"The pig that we meant
To drynurse in the parlor to pay off the rent."
The pig is becoming an institution of the past. I was told by a
gentleman of the first respectability in Derry, that sucking pigs are
sold in that market for thirty shillings. These would be precious to the
peasant if he had them, but he has not, nor means to get them. This
great resource for paying the rent is gone.
Up the Lough we sailed into beautiful Ramelton, an exceptionally pretty,
clean little place, boasting of a very nicely kept hotel. The scenery
all around is delightful. Across the Lannon River, on the banks of which
is one of the principal streets, is a lofty ridge crowned with grand
trees. The Lannon runs into Lough Swilly, and is affected by the ebb and
flow of the tide. The trees on the ridge are tenanted by a thriving
colony of rooks, very busy just now with their spring work. Two
delightful roads, one above another, run along the brow of the hill
under the shade of the trees.
I discovered that rooks know a great deal; that there is infinite
variety of meaning in their caw. The young couples who are starting
housekeeping have not only to provide materials and build their homes,
but to defend their property at every stage from the rapacity of their
neighbors. They have also to build in such a manner as to satisfy the
artistic taste of the community. I saw an instance of this during a
morning walk. Five rooks were sitting in judgment on the work of a young
and thoughtless pair of rooks, I suppose. The work was condemned, the
young couple were evicted without mercy and the nest pulled to pieces by
the five censors with grave caws of disapprobation, while the evicted
ones flew round and showed fight and used bad language. The Coercion Act
was not in favor among the black coated gentry of the air.
It has fallen like a spell over Ireland though, and evictions are
hurried through as if they thought their time was short. People are
afraid to speak to a stranger.
I have succeeded in obtaining introductions, which I hope will give me
an entrance into society in Donegal.
Was driven by my new friends over a part of Lord Leitrim's estate, and
through his town of Milford. The murdered Earl has left a woeful memory
of himself all over the country side. He must have had as many curses
breathed against him as there are leaves on the trees, if what
respectable people who dare speak of his doings say of him be true,
which it undoubtedly is. Godly people of Scottish descent, Covenanters
and Presbyterians, who would not have harmed a hair of his head for
worlds, have again and again lifted their hands to heaven and cried.
"How long, Lord, are we to endure the cruelty of this man?"
One case (which is a sample case) I will notice.
