst the
majority agreed that at all events it was better to pay no rent what-
ever whilst these proceedings were pending.

It was in the midst of this complicated dead-lock that my services
were engaged ; and, in undertaking the management of the estate
under these difficult circumstances, I felt that I had assumed a very
serious responsibility. My first step was to take up my quarters
for some weeks in the town of TuUamore, situated about a mile
from the estate, so that I might be able personally to visit the ten-
antry, and ascertain, as far as possible, the real nature of their
sentiments. I remained there for a period of six weeks, riding out
almost every day upon the estate ; and, having made myself master
of the facts, I arrived at the conclusion that the tenants were by no
means anxious to go to law, but were actuated only by a bond fide
desire to secure what all must admit they were entitled to, — either
a continuance of their leases, or compensation for the breach of con-
tract. I drew out accordingly a full statement of the whole case to lay
before the executors, exhibiting, in the strongest light I could, the
deep injustice of refusing to give fair compensation (out of the vast
fortune left by the late earl) to the tenants he had unintentionally
misled by the granting of these illegal leases. I also urged upon
the executors the serious responsibility they must necessarily as-
sume if disturbances should arise, and lives be lost in attempting to
enforce the existing landlord's rights. I endeavored to show them
that even under the most favorable circumstances, many difficulties
were likely to accrue in the event of the raising of the rents conse-
quent on the breaking of the leases; and if, in addition to these, the
tenants were made to feel that a real injustice was being perpetrated,
and all compensation for their loss refused, I had hardly a doubt
upon my mind but that violence, bloodshed, and murder would be
the result, from the moral responsibility attendant on which the
executors could not altogether escape.

It happened that immediately preceding my appointment. Lord
Digby had received official warning from the police, that a bloody
death awaited him, if he pressed matters to issue with his tenants.
This notice appeared as a further confirmation of my views, and

26o REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap.

justified my worst apprehensions ; and, having called with Lord
Digby on the police authorities in Dublin, and consulted for his
lordship's safety with Sir Duncan Macgregor, — at that time
Inspector-General of Police in Ireland, — I proceeded to London,
armed with full powers by Lord Digby to negotiate matters with tiie
executors of the late earl, and taking with me the threatening
notice as a proof that in persisting to refuse justice to the tenants,
they were exposing Lord Digby to very serious danger. I took
with me, also, a statement of the notary's valuation of all the lease-
hold interests.

I found the executors, — as I had expected, — just and reason-
able, and anxious to do what was right, but at the same time
somewhat uncertain as to the bonA fide claims of the tenantry.
They appeared also to be apprehensive that if they once admitted
any claims whatever by the payment of any sum in compensation,
demands might be made to such an unreasonable extent, th&t it
would be practically impossible to yield to them.

I endeavored to prove to them, in the first place, that the claims
of the tenantry for compensation for the loss of their leases were
just and fair, and might perhaps, on trial, be proved to be legal
also. And, in the second place, I assured them, that if they yielded
the principle of compensation, no unreasonable demands should be
made.

" How can we be sure of that? ** inquired they. " How can we
be certain if we once admit any claim, without its being proved in
each case by law, that numerous unjust demands may not be made?
Some may require more than the fair amount, and others, who
have no claim whatever, may then make demands to any amount
they please. And what means have we, living in England, of as-
certaining who the parties are who ought, or ought not, to be paid,
or the several sums which ought to be given to each ? "

I saw at once that this was the main practical difficulty, and that
there was no unwillingness to grant what was fair and just. So I
produced the notary's list of leaseholders, showing opposite to each
name the valuation of the several interests. The total amounted,
as already stated, to 30,6002.

i8s7.] GEASHILL MANOR. 261

The executors looked carefully over the list, and then said, —
* " But suppose we were willing to pay these several sums as here
stated by the notary, how can we be certain that we might not be
subjected to a lawsuit in each individual case, to endeavor to en-
force a larger sum from us than what is here set down as the value ?
or whom could we employ to distribute so large a sum of money
fairly ? "

Here was a new difficulty. But Lord Digby having conferred
upon me full powers to negotiate for him, I undertook on his part,
that if the executors would at once pay into Lord Bigby's hands
the full sum here stated as the value of the leasehold interest,
namely, 30,6002., his lordship would undertake to be answerable
for the distribution of the same, and would also undertake to pro-
tect the executors, and defend any lawsuits at his own cost and
trouble, which might afterwards be commenced against them for
any further compensation or other claim whatever.

** That alters the whole aspect of affairs," replied the executors ;
'^ and if you are authorized to undertake this on the part of Lord
Digby, immediate arrangements shall be made for the payment of
the whole sum."

I at once undertook that a formal engagement of this nature should
be signed by Lord Digby, and armed with a written promise that the
money should be immediately paid, I proceeded to Ireland to nego-
tiate with the tenants. The lawsuit was to come on in a few days
at the ensuing assizes in TuUamore, Mr. Brewster, and other able
counsel, having been specially retained for Lord Digby.

My interview with the tenants was of a more difficult and critical
nature than that with the late lord's executors. The former had
been so harassed and knocked about in appealing from one party to
another, that they had made up their minds to abide by the issue of
the coming lawsuit ; and now an entirely new proposition was being
laid before them, which some of them candidly acknowledged they
viewed with much suspicion.

No time, however, was to be lost. The English witnesses had
all been duly summoned, and only three or four days could inter-
vene before they must start for Ireland to give evidence* at the

263 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [ckaf.

comings trial. The position was a critical one. I was most aiudoiu
on eyerj ground to avoid a lawsuit. Even if Lord Bigby should win,
it would be a severe hardship on the tenants were he to break their
leases unless compensation could be secured from the executors of
the late earl ; the effort to obtain this would entail another and per-
haps a doubtful suit, and compensation money had only been prom-
ised on condition that no lawsuit should take place. K once a law-
suit were to begin, no one could tell where it would end, nor ia
whose favor it might be decided ; whilst the estate affairs must iney-
itably run into confusion, no rents having been received or de-
manded from the leaseholders since the late earl's de4ith. The
tenants' blood was up now, and they appeared determined to fight.

After much anxious thought, I resolved to wait until the last
moment possible, and then to call a few of the leading and most
respectable tenants together, offer them severally such terms as
might appear just and reasonable in each of their several cases,
and try and induce them to sign a '' consent for judgment," so that
no lawsuit could then go on.

I accordingly waited until the very last day on which it was pos-
sible to have a conference before the lawsuit commenced ; aud hav-
ing written to ten of the most influential tenants, I requested them
to meet me at Geashill, to endeavor to make a final arrangement.
All who had received my invitation attended. I opened the pro-
ceedings by explaining that the executors had handsomely consent-
ed to pay down 30,6002., to be divided in such proportions amongst
the leaseholders and their under-tenants, as Lord Digby deemed
just and fair, in accordance with the value of their several inter-
ests. That his lordship had undertaken to distribute this fund, and
to hold the executors harmless in any lawsuit which might be
brought against them by the tenants; and that I now called on
them to determine whether they would accept the several sums I
was prepared to name to each, as a full compensation for the loss
of his lease, or whether they preferred to go to law ; in which latter
case, if the lawsuit went against them, they could of course expect
no compensation whatever. They appeared puzzled and anxious,
and very uncertain what to do. At length one of them proposed

18570 GEASHILL MANOR. 263

that they should do nothing fintil they had had an opportunity of
consaltiug the remainder of the leaseholders, of whom there were
upwards of one hundred and twenty upon the estate.

" No," replied I, " you must come to a decision now ; there is a
messenger at the door on horseback, to ride to the telegraph station
at Portarlington, to stop the English witnesses coming over. This
must be done within an hour, or they will start for Ireland, and
then it will be out of my power to stop the lawsuit. You must
determine now, each man for himself, or the lawsuit must go on."

'^ Will you state the amount of money you will give to each of
us ? " asked one of the party.

" Certainly," replied I, " if you will each come separately with
me into another room."

They did so. I named to each an amount something less than
the sum set down by the notary, partly as a reserve, lest any ten-
ants holding under these leaseholders should afterwards require to
be paid, and partly lest it might be supposed we were yielding to a
legal claim already granted. After a little consideration, they all
severally signed the " consent for judgment."

Just as I was a.bout to send off the messenger to the telegraph
station to stop the English witnesses, one of the cleverest of the
tenants, who had always been doubtful whether he would sign or
not, came forward and said, —

<< We have all now signed the * consent for judgment,' and the
lawsuit is at an end so far as we are concerned, and probably so far
as the other leaseholders outside are concerned also, as they will
naturally follow us ; but may I ask. Where is the money you prom-
ised ust I presume you have it with you in the house, for as yet
we have nothing but the word of one who is a stranger to us, as
our security for a sum amounting, even amongst those present, to
about 10,0002."

Here was indeed a difficulty. By an unfortunate mistake in the
arrangements, the money had not yet been sent over from England,
and I had of course no funds to meet a demand for such a large
amount. I felt the position keenly ; but knowing there could be
no question ultimately about the full security of the case, I put the

264 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap.

best face I could upon the matter, and freely admitting I had not
brought the money with me, I pledged Lord Digby's honor and my
own, that unless they were forthwith paid the seyeral sums prom-
ised, no advantage should be taken of the document they had
signed, and it should immediately be returned to each. I assured
them at the same time that I could not dare to appear before them
on such a mission unless I had the sanction and pledge of an hoo-
orable man, like Lord Digby, that every eng^agement I made in his
name should be redeemed.

