Instances of attachment formerly of the lower orders of Irish to the
gentry—A field of corn of my father’s reaped in one night without his
knowledge—My grandfather’s servants cut a man’s ears off by
misinterpretation—My grandfather and grandmother tried for the
fact—Acquitted—The colliers of Donane—Their fidelity at my election at
Ballynakill, 1790.
The numerous and remarkable instances, which came within my own
observation, of mutual attachment between the Irish peasantry and their
landlords in former times, would, were I to detail them, fill volumes. A
few only will suffice, in addition to what has already been stated, to
show the nature of that reciprocal good-will, which, on many occasions,
was singularly useful to both parties; and in selecting these instances
from such as occurred in my own family, I neither mean to play the vain
egotist, nor to determine generals by particulars, since good landlords
and attached peasantry were then spread over the entire face of Ireland,
and bore a great proportion to the whole country. Were that the case at
present, Ireland would be an aid, and a substantial friend, instead of a
burthen and a troublesome neighbour to her sister island. He must be a
good prophet that can even now foresee the final results of the Union.
I remember that a very extensive field of corn of my father’s had once
become too ripe, inasmuch as all the reapers in the country were
employed in getting in their own scanty crops before they shedded. Some
of the servants had heard my father regret that he could not by
possibility get in his reapers without taking them from these little
crops, and that he would sooner lose his own.
This field was within full view of our windows. My father had given up
the idea of being able to cut his corn in due time. One morning, when he
rose, he could not believe his sight:—he looked—rubbed his eyes—called
the servants, and asked them if they saw _any thing odd_ in the
field:—they certainly did—for, on our family retiring to rest the night
before, the whole body of the peasantry of the country, after their hard
labour during the day, had come upon the great field, and had reaped and
stacked it before dawn! None of them would even tell him who had a hand
in it. Similar instances of affection repeatedly took place; and no
tenant on any of the estates of my family was ever distrained, or even
pressed, for rent. Their gratitude for this knew no bounds; and the only
individuals who ever annoyed them were the parsons, by their proctors,
and the tax-gatherers for hearth-money; and though hard cash was scant
with both landlord and tenant, and no small bank-notes had got into
circulation, provisions were plentiful, and but little inconvenience was
experienced by the peasantry from want of a circulating medium. There
was constant residence and work—no banks and no machinery; and though
the people might not be quite so refined, most undoubtedly they were
vastly happier.
But a much more characteristic proof than the foregoing of the
extraordinary devotion of the lower to the higher orders of Ireland, in
former times, occurred in my family, and is publicly on record.
My grandfather, Mr. French, of County Galway, was a remarkably small,
nice little man, but of extremely irritable temperament. He was an
excellent swordsman, and proud to excess: indeed, of family pride,
Galway County was at that time the focus, and not without some reason.
Certain relics of feudal arrogance frequently set the neighbours and
their adherents together by the ears:—my grandfather had conceived a
contempt for, and antipathy to, a sturdy _half-mounted_ gentleman, one
Mr. Dennis Bodkin, who, having an independent mind, entertained an equal
aversion to the arrogance of my grandfather, whom he took every possible
opportunity of irritating and opposing.
My grandmother, an O’Brien, was high and proud—steady and sensible—but
disposed to be rather violent at times in her contempts and animosities;
and entirely agreed with her husband in his detestation of Mr. Dennis
Bodkin.
On some occasion or other, Mr. Dennis had outdone his usual outdoings,
and chagrined the squire and his lady most outrageously. A large company
dined at my grandfather’s, and my grandmother launched out in her abuse
of Dennis, concluding her exordium by an hyperbole of hatred expressed,
but not at all meant, in these words:—“I wish the fellow’s ears were cut
off! _that_ might quiet him.”
It passed over as usual: the subject was changed, and all went on
comfortably till supper; at which time, when every body was in full
glee, the old butler, Ned Regan (who had drunk enough), came in:—joy was
in his eye; and whispering something to his mistress which she did not
comprehend, he put a large snuff-box into her hand. Fancying it was some
whim of her old domestic, she opened the box and shook out its
contents:—when, lo! a considerable portion of a pair of bloody ears
dropped upon the table!—The horror and surprise of the company may be
conceived: on which Ned exclaimed—“Sure, my lady, you wished that Dennis
Bodkin’s ears were cut off; so I told old Gahagan (the game-keeper), and
he took a few boys with him, and brought back Dennis Bodkin’s ears—and
there they are; and I hope you are plazed, my lady!”
The scene may be imagined;—but its results had like to have been of a
more serious nature. The sportsman and the _boys_ were ordered to get
off as fast as they could; but my grandfather and grandmother were held
to heavy bail, and tried at the ensuing assizes at Galway. The evidence
of the entire company, however, united in proving that my grandmother
never had an idea of any such order, and that it was a misapprehension
on the part of the servants. They were, of course, acquitted. The
sportsman never re-appeared in the county till after the death of Dennis
Bodkin, which took place three years subsequently, when old Gahagan was
reinstated as game-keeper.
This anecdote may give the reader an idea of the devotion of servants,
in those days, to their masters. But the order of things is reversed—and
the change of times cannot be better illustrated than by the propensity
servants now have to rob (and, if convenient, murder) the families from
whom they derive their daily bread. Where the remote error lies, I know
not; but certainly the ancient fidelity of domestics seems to be totally
out of fashion with those gentry at present.
