Chapter IV (2)

There were few persons whose history was connected with that of Ireland during my time, who excited my interest in a greater degree than Mr. Hamilton Rowan. Points of this gentleman’s character have been unfavourably represented by persons who knew little or nothing of his life, and that too, long after he had ceased to be a politician. I may claim perfect disinterestedness when I state that I never had the least social intercourse with Mr. Rowan, whose line of politics was decidedly opposed to my own.

Archibald Hamilton Rowan (I believe he still lives) is a gentleman of most respectable family and of ample fortune: considered merely as a private character, I fancy there are few who will not give him full credit for every quality which does honour to his station in society. As a philanthropist, he certainly carried his ideas even beyond reason, and to a degree of excess which I really think laid in his mind the foundation of all his enthusiastic proceedings, both in common life and in politics.

The first interview I had with this gentleman did not occupy more than a few minutes; but it was of a most impressive nature, and though now nearly forty years back, appears as fresh to my eye as if it took place yesterday: in truth, I believe it must be equally present to every individual of the company who survives, and is not too old to remember any thing.

There is generally in every metropolis some temporary incident which serves as a common subject of conversation; something which _nominally_ excites interest, but which in fact nobody cares a _sous_ about, though for the day it sells all the newspapers, and gives employment to every tongue, till some new occurrence happens to work up curiosity and change the topic.

In 1788, a very young girl, of the name of Mary Neil, had been ill-treated by a person unknown, aided by a woman. The late Lord Carhampton was reported to be the transgressor, but without any proof whatsoever of his Lordship’s culpability. The humour of Hamilton Rowan, which had a sort of Quixotic tendency to resist all oppression and to redress every species of wrong, led him to take up the cause of Mary Neil with a zeal and enthusiastic perseverance which nobody but the knight of La Mancha could have exceeded. Day and night the ill-treatment of this girl was the subject of his thoughts, his actions, his dreams: he even went about preaching a kind of crusade in her favour, and succeeded in gaining a great many partisans among the citizens; and, in short, he eventually obtained a legal _conviction_ of the woman as accessory to a crime, the _perpetrator_ whereof remained undiscovered, and she accordingly received, and most justly, sentence of death. Still Mary Neil was not bettered by this conviction: she was utterly unprovided for, had suffered much, and was quite wretched. Yet there were not wanting persons who doubted her truth, decried her former character, and represented her story as that of an impostor: this, though not credited, not only hurt the feelings and philanthropy, but the pride of Hamilton Rowan; and he vowed personal vengeance against all her calumniators, high and low.

At this time about twenty young barristers, including myself, had formed a dinner-club in Dublin: we had taken large apartments for the purpose; and, as we were not yet troubled with _too much_ business, were in the habit of faring luxuriously every day, and taking a bottle of the best claret which could be obtained.[18]

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Footnote 18:

One of us, Counsellor Townley Fitgate, (afterwards chairman of Wicklow
County,) having a pleasure-cutter of his own in the harbour of Dublin,
used to send her to smuggle claret for us from the Isle of Man: he
made a friend of one of the tide-waiters, and we consequently had the
very best wines on the cheapest possible terms.

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There never existed a more cheerful, witty, nor half so cheap a dinner-club. One day, whilst dining with our usual hilarity, the servant informed us that a gentleman below stairs desired to be admitted _for a moment_. We considered it to be some brother-barrister who requested permission to join our party, and desired him to be shown up. What was our surprise, however, on perceiving the figure that presented itself!—a man, who might have served as a model for a Hercules, his gigantic limbs conveying the idea of almost supernatural strength: his shoulders, arms, and broad chest, were the very emblems of muscular energy; and his flat, rough countenance, overshadowed by enormous dark eyebrows, and deeply furrowed by strong lines of vigour and fortitude, completed one of the finest, yet most formidable figures I had ever beheld. He was very well dressed: close by his side stalked in a baggy Newfoundland dog of corresponding magnitude, with hair a foot long, and who, if he should be voraciously inclined, seemed well able to devour a barrister or two without overcharging his stomach:—as he entered, indeed, he alternately looked at us and then up at his master, as if only awaiting the orders of the latter to commence the “onslaught.” His master held in his hand a large, yellow, knotted club, slung by a leathern thong round his great wrist: he had also a long small-sword by his side, adorned by a purple ribbon.

This apparition walked deliberately up to the table; and having made his obeisance with seeming courtesy, a short pause ensued, during which he looked round on all the company with an aspect, if not stern, yet ill-calculated to set our minds at ease either as to _his_ or _his dog’s_ ulterior intentions.