''I fully believe you, sir," said one of the most upright and
respectable of the tenants; ** and I think I speak the sentiments of
most of us, if not all, when I say that we have not the slightest
doubt the whole transaction is bond fide, and that we are as sure of
the money which has been promised as if we had it now in our
hands. We therefore thank you much for having been the imme-
diate means of bringing this vexed question to so satisfactoxy a
conclusion, and saving us from the very unpleasant position of
being at law with our landlord or any of his family. We heartily
hope and expect that all the other leaseholders will act as we have
done, and we wish you a very good-morning."

I cordially shook hands with each ; the messenger was despatched
post-haste to the telegraph to stop the English witnesses ; and this
most difficult and critical matter was thus brought to a satisfactory
conclusion. The other leaseholders, as had been anticipated, all
followed the example of their chiefs, and the dO,600Z. was in due
course forwarded and divided between them and their under-tenants.

But the difficulties in which the GeashiU Estate was involved had
by no means come to an end. The tenantry, both leaseholders and
others, had been allowed to run deeply into arrears. Many of them
owed thre^, five, and some even up to ten and twelve years' rent;
an amount which it is needless to say they were wholly unable to
pay. Lord Bigby was not entitled by law to any of these arrears,
but a proposal had been made to him to purchase them from the
executors, at a sum much less than their fUU amount. The actual
sum due was upwards of 42,000Z., an average of upwards of three
years' rent. I earnestly pressed upon his lordship the importance

18570 GEASHILL MANOR. 265

of purchasing these arrears. Were they to continue in the hands
of the executors, I felt certain they could never he collected, and
any attempt to do so (by them) would he met by the most determined
resistance, and the barony would thus be kept in a flame. Besides,
whatever they did collect would be to the impoverishment of Lord
Digby's tenants, and thus be much to his lordship's disadvantage,
and perhaps might also form an excuse for refusing the payment of
all rent whatever. So strongly did I feel the importance of this
point that I urged the purchase of these arrears at almost any
price. At length a bargain was concluded with the executors at a
rate which admitted of a large percentage being granted fo the
tenantry. It was arranged that the leaseholders (who were gener-
ally the least in arrear) should be required to pay up this arrear in
full, out of the purchase-money allowed them as compensation for
their several leases, and then be reinstated in their farms as yearly
tenants, under a new valuation made generally over the whole
estate ; and that a reduction of seventy-five per cent, on the arrear
should be allowed to all yearly tenants, on condition that they paid
up the remaining balance of twenty-five per cent, in full.

It may be supposed that even this arrangement, liberal as it was,
by no means suited the purposes of a large number of the tenants,
who had been in the habit, by one contrivance or another, of evading
the payment of any rent whatever. Accordingly, when thus pressed
for a settlement of accounts, they answered they could pay nothing.
And being loth to quit the lands on which they had so long lived
free, they soon began to enter upon the old system so often prac-
tised in Ireland, — to conspire with the Kibbonmen o1^ other districts
as to the best mode of resistance, and as to the means whereby they
could best '* rid the barony of the new tyrants who had come there,
and M'ho were bent on the extermination of the people." Such
were the terms in which the moderate demand for twenty-five per
cent, of the whole amount of arrears due was characterized by some
of the occupiers !

Conspiracies for various purposes became now the order of the
day, and large subscriptions were set on foot to pay for the murder
of myself and my son. But we were kept tolerably well informed

266 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xx.

of all that was going on, and more than once, hj warnings from our
secret friends, we escaped the murderous aim of assassins, who
were lying behind hedges to shoot us.

Having passed through much danger, and run many risks of
being shot, we resolred to take the '^ bull by the horns," and to
eject from their holdings and banish off the estate a few of the fore-
most Ribbonmen, and face the danger as best we could which must
be necessarily incurred thereby.

The announcement of our determination to carry this plan into
execution fell like a thunderbolt upon the Ribbonmen. They never
thought that we would dare to turn the tables on them, and act thus
boldly on the aggressive, and they set on foot the most active opera-
tions to have us *' put out of the way." But our friends were actire
also, and almost daily we received information of the proceedings
of the conspirators. A young woman, from the county of Kerry,
who had received some kindness from my family at Eenmare, was-
our chief informant. She lodged near the ** Cross Keys," at that
time a place of by no means good repute upon the estate, and
she confided to us the names and bloody intentions of all the chief
Ribbonmen, — the various oaths she had heard them swear, and the
expressions they had severally used, — giving details concerning
the language made use of by each, that left not a doubt upon my
mind but that her information was perfectly correct.

The Ribbonmen were well aware all this time that some one in
their secrets must have given us constant information, but they were
never able to ascertain who it was. Had they discovered the girl
who told us of their proceedings, her life would inevitably have
paid the forfeit.

At length the time arrived when the chief leader in the conspiracy
was to be ejected. We had made full preparations beforehand, so
that resistance would have been impossible, or at least utterly un-
availing. A large number of assistants were in attendance to
protect the sherifif in the execution of his duty. All were brought
suddenly and unexpectedly to the ground ; and before half an hour
was over, or any row whatever could be got up, possession of the
premises which the Ribbon owner had always sworn he never

1857] GEASHILL MANOR. 267

would surrender but with his life, was quietly taken by the sheriff,
and handed over to the officer of Lord Digbj.

The suddenness, the rapidity, and the determination to carry out
the law against this notorious Kibbon conspirator, and drive him
ofi* the estate, had an immediate and most wholesome effect on the
district. His prestige was completely gone. The premises he had
so often sworn to defend with his life (they consisted of a ruinous
thatched cabin and a few acres of worn-out land) were now no
longer his own. His supporters felt that want of confidence in their
leader which a failure almost always produces in Ireland ; and we
perceived that other Bibbonmen were quietly leaving the country.
In a short time it was manifest that a complete change had taken
place in the feeling of the barony.

Order was now rapidly restored. Several of those whom we
well knew to be deeply involved in the conspiracy, — though we
could bring no proof against them in a court of law, — now came
forward and expressed an earnest wish to resign their land and
emigrate, if they could obtain a few pounds to bear their expenses
from Ireland. This was at once given ; and in a very short time
after the ejectment against the chief of the conspirators had been
carried into effect, the country had become perfectly tranquil ; in-
dustry and peace became general, and have remained so ever since.
It may perhaps prove interesting to some, were I here to give a
brief description of the nature of the improvements which have
been carried out upon this estate, and which have converted it, —
formerly one of the most wretched and discouraging in Ireland,
abounding in squatters, mud hovels, and moors saturated with
water, — into a district, which, although much undoubtedly still
remains to be done, may even now bear a favorable comparison
with many an English property.

No doubt the most unceasing opposition, — which, unfortunately,
is so frequently given in one way or other to any improving landlord
in Ireland, — was not withheld from Lord Digby ; and, during the
first five years of his ownership of the estate, an amount of the
most ingenious obstruction was made to his designs, sufficient to
baffle the most earnest philanthropy. But Lord Digby was not dis-

^68 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap.

couraged; and, having persisted steadily in his improvements, the
operations of drainage, and building, and reclamation of land were
gradually introduced and extended, until the estate became what it
is now acknowledged to be by all who have seen it, — one of the
most industrious, progressive, and improved estates in Ireland.

Lord Digby's first efforts were directed to the getting rid of all
the numerous squatters, who through previous neglect had been
allowed to establish themselves over the estate. Of these there
were not less than from thirty to forty separate holders, none of
whom had paid any rent for upwards of twenty years, and whose
names were unknown upon the rent-roll. They lived in mud
hovels, generally without windows, and a hole in one end of the
roof, out of which stuck a piece of wicker-work like a badly made
turf-basket, formed the chimney. They had usually squatted upon
the sides of the roads, which in that district were in many places
wider than necessary ; and having cribbed a little '* garden ** off the
field of a neighboring tenant, they lived, — no one but themselves
knew how, — sometimes laboring, generally idle, and not unfre-
quently eking out an existence, scarcely raised above animal Ufe,
by petty thefts from the neigliboring farmers.

We found these people less difficult to deal with than we had
expected. They were perfectly aware that they had a presumptive
title, by upwards of twenty years' occupation, to the fee-simple of
the soil on which their huts and gardens were placed. But the free
admission of their undoubted right, combined with a little liberal
dealing, soon brought them to ask as a favor that Lord Digby
would purchase up their cabins. And by giving them sums vary-
ing from 51. to 202. we were able, in a short time, to induce them
all to surrender possession, and to throw down their unsightly
hovels. Most of the occupants who were able-bodied, or who had
able-bodied families, were placed in new and comfortable cottages,
at an almost nominal rent, and full employment was provided for
them at drainage and other improvements on the estate. Many
widows also, whose friends had built these huts, and placed them
there to get rid of them, were gladly taken back again into their
ffunilies, when they brought a sum of ready money along with

1857] GEASHILL MANOR. 269

them. Thus all were provided for in a more or less satisfSEictory
manner.

