Connaught peasant laboured for _threepence_ a day and two
meals of potatoes and milk, and four pence when he
maintained himself; while in Leinster the harvest hire rose
from eight pence to a shilling. Riding out one day near the
village of Castletown Delvin, in Westmeath, in company with
the younger branches of the respectable family of the F----ns,
of that county, we observed two young men lying at a
little distance from each other in a dry ditch, with some
lighted turf burning near them; they both seemed on the
verge of eternity, and we learned from a peasant who was
passing, that they were Connaught men who had come to
Leinster to work; that they had been disappointed, and owing
to want and fatigue, had been first attacked with ague and
then with fevers of so fatal a nature, that no one would
suffer them to remain in their cabins: owing to the
benevolent exertions of my young friends, we however found
an asylum for these unfortunates, and had the happiness of
seeing them return comparatively well and happy to their
native province.
This was uttered with an air of despondency that touched my very soul,
and I involuntarily presented him some sea biscuit I had in my pocket.
He thanked me, and carelessly added, “that it was the first morsel he
had tasted for twenty-four hours; * not,” said he, “but I can fast
with any one, and well it is for me I can.” He continued brushing an
intrusive tear from his eye; and the next moment whistling a lively air,
he advanced to his cow, talking to her in Irish, in a soothing tone, and
presenting her with such wild flowers and blades of grass as the scanty
vegetation of the bog afforded, turned round to me with a smile of
self-satisfaction and said, “One can better suffer themselves a thousand
times over, than see one’s poor dumb beast want: it is next, please your
Honour, to seeing one’s child in want--God help him who has witnessed
both!”
* The temperance of an Irish peasant in this respect is
almost incredible; many of them are satisfied with one meal
a day--none of them exceed two--breakfast and supper; which
invariably consists of potatoes, sometimes with, sometimes
without milk. One of the rules observed by the Finian Band,
an ancient militia of Ireland, was to eat but once in the
twenty-four hours.--See Keating’s History of Ireland.
“And art thou then (I mentally exclaimed) that intemperate, cruel, idle
savage, an Irish peasant? with a heart thus tenderly alive to the finest
feelings of humanity; patiently labouring with daily exertion for what
can scarcely afford thee a bare subsistence; sustaining the
unsatisfied wants of nature without a murmur; nurtured in the hope (the
_disappointed hope_) of procuring nourishment for _her_, dearer to
thee than thyself, tender of thy animal as thy child, and suffering the
consciousness of _their_ wants to absorb all consideration of thy own;
and resignation smooths the furrow which affliction has traced upon thy
brow, and the national exility of thy character cheers and supports the
natural susceptibility of thy heart.” In fact, he was at this moment
humming an Irish song by my side.
I need not tell you that the first village we arrived at, I furnished
him with the means of procuring him a comfortable dinner for himself and
Driminduath, and advice and medicine from the village apothecary for his
wife. Poor fellow! his surprise and gratitude was expressed in the true
hyperbola of Irish emotion.
Meantime I walked on to examine the ruins of an abbey, where in about
half an hour I was joined by Murtoch and his patient companion, whom he
assured me he had regaled with some hay, as he had himself with a glass
of whisky.--What a dinner for a famishing man!
“It is a dreadful habit, Murtoch,” said I.
“It is so, please your Honour,” replied he, “but then it is meat, drink,
and clothes to us, for we forget we have but little of one and less of
the other, when we get _the drop_ within us; Och, long life to them that
lightened the tax on the whiskey, for by my safe conscience, if they had
left it on another year we should have forgotten how to drink it.”
I shall make no comment on Murtoch’s unconscious phillippic against the
legislature, but surely a government has little right to complain of
those popular disorders to which in a certain degree it may be deemed
accessory, by removing the strongest barrier that confines within moral
bounds the turbulent passions of the lower orders of society.
