Left up among my country people in this hill country of Donegal, I set
myself to see and to hear what they had to say for themselves or against
their landlords. In the pauses of storm I walked up the mountains to see
the people in their homes. I seem to have lost the power of description.
I will never think of scenes I saw there without tears. I never, in
Canada, saw pigs housed as I saw human beings here. Sickness, old age,
childhood penned up in such places that one shuddered to go into them.
Now, mark me! every hovel paid rent, or was under eviction for failing
to pay.

The landlord has no duties in the way of repairing a roof or making a
house comfortable. Such a thing is utterly unknown here. To fix the
rent, to collect the rent, to make office rules as whim or cupidity
dictates, to enforce them, in many instances with great brutality, is
the sole business of the landlord; and the whole power of the Executive
of England is at his back. This is not a good school in which to learn
loyalty. Submission to absolute decrees or eviction are the only
alternative.

The tenant has no voice in the bargain. He has no power to be one party
to a contract. This irresponsible power of an autocrat over serfs of the
soil is bad for both parties. I will try to tell these people's side of
the question as nearly in their own words as I can.

When the native population was driven off the good valley lands to the
hills of Donegal during the confiscation times, they built their cabins
in groups, like the Scotch _clachans_, for company, perhaps even
for protection. Each man broke up, clearing off stones and rooting up
whins, the best patch within his reach. He ditched and drained pieces of
low-lying bog, and paid for what he cultivated, all the rest being