I could now boast that I had travelled all over Ireland, from north
to south; but, in fact, I had seen nothing of the country or of its
inhabitants. In these commodious parties of pleasure, every thing
had been provided to prevent the obstacles that roused my faculties.
Accustomed by this time to the Hibernian tone, I fancied that I knew all
that could be known of the Irish character; familiarized with the comic
expressions of the lower class of people, they amused me no longer.
On this journey, however, I recollect making one observation, and
once laughing at what I thought a practical bull. We saw a number of
labourers at work in a bog, on a very hot day, with a fire lighted
close to them. When I afterwards mentioned, before Mr. M’Leod, this
circumstance, which I had thought absurd, he informed me that the Irish
labourers often light fires, that the smoke may drive away or destroy
those myriads of tiny flies, called _midges_, by which they are often
tormented so much, that without this remedy, they would, in hot and
damp weather, be obliged to abandon their work. Had I been sufficiently
active during my journey to pen a journal, I should certainly, without
further inquiry, have noted down, that the Irish labourers _always_
light fires in the hottest weather to cool themselves; and thus I should
have added one more to the number of cursory travellers, who expose
their own ignorance, whilst they attempt to ridicule local customs, of
which they have not inquired the cause, or discovered the utility.
A foreigner, who has lately written Letters on England, has given a
laughable instance of this promptitude of misapprehension. He says, he
had heard much of the venality of the British parliament, but he had
no idea of the degree to which it extended, till he actually was an
eye-witness of the scene. The moment the minister entered the House, all
the members ran about exclaiming, “Places! places!” which means, Give us
places--give us places.
My heavy indolence fortunately preserved me from exposing myself, like
these volatile tourists. I was at least secure from the danger of making
mistakes in telling what I never saw.
As to the mode of living of the Irish, their domestic comforts or
grievances, their habits and opinions, their increasing or decreasing
ambition to better their condition, the proportion between the
population and the quantity of land cultivated or capable of
cultivation, the difference between the profits of the husbandman and
the artificer, the relation between the nominal wages of labour and
the actual command over the necessaries of life;--these were questions
wholly foreign to my thoughts, and, at this period of my life,
absolutely beyond the range of my understanding. I had travelled through
my own country without making even a single remark upon the various
degrees of industry and civilization visible in different parts of
the kingdom. In fact, it never occurred to me that it became a British
nobleman to have some notion of the general state of that empire, in the
legislation of which he has a share; nor had I the slightest suspicion
that political economy was a study requisite or suitable to my rank in
life or situation in society. Satisfied with having seen all that is
worth seeing in Ireland, the Giants’ Causeway and the Lake of Killarney,
I was now impatient to return to England. During the rebellion, I
could not, with honour, desert my post; but now that tranquillity was
apparently restored, I determined to quit a country of which my partial
knowledge had in every respect been unfortunate. This resolution of
mine to leave Ireland threw Ellinor into despair, and she used all her
eloquence to dissuade me from the journey. I was quite surprised by the
agony of grief into which she was thrown by the dread of my departure.
I felt astonished that one human being could be so attached to another,
and I really envied her sensibility. My new man, Joe Kelly, also
displayed much reluctance at the thoughts of leaving his native country;
and this sentiment inclined Ellinor to think more favourably of him,
though she could not quite forgive him for being a Kelly of Ballymuddy.
“Troth,” said she to him one day, in my presence, “none of them Kellys
of Ballymuddy but what are a bad clan! Joey, is not there your own
_broder’s_ uncle lying in the jail of ------ at this present time
for the murder of a woman?”--“Well,” replied Joe, “and if he was so
unfortunate to be _put up_, which was not _asy_ done neither, is it
not better and more _creditabler_ to lie in a jail for a murder than
a robbery, I ask you?” This new scale of crimes surprised me; but Joe
spoke what was the sense of many of his countrymen at that period.
By various petty attentions, this man contrived to persuade me of the
sincerity of his attachment: chiefly by the art of appearing to be
managed by me in all things, he insensibly obtained power over my pride;
and, by saving me daily trouble, secured considerable influence over my
indolence. More than any one whom I had ever seen, he had the knack of
seeming half-witted--too simple to overreach, and yet sufficiently
acute and droll to divert his master. I liked to have him about me, as
uncultivated kings like to have their fools. One of our ancient monarchs
is said to have given three parishes to his _joculator_; I gave only
three farms to mine. I had a sort of mean pride in making my favourite
an object of envy: besides, I fell into the common mistake of the
inexperienced great, who fancy that attachment can be purchased, and
that gratitude can be secured, by favours disproportioned to deserts.
