irish slavery.

for centuries the irish nation has groaned under the yoke of england. the chain has worn to the bone. the nation has felt its strength depart. many of its noblest and fairest children have pined away in dungeons or starved by the roadside. the tillers of the soil, sweating from sunrise to sunset for a bare subsistence, have been turned from their miserable cabins—hovels, yet homes—and those who have been allowed to remain have had their substance devoured by a government seemingly never satisfied with the extent of its taxation. they have suffered unmitigated persecution for daring to have a religion of their own. seldom has a conquered people suffered more from the cruelties and exactions of the conquerors. while clarkson and wilberforce were giving their untiring labours to the cause of emancipating negro slaves thousands of miles away, they overlooked a hideous system of slavery at their very doors—the slavery of a people capable of enjoying the highest degree of civil and religious freedom. says william howitt—

irish tenant about to emigrate.

[pg 285]

"the great grievance of ireland—the monster grievance—is just england itself. the curse of ireland is bad government, and nothing more. and who is the cause of this? nobody but england. who made ireland a conquered country? england. who introduced all the elements of wrangling, discontent, and injustice? england. who set two hostile churches, and two hostile races, celts and saxons, together by the ears in that country? england, of course. her massacres, her military plantations, her violent seizure of ancient estates, her favouritism, her monstrous laws and modes of government, were the modern emptying of pandora's box—the shaking out of a bag-full of kilkenny cats on the soil of that devoted country. the consequences are exactly those that we have before us. wretched saxon landlords, who have left one-fourth of the country uncultivated, and squeezed the population to death by extortion on the rest. a great useless church maintained on the property of the ejected catholics—who do as men are sure to do, kick at robbery, and feel it daily making their gall doubly bitter. and then we shake our heads and sagely talk about race. if the race be bad, why have we not taken pains to improve it? why, for scores of years, did we forbid them even to be educated? why do we complain of their being idle and improvident, and helpless, when we have done every thing we could to make them so? are our ministers and parliaments any better? are they not just as idle, and improvident, and helpless, as it regards ireland? has not this evil been growing these three hundred years? have any remedies been applied but those of elizabeth, and the stuarts and straffords, the cromwells, and dutch william's? arms and extermination? we have built barracks instead of schools; we have sown gunpowder instead of corn—and now we wonder at the people and the crops. the wisest and best of men have for ages been crying out for reform and improvement in ireland, and all that we have done has been to augment the army and the police."

the condition of the irish peasantry has long been most miserable. untiring toil for the lords of the soil [pg 286] gives the labourers only such a living as an american slave would despise. hovels fit for pig-styes—rags for clothing—potatoes for food—are the fruits of the labour of these poor wretches. a vast majority of them are attached to the roman catholic church, yet they are compelled to pay a heavy tax for the support of the established church. this, and other exactions, eat up their little substance, and prevent them from acquiring any considerable property. their poor homes are merely held by the sufferance of grasping agents for landlords, and they are compelled to submit to any terms he may prescribe or become wandering beggars, which alternative is more terrible to many of them than the whip would be.

o'connell, the indomitable advocate of his oppressed countrymen, used the following language in his repeal declaration of july 27, 1841:—

"it ought to sink deep into the minds of the english aristocracy, that no people on the face of the earth pay to another such a tribute for permission to live, as ireland pays to england in absentee rents and surplus revenues. there is no such instance; there is nothing like it in ancient or modern history. there is not, and there never was, such an exhausting process applied to any country as is thus applied to ireland. it is a solecism in political economy, inflicted upon ireland alone, of all the nations that are or ever were."

surely it is slavery to pay such a price for a miserable existence. we cannot so abuse terms as to call a people situated as the irish are, free. they are compelled [pg 287] to labour constantly without receiving an approach to adequate compensation, and they have no means of escape except by sundering the ties of home, kindred, and country.

the various repulsive features of the irish system can be illustrated much more fully than our limits will permit. but we will proceed to a certain extent, as it is in ireland that the results of british tyranny have been most frightfully manifested.

the population of ireland is chiefly agricultural, yet there are no agricultural labourers in the sense in which that term is employed in great britain. a peasant living entirely by hire, without land, is wholly unknown.

the persons who till the ground may be divided into three classes, which are sometimes distinguished by the names of small farmers, cottiers, and casual labourers; or, as the last are sometimes called, "con-acre" men.

the class of small farmers includes those who hold from five to twelve irish acres. the cottiers are those who hold about two acres, in return for which they labour for the farmer of twenty acres or more, or for the gentry.

con-acre is ground hired, not by the year, but for a single crop, usually of potatoes. the tenant of con-acre receives the land in time to plant potatoes, and surrenders it so soon as the crop has been secured. the farmer from whom he receives it usually ploughs [pg 288] and manures the land, and sometimes carts the crop. con-acre is taken by tradesmen, small farmers, and cottiers, but chiefly by labourers, who are, in addition, always ready to work for hire when there is employment for them. it is usually let in roods, and other small quantities, rarely exceeding half an acre. these three classes, not very distinct from each other, form the mass of the irish population.

"according to the census of 1831," says mr. bicheno, "the population of ireland was 7,767,401; the 'occupiers employing labourers' were 95,339; the 'labourers employed in agriculture,' (who do not exist in ireland as a class corresponding to that in england,) and the 'occupiers not employing labourers,' amounted together to 1,131,715. the two last descriptions pretty accurately include the cottier tenants and cottier labourers; and, as these are nearly all heads of families, it may be inferred from hence how large a portion of the soil of ireland is cultivated by a peasant tenantry; and when to these a further addition is made of a great number of little farmers, a tolerably accurate opinion may be formed of the insignificant weight and influence that any middle class in the rural districts can have, as compared with the peasants. though many may occupy a greater extent of land than the 'cottiers,' and, if held immediately from the proprietor, generally at a more moderate rent, and may possess some trifling stock, almost all the inferior tenantry of ireland belong to one class. the cottier and the little farmer have the same feelings, the same interests to watch over, and the same sympathies. their diet and their clothing are not very dissimilar, though they may vary in quantity; and the one cannot be ordinarily distinguished from the other by any external appearance. neither does the dress of the children of the little farmers mark any distinction of rank, as it does in england; while their wives are singularly deficient in the comforts of apparel."—report of commissioners of poor inquiry.

[pg 289]

the whole population, small farmers, cottiers, and labourers, are equally devoid of capital. the small farmer holds his ten or twelve acres of land at a nominal rent—a rent determined not by what the land will yield, but by the intensity of the competition to obtain it. he takes from his farm a wretched subsistence, and gives over the remainder to his landlord. this remainder rarely equals the nominal rent, the growing arrears of which are allowed to accumulate against him.

the cottier labours constantly for his landlord, (or master, as he would have been termed of old,) and receives, for his wages as a serf, land which will afford him but a miserable subsistence. badly off as these two classes are, their condition is still somewhat better than that of the casual labourer, who hires con-acre, and works for wages at seasons when employment can be had, to get in the first place the means of paying the rent for his con-acre.

mr. bicheno says—

"it appears from the evidence that the average crops of con-acre produce about as much or a little more, (at the usual price of potatoes in the autumn,) than the amount of the rent, seed, and tenant's labour, say 5s. or 10s. beyond this the labourer does not seem to derive any other direct profit from taking con-acre; but he has the following inducements. in some cases he contracts to work out a part, or the whole, of his con-acre rent; and, even when this indulgence is not conceded to him by previous agreement, he always hopes, and endeavours to prevail on the farmer to be allowed this privilege, which, in general want [pg 290] of employment, is almost always so much clear gain to him. by taking con-acre he also considers that he is securing food to the extent of the crop for himself and family at the low autumn price; whereas, if he had to go to market for it, he would be subject to the loss of time, and sometimes expense of carriage, to the fluctuations of the market, and to an advance of price in spring and summer."

of the intensity of the competition for land, the following extracts from the evidence may give an idea:—

"galway, f. 35.—'if i now let it be known that i had a farm of five acres to let, i should have fifty bidders in twenty-four hours, and all of them would be ready to promise any rent that might be asked.'—mr. birmingham. the landlord takes on account whatever portion of the rent the tenant may be able to offer; the remainder he does not remit, but allows to remain over. a remission of a portion of the rent in either plentiful or scarce seasons is never made as a matter of course; when it does take place, it is looked upon as a favour.

'the labourer is, from the absence of any other means of subsisting himself and family, thrown upon the hire of land, and the land he must hire at any rate; the payment of the promised rent is an after consideration. he always offers such a rent as leaves him nothing of the produce for his own use but potatoes, his corn being entirely for his landlord's claim.'—rev. mr. hughes, p. p., and parker.

"leitrim, f. 36 and 37.—'so great is the competition for small holdings, that, if a farm of five acres were vacant, i really believe that nine out of every ten men in the neighbourhood would bid for it if they thought they had the least chance of getting it: they would be prepared to outbid each other, ad infinitum, in order to get possession of the land. the rent which the people themselves would deem moderate, would not in any case admit of their making use of any other food than potatoes; there are even many instances in this barony where the occupier cannot feed himself and family off the land he holds. in his anxiety to grow [pg 291] as much oats (his only marketable produce) as will meet the various claims upon him, he devotes so small a space to the cultivation of potatoes, that he is obliged to take a portion of con-acre, and to pay for it by wages earned at a time when he would have been better employed on his own account.'—rev. t. maguire, p. p."

the land is subdivided into such small portions, that the labourer has not sufficient to grow more than a very scanty provision for himself and family. the better individuals of the class manage to secrete some of its produce from the landlord, to do which it is of course necessary that they should not employ it on their land: but if land is offered to be let, persons will be found so eager for it as to make compliments to some one of the family of the landlord or of his agent.

the exactions of agents and sub-agents are the most frequent causes of suffering among the peasantry. these agents are a class peculiar to ireland. they take a large extent of ground, which they let out in small portions to the real cultivator. they grant leases sometimes, but the tenant is still in their power, and they exact personal services, presents, bribes; and draw from the land as much as they can, without the least regard for its permanent welfare. that portion of the poor peasant's substance which escapes the tithes and tax of government is seized by the remorseless agents, and thus the wretched labourer can get but a miserable subsistence by the severest toil.

in general the tenant takes land, promising to pay a [pg 292] "nominal rent," in other words, a rent he never can pay. this rent falls into arrear, and the landlord allows the arrear to accumulate against him, in the hope that if he should chance to have an extraordinary crop, or if he should obtain it from any unexpected source, the landlord may claim it for his arrears.

the report of poor-law commissioners states that "agricultural wages vary from 6d. to 1s. a day; that the average of the country in general is about 8?d.; and that the earnings of the labourers, on an average of the whole class, are from 2s. to 2s. 6d. a week, or thereabout."

"thus circumstanced, it is impossible for the able-bodied, in general, to provide against sickness or the temporary absence of employment, or against old age or the destitution of their widows and children in the contingent event of their own premature decease.

"a great portion of them are insufficiently provided at any time with the commonest necessaries of life. their habitations are wretched hovels; several of a family sleep together upon straw or upon the bare ground, sometimes with a blanket, sometimes not even so much to cover them; their food commonly consists of dry potatoes, and with these they are at times so scantily supplied as to be obliged to stint themselves to one spare meal in the day. there are even instances of persons being driven by hunger to seek sustenance in wild herbs. they sometimes get a herring, or a little milk, but they never get meat, except at christmas, easter, and shrovetide."

the peasant finds himself obliged to live upon the cheapest food, potatoes, and potatoes of the worst quality, because they yield most, and are consequently the [pg 293] cheapest. these potatoes are "little better than turnips." "lumpers" is the name given to them. they are two degrees removed from those which come ordinarily to our tables, and which are termed "apples." mr. bicheno says, describing the three sorts of potatoes—apples, cups, and lumpers—

"the first named are of the best quality, but produce the least in quantity; the cups are not so good in quality as the apples, but produce more; and the lumpers are the worst of the three in quality, but yield the heaviest crop. for these reasons the apples are generally sent to dublin and other large towns for sale. the cups are grown for the consumption of smaller towns, and are eaten by the larger farmers, and the few of the small occupiers and labourers who are in better circumstances than the generality of their class; and the lumpers are grown by large farmers for stall-feeding cattle, and by most of the small occupiers and all the labourers (except a few in constant employment, and having but small families) for their own food. though most of the small occupiers and labourers grow apples and cups, they do not use them themselves, with the few exceptions mentioned, except as holiday fare, and as a little indulgence on particular occasions. they can only afford to consume the lumpers, or coarsest quality, themselves, on account of the much larger produce and consequent cheapness of that sort. the apples yield 10 to 15 per cent. less than the cups, and the cups 10 to 15 per cent. less than the lumpers, making a difference of 20 to 30 per cent. between the produce of the best and the worst qualities. to illustrate the practice and feeling of the country in this respect, the following occurrence was related by one of the witnesses:—'a landlord, in passing the door of one of his tenants, a small occupier, who was in arrears with his rent, saw one of his daughters washing potatoes at the door, and perceiving that they were of the apple kind, asked her if they were intended for their dinner. upon being answered that they were, [pg 294] he entered the house, and asked the tenant what he meant by eating apple potatoes when they were fetching so good a price in dublin, and while he did not pay him (the landlord) his rent?'"

lumpers, dry, that is, without milk or any other addition to them, are the ordinary food of the people. the pig which is seen in most irish cabins, and the cow and fowls kept by the small farmers, go to market to pay the rent; even the eggs are sold. small farmers, as well as labourers, rarely have even milk to their potatoes.

the following graphic description of an irish peasant's home, we quote from the pictorial times, of february 7, 1846. some districts in ireland are crowded with such hovels:—

"cabin of j. donoghue.—the hovel to which the eye is now directed scarcely exceeds donoghue's length. he will have almost as much space when laid in his grave. he can stand up in no part of his cabin except the centre; and yet he is not an aged man, who has outlived all his connections, and with a frame just ready to mingle with its native dust. nor is he a bachelor, absolutely impenetrable to female charms, or looking out for some damsel to whom he may be united, 'for better or for worse.' donoghue, the miserable inmate of that hovel, on the contrary, has a wife and three children; and these, together with a dog, a pig, and sundry fowls, find in that cabin their common abode. human beings and brutes are there huddled together; and the motive to the occupancy of the former is just the same as that which operates to the keeping of the latter—what they produce. did not the pig and the fowls make money, donoghue would have none; did not donoghue pay his rent, the cabin would quickly have another tenant. indeed, his rent is only paid, and he and [pg 295] his family saved from being turned adrift into the wide world, by his pig and his fowls.

"but the cabin should be examined more particularly. it has a hole for a door, it has another for a window, it has a third through which the smoke may find vent, and nothing more. no resemblance to the door of an english cottage, however humble, nor the casement it is never without, nor even the rudest chimney from which the blue smoke arises, suggesting to the observer many ideas of comfort for its inmates, can possibly be traced. the walls, too, are jet black; and that which ought to be a floor is mud, thick mud, full of holes. the bed of the family is sod. the very cradle is a sort of swing suspended from the roof, and it is set in motion by the elbow of the wretched mother of the wretched child it contains, if she is not disposed to make use of her hands.