The drainage and reclamation of the extensive district of wet
land lying between Geashill and Tullamore was now entered upon
with vigor. The tenants who had previously held these lands had,
many of them, paid no rent for a long period. The lands were of
the worst description of wet moor, lying on a barren and retentive
subsoil. The fields had been so cut up and subdivided that it be-
came necessary to lay out all the lands anew, to level the old
fences, square and enlarge the fields, and sink a deep drain, almost
amounting to a *' canal," to carry off the waters from this extensive
district. All this was done with much care and accuracv : but the
lands were naturally of so unfertile a quality, that it became nec-
essary to till them thoroughly to bring them to an even texture,
and lay them down in good heart with grass seeds of first-rate
quality. This was done at considerable cost ; and turnips, potatoes,
wheat, and oats, were all grown most successfully, by means of a
large application of Peruvian g^ano, generally seven to eight hun-
dred weight to the Irish acre. The crops were enormously large,
and well repaid the cost of their production. The land was then
thoroughly cleansed by repeated ploughings, harrowings, and pick-
ings ; and when fully pulverized and in proper order for the sowing
of the grass seeds, it was laid down with rape, the grasses and
clovers being sown along with the rape, and the whole afterwards
fed off by sheep. The land was thus left in good heart and in a
high state of productiveness.

Land treated in this manner, — which had previously been diffi-
cult to let at 45. per Irish acre, — now readily brings from 26*. to
30«. per acre; whilst the whole face of the country, — changed
from sterility and waste to rich and abundant pasture, well fenced,
and divided into fields of sufficient size, and sheltered by belts of
plantation, — presents a most improved and gratifying appearance.
These and similar works, such as main or arterial drainage, being
carried on simultaneously over various districts of the estate, have
prevented any pauperism whatever; and since Lord Digby came
into possession of the property there have been no unemployed

270 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap.

laborers upon it. So great, in tuct, has been the stimulus to in*
dustry, that the only difficulty now is to procure a sufficien<!y of
hands both for the drainage and farmers' work.

But whilst extensive works of drainage have been, and at this
present time are being carried into effect, the dwellings of the
farmers and laborers are by no means neglected. The houses of
both were in general very bad, — most of them composed exclu-
sively of mud and thatch. Many of these have been replaced
with well-built stone and mortar houses, roofed with slates and
timber; whilst the existing houses and cottages have been much
improved by windows, chimneys, etc., and numerous smaller dwell-
ings for the daily laborers have been erected over the estate. All
these works, thorough dradnage, main drainage, buildings, and
other improvements are still in active operation whilst I write,
carried on under the immediate superintendence of a drainer who
understands his business, and a well-qualified clerk of the works -
in the building department; the whole having been previously
planned and arranged by Lord Digby.and his agent, and proper
estimates and specifications^ of the works drawn out before the
works are commenced.

In addition to the works I have briefly described above, I<ord
Digby has procured the best and most improved threshing machines
to work upon his estate, as well as mowing and reaping machines,
all of which are let out at reasonable rates, for the use and con-
venience of the tenantry ; and these, together with the crops grown
upon the waste lands which were eminently successful, have given
an impetus to industry and activity which is at present most grati-
fying to witness. I may also mention that his lordship has three
times, in three separate years, succeeded in obtaining the gold
medal offered by the Boyal Agricultural Society of Ireland, for the
best laborers' cottages in the province of Leinster ; he held for
three successive years the Duke of Leinster's challenge cup for
the best built laborers' cottages in all Ireland, and he now holds
the Hall challenge cup for the most extensive and best drainage in
Ireland.

When I recollect the miserable condition of this estate not quite

1857] GEASHILL MANOR. 271

ten years ago, — the tenants disaflTected, industry paralyzed, Bib-
bonism rampant, and conspiracies to murder those who were most
anxious for their welfare filling the minds of many of the peas-
antry, — it is some consolation to find that steady and persevering
determination, combined with kind and liberal treatment, will ever,
in much abused Ireland, produce the most satisfactory results.
And Lord Digby, and those who have worked under him, can look
back with pleasure at having obtained a moral victory over what,
at one time, appeared as dangerous and unpromising a subject as
any Irish landlord or Irish agent could possibly undertake to
manage.*

The expenditure on Lord Digby's estate within the last ten years,
from 1857 to 1867, has amounted to a total of 32,7957. ; out of this,
12,8112. have been expended on drainage and land improvement;
14,056Z. upon buildings and repairs of tenants' houses, etc. ; 3,3622.
have been given as compensation for surrender of tenements,
whereby numerous consolidations have been effected ; 589Z. have
been expended on emigration of paupers ; and 1,977Z. on sundry
numerous estate improvements, such as roads, bridges, and other
general improvements not included in the previous amounts.* The
greater part of this expenditure has returned a fair interest upon
the outlay, and the income of the estate has been accordingly
largely increased. The money expended on drainage and land
improvement has been the most remunerative, and much of that
expended on buildings has also brought a fair return. The average
expenditure upon the estate within the last ten years has amounted
to 3,2792. per annum.

Were this system more generally adopted on their estates by
wealthy proprietors, it would be found to pay welly and Ireland
would soon become a very different country from what it is.

* 8eo *' Evidence before Lords' Committee on Land Tenure BUI, July 2, 1M7,
by W. Steoart Trench, Esq."

2^3 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE REVIVAL.

^T^HERE have been few more remarkable incidents, and none
more characteristic of Ireland, than the religious ** reriTal,"
which took place not many years ago in the north of the island,
spreading from thence to the extreme southwest, and finding a
somewhat permanent home in the midst of the city of Dublin.

It is difficult, in a work intended only as a record of facts, to
give any account of a ^* revival ** which can be interesting to the
general reader. At the same time, having myself seen much of
the operations of the movement, and the circumstances and facts
relating thereto having been naturally misrepresented and misnn- |
derstood, I conceive that a brief outline of what came under my
own immediate notice, and that of others upon whose truthfulness
and fidelity of description I could thoroughly rely, may not be
uninteresting to those who wish to study Ireland in all her various
phases.

The first wave of the so-called ''revival" arose about the year
1858, in a remote district in the extreme north of Ireland. A num-
ber of young men resolved to meet together for prayer, and they
prayed to God very earnestly that He would send a revival of r^
ligion amongst them. Whether owing to this mode of commencing
the movement or not, I leave it to my readers to determine, but
beyond all question a deep anxiety began immediately to pervade
the minds of the people in that quarter about the state of their
souls; and many of those who had never before entertained a
serious thought upon the subject, became at once alarmed, and got
into a real fright lest they should be going, as they described it,
'* straight to hell.*'

1858.] THE REVIVAL. 273

This oyerwhelmisg feeling, to which they gaye the name of
** conviction of sin," appears to have pervaded the minds of Prot-
estants only, inclusive of members of the Church of England, as
well as of the Presbyterian assemblies: the Boman Catholics,
whether because they thought they were leading better lives, or
from an entire separation of feeling on religious^ matters from the
Protestants, were rarely affected by the movement.

It may readily be supposed that such a strong sense of sinfulness
upon the mind, and such an anxious desire for the safety of the
soul, was not long in drawing to their assistance men who under-
took to lead those who were anxious about the matter into a po-
sition of safety; and many were accordingly forthcoming, who,
having 'themselves, as they conceived, passed through stages of
similar suffering and anxiety, professed to understand all its diffi-
culties, and by their counsel and sympathy became a source of
comfort to the afflicted.

Prayer meetings, on an extensive scale, were soon set on foot
and organized in all the surrounding parishes and districts ; some-
times in schools, sometimes in barns, sometimes in private houses,
and not unfrequently in the open air. The people, men and women,
young and old, flocked to these meetings in thousands. The most
fervent and energetic prayers were offered up ; persons who had
never prayed before seemed urged on by some unseen power or
influence, and poured forth the most eloquent and fervent petitions,
without any apparent difficulty, or the least hesitation in expressing
themselves. The excitement seemed catching and on the increase,
and yet all seemed perfectly truthful. It was excitement, certainly,
such as one may suppose to exist if a theatre or assembly-room was
on Are, and it amounted almost to a panic ; but it did not appear
to be a fanciful excitement, such as people can sometimes work
themselves into without any reasonable cause. The cause in this in-
stance was manifest, — the apprehension of going to hell if they died.
This danger had previously been unperceived or disbelieved, and
now it came upon them in all the vivid colors of a terrible reality.
The way to escape was accordingly earnestly sought, as those only
seek it before whose eyes a pit of horror is suddenly disclosed into

18

274 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap.

which they believe thejr are liable at any time to fall. By de-
grees the excitement increased. The magnitude of the danger
became to their minds more apparent and real, and the anxiety
to escape more intense. Preachers of yarions denominations
came forward professing to point out the way of escape, and
were listened to with the most marked attention; whilst with
one voice they declared the only way of safety, the only door of
escape, the only path of light, to be an implicit trust and reliance
upon the blood of Jesus Christ, applied to their souls throngh
faith, as a sufficient atonement for sin, and as able to wash away
their guilt.

The Roman Catholics looked on at all these proceedings in
mute wonder and astonishment. They could not make out what
it was all about. They had always considered their Protestant
neighbors as prudent, sensible men, and, as a class, general^
better educated than themselves, and the puzzle to know what
new thing had seized upon their imagination was very sincere
and perplexing.

By degrees the movement acquired such force and power that
even the most careless of the clergy amongst the different denomi-
nations, — Church of England, Presbyterian, and Methodist, —
could no longer ignore its existence. Some of the most earnest
amongst them, men who had long been endeavoring to awaken
their flocks to a sense of their danger, now that they were thor-
oughly aroused, placed themselves at the head of the movement,
with a view to control and guide it. Others opposed it with all
their might, denouncing it as fanaticism and madness. But the
movement spread and increased independent of either of these
classes, and extending from parish to parish, and from town to
town, acquired every day increased energy and force. The cir-
cumstances of the case were .so peculiar, and the renown of the
movement had attracted so much attention in other places, that
numbers of steady, earnest, religious men came from far to witness
the strange scenes which were in almost daily course of being
enacted.