Joe Kelly, by sundry manoeuvres too minute for description, contrived
to make me delay, from day to day, the preparations for my journey
to England. From week to week it was put off till the autumn was far
advanced. At length Kelly had nothing left to _suggest_, but that it
would be best to wait for answers from my English steward to the letters
that had been written to inquire whether every thing was ready for my
reception. During this interval, I avoided every human creature (except
Joe Kelly), and was in great danger of becoming a misanthrope from mere
indolence. I did not hate my fellow-creatures, but I dreaded the trouble
of talking to them. My only recreation, at this period, was sauntering
out in the evening beside the sea-shore. It was my regular practice to
sit down upon a certain large stone, at the foot of a rock, to watch the
ebbing of the tide. There was something in the contemplation of the sea
and of the tides which was fascinating to my mind. I could sit and look
at the ocean whole hours together; for, without any exertion of my own,
I beheld a grand operation of nature, accompanied with a sort of vast
monotony of motion and sound, which lulled me into reverie.
Late one evening, as I was seated on my accustomed stone, my attention
was slightly diverted from the sea by the sight of a man descending
the crag above me, in rather a perilous manner. With one end of a rope
coiled round his body, and the other fastened to a stake driven into the
summit of the rock, he let himself half-way down the terrible height.
One foot now rested on a projecting point, one hand held the rope, and
hanging thus midway in the air, he seemed busy searching in the crevices
of the rock, for the eggs of water-fowl. This dangerous trade I had seen
frequently plied on this coast, so that I should scarcely have regarded
the man if he had not turned, from time to time, as if to watch me. When
he saw that he had fixed my eye, he threw down, as I thought, a white
stone, which fell nearly at my feet. I stooped to examine it; the man
waited till he saw it in my hands, then coiled himself swiftly up his
rope to the summit of the rock, and disappeared. I found a paper tied
round the stone, and on this paper, in a hand-writing that seemed to be
feigned, were written these words:--
“Your life and caracter, one or t’other--say both, is in danger. Don’t
be walking here any more late in the evening, near them caves, nor don’t
go near the old abbey, any time--And don’t be trusting to Joe Kelly any
way--Lave the kingdom entirely; the wind sarves.
“So prays your true well-wisher.
“P.S. Lave the castle the morrow, and say nothing of this to Joe Kelly,
or you’ll repent when it’s all over wid you.”
I was startled a little by this letter at first, but in half an hour
I relapsed into my apathy. Many gentlemen in the country had received
anonymous letters: I had been tired of hearing of them during the
rebellion. This, I thought, might be only a _quiz_, or a trick to
hurry me out of the kingdom, contrived by some of those who desired my
absence. In short, the labour of _thinking_ about the matter fatigued
me. I burned the letter as soon as I got home, and resolved not to
puzzle or plague myself about it any more. My steward’s answer came the
next morning from England; Kelly made no difficulty, when I ordered him
to be ready to set out in three days. This confirmed me in my opinion
that the letter was malicious, or a jest. Mr. M’Leod came to take leave
of me. I mentioned the circumstance to him slightly, and in general
terms: he looked very serious, and said, “All these things are little in
themselves, but are to be heeded, as marking the unsettled minds of the
people--straws that show which way the wind blows. I apprehend we shall
have a rough winter again, though we have had so still a summer.
The people about us are too _hush_ and too prudent--it is not their
natures--there’s something contriving among them: they don’t break one
another’s heads at fairs as they used to do; they keep from whiskey;
there must be some strong motive working this change upon them--good or
bad, ‘tis hard to say which. My lord, if we consider the condition of
these poor people, and if we consider the causes--”
“Oh! for Heaven’s sake, do not let us consider any more about it now; I
am more than half asleep already,” said I, yawning; “and our considering
about it can do no good, to _me_ at least; for you know I am going out
of the kingdom; and when I am gone, M’Leod, you, in whom I have implicit
confidence, must manage as you always used to do, you know, and as well
as you can.”
“True,” said M’Leod, calmly, “that is what I shall do, indubitably; for
that is my duty, and since your lordship has implicit confidence in me,
my pleasure. I wish your lordship a good night and a good journey.”
“I shall not set out in the morning; not till the day after to-morrow,
I believe,” said I; “for I feel consumedly tired to-night: they have
plagued me about so many things to-day; so much business always before
one can get away from a place; and then Joe Kelly has no head.”
“Have a care he has not too much head, my lord, as your anonymous
correspondent hints--he may be right there: I told you from the first
I would not go security for Joe Kelly’s honesty; and where there is not
strict honesty, I conceive there ought not to be implicit confidence.”
“Oh, hang it! as to honesty, they are none of them honest; I know
that: but would you have me plague myself till I find a strictly honest
servant? Joe’s as honest as his neighbours, I dare say: the fellow
diverts me, and is attached to me, and that’s all I can expect. I must
submit to be cheated, as all men of large fortunes are, more or less.”
Mr. M’Leod listened with stubborn patience, and replied, that if I
thought it necessary to submit to be cheated he could make no objection,
except where it might come under his cognizance, and then he must take
the liberty to remonstrate, or to give up his agency to some of the
many, who could play better than he could the part of the dog in the
fable, _pretending_ to guard his master’s meat.
The cold ungracious integrity of this man, even in my own cause, at once
excited my spleen and commanded my respect. After shaking my leg, as I
sat for two minutes in silence, I called after M’Leod, who moved towards
the door, “Why, what can I do, Mr. M’Leod? What would you have me do?