"the question may fairly be proposed—what comfort can a man have in such circumstances? can he find some relief from his misery, as many have found and still find it, by conversing with his wife? no. to suppose this, is to imagine him standing in a higher class of beings than the one of which he has always formed a part. like himself, too, his wife is oppressed; the growth of her faculties is stunted; and, it may be, she is hungry, faint, and sick. can he talk with his children? no. what can he, who knows nothing, tell them? what hope can he stimulate who has nothing to promise? can he ask in a neighbour? no. he has no hospitality to offer him, and the cabin is crowded with his own family. can he accost a stranger who may travel in the direction of his hovel, to make himself personally acquainted with his condition and that of others? no. he speaks a language foreign to an englishman or a scotchman, and which those who hate the 'saxon,' whatever compliments they may pay him for their own purposes, use all the means they possess to maintain. can he even look at his pig with the expectation that he will one day eat the pork or the bacon it will yield? no; not he. he knows that not a bone of the loin or a rasher will be his. that pig will go, like all the pigs he has had, to pay his rent. only one comfort remains, which he has in common with his pig [pg 296] and his dog, the warmth of his peat fire. poor donoghue! thou belongest to a race often celebrated as 'the finest peasantry in the world,' but it would be difficult to find a savage in his native forest who is not better off than thou!"

there is one other comfort besides the peat fire, which donoghue may have, and that is an occasional gill of whisky—a temporary comfort, an ultimate destruction—a new fetter to bind him down in his almost brutal condition. in ireland, as in england, intoxication is the lethe in which the heart-sick labourers strive to forget their sorrows. intemperance prevails most where poverty is most generally felt.

the pictorial times thus sketches a cabin of the better class, belonging to a man named pat brennan:—

"we will enter it, and look round with english eyes. we will do so, too, in connection with the remembrance of an humble dwelling in england. there we find at least a table, but here there is none. there we find some chairs, but here there are none. there we find a cupboard, but here there is none. there we find some crockery and earthenware, but here there is none. there we find a clock, but here there is none. there we find a bed, bedstead, and coverings, but here there are none. there is a brick, or stone, or boarded floor, but here there is none. what a descent would an english agricultural labourer have to make if he changed situations with poor pat brennan, who is better off than most of the tenants of derrynane beg, and it may be in the best condition of them all! brennan's cabin has one room, in which he and his family live, of course with the fowls and pigs. one end is partitioned off in the manner of a loft, the loft being the potato store. the space underneath, where the fire is kindled, [pg 297] has side spaces for seats. in some instances, the turf-bed is on one side and the seats on the other. the other contents of the dwelling are—a milk-pail, a pot, a wooden bowl or two, a platter, and a broken ladder. a gaudy picture of the virgin mary may sometimes be seen in such cabins."

the eviction of the wretched peasantry has caused an immense amount of misery, and crowds of the evicted ones have perished from starvation. the tillers of the soil are mere tenants at will, and may ejected from their homes without a moment's notice. a whim of the landlord, the failure of the potato crop, or of the ordinary resources of the labourers, by which they are rendered unable to pay their rent for a short time, usually results in an edict of levelling and extermination. a recent correspondent of the london illustrated news, thus describes the desolation of an irish village:—

"the village of killard forms part of the union of kilrush, and possesses an area of 17,022 acres. it had a population, in 1841, of 6850 souls, and was valued to the poor-rate at ￡4254. it is chiefly the property, i understand, of mr. john mcmahon blackall, whose healthy residence is admirably situated on the brow of a hill, protected by another ridge from the storms of the atlantic. his roof-tree yet stands there, but the people have disappeared. the village was mostly inhabited by fishermen, who united with their occupation on the waters the cultivation of potatoes. when the latter failed, it might have been expected that the former should have been pursued with more vigour than ever; but boats and lines were sold for present subsistence, and to the failure of the potatoes was added the abandonment of the fisheries. the rent dwindled to nothing, and then came the [pg 298] leveller and the exterminator. what has become of the 6850 souls, i know not; but not ten houses remain of the whole village to inform the wayfarer where, according to the population returns, they were to be found in 1841. they were here, but are gone for ever; and all that remains of their abodes are a few mouldering walls, and piles of offensive thatch turning into manure. killard is an epitome of half ireland. if the abodes of the people had not been so slight, that they have mingled, like babylon, with their original clay, ireland would for ages be renowned for its ruins; but, as it is, the houses are swept away like the people, and not a monument remains of a multitude, which, in ancient asia or in the wilds of america, would numerically constitute a great nation."

the same correspondent mentions a number of other instances of the landlord's devastation, and states that large tracts of fertile land over which he passed were lying waste, while the peasantry were starving by the roadside, or faring miserably in the workhouses. at carihaken, in the county of galway, the levellers had been at work, and had tumbled down eighteen houses. the correspondent says—

"in one of them dwelt john killian, who stood by me while i made a sketch of the remains of his dwelling. he told me that he and his fathers before him had owned this now ruined cabin for ages, and that he had paid ￡4 a year for four acres of ground. he owed no rent; before it was due, the landlord's drivers cut down his crops, carried them off, gave him no account of the proceeds, and then tumbled his house. the hut made against the end wall of a former habitation was not likely to remain, as a decree had gone forth entirely to clear the place. the old man also told me that his son having cut down, on the spot that was once his own garden, a few sticks to make him a shelter, was [pg 299] taken up, prosecuted, and sentenced to two months' confinement, for destroying trees and making waste of the property.

"i must supply you with another sketch of a similar subject, on the road between maam and clifden, in joyce's county, once famous for the patagonian stature of the inhabitants, who are now starved down to ordinary dimensions. high up on the mountain, but on the roadside, stands the scalpeen of keillines. it is near general thompson's property. conceive five human beings living in such a hole: the father was out, at work; the mother was getting fuel on the hills, and the children left in the hut could only say they were hungry. their appearance confirmed their words—want was deeply engraved in their faces, and their lank bodies were almost unprotected by clothing.

"from clifden to ouchterade, twenty-one miles, is a dreary drive over a moor, unrelieved except by a glimpse of mr. martin's house at ballynahinch, and of the residence of dean mahon. destitute as this tract is of inhabitants, about ouchterade some thirty houses have been recently demolished. a gentleman who witnessed the scene told me nothing could exceed the heartlessness of the levellers, if it were not the patient submission of the sufferers. they wept, indeed; and the children screamed with agony at seeing their homes destroyed and their parents in tears; but the latter allowed themselves unresistingly to be deprived of what is to most people the dearest thing on earth next to their lives—their only home.

"the public records, my own eyes, a piercing wail of wo throughout the land—all testify to the vast extent of the evictions at the present time. sixteen thousand and odd persons unhoused in the union of kilrush before the month of june in the present year; seventy-one thousand one hundred and thirty holdings done away in ireland, and nearly as many houses destroyed, in 1848; two hundred and fifty-four thousand holdings of more than one acre and less than five acres, put an end to between 1841 and 1848: six-tenths, in fact, of the lowest class of tenantry driven from their now roofless or annihilated cabins and houses, makes up the general description of that desolation of which tullig and mooven are examples. the ruin is great and [pg 300] complete. the blow that effected it was irresistible. it came in the guise of charity and benevolence; it assumed the character of the last and best friend of the peasantry, and it has struck them to the heart. they are prostrate and helpless. the once frolicksome people—even the saucy beggars—have disappeared, and given place to wan and haggard objects, who are so resigned to their doom that they no longer expect relief. one beholds only shrunken frames, scarcely covered with flesh—crawling skeletons, who appear to have risen from their graves, and are ready to return frightened to that abode. they have little other covering than that nature has bestowed on the human body—a poor protection against inclement weather; and, now that the only hand from which they expected help is turned against them, even hope is departed, and they are filled with despair. than the present earl of carlisle there is not a more humane nor a kinder-hearted nobleman in the kingdom; he is of high honour and unsullied reputation; yet the poor-law he was mainly the means of establishing for ireland, with the best intentions, has been one of the chief causes of the people being at this time turned out of their homes, and forced to burrow in holes, and share, till they are discovered, the ditches and the bogs with otters and snipes.

"the instant the poor-law was passed, and property was made responsible for poverty, the whole of the land-owners, who had before been careless about the people, and often allowed them to plant themselves on untenanted spots, or divide their tenancies—delighted to get the promise of a little additional rent—immediately became deeply interested in preventing that, and in keeping down the number of the people. before they had rates to pay, they cared nothing for them; but the law and their self-interest made them care, and made them extirpators. nothing less than some general desire like that of cupidity falling in with an enactment, and justified by a theory—nothing less than a passion which works silently in all, and safely under the sanction of a law—could have effected such wide-spread destruction. even humanity was enlisted by the poor-law on the side of extirpation. as long as there was no legal provision for the poor, a [pg 301] landlord had some repugnance to drive them from every shelter; but the instant the law took them under its protection, and forced the land-owner to pay a rate to provide for them, repugnance ceased: they had a legal home, however inefficient, to go to; and eviction began. even the growth of toleration seems to have worked to the same end. till the catholics were emancipated, they were all—rich and poor, priests and peasants—united by a common bond; and protestant landlords beginning evictions on a great scale would have roused against them the whole catholic nation. it would have been taken up as a religious question, as well as a question of the poor, prior to 1829. subsequent to that time—with a whig administration, with all offices open to catholics—no religious feelings could mingle with the matter: eviction became a pure question of interest; and while the priests look now, perhaps, as much to the government as to their flocks for support, catholic landlords are not behind protestant landlords in clearing their estates."

the person from whom we make the above quotation visited ireland after the famine consequent upon the failure of the potato crop had done its worst—in the latter part of 1849. but famine seems to prevail, to a certain extent, at all times, in that unhappy land—and thus it is clear that the accidental failure of a crop has less to do with the misery of the people than radical misgovernment.

"to the irish, such desolation is nothing new. they have long been accustomed to this kind of skinning. their history, ever since it was written, teems with accounts of land forcibly taken from one set of owners and given to another; of clearings and plantings exactly similar in principle to that which is now going on; of driving men from leinster to munster, from munster to connaught, and from connaught into the sea. without going back [pg 302] to ancient proscriptions and confiscations—all the land having been, between the reign of henry ii. and william iii. confiscated, it is affirmed, three times over—we must mention that the clearing so conspicuous in 1848 has now been going on for several years. the total number of holdings in 1841, of above one acre, and not exceeding five acres each, was 310,375; and, in 1847, they had been diminished to 125,926. in that single class of holdings, therefore, 184,449, between 1841 and 1847 inclusive, had been done away with, and 24,147 were extinguished in 1848. within that period, the number of farms of five acres and upward, particularly of farms of thirty acres and upward, was increased 210,229, the latter class having increased by 108,474. little or no fresh land was broken up; and they, therefore, could only have been formed by amassing in these larger farms numerous small holdings. before the year 1847, therefore, before 1846, when the potato rot worked so much mischief, even before 1845, the process of clearing the land, of putting down homesteads and consolidating farms, had been carried to a great extent; before any provision had been made by a poor-law for the evicted families, before the turned-out labourers and little farmers had even the workhouse for a refuge, multitudes had been continually driven from their homes to a great extent, as in 1848. the very process, therefore, on which government now relies for the present relief and the future improvement of ireland, was begun and was carried to a great extent several years before the extremity of distress fell upon it in 1846. we are far from saying that the potato rot was caused by the clearing system; but, by disheartening the people, by depriving them of security, by contributing to their recklessness, by paralyzing their exertions, by promoting outrages, that system undoubtedly aggravated all the evils of that extraordinary visitation."—illustrated news, october 13, 1849.

the correspondent of the news saw from one hundred and fifty to one hundred and eighty funerals of victims to the want of food, the whole number [pg 303] attended by not more than fifty persons. so hardened were the men regularly employed in the removal of the dead from the workhouse, that they would drive to the churchyard sitting upon the coffins, and smoking with apparent enjoyment. these men had evidently "supped full of horrors." a funeral was no solemnity to them. they had seen the wretched peasants in the madness of starvation, and death had come as a soothing angel. why should the quieted sufferers be lamented?

mullin's hut at scull.

a specimen of the in-door horrors of scull may be seen in the sketch of a hut of a poor man named mullins, who lay dying in a corner, upon a heap of straw supplied by the relief committee, while his three wretched children crouched over a few embers of turf, as if to raise the last remaining spark of life. this poor man, it appears, had buried his wife about five days before, and was, in all probability, on the eve of joining her, when he was found out by the efforts of the vicar, who, for a few short days, saved him from that which no kindness could ultimately avert. the dimensions of mullins's hut did not exceed ten feet square, and the dirt and filth was ankle-deep upon the floor.

"commander caffin, the captain of the steam-sloop scourge, on the south coast of ireland, has written a letter to a friend, dated february 15, 1847, in which he gives a most distressing and graphic account of the scenes he witnessed in the course of his duty in discharging a cargo of meal at scull. after stating [pg 304] that three-fourths of the inhabitants carry a tale of wo in their countenances, and are reduced to mere skeletons, he mentions the result of what he saw while going through the parish with the rector, dr. traill. he says—

"'famine exists to a fearful degree, with all its horrors. fever has sprung up, consequent upon the wretchedness; and swellings of limbs and body, and diarrh?a, upon the want of nourishment, are everywhere to be found. dr. traill's parish is twenty-one miles in extent, containing about eighteen thousand souls, with not more than half a dozen gentlemen in the whole of it. he drove me about five or six miles; but we commenced our visits before leaving the village, and in no house that i entered was there not to be found the dead or dying. in particularizing two or three, they may be taken as the features of the whole. there was no picking or choosing, but we took them just as they came.

"'the first which i shall mention was a cabin, rather above the ordinary ones in appearance and comfort; in it were three young women, and one young man, and three children, all crouched over a fire—pictures of misery. dr. traill asked after the father, upon which one of the girls opened a door leading into another cabin, and there were the father and mother in bed; the father the most wretched picture of starvation possible to conceive, a skeleton with life, his power of speech gone; the mother but a little better—her cries for mercy and food were heart-rending. it was sheer destitution that had brought them to this. they had been well to do in the world, with their cow, and few sheep, and potato-ground. their crops failed, and their cattle were stolen; although, anticipating this, they had taken their cow and sheep into the cabin with them every night, but they were stolen in the daytime. the son had worked on the road, and earned his 8d. a day, but this would not keep the family, and he, from work and insufficiency of food, is laid up, and will soon be as bad as his father. they had nothing to eat in the house, and i could see no hope for any one of them.

"'in another cabin we went into, a mother and her daughter were there—the daughter emaciated, and lying against the wall—the mother naked upon some straw on the ground, with a rug [pg 305] over her—a most distressing object of misery. she writhed about, and bared her limbs, in order to show her state of exhaustion. she had wasted away until nothing but the skin covered the bones—she cannot have survived to this time.

"'another that i entered had, indeed, the appearance of wretchedness without, but its inside was misery! dr. traill, on putting his head inside the hole which answered for a door, said, 'well, philis, how is your mother to-day?—he having been with her the day before—and was replied to, 'oh, sir, is it you? mother is dead!' and there, fearful reality, was the daughter, a skeleton herself, crouched and crying over the lifeless body of her mother, which was on the floor, cramped up as she had died, with her rags and her cloak about her, by the side of a few embers of peat. in the next cabin were three young children belonging to the daughter, whose husband had run away from her, all pictures of death. the poor creature said she did not know what to do with the corpse—she had no means of getting it removed, and she was too exhausted to remove it herself: this cabin was about three miles from the rectory. in another cabin, the door of which was stopped with dung, was a poor woman whom we had taken by surprise, as she roused up evidently much astonished. she burst into tears upon seeing the doctor, and said she had not been enabled to sleep since the corpse of the woman had lain in her bed. this was a poor creature who was passing this miserable cabin, and asked the old woman to allow her to rest herself for a few moments, when she had laid down, but never rose up again; she died in an hour or so, from sheer exhaustion. the body had remained in this hovel of six feet square with the poor old woman for four days, and she could not get anybody to remove it.'

"the letter proceeds:—

"'i could in this manner take you through the thirty or more cottages we visited; but they, without exception, were all alike—the dead and the dying in each; and i could tell you more of the truth of the heart-rending scene were i to mention the lamentations and bitter cryings of each of these poor creatures on the threshold of death. never in my life have i seen such wholesale [pg 306] misery, nor could i have thought it so complete.'"—illustrated news, february 20, 1847. [at this period, famine prevailed throughout ireland.]

at the village of mienils, a man named leahey perished during the great famine, with many circumstances of horror. when too weak, from want of food, to help himself, he was stretched in his filthy hovel, when his famished dogs attacked and so mangled him that he expired in intense agony. can the history of any other country present such terrible instances of misery and starvation? the annals of ireland have been dark, indeed; and those who have wilfully cast that gloom upon them, must emancipate africans, and evangelize the rest of mankind, for a century, at least, to lay the ghosts of the murdered irish.

an irish funeral of later days, with its attendant circumstances of poverty and gloom, is truly calculated to stir the sensitive heart of a poet. the obsequies display the meagre results of attempts to bury the dead with decency. the mourners are few, but their grief is sincere; and they weep for the lost as they would be wept for when death, who is ever walking by their side, lays his cold hand on them. during the great famine, some poor wretches perished while preparing funerals for their friends. in the following verses, published in howitt's journal, of the 1st of april, 1847, we have a fine delineation of an irish funeral, such as only a poet could give:—

[pg 307]

an irish funeral.

by the author of "orion."

"funerals performed."—london trades.

"on wednesday, the remains of a poor woman, who died of hunger, were carried to their last resting-place by three women, and a blind man the son-in-law of the deceased. the distance between the wretched hut of the deceased and the grave-yard was nearly three miles."—tuam herald.

heavily plod

highroad and sod,

with the cold corpse clod

whose soul is with god!

an old door's the hearse

of the skeleton corpse,

and three women bear it,

with a blind man to share it:

over flint, over bog,

they stagger and jog:—

weary, and hungry, and hopeless, and cold,

they slowly bear onward the bones to the mould.

heavily plod

highroad and sod,

with the cold corpse clod,

whose soul is with god!

barefoot ye go,

through the frost, through the snow;

unsteady and slow,

your hearts mad with woe;

bewailing and blessing the poor rigid clod—[pg 308]

the dear dead-and-cold one, whose soul is with god.

heavily plod

highroad and sod,

this ruin and rod

are from man—and not god!

now out spake her sister,—

"can we be quite sure

of the mercy of heaven,

or that death is life's cure?

a cure for the misery, famine, and pains,

which our cold rulers view as the end of their gains?"

heavily plod

highroad and sod,

with the cold corpse clod,

whose soul is with god!

