CHAPTER XI.
While on detachment at this place, I became acquainted with Eugene M’Carthy, a young man, whose education and intelligence far exceeded the generality of the people in the village. He was the most liberal-minded Catholic I ever met with; his views of the world and its manners were clear and unprejudiced, and to him I am principally indebted for what I know of the real state of Ireland; for party-spirit exists to such an extent, that it is almost impossible for a stranger to learn anything of it, unless through some prejudiced and distorted medium. There was something congenial in our habits and pursuits, which led us to associate; and in answer to the question from me, how he had managed to cultivate his mind more than the rest of his neighbours? he gave me the following history of his life.
‘My father possessed a farm of 100 acres, about five miles from this, which we still hold. My mother and two sisters, one older, and the other younger than me, composed his family. Being active and industrious, he managed his little estate in such a way that we were enabled to live comfortably and respectably. He was a man of strong sound sense, though in point of education not much above the common, his attention being more turned towards the improvement of his farm thanhis mind, but he was very anxious that his children should be well informed. Our village school was none of the best, and had it not been for my mother, we would have made little improvement. She was a native of Dublin, where she had received an excellent education, and having a natural taste for literature, she found little pleasure in associating with her neighbours—thus concentrating all her pleasures in her little family. She led us to the source from which she had derived so much pleasure, and early imbued our minds with a thirst for knowledge, which she took care to gratify by every means in her power. But her system of teaching was not that of the schools, unless in learning to read: we had no formal tasks—her book was nature, which she first led us to admire, then to examine, and when our curiosity was raised, she drew speech from stones, sermons from brooks, and good from every thing. The phenomena of nature, as they occurred, furnished subjects for explanation and illustration. The growth and construction of a flower—the change of seasons—the succession of day and night—the thunder, whirlwind, and tempest,—were all pressed into her service; and when our young imaginations were excited, she seized the important moment to impress their nature and use on our minds. Thus we were every moment insensibly acquiring knowledge, not by formal study, or by being pent up in a room, poring over a book for six or eight hours a-day, getting question and answer by rote like a parrot, but by our judgments being brought into action. Books, however, were not excluded: when our curiosity was once excited, and we felt inclined to acquire more information on any subject, we were referred to those which contained it, and by its being made the theme of a subsequent conversation, our doubts were solved, and our perplexities removed. The filial affection which this mode of education cherished, I shall feel to my latest breath. Her instructions were the pleasure of our lives, the withholding them the greatest punishment. We looked up to her as our guide, our comforter, and friend on all occasions.
‘One day I was questioning her with childish simplicity about the horizon, and the form of our earth, as they had been the subject of some of my reveries; and never shall I forget the flood of delight that flowed in upon my soul, when, with the ball I was playing with, suspended from a thread, she conveyed to my mind an idea of its form and motion. In morality her system was much the same; after having taught us its general principles, she left us to the freedom of our own will. She used to say such and such consequences attend on our good and evil actions, your minds will tell you which are most conducive to your happiness; thus, when we committed an error, she did not endeavour to avert the consequences, but seized on that opportunity to describe the pleasure a contrary conduct would have afforded. Her pious exhortations, however, were never formal, she watched the favourable moment for making an impression, when our hearts were uplifted by some unexpected good, or lighted up with pleasure from the appearance of nature; she then led us up to nature’s God, and expatiated on the wonders of his power, and attributes, until we spontaneously bowed in wonder and adoration. She is a Catholic, but not a bigoted one—she does not believe that other sects will be damned, if their hearts are sincere, and their actions good; and although she is regular in the duties of her church, she does not substitute them for the more important ones of mercy and justice. Under the guidance of such a mother, is it to be wondered at, that I am better informed than our neighbours?
‘However, my education did not rest here. From my earliest years, I was destined by my father for the church, in accordance with a foolish vanity prevalent in Ireland, which induces parents often to bring up some favourite son for the priesthood, to the injury of the rest of the family; and it is remarkable with what fond delusion they rely upon this individual for both worldly and spiritual benefits: the child so set aside is treated with as much deference as if he were already in office, and his brothers and sisters are slaved toprocure the means for his subsistence, as a gentleman at college.
‘My mother did not take the same view of the subject as my father; she thought there was no want of priests, and she considered that I might be as good a man, and as useful to society, in some other situation of life; but her objections were overruled by my father, who was determined in his purpose.
‘From a preparatory school about forty miles from this, I was sent to Maynooth College, where I had been about two years, when I was summoned home, in consequence of my father’s illness, and arrived only in time to witness his last moments. My mother was in great distress of mind, and urged me strongly to give up my studies, and remain at home; but I needed little solicitation, for I had no taste for the life of a priest. I had been too early taught the sympathies, charities, and pleasures of domestic life, to prefer celibacy and seclusion in their stead; so I left college and settled at home.
