may not be supposed that the tone of morals can be either high or pure;
and yet if we consider the circumstance in which he has been for such
a lengthened period placed, it is undeniable that the Irishman is a
remarkably moral man. Let us suppose, for instance, that in England
and Scotland the great body of the people had for a couple or three
centuries never received an adequate or proper education: in that case,
let us ask what the moral aspect of society in either country would be
to-day? But this is not merely the thing to be considered. The Irishman
was not only not educated, but actually punished for attempting to
acquire knowledge in the first place, and in the second, punished also
for the ignorance created by its absence. In other words, the penal
laws rendered education criminal, and then caused the unhappy people to
suffer for the crimes which proper knowledge would have prevented them
from, committing. It was just like depriving a man of his sight, and
afterwards causing him to be punished for stumbling. It is beyond
all question, that from the time of the wars of Elizabeth and the
introduction of the Reformation, until very recently, there was no fixed
system of wholesome education in the country. The people, possessed
of strong political and religious prejudices, were left in a state of
physical destitution and moral ignorance, such as were calculated to
produce ten times the amount of crime which was committed. Is it any
wonder, then, that in such a condition, social errors and dangerous
theories should be generated, and that neglect, and poverty, and
ignorance combined should give to the country a character for turbulence
and outrage? The same causes will produce the same effects in any
country, and were it not that the standard of personal and domestic
comfort was so low in Ireland, there is no doubt that the historian
would have a much darker catalogue of crime to record than he has. The
Irishman, in fact, was mute and patient under circumstances which would
have driven the better fed and more comfortable Englishman into open
outrage and contempt of all authority. God forbid that I for a moment
should become the apologist of crime, much less the crimes of my
countrymen! but it is beyond all question that the principles upon which
the country was governed have been such as to leave down to the present
day many of their evil consequences behind them. The penal code, to be
sure, is now abolished, but so are not many of its political effects
among the people. Its consequences have not yet departed from the
country, nor has the hereditary hatred of the laws, which unconsciously
descended from father to son, ceased to regulate their conduct and
opinions. Thousands of them are ignorant that ever such a thing as a
penal code existed; yet the feeling against law survives, although the
source from which it has been transmitted may be forgotten. This will
easily account for much of the political violence and crime which
moments of great excitement produce among us; nor need we feel surprised
that this state of things should be continued, to the manifest injury
of the people themselves, by the baneful effects of agitation.
The period, therefore, for putting the character of our country fairly
upon, its trial has not yet arrived; although we are willing to take the
Irishman as we find him; nor would we shrink even at the present moment
from comparing him with any of his neighbors. His political sins and
their consequences were left him as an heirloom, and result from a state
of things which he himself did not occasion. Setting these aside, where
is the man to be found in any country who has carried with him through
all his privations and penalties so many of the best virtues of our
nature? In other countries the man who commits a great crime is always
a great criminal, and the whole heart is hardened and debased, but it
is not so in Ireland. The agrarian and political outrage is often
perpetrated by men who possess the best virtues of humanity, and whose
hearts as individuals actually abhor the crime. The moral standard here
is no doubt dreadfully erroneous, and until a correct and Christian one,
emanating from a better system of education, shall be substituted for
it, it will, with a people who so think and feel, be impossible utterly
to prevent the occurrence of these great evils. We must wait for thirty
or forty years, that is, until the rising or perhaps the subsequent
generation shall be educated out of these wild and destructive
prejudices, before we can fully estimate the degree of excellence to
which our national character may arrive. In my own youth, and I am
now only forty-four years, I do not remember a single school under the
immediate superintendence of either priest or parson, and that in a
parish the extent of which is, I dare say, ten miles by eight. The
instruction of the children was altogether a matter in which no clergy
of any creed took an interest. This was left altogether to hedge
schoolmasters, a class of men who, with few exceptions, bestowed such an
education upon the people as is sufficient almost, in the absence of all
other causes, to account for much of the agrarian violence and erroneous
principles which regulate their movements and feelings on that and
similar subjects. For further information on this matter the reader is
referred to the “Hedge School.”