"in a land where's plenty,"

the old mother said,—

"but not for poor creatures

who pawn rags and bed—

there's plenty for rich ones, and those far away,

who drain off our life-blood, so thoughtless and gay!"

heavily plod

highroad and sod,

with the cold corpse clod,

whose soul is with god!

then wailed the third woman—

"the darling was worth

the rarest of jewels

that shine upon earth.

when hunger was gnawing her—wasted and wild—

she shared her last morsel with my little child."

heavily plod [pg 309]

highroad and sod,

with the cold corpse clod,

whose soul is with god!

"o christ!" pray'd the blind man,

"we are not so poor,

though we bend 'neath the dear weight

that crushes this door;

for we know that the grave is the first step to heaven,

and a birthright we have in the riches there given."

heavily plod,

highroad and sod,

with the cold corpse clod,

whose soul is with god!

what wonder if the evicted peasants of ireland, made desperate by the tyranny of the landlords, sometimes make "a law unto themselves," and slay their oppressors! rebellion proves manhood under such circumstances. instances of landlords being murdered by evicted tenants are numerous. in the following sketch we have a vivid illustration of this phase of irish life:—

"the moorland was wide, level, and black; black as night, if you could suppose night condensed on the surface of the earth, and that you could tread on solid darkness in the midst of day. the day itself was fast dropping into night, although it was dreary and gloomy at the best; for it was a november day. the moor, for miles around, was treeless and houseless; devoid of vegetation, except heather, which clad with its gloomy frieze coat the shivering landscape. at a distance you could discern, through the misty atmosphere, the outline of mountains apparently as bare and stony [pg 310] as this wilderness, which they bounded. there were no fields, no hedgerows, no marks of the hand of man, except the nakedness itself, which was the work of man in past ages; when, period after period, he had tramped over the scene with fire and sword, and left all that could not fly before him, either ashes to be scattered by the savage winds, or stems of trees, and carcasses of men trodden into the swampy earth. as the roman historians said of other destroyers, 'they created solitude, and called it peace.' that all this was the work of man, and not of nature, any one spot of this huge and howling wilderness could testify, if you would only turn up its sable surface. in its bosom lay thousands of ancient oaks and pines, black as ebony; which told, by their gigantic bulk, that forests must have once existed on this spot, as rich as the scene was now bleak. nobler things than trees lay buried there; but were, for the most part, resolved into the substance of the inky earth. the dwellings of men had left few or no traces, for they had been consumed in flames; and the hearts that had loved, and suffered, and perished beneath the hand of violence and insult, were no longer human hearts, but slime. if a man were carried blindfold to that place, and asked when his eyes were unbandaged where he was, he would say—'ireland!'

"he would want no clue to the identity of the place, but the scene before him. there is no heath like an irish heath. there is no desolation like an irish desolation. where nature herself has spread the expanse of a solitude, it is a cheerful solitude. the air flows over it lovingly: the flowers nod and dance in gladness; the soil breathes up a spirit of wild fragrance, which communicates a buoyant sensation to the heart. you feel that you tread on ground where the peace of god, and not the 'peace' of man created in the merciless hurricane of war, has sojourned: where the sun shone on creatures sporting on ground or on tree, as the divine goodness of the universe meant them to sport: where the hunter disturbed alone the enjoyment of the lower animals by his own boisterous joy: where the traveller sang as he went over it, because he felt a spring of inexpressible music in his heart: where the weary wayfarer sat beneath a bush, and blessed god, though his limbs ached with travel, and his goal was far off. in god's deserts [pg 311] dwells gladness; in man's deserts, death. a melancholy smites you as you enter them. there is a darkness from the past that envelopes your heart, and the moans and sighs of ten-times perpetrated misery seem still to live in the very winds.

"one shallow and widely spread stream struggled through the moor; sometimes between masses of gray stone. sedges and the white-headed cotton-rush whistled on its margin, and on island-like expanses that here and there rose above the surface of its middle course.

"i have said that there was no sign of life; but on one of those gray stones stood a heron watching for prey. he had remained straight, rigid, and motionless for hours. probably his appetite was appeased by his day's success among the trout of that dark red-brown stream, which was coloured by the peat from which it oozed. when he did move, he sprang up at once, stretched his broad wings, and silent as the scene around him, made a circuit in the air; rising higher as he went, with slow and solemn flight. he had been startled by a sound. there was life in the desert now. two horsemen came galloping along a highway not far distant, and the heron, continuing his grave gyrations, surveyed them as he went. had they been travellers over a plain of india, an austrian waste, or the pampas of south america, they could not have been grimmer of aspect, or more thoroughly children of the wild. they were irish from head to foot.

"they were mounted on two spare but by no means clumsy horses. the creatures had marks of blood and breed that had been introduced by the english to the country. they could claim, if they knew it, lineage of arabia. the one was a pure bay, the other and lesser, was black; but both were lean as death, haggard as famine. they were wet with the speed with which they had been hurried along. the soil of the damp moorland, or of the field in which, during the day, they had probably been drawing the peasant's cart, still smeared their bodies, and their manes flew as wildly and untrimmed as the sedge or the cotton-rush on the wastes through which they careered. their riders, wielding each a heavy stick instead of a riding-whip, which they applied ever and anon to the shoulders or flanks of their smoking animals, were mounted on [pg 312] their bare backs, and guided them by halter instead of bridle. they were a couple of the short frieze-coated, knee-breeches and gray-stocking fellows who are as plentiful on irish soil as potatoes. from beneath their narrow-brimmed, old, weather-beaten hats, streamed hair as unkemped as their horses' manes. the celtic physiognomy was distinctly marked—the small and somewhat upturned nose; the black tint of skin; the eye now looking gray, now black; the freckled cheek, and sandy hair. beard and whiskers covered half the face, and the short square-shouldered bodies were bent forward with eager impatience, as they thumped and kicked along their horses, muttering curses as they went.

"the heron, sailing on broad and seemingly slow vans, still kept them in view. anon, they reached a part of the moorland where traces of human labour were visible. black piles of peat stood on the solitary ground, ready, after a summer's cutting and drying. presently patches of cultivation presented themselves; plots of ground raised on beds, each a few feet wide, with intervening trenches to carry off the boggy water, where potatoes had grown, and small fields where grew more stalks of ragwort than grass, inclosed by banks cast up and tipped here and there with a brier or a stone. it was the husbandry of misery and indigence. the ground had already been freshly manured by sea-weeds, but the village—where was it? blotches of burnt ground, scorched heaps of rubbish, and fragments of blackened walls, alone were visible. garden-plots were trodden down, and their few bushes rent up, or hung with tatters of rags. the two horsemen, as they hurried by with gloomy visages, uttered no more than a single word: 'eviction!'

"further on, the ground heaved itself into a chaotic confusion. stony heaps swelled up here and there, naked, black, and barren: the huge bones of the earth protruded themselves through her skin. shattered rocks arose, sprinkled with bushes, and smoke curled up from what looked like mere heaps of rubbish, but which were in reality human habitations. long dry grass hissed and rustled in the wind on their roofs, (which were sunk by-places, as if falling in;) and pits of reeking filth seemed placed exactly to prevent access to some of the low doors; while to others, a few stepping-stones made that access only possible. here the two riders stopped, and [pg 313] hurriedly tying their steeds to an elder-bush, disappeared in one of the cabins.

"the heron slowly sailed on to the place of its regular roost. let us follow it.

"far different was this scene to those the bird had left. lofty trees darkened the steep slopes of a fine river. rich meadows lay at the feet of woods and stretched down to the stream. herds of cattle lay on them, chewing their cuds after the plentiful grazing of the day. the white walls of a noble house peeped, in the dusk of night, through the fertile timber which stood in proud guardianship of the mansion; and broad winding walks gave evidence of a place where nature and art had combined to form a paradise. there were ample pleasure-grounds. alas! the grounds around the cabins over which the heron had so lately flown, might be truly styled pain-grounds.

"within that home was assembled a happy family. there was the father, a fine-looking man of forty. proud you would have deemed him, as he sate for a moment abstracted in his cushioned chair; but a moment afterward, as a troop of children came bursting into the room, his manner was instantly changed into one so pleasant, so playful, and so overflowing with enjoyment, that you saw him only as an amiable, glad, domestic man. the mother, a handsome woman, was seated already at the tea-table; and, in another minute, sounds of merry voices and childish laughter were mingled with the jocose tones of the father, and the playful accents of the mother; addressed, now to one, now to another of the youthful group.

"in due time the merriment was hushed, and the household assembled for evening prayer. a numerous train of servants assumed their accustomed places. the father read. he had paused once or twice, and glanced with a stern and surprised expression toward the group of domestics, for he heard sounds that astonished him from one corner of the room near the door. he went on—remember the children of edom, o lord, in the day of judgment, how they said, down with it, down with it, even to the ground. o daughter of babylon, wasted with misery, yea, happy shall he be who rewardeth thee, as thou hast served us!"

[pg 314]

"there was a burst of smothered sobs from the same corner, and the master's eye flashed with a strange fire as he again darted a glance toward the offender. the lady looked equally surprised, in the same direction; then turned a meaning look on her husband—a warm flush was succeeded by a paleness in her countenance, and she cast down her eyes. the children wondered, but were still. once more the father's sonorous voice continued—'give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us.' again the stifled sound was repeated. the brow of the master darkened again—the mother looked agitated; the children's wonder increased; the master closed the book, and the servants, with a constrained silence, retired from the room.

"'what can be the matter with old dennis?' exclaimed the lady, the moment that the door had closed on the household.—'oh! what is amiss with poor old dennis!' exclaimed the children.

"'some stupid folly or other,' said the father, morosely. 'come! away to bed, children. you can learn dennis's troubles another time.' the children would have lingered, but again the words, 'away with you!' in a tone which never needed repetition, were decisive: they kissed their parents and withdrew. in a few seconds the father rang the bell. 'send dennis croggan here.'

"the old man appeared. he was a little thin man, of not less than seventy years of age, with white hair and a dark spare countenance. he was one of those nondescript servants in a large irish house, whose duties are curiously miscellaneous. he had, however, shown sufficient zeal and fidelity through a long life, to secure a warm nook in the servants' hall for the remainder of his days.

"dennis entered with an humble and timid air, as conscious that he had deeply offended; and had to dread at least a severe rebuke. he bowed profoundly to both the master and mistress.

"'what is the meaning of your interruptions during the prayers, dennis?' demanded the master abruptly. 'has any thing happened to you?'

"'no, sir.'

"'any thing amiss in your son's family?'

[pg 315]

"'no, your honour.'

"the interrogator paused; a storm of passion seemed slowly gathering within him. presently he asked in a loud tone, 'what does this mean? was there no place to vent your nonsense in, but in this room, and at prayers?'

"dennis was silent. he cast an imploring look at the master, then at the mistress.

"'what is the matter, good dennis?' asked the lady, in a kind tone. 'compose yourself, and tell us. something strange must have happened to you.'

"dennis trembled violently; but he advanced a couple of paces, seized the back of a chair as if to support him, and, after a vain gasp or two, declared, as intelligibly as fear would permit, that the prayer had overcome him.

"'nonsense, man!' exclaimed the master, with fury in the same face, which was so lately beaming with joy on the children. 'nonsense! speak out without more ado, or you shall rue it.'

"dennis looked to the mistress as if he would have implored her intercession; but as she gave no sign of it, he was compelled to speak; but in a brogue that would have been unintelligible to english ears. we therefore translate it:

"'i could not help thinking of the poor people at rathbeg, when the soldiers and police cried, "down with them! down with them, even to the ground!" and then the poor bit cabins came down all in fire and smoke, amid the howls and cries of the poor creatures.

"'oh! it was a fearful sight, your honour—it was, indeed—to see the poor women hugging their babies, and the houses where they were born burning in the wind. it was dreadful to see the old bedridden man lie on the wet ground among the few bits of furniture, and groan to his gracious god above. oh, your honour! you never saw such a sight, or—you—sure a—it would never have been done!'

"dennis seemed to let the last words out as if they were jerked from him by a sudden shock.

"the master, whose face had changed during this speech to a livid hue of passion, his eyes blazing with rage, was in the act of rushing on old dennis, when he was held back by his wife, [pg 316] who exclaimed, 'oswald! be calm; let us hear what dennis has to say. go on, dennis, go on.'

"the master stood still, breathing hard to overcome his rage. old dennis, as if seeing only his own thoughts, went on: 'o, bless your honour, if you had seen that poor frantic woman when the back of the cabin fell and buried her infant, where she thought she had laid it safe for a moment while she flew to part her husband and a soldier who had struck the other children with the flat of his sword, and bade them to troop off. oh, your honour, but it was a killing sight. it was that came over me in the prayer, and i feared that we might be praying perdition on us all, when we prayed about our trespasses. if the poor creatures of rathbeg should meet us, your honour, at heaven's gate (i was thinking) and say—these are the heathens that would not let us have a poor hearth-stone in poor ould ireland.—and that was all, your honour, that made me misbehave so; i was just thinking of that, and i could not help it.'

"'begone, you old fool!' exclaimed the master; and dennis disappeared with a bow and an alertness that would have done credit to his earlier years.

"there was a moment's silence after his exit. the lady turned to her husband, and clasping his arm with her hands and looking into his darkened countenance with a look of tenderest anxiety, said:—

"'dearest oswald, let me, as i have so often done, once more entreat that these dreadful evictions may cease. surely there must be some way to avert them and to set your property right, without such violent measures.'

"the stern proud man said, 'then why, in the name of heaven, do you not reveal some other remedy? why do you not enlighten all ireland? why don't you instruct government? the unhappy wretches who have been swept away by force are no people, no tenants of mine; they squatted themselves down, as a swarm of locusts fix themselves while a green blade is left; they obstruct all improvement; they will not till the ground themselves, nor will they quit it to allow me to provide more industrious and provident husbandmen to cultivate it. land that teems [pg 317] with fertility, and is shut out from hearing and bringing forth food for man, is accursed. those who have been evicted not only rob me, but their more industrious fellows.'

"'they will murder us,' said the wife, 'some day for these things. they will—'

"her words were cut short suddenly by her husband starting, and standing in a listening attitude. 'wait a moment,' he said, with a peculiar calmness, as if he had just got a fresh thought; and his lady, who did not comprehend what was the cause, but hoped that some better influence was touching him, unloosed her hands from his arm. 'wait just a moment,' he repeated, and stepped from the room, opened the front door, and, without his hat, went out.

"'he is intending to cool down his anger,' thought his wife; 'he feels a longing for the freshness of the air,' but she had not caught the sound which had startled his quicker, because more excited ear; she had been too much engrossed by her own intercession with him; it was a peculiar whine from the mastiff, which was chained near the lodge-gate, that had arrested his attention. he stepped out. the black clouds which overhung the moor had broken, and the moon's light straggled between them.

"the tall and haughty man stood erect in the breeze and listened. another moment-there was a shot, and he fell headlong upon the broad steps on which he stood. his wife sprang with a piercing shriek from the door and fell on his corpse. a crowd of servants gathered about them, making wild lamentations and breathing vows of vengeance. the murdered master and the wife were borne into the house.

"the heron soared from its lofty perch, and wheeled with terrified wings through the night air. the servants armed themselves, and, rushing furiously from the house, traversed the surrounding masses of trees; fierce dogs were let loose, and dashed frantically through the thickets: all was, however, too late. the soaring heron saw gray figures, with blackened faces, stealing away—often on their hands and knees—down the hollows of the moorlands toward the village, where the two irish horsemen had, [pg 318] in the first dusk of that evening, tied their lean steeds to the old elder bush.

"near the mansion no lurking assassin was to be found. meanwhile two servants, pistol in hand, on a couple of their master's horses, scoured hill and dale. the heron, sailing solemnly on the wind above, saw them halt in a little town. they thundered with the butt-ends of their pistols on a door in the principal street; over it there was a coffin-shaped board, displaying a painted crown and the big-lettered words, 'police station.' the mounted servants shouted with might and main. a night-capped head issued from a chamber casement with—'what is the matter?'

"'out with you, police! out with all your strength, and lose not a moment. mr. fitzgibbon, of sporeen, is shot at his own door.'