“Gentlemen!” at length he said, in a tone and with an air at once so mild and courteous, nay, so polished, as fairly to give the lie, as it were, to his gigantic and threatening figure: “Gentlemen! I have heard with very great regret that some members of this club have been so indiscreet as to calumniate the character of Mary Neil, which, from the part I have taken, I feel identified with my own: if any gentleman present hath done so, I doubt not he will now have the candour and courage to avow it.—_Who_ avows it?” The dog looked up at him again: he returned the glance; but contented himself, for the present, with patting the animal’s head, and was silent: so were we. He repeated, “_Who_ avows it?”

The extreme surprise indeed with which our party was seized, bordering almost on consternation, rendered all _consultation_ as to a reply out of the question; and never did I see the old axiom, that “what is every body’s business is nobody’s business,” more thoroughly exemplified. A few of the company whispered each his neighbour, and I perceived one or two steal a fruit-knife under the table-cloth, in case of extremities; but no one made any reply. We were eighteen in number; and as neither would or could answer for the others, it would require eighteen replies to satisfy the giant’s single query; and I fancy some of us _could not_ have replied to his satisfaction, and stuck to the truth into the bargain.

He repeated his demand (elevating his tone each time) thrice: “Does any gentleman avow it?” A faint buzz now circulated round the room, but there was no _answer_ whatsoever. Communication was cut off, and there was a dead silence: at length our visitor said, with a loud voice, that he must suppose, _if_ any _gentleman_ had made observations or assertions against Mary Neil’s character, he would have had the _courage_ and spirit to avow it: “therefore,” continued he, “I shall take it for granted that my information was erroneous; and, in that point of view, I regret having _alarmed_ your society.” And, without another word, he bowed three times very low, and retired backward toward the door, (his dog also backing out with equal politeness,) where, with a parting salute doubly ceremonious, Mr. Rowan ended this extraordinary interview. On the first of his departing bows, by a simultaneous impulse, we all rose and returned his compliments, almost touching the table with our noses, but still in profound silence; which bowing on both sides was repeated, as I have said, till he was fairly out of the room. Three or four of the company then ran hastily to the window to be _sure_ that he and the dog were clear off into the street; and no sooner had this satisfactory _dénouement_ been ascertained, than a general roar of laughter ensued, and we talked it over in a hundred different ways: the whole of our arguments, however, turned upon the question “which had behaved the _politest_ upon the occasion?” but not one word was uttered as to which had behaved the _stoutest_.

This spirit of false chivalry, which took such entire possession of Hamilton Rowan’s understanding, was soon diverted into the channels of political theory; and from the discussion of general politics, he advanced blindly, but I really believe with the best intentions, to the contemplation of sedition. His career in this respect was short:—he was tried and convicted of circulating a factious paper, and sentenced to a heavy fine and a long imprisonment, during which, political charges of a much more serious nature were arrayed against him. He fortunately escaped from prison to the house of Mr. Evans, of Portranne, near Dublin, and got off in a fishing-boat to France, where, after numerous dangers, he at length arrived safely.—Mr. Rowan subsequently resided some years in America, in which country he had leisure for reflection, and saw plainly the folly and mischief of his former conduct. The government found that his contrition was sincere: he eventually received his Majesty’s free pardon; and I have since seen him and his family at the Castle drawing-rooms in dresses singularly splendid, where they were well received by the Viceroy and by many of the nobility and gentry: and people should consider that his Majesty’s free pardon for political offences is always meant to _wipe away_ every injurious feeling from his subjects’ recollection:—where the error was unaccompanied by any moral crime, it left _no_ stigma whatever on private character.

The mention of Mr. Rowan reminds me of an anecdote of a singular nature, extremely affecting, and which at the time was the subject of much conversation: and as a connexion was alleged to exist between him and the unfortunate gentleman to whom it relates, (which connexion had nearly proved fatal to Mr. Rowan,) I consider this not an inappropriate place to allude to the circumstance.

Mr. Jackson, an English clergyman, who had come over to assist in organising a revolution in Ireland, had been arrested in that country, tried, and found guilty of high treason in corresponding with the enemy in France. I was in court when Mr. Jackson was brought up to receive sentence of death; and I believe whoever was present must recollect it as one of the most touching and uncommon scenes which appeared during that eventful period.

He was conducted into the usual place where prisoners stand to receive sentence. He was obviously much affected as he entered; his limbs seemed to totter, and large drops of perspiration rolled down his face. He was supposed to _fear death_, and to be in great terror. The judge began the usual admonition before he pronounced sentence: the prisoner seemed to regard it but little, appearing abstracted by internal agony. This was still attributed to apprehension: he covered his face, and seemed sinking: the judge paused—the crowd evinced surprise—and the sheriff, on examination, declared the prisoner was _too ill_ to _hear_ his sentence. Meanwhile, the wretched culprit continued to droop: and at length, his limbs giving way, he fell! A visitation so unexampled created a great sensation in the court: a physician was immediately summoned, but too late; Jackson had eluded his sentence, and was no more.