The description given to me by one of these, an elderly, quiet,

i8s8.] THE REVIVAL. 275

nnromantic man, who went fully determined to see and jndg^ of
things as they were, and for himself, may be interesting here to
relate.

Haying beard that the town and neighborhood of Ballymena, in
the county of Antrim, was one of those on which the movement
had taken considerable hold, he went there in order to attend some
of the assemblies ; and obserying a placard posted on the walls that
a meeting would be held in a large school-house that evening, he
resolved to go and see what went on.

The meeting was numerously attended, some three hundred or
four hundred persons being present; and several who could not
obtain access inside remained outside the doors. One Presbyterian
clergyman, and two other men who appeared to be laymen, stood
at the head of the room, on a little platform raised a few inches
above the floor. Seats as closely packed as they could well be
were ranged in rows opposite to the platform, and these were filled
with well-dressed, respectable-looking people, both men and wonien,
generally of the farming and trading classes. The meeting was
opened by the Presbyterian clergyman with an extempore prayer,
and audible " amens " were frequently heard to issue from tlie
congregation when any petition especially touching the feelings of
those present was oflTered up. When the prayer was concluded, all
rose from their knees, and a hymn was then given out and read
aloud, each verse separately and clearly, by one of the laymen
already alluded to ; this the congregation sung with evident zest,
almost every person in the room joining in the singing. There
prevailed throughout the hymn a sort of triumphant determination
to ** believe the gospel," as if the singers recognized some strong
power or influence present amongst them, urging them to disbe-
lieve and reject it.

**I do believe, I wUl bclieye, that Jesus died for me,
That on the cross He shed His blood, that I might happy be.''

This couplet was sung as a sort of chorus at the end of each verse
of the hymn, and was repeated with a vigor that showed a firm

276 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap, xxi,

determination on the part of the singers that hell itself should not
shake them in the adoption of their creed.

When the hymn was concluded, the congregation was requested
to be seated ; and then a young man, one of the laymen, stood up,
and began very quietly and in a low Toice to address the meeting.
He did not preface his discourse with any text. His Bible was in
his hand ; but, rejecting the ordinary conventionalities of orthodox
preachers, he appealed at once to the consciences and hearts of his
audience, and having brought vividly before them the importance
of the question he was about to put, he asked them in plain and
simple language, — " Were they saved? "

A dead silence ensued. No one spoke, but, the audience having
been wound up by the prayer and hymn to a pitch of intense fervor,
and being asked so home a question, showed considerable mani-
festations of uneasiness.

" Once more," continued the preacher, " I ask you, are you
saved ? You cannot escape the dilemma. You are at this moment
either in a position of perfect safety, or in a position of dreadful
danger. If you died now, your souls must either be saved or lost.
Which is it? Are you bound for heaven or for hell? Are you
now, now at this present moment, believers in Christ, washed in his
blood, and safe, or unbelieving sinners, living without God and
without hope in the world, and lost ? "

The voice of the preacher was fervid and earnest, and his action
and demeanor that of one who firmly believed that a great crisis in
the fate of those before him was at hand, and that their everlasting
destiny might hang upon the reply which their consciences were
able to give to this question.

He paused, and again there was a dead silence. At last some
half-suppressed sobs were audible, and a young man apparently of a
strong frame, fell convulsively into the arms of a companion near
him, moaning and sobbing in a state of violent hysteria. The fact
of one, well known to many of the congregation as a young man
of singular firmness and courage, having been thus '* stricken" (as
it was termed), became a general signal for others to give way also,
and in a few minutes a most extraordinary scene presented itself.

A.

X858-] THE REVIVAL. 277

Men and women dropped firom their seats moaning and sobbing,
and, completely carried away by their feelings, gave themselves np
to the most tumultuous expressions of sorrow and ** couTiction of
sin," of lamentations for past misdeeds, and the most earnest sup-
plications for mercy.

It was impossible to view such a scene as this and not to believe
that the parties were in earnest and sincere. Several were in a
state almost bordering on delirium. Others clapped their hands,
and cried with loud voices for mercy ; and many at last became so
excited, and appeared to have hell so vividly before their minds,
that their lips quivered, their eyes rolled, and they soon became
quite insensible. A panic had evidently seized the congregation,
and those whose nerves were naturally weak sank under it, and lost
all control over their actions, — much as if a cry of flre had been
raised in a crowded building. It was like the after-scene of the
children in the brewery at Kenmare, enacted amongst men and
women.

The lay preachers and the clergymen now set themselves ear-
nestly to calm the feelings of the audience, and by degrees, with
the aid of much kind attention and manifestations of sympathy,
order and decorum were in some degree restored.

When all was quiet, and nothing but a few convulsive sobs could
occasionally be heard, the young lay preacher, whose words had
had such effect, again stood up, and pouring forth a volume of
the most affectionate solicitation to his audience to close then and
there with the free offers of salvation which God now made to them
through Christ, he urged them not to lose an hour in coming to the
foot of the cross.

"Now is the accepted time," cried he in an imploring voice,
*^ now is the day of salvation. Do not let Satan make any of you
believe that God is unwilling to receive you. No matter how vile
you may be, God is acting now in grace. You cannot tell how soon
He may come in judgment. You cannot count with certainty upon
your own lives for a single hour. There is no difficulty of access
to him now. God beseeches you to be reconciled to Bim. He
has given His Son to die for you. He loves you even in the midst

2^8 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xxi.

of your sins, for He says that * whilst you were yet sinners Christ
died for you.* He is ready and willing to receive you, polluted as
you now stand, if you will only belieye His gospel, and take Him at
His word, that ' Whosoever belieyeth on Him should not perish, but
have eternal life,' — that * He that believeth on Him hath everlasting
life, and shall not come into condemnation, but is passed from death
unto life.' "

Such was the outline of his discourse. Once more he gave out a
hymn, and closing the meeting with a short prayer, he dismissed
the assembly, and all returned quietly to their homes.

On another occasion a scene still more remarkable was brought
specially under my notice. The circumstances took place at New-
town Limavady, in the county of Antrim, as I have had them in
detail from the lady in whose place the scenes happened, and with
her permission to publish them, I have no hesitation in stating them
here in full.

A gentleman named Lancey, formerly a major in the army, had
long been very earnest in his religious views, and conceiving that
he might attract the notice of careless people by collecting '* a
revival meeting," he issued the following notice, an exact copy of
which has been furnished to me. .Major Lancey himself is now no
no more in this world : —

"NOTICE.

'* It is proposed, the Lord willing, to hold an open-air meeting,
in the lawn of the lodge, to-morrow, the Lord's day, June 5, at half-
past three o'clock, p.m., when Mr. Lancey will give some interesting
details respecting the revivcU at present going on in the County
Antrim.

" Newtown Limavady. Jane 4, 1859."

The meeting, in accordance with the above plain notice, was held,
and whilst Major Lancey was speaking in the open air, two '* cases,'*
as they were called, took place, " attended as usual by violent and
irresistible screaming, the body prostrate and reduced to a helpless
condition."

1858.] THE REVIVAL. 279

On the next day another meeting was held, and tiz " cases " of a
similar nature occurred, and the interest seeming rather to increase
than diminish, the meetings were continued throughout the whole
week. On Wednesday about thirty persons were struck down. On
Thursday all parties assembled in a public place of worship, but
there was no '^ manifestation" or yisible effect produced. On Fri-
day, on the lawn in front of Major Lancey's house, an astonishing
** manifestation " occurred, and not less than 0910 hundred persons
were suddenly and by an unseen power struck down to the ground,
and Major Lancey, in an account of the circumstances published by
him, and now before me, states that *'the lawn was literally strewed
like a battle-field with those that were stricken down in this myste-
rious manner.'*

On the following day, not less than 5,000 to 7,000 persons at-
tended the meeting, when another marvellous scene occurred, the
lawn being covered with those who were ** stricken," and the same
strange *' manifestations " pervading the whole assembly.

*'' During the services on the following Sunday," Major Lancey
continues, '* the wonderful manifestation broke forth in two places
of public worship in the town, and afterwards spread over the
country with great rapidity. Persons were struck down every-
where ; in the cabins, fields, highways, and hedges. And now the
whole country is greatly reformed as to its outward conduct.
Everywhere you may find persons meeting together, singing, pray-
ing, reading, and rejoicing. The results appear to be abiding; men
and women who were abandoned characters, others well trained in
all the morality of religion, are now alike rejoicing in the knowledge
of sins forgiven." And he concludes the account by mentioning
two cases in which '*wiid young men who came to mock were
themselves suddenly struck down, and brought under the same in-
fluence as the rest."

It may naturally be asked by any plain and sensible man, ** What
could have caused such strange physical effects as all admit were
manifested on the occasions alluded to, and mainly amongst a staid
and peculiarly unexcitable race, — the Scotch Iresbyterians in the
north of Ireland?"

aSo REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [cUap. xxi.

It is difficult to answer such a question, but still I think its solu-
tion maj reasonably be found in the nature of the doctrines preached
by almost all of those who addressed them. The salient principle,
so to speak, in each of the addresses delivered on such occasions
was, instant, free, unconditional, perfect and present salvation, pro-
claimed to all, no matter how sinful and vile their past lives had
been, if they would only accept the pardon proclaimed, and believe
on the blood of Christ as a full and sufficient satisfaction and atone-
ment before God for all their manifold sins.