"the casement was hastily clapped to, and the two horsemen galloped forward up the long, broad street, now flooded with the moon's light. heads full of terror were thrust from upper windows to inquire the cause of that rapid galloping, but ever too late. the two men held their course up a steep hill outside of the town, where stood a vast building overlooking the whole place; it was the barracks. here the alarm was also given.

"in less than an hour a mounted troop of police in olive-green costume, with pistols at holster, sword by side, and carbine on the arm, were trotting briskly out of town, accompanied by the two messengers, whom they plied with eager questions. these answered, and sundry imprecations vented, the whole party increased their speed, and went on, mile after mile, by hedgerow and open moorland, talking as they went.

"before they reached the house of sporeen, and near the village where the two irish horsemen had stopped the evening before, they halted and formed themselves into more orderly array. a narrow gully was before them on the road, hemmed in on each side by rocky steeps, here and there overhung with bushes. the commandant bade them be on their guard, for there might be danger there. he was right; for the moment they began to trot through the pass, the flash and rattle of firearms from the thickets above saluted them, followed by a wild yell. in a second, [pg 319] several of their number lay dead or dying in the road. the fire was returned promptly by the police, but it was at random; for, although another discharge and another howl announced that the enemy were still there, no one could be seen. the head of the police commanded his troops to make a dash through the pass; for there was no scaling the heights from this side, the assailants having warily posted themselves there, because at the foot of the eminence were stretched on either hand impassable bogs. the troop dashed forward, firing their pistols as they went, but were met by such deadly discharges of firearms as threw them into confusion, killed and wounded several of their horses, and made them hastily retreat.

"there was nothing for it but to await the arrival of the cavalry; and it was not long before the clatter of horses' hoofs and the ringing of sabres were heard on the road. on coming up, the troop of cavalry, firing to the right and left on the hillsides, dashed forward, and, in the same instant, cleared the gully in safety, the police having kept their side of the pass. in fact, not a single shot was returned, the arrival of this strong force having warned the insurgents to decamp. the cavalry, in full charge, ascended the hills to their summits. not a foe was to be seen, except one or two dying men, who were discovered by their groans.

"the moon had been for a time quenched in a dense mass of clouds, which now were blown aside by a keen and cutting wind. the heron, soaring over the desert, could now see gray-coated men flying in different directions to the shelter of the neighbouring hills. the next day he was startled from his dreamy reveries near the moorland stream, by the shouts and galloping of mingled police and soldiers, as they gave chase to a couple of haggard, bare-headed, and panting peasants. these were soon captured, and at once recognised as belonging to the evicted inhabitants of the recently deserted village.

"since then years have rolled on. the heron, who had been startled from his quiet haunts by these things, was still dwelling on the lofty tree with his kindred, by the hall of sporeen. he had reared family after family in that airy lodgment, as spring after spring came round; but no family, after that fatal time, [pg 320] had ever tenanted the mansion. the widow and children had fled from it so soon as mr. fitzgibbon had been laid in the grave. the nettle and dock flourished over the scorched ruins of the village of rathbeg; dank moss and wild grass tangled the proud drives and walks of sporeen. all the woodland rides and pleasure-grounds lay obstructed with briers; and young trees in time grew luxuriantly where once the roller in its rounds could not crush a weed; the nimble frolics of the squirrel were now the only merry things where formerly the feet of lovely children had sprung with elastic joy.

"the curse of ireland was on the place. landlord and tenant, gentleman and peasant, each with the roots and the shoots of many virtues in their hearts, thrown into a false position by the mutual injuries of ages, had wreaked on each other the miseries sown broadcast by their ancestors. beneath this foul spell men who would, in any other circumstances, have been the happiest and the noblest of mankind, became tyrants; and peasants, who would have glowed with grateful affection toward them, exulted in being their assassins. as the traveller rode past the decaying hall, the gloomy woods, and waste black moorlands of sporeen, he read the riddle of ireland's fate, and asked himself when an ?dipus would arise to solve it."

a large number of the peasantry of connemara, a rocky and romantic region, are among the most recent evictions.

"these hardy mountaineers, whose lives, and the lives of their fathers and great-grandfathers have been spent in reclaiming the barren hills where their hard lot has been cast, were the victims of a series of oppressions unparalleled in the annals of irish misrule. they were thickly planted over the rocky surface of connemara for political purposes. in the days of the 40s. freeholder, they were driven to the hustings like a flock of sheep, to register not alone one vote, but in many instances three or four votes each; and it was no uncommon thing to see those unfortunate serfs evicted from their holdings when an election had terminated— [pg 321] not that they refused to vote according to the wish of their landlords, but because they did not go far enough in the sin of perjury and the diabolical crime of impersonation. when they ceased to possess any political importance, they were cast away like broken tools. it was no uncommon thing, in the wilds of connemara, to see the peasantry, after an election, coming before the catholic archbishop, when holding a visitation of his diocese, to proclaim openly the crime of impersonation which their landlords compelled them to commit, and implore forgiveness for such. of this fact we have in the town of galway more than one living witness; so that, while every thing was done, with few exceptions, to demoralize the peasantry of connemara, and plant in their souls the germs of that slavery which is so destructive to the growth of industry, enterprise, or manly exertion—no compassion for their wants was ever evinced—no allowance for their poverty and inability to meet the rack-renting demands of their landlords was ever made."

perhaps, it requires no ?dipus to tell what will be the future of the irish nation, if the present system of slavery is maintained by their english conquerors. if they do not cease to exist as a people, they will continue to quaff the dark waters of sorrow, and to pay a price, terrible to think of, for the mere privilege of existence.

during the famine of 1847, the heartlessness of many irish landlords was manifested by their utter indifference to the multitudes starving around their well-supplied mansions. at that period, the rev. a. king, of cork, wrote to the southern reporter as follows:—

"the town and the surrounding country for many miles are possessed by twenty-six proprietors, whose respective yearly incomes [pg 322] vary from one hundred pounds, or less, to several thousands. they had all been respectfully informed of the miserable condition of the people, and solicited to give relief. seventeen of the number had not the politeness to answer the letters of the committee, four had written to say they would not contribute, and the remaining five had given a miserable fraction of what they ought to have contributed. my first donation from a small portion of a small relief fund, received from english strangers, exceeded the aggregate contributions of six-and-twenty landed proprietors, on whose properties human beings were perishing from famine, filth, and disease, amid circumstances of wretchedness appalling to humanity and disgraceful to civilized men! i believe it my sacred duty to gibbet this atrocity in the press, and to call on benevolent persons to loathe it as a monster crime. twenty-one owners of property, on which scores, nay hundreds, of their fellow-creatures are dying of hunger, give nothing to save their lives! are they not virtually guilty of wholesale murder? i ask not what human law may decide upon their acts, but in the name of christianity i arraign them as guilty of treason against the rights of humanity and the laws of god!"

it is to escape the responsibility mentioned by mr. king, as well as to avoid the payment of poor-rates, that the landlords resort to the desolating process of eviction. to show the destructive nature of the tyrannical system that has so long prevailed in ireland, we will take an abstract of the census of 1841 and 1851.

1841 1851

houses: inhabited 1,328,839 1,047,935

uninhabited, built 52,203 65,159

" "building 3,318 2,113

———— ————

total 1,384,360 1,115,207

families 1,472,287 1,207,002

persons: males 4,019,576 3,176,727 [pg 323]

" females 4,155,548 3,339,067

———— ————

total 8,175,124 6,515,794

population in 1841 8,175,124

"1851 6,515,794

————

decrease 1,659,330

or, at the rate of 20 per cent.

population in 1821 6,801,827

"1831 7,767,401

"1841 8,175,124

"1851 6,515,794

or, 286,030 souls fewer than in 1821, thirty years ago.

"we shall impress the disastrous importance of the reduction in the number of the people on our readers, by placing before them a brief account of the previous progress of the population. there is good reason to suppose, that, prior to the middle of the last century, the people continually, though slowly, increased; but from that time something like authentic but imperfect records give the following as their numbers at successive periods:—

1754 2,372,634

1767 2,544,276 increase per cent. 7·2

1777 2,690,556 " 5·7

1785 2,845,932 " 5·8

1805 5,359,456 " 84·0

1813 5,937,858 " 10·8

1821 6,801,829 " 14·6

1831 7,767,401 " 14·9

1841 8,175,124 " 5·3

1851 6,515,794 decrease 20·0

"though there are some discrepancies in these figures, and probably the number assigned to 1785 is too small, and that assigned to 1805 too large, they testify uniformly to a continual increase of the people for eighty-seven years, from 1754 to 1841. now, for the first time in nearly a century, a complete change has set in, and the population has decreased in the last ten years 20 per cent. it is 1,659,330 less than in 1841, and less by 286,033 than in 1821.

[pg 324]

"but this is not quite all. the census of 1851 was taken 68 days earlier than the census of 1841; and it is obvious, if the same rate of decrease continued through those 68 days, as has prevailed on the average through the ten years, that the whole amount of decrease would be so much greater. sixty-eight days is about the 54th part of ten years—say the 50th part; and the 50th part of the deficiency is 33,000 odd—say 30,000. we must add 30,000, therefore, to the 1,659,330, making 1,689,330, to get the true amount of the diminution of the people in ten years.

"instead of the population increasing in a healthy manner, implying an increase in marriages, in families, and in all the affections connected with them, and implying an increase in general prosperity, as for nearly a century before, and now amounting, as we might expect, to 8,600,000, it is 2,000,000 less. this is a disastrous change in the life of the irish. at this downward rate, decreasing 20 per cent. in ten years, five such periods would suffice to exterminate the whole population more effectually than the indians have been exterminated from north america. fifty years of this new career would annihilate the whole population of ireland, and turn the land into an uninhabited waste. this is a terrible reverse in the condition of a people, and is the more remarkable because in the same period the population of great britain has increased 12 per cent., and because there is no other example of a similar decay in any part of europe in the same time, throughout which the population has continued to increase, though not everywhere equally, nor so fast as in great britain. indeed, it may be doubted whether the annals of mankind can supply, in a season of peace—when no earthquakes have toppled down cities, no volcanoes have buried them beneath their ashes, and no inroads of the ocean have occurred—such wholesale diminution of the population and desolation of the country.

"the inhabited houses in ireland have decreased from 1,328,839 in 1841 to 1,047,735 in 1851, or 281,104, (21·2 per cent.,) and consequently more than the population, who are now worse lodged and more crowded in relation to houses than they were in 1841. as the uninhabited houses have increased only 12,951, no less than 268,153 houses must have been destroyed in the ten years. [pg 325] that informs us of the extent of the 'clearances' of which we have heard so much of late; and the 1,659,300 people less in the country is an index to the number of human beings who inhabited the houses destroyed. we must remember, too, that within the period a number of union workhouses have been built in ireland, capable of accommodating 308,885 persons, and that, besides the actual diminution of the number of the people, there has been a change in their habits, about 300,000 having become denizens of workhouses, who, prior to 1841, lived in their own separate huts. with distress and destruction pauperism has also increased.

"the decrease has not been equal for the males and females; the numbers were as follows.—

1841 1851

males 4,019,576 3,176,124 decrease 20·9 per cent.

females 4,155,548 3,336,067 "29·6 "

"the females now exceed the males by 162,943, or 2 per cent. on the whole population. it is not, however, that the mortality has been greater among the males than the females, but that more of the former than of the latter have escaped from the desolation.

"another important feature of the returns is the increase of the town population:—dublin, 22,124, or 9 per cent.; belfast, 24,352, or 32 per cent.; galway, 7422, or 43 per cent.; cork, 5765, or 7 per cent. altogether, the town population has increased 71,928, or nearly 1 per cent., every town except londonderry displaying the same feature; and that increase makes the decrease of the rural population still more striking. the whole decrease is of the agricultural classes: mr. o'connell's 'finest pisantry' are the sufferers."

the london illustrated news, in an article upon the census, says—

"the causes of the decay of the people, subordinate to inefficient employment and to wanting commerce and manufactures, are obviously great mortality, caused by the destruction of the potatoes and the consequent want of food, the clearance system, and emigration. from the retarded increase of the population [pg 326] between 1831 and 1841—only 5·3 per cent., while in the previous ten years it had been nearly 15 per cent.—it may be inferred that the growth of the population was coming to a stand-still before 1841, and that the late calamities only brought it down to its means of continued subsistence, according to the distribution of property and the occupations of the people. the potato rot, in 1846, was a somewhat severer loss of that root than had before fallen on the irish, who have suffered occasionally from famines ever since their history began; and it fell so heavily on them then, because they were previously very much and very generally impoverished. thousands, and even millions, of them subsisted almost exclusively on lumpers, the very worst kind of potatoes, and were reduced in health and strength when they were overtaken by the dearth of 1846. the general smallness of their consumption, and total abstinence from the use of tax paying articles, is made painfully apparent by the decrease of the population of ireland having had no sensible influence in reducing the revenue. they were half starved while alive. another remarkable fact which we must notice is, that, while the irish population have thus been going to decay, the imports and exports of the empire have increased in a much more rapid ratio than the population of great britain. for them, therefore, exclusively, is the trade of the empire carried on, and the irish who have been swept away, without lessening the imports and exports, have had no share in our commerce. it is from these facts apparent, that, while they have gone to decay, the population of great britain have increased their well-being and their enjoyments much more than their numbers. we need not remind our readers of the dreadful sufferings of the irish in the years 1847, 1848, and 1849; for the accounts we then published of them were too melancholy to be forgotten. as an illustration, we may observe that the irish poor-law commissioners, in their fourth report, dated may 5, 1851, boast that the 'worst evils of the famine, such as the occurrence of deaths by the wayside, a high rate of mortality in the workhouses, and the prevalence of dangerous and contagious diseases in or out of the workhouse, have undergone a very material abatement.' there have been, then, numerous deaths by [pg 327] the wayside, alarming contagious diseases, and great mortality in the workhouses."

the poor-law commissioners kept a most mysterious silence during the worst period of the famine; and, it was only when the horrors of that time were known to the whole civilized world that they reported the "abatement of the evils." perhaps, they had become so accustomed to witnessing misery in ireland that even the famine years did not startle them into making a humane appeal to the british government upon behalf of the sufferers.

the illustrated news, in the same article we have quoted above, says, quite sensibly, but with scarcely a due appreciation of the causes of ireland's decay—

"the decline of the population has been greatest in connaught; now the commissioners tell us that in 1847 the maximum rate of mortality in the workhouses of that province was 43.6 per week in a thousand persons, so that in about 23 weeks at this rate the whole 1000 would be dead. the maximum rate of mortality in all the workhouses in that year was 25 per 1000 weekly, or the whole 1000 would die in something more than 39 weeks. that was surely a very frightful mortality. it took place among that part of the population for which room was found in the workhouses; and among the population out of the workhouses perishing by the wayside, the mortality must have been still more frightful. we are happy to believe, on the assurance of the commissioners, that matters are now improved, that workhouse accommodation is to be had—with one exception, kilrush—for all who need it; that the expense of keeping the poor is diminished; that contagious disorders are less frequent, and that the rate of mortality has much declined. but the statement that such improvements [pg 328] have taken place, implies the greatness of the past sufferings. there can be no doubt, therefore, that the decay of the population has partly arisen from increased mortality on the one hand, and from decreasing marriages and decreasing births on the other. now that the irish have a poor-law fairly administered, we may expect that, in future, such terrible scenes as were witnessed in 1847-49 will not again occur. but the state which authorized the landlords, by a law, to clear their estates of the peasantry, as if they were vermin, destroying, as we have seen, 268,153 dwellings, without having previously imposed on those landlords the obligation of providing for the people, did a great wrong, and the decay of the people now testifies against it.

"with reference to emigration—the least objectionable mode of getting rid of a population—there are no correct returns kept of the number of irish who emigrate, because a great part of them go from liverpool, and are set down in the returns as emigrants from england. it is supposed by those best acquainted with the subject, that more than nine-tenths of the emigrants from liverpool are irish. taking that proportion, therefore, and adding it to the emigrants who proceed direct from ireland, the number of irish emigrants from 1842 to the present year was—

1843 39,549 │ 1847 214,970

1844 55,910 │ 1848

1845 177,720 │ 1849 208,759

1846 106,767 │ 1850 207,853

———— │ ————

total, 4 years, 278,749 │ total, 4 years, 809,302

total, 8 years 1,088,051.

"if we add 70,000 for the two first years of the decennial period not included in the return, we shall have 1,158,051 as the total emigration of the ten years. it was probably more than that—it could not well have been less. to this we must add the number of irish who came to england and scotland, of whom no account is kept. if we put them down at 30,000 a year, we shall have for the ten years 300,000; or the total expatriation of the irish in the ten years may be assumed at 1,458,000, or say 1,500,000. at [pg 329] first sight this appears a somewhat soothing explanation of the decline of the irish population; but, on being closely examined, it diminishes the evil very little in one sense, and threatens to enhance it in another.