With respect to these darker shades of the Irish character, I feel that,
consistently with that love of truth and impartiality which has guided,
and I trust ever shall guide, my pen, I could not pass them over without
further notice. I know that it is a very questionable defence to say
that some, if not principally all, of their crimes originate in agrarian
or political vengeance. Indeed, I believe that, so far from this
circumstance being looked upon as a defence, it ought to be considered
as an aggravation of the guilt; inasmuch as it is, beyond all doubt, at
least a far more manly thing to inflict an injury upon an enemy face to
face, and under the influence of immediate resentment, than to crouch
like a cowardly assassin behind a hedge and coolly murder him without
one moment's preparation, or any means whatsoever of defence. This is a
description of crime which no man with one generous drop of blood in his
veins can think of without shame and indignation. Unhappily, however,
for the security of human life, every crime of the kind results more
from the dark tyranny of these secret confederacies, by which the lower
classes are organized, than from any natural appetite for shedding
blood. Individually, the Irish loathe murder as much as any people in
the world; but in the circumstances before us, it often happens that the
Irishman is not a free agent--very far from it: on the contrary, he
is frequently made the instrument of a system, to which he must become
either an obedient slave or a victim.
Even here, however, although nothing can or ought to be said to palliate
the cowardly and unmanly crime of assassination, yet something can
certainly be advanced to account for the state of feeling by which,
from time to time, and by frequent occurrence, it came to be so
habitual among the people, that by familiarity it became stripped of its
criminality and horror.
Now it is idle, and it would be dishonest, to deny the fact, that the
lower Irish, until a comparatively recent period, were treated with
apathy and gross neglect by the only class to whom they could or ought
to look up for sympathy or protection. The conferring of the elective
franchise upon the forty-shilling freeholders, or in other words upon
paupers, added to the absence of proper education, or the means
of acquiring it, generated, by the fraudulent subdivision of small
holdings, by bribery, perjury, and corruption, a state of moral feeling
among the poorer classes which could not but be productive of much
crime. And yet, notwithstanding this shameful prostitution of their
morals and comfort, for the purposes of political ambition or personal
aggrandizement, they were in general a peaceable and enduring people;
and it was only when some act of unjustifiable severity, or oppression
in the person of a middleman, agent, or hardhearted landlord, drove them
houseless upon the world, that they fell back upon the darker crimes
of which I am speaking. But what, I ask, could be expected from such a
state of things? And who generated it? It is not, indeed, to be wondered
at that a set of men, who so completely neglected their duties as
the old landlords of Ireland did, should have the very weapons turned
against themselves which their own moral profligacy first put into the
hands of those whom they corrupted. Up to this day the peasantry are
charged with indifference to the obligation of an oath, and in those who
still have anything to do in elections, I fear with too much truth. But
then let us inquire who first trained and familiarized them to it? Why,
the old landlords of Ireland; and now their descendants, and such of
themselves as survive, may behold, in the crimes which disgrace the
country, the disastrous effects of a bad system created by their
forefathers or themselves.
In the meantime, I have no doubt that by the removal of the causes which
produced this deplorable state of things, their disastrous effects will
also soon disappear. That the present landlords of Ireland are, with the
ordinary number of exceptions, a very different class of men from those
who have gone before them, is a fact which will ultimately tell for the
peace and prosperity of the country. Let the ignorance of the people,
or rather the positive bad knowledge with which, as to a sense of civil
duties, their minds are filled, be removed, and replaced with principles
of a higher and more Christian tendency. Let the Irish landlords
consider the interests of their tenantry as their own, and there is
little doubt that with the aids of science, agricultural improvement,
and the advantages of superior machinery, the Irish will become a
prosperous, contented, and great people.
