Disturbed Ireland | Page 3

at the Saxon's remark that things did not
"rise," but "set" in that direction. County Mayo and parts of county
Galway were beyond the law, and could only be cured by the means
successfully employed in Westmeath a few years ago--coercion. It was
of no avail to say that very few people had been shot in the disaffected
counties during the last ten years. The answer was always the same.
The minds of the people were poisoned by agitators, and they would
pay nobody either rent or any other just debt except on compulsion.
Beyond Athlone the tone of public opinion improved very rapidly, and
in Roscommon, once a disturbed county, I found plenty of people ready
to laugh with me at the spectre vert. There was nothing the matter in
that county. A fair price had been obtained for sheep and cattle, the
harvest had been good, everything was going on as well as possible.
There was some talk, it was true, about disturbances in Mayo, but there
was a great deal of imagination and exaggeration, and the trouble was
confined to certain districts of the county, the centre of disturbance
being somewhere about Claremorris, a market town, on the railway to
Westport, and not very far from Knock, the last new place of
pilgrimage. At Claremorris I accordingly halted to look about me, and
was surprised at the extraordinary activity of the little place. Travellers
in agricultural England, either Wessex or East Anglia, often wonder
who drinks all the beer for the distribution of which such ample
facilities are afforded. A church, a public-house, and a blacksmith's
shop constitute an English village; but there is nobody on the spot
either to go to church or drink the beer. At Claremorris a similar effect
is produced on the visitor's mind. The main street is full of shops,
corn-dealers, drapers, butchers, bakers, and general dealers in
everything, from a horse to a hayseed; but out of the main track there
are no houses--only hovels as wretched as any in Connaught. It is quite
evident that the poor people who inhabit them cannot buy much of
anything. Men, women, and children, dogs, ducks, and a donkey, are

frequently crowded together in these miserable cabins, the like of
which on any English estate would bring down a torrent of indignation
on the landlord. They are all of one pattern, wretchedly thatched, but
with stout stone walls, and are, when a big peat fire is burning, hot
almost to suffocation. When it is possible to distinguish the pattern of
the bed-curtains through the dirt, they are seen to be of the familiar blue
and white checked pattern made familiar to London playgoers by
Susan's cottage as displayed at the St. James's Theatre. The chest of
drawers is nearly always covered with tea-things and other crockery,
generally of the cheapest and commonest kind, but in great plenty.
House accommodation in Claremorris is of the humblest character. At
the best inn, called ambitiously Hughes's Hotel, I found that I was
considered fortunate in getting any sort of bedroom to myself. The
apartment was very small, with a lean-to roof, but then I reigned over it
in solitary grandeur, while a dozen commercial travellers were packed
into the three or four other bedrooms in the house. As these gentlemen
arrived at odd hours of the night and were put into the rooms and beds
occupied by their friends, sleep at Claremorris was not a function easily
performed, and it was some foreknowledge of what actually occurred
that induced me to sit up as late as possible in the eating, dining,
reading, and commercial room, the only apartment of any size in the
house, but full of occupants, most of whom were very communicative
concerning their business. Here were the eagles indeed, but where was
the carcass? To my amazement I found that Mike this and Tim that,
whose shops are very small, had been giving large orders, and that the
credit of Claremorris was in a very healthy condition. Equally curious
was it to find that the gathering of "commercials" was not an unusual
occurrence, but that the queer townlet was a genuine centre of business
activity. We sat up as late as the stench of paraffin from the lamps--for
there is no gas--would allow us. Lizzie, literally a maid of all work, but
dressed in a gown tied violently back, brought up armful after armful of
peat, and built and rebuilt the fire over and over again. There was in the
corner of the room a huge receptacle, like half a hogshead, fastened to
the wall for holding peat--or "turf," as it is called here--but it never
occurred apparently to anybody to fill this bin and save the trouble of
eternal journeys up and down stairs.