Early one morning, after having passed a feverish night, tortured in my
dreams by the voices and faces of the people who had surrounded me the
preceding day, I was awakened by the noise of somebody lighting my fire.
I thought it was Ellinor; and the idea of the disinterested affection
of this poor woman came full into my mind, contrasted in the strongest
manner with the recollection of the selfish encroaching people by whom,
of late, I had been worried.
“How do you do, my good Ellinor?” said I; “I have not seen any thing of
you this week past.”
“It’s not Ellinor at all, my lard,” said a new voice.
“And why so? Why does not Ellinor light my fire?”
“Myself does not know, my lard.”
“Go for her directly.”
“She’s gone home these three days, my lard.”
“Gone! is she sick?”
“Not as I know _on_, my lard. Myself does not know what ailed her,
except she would be jealous of my lighting the fire. But I can’t say
what ailed her; for she went away without a word good or bad, when she
seen me lighting this fire, which I did by the housekeeper’s orders.”
I now recollected poor Ellinor’s request, and reproached myself for
having neglected to fulfil my promise, upon an affair which, however
trifling in itself, appeared of consequence to her. In the course of my
morning’s ride I determined to call upon her at her own house, and make
my apologies: but first I satisfied my curiosity about a prodigious
number of _parks_ and _towns_ which I had heard of upon my estate. Many
a ragged man had come to me, with the modest request that I would let
him _one of the parks near the town_. The horse-park, the deer-park, the
cow-park, were not quite sufficient to answer the ideas I had attached
to the word _park_: but I was quite astonished and mortified when I
beheld the bits and corners of land near the town of Glenthorn, on which
these high-sounding titles had been bestowed:--just what would feed a
cow is sufficient in Ireland to constitute a park.
When I heard the names of above a hundred towns on the Glenthorn estate,
I had an exalted idea of my own territories; and I was impatient to
make a progress through my dominions: but, upon visiting a few of
these places, my curiosity was satisfied. Two or three cabins gathered
together were sufficient to constitute a town, and the land adjoining
thereto is called a town-land. The denominations of these town-lands
having continued from generation to generation, according to ancient
surveys of Ireland, it is sufficient to show the boundaries of a
town-land, to prove that there must be a town; and a tradition of a town
continues to be satisfactory, even when only a single cabin remains. I
turned my horse’s head away in disgust from one of these traditionary
towns, and desired a boy to show me the way to Ellinor O’Donoghoe’s
house.
“So I will, plase your honour, my lard; sure I’ve a right to know, for
she’s my own granny.”
The boy, or, as he was called, the _gossoon_, ran across some fields
where there was abundance of fern and of rabbits. The rabbits, sitting
quietly at the entrance of their holes, seemed to consider themselves
as proprietors of the soil, and me and my horse as intruders. The boy
apologized for the number of rabbit-holes on this part of the estate:
“It would not be so, my lard, if I had a gun allowed me by the
gamekeeper, which he would give me if he knew it would be plasing to
your honour.” The ingenuity with which even the young boys can introduce
their requests in a favourable moment sometimes provoked me, and
sometimes excited my admiration. This boy made his just at the time he
was rolling out of my way a car that stopped a gap in the hedge; and he
was so hot and out of breath with running in my service, that I could
not refuse him _a token to the gamekeeper that he might get a gun_ as
soon as I understood what it meant.
We came to Ellinor’s house, a wretched-looking, low, and mud-walled
cabin; at one end it was propped by a buttress of loose stones, upon
which stood a goat reared on his hind legs, to browse on the grass that
grew on the house-top. A dung-hill was before the only window, at
the other end of the house, and close to the door was a puddle of the
dirtiest of dirty water, in which ducks were dabbling. At my approach
there came out of the cabin a pig, a calf, a lamb, a kid, and two geese,
all with their legs tied; followed by turkeys, cocks, hens, chickens,
a dog, a cat, a kitten, a beggar-man, a beggar-woman with a pipe in her
mouth, children innumerable, and a stout girl with a pitchfork in her
hand; all together more than I, looking down upon the roof as I sat
on horseback, and measuring the superficies with my eye, could have
possibly supposed the mansion capable of containing. I asked if Ellinor
O’Donoghoe was at home; but the dog barked, the geese cackled, the
turkeys gobbled, and the beggars begged, with one accord, so loudly,
that there was no chance of my being heard. When the _girl_ had at last
succeeded in appeasing them all with her pitchfork, she answered, that
Ellinor O’Donoghoe was at home, but that she was out with the potatoes;
and she ran to fetch her, after calling to _the lays, who was within
in the room smoking_, to come out to his honour. As soon as they had
crouched under the door, and were able to stand upright, they welcomed
me with a very good grace, and were proud to see me in _the kingdom_. I
asked if they were all Ellinor’s sons?