It is not just to the general character of our people, however, to speak
of these crimes as national; for, in fact, they are not so. If Tipperary
and some of the adjoining parts of Munster were blotted out of the moral
map of the country, we would stand as a nation in a far higher position
than that which we occupy in the opinion of our neighbors. This is a
distinction which in justice to us ought to be made, for it is surely
unfair to charge the whole kingdom with the crimes which disgrace only
a single county of it, together with a few adjacent districts--allowing,
of course, for some melancholy exceptions in other parts.
Having now discussed, with, I think, sufficient candor and impartiality,
that portion of our national character which appears worst and weakest
in the eyes of our neighbors, and attempted to show that pre-existing
circumstances originating from an unwise policy had much to do in
calling into existence and shaping its evil impulses, I come now to
a more agreeable task--the consideration, of our social and domestic
virtues. And here it is where the Irishman immeasurably outstrips all
competitors. His hospitality is not only a habit but a principle; and
indeed of such a quick and generous temperament is he, that in ninety
cases out of a hundred the feeling precedes the reflection, which in
others prompts the virtue. To be a stranger and friendless, or suffering
hunger and thirst, is at any time a sufficient passport to his heart and
purse; but it is not merely the thing or virtue, but also his manner
of doing it, that constitutes the charm which runs through his conduct.
There is a natural politeness and sincerity in his manner which no man
can mistake; and it is a fact, the truth of which I have felt a thousand
times, that he will make you feel the acceptance of the favor of
kindness he bestows to be a compliment to himself rather than to you.
The delicate ingenuity with which he diminishes the nature or amount of
his own kindness, proves that he is no common man, either in heart or
intellect; and when all fails he will lie like Lucifer himself,
and absolutely seduce you into an acceptance of his hospitality or
assistance. I speak now exclusively of the peasantry. Certainly in
domestic life there is no man so exquisitely affectionate and humanized
as the Irishman. The national imagination is active and the national
heart warm, and it follows very naturally that he should be, and is,
tender and strong in all his domestic relations. Unlike the people of
other nations, his grief is loud but lasting, vehement but deep; and
whilst its shadow has been chequered by the laughter and mirth of a
cheerful disposition, still in the moments of seclusion, at his bedside
prayer, or over the grave of those he loved, it will put itself forth
after half a life with a vivid power of recollection which is sometimes
almost beyond belief.
The Irish, however, are naturally a refined people; but by this I mean
the refinement which appreciates and cherishes whatever there is in
nature, as manifested through the influence of the softer arts of music
and poetry. The effect of music upon the Irish heart I ought to know
well, and no man need tell me that a barbarous or cruel people ever
possessed national music that was beautiful and pathetic. The music of
any nation is the manifestation of its general feeling, and not that
which creates it; although there is no doubt but the one when formed
perpetuates and reproduces the other. It is no wonder, then, that the
domestic feelings of the Irish should be so singularly affectionate
and strong, when we consider that they have been, in spite of every
obstruction, kept under the softening influence of music and poetry.
This music and poetry, too, essentially their own--and whether streaming
of a summer through their still glens, or poured forth at the winter
hearth, still, by its soft and melancholy spirit, stirring up a thousand
tender associations that must necessarily touch and improve the heart.
And it is for this reason that, that heart becomes so remarkably
eloquent, if not poetical, when moved by sorrow. Many a time I have seen
a Keener commence her wail over the corpse of a near relative, and by
degrees she has risen from the simple wail or cry to a high but mournful
recitative, extemporized, under the excitement of the moment, into
sentiments that were highly figurative and impressive. In this she
was aided very much by the genius of the language, which possesses the
finest and most copious vocabulary in the world for the expression of
either sorrow or love.
