EUGENE M’CARTHY.
While on detachment at this place, I became acquainted with Eugene
M’Carthy, a young man, whose education and intelligence far exceeded
the generality of the people in the village. He was the most
liberal-minded Catholic I ever met with; his views of the world and
its manners were clear and unprejudiced, and to him I am principally
indebted for what I know of the real state of Ireland; for
party-spirit exists to such an extent, that it is almost impossible
for a stranger to learn anything of it, unless through some
prejudiced and distorted medium. There was something congenial in our
habits and pursuits, which led us to associate; and in answer to the
question from me, how he had managed to cultivate his mind more than
the rest of his neighbours? he gave me the following history of his
life.
‘My father possessed a farm of 100 acres, about five miles from
this, which we still hold. My mother and two sisters, one older, and
the other younger than me, composed his family. Being active and
industrious, he managed his little estate in such a way that we were
enabled to live comfortably and respectably. He was a man of strong
sound sense, though in point of education not much above the common,
his attention being more turned towards the improvement of his farm
than his mind, but he was very anxious that his children should
be well informed. Our village school was none of the best, and had
it not been for my mother, we would have made little improvement.
She was a native of Dublin, where she had received an excellent
education, and having a natural taste for literature, she found
little pleasure in associating with her neighbours—thus concentrating
all her pleasures in her little family. She led us to the source from
which she had derived so much pleasure, and early imbued our minds
with a thirst for knowledge, which she took care to gratify by every
means in her power. But her system of teaching was not that of the
schools, unless in learning to read: we had no formal tasks—her book
was nature, which she first led us to admire, then to examine, and
when our curiosity was raised, she drew speech from stones, sermons
from brooks, and good from every thing. The phenomena of nature, as
they occurred, furnished subjects for explanation and illustration.
The growth and construction of a flower—the change of seasons—the
succession of day and night—the thunder, whirlwind, and tempest,—were
all pressed into her service; and when our young imaginations were
excited, she seized the important moment to impress their nature and
use on our minds. Thus we were every moment insensibly acquiring
knowledge, not by formal study, or by being pent up in a room,
poring over a book for six or eight hours a-day, getting question
and answer by rote like a parrot, but by our judgments being brought
into action. Books, however, were not excluded: when our curiosity
was once excited, and we felt inclined to acquire more information on
any subject, we were referred to those which contained it, and by its
being made the theme of a subsequent conversation, our doubts were
solved, and our perplexities removed. The filial affection which this
mode of education cherished, I shall feel to my latest breath. Her
instructions were the pleasure of our lives, the withholding them the
greatest punishment. We looked up to her as our guide, our comforter,
and friend on all occasions.
‘One day I was questioning her with childish simplicity about the
horizon, and the form of our earth, as they had been the subject of
some of my reveries; and never shall I forget the flood of delight
that flowed in upon my soul, when, with the ball I was playing
with, suspended from a thread, she conveyed to my mind an idea of
its form and motion. In morality her system was much the same;
after having taught us its general principles, she left us to the
freedom of our own will. She used to say such and such consequences
attend on our good and evil actions, your minds will tell you which
are most conducive to your happiness; thus, when we committed an
error, she did not endeavour to avert the consequences, but seized
on that opportunity to describe the pleasure a contrary conduct
would have afforded. Her pious exhortations, however, were never
formal, she watched the favourable moment for making an impression,
when our hearts were uplifted by some unexpected good, or lighted
up with pleasure from the appearance of nature; she then led us up
to nature’s God, and expatiated on the wonders of his power, and
attributes, until we spontaneously bowed in wonder and adoration. She
is a Catholic, but not a bigoted one—she does not believe that other
sects will be damned, if their hearts are sincere, and their actions
good; and although she is regular in the duties of her church, she
does not substitute them for the more important ones of mercy and
justice. Under the guidance of such a mother, is it to be wondered
at, that I am better informed than our neighbours?
‘However, my education did not rest here. From my earliest years,
I was destined by my father for the church, in accordance with a
foolish vanity prevalent in Ireland, which induces parents often to
bring up some favourite son for the priesthood, to the injury of the
rest of the family; and it is remarkable with what fond delusion they
rely upon this individual for both worldly and spiritual benefits:
the child so set aside is treated with as much deference as if he
were already in office, and his brothers and sisters are slaved to
procure the means for his subsistence, as a gentleman at college.
