I
wanted the mountains for Scotch sheep. I put on about a hundred; there
are few to be seen now; they have disappeared."
He then mentioned the shooting at his son, the burning of the office
houses with hay and potatoes stored there, the trouble he had had about
the police hut which the constabulary had drawn to Glenade that morning.
"That will cost the country as much as L500," said Mr. Corscadden. "They
are unthrifty in this country, they eat all the large potatoes, plant
all the little runts, till they have run out the seed." (Alas, what will
not hunger do!) "They come into market with their butter in small
quantities, wasting a day and sacrificing the butter." (Need again: time
is wasted here, for labor is so plentiful and men are so cheap that time
has no value in their eyes.)
I asked Mr. Corscadden what he thought would be a remedy for this
dreadful state of things. He did not see a remedy except emigration. Mr.
Corscadden took his leave politely, wishing me a pleasant tour through
my own country. I have as faithfully as possible recorded Mr.
Corscadden's side of the story. The tenant's side I have softened
considerably, and omitted some things altogether to be inside of the
mark. One thing I forgot to mention:
