The old
man tendered what money he had at the office and humbly asked that he
might have time given him to make up the rest. It was refused with
contempt.
"Sir," faltered the old man, "I have paid my rent every year for sixty-
nine years. I have lived here under three landlords without reproach. I
am a very old man. I might get a little indulgence of time."
"All that is nothing to me," said the agent.
"Sir," said the old man, "if my landlord himself were here, or the
General his father, or my Lord Belmore who sold the land to him, I would
not be treated in this way after all."
"Get out of this instantly," said the agent, stamping his foot, "How
dare you give such insolence to me."
"You see," explained my friend, "he was very old, it was not likely that
any more could be got out of him even if he got time, for he was past
his labor. Besides there was a man beside him who held a large farm, and
he wanted this old man's little holding to square off his farm, so the
old man had to go to the wall, but I was sorry for him."
There is a good deal of this unproductive sorrow scattered over Ireland
among the comfortable classes. There are a good many also who feel like
that motherly Christian lady in Clones who said to me, "When they have
to go into the poor-house at the last, and they know it will come to
that, why not go in at once?"
I am convinced more and more every day of the widespread need there is
that some evangelistic effort should be made to bring a practical Gospel
to bear on the dominant classes in Ireland.
My friend and I walked up to the church to search for some graves in the
churchyard that lies around it. He drew my attention to the socket where
a monument had been erected but which was gone, and mentioned the
circumstances under which it had disappeared. A gentleman of the
country, an Episcopalian, had fallen in love with and married a Catholic
lady. The usual bargain had been made, the daughters to follow the
mother's faith, the sons to go with the father. There was one son who
was a member of the Episcopalian church. It seemed that the son loved
and reverenced his Catholic mother, and that she was also loved and
reverenced by her Catholic coreligionists. When she died she was buried
in the family burying plot of ground in the Episcopalian churchyard. Her
son erected there a white marble cross to his mother's memory. At this
cross, on their way home from mass, sundry old women used to turn in,
and, kneeling down there, say a prayer. This proceeding, visible from
the church windows, used to annoy and exasperate the officiating
clergyman very much. At the time of the disestablishment of the Church a
committee was being formed to make some arrangements consequent upon
this event. The Episcopal son of this Catholic mother was named on the
Committee, and a great opposition was got up to his nomination on
account of his being only Protestant by half blood. There was no
objection to him personally, his faith or belief was thought sound,
except that part of it which was hereditary. My friend considered this
very wrong, and ranged himself on the side of the gentleman who was the
cause of the dispute. The dispute waxed so hot that the parties almost
came to blows in the vestry room.
During the time this war raged some bright genius, on one of the days of
Orange procession, had a happy thought of putting an orange arch over
the churchyard gate, in such a manner that the praying women should have
to pass under it if they entered. I am not quite sure whether the arch
was destroyed or not; as far as my memory serves I think it was.
Something happened to it anyway. Something also happened to the
monumental cross, which was torn down, broken up and strewed round in
marble fragments. The gentleman prosecuted several Orangemen whom he
suspected of this outrage. There was not evidence to convict them. An
increased ill-feeling got up against the gentleman for a prosecution
that threw a slur on the Orange organization. The Orange society offered
a reward of L60 for the discovery and conviction of the offenders, but
nothing came of it. My friend thought it was done by parties unknown to
bring reproach on the Orange cause. The gentleman of the half-blood had
not been so much thought of by his fellow church members since this
transaction.
I spoke to my friend upon the unchristian nature of this party spirit,
which he agreed with me in lamenting, but excused by telling me outrages
by the Catholic party which made me shudder. All these outrages were
confirmed by the ancient woman who kept the key of the church, and who
stood listening and helping with the story, emphasizing with the key. I
asked when these outrages had taken place, and was relieved considerably
to hear that they happened about 1798 and 1641. Asked my friend if the
other side had not any tales of suffered atrocities to tell? He supposed
they had, thought it altogether likely. Why then, I asked him, do you
not bury this past and live like Christians for the future.
I am often asked this question about burying the past, said my friend.
My answer is, let them bury first and afterwards we will. Let them bury
their Ribbonism, their Land Leagueism, their Communism and their
Nihilism (making the motion of digging with his hands as he spoke) and
after that ask us to bury our Orangeism, our Black Chapter, our Free
Masonry, and we will do it then.