‘My mother did not take the same view of the subject as my father;
she thought there was no want of priests, and she considered that
I might be as good a man, and as useful to society, in some other
situation of life; but her objections were overruled by my father,
who was determined in his purpose.
‘From a preparatory school about forty miles from this, I was sent
to Maynooth College, where I had been about two years, when I was
summoned home, in consequence of my father’s illness, and arrived
only in time to witness his last moments. My mother was in great
distress of mind, and urged me strongly to give up my studies, and
remain at home; but I needed little solicitation, for I had no taste
for the life of a priest. I had been too early taught the sympathies,
charities, and pleasures of domestic life, to prefer celibacy and
seclusion in their stead; so I left college and settled at home.
‘I have been residing in town for these two months back, in
consequence of my uncle’s absence in England, whose business I have
to look after; but I expect him home in a few days, when, I trust,
you will accompany me to see our little farm, when I will introduce
you to her whom I have been describing, and I am sure you will say
that I have not done more than justice to her character.’
Accordingly, when Eugene was relieved from his trust, I accompanied
him out to B——. At the foot of a small avenue of trees, leading up to
his house, we were met by a large Newfoundland dog, who came bounding
down to meet his master, followed by Billy M’Daniel, who was a kind
of _fac totum_ on the farm.
‘Welcome home, master! Are you come for good and all to us? It’s the
mistress, and Miss Mary, and Catherine, that will be glad to see you.
Your servant, sir,’ turning about to me—‘Get down, Cæsar, and don’t
be dirtying the gentleman’s clothes; but he’s so proud to see yees
all, that he doesn’t know what to make of himself.’
‘Well, Billy,’ said Eugene, ‘how’s the hay getting on?’
‘Mighty well, sir, never better; we finished the low meadow this
morning.’
We had now reached the lawn in front of the cottage, where we were
met by his mother, ‘Welcome, child,’ said she; ‘is your uncle come
home, or is this only a visit?’
‘My uncle arrived yesterday; but he is still so busy that he will
not be able to get out to see you until next week—Give me leave to
introduce you to a friend of mine, whom I have brought out to see how
the _wild Irish_ grow in the country—he has had a specimen of it in
the village.’
‘Any friend of Eugene’s is always welcome to me,’ said she, ‘but
a soldier in particular; my favourite brother belonged to that
profession; he was an officer in the eighty-eighth regiment; but,
alas! he is now no more: he fell at the battle of Talavera. Was your
regiment in Spain?’
‘Yes,’ replied I, ‘but it had not arrived in the Peninsula when the
battle of Talavera was fought.’
‘Come, mother,’ said Eugene, seeing the tear standing in her eye,
‘Let us drop all conversation about “war’s alarms” now—Have you got
anything for us to eat? remember we have had a brisk walk. Where’s
Mary and Catherine?’
‘They are out in the garden weeding,’ said she, ‘but when they hear
you have returned, they will not stop long.’
She had scarcely done speaking, when in bounced a sprightly girl
about fourteen years of age, and throwing her arms about his neck,
‘You are welcome back, Eugene,’ said she, ‘we’ve been pining the life
out of us since you left home; but you are going to stay now, are you
not?’
The elder girl now came in, and advancing without any affected
reserve, shook my proffered hand warmly, and welcomed me as the
friend of her brother. The Irish infuse their soul and spirit into
every thing they do, and nothing can be warmer than their welcome;
they set your mind at ease in a moment, and convince you so strongly
that they are in earnest in their professions, that you feel yourself
like one of themselves, before you are half-an-hour in their company.
After we had got some refreshment, we were joined by the family, who
had now completed the labours of the day, and I had an opportunity of
observing the character of each.
Mrs M’Carthy might then be about forty years of age: she was still
a fine-looking woman, although the traces of time and care were
beginning to show themselves in her countenance—the rose had fled her
cheek; but there was an eloquent expression in her eye at once mild
and commanding, that kept pace with the varied emotions of her soul,
and a dignity in her manner which bespoke a mind conscious of its own
powers.