A more recent instance of the same feeling as that indicated by the two
former anecdotes,—namely, the devotion of the country people to old
settlers and families,—occurred to myself; and, as I am upon the
subject, I will mention it. I stood a contested election, in the year
1790, for the borough of Ballynakill, for which my ancestors had
returned two members to Parliament during nearly 200 years. It was
usurped by the Marquis of Drogheda, and I contested it.
On the day of the election, my eldest brother and myself being
candidates, and the business preparing to begin, a cry was heard that
the whole _colliery_ was coming down from Donane, about eight miles off.
The returning officer, Mr. Trench, lost no time: six voters were polled
against me; mine were refused generally in mass; the books were
repacked, and the result of the poll declared—the election ended, and my
opponents just retiring from the town,—when seven or eight hundred
colliers were seen entering it with colours flying and pipers playing;
their faces were all blackened, and a more tremendous assemblage was
scarce ever witnessed. After the usual shoutings, they all rushed into
the town with loud cries of “A Barrinton! a Barrinton! Who dares say
_black_ is the _white_ of his eye? Down with the Droghedas!—We don’t
forget Ballyragget yet!—Oh, cursed Sandy Cahill!—High for Donane!” &c.
The chief captain came up to me:—“Counsellor, dear!” said he, “we’re all
come from Donane to help your honour against the villains that oppose
you:—we’re the boys that can _tittivate_!—Barrinton for ever!
hurra!”—Then coming close to me, and lowering his tone, he
added,—“Counsellor, jewel! _which_ of the villains shall we _settle
first_?”
To quiet him, I shook his black hand, told him nobody should be hurt,
and that the gentlemen had all left the town.
“Left the town?” said he, quite disappointed: “Why then, counsellor,
we’ll be after overtaking them. Barrinton for ever!—Donane, boys!—Come
on, boys! we’ll be after the Droghedas.”
I feared that I had no control over the riotous humour of the colliers,
and knew but one mode of keeping them quiet. I desired Billy Howard, the
innkeeper, to bring out all the ale he had; and having procured many
barrels in addition, together with all the bread and cheese in the
place, I set them at it as hard as might be. I told them I was sure of
being elected in Dublin, and “_to stay azy_” (their own language); and
in a little time I saw them as tractable as lambs. They made a bonfire
in the evening, and about ten o’clock I left them as happy and merry a
set of colliers as ever existed. Such as were able strolled back in the
night; the others next morning; and not the slightest injury was done to
any body or any thing.
The above was a totally unexpected and voluntary proof of the
disinterested and ardent attachment of the Irish country people to all
who they thought would protect or procure them justice.[13]
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Footnote 13:
Here I wish to observe the distinction which occurs to me as existing
between the attachment of the Scottish Highlanders to their lairds and
the ardent love of the Irish peasantry to their landlords—(I mean, in
my early days, when their landlords loved them.)
With the Highlanders—consanguinity, a common name, and the
prescriptive authority of the Scottish chief over his military clan,
(altogether combining the ties of blood and feudal obedience) exerted
a powerful and impetuous influence on the mind of the vassal. Yet
their natural character—fierce though calculating—desperate and
decisive—generated a sort of independent subserviency, mingled with
headstrong propensities which their lairds often found it very
difficult to moderate, and occasionally impossible to restrain when
upon actual service.
The Irish peasantry, more witty and less wise, thoughtless,
enthusiastically ardent, living in an unsophisticated way but at the
same time less secluded than the Highlanders, entertained an
hereditary, voluntary, uninfluenced love for the whole family of their
landlords. Though no consanguinity bound the two classes to each
other, and no feudal power enforced the fidelity of the inferior one,
their chiefs resided in their very hearts:—they obeyed because they
loved them: their affection, founded on gratitude, was simple and
unadulterated, and they would count their lives well lost for the
honour of their landlords. In the midst of the deepest poverty, their
attachment was more cheerful, more free, yet more cordial and
generous, than that of any other peasantry to any chiefs in Europe.
The Irish modes of expressing fondness for any of the family of the
old landlords (families which, alas! have now nearly deserted their
country) are singular and affecting. I witnessed, not long since, a
genuine example of this, near the old mansion of my family.—“Augh
then! Musha! Musha! the owld times!—the owld times!—Ough! then my owld
eyes see a B—— —before I die. ’Tis I that loved the breed of
yees—ough! ’tis myself that would kiss the track of his honour’s feet
in the guther, if he was alive to lead us! Ough! God rest his sowl!
any how! Ough! a-vourneen! a-vourneen!”
Yet these peasants were all papists, and their landlords all
protestants:—religion, indeed, was never thought of in the matter. If
the landlords had continued the same, the tenantry would not have
altered. But under the present system, the populace of Ireland will
never long remain tranquil, whilst at the same time it is increasing
in number—an increase that cannot be got rid of:—hang, shoot, and
exile five hundred thousand Irish, the number will scarcely be missed,
and in two years the country will be as full as ever again.
It is not my intention to enumerate the several modes recommended for
reducing the Irish population, by remote and recent politicians; from
Sir William Petty’s project for _transporting the men_,—to Dean
Swift’s scheme of _eating the children_, and the modern idea of
_famishing the adults_. A variety of plans may yet, I conceive, be
devised, without applying to either of these _remedies_.
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