Such a doctrine as this, preached to those who had become really
anxious about their safety, seemed almost to electrify the hearers.
The proclamation of perfect safety foreverj to those who had almost
made up their minds that they were altogether excluded from mercy,
that the door of heaven was irretrievably shut against them, pro-
duced such a sudden reaction upon their feelings, that they became
quite hysterical.

I must leave it to the physiologists to judge whether this be a
rational explanation of the manifestations, which, whatever "be their
cause, undoubtedly took place. Its correctness depends on whether
those affected have a downright real belief in their danger, and
an equally firm belief in the means of escape which was opened
to them. Subject to both of these cofiditions, the tendency to
hysteria is not so very surprising, and scarcely more unnatural
than it would be to the condemned criminal when a sudden reprieve
arrived.

A little pamphlet has been recently published by a country gen-
tleman, a man of position and fortune in the county of Kerry,
which states so accurately the main doctrines of the revivalists, —
doctrines which produced the sensations which have been de-
scribed, — that I quote the opening passage of the letter in full.
Each of my readers will be able to form his own judgment as to
whether the doctrines are true or false. But at all events they are
clearly put, and there is no mystification about them. It runs as
follows : —

'* There are, I suppose, very few persons in our country before
whose notice the existence of an extraordinary religious awakening

1858.] THE REVIVAL. 281

has not been brought within the past few years. Intelligent people
have considered the matter, as it has more or less attracted their
attention, and hare, doubtless, formed their own opinions upon it.
Some imagine the persons concerned in it to be well-meaning, but
misguided and enthusiastic, — suffering themselves to be carried
away bj the excitement of novelty ; and in their religious orgies
overleaping the restraint, not only of conventional ritualism, but
even of the reverence and order inseparable from true, intelligent
worship.

" Others have arrived at the conclusion that vanity and a spirit
of innovation have misled some of the devotees, while hypocrisy
and some undefined idea of self-advancement have added numbers
to swell the ranks of the new religion.

" To such as have not drawn their inferences from personal ob-
servation, it may not be uninteresting to receive a plain description
of one great characteristic feature of this movement from one who
has attentively studied it in all its phases. One great leading dogma
is put forward by all these so-Called enthusiasts, who hold that
if there be an eternal heaven and an eternal hell, a living God and
a judgment to come, it is the extreme of irrationality not to give
Christianity the first place in their thoughts and estimation. It is
no misty, uncertain theory; it is a downright, simple, unmis-
takable statement, suited to the practical mind of the nineteenth
century; and it is this, — that eternal salvation is a freey present,
attadnable, inaMenable, imperishable gift. In other words, that
any man or woman in this world, be he or she the blackest sinner
in it, may, in one moment, through God's grace, be justified for-
ever from every charge of sin ; and may know, beyond all doubt,
that he is justified ; and may rest as sure of eternal happiness, as
he is certain that in himself he never has deserved, and never will
deserve, anything but eternal damnation.

'^ There is no mistake about the meaning of this statement. It
may appear presumptuous and blasphemous; but it is, at least,
intelligible to any one of ordinary understanding.

" Now, if it be not true, it is one of the most daring forms of
blasphemy and high treason against the Divine Majesty ; for, if it

282 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xxi.

be false, it is a doctrine which lays hold of the statute-book of
heayeO) and over-writes the laws of 6od*s unalterable justice with
rebellious words of human inrention.

'* But if it be true^ jou who read this paper, maj, by God's gracei
be saved before you lay it down, and saved forever. *

'^Let us examine the authority on which this statement is put
forth."

For his proof of these statements, somewhat new and startling
to the generality of mankind, I must refer the reader to the book
itself.*

I have heard a story that upon one occasion the Bishop of Lon-
don asked the celebrated actor Garrick, if he could explain how it
was that he and his clergy failed to arrest the attention of their
audiences, although they preached every Sunday of the realities
of the world to come, whilst he, Garrick, filled crowded houses
with the most rapt attention, although they knew perfectly well
that all he was saying was fiction.

*^*The reason is very plain, my lord," replied Garrick, "you
deal with facts as if they were fictions ; I deal with fictions as if
they were facts."

Manifestations of a similar kind to those described above have
not unfrequently taken place on various occasions where powerful
preachers set forth in plain and vigorous language the glories and
terrors of the world to come. In Southey's "Life of Wesley"
may be found a description of physical demonstrations during the
preaching of that remarkable man, almost exactly analogous to
those which occurred in the revival meetings of the north of Ire-
land. In America, similar demonstrations under similar circum-
stances are not very uncommon. Mere eloquence, no matter of
how high and exciting a nature, seems never to produce this result.
These manifestations rarely occur except where plain men urge
upon their hearers in plain and strong language the impending
dangers of the next world, and point out a certain way of escape,

* Eternal SalvatioD : a Letter to his Friends by a Oountry Gentleman. 10 I^OIier
Street, Dublin ; and 9 Paternoster Bow, London. j

1858.] TOE REVIVAL. 383

' they themselves evidently believing whilst they do so that both are

downright facts. This appears to be a necessaiy condition of
these manifestations.

The remarkable scenes described above, extended over a great
breadth of country, and could hardly be omitted from a description
of the << Beauties of Irish life."

28a realities of IRISH LIFE. [chap. xxii.

CHAPTER XXIL

FARNKY. 1865-1868.

A GREAT and notable change has passed over the barony of
"^^ Famey. Ribbonism, so far as I am informed, has ceased to
exist within its borders. Industry, order, punctuality in* the pay-
ment of rents, and a desire for, and tendency towards improvementy
are the general characteristics of the day.

It is true that every now and then the course of peaceful advance
is disturbed and retarded by that most odious of all odious calami-
ties in Ireland, a contested county election. I know of nothing
more detrimental to the peace and prosperity of a district, than
an election for members of Parliament, conducted as such elections
generally are in Ireland. The worst passions of the people are
aroused to their utmost pitch on both sides, and sectarian ani-
mosity and virulence seem, demon-like, to possess the whole com-
munity. This is not the place to enter upon a discussion as to how all
this might be avoided. It is enough to say that it prevails to such
a degree as to embitter society on each occasion of its recurrence,
so that we have scarcely had time to recover from the angry feel-
ings of one election before another springs into its place.

I am well aware of the unhappy position of affairs in Ireland
which renders these unfortunate differences almost natural and
indigenous to the soil. The owners of landed property are in gen-
eral Protestants. The occupiers are in general Roman Catholics.
And in many of the great questions of the day which come before
Parliament, and to which the county representatives are called on
to pledge themselves, the interests of the owners and those of the
occupiers are considered by each class as antagonistic.

The landed proprietor feels that in the selection of a Member of

i865-i868.] FARNEY. 285

Parliament he has only one rote ; and no matter how large his in-
terest or stake in the country may be, he has constUutionaUy noth*
ing to throw into the scale against those who would overturn the
most cherished institution^ of the realm, except this unit vote. He
sees with ill-suppressed indignation that the smallest holder and
most ignorant peasant on his estate has by law the same power as
himself, and, if uninfluenced by him, will probably make use of it
in overturning all that he has been accustomed to hold sacred. The
tenant again, on his side, maintains that if he pays his rent, culti-
vates his farm, and fulfils his other engagements with his landlord,
the latter has no right to make any further demand upon him, and,
backed by his priest, he resists all interference with his vote.

Such is* the dead-lock, — such the block-up, — of the way. It is
difficult to induce the noble proprietor or the highly-educated gen-
tleman, the owner of, say, 20,000Z. per annum, with a stake and
investment in the country which if capitalized might be worth half
a million of money, to take up the position the Constitution has
legally allotted to him, and to claim no more power in the selection
of a representative than the most ignorant peasant on his estate,
the occupier perhaps of only a few acres of worn-out land, without
lOZ. worth of capital in the world beyond his bone and sinew. And
yet so it is. The priest on the one side urges vehemently the con-
stitutional rights of the tenant; and the landlord on the other is
indignant that all the influence he might naturally expect from his
position, education, and wealth, should, from this difierence in
creed, be rudely forced from his hands under the sanction of what
he must admit to be the tenant's constitutional right.

But I digress ; and yet it is well that the real position of affairs,
and the feelings consequent upon them, should be clearly under-
stood in England, as being the main causes of the violence, turbu-
lence, and misery which occur at an Irish election.

Let us now change the scene in the Barony of Farney from 1852
to 1865 ; and passing by the agony which has been caused on more
than one occasion by a contested election, let us look at the present
position of that district, which some years ago was the scene of such,
wide-spread disaffection.

286 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xxii.

In the month of May, 1865, the Marquis . of Bath visited his
estates in Farney. His reception was such as a prince rnigh^ be
proud of. Kearly 60,000Z.* had been expended on his estate since
he first came into possession, on permanent and substantial im-
provements. And the warm welcome of a warm-hearted and con-
tented tenantry greeted him at every step.

Having once overcome, and to a great extent eradicated, the
Ribbon Confederacy by means described in a former chapter, I re-
solved to forgive and forget all past misconduct, and never to hold
those who had been concerned in Ribbonism, but who had at the
time escaped punishment, as any longer responsible, or in the shade
of discountenance for the past. The people were very quick in
perceiving this, and at last they seemed to consider they were safe
in openly acknowledging their error, and confessing their sorrow
for their past misdeeds.

Some curious instances of how completely they feel that these
matters have been all forgiven, occurred a few months since, and
may perhaps prove interesting to the reader.