Now, don’t give me one of your dry answers, but let me have your notions
as a friend: you know, M’Leod, I cannot help having the most perfect
confidence in you.”
He bowed, but rather stiffly.
“I am proud to hear you cannot help that, my lord,” said he. “As to a
friend, I never considered myself upon that footing till now: but, as
you at present honour me so far as to ask my counsel, I am free to give
it. Part with Joe Kelly to-night; and whether you go or stay, you are
safer without him. Joe’s a rogue: he can do no good, and may do harm.”
“Then,” said I, “you are really frightened by this anonymous letter?”
“Cannot a man take prudent precautions without being frightened?” said
M’Leod.
“But have you any particular reason to believe--in short to--to think,
there can be any real danger for my life?”
“No particular reason, my lord; but the general reasons I have
mentioned, the symptoms among the common people lead me to apprehend
there may be fresh _risings_ of the people soon; and you, as a man of
fortune and rank, must be in danger. Captain Hardcastle says that he has
had informations of seditious meetings; but, he being a prejudiced man,
I don’t trust altogether to what he says.”
“Trust altogether to what he says!” exclaimed I; “no, surely; for my
part, I do not trust a word he says; and his giving it as his opinion
that the people are ill-inclined would decide me to believe the exact
contrary.”
“It would hardly be safe to judge that way either,” said M’Leod; “for
that method of judging by contraries might make another’s folly the
master of one’s own sense.”
“I don’t comprehend you now. Safe way of judging or not, Captain
Hardcastle’s opinion shall never lead mine. When I asked for
your advice, Mr. M’Leod, it was because I have a respect for your
understanding; but I cannot defer to Captain Hardcastle’s. I am now
decided in my own opinion, that the people in this neighbourhood are
perfectly well-disposed; and as to this anonymous letter, it is a mere
trick, depend upon it, my good sir. I am surprised that a man of your
capacity should be the dupe of such a thing; I should not be surprised
if Hardcastle himself, or some of his people, wrote it.”
“I should,” said M’Leod, coolly.
“You should!” cried I, warmly. “Why so? And why do you pronounce so
decidedly, my good friend? Have not I the same means of judging as
you have? unless, indeed, you have some private reason with which I am
unacquainted. Perhaps,” cried I, starting half up from the sofa on which
I lay, charmed with a bright idea, which had just struck me, “perhaps,
M’Leod, you wrote the letter yourself for a jest. Did you?”
“That’s a question, my lord,” said M’Leod, growing suddenly red, and
snatching up his hat with a quicker motion than I ever saw from him
before, “that’s a question, my lord, which I must take leave not to
answer; a question, give me leave to add, my Lord Glenthorn,” continued
he, speaking in a broader Scotch accent than I had ever heard from
him before, “which I should knock my equal _doon_ for putting to me. A
M’Leod, my lord, in jest or in earnest, would scorn to write to any man
breathing that letter to which he would not put his name; and more, a
M’Leod would scorn to write or to say that thing, to which he ought not
to put his name. Your humble servant, my Lord Glenthorn,” said he, and,
making a hasty bow, departed.
I called after him, and even followed him to the head of the stairs, to
explain and apologize; but in vain: I never saw him angry before.
“It’s very weel, my lord, it’s very weel; if you say you meant nothing
offensive, it’s very weel; but if you think fit, my lord, we will sleep
upon it before we talk any more. I am a wee bit warmer than I could
wish, and your lordship has the advantage of me, in being cool. A M’Leod
is apt to grow warm, when he’s touched on the point of honour; and
there’s no wisdom in talking when a man’s not his own master.”
“My good friend,” said I, seizing his hand as he was buttoning up his
coat, “I like you the better for this warmth; but I won’t let you sleep
upon your wrath: you must shake hands with me before that hall-door is
opened to you.”
“Then so I do, for there’s no standing against this frankness; and, to
be as frank with you, my lord, I was wrong myself to be so testy--I ask
pardon, too. A M’Leod never thought it a disgrace to crave a pardon when
he was wrong.”
We shook hands, and parted better friends than ever. I spoke the exact
truth when I said that I liked him the better for his warmth: his anger
wakened me, and gave me something to think of, and some emotion for a
few minutes. Joe Kelly presently afterwards came, with the simplest face
imaginable, to inquire what I had determined about the journey.
“To put it off till the day after to-morrow,” said I. “Light me to bed.”
He obeyed; but observed, that “it was not his fault now if there was
puttings-off; for his share, every thing was ready, and he was willing
and ready to follow me, at a moment’s warning, to the world’s end, as he
had a good right to do, let alone inclination; for, parting me, he could
never be right in himself: and though loth to part his country, he had
rather part that _nor_[84] me.”
Then, without dwelling upon these expressions of attachment, he changed
to a merry mood, and by his drolleries diverted me all the time I was
going to bed, and at last fairly talked me asleep.