Catherine was a Hebe blushing with health and spirit, sporting in
the morning beam of life, without a thought or care to disturb her
happy frame of mind. But Mary had more of the collected sedateness
of womanhood in her manner: she might then be about one or two
and twenty; her person in height was above the middle size, but
exquisitely formed; and her glossy black hair fell in natural
ringlets about a face, which, although it could not be called
regularly beautiful, had so much soul in it, that even at first
sight you could not behold it with indifference; but when her
dark eyes were lighted up with feeling, whether ‘shining through
sorrow’s stream,’ or flashing with enthusiasm, the effect was alike
irresistible,—and she was an enthusiast in every thing belonging to
Ireland. She prided herself on the national character, vindicated its
weaknesses and follies, and dropped a tear o’er its misery.
‘The poor Irish are called degraded and wicked,’ said she, ‘by those
who exert all their influence to make them so; but relax the iron
grasp that holds them to the earth, let them be instructed, and you
will see what they will become. Where they have had an opportunity,
have they not signalized themselves in every department? Where will
you find poets, orators, warriors, and statesmen like them?’
‘My sister is an enthusiast in every thing Irish,’ said Eugene;
‘but after all there are exceptions to her rule,—we have had Irish
statesmen who betrayed their country, Irish warriors who were no
heroes, and poets who never drank of the Castalian fount.’
‘Oh! I do not go to such an extravagant length as to take in all;
but look at the names that fame has written in golden letters on her
annals.’
‘Have we not a Wellington, a Grattan, a Sheridan, and a Cast——?’ said
Eugene.
‘Name him not,’ said she hastily, putting her hand on his mouth.
‘At present,’ said Mrs M’Carthy, ‘we see all his actions through the
haze of prejudice—posterity will judge better of his character, and
say whether he deserves the odium which has been cast upon it.’
‘By the by, you served with our countryman, Wellington, whose fame
has sounded through the world,—what character does he hold among the
soldiers?’
‘That is a question I am scarcely prepared to answer; but I will give
you my own opinion, which may after all be nearly the sense of the
army on the subject. I admit that he has many of the qualities which
constitute a great general, such as valour, prudence, discrimination,
&c., but there is one which, in my opinion, he fell short of.’
‘Indeed!’ said Mrs M’Carthy, ‘what is it?’
‘He had not the art of gaining the men’s affections,—he never
identified himself with his army, and being either above or below
human sympathy, he was the same cold, stern individual when they
performed feats of valour as when they committed faults. In short, he
was a being removed from all our associations, who might be admired
at a distance, feared or respected on the spot; but never loved.’
‘You seem determined to put me out of conceit with my countrymen,’
said Mary; ‘I need not speak of Moore, our great national poet, you
will have some drawback on his fame also.’
‘He has been accused,’ said Mrs M’Carthy, ‘of loose and voluptuous
sentiment. I can say nothing of the minor poems, said to be his, for
I never read them; but in reading his Lalla Rookh, and his Irish
Melodies, I have caught a portion of the inspiration and enthusiasm
which he must have possessed when writing them.’
‘His own apology for his venal errors,’ said Mary, ‘who can
withstand!’
Then blame not the bard if in pleasure’s soft dream,
He should try to forget what he never can heal:
Oh! give but a hope—let a vista but gleam
Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he’ll feel!
That instant his heart at her shrine would lay down
Every passion it nursed, every bliss it adored, &c.
‘Whatever may be his faults, his deep and fervent love of country,
his enthusiasm in the cause of liberty, and the magic strains in
which he “pours the full tide of a patriot’s song,” must endear him
to every Irish heart—must endear him to the world.’
‘I’m afraid my sister will make an Irishman of you, before you leave
us,’ said Eugene.
‘On that subject her opinion is mine,’ said I, ‘and I am sure
it would be no ordinary gratification to Thomas Moore, to hear
his praise poured forth so eloquently from the lips of a fair
countrywoman. The works of Moore and Byron excite my feelings in
reading them, more than those of any modern poet; different in their
style, yet each in that style excelling all others. I cannot find a
better simile to express my opinion of their powers, than one drawn
from the fairy legend of O’Donoghue. The poetry of Moore may be
compared to the band of youths and maidens who skim over the lake, to
the sound of heavenly music, scattering flowers on every side,—that
of Byron to the spectre chief, who, mounted on his resistless
spirit-horse, prances through the foam-crested waves.’