“All entirely,” was the first answer.
“Not one but one,” was the second answer. The third made the other two
intelligible.
“Plase your honour, we are all her sons-in-law, except myself, who am
her lawful son.”
“Then you are my foster-brother?”
“No, plase your honour, it’s not me, but my brother, and he’s not in
it.”
“_Not in it?’_
“No, plase your honour; becaase he’s in the forge, up _abow_.”
“Abow!” said I; “what does he mean?”
“Sure he’s the blacksmith, my lard.”
“And what are you?”
“I’m Ody, plase your honour; the short for Owen.”
“And what is your trade?”
“Trade, plase your honour! I was bred to none, more than another; but
expects, only that my mother’s not willing to part with me, to go into
the militia next month; and I’m sure she’d let me, if your honour’s
lordship would spake a word to the colonel, to see to get me made a
serjeant _immadiately_.”
As Ody made his request, all his companions came forward in sign of
sympathy, and closed round my horse’s head to make me _sinsible_ of
their expectations; but at this instant Ellinor came up, her old face
colouring all over with joy when she saw me.
“So, Ellinor,” said I, “you were affronted, I hear, and left the castle
in anger?”
“In anger! And if I did, more shame for me--but anger does not last long
with me any way; and against you, my lord, dear, how could it? Oh, think
how good he is, coming to see me in such a poor place!”
“I will make it a better place for you, Ellinor,” said I. Far from being
eager to obtain promises, she still replied, that “all was good enough
for her.” I desired that she would come and live with me at the castle,
till a better house than her present habitation could be built for her;
but she seemed to prefer this hovel. I assured her that she should be
permitted to light my fire.
“Oh, it’s better for me not,” said she; “better keep out of the way. I
could not be asy if I got any one ill-will.”
I assured her that she should be at liberty to do just as she liked:
and whilst I rode home I was planning a pretty cottage for her near the
porter’s lodge. I was pleased with myself for my gratitude to this poor
woman. Before I slept, I actually wrote a letter, which obtained for Ody
the honour of being made a serjeant in the ---- militia; and Ellinor,
dazzled by this military glory, was satisfied that he should leave home,
though he was her favourite.
“Well, let him leave me then,” said she; “I won’t stand in his light.
I never thought of my living to see Ody a serjeant. Now, Ody, have
done being wild, honey-dear, and be a credit to your family, and to
his honour’s commendation--God bless him for ever for it! From the very
first I knew it was he that had the kind heart.”
I am not sure that it was a very good action to get a man made a
serjeant, of whom I knew nothing but that he was son to my nurse.
Self-complacency, however, cherished my first indistinct feelings
of benevolence. Though not much accustomed to reflect upon my own
sensations, I think I remember, at this period, suspecting that the
feeling of benevolence is a greater pleasure than the possession of
_barouches_, and horses, and castles, and parks--greater even than the
possession of power. Of this last truth, however, I had not as yet a
perfectly clear conception. Even in my benevolence I was as impatient
and unreasonable as a child. Money, I thought, had the power of
Aladdin’s lamp, to procure with magical celerity the gratification of
my wishes. I expected that a cottage for Ellinor should rise out of the
earth at my command. But the slaves of Aladdin’s lamp were not Irishmen.
The delays, and difficulties, and blunders, in the execution of my
orders, provoked me beyond measure; and it would have been difficult for
a cool spectator to decide whether I or my workmen were most in fault;
they for their dilatory habits, or I for my impatient temper.
“Well, _plase_ your honour, when the _pratees_ are set, and the turf
cut, we’ll _fall-to_ at Ellinor’s house.”
“Confound the potatoes and the turf! you must _fall-to_, as you call it,
directly.”
“Is it without the lime, and plase your honour? Sure that same is not
drawn yet, nor the stones quarried, since it is of stone it will be--nor
the foundations itself dug, and the horses were all putting out dung.”
