THE “IRISH DIFFICULTY” SOLVED BY CON Mc Nale.

Con Mc Nale would have been summarily repudiated as an Irishman by our farce-writers and slashing novelists. He neither drank, fought, nor swore; did not make many blunders; and never addressed a friend either as his ‘honey’ or his ‘jewel.’ His cotamore was of stout frieze, and though Con had long attained his full height, the tailor had left him room to grow. The caubeen was not his head-dress, for Con had arrived at the dignity of a silk hat, which had been manufactured, as the mark in the crown declared, by the Saxons in the Borough of Southwark, which locality Con believed to be in the naighbourhood of England. The brogues were also absent, but were favourably represented by shoes of native manufacture laced with stout thongs. In fact, Mr. Mc Nale was a fine specimen of the finest pisantry in the world—without the rags.

People have gone to the Highlands and to Switzerland, and perhaps seen many places not much more grand and picturesque than the district where Con Mc Nale had made a patch of the desert to smile. A long range of blue mountains rising irregularly above each other, looked down on an extensive plain, that lay along the shore of a mighty lake, to the banks of which thick plantations crowded so near that the old Irish called the water Lough-glas, which signifies waters of green. The districts where a short but thick and sweet herbage sprung up among the rocks, were certainly put to the use of feeding cattle, and it was while employed there as a herd-boy, that Con Mc Nale determined to become a farmer. His mind was made up. His earnings were hardly enough to keep life in him, and if he had tried to save the price of a spade out of them to begin business with, the chances are that he would have died prematurely for want of food. But that didn’t matter much; he was determined to be a farmer. This determination was then as likely of fulfilment as that of Oliver Cromwell to become Protector of the Realm, while tending the vats at Huntingdon; or that of Aladdin to become a prince, when he was a ragged boy in the streets of Bagdad. To show, however, what perseverance will do, when I made acquaintance with Mr. Con Mc Nale he had actually got possession of a spade, and was making good use of it in a ditch—his own ditch, on his own land. As he went on, 208now digging, now resting on the handle, he told me all about his gradual promotion from a herd-boy to a country jontleman.

“My father,” said he, “lived under ould Squire Kilkelly, an’ for awhile tinded his cattle: but the Squire’s gone out iv this part iv the counthry, to Australia or some furrin part, an’ the mentioned house (mansion house) an’ the fine propperty was sould, so it was, for little or nothin’, for the fightin’ was over in furrin parts; Boney was put down, an’ there was no price for corn or cattle, an’ a jontleman from Scotland came an’ bought the istate. We were warned by the new man to go, for he tuk in his own hand all the in-land about the domain, bein’ a grate farmer. He put nobody in our little place, but pulled it down, an’ he guv father a five guinea note, but my father was ould an’ not able to face the world agin, an’ he went to the town an’ tuk a room—a poor, dirty, choky place it was for him, myself, and sisther to live in. The naighbours were very kind an’ good, though. Sister Bridget got a place wid a farmer hereabouts, and I tuk the world on my own showlders. I had nothin’ at all but the rags I stud up in, an’ they were bad enuf. Poor Biddy got a shillin’ advanced iv her wages that her masther was to giv her. She guv it me, for I was bent on goin’ towards Belfast to look for work. All along the road I axed at every place; they could giv it me but to no good, except when I axed, they’d giv me a bowl iv broth, or a piece iv bacon, or an oaten bannock, so that I had my shillin’ to the fore when I got to Belfast.

“Here the heart was near lavin’ me all out intirely. I went wandtherin’ down to the quay among the ships, and what should there be but a ship goin’ to Scotland that very night, wid pigs. In throth it was fun to see the sailors at cross-purposes wid ’em, for they didn’t know the natur iv the bastes. I did. I knew how to coax ’em. I set to an’ I deludhered an’ coaxed the pigs, an’, by pullin’ them by the tail, knowing that if they took a fancy I wished to pull ’em back out of the ship, they’d run might and main into her, and so they did. Well, the sailors were mightily divarted, an’ when the pigs was aboord, I wint down to the place—an’ the short iv it is that in three days I was in Glasgow town, an’ the captain an’ the sailors subschribed up tin-shillins an’ guv it into my hand. Well, I bought a raping hook, an’ away I trudged till I got quite an’ clane into the counthry, an’ the corn was, here and there, fit to cut. At last I goes an’ ax a farmer for work. He thought I was too wake to be paid by the day, but one field havin’ one corner fit to cut, an’ the next not ready, ‘Paddy,’ says he, ‘you may begin in that corner, an’ I’ll pay yees by the work yees do,’ an’ he guv me my breakfast an’ a pint of beer. Well, I never quit that masther the whole harvest, an’ when the raping was over I had four goolden guineas to carry home, besides that I was as sthrong as a lion. Yees would wonder how glad the sailors was to see me back agin, an’ ne’er a farthin’ would they take back iv their money, but tuk me over agin to Belfast, givin’ me the hoighth of good thratemint of all kinds. I did not stay an hour in Belfast, but tuk to the road to look afther the ould man an’ little Biddy. Well, sorrows the tidins’ I got. The ould man had died, an’ the grief an’ disthress of poor little Biddy had even touched her head a little. The dacent people where she was, may the Lord reward ’em, though they found little use in her, kep her, hoping I would be able to come home an’ keep her myself, an’ so I was. I brought her away wid me, an’ the sight iv me put new life in her. I was set upon not being idle, an’ I’ll tell yees what I did next.