It was discovered that, previous to his coming into Court, he had taken a large quantity of arsenic and aqua-fortis mixed in tea. No judgment of course was pronounced against him. He had a splendid funeral: and, to the astonishment of Dublin, it was thoughtlessly attended by some members of parliament and barristers!

It is a singular but a true observation, that I was always on friendly, nay intimate, terms with many leading persons of the two most hostile and intolerant political bodies that could possibly exist together in one country; and in the midst of the most tumultuous and bloody scenes, I did not find that I had an enemy. It is nearly unaccountable, that my attachment to the government, and my activity in support of it, yet placed me in no danger from its inveterate enemies:—and in several instances I was sought as mediator between the rebels and Lord Kilwarden (then attorney-general).[19] Now he is no more, it is but justice to say, that of all the law officers and official servants of the Crown I ever had communication with, the most kind-hearted, clement, and honourable, was he whose manners and whose name conveyed a different impression. I know that he had been solicited to take some harsh measures as to the barristers who attended Jackson’s funeral; and though he might have been colourably justified in doing so, he said “that both the honour of his profession and the feelings of his own mind prevented him from giving publicity to, or stamping as a crime, what he was sure in its nature could only be inadvertency.”

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Footnote 19:

He was at that time Mr. Wolfe. An information _ex officio_ had been
filed against a printer in Cork for a seditious newspaper: it turned
out that the two Counsellors Sheers were the real editors. They begged
of me to mediate with the attorney-general. He had always a strong
feeling for the honour and character of his profession, and forgave
all parties, on conditions which I all but _vouched for_, but to which
they certainly did not adhere.

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SELF-DECAPITATION.

An Irish peasant cutting his own head off _by mistake_—His reputed
ghost—Humours of an Irish _Wake_—_Natural_ deaths of the Irish
peasantry—Reflections on the Excise laws.

Among my memorandums of singular incidents, I find one which even now affords me as much amusement as such a circumstance can possibly admit of: and as it is, at the same time, highly characteristic of the people among whom it occurred, in that view I relate it. A man _decapitating himself by mistake_ is indeed a _blunder_ of true Hibernian character.[20]

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Footnote 20:

This anecdote has been termed “_fabulous_” by some of the sapient
periodical critics, and a “_bounce_” by others. “’Tis quite
impossible,” say the scribblers, “for any man to cut _his own_ head
off.” This no doubt singular decapitation, however, happens to be a
well known and comparatively recent _fact_; and if either of the
aforesaid sceptics will be so obliging as to try the same species of
guillotine that Ned did at the Barrow water, he may, with the greatest
facility, get rid of, probably, the _thickest_ and _heaviest_ article
belonging to him.

The Emperor of Morocco, it is said, to convince his subjects what an
easy matter decapitation was, and what an uncertain tenure a head has
in his dominions, used to cut off the head of a jack-ass every morning
with one back stroke of his sabre. Should his copper-coloured Majesty
honour England with his august presence, to be feasted, fire-worked,
and subsidised like Don Miguel the First, what noble practice at
decapitation, in the absence of his _jack-asses_, he might have in
London among the periodical _scribblers_—without doing much injury to
the _animals_ themselves, and none at all either to the “Société des
lettres,” or what is called in England the “discerning public.”

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I think it was in or about the year 1796, a labourer dwelling near the town of Athy, County Kildare (where my mother then resided), was walking with his comrade up the banks of the Barrow to the farm of a Mr. Richardson, on whose meadows they were employed to mow; each, in the usual Irish way, having his scythe loosely wagging over his shoulder. Lazily lounging close to the bank of the river, they espied a salmon partly hid under the bank. It is the nature of this fish that, when his _head_ is concealed, he fancies no one can see his _tail_ (there are many wise-acres in the world, besides the salmon, of the same way of thinking). On the present occasion the body of the fish was visible.

“Oh! Ned—Ned, dear!” said one of the mowers, “look at that big fellow there: it is a pity we ha’nt no _spear_, now, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” said Ned, “we could be after piking the _lad_ with the scythe-handle.”

“True for you!” said Dennis: “the spike of yeer handle is longer nor mine; give the fellow a _dig_ with it at any rate.”

“Ay, will I,” returned the other: “I’ll give the lad a _prod_ he’ll never forget any how.”

The spike and their sport was all they thought of: but the _blade_ of the scythe, which hung over Ned’s shoulders, never came into the contemplation of either of them. Ned cautiously looked over the bank; the unconscious salmon lay snug, little imagining the conspiracy that had been formed against his tail.