Then after the bog and the potatoes, came funerals and holidays
innumerable. The masons were idle one week waiting for the mortar, and
the mortar another week waiting for the stones, and then they were at
a stand for the carpenter when they came to the door-case, and the
carpenter was looking for the sawyer, and the sawyer was gone to have
the saw mended. Then there was a _stop_ again at the window-sills for
the stone-cutter, and he was at the quarter-sessions, processing his
brother for _tin and tinpence, hay-money_. And when, in spite of all
delays and obstacles, the walls reached their destined height, the roof
was a new plague; the carpenter, the slater, and the nailer, were all
at variance, and I cannot tell which was the most provoking rogue of the
three. At last, however, the house was roofed and slated: then I would
not wait till the walls were dry before I plastered, and papered,
and furnished it. I fitted it up in the most elegant style of English
cottages; for I was determined that Ellinor’s habitation should be such
as had never been seen in this part of the world. The day when it was
finished, and when I gave possession of it to Ellinor, paid me for all
my trouble; I tasted a species of pleasure that was new to me, and which
was the sweeter from having been earned with some difficulty. And now,
when I saw a vast number of my tenants assembled at a rural feast which
I gave on Ellinor’s _installation_, my benevolence enlarged, even
beyond the possibility of its gratification, and I wished to make all my
dependants happy, provided I could accomplish it without much trouble.
The method of doing good, which seemed to require the least exertion,
and which I, therefore, most willingly practised, was giving away money.
I did not wait to inquire, much less to examine into the merits of the
claimants; but, without selecting proper objects, I relieved myself
from the uneasy feeling of pity, by indiscriminate donations to objects
apparently the most miserable.
I was quite angry with Mr. M’Leod, my agent, and considered him as a
selfish, hard-hearted miser, because he did not seem to sympathize with
me, or to applaud my generosity. I was so much irritated by his cold
silence, that I could not forbear pressing him to say something.
“_I doubt_, then,” said he, “since you desire me to speak my mind, my
lord, _I doubt_ whether the best way of encouraging the industrious is
to give premiums to the idle.”
“But, idle or not, these poor wretches are so miserable, that I cannot
refuse to give them something; and, surely, when one can do it so
easily, it is right to relieve misery. Is it not?”
“Undoubtedly, my lord; but the difficulty is, to relieve present misery,
without creating more in future. Pity for one class of beings sometimes
makes us cruel to others. I am told that there are some Indian Brahmins
so very compassionate, that they hire beggars to let fleas feed upon
them: I doubt whether it might not be better to let the fleas starve.”
I did not in the least understand what Mr. M’Leod meant: but I was
soon made to comprehend it, by crowds of eloquent beggars, who soon
surrounded me: many who had been resolutely struggling with their
difficulties, slackened their exertions, and left their labour for the
easier trade of imposing upon my credulity. The money I had bestowed was
wasted at the dram-shop, or it became the subject of family-quarrels;
and those whom I had _relieved_ returned to _my honour_, with fresh and
insatiable expectations. All this time my industrious tenants grumbled,
because no encouragement was given to them; and, looking upon me as a
weak good-natured fool, they combined in a resolution to ask me for long
leases, or reduction of rent.
The rhetoric of my tenants succeeded in some instances; and again I was
mortified by Mr. M’Leod’s silence. I was too proud to ask his opinion.
I ordered, and was obeyed. A few leases for long terms were signed and
sealed; and when I had thus my own way completely, I could not refrain
from recurring to Mr. M’Leod’s opinion.
“I doubt, my lord,” said he, “whether this measure may be as
advantageous as you hope. These fellows, these middle-men, will underset
the land, and live in idleness, whilst they _rack_ a parcel of wretched
under-tenants.”
“But they said they would keep the land in their own hands, and improve
it; and that the reason why they could not afford to improve before was,
that they had not long leases.”
“It may be doubted whether long leases alone will make improving
tenants; for in the next county to us, there are many farms of the
dowager Lady Ormsby’s land let at ten shillings an acre, and her
tenantry are beggars: and the land now, at the end of the leases, is
worn out, and worse than at their commencement.”
I was weary listening to this cold reasoning, and resolved to apply no
more for explanations to Mr. M’Leod; yet in my indolence I wanted
the support of his approbation, at the very time I was jealous of his
interference.
At one time I had a mind to raise the wages of labour; but Mr. M’Leod
said, “_It might be doubted_ whether the people would not work less,
when they could with less work have money enough to support them.”
