The characteristics attributed by one nation to another are never
patented without some foundation in truth; but, in time, by means of
successive overlays of jest, constant repetition, and the heaping up of
one exaggeration upon another, national portraiture flashes forth into
glaring caricature. If we were to believe old plays and old novels, we
should suppose that, only a half century since, every Englishman fed
exclusively on roast beef and plum-pudding—rattled his guineas in ample
pockets, tightened by the portly protuberance of his figure, and rapped
out oaths against “frog-eating Mounseers” with the same energy with
which, after dinner, he imbibed crusted port to the health and
prosperity of Church and State. On Sunday morning we view him, through
the same medium, standing upright in his red-cushioned pew, pronouncing
the responses with the _ore rotundo_ of Sir Roger de Coverley, and, like
that worthy baronet, looking daggers at little boys whom he catches
napping.
The Scotchman of the same authorities was invariably a long, lean,
raw-boned, hungry, grey-eyed Sawney, with high cheek-bones, reddish
hair, and a diffused aroma of brimstone pervading his threadbare
garments. Pertaining to him also, by inalienable birth-right, was an
insatiable appetite for oaten-cakes, haggis, and singed sheep’s head; of
which viands the supply usually fell very far short of the demand. No
matter what his rank in life might be, he was forced, as a necessary
condition of his existence, to talk “braid scots,” and to look sharply
after the “siller.” Somehow, he regularly found his way to London, where
a lucrative place, and a rich wife, to whom he continually proclaimed
the glories of the “Land o’ Cakes,” gratified and rewarded his cautious
persevering endeavours to replenish his “pouch and sporran;” for all
Scotchmen were Highlanders, and were supposed only to have abandoned
their kilts in deference to decency and English prejudice while in the
act of crossing the border.
The Irishman of novel, tale, or comedy, was a Phelim or a Patrick,
always either immersed in love or drink and often the victim of both
these exciting predicaments:—telling humorous lies, making unheard-of
blunders, winning money by his tricking cleverness, and losing it by his
unaccountable folly; leading a good-humoured, reckless, rollicking life,
breaking the hearts and emptying the purses of maid, wife, and widow;
and carrying off every shade of embarrassment with the cut-and-dry
exclamation, “By the powers!”—“Arrah, honey!”—or, “Och, my jewel!”
All this served very well to amuse the juvenile minds of our grand
parents, but in these days when the wandering jewish propensity to
travel over the face of the earth, has attained its full development, we
find it to be a well-ascertained fact that there are Englishmen who
affect fricassees more than roast beef, drink French wines, and dress in
the French fashion; that Scotchmen may be found, even in Scotland, who
have neither caution in their heads, avarice in their hearts, nor kilts
round their bodies. Facility of intercourse has done this. The ancient
prophecy is being daily fulfilled:—“Many shall run to and fro, and
knowledge shall be increased.” Railways have rounded off the sharp
angles of national dislikes, by promoting social attrition. The
locomotive engine is the steam-plough which tears up local prejudices by
the roots.
Thus the Rose and the Thistle are vindicated, but the tiny shamrock
still droops its green leaf in the atmosphere of public estimation. In
judging of Irish character, a very useful distinction drawn in the days
of good Queen Bess is overlooked. It divided the nation into “the Irish,
the wild Irish, and the extreme wild Irish.” In justice, these
distinctions ought to be preserved; for the “Irish” of the present day
are, upon the whole, pretty much like other well-bred, well-educated
members of the civilised world; eating, drinking, sleeping, dressing,
and living much as their neighbours do. But it must be owned that the
lower orders,—the “wild Irish” of the towns, and the “extreme wild
Irish” of the bogs and mountains,—present some striking and picturesque
peculiarities to justify the conventional Irishman of the old novel: the
most prominent being that mingled love of fun and fighting, which would
make one believe that the atmosphere of the four fair provinces is
compounded in equal portions of inflammable and laughing gas.
Very deplorable, indeed, must be the state of an Irishman—he must “be
gone to the bad entirely,” when he can neither smile nor quarrel; and
often even “under the ribs of death” is “an appetite created” for these
excitements. He loves fun; but fighting is his pride and his glory. For
fighting he forswears name and wealth. You may call him by all the
uncomplimentary names in the vocabulary of censure, and he hears you
meekly; but cast an imputation on his courage or his prowess, and—“Hah!
Whoo!”—you will feel his shillelagh whizzing around your ears like a
fire-work in a state of explosion.