It has been said that the Irish, notwithstanding a deep susceptibility
of sorrow, are a light-hearted people; and this is strictly true. What,
however, is the one fact but a natural consequence of the other? No man
for instance ever possessed a higher order of humor, whose temperament
was not naturally melancholy, and no country in the world more clearly
establishes that point than Ireland. Here the melancholy and mirth are
not simply in a proximate state, but frequently flash together, and
again separate so quickly, that the alternation or blending, as the case
may be, whilst it is felt by the spectators, yet stands beyond all known
rules of philosophy to solve it. Any one at all acquainted with Ireland,
knows that in no country is mirth lighter, or sorrow deeper, or the
smile and the tear seen more frequently on the face at the same moment.
Their mirth, however, is not levity, nor their sorrow gloom; and for
this reason none of those dreary and desponding reactions take place,
which, as in France especially, so frequently terminate in suicide.
The recreations of the Irish were very varied and some of them of
a highly intellectual cast. These latter, however, have altogether
disappeared from the country, or at all events are fast disappearing.
The old Harper is now hardly seen; the Senachie, where he exists, is but
a dim and faded representative of that very old Chronicler in his palmy
days; and the Prophecy-man unfortunately has survived the failure of
his best and most cherished predictions. The poor old Prophet's stock
in trade is nearly exhausted, and little now remains but the slaughter
which is to take place at the mill of Louth, when human blood, and the
miller to have six fingers and two thumbs on each hand, as a collateral
prognostication of that bloody event.
The amusement derived from these persons was undoubtedly of a very
imaginative character, and gives sufficient proof, that had the national
intellect been duly cultivated, it is difficult to say in what position
as a literary country Ireland might have stood at this day. At present
the national recreations, though still sufficiently varied and numerous
are neither so strongly marked nor diversified as formerly. Fun, or
the love of it, to be sure, is an essential principle in the Irish
character; and nothing that can happen, no matter how solemn or how
sorrowful it may be, is allowed to proceed without it. In Ireland the
house of death is sure to be the merriest one in the neighborhood; but
here the mirth is kindly and considerately introduced, from motives of
sympathy--in other words, for the alleviation of the mourners' sorrow.
The same thing may be said of its association with religion. Whoever has
witnessed a Station in Ireland made at some blessed lake or holy well,
will understand this. At such places it is quite usual to see young
men and women devoutly circumambulating the well or lake on their bare
knees, with all the marks of penitence and contrition strongly
impressed upon their faces; whilst again, after an hour or two, the same
individuals may be found in a tent dancing with ecstatic vehemence to
the music of the bagpipe or fiddle.
All these things, however, will be found, I trust I may say faithfully
depicted in the following volume--together with many other important
features of our general character; which I would dwell on here, were it
not that they are detailed very fully in other parts of my works, and I
do not wish to deprive them of the force of novelty when they occur, nor
to appear heavy by repetition.
In conclusion, I have endeavored, with what success has been already
determined by the voice of my own country, to give a panorama of Irish
life among the people--comprising at one view all the strong points of
their general character--their loves, sorrows, superstitions, piety,
amusements, crimes, and virtues; and in doing this, I can say with
solemn truth that I painted them honestly, and without reference to the
existence of any particular creed or party.
W. Carleton.
Dublin.
NED M'KEOWN.
Ned M'Keown's house stood exactly in an angle, formed by the cross-roads
of Kilrudden. It was a long, whitewashed building, well thatched and
furnished with the usual appurtenances of yard and offices. Like most
Irish houses of the better sort, it had two doors, one opening into a
garden that sloped down from the rear in a southern direction. The barn
was a continuation of the dwelling-house, and might be distinguished
from it by a darker shade of color, being only rough-cast. It was
situated on a small eminence, but, with respect to the general locality
of the country, in a delightful vale, which runs up, for twelve or
fourteen miles, between two ranges of dark, well-defined mountains, that
give to the interjacent country the form of a low inverted arch.