I was puzzled: and then I had a mind to lower the wages of labour, to
force them to work or starve. Still provoking Mr. M’Leod said, “It might
be doubted whether it would not be better to leave them alone.”
I gave marriage-portions to the daughters of my tenants, and rewards to
those who had children; for I had always heard that legislators
should encourage population. Still Mr. M’Leod hesitated to approve; he
observed, “that my estate was so populous, that the complaint in each
family was, that they had not land for the sons. _It might be doubted_
whether, if a farm could support but ten people, it were wise to
encourage the birth of twenty. _It might be doubted_ whether it were not
better for ten to live, and be well fed, than for twenty to be born, and
to be half-starved.”
To encourage manufactures in my town of Glenthorn, I proposed putting
a clause in my leases, compelling my tenants to buy stuffs and linens
manufactured at Glenthorn, and no where else. Stubborn M’Leod, as usual,
began with, “_I doubt_ whether that will not encourage the manufacturers
at Glenthorn to make bad stuffs and bad linen, since they are sure of a
sale, and without danger of competition.”
At all events, I thought my tenants would grow rich and _independent_,
if they made every thing _at home_ that they wanted: yet Mr. M’Leod
perplexed me by his “doubt whether it would not be better for a man to
buy shoes, if he could buy them cheaper than he could make them.” He
added something about the division of labour, and Smith’s Wealth of
Nations; to which I could only answer--“Smith’s a Scotchman.”
I cannot express how much I dreaded Mr. M’Leod’s _I doubt_--and--_It may
be doubted._
From the pain of doubt, and the labour of thought, I was soon most
agreeably reprieved by the company of a Mr. Hardcastle, whose visits I
constantly encouraged by a most gracious reception. Mr. Hardcastle
was the agent of the dowager Lady Ormsby, who had a large estate in
my neighbourhood: he was the very reverse of my Mr. M’Leod in his
deportment and conversation. Talkative, self-sufficient, peremptory,
he seemed not to know what it was _to doubt_; he considered doubt as a
proof of ignorance, imbecility, or cowardice. _“Can any man doubt?”_ was
his usual beginning. On every subject of human knowledge, taste, morals,
politics, economy, legislation; on all affairs, civil, military, or
ecclesiastical, he decided at once in the most confident tone. Yet he
“never read, not he!” he had nothing to do with books; he consulted only
his own eyes and ears, and appealed only to common sense. As to
theory, he had no opinion of theory; for his part, he only pretended
to understand practice and experience--and his practice was confined
steadily to his own practice, and his experience uniformly to what he
had tried at New-town-Hardcastle.
At first I thought him a mighty clever man, and I really rejoiced to see
my _doubter_ silenced. After dinner, when he had finished speaking
in this decisive manner, I used frequently to back him with a--_Very
true--very fair--very clear_--though I understood what he said as little
as he did himself; but it was an ease to my mind to have a disputed
point settled--and I filled my glass with an air of triumph, whilst
M’Leod never contradicted my assertions, nor controverted Mr.
Hardcastle’s arguments. There was still an air of content and quiet
self-satisfaction in M’Leod’s very silence, which surprised and vexed
me.
One day, when Hardcastle was laying down the law upon several subjects
in his usual dictatorial manner, telling us how he managed his people,
and what order he kept them in, I was determined that M’Leod should
not enjoy the security of his silence, and I urged him to give us
his general opinion, as to the means of improving the poor people in
Ireland.
“I doubt,” said M’Leod, “whether any thing effectual can be done till
they have a better education.”
“Education!--Pshaw!--There it is now--these book-men,” cried Hardcastle:
“Why, my dear sir, can any man alive, who knows this country, doubt that
the common people have already too much education, as it is called--a
vast deal too much? Too many of them know how to read, and write, and
cipher, which I presume is all you mean by education.”
“Not entirely,” said M’Leod; “a good education comprehends something
more.”