An illustration of this peculiarity, of the ease with which a “wild
Irishman” will forego every prudent consideration in preference to the
disgrace of having been beaten in battle occurred, but a short while
since. In a Union workhouse in the south, some of the able-bodied
paupers came into rather forcible collision with the officials. The
cause of dispute was the supply of “stirabout,” which being deemed
insufficient by a few stout fellows, they marched into the kitchen,
seized ladles and bowls, and proceeded to help themselves. An alarm of
this lawless incursion being given, in rushed to the rescue the master
and his myrmidons. Fast and furious were the blows dealt by both
parties, but the strong hand of the law at length prevailed, the
well-fed officers triumphed over their famine-weakened foes, and the
stalwart master counted his victory by the number of broken heads
prostrated by the huge ladle which he wielded. The proprietors of the
damaged craniums were subsequently conveyed to the surgeon’s room, and
severally bandaged and plastered as their cases required. Most of the
hurts were found to be trifling, but one poor fellow had received a
severe contusion. With the dislike which many of his countrymen feel, to
submit to the prescription of qualified practitioners, Tim Murphy, in a
day or two, asked for his discharge, threw off the well-fixed bandages,
and betook himself to the squalid shelter of a cabin belonging to an
“uncle’s son,” nearly as poor as himself, an unqualified “docther,”
whose unprofessional practice it was to prescribe charms and philtres in
place of physic. This reckless proceeding was followed by its natural
result. The hurt which, with common care, would have readily healed,
became inflamed, fever ensued, and the man died. This melancholy finale
to the workhouse row caused much excitement, and an investigation of the
whole business was instituted by the magistrates. On the day when it
took place, the hall of the workhouse was crowded, and although it was
shown that the master was justified in using force to protect the
kitchen stores from the paupers, and it was also proved that under
proper surgical treatment the patient would, in all human probability,
have recovered, yet the point to be decided was, whether John Minahan,
the master, had used unnecessary violence in the discharge of his duty.
The principal witness against him, was a man who appeared with evident
“tokens of a foughten field” on his forehead, and who indeed had been
the only recipient, besides Tim Murphy, of any serious injury. The
examination proceeded nearly as follows:—
After having deposed readily and clearly to the fact of the combat, and
of John Minahan having rushed to the rescue of the porridge-pots, he was
asked:
“Did you see the master strike any one in particular?”
“Not he, indeed; he was no ways particular; but he murdhered and killed
every one that came in his way.”
“Did he strike you?”
“Did he strike me, is it? Why, then, if he did, I paid it back to him
handsomely.”
“Answer distinctly. Whom did you see him strike?”
“Ah, then, little matter ’twould be who he’d strike, if the boys had his
feeding, and he had theirs to depend on for one month. It’s little good
the son of ould Thady Minahan, the tinker, would do, if he was living on
Ingy male and water.”
“Come, come,” said the magistrate, impatiently, “give me a plain answer
to a plain question. Did Minahan knock _you_ down?”
“Is it the likes of him to knock me down? I’d like to see him try it. He
didn’t, nor couldn’t, your Honour’s glory.”
Up started the accused, and cried; “I _did_ knock you down, and bate you
well, too. Your Honours,” he continued, turning to the bench, “if I’m to
swing for it the next minute, I won’t let _that_ go with the vagabone. I
wouldn’t lave it to him to say that I didn’t knock him down, and murder
him handsomely to his heart’s content.”
The witness had been summoned to prove that the master had used
unnecessary violence; the defendant was there to prove he had not
employed more force than the occasion demanded. But would they establish
such proofs at the expense of their respective reputations? Should it be
said that Tim Murphy’s friend, or John Minahan, were not able to
“murther ach other intirely,” at any given minute’s notice? Never! Tim
Murphy’s friend would starve on “Ingy male,” and John Minahan would lose
his place first.
What became of the witness has not been stated; but the defendant did
lose his situation; the guardians of the Union thought that his national
ideas of honour were undoubtedly more suited to military than to civil
avocations.
Although it is doubtful whether _the_ Irish peculiarity will ever be
totally eradicated from the national character, yet the savage custom of
faction-fighting is becoming each year more rare. Sometimes, indeed, at
the close of a fair a “bit of a fight” does spring up; but the
casualties thence resulting, are seldom of a grave or fatal character;
and the contending parties may frequently be seen proceeding homewards,
with arms lovingly linked together, and tongues vowing eternal
friendship; although this, it must be confessed, is an indication of a
renewal rather than of the end of an Irish fight.
No doubt the process of fusing the national peculiarities of the three
kingdoms is advancing rapidly. It is no wild speculation to anticipate
the probability, that fifty years hence there may be little apparent
difference between an average native of England, Ireland, (always
excepting the “extreme wild Irishman”) or Scotland.