To my astonishment, I found that Murtoch had only purchased for his sick
wife a little wine and a small piece of bacon: * both, he assured me,
were universal and sovereign remedies, and better than any thing the
_phisicianers_ could prescribe, to keep the disorder _from the heart_ **
The spirits of Murtoch were now quite afloat, and during the rest of
our journey the vehemence, pliancy, and ardour of the Irish character
strongly betrayed itself in the manners of this poor unmodified
Irishman; while the natural facetiousness of a temperament
“complexionably pleasant,” was frequently succeeded by such heartrending
accounts of poverty and distress, as shed involuntary tears on those
cheeks which but a moment before were distended by the exertions of a
boisterous laugh.
* It is common to see them come to gentlemen’s houses with a
little vial bottle to beg a table spoonful of wine (for a
sick relative,) which they esteem the elixir of life.
** To be able to keep any disorder from the heart, is
supposed, (by the lower orders of the Irish,) to be the
secret of longevity.
Nothing could be more wildly sweet than the whistle or song of the
ploughman or labourer as we passed along; it was of so singular a
nature, that I frequently paused to catch it; it is a species of
voluntary recitative, and so melancholy, that every plaintive note
breathes on the heart of the auditor a tale of hopeless despondency or
incurable woe. By heavens! I could have wept as I listened, and found a
luxury in tears. *
* Mr. Walker, in his Historical Memoir of the Irish Bards,
has given a specimen of the Irish plough-tune? and adds,
“While the Irish ploughman drives his team, and the female
peasant milks her cow, they warble a succession of wild
notes which bids defiance to the rules of composition, yet
are inexpressibly sweet.”
The evening was closing in fast, and we were within a mile of
Bally--------, when, to a day singularly fine, succeeded one of the
most violent storms of rain and wind I had ever witnessed. Murtoch, who
seemed only to regard it on my account, insisted on throwing his great
coat over me, and pointed to a cabin at a little distance, where, he
said, “if my Honour would demean myself so far, I could get good shelter
for the night.”
“Are you sure of that, Murtoch?” said I.
Murtoch shook his head, and looking full in my face, said something in
Irish; which at my request he translated--the words were--“Happy are
_they_ whose roof shelters the head of the traveller.
“And is it indeed a source of happiness to you, Murtoch?”
Murtoch endeavoured to convince me it _was_, even upon a _selfish_
principle: “For (said he) it is thought right lucky to have a stranger
sleep beneath one’s roof.”
If superstition was ever thus on the side of benevolence, even reason
herself would hesitate to depose her. We had now reached the door of the
cabin, which Murtoch opened without ceremony, saying as he entered--“May
God and the Virgin Mary pour a blessing on this house!” The family,
who were all circled round a fine turf fire that blazed on the earthen
hearth, replied, “Come in, and a thousand welcomes”--for Murtoch served
as interpreter, and translated as they were spoken these warm effusions
of Irish cordiality. The master of the house, a venerable old man,
perceiving me, made a low bow, and added, “You are welcome, and ten
thousand welcomes, _gentleman._” *
* “Failte augus cead ro ag duine nasal.” The term gentleman,
however, is a very inadequate version of the Irish nasal,
which is an epitthet of superiority that indicates more than
mere gentility of birth can bestow, although that requisite
is also included. In a curious dialogue between Ossian and
St. Patrick, in an old Irish poem, in which the former
relates the combat between Oscar and Ilian, St, Patrick
solicits him to the detail, addressing him as “Ossian uasal,
a mhic Fionne”, “Ossian the Noble--the son of Fingal.”
So you see I hold my letter patent of nobility in my countenance, for I
had not yet divested myself of Murtoch’s costume--while in the act, the
best stool was wiped for me, the best seat at the fire forced on me, and
on being admitted into the social circle, I found its central point was
a round oaken stool heaped with smoking potatoes thrown promiscuously
over it.
To partake of this national diet I was strongly and courteously
solicited, while as an incentive to an appetite that needed none,
the old dame produced what she called a _madder_ of sweet milk, in
contradistinction to the sour milk of which the rest partook; while the
cow that sup plied the luxury slumbered most amicably with a large pig
at no great distance from where I sat, and Murtoch glancing an eye at
_both_, and then looking at me, seemed to say, “You see into what snug
quarters we have got.” While I (as I sat with my damp clothes smoking
by the turf fire, my madder of milk in one hand, and hot potatoe in the
other) assured him by a responsible glance, that I was fully sensible of
the comforts of our situation.