“Now hit the lad smart!” said Dennis: “there, now—there! rise your fist: now you have the boy! now, Ned—success!—success!”

Ned struck at the salmon with all his might and main, and that was not trifling. But whether “the boy” was piked or not never appeared; for poor Ned, bending his neck as he struck at the salmon, placed the vertebræ in the most convenient position for unfurnishing his shoulders; and his head came tumbling splash into the Barrow, to the utter astonishment of his comrade, who could not conceive _how_ it could _drop off_ so suddenly. But the next minute he had the consolation of seeing the head attended by _one of his own ears_, which had been most dexterously sliced off by the same blow which beheaded his comrade.

The head and ear rolled down the river in company, and were picked up with extreme horror at a mill-dam, near Mr. Richardson’s, by one of the miller’s men.

“Who the devil does this head belong to?” exclaimed the miller.—“Oh Christ—!”

“Whoever _owned_ it,” said the man, “had _three_ ears, at any rate, though they don’t _match_.”

A search being now made, Ned’s headless body was discovered lying half over the bank, and Dennis in a swoon, through fright and loss of blood, was found recumbent by its side. The latter, when brought to himself, (which process was effected by whisky,) recited the whole adventure. The body was attended to the grave by a numerous assemblage of Ned’s countrymen; and the custom of carrying scythes carelessly very much declined. Many accidents had happened before from that cause, and the priest very judiciously told his flock, after the _de profundis_, that Ned’s _misfortune_ was a “devil’s judgment” for his negligence, whereby he had hurt a child a day or two before.

From that time none of the country-people would on any occasion go after dark to the spot where the catastrophe happened, as they say the doctor stole the head to _natomise_ it; which fact was _confirmed_ by a man without any head being frequently seen by the _women and children_ who were occasionally led to pass the moat of Ascole, not three miles from Athy, in the night-time; and they really believed the apparition to be no other than the ghost of poor Ned Maher looking every where for his head that the doctor had made away with.[21]

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Footnote 21:

This is only mentioned as indicative of the singular flow of ideas of
the Irish peasantry. The most serious and solemn events are frequently
converted by them into sources of humour and of comic expression that
altogether banish any thing under the head of gravity.

The lower orders are never half so happy as at a _wake_—when they can
procure candles, punch, a piper, and tobacco, to enable them to sit
and smoke round a human corpse! No matter what death it _suffered_, or
disorder it died of (except indeed the _bite of a mad dog_). Their
hilarity knows no limits; their humorous phrases and remarks flow in a
constant stream of quaint wit and pointed repartee, but not in the
style or tone of any other people existing. The _wake_ is also their
usual place of _match-making_; and the _marriages_ or _misfortunes_ of
the ladies are generally decided on “_going home from the wake_.”

The _cheerfulness_ of _the wake_, however, is intermitting:—every hour
or two the most melancholy _howling_ that human voices could raise is
set up by the _keeners_, and continued long enough to give the
recurrence to mirth and fun increased excitement. These _keeners_, or
mourners, are a set of old women, who practise for general use the
most lachrymose notes, high and low, it is possible to conceive—which
they turn into a sort of song (without words), at one time sinking
into the deepest and most plaintive strains, then, on a sudden, raised
into a howl, loud, frightful, and continued nearly to a shriek; and
then in long notes descending in a tone of almost supernatural
cadence.

They say that this is mimicking _wicked_ souls “undergoing their
punishment in _purgatory_,” and is used as a _defiance_ to the
_devil_, and to show him that the _corpse they_ are _waking_ does not
care a “mass for him.” But then, they never trust the corpse to be
left _alone_, because _it_ could make no resistance to Belzebub if he
came for it; and a priest always remains in the room to guard the
body, if the _keeners_ should happen to go away.

If you ask a country fellow how he can be so _merry_ over a “_dead
man_”—

“Ough! plase your honour,” he will probably reply, “why shouldn’t we
be merry when there’s a _good corpse_ to _the fore_?”

“What do you mean?”

“_Mane_ is it?—fy, sure enough, your honour, Father Corcoran says (and
the devil so good a _guess_ in the town-land) that after the month’s
_mind_ is over, Tom Dempsey, the _corpse_, will be happier nor any of
us.—Ough! your honour! hell to the rap of tythe-cess or hearth-money,
he’ll have to pay proctor nor parson!—There’s many a _boy_ in the
parish, plase your honour, would not object to be Tom Dempsey, the
corpse, fresh and fasting, this blessed morning!”

If you begin to reason with him, he will perhaps say—“Why, plase your
honour, sure it’s only his _corpse_ that’s _corpsed_;—after the
_masses_ he’ll be out of pain, and better off nor any gentleman in
this same county, except our own _landlord_, God bless him _up_ or
_down_!”