"so far as national strength is concerned, it is of no consequence whether the population die out or emigrate to another state, except that, if the other state be a rival or an enemy, it may be worse for the parent state that the population emigrate than be annihilated. in truth, the irish population in the united states, driven away formerly by persecution, have imbittered the feelings of the public there against england. emigration is only very beneficial, therefore, when it makes room for one at home for every one removed. such is the emigration from england to her colonies or to the united states, with which she has intimate trade relations; but such is not the case with the emigration from ireland, for there we find a frightful void. no one fills the emigrant's place. he flies from the country because he cannot live in it; and being comparatively energetic, we may infer that few others can. in the ordinary course, had the 1,500,000 expatriated people remained, nearly one-third of them would have died in the ten years; they would have increased the terrible mortality, and, without much adding to the present number of the people, would have added to the long black catalogue of death.

"for the emigrants themselves removal is a great evil, a mere flying from destruction. the poor-law commissioners state that the number of pauper emigrants sent from ireland in 1850 was about 1800, or less than one per cent. of the whole emigration; the bulk of the emigrants were not paupers, but persons of some means as well as of some energy. they were among the best of the population, and they carried off capital with them—leaving the decrepit, the worn-out, and the feeble behind them; the mature and the vigorous, the seed of future generations, went out of the land, and took with them the means of future increase. we doubt, therefore, whether such an emigration as that from ireland within the last four years will not be more fatal to its future prosperity than had the emigrants swelled the mortality at [pg 330] home. all the circumstances now enumerated tend to establish the conclusion, that, for the state, and for the people who remain behind, it is of very little consequence whether a loss of population, such as that in ireland, be caused by an excessive mortality or excessive emigration.

"to the emigrants themselves, after they have braved the pain of the separation and the difficulties of the voyage, and after they are established in a better home, the difference is very great; but it may happen that, to ireland as a state, their success abroad will be rather dangerous than beneficial. on the whole, emigration does not account for the decrease of people; and if it did account for it, would not afford us the least consolation."

in the above article, the kilrush union is mentioned as an exception to the general improvement in ireland, in respect to workhouse accommodation. mr. sidney godolphin osborne, the able and humane correspondent of the london times, can enlighten us in regard to the treatment of the poor of kilrush in 1851.

"i am sorry to be compelled again to call public attention to the state of things in the above ill-fated union. i do not dispute the interest which must attach to the transactions of the encumbered estates court, the question of the so-called godless colleges, the campaign now commencing against the national schools, and the storm very naturally arising against the papal aggression bill, in a country so catholic as ireland. but i must claim some interest upon the part of the british public on the question of life and death now cruelly working out in the west of ireland.

"the accommodation for paupers in the kilrush union-houses was, in the three weeks ending the 8th, 15th, and 22d of this month, calculated for 4654; in the week ending the 8th of march there were 5005 inmates, 56 deaths!—in the week ending the 15th of march, 4980 inmates, 68 deaths!—in the week ending the [pg 331] 22d of march, 4868 inmates, 79 deaths! that is to say, there were 203 deaths in 21 days. i last week called your attention to the fact of the over-crowding and the improper feeding of the poor creatures in these houses, as proved by a report made by the medical officer on the 1st of february, repeated on the 22d, and, at the time of my letter, evidently unheeded. behold the result—79 deaths in a population of under 5000 in one week! i have, i regret to say, besides these returns, a large mass of returns of deaths outside the house, evidently the result of starvation; on some, coroners' juries have admitted it to be so.

"eye-witnesses of the highest respectability, as well as my own paid agent, report to me the state of the town and neighbourhood of the workhouse on the admission-days in characters quite horrifying: between 100 and 200 poor, half-starved, almost naked creatures may be seen by the roadside, under the market-house—in short, wherever the famished, the houseless, and the cold can get for a night's shelter. many have come twelve irish miles to seek relief, and then have been refused, though their sunken eyes and projecting bones write the words 'destitute' and 'starving' in language even the most callous believers in pauper cunning could not misunderstand. i will defy contradiction to the fact, that the business of the admission-days is conducted in a way which forbids common justice to the applicants; it is a mere mockery to call the scene of indecent hurry and noisy strife between guardians, officers, and paupers, which occupies the few hours weekly given to this work, a hearing of applicants.

"i have before me some particulars of a visit of inspection paid to these houses a short time since by a gentleman whose position and whose motives are above all cavil for respectability and integrity; i have a mass of evidence, voluntarily given me, from sources on which i can place implicit confidence, all tending to one and the same point. the mortality so fast increasing can only be ascribed to the insufficiency of the out-relief given to the destitute, and the crowding and improper diet of the in-door paupers. from the published statement of the half-year ending september 29, 1850, signed 'c. m. vandeleur, chairman,' i find there were 1014 deaths in that said half-year. average weekly [pg 332] cost per head—food, 11?d.; clothing, 2d. i shall look with anxiety for the return of the half-year just ended; it will be a curious document, as emanating from a board the chairman of which has just trumpeted in your columns with regard to this union, 'that the lands, with little exception, are well occupied, and a spirit of industry visible among all classes.' it will at least prove a more than usual occupation of burying-land, and a spirit of increased energy in the grave-digging class.

"with regard to the diet of the old and infirm, i can conceive it possible that since the publication of my last letter there may be some improvement, though i am not yet aware of it. i am now prepared to challenge all contradiction to the fact that the diet has been not only short of what it ought to be by the prescribed dietary, but, in the case of the bread, it has frequently been unfit for human food—such as very old or very young people could only touch under the pressure of famine, and could not, under any circumstances, sustain health upon.

"let the authorities investigate the deaths of the last six weeks, taking the cause of death from the medical officers, and how soon after admission each individual died; they will then, with me, cease to wonder that the poor creatures who come in starving should so soon sink, when the sanatory condition of the law's asylum is just that which would tell most severely even on the most healthy. i admit, sir, that kilrush market may be well supplied with cheap food, but the evicted peasantry have no money, and vendors do not give. i admit that the season for the growth of nettles, and cornkale, and other weeds, the of late years normal food of these poor creatures, has not yet set in, and this i do not deny is all against them. i leave to the british public the forming any conclusion they like from this admission.

"what i now contend for is this—that in a particular part of great britain there are certain workhouses, asylums for the destitute, supervised by salaried inspectors, directly under the cognizance of the government, in which the crowding of the sick is most shameful, the diet equally so. the mortality for the weeks ending january 25 to march 22—484, upon a population which in those weeks never exceeded 5200 souls! i believe these to be [pg 333] facts which cannot be disputed, and i claim on them the immediate interference of the government, and the more especially as the chairman of this union makes a public favourable comparison between it and the union of ennistymon, in the same county. i am myself prepared, on very short notice, to go over at my own expense with any person of respectability from this country, appointed by government, and i have no doubt we shall prove that i have, if any thing, understated matters; if so, am i wrong, sir, in saying, that such a state of things, within a twenty hours' journey from london, is in a sad and shameful contrast to the expected doings of the 'world's fair' on english ground? when, the other day, i looked on the crystal palace, and thought of kilrush workhouse, as i have seen it and now know it to be, i confess i felt, as a christian and the subject of a christian government, utter disgust. again, sir, i thank you from my heart for your indulgence to these my cries for justice for ireland."

alas! poor country, where each hour teems with a new grievance; where tyranny is so much a custom that the very institutions which have charity written upon their front are turned to dangerous pest-houses, slaving shops, or tombs; where to toil even to extremity is to be rewarded with semi-starvation in styes, and, perhaps, by sudden eviction, and a grave by the wayside; where to entertain certain religious convictions is to invite the whips of persecution, and the particular tyranny of the landlord who adheres to the church of england; where to speak the faith of the heart, the opinions of the mind, is to sacrifice the food doled out by the serf-holders; where to live is to be considered a glorious mercy—to hope, something unfit for common men.

[pg 334]

the struggles and achievements of con mcnale, as related in "household words," give us a tolerably truthful representation of the milder features of irish peasant life. con had better luck than most of his class, and knew better how to improve it. yet the circumstances of his existence were certainly not those of a freeman:—

"my father," said he, "lived under ould squire kilkelly, an' for awhile tinded his cattle; but the squire's gone out iv this part iv the counthry, to australia or some furrin part, an' the mentioned house (mansion-house) an' the fine property was sould, so it was, for little or nothin', for the fightin' was over in furrin parts; boney was put down, an' there was no price for corn or cattle, an' a jontleman from scotland came an' bought the istate. we were warned by the new man to go, for he tuk in his own hand all the in-land about the domain, bein' a grate farmer. he put nobody in our little place, but pulled it down, an' he guv father a five-guinea note, but my father was ould an' not able to face the world agin, an' he went to the town an' tuk a room—a poor, dirty, choky place it was for him, myself, and sisther to live in. the neighbours were very kind an' good though. sister bridget got a place wid a farmer hereabouts, an' i tuk the world on my own showlders. i had nothin' at all but the rags i stud up in, an' they were bad enuf. poor biddy got a shillin' advanced iv her wages that her masther was to giv her. she guv it me, for i was bent on goin' toward belfast to look for work. all along the road i axed at every place; they could giv it me, but to no good; except when i axed, they'd giv me a bowl iv broth, or a piece iv bacon, or an oaten bannock, so that i had my shillin' to the fore when i got to belfast.

"here the heart was near lavin' me all out intirely. i went wandtherin' down to the quay among the ships, and what should there be but a ship goin' to scotland that very night wid pigs. in throth it was fun to see the sailors at cross-purposes wid 'em, [pg 335] for they didn't know the natur iv the bastes. i did. i knew how to coax 'em. i set to an' i deludhered an' coaxed the pigs, an' by pullin' them by the tail, knowing that if they took a fancy i wished to pull 'em back out of the ship they'd run might an' main into her, and so they did. well, the sailors were mightily divarted, an' when the pigs was aboord i wint down to the place; an' the short iv it is that in three days i was in glasgow town, an' the captain an' the sailors subscribed up tin shillins an' guv it into my hand. well, i bought a raping-hook, an' away i trudged till i got quite an' clane into the counthry, an' the corn was here and there fit to cut. at last i goes an' ax a farmer for work. he thought i was too wake to be paid by the day, but one field havin' one corner fit to cut, an' the next not ready, 'paddy,' says he, 'you may begin in that corner, an' i'll pay yees by the work yees do,' an' he guv me my breakfast an' a pint of beer. well, i never quit that masther the whole harvest, an' when the raping was over i had four goolden guineas to carry home, besides that i was as sthrong as a lion. yees would wonder how glad the sailors was to see me back agin, an' ne'er a farthin' would they take back iv their money, but tuk me over agin to belfast, givin' me the hoighth of good thratemint of all kinds. i did not stay an hour in belfast, but tuk to the road to look afther the ould man an' little biddy. well, sorrows the tidins i got. the ould man had died, an' the grief an' disthress of poor little biddy had even touched her head a little. the dacent people where she was, may the lord reward 'em, though they found little use in her, kep her, hoping i would be able to come home an' keep her myself, an' so i was. i brought her away wid me, an' the sight iv me put new life in her. i was set upon not being idle, an' i'll tell yees what i did next.

"when i was little bouchaleen iv a boy i used to be ahead on the mountain face, an' 'twas often i sheltered myself behind them gray rocks that's at the gable iv my house; an' somehow it came into my head that the new squire, being a grate man for improvin' might let me try to brake in a bit iv land there; an' so i goes off to him, an' one iv the sarvints bein' a sort iv cousin iv mine, i got to spake to the squire, an' behould yees he guv me lave at [pg 336] onst. well, there's no time like the prisint, an' as i passed out iv the back yard of the mentioned (mansion) house, i sees the sawyers cutting some norway firs that had been blown down by the storm, an' i tells the sawyers that i had got lave to brake in a bit iv land in the mountains, an' what would some pieces iv fir cost. they says they must see what kind of pieces they was that i wished for; an' no sooner had i set about looking 'em through than the squire himself comes ridin' out of the stable-yard, an' says he at onst, 'mcnale,' says he, 'you may have a load iv cuttins to build your cabin, or two if you need it.' 'the heavens be your honour's bed,' says i, an' i wint off to the room where i an' biddy lived, not knowin' if i was on my head or my heels. next day, before sunrise, i was up here, five miles up the face of slieve-dan, with a spade in my fist, an' i looked roun' for the most shiltered spot i could sit my eyes an. here i saw, where the house an' yard are stan'in', a plot iv about an acre to the south iv that tall ridge of rocks, well sheltered from the blast from the north an' from the aste, an' it was about sunrise an' a fine morning in october that i tuk up the first spadeful. there was a spring then drippin' down the face iv the rocks, an' i saw at once that it would make the cabin completely damp, an' the land about mighty sour an' water-slain; so i determined to do what i saw done in scotland. i sunk a deep drain right under the rock to run all along the back iv the cabin, an' workin' that day all alone by myself, i did a grate dale iv it. at night it was close upon dark when i started to go home, so i hid my spade in the heath an' trudged off. the next morning i bargained with a farmer to bring me up a load iv fir cuttins from the squire's, an' by the evenin' they were thrown down within a quarter iv a mile iv my place, for there was no road to it then, an' i had to carry 'em myself for the remainder of the way. this occupied me till near nightfall; but i remained that night till i placed two upright posts of fir, one at each corner iv the front iv the cabin.

"i was detarmined to get the cabin finished as quickly as possible, that i might be able to live upon the spot, for much time was lost in goin' and comin'. the next day i was up betimes, an' finding a track iv stiff blue clay, i cut a multitude of thick [pg 337] square sods iv it, an' having set up two more posts at the remainin' two corners iv the cabin, i laid four rows iv one gable, rising it about three feet high. havin' laid the rows, i sharpind three or four straight pine branches, an' druv them down through the sods into the earth, to pin the wall in its place. next day i had a whole gable up, each three rows iv sods pinned through to the three benathe. in about eight days i had put up the four walls, makin' a door an' two windows; an' now my outlay began, for i had to pay a thatcher to put on the sthraw an' to assist me in risin' the rafthers. in another week it was covered in, an' it was a pride to see it with the new thatch an' a wicker chimbly daubed with clay, like a pallis undernathe the rock. i now got some turf that those who had cut 'em had not removed, an' they sould 'em for a thrifle, an' i made a grate fire an' slept on the flure of my own house that night. next day i got another load iv fir brought to make the partitions in the winter, an' in a day or two after i had got the inside so dhry that i was able to bring poor biddy to live there for good and all. the heavens be praised, there was not a shower iv rain fell from the time i began the cabin till i ended it, an' when the rain did fall, not a drop came through—all was carried off by my dhrain into the little river before yees.

"the moment i was settled in the house i comminced dhraining about an acre iv bog in front, an' the very first winter i sowed a shillin's worth of cabbidge seed, an' sold in the spring a pound's worth of little cabbidge plants for the gardins in the town below. when spring came, noticin' how the early-planted praties did the best, i planted my cabbidge ground with praties, an' i had a noble crap, while the ground was next year fit for the corn. in the mane time, every winther i tuk in more and more ground, an' in summer i cut my turf for fewel, where the cuttins could answer in winther for a dhrain; an' findin' how good the turf were, i got a little powney an' carried 'em to the town to sell, when i was able to buy lime in exchange an' put it on my bog, so as to make it produce double. as things went on i got assistance, an' when i marrid, my wife had two cows that guv me a grate lift.

[pg 338]

"i was always thought to be a handy boy, an' i could do a turn of mason-work with any man not riglarly bred to it; so i took one of my loads of lime, an' instead of puttin' it on the land, i made it into morthar—and indeed the stones being no ways scarce, i set to an' built a little kiln, like as i had seen down the counthry. i could then burn my own lime, an' the limestone were near to my hand, too many iv 'em. while all this was goin' on, i had riz an' sould a good dale iv oats and praties, an' every summer i found ready sale for my turf in the town from one jontleman that i always charged at an even rate, year by year. i got the help of a stout boy, a cousin iv my own, who was glad iv a shilter; an' when the childher were ould enough, i got some young cattle that could graze upon the mountain in places where no other use could be made iv the land, and set the gossoons to herd 'em.

"there was one bit iv ground nigh han' to the cabin that puzzled me intirely. it was very poor and sandy, an' little better than a rabbit burrow; an' telling the squire's scotch steward iv it, he bade me thry some flax; an' sure enuf, so i did, an' a fine crap iv flax i had as you might wish to see; an' the stame-mills being beginnin' in the counthry at that time, i sould my flax for a very good price, my wife having dhried it, beetled it, an' scutched it with her own two hands.

