“‘Twas doing nothing was his curse;--
Is there a vice can plague us worse?
The wretch who digs the mine for bread,
Or ploughs, that others may be fed,
Feels less fatigue than that decreed
To him who cannot think or read.”
Illness was a sort of occupation to me, and I was always sorry to get
well. When the interest of being in danger ceased, I had no other to
supply its place. I fancied that I should enjoy my liberty after my
divorce; but “even freedom grew tasteless.” I do not recollect any thing
that wakened me from my torpor, during two months after my divorce,
except a violent quarrel between all my English servants and my Irish
nurse. Whether she assumed too much, upon the idea that she was a
favourite, or whether national prejudice was alone the cause of the
hatred, that prevailed against her, I know not; but they one and
all declared that they could not, and would not, live with her. She
expressed the same dislike to _consorting_ with them; “but would _put
up_ with worse, ay, with the devils themselves, to oblige my honour, and
to lie under the same roof _wid_ my honour.”
The rest of the servants laughed at her blunders. This she could bear
with good-humour; but when they seriously affected to reproach her with
having, by her uncouth appearance, at her first presenting herself at
Sherwood Park, endangered my life, she retorted, “And who cared for him
in the wide world but I, amongst you all, when he lay for dead? I ask
you that,” said she.
To this there was no reply; and they hated her the more for their having
been silenced by her shrewdness. I protected her as long as I could;
but, for the sake of peace, I at last yielded to the combined forces
of the steward’s room and the servants’ hall, and despatched Ellinor
to Ireland, with a renewal of the promise that I would visit Glenthorn
Castle this year or the next. To comfort her at parting, I would have
made her a considerable present; but she would take only a few guineas,
to bear her expenses back to her native place. The sacrifice I made did
not procure me a peace of any continuance in my own house:--ruined by
indulgence, and by my indolent, reckless temper, my servants were now my
masters. In a large, ill-regulated establishment, domestics become, like
spoiled children, discontented, capricious, and the tyrants over those
who have not the sense or steadiness to command. I remember one delicate
puppy _parted with me_, because, as he informed me, the curtains of his
bed did not close at the foot; he had never been used to such a thing,
and had told the housekeeper so three times, but could obtain no
redress, which necessitated him to beg my permission to retire from the
service.
In his stead another coxcomb came to offer himself, who, with an
incomparably easy air, begged to know whether I wanted _a man of figure_
or _a man of parts?_ For the benefit of those to whom this fashionable
classification of domestics may not be familiar, I should observe, that
the department of _a man of figure_ is specially and solely to
announce company on gala days; the business of _the man of parts_ is
multifarious: to write cards of invitation, to speak to impertinent
tradesmen, to carry confidential messages, et cetera. Now, where there
is an et cetera in an agreement, there is always an opening for dispute.
The functions of _the man of parts_ not being accurately defined, I
unluckily required from him some service which was not in his bond; I
believe it was to go for my pocket handkerchief: “He could not possibly
do it, because it was not his business;” and I, the laziest of mortals,
after waiting a full quarter of an hour, whilst they were settling
whose business it was to obey me, was forced to get up and go for what I
wanted. I comforted myself by the recollection of the poor king of Spain
and _le brasier_. With a regal precedent I could not but be satisfied.
All great people, said I to myself, are obliged to submit to these
inconveniences. I submitted with so good a grace, that my submission
was scarcely felt to be a condescension. My _bachelor’s_ house soon
exhibited in perfection “High Life below Stairs.”
It is said that a foreign nobleman permitted his servants to take their
own way so completely, that one night he and his guests being kept
waiting an unconscionable time for supper, he at last went down stairs
to inquire into the cause of the delay: he found the servant, whose
business it was to take up supper, quietly at cards with a large party
of his friends. The man coolly remonstrated, that it was impossible to
leave his game unfinished. The master candidly acknowledged the force of
his plea; but insisted upon the man’s going up stairs to lay the cloth
for supper, whilst he took his cards, sat down, and finished the game
for him.