‘Well,’ said Eugene, ‘I suppose you have heard enough of Ireland for
one night; we may as well retire to rest, for we rise earlier here
than you do in town. This is a busy time with us, and we must be all
at work by four in the morning.’
‘At work,’ said I, ‘so early?’
‘Yes,’ said Eugene, ‘for although we generally spend our evenings in
this manner, we find it necessary to assist in the labours of the
farm during the day. Many of the higher class of society laugh at the
idea of individuals who earn their bread by manual labour, possessing
refined taste or imagination; they consider it as incongruous and
unnatural. Not content with engrossing all the pleasures of sense,
they seek to rob them of those which a cultivated mind afford; and
any attempt of their poorer brethren to soar into the regions of
science or imagination, is met by them with the most supercilious
contempt and sneering ridicule. The novel writers of our day have
contributed much towards this false and unjust association,—all their
_dramatis personæ_ are dukes, lords, and squires, rich as Crœsus,
with nothing to do but gad about the country. In proportion to the
mental powers, intellectual cultivation has the same effect upon
the poor man and the rich,—the want of it equally debases them. But
knowledge does not altogether depend on going through a certain
routine of education. The man of keen observation, who has his eyes
and ears open, and compares and draws conclusions from all that comes
within his notice, who thinks for himself, and reasons fearlessly on
all subjects, that man will gain knowledge under very unfavourable
circumstances.’
When I got up next morning, I found them all a-field working at the
hay. It was a beautiful morning, and Eugene conducted me round his
little estate, which was finely situated, compact, and advantageously
laid out. The cottage lay on the top of a small rise in the centre
of the farm; before it was a lawn of about an acre, skirted on each
side by trees, beyond which lay his pasture ground and meadows,
divided from the adjoining farm by a stream, whose margin was fringed
with the birch, the hazel, and the willow. Behind the cottage was
his orchard and garden; the house itself consisted of one story,
with what is commonly called the loft, formed into bed-rooms,
the windows being raised in the neatly-thatched roof; outside it
was dashed and white-washed, and around the door and windows was
trained a profusion of honeysuckle, whose flowers shed a delightful
fragrance through every apartment. The interior corresponded with its
appearance outside; without any gaudy superfluity there was every
thing conducive to comfort, and the greatest regularity and neatness
was apparent throughout the whole. But all this was nothing to the
pure affection that reigned in the bosom of its inmates towards each
other. Whatever trouble Eugene’s mother might have had with her
family when young, she was now richly repaid; they hung on every word
she said as if it were the precepts of an angel—they anticipated
every wish, shunned every subject which would cause her disquiet,
while she treated them with all the affection of a mother and all the
confidence of a friend.
The surrounding commotions touched them not. Mrs M’Carthy was almost
adored among her neighbours for her benevolence, and, what they
termed, her _true Irish spirit_; and Eugene, though a young man, had
more influence over the members of the lawless associations in his
neighbourhood than almost any individual in the county, which he
never failed to exert on all occasions when it was in his power to
prevent their atrocities.
After breakfast,—‘Come,’ said Eugene, ‘as I have nothing very
particular to do, I will conduct you over the classic ground in the
neighbourhood, and as Mary possesses the _amor patria_ in so eminent
a degree, she will accompany us, and describe all its beauties, lay
open the arcana of every fairy mount, read you long lectures on the
_good people_, their midnight gambols and mischievous freaks; show
you the stream over which the _Banshee_ raises her ominous howl,
as a prelude to the death of a M’Carthy, or describe the form and
properties of _Cluricaunes_, _Phookas_, _Fetches_, &c. &c., for she
is deeply learned in fairy lore.’
‘Never mind him,’ said Mary, ‘few people delight more in hearing
these fairy legends than Eugene himself.’
Having set out on our ramble, about a mile from the house, near a
small village, (if a few cottar houses deserved the name,) we passed
a well, over which hung a bush covered with white linen rags. Having
expressed my surprise at such an unusual thing, ‘This is one of our
holy wells,’ said Mary, ‘to which the country people resort, who are
troubled with sore eyes, each bringing a linen rag to wash them, and
leaving it as an oblation, hanging on the bush.’
On reaching the houses, Eugene stopped us in front of one, the roof
of which had fallen in.