The Reminiscences of an Irish Land Agent | Page 9

and had a great repute.
He arrived at Cork once, and had to fight his way through a dense
throng to get into court. On inquiring the reason of the crowd, he was
told that everybody wanted to hear the big speech that was expected
from Councillor Barry.
'Well, unless you make way for me it's disappointed every mother's son
of you will be, for I am twin to Councillor Barry, and I never heard tell
he had a brother.'
He carried on the old-fashioned habit of after-dinner conviviality, and
used to sit drinking three hours after the wine had been put on the table,
which was why I never accepted his hospitality in after years, for, as I
said before, I am a man of moderation.
In my young days it was the regular thing to bring in whisky-punch
after dinner; and for many years I regularly took one tumbler and never
had a second, not once to the best of my recollection.
There is a good deal of change in the habits of life. When I was a boy
coffee was unknown for breakfast, cocoa had not become known as a
beverage, and tea was regularly drunk. We seldom took lunch, nor did
the ladies, and afternoon tea was unheard of. Instead, tea was brought
into the drawing-room about eight in the evening, and was always

drunk very weak and sweet. In those times it was invariably from
China and pretty costly.
We dined at five. Dinners were very solid. Soup was a pretty regular
opening, but could be dispensed with without comment, and it was
almost always greasy. At Dingle fish was pretty plentiful, but sweets
were regarded as a great extravagance.
I remember, when grown up, dining with an elderly man near
Cahirciveen, who had a turbot for which he must have paid at least
eight shillings, but he apologised for not having a pudding on account
of the necessity for economy, though a pudding would not have cost
him eightpence.
Made dishes were very few and badly cooked. The food was chiefly
joints, and, in nine cases out of ten, roast mutton. Vegetables were not
so much eaten as now, always excepting potatoes, which were
consumed in large quantities. There was practically no fruit, except a
few apples and oranges at Christmas.
Men sat very long over their wine. Sherry used to be served at dinner
and often claret afterwards, but the great beverage was port. I am
inclined to think that port has sensibly deteriorated since my young
days. It was as a rule more fruity then, but we never talked of our livers,
as subalterns and undergraduates do nowadays.
Port used to come direct to Dingle. It was an easy harbour 'to run,' and
there was some smuggling.
On one occasion some soldiers were sent to protect the gauger, who
was bent on making an important seizure. A few of the inhabitants of
Dingle took the opportunity of entertaining the officer, and whilst he
slumbered from the effects of their hospitality, the opportunity for
making the seizure was lost.
There is no particular reason why I should tell the following story here,
but it is worth recording, and I don't know any other part of my
reminiscences where it is more likely to slip in appropriately.

In Kerry in 1815, the farmers had been an extra long time fattening up
their pigs. After the Peace, prices all fell, and though the farmers were
reluctant, they had to yield to circumstances. One day the dealers were
buying at extremely low rates in Tralee market, when the postman
brought the news that Napoleon had escaped from Elba.
Instantly all the farmers broke off their bargains, and proceeded to start
homeward with their swine, shouting:--
'Hurrah for Boney that rose the pigs.'
My mother often told me of this scene, which she herself witnessed.
There was always a distinct sympathy with France, owing to the
smuggling from that land, and after the English had prohibited the
exportation of wool, it was smuggled into France, whence were brought
back silks and brandy.
The geography of Kerry is ideal for landing contraband store, and I
should say even more was done in this respect locally than on the coast
of Scotland.
There is a certain amount of good-will between people whose mutual
interests are similar until they fall out, and the hope of a French landing
in Ireland, though never very serious, always fanned the native
disaffection to the Government in the West.
The veracity of an Irishman is never considerable, for as a rule he will
say what he thinks likely to please you rather than state any unpleasant
fact. Of course the gauger--excise officer--was an especially unpopular
personage, and I doubt if a tithe of the lies told