The suavity of my temper never absolutely reached this degree of
complaisance. My home was disagreeable to me: I had not the resolution
to remove the causes of the discontents. Every day I swore I would part
with all these rascals the next morning; but still they stayed. Abroad I
was not happier than at home. I was disgusted with my former companions:
they had convinced me, the night of my accident at Sherwood Park, that
they cared not whether I was alive or dead; and ever since that time I
had been more and more struck with their selfishness as well as folly.
It was inexpressibly fatiguing and irksome to me to keep up a show
of good fellowship and joviality with these people, though I had not
sufficient energy to make the attempt to quit them. When these _dashers_
and _loungers_ found that I was not always at their disposal, they
discovered that Glenthorn had always something _odd_ about him; that
Glenthorn had always a melancholy turn; that it ran in the family, &c.
Satisfied with these phrases, they let me take my own way, and forgot
my existence. Public amusements had lost their charm; I had sufficient
steadiness to resist the temptation to game: but, for want of stimulus,
I could hardly endure the _tedium_ of my days. At this period of my
life, ennui was very near turning into misanthropy. I balanced between
becoming a misanthrope and a democrat.
Whilst I was in this critical state of ineptitude, my attention was
accidentally roused by the sight of a boxing-match. My feelings were so
much excited, and the excitation was so delightful, that I was now in
danger of becoming an amateur of the pugilistic art. It did not occur to
me, that it was beneath the dignity of a British nobleman to learn the
vulgar terms of the boxing trade. I soon began to talk very _knowingly_
of _first-rate bruisers, game_ men, and _pleasing_ fighters; _making
play--beating a man under the ropes--sparring--rallying--sawing_--and
_chopping_. What farther proficiency I might have made in this language,
or how long my interest in these feats of prize-fighters might have
continued, had I been left to myself, I cannot determine; but I was
unexpectedly seized with a fit of national shame, on hearing a foreigner
of rank and reputation express astonishment at our taste for these
savage spectacles. It was in vain that I repeated the arguments of
some of the parliamentary panegyrists of boxing and bull-baiting; and
asserted, that these diversions render a people hardy and courageous.
My opponent replied, that he did not perceive the necessary connexion
between cruelty and courage; that he did not comprehend how the standing
by in safety to see two men bruise each other almost to death could
evince or inspire heroic sentiments or warlike dispositions. He
observed, that the Romans were most eager for the fights of gladiators
during the reigns of the most effeminate and cruel emperors, and in
the decline of all public spirit and virtue. These arguments would have
probably made but a feeble impression on an understanding like mine,
unaccustomed to general reasoning, and on a temper habituated to pursue,
without thought of consequences, my immediate individual gratification;
but it happened that my feelings were touched at this time by the
dreadful sufferings of one of the pugilistic combatants. He died a few
hours after the battle. He was an Irishman: most of the spectators being
English, and triumphing in the victory of their countryman, the poor
fellow’s fate was scarcely noticed. I spoke to him a little while before
he died, and found that he came from my own county. His name was Michael
Noonan. He made it his dying request, that I would carry half-a-guinea,
the only money he possessed, to his aged father, and a silk handkerchief
he had worn round his neck, to his sister. Pity for this unfortunate
Irishman recalled Ireland to my thoughts. Many small reasons concurred
to make me now desirous of going to that country. I should get rid at
once of a tormenting establishment, and of servants, without the odium
of turning them away; for most of them declined going into banishment,
as they called it. Besides this, I should leave my companions, with whom
I was disgusted. I was tired of England, and wanted to see something
new, even if it were to be worse than what I had seen before. These were
not my ostensible reasons: I professed to have more exalted motives for
my journey. It was my duty, I said, to visit my Irish estate, and to
encourage my tenantry, by residing some time among them. Duties often
spring up to our view at a convenient opportunity. Then my promise to
poor Ellinor; it was impossible for a man of honour to break a promise,
even to an old woman: in short, when people are determined upon any
action, they seldom fail to find arguments capable of convincing them
that their resolution is reasonable. Mixed motives govern the conduct of
half mankind; so I set out upon my journey to Ireland.