If you seem to think the defunct’s _family_ will be unhappy in
consequence of his death—

“Oh, plase your honour! Tom was a good frind, sure enough, and whilst
there’s a shovel and sack in the neighbourhood his family won’t be let
to want nothing any how.”

“But his poor wife?”

“Ough! then it’s she that’s sorry for poor Tom, your honour! Whilst
the _keeners_ were washing and stretching the corpse, and she crying
her eyes out of her head—oh, the cratur!—Father Corcoran whispered all
as one as a mass, and plenty of comfort into Mrs. Dempsey’s own ear,
cheek by jowl, and by my sowl the devil a drop of a tear came out of
her afterward, plase your honour!”

What is termed the _Irish cry_, is _keening_ on an _extensive scale_,
and is perhaps the most terrific _yell_ ever yet practised in any
country.

It is used in processions on the roads, as the people are carrying a
dead body to its place of interment—and occasionally, on any great
misfortune where the lamentation should be general.

If there are twenty thousand persons in a procession, they all set up
the same cry as the _keeners_, but a hundred times more horrid and
appalling. It may be heard many miles from the spot.

One mode formerly of _raising the people_ in the least possible time,
was the carrying a coffin under pretence of a burial. The procession,
which sets out probably with only a dozen persons, amounts in the
course of an hour to some twenty thousand. When once the yell is set
up, every person within hearing is expected immediately to join the
corpse by the shortest road—scampering across fields, ditches, &c.; so
that, as the numbers increase, the roar becomes more tremendous, and
answers better than a hundred bells in bringing a population together.

It is usual for every man, woman, and child to pick up a stone or two,
as they go along, and throw them into a heap, which tradition
sometimes marks out as the site of some remarkable battle, murder, &c.

The above plan was occasionally resorted to by the insurgents in the
year 1798; and there can be no doubt, if they all set out with
processions at one hour of any given day, that it would be a
tremendous species of muster for such a people as the Irish, who are
as little known or understood by the generality of the _English_, as
the Cossacks.

This cry certainly is not calculated to excite so great a _variety_ of
passions as Mr. Dryden attributes to the music at Alexander’s Feast.
But I will venture to assert, that if his Macedonian Majesty had been
ever so tipsy, and thoroughly bent upon ever so much mischief, one
sudden, _thundering_ burst of the Irish cry in his banqueting-room
would have quickly brought Alexander and all his revellers to their
senses—rendered their heels as light as their heads—and _Miss Thais_
would have been left by her lover to the protection of _Captain Rock_
and his _merry men_.

I believe the very best of our composers would find it rather
difficult to set the Irish cry to _music_—though by the _new light_,
every noise whatsoever must be a _note_ or _half a note_; and it is
reported that Mr. Moore and Sir John Stephenson used their joint and
several efforts to turn this national cry into _melody_, but without
success. I cannot see why such able persons should fail on so
interesting a composition. There are plenty of notes in it whole and
half, sharp, flat, and natural;—sufficient to compose any piece of
music. It is only therefore to select the best among them
scientifically; put an “andante affettuoso” in front; then send it to
a barrel organ-builder;—and no doubt it would grind out to the entire
satisfaction of the whole Irish population.

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This leads me to a digression more important. The superstition of the lower orders of Irish, when death occurs in any peculiar manner, is superlative. In truth, the only three kinds of death they consider as _natural_ are, dying quietly in their own cabins;—being hanged, about the assize-time;—or starving when the potato crop is deficient. All these they regard as matters of course; but any other species of dissolution is contemplated with much horror; though, to be sure, they make no very strong objection to being shot at by a regular army. They say their “fathers and forefathers before them were always _used_ to _that same_;” and all they expect in such case is, that there should be some sort of reason for it, which they themselves frequently furnish. But those manslaughters which occur through the activity of the revenue-officers in prevention of distillation, they never can reconcile themselves to, and never forgive. They cannot understand the _reason_ for this at all, and treasure up a spirit of savage revenge to the last day of their lives against excisemen.[22]

An ignorant poor cottager says to his landlord, naturally enough, “Ough! then isn’t it mighty odd, plase your honour, that we are not hindered from _eating_ oats, whenever we can _get any_? but if we attempt to _drink_ them, by J——s, we are kilt and battered and shot and burned out like a parcel of dogs by the _excisemen_, that’s twice greater rogues nor we are, plase your honour.”

In truth it is to be lamented that this distinction between solids and fluids should not be better reconciled to the common sense of the peasantry, or be somehow regulated so as to prevent perpetual resort to that erroneous system of mountain warfare and revenue bloodshed, which ever has kept, and ever will keep, whole districts of Ireland in a state of excitement and distraction. I know that I speak the sentiments of some of his Majesty’s enlightened Ministers on this subject.

