Ireland Under Coercion - vol. 2 | Page 8

injunction, being a
ploughshare beaten into a weapon, and a very nasty weapon of offence,
one end of it sharpened for an ugly thrust, the other fashioned into quite
a fair grip. While I was examining this trophy there was a stir, and
presently two of the gentlemen who had passed us on Mr. Shee's car
came rather suddenly out of the house in company with two or three
constables.
They were representatives, they said, of the Press, and as such desired
to be allowed to remain. Colonel Turner replied that this could not be,
and, in fact, no one had been suffered to enter the house except the
law-officers, the agent, and the constables. So the representatives of the
Press were obliged to pass outside of the lines, one of the constables
declaring that they had got into the house through a hole in the back
wall!
Shortly after this incident there arose a considerable noise of groaning
and shouting from the hill-side beyond the highway, and presently a
number of people, women and children predominating, appeared
coming down towards the precincts of the house. They were following
a person in a clerical dress, who proved to be Father Quilter, the parish
priest, who had denounced his people to Colonel Turner as "poor
slaves" of the League! A colloquy followed between Father Quilter and
the policemen of the cordon. This was brought to a close by Mr. Roche,
the resident magistrate, who went forward, and finding that Father
Quilter wished to pass the cordon, politely but firmly informed him that
this could not be done. "Not if I am the bearer of a telegram for the

lawyer?" asked Father Quilter, in a loud and not entirely amiable tone.
"Not on any terms whatever," responded the magistrate. Father Quilter
still maintaining his ground, the women crowded in around and behind
him, the men bringing up the rear at a respectable distance, and the
small boys shouting loudly. For a moment faint hopes arose within me
that I was about to witness one of the .exciting scenes of which I have
more than once read. But only for a moment. The magistrate ordered
the police to advance. As they drew near the wall with an evident
intention of going over it into the highway, Father Quilter and the
women fell back, the boys and men retreated up the opposite hill, and
the brief battle of Glenbehy was over.
A small messenger bearing a telegram then emerged from the crowd,
and showing his telegram, was permitted to pass. Father Quilter, in a
loud voice, commented upon this, crying out, "See now your
consistency! You said no one should pass, and you let the messenger
come in!" To this sally no reply was returned. After a little the priest,
followed by most of the people, went up the hill to the holding of
another tenant, and there, as the police came in and reported, held a
meeting. From time to time cries were heard in the distance, and ever
and anon the blast of a horn came from some outlying hill.
But no notice was taken of these things by the police, and when the
tedious formalities of the law had all been gone through with, a squad
of men were put in charge of the house and the holding, the rest of the
army re-formed for the march back, our cars came up, and we left West
Lettur. Seeing a number of men come down the hill, as the column
prepared to move, Mr. Roche, making his voice tremendous, after the
fashion of a Greek chorus, commanded the police to arrest and
handcuff any riotous person making provocative noises. This had the
desired effect, and the march back began in silence. When the column
was fairly in the road, "boos" and groans went up from knots of men
higher up the hill, but no heed was taken of these, and no further
incident occurred. I shall be curious to see whether the story of this
affair can possibly be worked up into a thrilling narrative.
We lunched at Mrs. Shee's, where no sort of curiosity was manifested

about the proceedings at West Lettur, and I came back here with
Colonel Turner by another road, which led us past one of the loveliest
lakes I have ever seen--Lough Caragh. Less known to fame than the
much larger Lake of Killarney, it is in its way quite worthy of
comparison with any of the lesser lakes of Europe. It is not indeed set
in a coronal of mountains like Orta, but its shores are well wooded,
picturesque, and enlivened by charming seats--now, for the most part,
alas!--abandoned by their owners. We had a pleasant club dinner here
this evening, after which came in to see me