This valley, which altogether, allowing for the occasional breaks and
intersections of hill-ranges, extends upwards of thirty miles in length,
is the celebrated valley of the “Black Pig,” so well known in the
politico-traditional history of Ireland, and the legends connected with
the famous Beal Dearg.*
* The following extract, taken from a sketch by the author
called “The Irish Prophecy-man,” contains a very appropriate
illustration of the above passage. “I have a little book
that contains a prophecy of the milk-white hind an' the
bloody panther, an' a foreboding of the slaughter there's to
be in the Valley of the Black Pig, as foretould by Beal
Derg, or the prophet wid the red mouth, who never was known
to speak but when he prophesied, or to prophesy but when he
spoke.”
“The Lord bless an' keep us!--an' why was he called the Man
with the Red Mouth, Barney?”
“I'll tell you that: first, bekase he always prophesied
about the slaughter an' fightin' that was to take place in
the time to come; an', secondly, bekase, while he spoke, the
red blood always trickled out of his mouth, as a proof that
what he foretould was true.”
“Glory be to God! but that's wondherful all out. Well,
we'll!”
“Ay, an' Beal Deig, or the Red Mouth, is still livin'.”
“Livin! why, is he a man of our own time?”
“Our own time! The Lord help you! It's more than a thousand
years since he made the prophecy. The case you see is this:
he an' the ten thousand witnesses are lyin' in an enchanted
sleep in one of the Montherlony mountains.”
“An' how is that known, Barney?”
“It's known, Every night at a certain hour one of the
witnesses--an' they're all sogers, by the way--must come out
to look for the sign that's to come.”
“An' what is that, Barney?”
“It's the fiery cross; an' when he sees one on aich of the
four mountains of the north, he's to know that the same
sign's abroad in all the other parts of the kingdom. Beal
Derg an' his men are then to waken up, an' by their aid the
Valley of the Black Pig is to be set free forever.”
“An' what is the Black Pig, Barney?”
“The Prospitarian church, that stretches from Enniskillen to
Darry, an' back again from Darry to Enniskillen.”
“Well, well, Barney, but prophecy is a strange thing, to be
sure! Only think of men livin' a thousand years!”
“Every night one of Beal Derg's men must go to the mouth of
the cave, which opens of itself, an' then look out for the
sign that's expected. He walks up to the top of the
mountain, an' turns to the four corners of the heavens, to
thry if he can see it; an' when he finds that he cannot, he
goes back to Beal Derg. who, afther the other touches him,
starts up and axis him, 'Is the time come?' He replies, 'No;
the _man is_, but the _hour is not!_' an' that instant
they're both asleep again. Now, you see, while the soger is
on the mountain top, the mouth of the cave is open, an' any
one may go in that might happen to see it. One man it
appears did, an' wishin' to know from curiosity whether the
sogers were dead or livin', he touched one of them wid his
hand, who started up an' axed him the same question, 'Is the
time come?' Very fortunately he said, 'No;' an' that minute
the soger was as sound in his trance as before.”
“An', Barney, what did the soger mane when he said. 'The man
is, but the hour is not?'”
“What did he mane? I'll tell you that. The man is
Bonyparty, which manes, when put into proper explanation,
the _right side_; that is, the true cause. Larned men have
found _that_ out.”
That part of it where Ned M'Keown resided was peculiarly beautiful and
romantic. From the eminence on which the house stood, a sweep of the
most fertile meadowland stretched away to the foot of a series of
intermingled hills and vales, which bounded this extensive carpet
towards the north. Through these meadows ran a smooth river, called the
Mullin-burn, which wound its way through them with such tortuosity, that
it was proverbial in the neighborhood to say of any man remarkable for
dishonesty, “He's as crooked as the Mullin-burn,” an epithet which was
sometimes, although unjustly, jocularly applied to Ned himself. This
deep but narrow river had its origin in the glens and ravines of a
mountain which bounded the vale in a south-eastern direction; and
after sudden and heavy rains it tumbled down with such violence and
impetuosity over the crags and rock-ranges in its way, and accumulated
so amazingly, that on reaching the meadows it inundated their surface,
carrying away sheep, cows, and cocks of hay upon its yellow flood. It
also boiled and eddied, and roared with a hoarse _sugh_, that was heard
at a considerable distance.