As soon as supper was finished the old man said grace, the family
piously blessed themselves, and the stool being removed, the hearth
swept, and the fire replenished from the bog, Murtoch threw himself
on his back along a bench, * and unasked began a song, the wild and
plaintive melody of which went at once to the soul.
When he had concluded, I was told it was the lamentation of the poor
Irish for the loss of their _glibbs_ or long tresses, of which they were
deprived by the arbitrary will of Henry VIII.--The song (composed in his
reign) is called the _Coulin_ ** which I am told is literally, the fair
ringlet.
* This curious vocal position is of very ancient origin in
Connaught, though by no means prevalent. Formerly the
songster not only lay on his back, but had a weight pressed
on his chest. The author’s father recollects having seen a
man in the county of Mayo, of the name of O’Melvill, who
sung for him in this position some years back.
** The Cualin is one of the most popular and beautiful
Irish airs estant.
When the English had drawn a pale round their conquests in this country,
such of the inhabitants as were compelled to drag on their existence
beyond the barrier, could no longer afford to cover their heads with
metal, and were necessitated to rely on the resistance of their matted
locks. At length this necessity became “the fashion of their choice.”
The partiality of the ancient Irish to long hair is still to be traced
in their descendants of both sexes, the women in particular; for
I observed that the young ones only wore their “native ornament of
_hair_,” which sometimes flows over their shoulders, sometimes is
fastened up in tresses, with a pin or bodkin. A fashion more in unison
with grace and nature, though less in point of formal neatness, than the
round-eared caps and large hats of our rustic fair of England.
Almost every word of Murtoch’s lamentation was accompanied by the sighs
and mournful lamentations of his auditors, who seemed to sympathize
as tenderly in the sufferings of their progenitors, as though they had
themselves been the victims of the tyranny which had caused them. The
arch policy of “the ruthless king,” who destroyed at once the records of
a nation’s woes, by extirpating “the tuneful race,” whose art would have
perpetuated them to posterity, never appeared to me in greater force
than at that moment.
In the midst, however, of the melancholy which involved the mourning
auditors of Murtoch, a piper entered and seated himself by the fire,
_sans façon_, drew his pipes from under his coat, and struck up an Irish
lilt of such inspiring animation, as might have served St. Basil of
Limoges, the merry patron of dancing, for a jubilate.
In a moment, in the true pliability of Irish temperament, the whole
pensive group cheered up, flung away their stools, and as if bit to
merry madness by a tarantula, set to dancing jigs with all their hearts,
and all their _strength_ into the bargain. Murtoch appeared not less
skilled in the dance than song; and every one (according to the just
description of Goldsmith, who was a native of this province,) seemed
“To seek renown,
By holding out to tire each other down.”
Although much amused by this novel style of devotion at the shrine
of Terpsichore, yet as the night was now calm, and an unclouded moon
dispersed the gloom of twilight obscurity, I arose to pursue my journey.
Murtoch would accompany me, though our hospitable friends did their
utmost to prevail on both to remain for the night.
When I insisted on my host receiving a trifle, I observed poverty
struggling with pride, and gratitude superior to both: he at last
reluctantly consented to be prevailed on, by my assurance of forgetting
to call on them again when I passed that way, if I were now denied. I
was followed for several paces by the whole family, who parted _with_,
as they _received_ me, with blessings,--for their courtesy upon all
occasions, seems interwoven with their religion, and not to be pious in
their forms of etiquette, is not to be polite.
Benevolent and generous beings! whose hard labour
“Just gives what life requires, but gives no more,”
yet who, with the ever ready smile of heart-felt welcome, are willing
to share that hard earned little, with the weary traveller whom chance
conducts to your threshold, or the solitary wanderer whom necessity
throws upon your bounty. How did my heart smite me, while I received the
cordial rites of hospitality from your hands, for the prejudices I had
hitherto nurtured against your characters. But your smiling welcome, and
parting benediction, retributed my error--in the feeling of remorse they
awakened.