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Footnote 22:

To the imperfection of the excise laws, and the totally erroneous
system of licensing public houses, (as to numbers, qualifications, and
police regulations respecting them,) is greatly to be attributed the
increase of crime of late years.

An unconnected and independent board, for the exclusive purpose of
granting licenses and registering complaints; convenient and
responsible country branches, and monthly reports, would tend much to
produce sobriety, and check those drunken conspiracies, the common
sources of robbery and murder. _Punishment_ rather than _prevention_
is the greatest error a police can fall into.

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FATHER O’LEARY.

Humorous story of Father O’Leary and a bear—Mistaken notions respecting
Ireland on the Continent—Lord Ventry and his tenant: an anecdote
characteristic of the Irish peasant.

I frequently had an opportunity of meeting at my father-in-law’s, Mr. Grogan’s, where he often dined, a worthy and celebrated priest, Father O’Leary;—and have listened with great zest to anecdotes which he used to tell with a quaint yet spirited humour quite unique. His manner, his air, his countenance, all bespoke wit, talent, and a good heart. I liked his company excessively, and have often regretted I did not cultivate his acquaintance more, or recollect his witticisms better: but I was then young, not a public person, and somewhat out of his line in society. It was singular, but it was fact, that even before Father O’Leary opened his lips, a stranger would say, “That is an _Irishman_,” and at the same time guess him to be a priest.

One anecdote, in particular, I remember his relating with singular animation. Coming from St. Omer, he told us, he stopped a few days to visit a brother priest in the town of Boulogne sur Mer (who lives there still). Here he heard of a great curiosity which all the people were running to see,—a curious _bear_ that some fishermen had taken at sea out of a wreck; it had sense, and attempted to utter a sort of lingo which they called _patois marine_, but which nobody understood.

O’Leary gave his six sous to see the wonder, which was shown at the port by candle-light, and was a very odd kind of animal, no doubt. The bear had been taught a hundred tricks, all to be performed at the keeper’s word of command. It was late in the evening when O’Leary saw him, and the bear seemed sulky: the keeper, however, with a short spike at the end of a pole, made him move about briskly. He marked on sand what o’clock it was with his paw, and distinguished the men and women in a very comical way; in fact, our priest was quite diverted. The beast at length grew tired; the keeper hit him with the pole; he stirred a little, but continued quite sullen: his master coaxed him—no! he would not work! At length, the brute of a keeper gave him two or three sharp pricks with the goad, when he roared out most tremendously, and rising on his hind legs, cursed his tormentor in very good Irish. O’Leary went immediately to the mayor, whom he informed that the blackguards of fishermen had sewed up a poor Irishman in a bear-skin, and were showing him for six sous! This civic dignitary, who had himself seen the bear, would not believe it: at last O’Leary prevailed on him to accompany him to the room. On their arrival the bear was still upon duty; and O’Leary, stepping up to him, says, “_Gand e tha hawn, Pat?_” (How do you do, Pat?)—“_Slonger a mahugouthe_,” (Pretty well, thank’ee,) says the bear. The people were surprised to hear how plainly he spoke: but the mayor directly ordered him to be ripped up; and after some opposition and a good deal of difficulty, Pat stepped forth (stark naked) out of the bear-skin wherein he had been fourteen or fifteen days most cleverly stitched. The women made off; the men stood astonished; and the mayor ordered the keepers to be put in gaol unless they _satisfied_ the bear and the authorities, which was presently done. The bear afterward told O’Leary that he was very well fed, and did not care much about the clothing, only they worked him too hard. The fishermen had found him at sea on a hen-coop, which had saved him from going to the bottom with a ship wherein he had a little venture of dried cod from Dungarvon, and which was bound from Waterford to Bilboa. He could not speak a word of any language but Irish, and had never been at sea before. The fishermen had brought him in, fed him well, and endeavoured to repay themselves by showing him as a curiosity.

O’Leary’s mode of telling this story was quite admirable. I never heard any anecdote (and I believe this one to have been true) related with so much genuine drollery, which was enhanced by his not changing a muscle himself, while every one of his hearers was in a paroxysm of laughter.

Another anecdote he used to give, though dry enough in itself, with incomparable dramatic humour. By-the-bye, all his stories were in some way _national_; and this affords me occasion to remark, that I think Ireland is at this moment nearly as little known on many parts of the continent as it seems to have been then. I have myself heard it more than once spoken of in Brittany as an _English town_.