“When I was little bouchaleen iv a boy I used to be a head on the mountain face, an’ ’twas often I sheltered myself behind them gray rocks that’s at the gable iv my house, an’ somehow it came into my head that the new Squire, being a grate man for improvin’, might let me try to brake in a bit iv land there, an’ so I goes off to him, an’ one iv the sarvints bein’ a sort iv cousin iv mine, I got to spake to the Squire, an’ behould yees he guv me lave at onst. Well, there’s no time like the prisint, an’ as I passed out iv the back yard of the mentioned (mansion) house, I sees the sawyers cutting some Norway firs that had been blown down by the storm, an’ I tells the sawyers that I had got lave to brake in a bit iv land in the mountains, an’ what would some pieces iv fir cost. They says they must see what kind of pieces they was that I wished for, an’ no sooner had I set about looking ’em through than the Squire himself comes ridin’ out of the stable-yard, an’ says he at onst, Mc Nale, says he, you may have a load iv cuttins to build your cabin, or two if you need it. ‘The Heavens be your honour’s bed,’ says I, an’ I wint off to the room where I an’ Biddy lived, not knowin’ if I was on my head or my heels. Next day, before sunrise, I was up here five miles up the face of Slieve-dan, with a spade in my fist, an’ I looked roun’ for the most shiltered spot I could sit my eyes an. Here I saw, where the house an’ yard are stan’in, a plot iv about an acre to the south iv that tall ridge of rocks, well sheltered from the blast from the north an’ from the aste, an’ it was about sunrise an’ a fine morning in October that I tuk up the first spadeful. There was a spring then drippin’ down the face iv the rocks, the same you see gushin’ through the crockery pipe in the farm-yard; an’ I saw at once that it would make the cabin completely damp, an’ the land about mighty sour an’ water-slain; so I determined to do what I saw done in Scotland. I sunk a deep drain right under the rock to run all along the back iv the cabin, an’ workin’ that day all alone by myself, I did a grate dale iv it. At night, it was close upon dark when I started to go home, so I hid my spade 209in the heath an’ trudged off. The next mornin’ I bargined with a farmer to bring me up a load iv fir cuttins from the Squire’s, an’ by the evenin’ they were thrown down within a quarter iv a mile iv my place,—for there was no road to it then, an’ I had to carry ’em myself for the remainder of the way. This occupied me till near nightfall; but I remained that night till I placed two upright posts of fir, one at each corner iv the front iv the cabin.

“I was detarmined to get the cabin finished as quickly as possible, that I might be able to live upon the spot, for much time was lost in goin’ and comin’. The next day I was up betimes, an’ finding a track iv stiff blue clay, I cut a multitude of thick square sods iv it, an’ having set up two more posts at the remainin’ two corners iv the cabin, I laid four rows iv one gable, rising it about three feet high. Havin’ laid the rows, I sharpind three or four straight pine branches, an’ druv them down through the sods into the earth, to pin the wall in its place. Next day I had a whole gable up, each three rows iv sods pinned through to the three benathe. In about eight days I had put up the four walls, makin’ a door an’ two windows; an’ now my outlay began, for I had to pay a thatcher to put on the sthraw an’ to assist me in risin’ the rafthers. In another week it was covered in, an’ it was a pride to see it with the new thatch, an’ a wicker chimbley daubed with clay, like a pallis undernathe the rock. I now got some turf that those who had cut ’em had not removed, an’ they sould ’em for a thrifle, an’ I made a grate fire an’ slept on the flure of my own house that night. Next day I got another load iv fir brought, to make the partitions in the winter, an’ in a day or two after I had got the inside so dhry that I was able to bring poor Biddy to live there for good and all. The Heavens be praised, there was not a shower iv rain fell from the time I began the cabin till I ended it, an’ when the rain did fall, not a drop came through,—all was carried off by my dhrain into the little river before yees. The moment I was settled in the house I comminced dhraining about an acre iv bog in front, an’ the very first winter I sowed a shillin’s worth of cabbidge seed, an’ sold in the spring a pound’s worth of little cabbidge plants for the gardins in the town below. When spring came—noticin’ how the early planted praties did the best, I planted my cabbidge ground with praties, an’ I had a noble crap, while the ground was next year fit for the corn. In the mane time, every winther I tuk in more and more ground, an’ in summer I cut my turf for fewel; where the cuttins could answer, in winther, for a dhrain; an’ findin’ how good the turf were, I got a little powney an’ carried ’em to the town to sell, when I was able to buy lime in exchange, an’ put it on my bog, so as to make it produce double. As things went on, I got assistance, an’ when I marrid, my wife had two cows that guv me a grate lift.