It was late when I reached Bally--------, a large, ugly, irregular
town, near the sea coast; but fortunately meeting with a chaise, I
threw myself into it, gave Murtoch my address, (who was all amazement
at discovering I was son to the Lord of the Manor,) and arrived without
further adventure at this antique _chateau_, more gratified by the
result of my little pedestrian tour, than if (at least in the present
state of my feelings,) I had performed it Sesostris-like, in a triumphal
chariot, drawn by kings; for “so weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable,”
appear to me the tasteless pleasures of the world I have left, that
every sense, every feeling, is in a state of revolt against its
sickening joys, and their concomitant sufferings.
Adieu! I am sending this off by a courier extraordinary, to the next
post-town, in the hope of receiving one from you by the same hand.
H. M.
LETTER III.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
I perceive my father emulates the policy of the British Legislature,
and delegates English ministers to govern his Irish domains. Who do
you think is his _fac totum_ here? The rascally son of his cunning
Leicestershire steward, who unites all his father’s artifice to a
proportionable share of roguery of his own, I have had some reason
to know the fellow; but his servility of manner, and apparent rigid
discharge of his duties, has imposed on my father; who, with all his
superior mind, is to be imposed on, by those who know how to find out
the clew to his fallibility: his noble soul can never stoop to dive into
the minute vices of a rascal of this description.
Mr. Clendinning was absent from M-------- house when I arrived, but
attended me the next morning at breakfast, with that fawning civility of
manner I abhor, and which, contrasted with the manly courteousness of my
late companion, never appeared more grossly obvious. He endeavoured to
amuse me with a detail of the ferocity, cruelty, and uncivilized state
of those among whom (as he hinted,) I was banished for my sins. He had
now, he said, been near five years among them, and had never met an
individual of the lower order, who did not deserve a halter at least:
for his part, he had kept a tight hand over them, and he was justified
in so doing, or his lord would be the sufferer; for few of them would
pay their rents till their cattle were driven, or some such measure was
taken with them. And as for the labourers and workmen, a slave-driver
was the only man fit to deal with them; they were all rebellious, idle,
cruel, and treacherous; and for his part, he never expected to leave the
country with his life.
It is not possible a better defence for the imputed turbulence of the
Irish peasantry could be made, than that which lurked in the unprovoked
accusations of this narrow-minded sordid steward, who, it is evident,
wished to forestall the complaints of those on whom he had exercised the
native tyranny of his disposition (even according to his own account,)
by every species of harrassing oppression within the compass of his
ability. For if power is a dangerous gift even in the regulated mind
of elevated rank, what does it be come in the delegated authority of
ignorance, meanness, and illiberality? *
* A horde of tyrants exist in Ireland, in a class of men
that are unknown in England, in the multitude of agents of
absentees, small proprietors, who are the pure Irish
squires, middle men, who take large farms, and squeeze out a
forced kind of profit by letting them in small parcels;
lastly, the little farmers themselves, who exercise the same
insolence they receive from their superiors, on those
unfortunate beings who are placed at the extremity of the
scale of degradation--the Irish peasantry.--An Enquiry into
the Causes of Popular Discontents in Ireland.
My father, however, by frequent visitations to his Irish estates (within
these few years at least,) must afford to his suffering tenantry an
opportunity of redress; for who that ever approached him with a _tear_
of suffering, but left his presence with a tear of gratitude! But many,
very many of the English nobility who hold immense tracts of land
in this country, and draw from hence in part the suppliance of their
luxuries, have never visited their estates, since conquest first put
them in the possession of their ancestors. Ours, you know, fell to us
in the Cromwellian wars, but since the time of General M--------, who
earned them by the sword, my father, his lineal descendant, is the first
of the family who ever visited them. And certainly, a wish to conciliate
the affections of his tenantry, could alone induce him to spend so much
of his time here as he has done; for the situation of this place is
bleak and solitary, and the old mansion, like the old manor houses
of England, has neither the architectural character of an antique
structure, nor the accommodation of a modern one.
“_Ayant l’air delabri, sans l’air antique_.”