At Nancy, where Father O’Leary, as he told us, was travelling, his native country happened to be mentioned; when one of the _société_, a quiet French farmer of Burgundy, asked in an unassuming tone, “If Ireland stood _encore_?”—“_Encore!_” said an astonished John Bull, a courier coming from Germany, “_encore!_ to be sure she does: _we have_ her yet, I assure you, Monsieur.”—“Though neither very safe nor very sound,” interposed an officer of the Irish brigade, who happened to be present, looking over significantly at O’Leary, and not very complacently at the courier.—“And pray, Monsieur,” rejoined the John Bull to the Frenchman, “why _encore_?”—“Pardon, Monsieur,” replied the Frenchman, “I heard it had been worn out, (_fatigué_) long ago by the great number of people that were living in it!”

The fact was (I believe it not at all exaggerated), the Frenchman had been told, and really understood, that Ireland was a large _house_ where the English were wont to send their idle vagabonds, and from whence they were drawn out again as they were wanted to fill the ships and army:—and (I speak this from my own personal knowledge,) in some interior parts of the continent the existence of Ireland, _as a kingdom_, is totally unknown; it is at best considered as about a match for Jersey, or some other little island. On the sea-coasts they are better informed. This need not surprise us, when we have heard of a native of St. Helena formerly, (who never had been out of the island,) who seriously asked an English officer “If there were many _landing-places_ in _England_?” This may be a _standing jest_, but it is highly _illustrative_.

Some ideas of the common Irish are so strange, and uttered so unconsciously, that in the mouths of any other people they might be justly considered profane. In those of my countrymen, however, such expressions are _idiomatic_, and certainly spoken without the least idea of _profanity_.

The last Lord Ventry was considered, before his father’s death, the oldest heir-apparent in the Irish Peerage, to which his father (originally low enough) had been raised in 1800, in consequence of an arrangement made with Lord Castlereagh at the time of the Union. He had for many years been bed-ridden, and had advanced to a _very_ great age latterly without any corresponding utility: yet little apprehensions were entertained of his speedy dissolution, and the family were in despair.

A tenant on the estate, the stability of whose lease depended entirely on the son surviving the father, and who was beginning to doubt which of them might die of _old age_ first, said seriously to the heir-apparent, but without the slightest idea of any sort of impropriety either as respected God or man—

“Ah, then, Master Squire Mullins, isn’t it mighty strange that my poor ould landlord (Heaven preserve his noble Lordship!) shou’d lie covered up in the bed all this time past?—I think, plase your honour, that it would be well done to take his Lordship (Lord bless his honour!) up to Crow-Patrick, and hold him up there as high as could be—just to _show_ his Lordship a bit to the _Virgin_. For I’m sure and sartin, plase your honour, if God Almighty hadn’t quite _forgot_ his Lordship, he would have taken him home to _himself_ long and many a day ago.”

The relation of this anecdote appears to have been ominous, as my Lord the son was also carried off to his forefathers (if he could _find_ them) a few months after the first edition of this work was published.

The eccentric traits of the genuine Irish character are certainly wearing fast away; and if some _contemporary_ of by-gone persons and customs did not take the trouble of recording those traits, they would be considered (if related in future times) as ridiculous fabrications.

DEATH OF LORD ROSSMORE.

Strictures on Dr. Johnson—His biographer, Boswell—False definitions and
erroneous ethics—Superstition—Supernatural appearances—Theological
argument of the author in favour of his peculiar faith—Original poetry
by Miss T * * *—The author purchases Lady Mayo’s demesne, County
Wicklow—Terrific and cultivated scenery contrasted—Description of the
Golden Belt of Ireland and the beauties of the above-mentioned
county—Lord Rossmore—His character—Supernatural incident of a most
extraordinary nature, vouched by living witnesses, and attendant on
the sudden death of his Lordship.

It is not pleasant to differ essentially from the general opinions of the world, and nothing but a firm belief that we are right can bear us up in so doing. I feel my own fallibility poignantly, when I venture to remark upon the celebrated personage yclept “the great moralist of England.”

To criticise the labours of that giant of literature I am unequal: to detract from his ethics is not my object. But it surely savours not of treason to avow that parts of his Lexicon I condemn, and much of his philosophy I dissent from.

It is fortunate for the sake of truth that Boswell became Johnson’s biographer; for, as the idolaters of China devoutly attach a full proportion of bad qualities to the object of their adoration, so in like manner has “Bozzy” shown no want of candour as to the Doctor’s failings; and if he had reflected on the unkind constructions of this wicked world, his eulogiums would probably have been rendered less fulsome, and his biography yet more correct.—It could not be more entertaining.

The English language had been advancing gradually in its own jog-trot way from the days of Bayley to those of Johnson: it travelled over a plain smooth surface and on a gentle ascent. Every body formerly appeared to understand each other tolerably well: words were then very intelligible, and women, in general, found no difficulty in pronouncing them. But the great lexicographer soon convinced the British people (the Irish are out of the question) that they had been reading, writing, and spouting in a starved, contracted tongue, and that the magnificent _dapimibominus’s_ of the Grecian language were ready in polysyllables to relieve that wretched poverty under which ours had so long languished.