“The more the worse,” interrupted Hardcastle. “The more they know, the
worse they are, sir, depend on that; I know the people of this country,
sir; I have _a good right_ to know them, sir, being born amongst them,
and bred amongst them; so I think I may speak with some confidence on
these matters. And I give it as my decided humble opinion, founded on
irrefragable experience, which is what I always build upon, that the way
to ruin the poor of Ireland would be to educate them, sir. Look at the
poor scholars, as they call themselves; and what are they? a parcel of
young vagabonds in rags, with a book under their arm instead of a
spade or a shovel, sir. And what comes of this? that they
grow up the worst-disposed, and the most troublesome
seditiousrascals in the community. I allow none of them about
New-town-Hardcastle--none--banished them all. Useless vagrants--hornets,
vipers, sir: and show me a quieter, better-managed set of people than I
have made of mine. I go upon experience, sir; and that’s the only thing
to go upon; and I’ll go no farther than New-town-Hardcastle: if that
won’t bring conviction home to you, nothing will.”
“I never was at New-town-Hardcastle,” said M’Leod, drily.
“Well, sir, I hope it will not be the case long. But in the mean time,
my good sir, do give me leave to put it to your own common sense, what
can reading or writing do for a poor man, unless he is to be a bailiff
or an exciseman? and you know all men can’t expect to be bailiffs or
excisemen. Can all the book-learning in the world, sir, dig a poor man’s
potatoes for him, or plough his land, or cut his turf? Then, sir, in
this country, where’s the advantage of education, I humbly ask? No, sir,
no, trust me--keep the Irish common people ignorant, and you keep ‘em
quiet; and that’s the only way with them; for they are too quiet and
smart, as it is, naturally. Teach them to read and write, and it’s just
adding fuel to fire--fire to gunpowder, sir. Teach them any thing, and
directly you _set them up_: now it’s our business to _keep them down_,
unless, sir, you’d wish to have your throat cut. Education, sir! Lord
bless your soul, sir! they have a great deal too much; they know too
much already, which makes them so refractory to the laws, and so idle.
I will go no farther than New-town-Hardcastle, to prove all this. So,
my good sir,” concluded he, triumphantly, “education, I grant you,
is necessary for the rich; but tell me, if you can, what’s the use of
education to the poor?”
“Much the same, I apprehend, as to the rich,” answered M’Leod. “The use
of education, as I understand it, is to teach men to see clearly, and
to follow steadily, their real interests. All morality, you know, is
comprised in this definition; and--”
“Very true, sir; but all this can never apply to the poor in Ireland.”
“Why, sir; are they not men?”
“Men, to be sure; but not like men in Scotland. The Irish know nothing
of their interests; and as to morality, that’s out of the question: they
know nothing about it, my dear sir.”
“That is the very thing of which I complain,” said M’Leod. “They know
nothing, because they have been taught nothing.”
“They cannot be taught, sir.”
“Did you ever try?”
“I _did_, sir, no later than last week. A fellow that I caught stealing
my turf, instead of sending him to jail, I said to him, with a great
deal of lenity, My honest fellow, did you never hear of the eighth
commandment, ‘Thou shalt not steal?’ He confessed he had; but did
not know it was the eighth. I showed it to him, and counted it to him
myself; and set him, for a punishment, to get his whole catechism. Well,
sir, the next week I found him stealing my turf again! and when I caught
him by the wrist in the fact, he said, it was because the priest would
not let him learn the catechism I gave him, because it was a Protestant
one. Now you see, sir, there’s a bar for ever to all education.”
Mr. M’Leod smiled, said something about time and patience, and observed,
“that one experiment was not conclusive against a whole nation.” Any
thing like a general argument Mr. Hardcastle could not comprehend. He
knew every blade of grass within the reach of his tether, but could not
reach an inch beyond. Any thing like an appeal to benevolent feelings
was lost upon him; for he was so frank in his selfishness, that he did
not even pretend to be generous. By sundry self-complacent motions he
showed whilst his adversary spoke, that he disdained to listen almost
as much as to read: but, as soon as M’Leod paused, he said, “What you
observe, sir, may possibly be very true; but I have made up my mind.”
Then he went over and over again his assertions, in a louder and a
louder voice, ending with a tone of interrogation that seemed to set all
answer at defiance, “What have you to answer to me now, sir?--Can any
man alive doubt this, sir?”
M’Leod was perfectly silent. The company broke up; and, as we were going
out of the room, I maliciously asked M’Leod, why he, who could say
so much in his own defence, had suffered himself to be so completely
silenced? He answered me, in his low, deliberate voice, in the words of
Moiré--“‘Qu’est-ce que la raison avec un filet de voix contre une gueule
comme celle-là?’ At some other time,” added Mr. M’Leod, “my sentiments
shall be at your lordship’s disposal.”