I was riding not long ago (March, 1868), in company with our
old friend Faddy McArdle, to visit a distant portion of the Bath
Estate, and settle some petty quarrels which had arisen amongst the
tenants. My business led me to visit, amongst other places, a
spring well, which had become a subject of dispute between two
neighbors. The well was situated exactly in the middle of the fence
which separated their several farms, and each accordingly claimed
it as his own. There ought to have been no real difficulty in the
case whatever, as the supply of water in the well was ample for the
requirements of both tenants, but the quarrels which took place

* The ezpenditnre on this estate within the last sixteen yean has been as
follows: On drainage and land improvement, 10,1552. On varions huildings,
and repairs of tenants' houses, 23,8292. On compensation for surrender of tene-
ments (wherehy consolidations were effected), 2,8312. On emigration (2,459
persons), 7,9882. On sundry improvements not included in the above, 4,1782.
Making a total of 48,9812., within the last sixteen years. Yearly average, indn-
•Ive of emigration, 3,0612. Exclusive of emigration, 2,5622.

See Mr. Trench's Evidence before Lords' Select Committee on Tenure of
Land [Ireland] Bill. 1867.

1865-1868.] THE GUNPOWDER PLOT. 287

between them wen» neyertheless incessant. The last comi)laint
which came before me was, that one of the parties had turned the
drippings of the manure-heap into the well, and that the other had
then filled up the well with stones, and thus it became useless to
both I

It appeared absolutely necessary, therefore, that I should go
myself and decide upon this knotty point, as Paddy assured me he
had done his utmost, but was quite unable to settle it. I went
accordingly, and having heard the statement of each party, I settled
the case to the satisfaction of both, by directing that the well
should be corered over with a flag-stone, but that each side should
be open to the field belonging to each separate farm, and that the
boundary fence (a stone wall) should be carried right over the top
of theweU in a straight line, so that neither could claim the well as
being specially his own. This arrangement was highly approred
of by both parties concerned, and by the neighborhood generally,
especially as it gave a decided victory to neither of the contending
parties.

But it happened that one of the men concerned in this frivolous
dispute had allowed his temper to be so roused and irritated, that he
was led to confide to me the strangest stories concerning things
which had long since gone by. The dispute about the well was
enhanced by another dispute about some land, of which he com-
plained that he had been unjustly deprived, and this caused many
of the neighbors to side with one or the other of the disputants ;
and the man at last, desiring to revenge himself upon his oppo-
nents, related to me the following story, all of which I have reason
to believe strictly true : —

During the period when the Bibbonmen were most active in plot-
ting the murder of myself and Paddy McArdle, sundry meetings
were held in difierent tenants* houses to diseuss the best mode of

" getting at us." One house especially, in the Townland of L ,

was a favorite place of resort ; and many were accustomed to join
company there and sit till midnight, br later, discussing this most
interesting question. At length it was resolved to hold a final
meeting of the choice spirits amongst those who could be most

288 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xxii.

safely trusted, with a view to a night attack on Faddy McArdle's
house.

A number of men, some twelve or fourteen, were accordingly
selected, and were ordered to bring with them crow-bars, sledges,

and spades, as well as fire-arms ; and the house in L , having

been chosen as usual for the place of rendezvous, a taU. attendance
took place. But it happened that the elder brother of the dis-
putant about the well was one of those selected for this expedition,
and he let it ooze out to my informant, who was then a boy of some
fifteen or sixteen years of age, that the performance of a serious
job was contemplated that night.

The lad, being most anxious to take part in this manly feat, —
the attacking and breaking into Faddy McArdle's house, and mur-
dering all the inmates, — entreated his brother to allow, him to join
the expedition. His brother, however, would on no account permit
it, and the disappointed boy determined to have his revenge. He
watched the party from behind a ditch hard by, as they assembled
one by one at the little cabin : some brought pistols, some pickaxes,
some crow-bars, and one of them brought a heavy sledge-hammer.

They sat on forms and three-legged stools around the fire, a good
blaze having been made, as the night was cold and stormy. The
discussion was long and serious, as the intended attack on Faddy's
house and the murder of its inmates was the boldest and most
formidable overt act the Ribbonmen had yet contemplated. The
boy watched them through a chink in the half-fastened window-
shutters. He saw the whiskey introduced and circulating freely, as
the favored individuals inside discussed their plan of attack. It
was arranged that at midnight they should isssue from their den,
and on arriving at the house, one of them should ask in a feigned
voice, '* if he could see Mr. McArdle, as Denny Callan's house had
taken fire nigh at hand, and all the neighbors were up stirring to
put it out, and none would be so good at the work as Mr. McArdle
himself 1 "

If the door was opened by Faddy to this, false story, the others
were to rush in and despatch him with pistols or spades, according
as circumstances at the moment might enable them most easily to

1865-1868O THE GUNPOWDER PLOT. 289

kill him. But should it happen that Paddy became suspicious of
their designs and refused to open the door, then the owner of the
sledge-hammer, a well-known blacksmith in the neighborhood, was
to use his implement with vigor, smash in the panels of the door,
and '* the crow-bar brigade," being close at hand, were to wrench it
off its hinges, dash up to Paddy's room, or find him wherever he
might be, and not quit the premises until they left him a corpse.

Such were the arrangements which the ambitious youth heard
discussed and settled, and he became half-maddened at tlie idea
that he was not allowed to take part in so glorious an enterprise,
from which it was expected the heroes would come out victorious
and arrive at a high pitch of honor and credit in the country. The
district, it seems, had at this time fallen into very low repute
amongst certain classes of the people. Bateson, Mauleverer, and
others had been murdered on neighboring properties, whilst not
even an attack had yet been made on any one connected with the
Bath Estate. Irritated at his exclusion from such an opportunity
of distinguishing himself, and observing that the men were settling
themselves for a short sleep previous to the hour of midnight when
they were all to sally forth, this baffled boy resolved, as he could
not join them, at least to dim their glory. Accordingly, he stole
quietly home to his own cabin, which was situated a short distance
off, and havibg seen his brother, on a former occasion, hide some
gunpowder under the bed, he searched and found about a pound
of it. This he wrapped up tightly in brown paper. He then got
a long piece of cord, and having fastened the package of powder
to one' end of the cord, he returned to the. place of rendezvous,
and looking in through his former hole of observation, he perceived
that all were asleep, except one who had been placed as a sentinel.
Some slept on the floor near the hearth, others on stools, leaning
their backs against the wall, but the whole party had gathered
themselves as closely as they could around the expiring embers
of the fire. The boy went round stealthily to the back of the
cabin, and climbing up by means of a wheelbarrow upon the thatch,
he cautiously let down the package of gunpowder, by means of the
string, upon the coals inside, and leaping nimbly to the ground

290 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xxii.

again, he darted off a few paces and ensconced himself behind a
high ditch to watch the result in safety. The brown paper in
which the parcel had been tied, was tolerably stiff and strong, so
that half a minute or so elapsed before any result took place, and
the package having been let down gently through the chimney, not
the slightest idea of what was going on had occurred even to the
sentinel himself, much less to the sleeping Bibbonmen. Suddenly,
however, they were roused from their slumbers ; an explosion of
a terrific nature took place. The cabin, consisting only of one
small room, felt the full force of the shock. The roof was blown
into the air ; the sleeping Bibbonmen were hurled about the floor
and sent rolling to the other end of the room. One or two who
were sitting up had their faces blackened and scorched, whilst the
sentinel was tumbled over and dashed against the opposite doorway.
The walls were burst out and split ; and, in short, no bombshell,
exploding unexpectedly in the midst of an enemy's camp, could
have produced a more appalling effect.

The astonishment of the conspirators may be imagined. They
rushed into the open air, each entreating the other to tell him what
had happened ; and none of them being able to explain it, they
concluded that the police had come upon them and blown them up
as they were sleeping. Away, therefore, they ran in a sudden
panic, each believing that a policeman was close at his heels ; and
they never stopped until, out of breath and weary, they found
themselves in different directions nearly a mile from the scene of
the explosion. Observing, however, that no pursuit took place,
they plucked up courage, and coming together again in twos and
threes, they endeavored to ascertain what had occurred ; but all
attempts at doing so were vain ; so they commenced accusing and
abusing each other, each swearing (most happily for Paddy I } that
he would never join such villains again in any enterprise of the
sort.

The mischievous young scoundrel who had occasioned all this
turmoil, ran at full speed towards home immediately on^he explo-
sion taking place, and then came out of his cabin again to meet his
brother, pretending to have been frightened at the noise, and

i86s-i868.] THE GUNPOWDER PLOT. 291

inquiring what was the matter. When informed of the occurrence,
he expressed the greatest surprise, and immediately asked where
the blacksmith had left his sledge.

"Why do ye want to know ?*' returned the blacksmith, by no
means pleased that he should be singled out from amongst the other
conspirators, even by this impudent boy.

" Because," replied the lad, " your name was on the handle
burnt in by yourself; and as sure as you're aliye, if the police get
hold of it, you'll swing by the neck for it yet."

" Blood alive ! " exclaimed the blacksmith, " what will I do at
aU?"

"Away I back with you, life or death, and get the sledge handle
any way, or else ye'U surely be hanged," urged the boy.

Back stole the wretched blacksmith, going as he thought almost
into the jaws of death, to recover the tell-tale sledge, whilst the
boy laughed in his sleeve at the terror and confusion he had occa-
sioned. He was not discovered.