"i should have said before that the squire himself came up here with a lot iv fine ladies and jontlemen to see what i had done; an' you never in your life seed a man so well plased as he was, an' a mimber of parlimint from scotland was with him, an' he tould me i was a credit to ould ireland; an' sure didn't father connor read upon the papers, how he tould the whole story in the parlimint house before all the lords an' quality. but faix, he didn't forgit me; for a month or two after he was here, an' it coming on the winter, comes word for me an' the powney to go down to the mentioned (mansion) house, for the steward wanted me. so away i wint, an' there, shure enuf, was an illigant scotch plough, every inch of iron, an' a lot of young norroway pines—the same you see shiltering the house an' yard—an' all was a free prisint for me from the scotch jontleman that was the mimber [pg 339] of parlimint. 'twas that plough that did the meracles iv work hereabouts; for i often lint it to any that i knew to be a careful hand, an' it was the manes iv havin' the farmers all round send an' buy 'em. at last i was able to build a brave snug house; and, praised be providence, i have never had an hour's ill health nor a moment's grief, but when poor biddy, the cratur, died from us. it is thirty years since that morning that i tuk up the first spadeful from the wild mountain side; an' twelve acres are good labour land, an' fifteen drained an' good grazin'. i have been payin' rint twinty years, an' am still, thank god, able to take my own part iv any day's work—plough, spade, or flail."

"have you got a lease?" said i.

"no, indeed, nor a schrape of a pin; nor i never axed it. have i not my tinnant-rite?"

at any moment the labours of poor con might have been rendered of no benefit to him. he held the wretched hovel and the ground he tilled merely by the permission of the landlord, who could have desolated all by the common process of eviction; and con would then have been driven to new exertions or to the workhouse. the rugged ballad of "patrick fitzpatrick's farewell," presents a case more common than that of con mcnale:—

"those three long years i've labour'd hard as any on erin's isle,

and still was scarcely able my family to keep;

my tender wife and children three, under the lash of misery,

unknown to friends and neighbours, i've often seen to weep.

sad grief it seized her tender heart, when forced her only cow to part,

and canted [94] was before her face, the poor-rates for to pay;

cut down in all her youthful bloom, she's gone into her silent tomb; [pg 340]

forlorn i will mourn her loss when in america."

in the same ballad we have an expression of the comparative paradise the irish expect to find—and do find, by the way—in that land which excites so much the pity of the philanthropic aristocracy:—

"let erin's sons and daughters fair now for the promised land prepare,

america, that beauteous soil, will soon your toil repay;

employment, it is plenty there, on beef and mutton you can fare,

from five to six dollars is your wages every day.

now see what money has come o'er these three years from columbia's shore;

but for it numbers now were laid all in their silent clay;

california's golden mines, my boys, are open now to crown our joys,

so all our hardships we'll dispute when in america."

as an illustration of the manner in which eviction is sometimes effected by heartless landlords in ireland, and the treatment which the lowly of great britain generally receive from those who become their masters, we may quote "two scenes in the life of john bodger," from "dickens's household words." the characters in this sketch are english; but the incidents are such as frequently occur in ireland:—

"in the year 1832, on the 24th of december, one of those clear bright days that sometimes supersede the regular snowy, sleety christmas weather, a large ship lay off plymouth; the blue peter flying from her masthead, quarters of beef hanging from her mizzen-booms, [pg 341] and strings of cabbages from her stern rails; her decks crowded with coarsely-clad blue-nosed passengers, and lumbered with boxes, barrels, hen-coops, spars, and chain-cables. the wind was rising with a hollow, dreary sound. boats were hurrying to and fro, between the vessel and the beach, where stood excited groups of old people and young children. the hoarse, impatient voices of officers issuing their commands, were mingled with the shrill wailing of women on the deck and the shore.

"it was the emigrant ship 'cassandra,' bound for australia during the period of the 'bounty' system, when emigration recruiters, stimulated by patriotism and a handsome percentage, rushed frantically up and down the country, earnestly entreating 'healthy married couples,' and single souls of either sex, to accept a free passage to 'a land of plenty.' the english labourers had not then discovered that australia was a country where masters were many and servants scarce. in spite of poverty and poorhouse fare, few of the john bull family could be induced to give heed to flaming placards they could not read, or inspiring harangues they could not understand. the admirable education which in 1832, at intervals of seven days, was distributed in hom?opathic doses among the agricultural olive-branches of england, did not include modern geography, even when reading and writing were imparted. if a stray sunday-school scholar did acquire a faint notion of the locality of canaan, he was never permitted to travel as far as the british colonies.

"to the ploughman out of employ, canaan, canada, and australia were all 'furrin parts;' he did not know the way to them; but he knew the way to the poorhouse, so took care to keep within reach of it.

"thus it came to pass that the charterers of the good ship 'cassandra' were grievously out in their calculations; and failing to fill with english, were obliged to make up their complement with irish; who, having nothing to fall upon, but the charity of the poor to the poorer, are always ready to go anywhere for a daily meal.

"the steamers from cork had transferred their ragged, weeping, laughing, fighting cargoes; the last stray groups of english had been collected from the western counties; the government officers [pg 342] had cleared and passed the ship. with the afternoon tide two hundred helpless, ignorant, destitute souls were to bid farewell to their native land. the delays consequent on miscalculating the emigrating taste of england had retarded until midwinter, a voyage which should have been commenced in autumn.

"in one of the shore-boats, sat a portly man—evidently neither an emigrant nor a sailor—wrapped in a great coat and comforters; his broad-brimmed beaver secured from the freezing blast by a coloured bandanna tied under the chin of a fat, whiskerless face. this portly personage was mr. joseph lobbit, proprietor of 'the shop,' farmer, miller, and chairman of the vestry of the rich rural parish of duxmoor.

"at duxmoor, the chief estate was in chancery, the manor-house in ruins, the lord of it an outlaw, and the other landed proprietors absentees, or in debt; a curate preached, buried, married, and baptized, for the health of the rector compelled him to pass the summer in switzerland, and the winter in italy; so mr. lobbit was almost the greatest, as he was certainly the richest, man in the parish.

"except that he did not care for any one but himself, and did not respect any one who had not plenty of money, he was not a bad sort of man. he had a jolly hearty way of talking and shaking hands, and slapping people on the back; and until you began to count money with him, he seemed a very pleasant, liberal fellow. he was fond of money, but more fond of importance; and therefore worked as zealously at parish-business as he did at his own farm, shop, and mill. he centred the whole powers of the vestry in one person, and would have been beadle, too, if it had been possible. he appointed the master and matron of the workhouse, who were relations of his wife; supplied all the rations and clothing for 'the house,' and fixed the prices in full vestry (viz. himself, and the clerk, his cousin,) assembled. he settled all the questions of out-door relief, and tried hard, more than once, to settle the rate of wages too.

"ill-natured people did say that those who would not work on master lobbit's farm, at his wages, stood a very bad chance if they wanted any thing from the parish, or came for the doles of blankets, [pg 343] coals, bread, and linsey-woolsey petticoats, which, under the provisions of the tablets in duxmoor church, are distributed every christmas. of course, mr. lobbit supplied these gifts, as chief shopkeeper, and dispensed them, as senior and perpetual churchwarden. lobbit gave capital dinners; plenty smoked on his board, and pipes of negro-head with jorums of gin punch followed, without stint.

"the two attorneys dined with him—and were glad to come, for he had always money to lend, on good security, and his gin was unexceptionable. so did two or three bullfrog farmers, very rich and very ignorant. the doctor and curate came occasionally; they were poor, and in his debt at 'the shop,' therefore bound to laugh at his jokes—which were not so bad, for he was no fool—so that, altogether, mr. lobbit had reason to believe himself a very popular man.

"but there was—where is there not?—a black drop in his overflowing cup of prosperity.

"he had a son whom he intended to make a gentleman; whom he hoped to see married to some lady of good family, installed in the manor-house of duxmoor, (if it should be sold cheap, at the end of the chancery suit,) and established as the squire of the parish. robert lobbit had no taste for learning, and a strong taste for drinking, which his father's customers did their best to encourage. old lobbit was decent in his private habits; but, as he made money wherever he could to advantage, he was always surrounded by a levee of scamps, of all degrees—some agents and assistants, some borrowers, and would-be borrowers. young lobbit found it easier to follow the example of his father's companions than to follow his father's advice. he was as selfish and greedy as his father, without being so agreeable or hospitable. in the school-room he was a dunce, in the play-ground a tyrant and bully; no one liked him; but, as he had plenty of money, many courted him.

"as a last resource his father sent him to oxford; whence, after a short residence, he was expelled. he arrived home drunk, and in debt; without having lost one bad habit, or made one respectable friend. from that period he lived a sot, a village rake, the [pg 344] king of the taproom, and the patron of a crowd of blackguards, who drank his beer and his health; hated him for his insolence, and cheated him of his money.

"yet joseph lobbit loved his son, and tried not to believe the stories good-natured friends told of him.

"another trouble fell upon the prosperous churchwarden. on the north side of the parish, just outside the boundaries of duxmoor manor, there had been, in the time of the great civil wars, a large number of small freehold farmers: each with from forty to five acres of land; the smaller, fathers had divided among their progeny; the larger had descended to eldest sons by force of primogeniture. joseph lobbit's father had been one of these small freeholders. a right of pasture on an adjacent common was attached to these little freeholds; so, what with geese and sheep, and a cow or so, even the poorest proprietor, with the assistance of harvest work, managed to make a living, up to the time of the last war. war prices made land valuable, and the common was enclosed; though a share went to the little freeholders, and sons and daughters were hired, at good wages, while the enclosure was going on, the loss of the pasture for stock, and the fall of prices at the peace, sealed their fate. john lobbit, our portly friend's father, succeeded to his little estate, of twenty acres, by the death of his elder brother, in the time of best war prices, after he had passed some years as a shopman in a great seaport. his first use of it was to sell it, and set up a shop in duxmoor, to the great scandal of his farmer neighbours. when john slept with his fathers, joseph, having succeeded to the shop and savings, began to buy land and lend money. between shop credit to the five-acred and mortgages to the forty-acred men, with a little luck in the way of the useful sons of the freeholders being constantly enlisted for soldiers, impressed for sailors, or convicted for poaching offences, in the course of years joseph lobbit became possessed, not only of his paternal freehold, but, acre by acre, of all his neighbours' holdings, to the extent of something like five hundred acres. the original owners vanished; the stout and young departed, and were seen no more; the old and decrepit were received and kindly housed in the workhouse. of course it could not have [pg 345] been part of mr. lobbit's bargain to find them board and lodging for the rest of their days at the parish expense. a few are said to have drunk themselves to death; but this is improbable, for the cider in that part of the country is extremely sour, so that it is more likely they died of colic.

"there was, however, in the very centre of the cluster of freeholds which the parochial dignitary had so successfully acquired, a small barren plot of five acres with a right of road through the rest of the property. the possessor of this was a sturdy fellow, john bodger by name, who was neither to be coaxed nor bullied into parting with his patrimony.

"john bodger was an only son, a smart little fellow, a capital thatcher, a good hand at cobhouse building—in fact a handy man. unfortunately, he was as fond of pleasure as his betters. he sang a comic song till peoples' eyes ran over, and they rolled on their seats: he handled a singlestick very tidily; and, among the light weights, was not to be despised as a wrestler. he always knew where a hare was to be found; and, when the fox-hounds were out, to hear his view-halloo did your heart good. these tastes were expensive; so that when he came into his little property, although he worked with tolerable industry, and earned good wages for that part of the country, he never had a shilling to the fore, as the irish say. if he had been a prudent man, he might have laid by something very snug, and defied mr. lobbit to the end of his days.

"it would take too long to tell all joseph lobbit's ingenious devices—after plain, plump offers—to buy bodger's acres had been refused. john bodger declined a loan to buy a cart and horse; he refused to take credit or a new hat, umbrella, and waistcoat, after losing his money at bidecot fair. he went on steadily slaving at his bit of land, doing all the best thatching and building jobs in the neighbourhood, spending his money, and enjoying himself without getting into any scrapes; until mr. joseph lobbit, completely foiled, began to look on john bodger as a personal enemy.

"just when john and his neighbours were rejoicing over the defeat of the last attempt of the jolly parochial, an accident occurred which upset all john's prudent calculations. he fell in love. [pg 346] he might have married dorothy paulson, the blacksmith's daughter—an only child, with better than two hundred pounds in the bank, and a good business—a virtuous, good girl, too, except that she was as thin as a hurdle, with a skin like a nutmeg-grater, and rather a bad temper. but instead of that, to the surprise of every one, he went and married carry hutchins, the daughter of widow hutchins, one of the little freeholders bought out by mr. lobbit, who died, poor old soul, the day after she was carried into the workhouse, leaving carry and her brother tom destitute—that is to say, destitute of goods, money, or credit, but not of common sense, good health, good looks, and power of earning wages.

"carry was nearly a head taller than john, with a face like a ripe pear. he had to buy her wedding gown, and every thing else. he bought them at lobbit's shop. tom hutchins—he was fifteen years old—a tall, spry lad, accepted five shillings from his brother-in-law, hung a small bundle on his bird's-nesting stick, and set off to walk to bristol, to be a sailor. he was never heard of any more at duxmoor.

"at first all went well. john left off going to wakes and fairs, except on business; stuck to his trades; brought his garden into good order, and worked early and late, when he could spare time, at his two fields, while his wife helped him famously. if they had had a few pounds in hand, they would have had 'land and beeves.'

"but the first year twins came—a boy and girl; and the next another girl, and then twins again, and so on. before mrs. bodger was thirty she had nine hearty, healthy children, with a fair prospect of plenty more; while john was a broken man, soured, discontented, hopeless. no longer did he stride forth eagerly to his work, after kissing mother and babies; no longer did he hurry home to put a finishing-stroke to the potato-patch, or broadcast his oat crop; no longer did he sit whistling and telling stories of bygone feats at the fireside, while mending some wooden implement of his own, or making one for a neighbour. languid and moody, he lounged to his task with round shoulders and slouching gait; spoke seldom—when he did, seldom kindly. his children, except the youngest, feared him, and his wife scarcely opened her lips, except to answer.

[pg 347]

"a long, hard, severe winter, and a round of typhus fever, which carried off two children, finished him. john bodger was beaten, and obliged to sell his bit of land. he had borrowed money on it from the lawyer; while laid up with fever he had silently allowed his wife to run up a bill at 'the shop.' when strong enough for work there was no work to be had. lobbit saw his opportunity, and took it. john bodger wanted to buy a cow, he wanted seed, he wanted to pay the doctor, and to give his boys clothes to enable them to go to service. he sold his land for what he thought would do all this and leave a few pounds in hand. he attended to sign the deed and receive money; when instead of the balance of twenty-five pounds he had expected, he received one pound ten shillings, and a long lawyer's bill receipted.

"he did not say much; for poor countrymen don't know how to talk to lawyers, but he went toward home like a drunken man; and, not hearing the clatter of a horse behind him that had run away, was knocked down, run over, and picked up with his collar-bone and two ribs broken.

"the next day he was delirious; in the course of a fortnight he came to his senses, lying on a workhouse bed. before he could rise from the workhouse bed, not a stick or stone had been left to tell where the cottage of his fathers had stood for more than two hundred years, and mr. joseph lobbit had obtained, in auctioneering phrase, a magnificent estate of five hundred acres within a ring fence.

"john bodger stood up at length a ruined, desperate, dangerous man, pale, and weak, and even humble. he said nothing; the fever seemed to have tamed every limb—every feature—except his eyes, which glittered like an adder's when mr. lobbit came to talk to him. lobbit saw it and trembled in his inmost heart, yet was ashamed of being afraid of a pauper!

"about this time swing fires made their appearance in the country, and the principal insurance companies refused to insure farming stock, to the consternation of mr. lobbit; for he had lately begun to suspect that among mr. swing's friends he was not very popular, yet he had some thousand pounds of corn-stacks in his own yards and those of his customers.

[pg 348]

"john bodger, almost convalescent, was anxious to leave the poorhouse, while the master, the doctor, and every official, seemed in a league to keep him there and make him comfortable, although a short time previously the feeling had been quite different. but the old rector of duxmoor having died at the early age of sixty-six, in spite of his care for his health, had been succeeded by a man who was not content to leave his duties to deputies; all the parish affairs underwent a keen criticism, and john and his large family came under investigation. his story came out. the new rector pitied and tried to comfort him; but his soothing words fell on deaf ears. the only answer he could get from john was, 'a hard life while it lasts, sir, and a pauper's grave, a pauper widow, pauper children; parson, while this is all you can offer john bodger, preaching to him is of no use.'

