I will never get up along the Boyne at this rate. I went along the south
side and, hearing the cheery clack of a loom, went into a cottage to see
the weaver, a woman. She was weaving canvas for stiffening for coats.
Could make threepence a yard, which was better pay a good deal than the
Antrim weavers of fine linen make. She was much exercised in her mind
against Mr. Vere Forster, who helps young western girls to emigrate to
America, confounding him with the infamous wretches who decoy girls to
France and Belgium. I tried to set her right, to explain matters to her,
but I am afraid that I did not succeed in convincing her.
The land on both sides of the Boyne is dotted with houses and filled
with people, so the country looks more cheerful than in empty Mayo or
Roscommon. I spoke to a farmer who was looking hopefully at a large
field of oats, and asked him what rent he paid. Owing to his nearness to
Drogheda he paid L7 per acre. "How can you pay it?" I asked. "I can pay
it in good years well enough," he said. "What have you left for
yourself?" "I have the straw," he answered. I walked on and got weary
enough before I came to the iron bridge and the monument. The monument
has a very neglected, weather-stained appearance. Where Duke Schomberg
was said to have fallen there was a growth of red poppies. I plucked
some as a memorial of the place. I returned by the Meath side along a
lovely tree-shaded road.
Some work-people explained to me that the late severe winters had
destroyed the song birds of Ireland. I did not hear one lark sing in all
the summer since I came. These working people were all anxious to
emigrate if they had some means, and listened eagerly to the advantages
of Canada as a place for settlement.
I was one Sabbath day in Drogheda, and attended service in the
Presbyterian church there, which was opposite the spot where the great
massacre of women and children took place in Cromwell's time. This was
eagerly pointed out to me. The congregation was very small, not half
filling the church.
Between Dublin and Belfast I had as travelling companion a Manchester
merchant, who had run over during his holidays to have a peep at the
turbulent Irish. He had been in Ireland for a few weeks, and had visited
some cabins and spoken to some laborers, and had settled the matter to
his own satisfaction. "The ills of Ireland arise from the inordinate
love of the soil in the Irish, and their lower civilization. For
instance, an English farmer in renting a farm would consider how much
would support his family first, and if the landlord would not accept as
rent what was left the bargain would not be struck.