This noble revolution in letters has made a progress so rapid, that I found in one essay of a Magazine, a few months ago, no fewer than twenty words which required me to make as many references to our great Lexicon.

Nobody can deny the miraculous labour which that work must have required: yet now, when enthusiasm has somewhat abated, and no danger exists of being clapper-clawed by the Doctor himself, some ungrateful English grammarians have presumed to assert that, under the gaberdine of so great an authority, any body is lawfully entitled to coin any _English_ word he chooses out of any foreign language he thinks proper; and that we may thus tune up our vocabulary to the key of a _lingua franca_, an assemblage of all tongues, sounds, and idioms, dead or living. It has also been asserted, since his decease, that the Doctor’s logic is frequently false both in premises and conclusion, his ethics erroneous, his philosophy often unintelligible, and his diction generally bombastic. However, there are so many able and idle gentlemen of law, physic, and divinity, amply educated, with pens stuck behind their ears ready for action, who are much better skilled in the art and practice of criticism than I am, that I shall content myself with commenting on one solitary word out of forty thousand, which word not only bears strongly on my own tenets and faith, but also affects one of the most extraordinary occurrences of my life.

This comprehensive and important word, (which has upon occasion puzzled me more than any other in the English language,) is “_superstition_:”—whereof one of the definitions given by the Doctor, in his Lexicon, appears to be rather inconsiderate, namely,—“religion without morality.”—Now, I freely and fully admit that I am _superstitious_, yet I think it is rather severe and somewhat singular in the Doctor to admit my religion and extinguish my morality, which I always considered as marching hand in hand—or, in truth, I thought the latter should go foremost.

When Dr. Johnson began to learn his own ideas of morality does not appear (certainly not from his friend Savage):—I suppose not until he got an honorary degree from the pedants of Oxford. Collegiate degrees in general, however, work no great reformation, I am inclined to believe, in morality; at least I am certain that when I became a Doctor of Laws I did not feel my morals in the least improved by my diploma. I wish the candid Boswell had mentioned the precise epocha of the Doctor’s reformation (for he admits him to have been a _little_ wild in his youth); and then we might have judged under what state of mind he gave the strange definition of “_religion_ without _morality_.”

For myself, I consider _faith_, grounded on the phenomena of _Nature_, not the faith of sectarianism or fanaticism, as the true source and foundation of morality;—and morality as the true source and foundation of religion.

No human demonstration can cope with that presented by the face of Nature. What proof so infallible as that the sun produces light and heat and vegetation?[23]—that the tides ebb and flow—that the thunder rolls—that the lightning flashes—that the planets shine?[24] Who can gaze on the vast orb of day without feeling that it is the visible demonstration of a superior Being, convincing our reason and our senses, and even the scanty reason of illiterate savages?

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Footnote 23:

The following lines are by Miss M. Tylden, the young poetess whom I
have before mentioned, and shall again allude to more fully. In my
humble opinion, there are not fourteen consecutive lines in the
English language superior in true sublimity both of thought and
language:

The sun is in the empire of his light,
Throned in the mighty solitude of heaven:
He seems the visible Omnipotent
Dwelling in glory:—his high sanctuary
Do the eyes worship, and, thereon as if
Impiety to gaze, the senses reel,
Drunk with the spirit of his deep refulgence.
Circle of glory!—Diadem of heaven!
Cast in the mould of bright eternity,
And bodying forth the attributes of Him
Who made thee of this visible world supreme;
And thou becamest a wonder and a praise,—
A worship—yea, a _pure idolatry_!
The image of the glories of our God.

I look upon the _personification_ of _God_ to be the excess of
blasphemy.

Footnote 24:

The reader may deem it curious to compare the two following
stanzas—the first graced with the great name of Mr. Addison; the
second the performance of my accomplished young friend, and extracted
from her common-place book, without any opportunity given for
revision.—She is ignorant that I have published a line of hers.

ON THE PLANETS.

The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heavens—a shining frame!
Their great Original proclaim.
In Reason’s ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice;
For ever singing, as they shine,
“The hand that made us is divine!”

ADDISON.

ON THE PLANETS.

Ye living fires in yon eternal dome,—
Ye lamps, whose light is immortality,—
Hung forth in mercy from our Father’s house,
As beacon-lights to guide us to our God!
Ye are ordain’d man’s faithful monitors,
Gazing like heavenly eyes upon our deeds,
Till guilt is awed, and shrinks beneath your glance.
Ye bright and visible rewards! held forth
From God’s high sanctuary, to work in us
A pure ambition for eternal things,
And glories which our spirit heaves to grasp!