"with the wife the clergyman was more successful. hope and belief are planted more easily in the hearts of women than of men, for adversity softens the one and hardens the other. the rector was not content with exhorting the poor; he applied to the rich joseph lobbit on behalf of john bodger's family, and as the rector was not only a truly christian priest, but a gentleman of good family and fortune, the parochial ruler was obliged to hear and to heed.

"bland and smooth, almost pathetic, was joseph lobbit: he was 'heartily sorry for the poor man and his large family; should be happy to offer him and his wife permanent employment on his hill farm, as well as two of the boys and one of the girls.'

"the eldest son and daughter, the first twins, had been for some time in respectable service. john would have nothing to do with mr. lobbit.

"while this discussion was pending, the news of a ship at plymouth waiting for emigrants, reached duxmoor.

"the parson and the great shopkeeper were observed in a long warm conference in the rectory garden, which ended in their shaking hands, and the rector proceeding with rapid strides to the poorhouse.

"the same day the lately established girls' school was set to work sowing garments of all sizes, as well as the females of the [pg 349] rector's family. a week afterward there was a stir in the village; a wagon moved slowly away, laden with a father, mother, and large family, and a couple of pauper orphan girls. yes, it was true; john and carry bodger were going to 'furrin parts,' 'to be made slaves on.' the women cried, and so did the children from imitation. the men stared. as the emigrants passed the red lion there was an attempt at a cheer from two tinkers; but it was a failure; no one joined in. so staring and staring, the men stood until the wagon crept round the turn of the lane and over the bridge, out of sight; then bidding the 'wives' go home and be hanged to 'em, their lords, that had twopence, went in to spend it at the red lion, and those who had not, went in to see the others drink, and talk over john bodger's 'bouldness,' and abuse muster lobbit quietly, so that no one in top-boots should hear them;—for they were poor ignorant people in duxmoor—they had no one to teach them, or to care for them, and after the fever, and a long hard winter, they cared little for their own flesh and blood, still less for their neighbours. so john bodger was forgotten almost before he was out of sight.

"by the road-wagon which the bodgers joined when they reached the highway, it was a three days' journey to plymouth.

"but, although they were gone, mr. lobbit did not feel quite satisfied; he felt afraid lest john should return and do him some secret mischief. he wished to see him on board ship, and fairly under sail. besides his negotiation with emigration brokers had opened up ideas of a new way of getting rid, not only of dangerous fellows like john bodger, but of all kinds of useless paupers. these ideas he afterward matured, and although important changes have taken place in our emigrating system, even in 1851, a visit to government ships, will present many specimens of parish inmates converted, by dexterous diplomacy, into independent labourers.

"thus it was, that contrary to all precedent, mr. lobbit left his shopman to settle the difficult case of credit with his christmas customers, and with best horse made his way to plymouth; and now for the first time in his life floated on salt water.

"with many grunts and groans he climbed the ship's side; not [pg 350] being as great a man at plymouth as at duxmoor, no chair was lowered to receive his portly person. the mere fact of having to climb up a rope-ladder from a rocking boat on a breezy, freezing day, was not calculated to give comfort or confident feelings to an elderly gentleman. with some difficulty, not without broken shins, amid the sarcastic remarks of groups of wild irishmen, and the squeaks of barefooted children—who not knowing his awful parochial character, tumbled about mr. lobbit's legs in a most impertinently familiar manner—he made his way to the captain's cabin, and there transacted some mysterious business with the emigration agent over a prime piece of mess beef and a glass of madeira. the madeira warmed mr. lobbit. the captain assured him positively that the ship would sail with the evening tide. that assurance removed a heavy load from his breast: he felt like a man who had been performing a good action, and also cheated himself into believing that he had been spending his own money in charity; so, at the end of the second bottle, he willingly chimed in with the broker's proposal to go down below and see how the emigrants were stowed, and have a last look at his 'lot.'

"down the steep ladder they stumbled into the misery of a 'bounty' ship. a long, dark gallery, on each side of which were ranged the berths; narrow shelves open to every prying eye; where, for four months, the inmates were to be packed like herrings in a barrel, without room to move, almost without air to breathe; the mess table, running far aft the whole distance between the masts, left little room for passing, and that little was encumbered with all manner of boxes, packages, and infants, crawling about like rabbits in a warren.

"the groups of emigrants were characteristically employed. the irish 'coshering,' or gossiping; for, having little or no baggage to look after, they had little care; but lean and ragged, monopolized almost all the good-humour of the ship. acute cockneys, a race fit for every change, hammering, whistling, screwing and making all snug in their berths; tidy mothers, turning with despair from alternate and equally vain attempts to collect their numerous children out of danger, and to pack the necessaries of a room into the space of a small cupboard, wept and worked away. [pg 351] here, a ruined tradesman, with his family, sat at the table, dinnerless, having rejected the coarse, tough salt meat in disgust: there, a half-starved group fed heartily on rations from the same cask, luxuriated over the allowance of grog, and the idea of such a good meal daily. songs, groans, oaths: crying, laughing, complaining, hammering and fiddling combined to produce a chaos of strange sounds; while thrifty wives, with spectacle on nose, mended their husband's breeches, and unthrifty ones scolded.

"amid this confusion, under the authoritative guidance of the second mate, mr. lobbit made his way, inwardly calculating how many poachers, pauper refractories, whiteboys, and captain rocks, were about to benefit australia by their talents, until he reached a party which had taken up its quarters as far as possible from the irish, in a gloomy corner near the stern. it consisted of a sickly, feeble woman, under forty, but worn, wasted, retaining marks of former beauty in a pair of large, dark, speaking eyes, and a well-carved profile, who was engaged in nursing two chubby infants, evidently twins, while two little things, just able to walk, hung at her skirts; a pale, thin boy, nine or ten years old, was mending a jacket; an elder brother, as brown as a berry, fresh from the fields, was playing dolefully on a hemlock flute. the father, a little, round-shouldered man, was engaged in cutting wooden buttons from a piece of hard wood with his pocket-knife; when he caught sight of mr. lobbit he hastily pulled off his coat, threw it into his berth, and, turning his back, worked away vigorously at the stubborn bit of oak he was carving.

"'hallo, john bodger, so here you are at last,' cried mr. lobbit; 'i've broken my shins, almost broken my neck, and spoilt my coat with tar and pitch, in finding you out. well, you're quite at home, i see: twins all well?—both pair of them? how do you find yourself, missis?'

"the pale woman sighed, and cuddled her babies—the little man said nothing, but sneered, and made the chips fly faster.

"'you're on your way now to a country where twins are no object; your passage is paid, and you've only got now to pray for the good gentlemen that have given you a chance of earning an honest living.'

[pg 352]

"no answer.

"'i see them all here except mary, the young lady of the family. pray, has she taken rue, and determined to stay in england, after all; i expected as much'——

"as he spoke, a young girl, in the neat dress of a parlour servant, came out of the shade.

"'oh! you are there, are you, miss mary? so you have made up your mind to leave your place and old england, to try your luck in australia; plenty of husbands there: ha, ha!'

"the girl blushed, and sat down to sew at some little garments. fresh, rosy, neat, she was as great a contrast to her brother, the brown, ragged ploughboy, as he was to the rest of the family, with their flabby, bleached complexions.

"there was a pause. the mate, having done his duty by finding the parochial dignitary's protegés, had slipped away to more important business; a chorus of sailors 'yo heave ho-ing' at a chain cable had ceased, and for a few moments, by common consent, silence seemed to have taken possession of the long, dark gallery of the hold.

"mr. lobbit was rather put out by the silence, and no answers; he did not feel so confident as when crowing on his own dunghill, in duxmoor; he had a vague idea that some one might steal behind him in the dark, knock his hat over his eyes, and pay off old scores with a hearty kick: but parochial dignity prevailed, and, clearing his throat with a 'hem,' he began again—

"'john bodger, where's your coat?—what are you shivering there for, in your sleeves?—what have you done with the excellent coat generously presented to you by the parish—a coat that cost, as per contract, fourteen shillings and fourpence—you have not dared to sell it, i hope?'

"'well, master lobbit, and if i did, the coat was my own, i suppose?'

"'what, sir?'

"the little man quailed; he had tried to pluck up his spirit, but the blood did not flow fast enough. he went to his berth and brought out the coat.

"it was certainly a curious colour, a sort of yellow brown, the [pg 353] cloth shrunk and cockled up, and the metal buttons turned a dingy black.

"mr. lobbit raved; 'a new coat entirely spoiled, what had he done to it?' and as he raved he warmed, and felt himself at home again, deputy acting chairman of the duxmoor vestry. but the little man, instead of being frightened, grew red, lost his humble mien, stood up, and at length, when his tormentor paused for breath, looked him full in the face, and cried, 'hang your coat!—hang you!—hang all the parochials of duxmoor! what have i done with your coat? why, i've dyed it; i've dipped it in a tan-yard; i was not going to carry your livery with me. i mean to have the buttons off before i'm an hour older. gratitude you talk of;—thanks you want, you old hypocrite, for sending me away. i'll tell you what sent me,—it was that poor wench and her twins, and a letter from the office, saying they would not insure your ricks, while lucifer matches are so cheap. ay, you may stare—you wonder who told me that; but i can tell you more. who is it writes so like his father the bank can't tell the difference?'

"mr. lobbit turned pale.

"'be off!' said the little man; 'plague us no more. you have eaten me up with your usury; you've got my cottage and my bit of land; you've made paupers of us all, except that dear lass, and the one lad, and you'd wellnigh made a convict of me. but never mind. this will be a cold, drear christmas to us, and a merry, fat one to you; but, perhaps, the christmas may come when master joseph lobbit would be glad to change places with poor, ruined john bodger. i am going where i am told that sons and daughters like mine are better than "silver, yea, than fine gold." i leave you rich on the poor man's inheritance, and poor man's flesh and blood. you have a son and daughter that will revenge me. "cursed are they that remove landmarks, and devour the substance of the poor!"'

"while this, one of the longest speeches that john bodger was ever known to make, was being delivered, a little crowd had collected, who, without exactly understanding the merits of the case, had no hesitation in taking side with their fellow-passenger, [pg 354] the poor man with the large family. the irish began to inquire if the stout gentleman was a tithe-proctor or a driver? murmurs of a suspicious character arose, in the midst of which, in a very hasty, undignified manner, mr. lobbit backed out, climbed up to the deck with extraordinary agility, and, without waiting to make any complaints to the officers of the ship, slipped down the side into a boat, and never felt himself safe, until called to his senses by an attempt on the part of the boatman to exact four times the regular fare.

"but a good dinner at the globe (at parochial expense) and a report from the agent that the ship had sailed, restored mr. lobbit's equanimity; and by the time that, snugly packed in the mail, he was rattling along toward home by a moonlight christmas, he began to think himself a martyr to a tender heart, and to console himself by calculating the value of the odd corner of bodger's acres, cut up into lots for his labourers' cottages. the result—fifty per cent.—proved a balm to his wounded feelings.

"i wish i could say that at the same hour john bodger was comforting his wife and little ones; sorry am i to report that he left them to weep and complain, while he went forward and smoked his pipe, and sang, and drank grog with a jolly party in the forecastle—for john's heart was hardened, and he cared little for god or man.

"this old, fond love for his wife and children seemed to have died away. he left them, through the most part of the voyage, to shift for themselves—sitting forward, sullenly smoking, looking into vacancy, and wearying the sailors with asking, 'how many knots to-day, jack? when do you think we shall see land?' so that the women passengers took a mortal dislike to him; and it being gossiped about that when his wife was in the hospital he never went to see her for two days, they called him a brute. so 'bodger the brute' he was called until the end of the voyage. then they were all dispersed, and such stories driven out of mind by new scenes.

"john was hired to go into the far interior, where it was difficult to get free servants at all; so his master put up with the dead-weight encumbrance of the babies, in consideration of the [pg 355] clever wife and string of likely lads. thus, in a new country, he began life again in a blue jersey and ragged corduroys, but with the largest money income he had ever known."

the second scene is a picture of john bodger's prosperity in australia, where eviction and workhouses are forgotten. if australia had not been open to john as a refuge, most probably he would have become a criminal, or a worthless vagrant. here is the second scene:—

"in 1842, my friend mrs. c. made one of her marches through the bush with an army of emigrants. these consisted of parents with long families, rough, country-bred single girls, with here and there a white-handed, useless young lady—the rejected ones of the sydney hirers. in these marches she had to depend for the rations of her ragged regiment on the hospitality of the settlers on her route, and was never disappointed, although it often happened that a day's journey was commenced without any distinct idea of who would furnish the next dinner and breakfast.

"on one of these foraging excursions—starting at day-dawn on horseback, followed by her man friday, an old lag, (prisoner,) in a light cart, to carry the provender—she went forth to look for the flour, milk, and mullet, for the breakfast of a party whose english appetites had been sharpened by travelling at the pace of the drays all day, and sleeping in the open air all night.

"the welcome smoke of the expected station was found; the light cart, with the complements and empty sack despatched; when musing, at a foot-pace, perhaps on the future fortune of the half-dozen girls hired out the previous day, mrs. c. came upon a small party which had also been encamping on the other side of the hills.

"it consisted of two gawky lads, in docked smock frocks, woolly hats, rosy, sleepy countenances—fresh arrivals, living monuments of the care bestowed in developing the intelligence [pg 356] of the agricultural mind in england. they were hard at work on broiled mutton. a regular, hard-dried bushman had just driven up a pair of blood mares from their night's feed, and a white-headed, brisk kind of young old man, the master of the party, was sitting by the fire, trying to feed an infant with some sort of mess compounded with sugar. a dray, heavily laden, with a bullock-team ready harnessed, stood ready to start under the charge of a bullock-watchman.

"the case was clear to a colonial eye; the white-headed man had been down to the port from his bush-farm to sell his stuff, and was returning with two blood mares purchased, and two emigrant lads hired; but what was the meaning of the baby? we see strange things in the bush, but a man-nurse is strange even there.

"although they had never met before, the white-headed man almost immediately recognised mrs. c.,—for who did not know her, or of her, in the bush?—so was more communicative than he otherwise might have been; so he said—

"'you see, ma'am, my lady, i have only got on my own place these three years; having a long family, we found it best to disperse about where the best wages was to be got. we began saving the first year, and my daughters have married pretty well, and my boys got to know the ways of the country. there's three of them married, thanks to your ladyship; so we thought we could set up for ourselves. and we've done pretty tidy. so, as they were all busy at home, i went down for the first time to get a couple of mares, and see about hiring some lads out of the ships to help us. you see i have picked up two newish ones; i have docked their frocks to a useful length, and i think they'll do after a bit; they can't read, neither of them—no more could i when i first came—but our teacher (she's one my missis had from you) will soon fettle them; and i've got a power of things on the dray; i wish you could be there at unloading; for it being my first visit, i wanted something for all of them. but about this babby is a curious job. when i went aboard the ship to hire my shepherds, i looked out for some of my own country; and while i was asking, i heard of a poor woman whose husband [pg 357] had been drowned in a drunken fit on the voyage, that was lying very ill, with a young babby, and not likely to live.

"'something made me go to see her; she had no friends on board, she knew no one in the colony. she started, like, at my voice; one word brought on another, when it came out she was the wife of the son of my greatest enemy.

"'she had been his father's servant, and married the son secretly. when it was found out, he had to leave the country; thinking that once in australia, the father would be reconciled, and the business that put her husband in danger might be settled. for this son was a wild, wicked man, worse than the father, but with those looks and ways that take the hearts of poor lasses. well, as we talked, and i questioned her—for she did not seem so ill as they had told me—she began to ask me who i was, and i did not want to tell; when i hesitated, she guessed, and cried out, 'what, john bodger, is it thee!'—and with that she screamed, and screamed, and went off quite light-headed, and never came to her senses until she died.

"'so, as there was no one to care for the poor little babby, and as we had such a lot at home, what with my own children and my grandchildren, i thought one more would make no odds, so the gentleman let me take it, after i'd seen the mother decently buried.

"'you see this feeding's a very awkward job, ma'am—and i've been five days on the road. but i think my missis will be pleased as much as with the gown i've brought her.'

"'what,' said mrs. c., 'are you the john bodger that came over in the 'cassandra,'—the john b.?'

"'yes, ma'am.'

"'john, the brute?'

"'yes, ma'am. but i'm altered, sure-ly.'