Indolent persons love positive people, when they are of their own
opinion; because they are saved the trouble of developing their
thoughts, or supporting their assertions: but the moment the positive
differs in sentiment from the indolent man, there is an end of the
friendship. The indolent man then hates his pertinacious adversary
as much as he loved his sturdy friend. So it happened between Mr.
Hardcastle and me. This gentleman was a prodigious favourite with me, so
long as his opinions were not in opposition to my own; but an accident
happened, which brought his love of power and mine into direct
competition, and then I found his peremptory mode of reasoning and his
ignorance absurd and insufferable.
Before I can do justice to my part of this quarrel, I must explain the
cause of the interest which I took in behalf of the persons aggrieved.
During the time that my first hot fit of benevolence was on me, I was
riding home one evening after dining with Mr. Hardcastle, and I was
struck with the sight of a cabin, more wretched than any I had ever
before beheld: the feeble light of a single rush-candle through the
window revealed its internal misery.
“Does any body live in that hovel?” said I
“Ay, sure, does there: the Noonans, plase your honour,” replied a man
on the road. Noonans! I recollected the name to be that of the pugilist,
who had died in consequence of the combat at which I had been present in
London; who had, with his dying breath, besought me to convey his only
half-guinea and his silk handkerchief to his poor father and sister. I
alighted from my horse, asking the man, at the same time, if the son of
this Noonan had not died in England.
“He had, sir, a son in England, Mick Noonan, who used to send him odd
guineas, _I mind_, and was a _good lad to his father_, though wild; and
there’s been no account of him at-all-at-all this long while: but the
old man has another boy, a sober lad, who’s abroad with the army in the
East Indies; and it’s he that is the hope of the family. And there’s the
father--and old as he is, and poor, and a cripple, I’d engage there is
not a happier man in the three counties at this very time speaking: for
it is just now I seen young Jemmy Riley, the daughter’s _bachelor_, go
by with a letter. What news? says I. ‘Great news!’ says he: ‘a letter
from Tom Noonan to his father; and I’m going in to read it for him.’”
By the time my voluble informant had come to this period, I had
reached the cabin door. Who could have expected to see smiles and hear
exclamations of joy under such a roof?
I saw the father, with his hands clasped in ecstasy, and looking up to
heaven, with the strong expression of delight in his aged countenance.
I saw every line of his face; for the light of the candle was full upon
it. The daughter, a beautiful girl, kneeling beside him, held the light
for the young man, who was reading her brother’s letter. I was sorry to
interrupt them.
“Your honour’s kindly welcome,” said the old man, making an attempt to
rise.
“Pray, don’t let me disturb you.”
“It was only a letter from a boy of mine that’s over the seas, we was
reading,” said the old man. “A better boy to an ould father, that’s good
for nothing now in this world, never was, plase your honour. See what he
has sent me: a draft here for ten guineas out of the little pay he has.
God for ever bless him!--as he surely will.”
After a few minutes’ conversation, the old man’s heart was so much
opened towards me, that he talked as freely as if he had known me for
years. I led to the subject of his other son Michael, who was mentioned
in the letter as a wild chap. “Ah! your honour, that’s what lies
heaviest on my heart, and will, to my dying day, that Mick, before he
died, which they say he did surely a twelvemonth ago, over there in
England, never so much as sent me one line, good or bad, or his sister a
token to remember him by even!”
“Had he but sent us the least bit of a word, or the least token in life,
I had been content,” said the sister, wiping her eyes: “we don’t so much
as know how he died.”
I took this moment to relate the circumstances of Michael Noonan’s
death; and when I told them of his dying request about the half-guinea
and the silk handkerchief, they were all so much touched, that they
utterly forgot the ten-guinea draft, which I saw on the ground, in the
dirt, under the old man’s feet, whilst he contemplated the half-guinea
which his _poor Michael_ had sent him: repeating, “Poor fellow! poor
fellow! ‘twas all he had in the world. God bless him!--Poor Michael! he
was a wild chap! but none better to his parents than he while the life
was in him. Poor Michael!”
In no country have I found such strong instances of filial affection as
in Ireland. Let the sons go where they may, let what will befall them,
they never forget their parents at home: they write to them constantly
the most affectionate letters, and send them a share of whatever they
earn.
