As we ambled our way agreeably out of Bath, Paddy and I employed
ourselves in worthy speech. He was not yet a notable horseman, but his
Irish adaptability was so great that he was already able to think he
would not fall off so long as the horse was old and tired.
"Paddy," said I, "how would you like to be an Englishman? Look at
their cities. Sure, Skibbereen is a mud-pond to them. It might be fine
to be an Englishman."
"I would not, your honour," said Paddy. "I would not be an Englishman
while these grand--But never mind; 'tis many proud things I will say
about the English considering they are our neighbours in one way; I
mean they are near enough to come over and harm us when they wish. But
any how they are a remarkable hard-headed lot, and in time they may
come to something good."
"And is a hard head such a qualification?" said I.
Paddy became academic. "I have been knowing two kinds of hard heads,"
he said. "Mickey McGovern had such a hard skull on him no stick in the
south of Ireland could crack it, though many were tried. And what
happened to him? He died poor as a rat. 'Tis not the kind of hard head
I am meaning. I am meaning the kind of hard head which believes it
contains all the wisdom and honour in the world. 'Tis what I mean. If
you have a head like that, you can go along blundering into ditches
and tumbling over your own shins, and still hold confidence in
yourself. 'Tis not very handsome for other men to see; but devil a bit
care you, for you are warm inside with complacence."
"Here is a philosopher, in God's truth," I cried. "And where were you
learning all this? In Ireland?"
"Your honour," said Paddy firmly, "you yourself are an Irishman. You
are not for saying there is no education in Ireland, for it educates a
man to see burning thatches and such like. One of them was my aunt's,
Heaven rest her!"
"Your aunt?" said I. "And what of your aunt? What have the English to
do with your aunt?"
"That's what she was asking them," said Paddy; "but they burned her
house down over a little matter of seventeen years' rent she owed to a
full-blooded Irishman, may the devil find him!"
"But I am for going on without an account of your burnt-thatch
education," said I. "You are having more than two opinions about the
English, and I would be hearing them. Seldom have I seen a man who
could gain so much knowledge in so short a space. You are interesting
me."
Paddy seemed pleased. "Well, your honour," said he confidentially,
"'tis true for you. I am knowing the English down to their toes."
"And if you were an Englishman, what kind of an Englishman would you
like to be?" said I.
"A gentleman," he answered swiftly. "A big gentleman!" Then he began
to mimic and make gestures in a way that told me he had made good use
of his eyes and of the society of underlings in the various inns.
"Where's me man? Send me man! Oh, here you are! And why didn't you
know I wanted you? What right have you to think I don't want you?
What? A servant dead? Pah! Send it down the back staircase at once and
get rid of it. Bedad!" said Paddy enthusiastically, "I could do that
fine!" And to prove what he said was true, he cried "Pah!" several
times in a lusty voice.
"I see you have quickly understood many customs of the time," said I.
"But 'tis not all of it. There are many quite decent people alive
now."
"'Tis strange we have never heard tell of them," said Paddy musingly.
"I have only heard of great fighters, blackguards, and beautiful
ladies, but sure, as your honour says, there must be plenty of quiet
decent people somewhere."
"There is," said I. "I am feeling certain of it, although I am not
knowing exactly where to lay my hand upon them."
"Perhaps they would be always at mass," said Paddy, "and in that case
your honour would not be likely to see them."
"Masses!" said I. "There are more masses said in Ireland in one hour
than here in two years."
"The people would be heathens, then?" said Paddy, aghast.
"Not precisely," said I. "But they have reformed themselves several
times, and a number of adequate reformations is a fine thing to
confuse the Church. In Ireland we are all for being true to the
ancient faith; here they are always for improving matters, and their
learned men study the Sacred Book solely with a view to making needed
changes."
"'Tis heathen they are," said Paddy with conviction. "I was knowing
it. Sure, I will be telling Father Corrigan the minute I put a foot on
Ireland, for nothing pleases him so much as a good obstinate heathen,
and he very near discourses the hair off their heads."
"I would not be talking about such matters," said I. "It merely makes
my head grow an ache. My father was knowing all about it; but he was
always claiming that if a heathen did his duty by the poor he was as
good as anybody, and that view I could never understand."
"Sure, if a heathen gives to the poor, 'tis poison to them," said
Paddy. "If it is food and they eat it, they turn black all over and
die the day after. If it is money, it turns red-hot and burns a hole
in their hand, and the devil puts a chain through it and drags them
down to hell, screeching."
"Say no more," said I. "I am seeing you are a true theologian of the
time. I would be talking on some more agreeable topic, something about
which you know less."
"I can talk of fishing," he answered diffidently. "For I am a great
fisherman, sure. And then there would be turf-cutting, and the deadly
stings given to men by eels. All these things I am knowing well."
"'Tis a grand lot to know," said I, "but let us be talking of London.
Have you been hearing of London?"
"I have been hearing much about the town," said Paddy. "Father
Corrigan was often talking of it. He was claiming it to be full of
loose women, and sin, and fighting in the streets during mass."
"I am understanding something of the same," I replied. "It must be an
evil city. I am fearing something may happen to you, Paddy,--you with
your red head as conspicuous as a clock in a tower. The gay people
will be setting upon you and carrying you off. Sure there has never
been anything like you in London."
"I am knowing how to be dealing with them. It will be all a matter of
religious up-bringing, as Father Corrigan was saying. I have but to go
to my devotions, and the devil will fly away with them."
"And supposing they have your purse?" said I. "The devil might fly
away with them to an ill tune for you."
"When they are flying away with my purse," he replied suggestively,
"they will be flying away with little of what could be called my
ancestral wealth."
"You are natural rogues," said I, "you and Jem Bottles. And you had
best not be talking of religion."
"Sure a man may take the purse of an ugly old sick monkey like him,
and still go with an open face to confession," rejoined Paddy, "and I
would not be backward if Father Corrigan's church was a mile beyond."
"And are you meaning that Father Corrigan would approve you in this
robbery?" I cried.
"Devil a bit he would, your honour," answered Paddy indignantly. "He
would be saying to me: 'Paddy, you limb of Satan, and how much did you
get?' I would be telling him. 'Give fifteen guineas to the Church, you
mortal sinner, and I will be trying my best for you,' he would be
saying. And I would be giving them."
"You are saved fifteen guineas by being in England, then," said I,
"for they don't do that here. And I am thinking you are traducing your
clergy, you vagabond."
"Traducing?" said he. "That would mean giving them money. Aye, I was
doing it often. One year I gave three silver shillings."
"You're wrong," said I. "By 'traducing' I mean speaking ill of your
priest."
"'Speaking ill of my priest'?" cried Paddy, gasping with amazement.
"Sure, my own mother never heard a word out of me!"
"However," said I, "we will be talking of other things. The English
land seems good."
Paddy cast his eye over the rainy landscape. "I am seeing no turf for
cutting," he remarked disapprovingly, "and the potatoes would not be
growing well here. 'Tis a barren country."
At nightfall we came to a little inn which was ablaze with light and
ringing with exuberant cries. We gave up our horses and entered. To
the left was the closed door of the taproom, which now seemed to
furnish all the noise. I asked the landlord to tell me the cause of
the excitement.
"Sir," he answered, "I am greatly honoured to-night. Mr. O'Ruddy, the
celebrated Irish swordsman, is within, recounting a history of his
marvellous exploits."
"Indeed!" said I.
"Bedad!" said Paddy.