Such was the story detailed to Paddy McArdle and myself a few
months since by the very man who when a boy had performed the
exploit, and we were shown the spot on which the cabin had stood, —
now levelled and sown with potatoes, — and where these strange
proceedings had taken place. But the oddest part of the story con-
sisted in the fact that it was all told now under somewhat similar
feelings to those which «had originally urged him on to perform the
deed, — namely, vexation at a fancied wrong. He had quarrelled
about the well, and he had quarrelled about the piece of land,
which he maintained had been unjustly taken from him by another
family ; and to bring this family and their friends into disrepute
with me, he had laid open the whole of that night's proceedings as
I have detailed them above, giving me the names and residences
of all the parties concerned, and not shrinking from telling even
his own part in the transaction I He dared not have done this a
few years ago.

Another incident, which happened about the same time, may per-
haps be worth recording. An artisan who has long been, and still
is, employed in the works upon the estate, applied to be accepted as

zgz REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xxu.

tenant to a nice little farm which had recently become vacant, and
was well circumstanced and suited to his purpose. As he had been
long in the employment, I consented to accept him as tenant,
though I well knew he had been one of those who had formerly
conspired against my life. We had made it up, however, long
since, and had been good friends for some twelre or fourteen years.
I had directed the man to come to my private residence to make
arrangements about the farm ; and when all was settled, as I passed
out of the house with him, I heard my daughter playing on her
harp in the drawing-room.

**• Would you like to come in and hear the young lady play? " I
asked.

'* Bedad, I would, your honor, if it wouldn't be making too bold,"
replied the man.

I took him into the drawing-room at once, and having requested
my daughter to play a few airs on the harp which I thought would
please him, — such as "Patrick's Day" and ** Garry owen," the
man was leaving the room in high delight at the music and the com-
pliment thus paid to him, when I said suddenly to my daughter, —

" Do you know who this man is? "

"No," she replied, "I don't recollect having ever seen him
before."

« This is y" said I, giving the man's name in full; " and you

will be surprised when I tell you that this is one of the old con-
spirators against my life when the times were disturbed some few
yeurs ago."

My daughter looked with wonder at us both, scarcely .believing
that I spoke in earnest as she saw a half smile upon my face.

" It is true, I assure you," I replied, in answer to her incredulous
look.

" Well, indeed now," urged the man, appealing to my daughter,
" what his honor says is all true enough ; but sure he knows well I
wasn't as bad as others ; and any way there is not a man on the
estate would be less willing to see a hair of Ms head touched now,
but sure none of us knew him then."

I could not help laughing outright at the curious innocence of
the man's confession, so I only replied, —

1865-1868.] FARNEY. 293

" Well, if you were a bad boy then, I hope you will be a good
boy now ; and as you escaped hanging then, I'm not going to re-
member it now. Perhaps you thought I didn't know of your pro-
ceedings, but I have been aware of them these tweWe years past.
I believe you are a changed man, so you shall have the little farm."

The man bowed and retired, and is now in possession of the
holding.

One more recent incident, and I have done.

Scarcely six weeks ago, in May, 1868, I was riding with two
young friends over one of the most distant portions of the Bath
Estate. My business led me to visit a man's farm which he com-
plained was too highly rented. Having examined the land, I was
passing out of the last field, when another odd-looking man, un-
shaven and ragged, came up to me, and told me that his rent
needed reduction as much as his neighbor's. I replied that he had
made no formal application to that efiect, and I could not therefore
at present entertain his case.

"Well, your honor," said the man, "I wouldn't trouble you,
only I wouldn't like to see this chap's rent reduced and I not get
the same favor."

"But he does not ask it as a favor," I answered; " he says his
land is too highly rented, and he wants me to examine it myself. I
have formed my own opinion on that matter, and he shall know it
when he comes to the office next Thursday."

" Don't mind a word that blackguard says, your honor," re-
turned the ragged man ; " he's the biggest villain in the country,
and it's well he knows it's too cheap he has the land entirely I "

It may well be supposed that such an onslaught as this set the
disputants at high words at once, and to the astonishment of myself
and friends these wordy warriors fired into each other*s characters
with the most remorseless severity.

" You are the biggest villain in the barony ! " cried the ragged
man ; " you know well I had ye in Monaghan Jail for six months ;
you thief of the world, you stole my property, so you did I "

** You're a liarl " shouted the other; "ye well know ye wrong-
fully accused me, and perjured yourself when ye swore against

294 REALITIES OF IRISH LIFE. [chap. xxn.

me ; and anyhow my character is better than yours ; let his honor
ax the priest, or any dacent man in the country.*'

''I'll hould ye a five-pound note agen that," cried the ragged
man. '' I'll bet ye a five-pound note this minute, and let his honor
hould the stakes, that my character is far preferable to yourn."

*^ Five pounds!" returned the other, contemptuously, ''where
would the likes of ye get five pounds ? and ye boasting tliere to get
his honor to hould the stakes ! it would be fitter for ye to give five
ha'pence to some ould tailor and get your clothes mended I Fire
pounds indeed I "

" I'll prove it I " shouted the ragged man, in a high state of ex-
citement ; " I'll prove it to his honor this minute I " and rummaging
amongst his rags, he pulled out an old, greasy purse, and taking
from thence two five-pound notes, he walked up to me in a majestic
manner, and requested me to hold one of them as the stake in this
characteristic wager.

Of course I declined ; but the whole scene was so absurd that it
was impossible we could help laughing ; when his antagonist, see-
ing the cause going against him, and that the stakes were really
forthcoming, became excited beyond measure, and at last losing all
control of himself, he said, —

'* Ye are a pMic robber, so ye are, and I could tell that of ya
which if his honor knew, he'd banish ye off the estate, as he did
better men than ye are."

" I defy ye I " returned the ragged man ; " say what ye like, only
down with the five pounds first, and let his honor hould the stakes."

"Why do you call him a public robber?" I inquired, having
observed that the man laid particular stress upon this unusual
description of his ragged opponent.

" Because he chated the public," replied the man.

" How so? " I asked again.

The man gave a look at his ragged neighbor, to see if he shrank
from what he was now about to tell ; but his look was answered by
a bold defiance.

" I defy ye, — do your worst now, if ye can."

" Then I'll tell his honor all about it," said his opponent. " Thai

i865-x868.] THE PUBLIC ROBBER. 295

same public robber there before ye, put dowu his name for a one-
pound note to get Faddy McArdle shot, that's alive and well no^ ;
and when them that was to do the job came round to him afterwards
for the money to pay the heavy expenses they were under, the
thief of the world only buttoned up his pocket, and refUsed to pay
a farthing ; and tluifs why I call him a public robber I "

*^And why vfoidd I pay them a farthing, the rogues thai they
were, when they didn't do the job t " shouted the ragged man.
<< Sure isn't Mr. McArdle safe and sound this minute, — long life to
him and long may he reign, himself and his big white horse I May
I never but I wouldn't for a five-pound note this minute that they
got him down, and yet the thieves of the world wanted me to pay
them for shootin* him when they never done it at all ! That's a
quare way of doing business. Fay the one-pound note indeed I In
troth I'll pay nothing of the kind I "

Having thus fully admitted his original engagement, but indig-
nantly repudiated the obligation his opponent wanted to fasten on
him, inasmuch as the contract had never been performed, he put
his two five-pound notes quietly into his purse again, as if he
thought this awkward claim might possibly be revived, and walked
away with the air of an indignant and injured individual. -

Those who would live happily and peaceably in Ireland, of what-
ever rank or creed they be, have much to forgive on both sides.

296 CONCLUSION.

CONCLUSION.

T>OSSIBLY some may ask why the fknlts of my country should
"^ have been brought to light in such undraped simplicity as in
the preceding tales ?

The reply is simple. All admit that remedial measures are re-
quired for Ireland ; and that until her actual condition is known,
and her people understood, these are not likely to be well devised.
It would, therefore, be manifestly unwise, as well as unkind, to
conceal her real condition and her real feelings. But neither have
the virtues of her people been concealed. Where can be found
more true, and tender, and devoted love, than in the Irish girl, —
of which Mary Shea and Alice McMahon are samples ? And where
more manly affection and fortitude than in their lovers ? Even the
untamed Joe McEey was a hero in his way, and by no means devoid
of noble qualities.

We can scarcely shut our eyes to the fact that the circumstances
and feelings which have led to the terrible crime of murder in
Ireland, are usually very different from those which have led to
murder elsewhere. The reader of the English newspaper is shocked
at the list of children murdered by professional assassins, of wives
murdered by their husbands, of men murdered for their gold. In
Ireland that dreadful crime may almost invariably be traced to a
wild feeling of revenge for the national wrongs, to which so many
of her sons believe that she has been subjected for centuries.

The cry from Ireland is invariably for ^^jtistice" But to ascer-
tain what is just, we need, first, a knowledge of the facts of the
case, and then an unbiassed judgment to deal with them.

Many think that the -same measure should not be meted to the
two great parties into which Ireland is now mainly divided, — the

CONCLUSION. 297

Protestant rich and the Roman Catholic poor. Some think thii
because they look upon the wealthy Sazon and prosperous Prot-
estant as an invader and interloper who, notwithstanding the pre-
scription of three hundred years, ought now to be deprived of his
possessions, and expelled from the soil of Ireland. Others shrink
from treating both sides alike because they look upon the Roman
Catholics as rebels both by nature and by creed. Can Ireland look
with hope or confidence to either of these extremes? Surely a
line of justice to both parties exists^ and surely it may be found
without closing the ear to the claims of the one class, and without
inflicting upon the other the very wrongs of which the first com-
plains.