When I asked the daughter of this Noonan, why she had not married? the
old man answered, “That’s her own fault--if it be a fault to abide by
an old father. She wastes her youth here, in the way your honour sees,
tending him who has none other to mind him.”
“Oh! let alone _that_,” said the girl, with a cheerful smile; “we be too
poor to think of marrying yet, by a great deal! so, father dear, you’re
no hinderance any way. For don’t I know, and doesn’t Jemmy there know,
that it’s a sin and a shame, as my mother used to say, for them that
have nothing, to marry and set up house-keeping, like the rogue that
ruined my father?”
“That’s true,” said the young man, with a heavy sigh; “but times will
mend, or we’ll strive and mend them, with the blessing of God.”
I left this miserable but in admiration of the generosity of its
inhabitants. I desired the girl to come to Glenthorn Castle the next
day, that I might give her the silk handkerchief which her poor brother
had sent her. The more I inquired into the circumstances of this family,
the more cause I found for pity and approbation. The old man had been a
good farmer in his day, as the traditions of the aged, and the memories
of the young, were ready to witness; but he was unfortunately joined in
_co-partnership_ with a drunken rogue, who ran away, and left an arrear
of rent, which ruined Noonan. Mr. Hardcastle, the agent, called upon
him to pay it, and sold all that the old man possessed; and this being
insufficient to discharge the debt, he was forced to give up his farm,
and retire, with his daughter, to this hovel; and soon afterwards he
lost the use of his side by a paralytic stroke.
I was so much pleased with the goodness of these poor people, that, in
despite of my indolent disposition, I bestirred myself the very next day
to find a better habitation for them on my own estate. I settled them,
infinitely to their satisfaction, in a small farm; and the girl married
her lover, who undertook to manage the farm for the old man. To my utter
surprise, I found that Mr. Hardcastle was affronted by the part I
took in this affair. He complained that I had behaved in a very
ungentlemanlike manner, and had spirited the tenants away from Lady
Ormsby’s estate, against the regulation which he had laid down for
all _the_ tenants not to _emigrate_ from _the estate_. Jemmy Riley, it
seems, was one of the _cotters_ on the Ormsby estate, a circumstance
with which I was unacquainted; indeed I scarcely at that time understood
what was meant by a _cotter_. Mr. Hardcastle’s complaint, in matter and
manner, was unintelligible to me; but I was quite content to leave off
visiting him, as he left off visiting me--but here the matter did not
stop. This over-wise and over-busy gentleman took upon him, amongst
other offices, the regulation of the markets in the town of Ormsby; and
as he apprehended, for reasons best and only known to himself, a year of
scarcity, he thought fit to keep down the price of oats and potatoes.
He would allow none to be sold in the market of Ormsby but at the
price which he stipulated. The poor people grumbled, and, to remedy the
injustice, made private bargains with each other. He had information of
this, and seized the corn that was selling above the price he had fixed.
Young Riley, Noonan’s son-in-law, came to me to complain, that _his
little oats were seized and detained._ I remonstrated. Hardcastle
resented the appeal to me, and bid him wait and be damned. The young
man, who was rather of a hasty temper, and who did not much like either
to wait or be damned, seized his own oats, and was marching off, when
they were recaptured by Hardcastle’s bailiff, whom young Riley knocked
down; and who, as soon as he got up again, went _straight_ and swore
examinations against Riley. Then I was offended, as I had a right to
be, by the custom of the country, with the magistrate who took an
examination against my tenant, without writing first to me. Then there
was a race between the examinations of _my_ justice of peace and _his_
justice of peace. My indolence was conquered by my love of power:
I supported the contest; the affair came before our grand jury: I
conquered, and Mr. Hardcastle was ever after, of course, my enemy.
To English ears the possessive pronouns _my_ and _his_ may sound
extraordinary, prefixed to a justice of peace; but, in many parts
of Ireland, this language is perfectly correct. A great man talks of
_making_ a justice of the peace with perfect confidence; a very great
man talks with as much certainty of _making_ a sheriff; and a sheriff
makes the jury; and the jury makes the law. We must not forget, however,
that in England, during the reign of Elizabeth, a member of parliament
defined a justice of peace to be “an animal, who for half a dozen
chickens will dispense with half a dozen penal statutes.” Time is
necessary to enforce the sanctions of legislation and civilization--But
I am anticipating reflections which I made at a much later period of my
life. To return to my history.