“I was always thought to be a handy boy; an’ I could do a turn of mason-work with any man not riglarly bred to it; so I took one of my loads of lime, an’ instead of puttin’ it on the land, I made it into morthar—and indeed the stones being no ways scarce, I set to an’ built a little kiln, like as I had seen down the counthry. I could then burn my own lime, an’ the limestone were near to my hand, too many iv ’em. While all this was goin’ on, I had riz an’ sould a good dale iv oats and praties, an’ every summer I found ready sale for my turf in the town from one jontleman that I always charged at an even rate, year by year. I got the help of a stout boy, a cousin iv my own, who was glad iv a shilter; an’ when the childher were ould enough, I got some young cattle that could graze upon the mountain in places where no other use could be made iv the land, and set the gossoons to herd ’em.

“There was one bit iv ground nigh han’ to the cabin, that puzzled me intirely. It was very poor and sandy, an’ little better than a rabbit burrow; an’ telling the Squire’s Scotch steward iv it, he bade me thry some flax, an’ sure enuf, so I did, an’ a fine crap iv flax I had, as you might wish to see; an’ the stame-mills being beginnin’ in the counthry at that time, I sould my flax for a very good price—my wife having dhried it, beetled it, an’ scutched it with her own two hands. I should have said before, that the Squire himself came up here with a lot iv fine ladies and jontlemen to see what I had done; an’ you never in your life seed a man so well plased as he was, an’ a Mimber of Parlimint from Scotland was with him, an’ he tould me I was a credit to ould Ireland; and sure, didn’t Father Connor read upon the papers, how he tould the whole story in the Parlimint House before all the lords an’ quality: but faix, he didn’t forgit me; for a month or two after he was here, an’ it coming on the winter, comes word for me an’ the powney to go down to the mentioned (mansion) house, for the steward wanted me; so away I wint, an’ there, shure enuf, was an illigant Scotch plough, every inch of iron, an’ a lot of young Norroway pines—the same you see shiltering the house an’ yard—an’ all was a free prisint for me from the Scotch jontleman that was the Mimber of Parliment. ’Twas that plough that did the meracles iv work hereabouts; for I often lint it to any that I knew to be a careful hand; an’ it was the manes iv havin’ the farmers all round send an’ buy ’em. At last I was able to build a brave snug house; and praised be Providence, I have never had an hour’s ill health, nor a moment’s grief, but when poor Biddy, the cratur, died from us. It is thirty years since that morning that I tuk up the first spadeful from the wild mountain side; an’ twelve acres are good labour land, an’ fifteen drained, an’ good 210grazin’. I have been payin’ rint twinty years, an’ am still, thank God, able to take my own part iv any day’s work,—plough, spade, or flail.”

“Have you got a lease?” said I.

“No, indeed; not a schrape of a pin; nor I never axed it. Have I not my tinnant-rite?”

From that subject, Mr. Mc Nale diverged slightly into politics, touching on the state of the counthry, and untwisting some entanglements of the ‘Irish difficulty’ that might be usefully made known in the neighbourhood of Westminster.

“Troth, Sir,” said Con, “you English are mighty grand in all your doings. You dale wholesale in all sorts iv things; good luck to you—in charity as well as in pigs, praties, an’ sich like. Well you want to improve Ireland by wholesale; you set up illigant schames for puttin’ us all to rights by the million; for clanin’ an’ dranin’ a whole province at onst; for giving labour to everybody; an’ all mighty purty on paper, with figures all as round an’ nate as copybooks, with long rigiments of O’s, after ’em. I’ve heard iv whole stacks of papers piled up an’ handsomely ticketed in tidy big offices—all ‘rules and riglations’ for labourers, which the boys can’t follow, and the inspectors can’t force. Why not,” continued Mr. Con, giving his spade a thrust into the ground that sent it up to the maker’s name, “Why not tache the boys to do as I have done?”

“But all are not so persevering, so knowing, and so fond of work as you.”

Whether Mr. Mc Nale was impressed by his own modesty, or by the force of my suggestion, I know not. But he was silent.