One fine looking young farmer of
the better sort was fighting drunk. There were sober people and a good
many women also on the car. It was one of those cars whose compartments
are boxed up halfway. The sergeant spilled a box of wafers and felt that
he did not wish to pick them up; another policeman in an overcoat set
himself to gather them up. I heard the young farmer say to him, "You're
a peeler," and in a moment every man in the car was on his feet. We had
not yet left the station, and many women rushed out of the car. The
official came and locked the doors, and we steamed out of the station
with all the men on their feet in a crowd, gesticulating and shouting at
one another at the top of their voices. As they swayed about with the
motion of the carriage, every soldier and constable with his rifle in
his hand, I found myself wondering if they were loaded or could possibly
go off of themselves.
As soon as I could distinguish words among the war of sounds I
understood that the young farmer accused the soberest sergeant of being
one of the party that shot young Hickey at Dr. Pomeroy's, and that he
was burning for revenge. The constable was a Northman, I knew by his
tongue, and he was at a northern white heat of anger. The young farmer
was almost mad with rage and drink. The drunken sergeant seemed to sober
in the congenial element of a probable row, and he and two sober
civilians exerted themselves to keep the peace, and to pacify the farmer
and get him to sit down.
In one of the pauses in the storm the peace-making sergeant wanted a
match; an old man behind me who had matches was appealed to for one and
he declined, averring with much simplicity that he was afraid of being
shot. His wife in a vigorous whisper advised him to keep his matches in
his pocket. Everyone in that car, drunk or sober, peace-making or not,
sympathised with that young farmer and were against the police.
We reached Fermoy quite late. The next morning early I took a car and
drove out to Mitchelstown, at the foot of the Galtees. Passed at a
distance, half hidden among embowering woods, the castle residence of
Lord Mount Cashel, who seems to be as much liked here as he was on the
Galgorm estate, but there were whispered reminiscences of by-gone wicked
agents.
The country on the way to Mitchelstown is partly very rich-looking now
waving with the harvest. There is a long valley in sight stretching away
for many miles, yellow with ripened corn and dotted with farm houses,
each with a few sheltering trees. Upon what is called mountain land I
saw a fine little farm that had been reclaimed from the heather quite
recently. The farmer and his sons were binding after the cradle. He
holds this land at two shillings and sixpence an acre, and hopes under
the new Land Law that it shall not be raised on him. Mitchelstown is
quite a large place, and was as quiet as Indian summer. Had my worst
experience of hotel life in Fermoy, and gladly left it behind for
Cappoquin. The road lies alongside a lovely valley of the Blackwater,
and one has glimpses of the most enchanting scenery as they steam along.
Cappoquin is quite a nice town, and seems to have some trade by river as
well as by rail.
Walked out through the fair country to Mount Mellary Monastery, a
property reclaimed out of the stony heathery mountain by the monks of La
Trappe. They have succeeded in creating smiling fields among the waste
of the mountain wilderness. They hold the land on a lease of 999 years.
No woman is allowed into the precincts of the monastery proper, but
there is a hospice attached where travellers are received and
entertained without charge, but any gratuity is accepted. There is also
a school among the buildings.
The valley between Cappoquin and Mount Mellary is strikingly beautiful.
There is tradition of a great battle having been fought here once in the
dim past when a hundred fights was no uncommon allowance of battle to
one warrior. All is quiet and peaceful here now. The crops are being
gathered in in the sunshine, and everything is smiling and serene. I
received very much kindness in Cappoquin for which there will always be
sunshine over my memories of it.
LVI.
TIPPERARY - OVER THE KNOCK-ME-LE-DOWM MOUNTAINS - "NATE CLOGHEEN" - CAHIR -
WATERFORD - DUBLIN.
From Cappoquin I proposed to go to Cahir, across the pass, through the
Knock-me-le-Down Mountains. Took a car for this journey which was driven
by the only sullen and ill-tempered driver which I had seen on my
journey through Ireland. The road passed through Lismore, a little town
about four miles from Cappoquin, which is in a red hot state of
excitement just now; the bitterest feelings rage about the land
question. Evictions and boycottings are the order of the day. The
feeling of exasperation against the police is so determined that
supplies of any kind for their use could not be purchased for any money
in Lismore. The police feel just as exasperated against Miss Parnell,
who attends all evictions as a sympathizer with the tenants, and reports
all the proceedings. The police made an effigy of her and stoned it to
pieces to relieve their feelings.