"'well,' continued john, 'the poor woman was old joseph lobbit's daughter-in-law. her husband had been forging, or something, and would have been lagged if he'd staid in england. i don't know but i might have been as bad if i had not got out of the country when i did. but there's something here in always getting on; and not such a struggling and striving that softens a [pg 358] poor man's heart. and i trust what i've done for this poor babby and its mother may excuse my brutish behaviour. i could not help thinking when i was burying poor jenny lobbit, (i mind her well, a nice little lass, about ten years old,) i could not help thinking as she lay in a nice, cloth-covered coffin, and a beautiful stone cut with her name and age, and a text on her grave, how different it is even for poor people to be buried here. oh, ma'am! a man like me, with a long family, can make ahead here, and do a bit of good for others worse off. we live while we live; when we die we are buried with decency. i remember, when my wife's mother died, the parish officers were so cross, and the boards of the coffin barely stuck together, and it was terrible cold weather, too. my carry used to cry about it uncommonly all the winter. the swells may say what they like about it, but i'll be blessed if it be'ent worth all the voyage to die in it.'

"not many days afterward, mrs. c. saw john at home, surrounded by an army of sons and daughters; a patriarch, and yet not sixty years old; the grandchild of his greatest enemy the greatest pet of the family.

"in my mind's eye there are sometimes two pictures. john bodger in the workhouse, thinking of murder and fire-raising in the presence of his prosperous enemy; and john bodger, in his happy bush-home, nursing little nancy lobbit.

"at duxmoor the shop has passed into other hands. the ex-shopkeeper has bought and rebuilt the manor-house. he is the squire, now, wealthier than ever he dreamed; on one estate a mine has been found; a railway has crossed and doubled the value of another; but his son is dead; his daughter has left him, and lives, he knows not where, a life of shame. childless and friendless, the future is, to him, cheerless and without hope."

poor-law guardians are characters held in very low esteem by the irish serfs, who are not backward in expressing their contempt. the feeling is a natural one, as will appear from considering who those guardians generally are, and how they perform their duties: [pg 359]—

"at the introduction of the poor-law into ireland, the workhouses were built by means of loans advanced by the government on the security of the rates. constructed generally in that style of architecture called 'elizabethan,' they were the most imposing in the country in elevation and frequency, and, placed usually in the wretched suburbs of towns and villages, formed among the crumbling and moss-grown cottages, a pleasing contrast in the eye of the tourist. they were calculated to accommodate from five hundred to two thousand inmates, according to the area and population of the annexed district; but some of them remained for years altogether closed, or, if open, nearly unoccupied, owing to the ingenious shifts of the 'guardians,' under the advice of the 'solicitor of the board,' their object was to economize the resources of the union, to keep the rates down, and in some instances they evaded the making of any rate for years after the support of the destitute was made nominally imperative by the law of the land.

"as there was a good deal of patronage in a small way placed at the disposal of the 'guardians,' great anxiety was manifested by those eligible to the office. most justices of the peace were, indeed, ipso facto, guardians, but a considerable number had to be elected by the rate-payers, and an active canvass preceded every election. a great deal of activity and conviviality, if not gayety, was the result, and more apparently important affairs were neglected by many a farmer, shopkeeper, and professional man, to insure his being elected a 'guardian,' while the unsuccessful took pains to prove their indifference, or to vent their ill-humour in various ways, sometimes causing less innocuous effects than the following sally:—

"at a certain court of quarter sessions, during the dog-day heat of one of these contests, a burly fellow was arraigned before 'their worships' and the jury, charged with some petty theft; and as he perceived that the proofs were incontestably clear against him, he fell into a very violent trepidation. an attorney of the court, not overburdened with business, and fond of occupying his idle time in playing off practical jokes, perceiving how the case stood, addressed the prisoner in a whisper over the side [pg 360] of the dock, with a very ominous and commiserating shake of his head:

"'ah, you unfortunate man, ye'll be found guilty; and as sure as ye are, ye'll get worse than hangin' or thransportation. as sure as ever the barristher takes a pinch of snuff, that's his intention; ye'll see him put on the black cap immaydiately. plaid guilty at once, and i'll tell ye what ye'll say to him afther.'

"the acute practitioner knew his man; the poor half-witted culprit fell into the snare; and after a short and serious whispering between them, which was unobserved in the bustle of the court-house usual on such occasions, the prisoner cried out, just as the issue-paper was going up to the jury, 'me lord, me lord, i plaid guilty; i beg your wortchip's an' their honours' pardon.

"'very well,' said the assistant barrister, whose duty it was to advise upon the law of each case, and preside at the bench in judicial costume; 'very well, sir. crier, call silence.'

"several voices immediately called energetically for silence, impressing the culprit with grave ideas at once of his worship's great importance, and the serious nature of the coming sentence.

"'withdraw the plea of not guilty, and take one of guilty to the felony,' continued the assistant barrister, taking a pinch of snuff and turning round to consult his brother magistrates as to the term of intended incarceration.

"'don't lose yer time, ye omodhaun!' said the attorney, with an angry look at the prisoner.

"'will i be allowed to spake one word, yer wortchips?' said the unfortunate culprit.

"'what has he to say?' said the assistant barrister with considerable dignity.

"'go on, ye fool ye,' urged the attorney.

"'my lord, yer wortchips, and gintlemin av the jury,' exclaimed the culprit, 'sind me out o' the counthry, or into jail, or breakin' stones, or walkin' on the threadmill, or any thing else in the coorse o' nature, as yer wortchips playses; but for the love o' the virgin mary, don't make me a poor-law gargin.'" [95]

[pg 361]

the most recent legislation of the british government in regard to ireland, the enactment of the poor-law and the encumbered estates act, has had but one grand tendency—that of diminishing the number of the population, which is, indeed, a strange way to improve the condition of the nation. the country was not too thickly populated; far from it: great tracts of land were entirely uninhabited. the exterminating acts were, therefore, only measures of renewed tyranny. to enslave a people is a crime of sufficient enormity; but to drive them from the homes of their ancestors to seek a refuge in distant and unknown lands, is such an action as only the most monstrous of governments would dare to perform.

we have thus shown that ireland has long endured, and still endures, a cruel system of slavery, for which we may seek in vain for a parallel. it matters not that the irish serf may leave his country; while he remains he is a slave to a master who will not call him property, chiefly because it would create the necessity of careful and expensive ownership. if the irish master took his labourer for his slave in the american sense, he would be compelled to provide for him, work or not work, in sickness and in old age. thus the master reaps the benefits, and escapes the penalties of slave-holding. he takes the fruits of the labourer's toil without providing for him as the negro slaves of america are provided for; nay, very often he refuses [pg 362] the poor wretch a home at any price. in no other country does the slaveholder seem so utterly reckless in regard to human life as in ireland. after draining all possible profit from his labourer's service he turns him forth as a pauper, to get scant food if workhouse officials choose to give it, and if not, to starve by the wayside. the last great famine was the direct result of this accursed system of slavery. it was oppression of the worst kind that reduced the mass of the people to depend for their subsistence upon the success or failure of the potato crop; and the horrors that followed the failure of the crop were as much the results of misgovernment as the crimes of the french revolution were the consequences of feudal tyranny, too long endured. can england ever accomplish sufficient penance for her savage treatment of ireland?

some english writers admit that the degradation of the irish and the wretched condition of the country can scarcely be overdrawn, but seek for the causes of this state of things in the character of the people. but why does the irishman work, prosper, and achieve wealth and position under every other government but that of ireland? this would not hbe the case if there was any thing radically wrong in the irish nature. in the following extract from an article in the edinburgh review, we have a forcible sketch of the condition of ireland, coloured somewhat to suit english views:—

[pg 363]

"it is obvious that the insecurity of a community in which the bulk of the population form a conspiracy against the law, must prevent the importation of capital; must occasion much of what is accumulated there to be exported; and must diminish the motives and means of accumulation. who will send his property to a place where he cannot rely on its being protected? who will voluntarily establish himself in a country which to-morrow may be in a state of disturbance? a state in which, to use the words of chief justice bushe, 'houses and barns and granaries are levelled, crops are laid waste, pasture-lands are ploughed, plantations are torn up, meadows are thrown open to cattle, cattle are maimed, tortured, killed; persons are visited by parties of banditti, who inflict cruel torture, mutilate their limbs, or beat them almost to death. men who have in any way become obnoxious to the insurgents, or opposed their system, or refused to participate in their outrages, are deliberately assassinated in the open day; and sometimes the unoffending family are indiscriminately murdered by burning the habitation.' [96] a state in which even those best able to protect themselves, the gentry, are forced to build up all their lower windows with stone and mortar; to admit light only into one sitting-room, and not into all the windows of that room; to fortify every other inlet by bullet-proof barricades; to station sentinels around during all the night and the greater part of the day, and to keep firearms in all the bedrooms, and even on the side-table at breakfast and dinner-time.[97] well might bishop doyle exclaim, 'i do not blame the absentees; i would be an absentee myself if i could.'

"the state of society which has been described may be considered as a proof of the grossest ignorance; for what can be a greater proof of ignorance than a systematic opposition to law, carried on at the constant risk of liberty and of life, and producing [pg 364] where it is most successful, in the rural districts, one level of hopeless poverty, and in the towns, weeks of high wages and months without employment—a system in which tremendous risks and frightful sufferings are the means, and general misery is the result? the ignorance, however, which marks the greater part of the population in ireland, is not merely ignorance of the moral and political tendency of their conduct—an ignorance in which the lower orders of many more advanced communities participate—but ignorance of the businesses which are their daily occupations. it is ignorance, not as citizens and subjects, but as cultivators and labourers. they are ignorant of the proper rotation of crops, of the preservation and use of manure—in a word, of the means by which the land, for which they are ready to sacrifice their neighbours' lives, and to risk their own, is to be made productive. their manufactures, such as they are, are rude and imperfect, and the irish labourer, whether peasant or artisan, who emigrates to great britain, never possesses skill sufficient to raise him above the lowest ranks in his trade.

"indolence—the last of the causes to which we have attributed the existing misery of ireland—is not so much an independent source of evil as the result of the combination of all others. the irishman does not belong to the races that are by nature averse from toil. in england, scotland, or america he can work hard. he is said, indeed, to require more overlooking than the natives of any of these countries, and to be less capable, or, to speak more correctly, to be less willing to surmount difficulties by patient intellectual exertion; but no danger deters, no disagreeableness disgusts, no bodily fatigue discourages him.

"but in his own country he is indolent. all who have compared the habits of hired artisans or of the agricultural labourers in ireland with those of similar classes in england or scotland, admit the inferiority of industry of the former. the indolence of the great mass of the people, the occupiers of land, is obvious even to the passing traveller. even in ulster, the province in which, as we have already remarked, the peculiarities of the irish character are least exhibited, not only are the cabins, and even the farm-houses, deformed within and without by accumulations [pg 365] of filth, which the least exertion would remove, but the land itself is suffered to waste a great portion of its productive power. we have ourselves seen field after field in which the weeds covered as much space as the crops. from the time that his crops are sowed and planted until they are reaped the peasant and his family are cowering over the fire, or smoking, or lounging before the door, when an hour or two a day employed in weeding their potatoes, oats, or flax, would perhaps increase the produce by one-third.

"the indolence of the irish artisan is sufficiently accounted for by the combinations which, by prohibiting piece-work, requiring all the workmen to be paid by the day and at the same rate, prohibiting a good workman from exerting himself, have destroyed the motives to industry. 'i consider it,' says mr. murray, 'a very hard rule among them, that the worst workman that ever took a tool in his hand, should be paid the same as the best, but that is the rule and regulation of the society; and that there was only a certain quantity of work allowed to be done; so that, if one workman could turn more work out of his hands, he durst not go on with it. there is no such thing as piece-work; and if a bad man is not able to get through his work, a good workman dare not go further than he does.' [98]

"the indolence of the agricultural labourer arises, perhaps, principally from his labour being almost always day-work, and in a great measure a mere payment of debt—a mere mode of working out his rent. that of the occupier may be attributed to a combination of causes. in the first place, a man must be master of himself to a degree not common even among the educated classes, before he can be trusted to be his own task-master. even among the british manufacturers, confessedly the most industrious labourers in europe, those who work in their own houses are comparatively idle and irregular, and yet they work under the stimulus of certain and immediate gain. the irish occupier, working for a distant object, dependent in some [pg 366] measure on the seasons, and with no one to control or even to advise him, puts off till to-morrow what need not necessarily be done to-day—puts off till next year what need not necessarily be done this year, and ultimately leaves much totally undone.

"again, there is no damper so effectual as liability to taxation proportioned to the means of payment. it is by this instrument that the turkish government has destroyed the industry, the wealth, and ultimately the population of what were once the most flourishing portions of asia—perhaps of the world. it is thus that the taille ruined the agriculture of the most fertile portions of france. now, the irish occupier has long been subject to this depressive influence, and from various sources. the competition for land has raised rents to an amount which can be paid only under favourable circumstances. any accident throws the tenant into an arrear, and the arrear is kept a subsisting charge, to be enforced if he should appear capable of paying it. if any of the signs of prosperity are detected in his crop, his cabin, his clothes, or his food, some old demand may be brought up against him. again, in many districts a practice prevails of letting land to several tenants, each of whom is responsible for the whole rent. it is not merely the consequence, but the intention, that those who can afford to pay should pay for those who cannot. again, it is from taxation, regulated by apparent property, that all the revenues of the irish catholic church are drawn. the half-yearly offerings, the fees on marriages and christenings, and, what is more important, the contributions to the priests made on those occasions by the friends of the parties, are all assessed by public opinion, according to the supposed means of the payer. an example of the mode in which this works, occurred a few months ago, within our own knowledge. ￡300 was wanted by a loan fund, in a catholic district in the north of ireland. in the night, one of the farmers, a man apparently poor, came to his landlord, the principal proprietor in the neighbourhood, and offered to lend the money, if the circumstance could be kept from his priest. his motive for concealment was asked, and he answered, that, if the priest knew he had ￡300 at interest, his dues would be doubled. secrecy was promised, and a stocking was brought [pg 367] from its hiding-place in the roof, filled with notes and coin, which had been accumulating for years until a secret investment could be found. again, for many years past a similar taxation has existed for political purposes. the catholic rent, the o'connell tribute, and the repeal rent, like every other tax that is unsanctioned by law, must be exacted, to a larger or smaller amount, from every cottier, or farmer, as he is supposed to be better or worse able to provide for them.

"who can wonder that the cultivator, who is exposed to these influences, should want the industry and economy which give prosperity to the small farmer in belgium? what motive has he for industry and economy? it may be said that he has the same motive in kind, though not in degree, as the inhabitants of a happier country; since the new demand to which any increase of his means would expose him probably would not exhaust the whole of that increase. the same might be said of the subjects of the pasha. there are inequalities of fortune among the cultivators of egypt, just as there were inequalities in that part of france which was under the taille. no taxation ever exhausted the whole surplus income of all its victims. but when a man cannot calculate the extent to which the exaction may go—when all he knows is, that the more he appears to have the more will be demanded—when he knows that every additional comfort which he is seen to enjoy, and every additional productive instrument which he is found to possess, may be a pretext for a fresh extortion, he turns careless or sulky—he yields to the strong temptation of indolence and of immediate excitement and enjoyment—he becomes less industrious, and therefore produces less—he becomes less frugal, and therefore, if he saves at all, saves a smaller portion of that smaller product."

for the turbulence of the irish people, the general indolence of the labourers and artisans, and the misery that exists, the writer of the above sketch has causes worthy of the acuteness of sir james graham, or some other patent political economist of the aristocracy of [pg 368] england. we need not comment. we have only made the above quotation to show to what a condition ireland has been reduced, according to the admissions of an aristocratic organ of england, leaving the reader acquainted with the history of english legislation in regard to the unhappy island to make the most natural inferences.

the ecclesiastical system of ireland has long been denounced as an injury and an insult. as an insult it has no parallel in history. oppression and robbery in matters connected with religion have been unhappily frequent; but in all other cases the oppressed and robbed have been the minority. that one-tenth of the population of a great country should appropriate to themselves the endowment originally provided for all their countrymen; that, without even condescending to inquire whether there were or were not a congregation of their own persuasion to profit by them, they should seize the revenues of every benefice, should divert them from their previous application, and should hand them over to an incumbent of their own, to be wasted as a sinecure if they were not wanted for the performance of a duty—this is a treatment of which the contumely stings more sharply even than the injustice, enormous as that is. [99]

the tax of a tithe for the support of a church in [pg 369] which they have no faith is a grievance of which irish catholics, who compose nine-tenths of the population of ireland, complain with the greatest reason. of what benefit to them is a church which they despise? the grand reason for the existence of an established church fails under such circumstances. the episcopal institutions can communicate no religious instruction, because the creed which they sustain is treated with contempt. but where is the use of argument in regard to this point. the established church affords many luxurious places for the scions of the aristocracy, and there lies the chief purpose of its existence. the oppressive taxation of catholics to support a protestant church will cease with the aristocracy.