There is much unreclaimed land here, which is
not to be wondered at, seeing that a fine for reclamation was exacted in
the shape of increased rent.
Clonakilty is another little town thronged with small traders and places
"licensed to sell." As we passed east the long boundary walls that
enclose gentlemen's plantations begin to prevail.
A little way, maybe two miles, out of Clonakilty is the property of Mr.
Bence Jones, who has created some stir in the world. One hears story
after story of his grasping and overbearing disposition. The chief
accusation is adding to a man's rent if his father dies. Case after case
of this was spoken of by the passengers on the car with me. Whether
these accusations against Mr. Bence Jones were true or false, here is
his place, and a very fine place it is. The lodge is at one side of the
road, the entrance to his residence at the other. The residence is very
nice, very commodious, and is at some distance from the road. The
property is extensive, but very poor land - mountain and bog. His walled-
in plantation ran along the road for quite a great distance. When they
spoke of him on the car the mere mention of his name caused the driver
to lose himself in profanity.
From Clonakilty to Bandon was a long, dreary drive, and the night had
fallen for some time, sharp and chill, before we entered the second time
into merry Bandon town. It is quite a large place, and, entered by
another way than the railway, looks bright and pleasant. The houses are
lofty on the principal streets, and the whole town has a scattered
appearance. It was a welcome sight to us, weary of travelling by car,
and visions of a warm fire and a good supper - for I had travelled from
breakfast without waiting to eat - ran in my head; but it was Saturday
night, a train was almost due for Cork, and, contenting myself with an
after-night glimpse of merry Bandon town, I came to the ponderous
station, and started in due time for Cork.
At one of the first way stations, where is the little clapboarded
waiting-room, two policemen entered our compartment with a prisoner.
Whether he was a suspect or was charged with a specific crime we did not
learn, but surely such a poor scare-crow never was arrested before. He
was black with dirt, as if he had been taken out of the bog, or from a
coal-pit. His clothes were thin and ragged, and he had such a fierce,
desperate look. The policemen fraternized with their fellow-passengers
and chatted merrily. The prisoner listened to their talk with a kind of
dumb fierceness, shaking his head from side to side as I have seen an
angry horse do.
