To this were appended fifty signatures, and the best part of all is that the whole of the manifesto was absolutely unsolicited by me, proving an unexpected source of pleasure.

CHAPTER X

KERRY ELECTIONS

An election in most places is an occasion for breaking heads, abusing opponents, and other similar demonstrations of ardent local philanthropy.  Such opportunities are never lost by Kerry men, whose heads are harder and whose wits are sharper than those of the average run of humanity.  If you are a real Kerry man of respectable convictions, and self-respecting into the bargain, you will never let the man who is drinking with you entertain any opinions but your own at election times.  If he contradicts you, it’s up with your stick and a crack on his skull, and as that only tickles him up—­having much the effect of a nettle under a donkey’s tail—­you then go outside and mutually destroy as much of each other as can be effected in a fight.  Some weeks later, when the vanquished is able to crawl away from the dispensary doctor, and so save his own life amid the dire forebodings of that physician, who refuses to answer for the consequences, you begin to drink with him again just to show there is no ill-feeling; which of course there is not, if you and he are both real Kerry men.  Naturally, if you get a sullen, revengeful, calculating Protestant from the North, it’s another matter, for he’ll be far too friendly with the constabulary and won’t hold with the good old local ways approved by every Kerry Papist and tolerated by most of the priests.

In 1851 there was a Kerry election.  A Protestant candidate stood, and so did one who in those days was a Whig.  I went stoutly for the Protectionist, but the priests plumped for the Free Trader, and their congregations have been regretting it ever since.

One tenant was driving in a gig with me to the poll when a priest passed me on the road and said to my tenant:—­

’May the blast of the Almighty be upon you, for I know you are being taken to vote the wrong way.’

The tenant got very nervous, for in those times it was generally believed that the priests had power to change men into frogs and toads, a superstition by no means obsolete even now in lone districts.  However, I took him along very easily, giving him the benefit of the roll of my tongue as to what he should do, and before he reached the polling-booth he recovered and voted for the Tory.

A Mr. Scully from Tipperary was the Whig candidate, and the family was not popular in its own county.

A Cork man, making inquiries of a Tipperary man about him, was answered:—­

’I don’t know this gentleman personally, but I believe we have already shot the best of the family.’

Mr. Scully was a very amusing man, and in the House of Commons he used to go by the nickname of ‘old Skull.’