My benevolence was soon checked by slight disappointments. Ellinor’s
cottage, which I had taken so much pains to build, became a source of
mortification to me. One day I found my old nurse sitting at her
wheel, in the midst of the wreck and litter of all sorts of household
furniture, singing her favourite song of
“There was a lady loved a swine:
Honey! says she,
I’ll give ye a silver trough.
_Hunk!_ says he!”
Ellinor seemed, alas! to have as little taste for the luxuries with
which I had provided her as the pig had for the silver trough. What I
called conveniences were to her incumbrances: she had not been used to
them; she was put out of her way; and it was a daily torment to one of
her habits, to keep her house clean and neat.
There may be, as some philosophers assure us that there is, an innate
love of order in the human mind; but of this instinctive principle my
poor Ellinor was totally destitute. Her ornamented farm-house became, in
a wonderfully short time, a scene of dirt, rubbish, and confusion. There
was a partition between two rooms, which had been built with turf or
peat, instead of bricks, by the wise economy I had employed. Of course,
this was pulled down to get at the turf. The stairs also were pulled
down and burned, though there was no scarcity of firing. As the walls
were plastered and papered before they were quite dry, the paper grew
mouldy, and the plaster fell off. In the hurry of finishing, some of the
woodwork had but one coat of paint. In Ireland they have not faith in
the excellent Dutch proverb, _“Paint costs nothing.”_ I could not get
my workmen to give a second coat of paint to any of the sashes, and
the wood decayed: divers panes of glass in the windows were broken, and
their places filled up with shoes, an old hat, or a bundle of rags. Some
of the slates were blown off one windy night: the slater lived at ten
miles distance, and before the slates were replaced, the rain came in,
and Ellinor was forced to make a bedchamber of the parlour, and then of
the kitchen, retreating from corner to corner as the rain pursued, till,
at last, when “it _would_ come _every way_ upon her bed,” she
petitioned me to let her take the slates off and thatch the house; for
a slated-house, she said, was never so warm as a _tatched cabin_; and as
there was no smoke, she was _kilt_ with the _cowld_.
In my life I never felt so angry. I was ten times more angry than when
Crawley ran away with my wife. In a paroxysm of passion, I reproached
Ellinor with being a savage, an Irish-woman, and an ungrateful fool.
“Savage I am, for any thing I know; and _fool_ I am, that’s certain; but
ungrateful I am not,” said she, bursting into tears. She went home and
took to her bed; and the next thing I heard from her son was, “that
she was _lying in the rheumatism_, which had kept her awake many a long
night, before she would come to complain to my honour of the house, in
dread that I should blame myself for _sending of_ her into it _afore_ it
was dry.”
The rheumatism reconciled me immediately to Ellinor; I let her take her
own way, and thatch the house, and have as much smoke as she pleased,
and she recovered. But I did not entirely recover my desire to do
good to my poor tenants. After forming, in the first enthusiasm of my
benevolence, princely schemes for their advantage, my ardour was damped,
and my zeal discouraged, by a few slight disappointments.
I did not consider, that there is often, amongst uncultivated people,
a mixture of obstinate and lazy content, which makes them despise the
luxuries of their richer neighbours; like those mountaineers, who, proud
of their own hard fare,[80] out of a singular species of contempt, call
the inhabitants of the plains _mange-rotis_, “eaters of roast meat.”
I did not consider that it must take time to change local and national
habits and prejudices; and that it is necessary to raise a taste for
comforts, before they can be properly enjoyed.
In the pettishness of my disappointment, I decided that it was in vain
to attempt to improve and civilize such people as the Irish. I did not
recollect, perhaps at that time I did not know, that even in the days
of the great Queen Elizabeth, “the greatest part of the buildings in
the cities and good towns of England consisted only of timber, cast over
with thick clay to keep out the wind. The new houses of the nobility
were indeed either of brick or stone; and glass windows were then
beginning to be used in England:”[81] and clean rushes were strewed over
the dirty floors of the royal palace. In the impatience of my zeal for
improvement, I expected to do the work of two hundred years in a few
months: and because I could not accelerate the progress of refinement in
this miraculous manner, I was out of humour with myself and with a whole
nation. So easily is the humanity of the rich and great disgusted and
discouraged! as if any people could be civilized in a moment, and at the
word of command of ignorant pride or despotic benevolence!