The Scripture quotations from Judges, and Samuel,
telling an inflamable people - only they were too busy with their drums
and fifes to listen - that "God took the side of fighting men - Gideon
meant battle - an angel was at the head of the Lord's host - Scotland was
especially blest because it was composed of fighting men." Does the
Gospel mean brother to war against brother for the possession of his
field? How much need there is for our loving Lord to rebuke His
disciples by telling them again, "Ye know not what manner of spirit ye
are of, for the leaders of my people cause them to err."
Clones takes its name from a word that may signify the meadow of Eois,
or high meadow. It has a history that goes back to grope about Ararat
for the potsherds thrown out of the ark. It has a very old and famous
round tower, used at some time as a place of sepulchre, for a great
quantity of human bones have been found in it. In one stone of this
tower is the mark of two toes printed into the stone, or the mark of
some fossil remains dislodged by a geological hammer.
As Clones sits upon a hill, and the fort sits on the highest part, it
commands an extensive view. There is also an ancient cross in the market
square, once elaborately carved in relief, but the figures are worn
indistinct. There are the remains of an old castle built in among the
modern walls and hidden out of sight. There are stories of an
underground passage between the abbey and the castle. In fact, they came
on this underground way when levelling the market space, but did not
explore it. There is such a romance about mystery that it is as well, I
suppose, not to let too much daylight shine in upon it.
Clones, with its abbey, was burned by De Lacy in the thirteenth century,
which was, perhaps, its last burning.
I was glad on the evening on which I climbed to the top of the fort to
find little gardens lying up the slope at the back of the poorer houses.
Clones is better off in this respect by being behind the age. In Antrim
and Down, in too many instances, the farmers have taken the cotter's
gardens into their fields. I wished to be sure if the gardens belonged
to the people who lived in the thatched cottages, and I spoke across the
hedge to a man who was digging potatoes in one of them, a man with a
leather apron, marking him out as a shoemaker, and a merry, contented
face. Yes, the gardens belonged to the cottages at the foot of the hill.
All the cottages had gardens in Clones. The people had all gardens in
Clones. They were not any of them in want. They had enough, thank God.
There was every prospect of a good harvest and a good harvest brought
plenty to every home.
A few words often change the world to us. I climbed the three-storey
fort at Clones feeling sad and hopeless in the grey evening, everything
seemed chill and dreary like the damp wind, and this man's cheery words
of rejoicing over the prospect of good crops, over the yield of the
little gardens, touched me as if sunset splendor had fallen over the
world, and I came down comforted with the thought that our Father who
gives fruitful seasons will also find a way for Ireland to emerge from
the thick darkness of her present misery.
I was referred to the Presbyterian minister of Clones for information on
the antiquities of Clones, and from his lecture, which he with great
kindness read to me, I gathered what historical hints I have inserted
here. At the minister's I met with a pleasant-faced, motherly looking
lady who talked to me of the Land question, the prevailing topic. From
remarks she made I gathered that she was an enthusiastic church member,
but on the Land question she had no ideas of either justice or mercy
that could possibly extend beyond the privileged classes. I referred to
the excessive rents, she gave a mild shake of her motherly chin and
spoke of the freedom of contract. I spoke of new landlords making new
and oppressive office rules and raising the rents above the power to pay
of the tenants he found there when coming into possession. She said they
might suffer justly if they had no written guarantee. She actually
considered that a gentleman was not bound by his word of promise, nor
did he inherit any _verbal_ agreement entered into by the man from
whom he inherited his property. I spoke of the hardship of a long life
of toil and penury ending in the workhouse. She said when they knew they
must go into the workhouse eventually why did they not go in at once
without giving so much trouble. I asked her if she, who seemed to know
what it was to be a mother, would not if it were her own case put off
going into the workhouse, which meant parting with her children, to the
very last. The idea of mentioning her name in the one breath with these
people precluded the possibility of answering. She threw down her
knitting and left the room.
Was it not sad to think that this Christian lady had yet to learn the
embracing first two words of the Lord's prayer, Our Father. Looking at
the strength of this caste prejudice, as strong here as in India, I
often feel sad, but Our Father reigns. Protestant ministers belonging
_ex-officio_ to this upper caste, and being, so to speak, a few
flights of stairs above their people, cannot speak with the power of
knowledge which our Lord had by His companionship with the poor of His
people.