On enquiring for the key of the library, Mr. Clendinning informed me
his lord always took it with him, but that a box of books had come from
England a few days before my arrival.
As I suspected, they were all law books--well, be it so; there are few
sufferings more acute than those which forbid complaint, because they
are self-created.
Four days have elapsed since I began this letter, and I have been
prevented from continuing it merely for want of something to say.
I cannot now sit down, as I once did, and give you a history of my
ideas or sensations, in the deficiency of fact or incident; for I have
survived my sensations, and my ideas are dry and exhausted.
I cannot now trace my joys to their source, or my sorrows to their
spring, for I am destitute of their present, and insensible to their
former existence. The energy of youthful feeling is subdued, and the
vivacity of warm emotion worn out by its own violence. I have lived too
fast in a moral as well as a physical sense, and the principles of
my intellectual, as well as my natural constitution are, I fear, fast
hastening to decay I live the tomb of my expiring mind, and preserve
only the consciousness of my wretched state, without the power, and
almost without the wish to be otherwise than what I am. And yet, God
knows, I am nothing less than contented.
Would you hear my journal? I rise late to my solitary breakfast, because
it is solitary; then to study, or rather to yawn over _Giles_ versus
_Haystack_, until (to check the creeping effects of lethargy) I rise
from my reading desk, and lounge to a window, which commands a boundless
view of a boundless bog; then, “with what appetite I may,” sit down to a
joyless dinner. Sometimes, when seduced by the blandishments of an even
ing singularly beautiful, I quit my _den_ and _prowl_ down to the sea
shore where, throwing myself at the foot of some cliff that “battles
o’er the deep,” I fix my vacant eye on the stealing waves that
“Idly swell against the rocky coast,
And break--as break those glittering shadows,
Human joys.”
Then wet with the ocean spray and evening dew, return to my bed, merely
to avoid the intrusive civilities of Mr. Clendinning. Thus wear the
hours away.”
I had heard that the neighbourhood about M-------- house was good: I
can answer for its being populous. Although I took every precaution to
prevent my arrival being known, yet the natives have come down on me in
hordes, and this in all the form of _haut ton_, as the innumerable
cards of the clans of Os and Macs evince. I have, however, neither
been visible to the visitants, nor accepted their invitations: for “man
delights me not, nor woman either.” Nor woman either! Oh! uncertainty
of all human propensities! Yet so it is, that every letter that composes
the word _woman!_ seems cabalistical, and rouses every principle of
aversion and disgust within me; while I often ask myself with Tasso,
“Se pur ve nelle amor alcun dileito.”
It is certain, that the diminutive body of our worthy steward, is the
abode of the transmigrated soul of some _West Indian_ planter. I have
been engaged these two days in listening to, and retributing those
injuries his tyranny has inflicted, in spite of his rage, eloquence, and
threats, none of which have been spared. The victims of his oppression
haunt me in my walks, fearful lest their complaints should come to the
knowledge of this puissant _major domo_.
“But why,” said I to one of the sufferers, after a detail of seized
geese, pounded cows, extra labour cruelly extorted, ejectments, &c.
&c.. given in all the tedious circumlocution of Irish oratory,--“why not
complain to my father when he comes among you?”
“Becaise, please your Honour, my Lord stays but a few days at a time
here together, nor that same neither; besides, we be loth to trouble his
Lordship, for feard it would be after coming to Measther Clendinning’s
ears, which would be the ruination of us all; and then when my Lord is
at the Lodge, which he mostly is, he is always out amongst the quality,
so he is.”
“What Lodge?” said I.
“Why, please your Honour, where my Lord mostly takes up when he comes
here, the place that belonged to Measther Clendinning, who call ed it
the _Lodge_, becaise the good old Irish name that was upon it did not
suit his fancy.”
In the evening I asked Mr. Clendinning if my father did not sometimes
reside at the Lodge? He seemed surprised at my information, and said,
that was the name he had given to a ruinous old place which, with a
few acres of indifferent land, he had purchased of his hard labour, and
which his Lord having taken an unaccountable liking to, rented from him,
and was actually the tenant of his own steward.