Should the foregoing records contribute in any measure to the
attainment of real justice to Ireland, one great object in their pub*
lication will have been accomplished.

^^

HANDY VOLUME SERIES.

I.

HAPPY THOUGHTS. By F. C. Burnand. Price, in Cloth,
f i.oo; in Illuminated Paper Covers, 75 cents.

From the London A thenetunt.

"Of the many ' Happy Thoughts' which have occurred either to Mr. Bur-
nand or his hero, the thought of naving such thoughts is the happiest As we
read, we laueh and we admire. Mr. Burnand is so fertile in extravagant com-
edy, that we nave no other resource ; but, at leasLour laughter is eenuine.
We do not feel ashamed of having been amused. There is no painful feeling
of humiliation afterwards, like the ~ next naoming ' which follows a revel. We
may say of Mr. Bumand's fun, that there is not a headache in a hogshead of
it Utterly ludicrous as his characters are, they are neither monstn^ities nor
abortions. They are exaggerations of what is perfectlv real, living ' humors,'
combined too copiously, but not invented. But then he overlaps them with
such a vivid wealth of caricature that we forget our first impression, and give
ourselves up to the most uncritical enjovment .... We cannot decide wheth-
er we ought to quote or not ; we find ourselves again reading^ and laughing ;
and, after all, we resolve upon sending oiu- readers to the book itself, that they
may read and laugh with us."

From, the London Spectator,

" *Hafpy Thought I* (Mr. Burnand must have said to himself when he re-
printed these papers) — ' puzzle the critics.' The present critic confesses him-
self puzzled. There is such a fund of humor in every page of the book that
calm analysis is out of the question. Mr. Burnand is not only comic, but he
knows it and^e means it He contrives the most ludicrous situations and
thrusts his mai^into them simply to see.what he will say. It is not enough
that his man should drink too much at a club dinner, and take short-hand notes
of his inarticulate phrases, but he must go and have a serious interview with
his * s'lic'tor,' merely in order that his note-book may record all the stages in
the typical development of drunkenness. This interview with the solicitor is,

erhaps, the most characteristicpart of the book. It is marked by more than
r. Bumand's usual daring. The idea of a man writing down in a note-book,
\Happ Thght. — Go to bed in my boots,' is not comic if you try to analyze
it. But then you don't analyze it. You accept it without scrutiny* You
know the whole thing is a caricature, and so long as you laugh heartily you
don't ask whether this or that detail is out of drawing. ^ If you did, the absurd-
ity of a man who can't speak plainly writing down his words exactly as he
pronounces them would of course shock your nice sense of proportion. Some-
now or other, it does not shock ours. We are in Mr. Bumand's hands. He
may do what he likes with us."

From the Pott Mall Gauite.

*' It is a handsome little book, and as good as it is good-looking. We do not
know when we have seen more fim, or a truer or better kind of fim, than that
which sparkles from end to end of Mr. Bumand's brochure"

From The London Review.

"Mr. Burnand is a skilled inventor of clever nonsense, and there is this
peculiarity about his fooling which distinguishes it from funny writing in
general, — he is never vulgar. A more idle Mok could not, perhaps, be bought,
or one which a reader would sooner buy wllen he or she wajited to feel idle.
It needs no more effort to take in what Mr. Burnand wishes to say than it
does to smoke a cigar. .... He only aims to amuse, and he succeeds
admirably."

Mailed to any address, post-paid, on receipt of the advertised
price.

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, Boston.

Messrs, Roberts Brothers^ Publications.

TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY

IN THE CAYENNES.

^7 ROBERT LOUIS STEYSNSON.

With Frontispiece Illustration by Walter Ckanb. i6ino.

Cloth. Price |i.oo.

■i**

" This is one of the brightest books of travel that has recently come to onr
notice. The author, Robert Louis Stevenson, sees every thing with the eye of a
philosopher, and is disposed to see the bright rather than the dark side of what
passes under his observation. He has a steady flow of humor that is as appar-
rently spontaneous as a mountain brook, and he views a landscape or a human
figure, not only as a tourist seeking subjects for a book, but as an artist to whom
the slightest line or tint conveys a definite impression." — Boston CtmrUr,

** A very agreeable companion for a summer excursion is brought to our side
without cerelhony in this lively reprint of a journal of travel in the interior of
Vrance* For all locomotive or four-horse stage coach, the writer had chartered a
little she-ass, not much bigger than a dog, whom he christened ' Modestine,' and
whose fascinating qualities soon proved that she was every way worthy of the
name. Mounted on this virtuous beast, with an inordinate supply of luggage
sluog over her patient back in a sheepskin bag, the larder well provided with
cakes of chocolate and tins of Bologna sausage, cold mutton and the potent wine
of Beaujolais, the light-hearted traveller took his way to the mountains of South-
ern France. He has no more story to tell than had the * weary knife-grinder,*
but he jots down the little odds and ends of his journey in an off-hand, garrulous
tone which sounds as pleasantly as the careless talk of a cheerful companion in a
country ramble. The reader must not look for nuggets of gold in these slight
pages, but the sparkling sands which they shape into bright forms are both at-
tractive and amusing." — N. V. Trihtne.

'* * Travels with a Donkey ' is charming, full of grace, and humor, and fresh-
ness : such refined humor it all is, too, and so evidently the work of a gentleman.
I am half in love with him, and much inclined to think that a ramble anywhere
with stich a companion must be worth taking. What a happy knack he has of
giving the taste of a landscape or any out-door impression in ten words t "

Sold by all Booksellers, Mailed, postpaid, by the Ful^
Ushers, ^

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston.

Messrs, Roberts Brothers Publications.

Our Autumn Holiday

ON FRENCH RIVERS.

By J. L. MOLLOY.

With Pictorial Title. i6mo, doth. Price $1.25.

♦

" A quite fascinating book for idle summer dasrs* Mr. Molloy has the true
gift of narrating. He is a charming chronicler of the voyage of *The Marie*
on the tumultuous Seine, and on the solemn, mighty Loire. ... A bright, sunny
book, so full ol pleasant fun and refined enjoyment.'* — Boston Daily A dvertiser.

** There is not a stupid page in the whole book ; every chapter is jolly, fresh,
observant ; the whole reflects delightfully both the spirit in which the jaunt was
undertaken, and that in which the country-side accepted the jovial wanderets. . .
* An Autumn Holiday* will cause many readeis to pass a happy hour or two. It
is not stimulative to the brain , it requires no e£Eort of thought ; intellectual per-
sons may find it spun out, and senous people discover its levity ; but hot and tired
people will regret neither the coolness of its main theme nor its happy super-
ficiality*'— iV^w York Times^

'* Mr. Molloy has a singularly delicate and quick touch ; and his fun and
pathos are equally ready and genuine. His htlle volume of sketches is a rate
work ; it is in every way charming, full of wformation, and delicious as the fra-
grance and savor of a peach grown against a south-looking wall with its crimson
cheek set toward the sun. Wherever the lover of pleasant books may be, — in
quiet country town, under shade of mjghty hills and their pine-forests, or near the.
sounding promontories of the sea, or if he stay in the heat and noise of the
town, — he can have no more delightful reading than this record of an Autumn
Holiday on French Rivers.** — Portiaud Press,

<4

Roberts Brothers are issuing a charming series of books of out-door life,
which is just the kind of books that are called for both by the present season and
the growing taste for that kind of recreation. Another one just published is *Our
Autumn Holidays on French Rivers,* by J- L. Molloy, and is as bright, breezy,
spirited, and racy of the country hfe which it depicts, as any one can desire.'* —
Hartford CouranL

Sold by all Booksellers, Mailed^ post-paid^ by the Pub-
lishers^

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston.

Messrs, Roberts Brothers^ Publications.

CASTLE BLAIR:

A STORY OF YOUTHFUL DAYS.

By flora L. SHAW.

x6mo. Cloth. Price f 1 .00.

** There is quite a lovely little book just come out about diildren, —
' Castle Blair I ' . • . The book is good, and lovely, and true, having the
best description of a noble child in it (Winnie) that I ever read ; and nearly
the best description of the next best thing, — a noble dog," says John
Ruskin, the distinguished art critic.

" ' Castle Blair,' a stoxy of youthful days, by Flora L. Shaw, is an Irish
story. A charming young girl — half French, half English — comes from
France, at the age of eighteen, to live with her bachelor uncle at Castle
Blsur, whidi is in possession of five children of an absent brother of this
uncle. The children are in a somewhat wild and undisciplined condition,
but they are as interesting children as can be imagined, and some of them
winning to an extraor<ttnary degree. They are natural children, in manner
and in talk ; but the book differs from some American books about children,
in that it is pervaded by an air of refinement and good-breeding. The story is
altogether delightful, quite worthy, from an Amoican point of view, of all
Mr. Ruskin says of it; and if circulation were determined by merit, it
would speedily outstrip a good many now popular children's books which
have a vdn of commonness, if not of vulgarity." — Hartford Courani,

** It is not too much to say that notiiing more interesting or more whole-
some is ofifered this year for older boys and girls. It is a charming story,
in which the author has delineated character as carefully, and with as keen
an artistic sense, as if she had been writing a novel. Her book is a novel,
indeed, with diildren and the lives of children, instead of men and women
and their lives, for its tlftme.'' — New York Evening Post»

Our publications are to be had of all Booksellers, When
not to be found, send directly to

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers,

BOSTON.

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