‘I have been residing in town for these two months back, in consequence of my uncle’s absence in England, whose business I have to look after; but I expect him home in a few days, when, I trust, you will accompany me to see our little farm, when I will introduce you to her whom I have been describing, and I am sure you will say that I have not done more than justice to her character.’
Accordingly, when Eugene was relieved from his trust, I accompanied him out to B——. At the foot of a small avenue of trees, leading up to his house, we were met by a large Newfoundland dog, who came bounding down to meet his master, followed by Billy M’Daniel, who was a kind offac totumon the farm.
‘Welcome home, master! Are you come for good and all to us? It’s the mistress, and Miss Mary, and Catherine, that will be glad to see you. Your servant, sir,’ turning about to me—‘Get down, Cæsar, and don’t be dirtying the gentleman’s clothes; but he’s so proud to see yees all, that he doesn’t know what to make of himself.’
‘Well, Billy,’ said Eugene, ‘how’s the hay getting on?’
‘Mighty well, sir, never better; we finished the low meadow this morning.’
We had now reached the lawn in front of the cottage, where we were met by his mother, ‘Welcome, child,’ said she; ‘is your uncle come home, or is this only a visit?’
‘My uncle arrived yesterday; but he is still so busy that he will not be able to get out to see you until next week—Give me leave to introduce you to a friend of mine, whom I have brought out to see how thewild Irishgrow in the country—he has had a specimen of it in the village.’
‘Any friend of Eugene’s is always welcome to me,’ said she, ‘but a soldier in particular; my favourite brother belonged to that profession; he was an officer in the eighty-eighth regiment; but, alas! he is now no more: he fell at the battle of Talavera. Was your regiment in Spain?’
‘Yes,’ replied I, ‘but it had not arrived in the Peninsula when the battle of Talavera was fought.’
‘Come, mother,’ said Eugene, seeing the tear standing in her eye, ‘Let us drop all conversation about “war’s alarms” now—Have you got anything for us to eat? remember we have had a brisk walk. Where’s Mary and Catherine?’
‘They are out in the garden weeding,’ said she, ‘but when they hear you have returned, they will not stop long.’
She had scarcely done speaking, when in bounced a sprightly girl about fourteen years of age, and throwing her arms about his neck, ‘You are welcome back, Eugene,’ said she, ‘we’ve been pining the life out of us since you left home; but you are going to stay now, are you not?’
The elder girl now came in, and advancing without any affected reserve, shook my proffered hand warmly, and welcomed me as the friend of her brother. The Irish infuse their soul and spirit into every thing theydo, and nothing can be warmer than their welcome; they set your mind at ease in a moment, and convince you so strongly that they are in earnest in their professions, that you feel yourself like one of themselves, before you are half-an-hour in their company. After we had got some refreshment, we were joined by the family, who had now completed the labours of the day, and I had an opportunity of observing the character of each.
Mrs M’Carthy might then be about forty years of age: she was still a fine-looking woman, although the traces of time and care were beginning to show themselves in her countenance—the rose had fled her cheek; but there was an eloquent expression in her eye at once mild and commanding, that kept pace with the varied emotions of her soul, and a dignity in her manner which bespoke a mind conscious of its own powers.
Catherine was a Hebe blushing with health and spirit, sporting in the morning beam of life, without a thought or care to disturb her happy frame of mind. But Mary had more of the collected sedateness of womanhood in her manner: she might then be about one or two and twenty; her person in height was above the middle size, but exquisitely formed; and her glossy black hair fell in natural ringlets about a face, which, although it could not be called regularly beautiful, had so much soul in it, that even at first sight you could not behold it with indifference; but when her dark eyes were lighted up with feeling, whether ‘shining through sorrow’s stream,’ or flashing with enthusiasm, the effect was alike irresistible,—and she was an enthusiast in every thing belonging to Ireland. She prided herself on the national character, vindicated its weaknesses and follies, and dropped a tear o’er its misery.
‘The poor Irish are called degraded and wicked,’ said she, ‘by those who exert all their influence to make them so; but relax the iron grasp that holds them to the earth, let them be instructed, and you will see what they will become. Where they have had anopportunity, have they not signalized themselves in every department? Where will you find poets, orators, warriors, and statesmen like them?’
‘My sister is an enthusiast in every thing Irish,’ said Eugene; ‘but after all there are exceptions to her rule,—we have had Irish statesmen who betrayed their country, Irish warriors who were no heroes, and poets who never drank of the Castalian fount.’
‘Oh! I do not go to such an extravagant length as to take in all; but look at the names that fame has written in golden letters on her annals.’
‘Have we not a Wellington, a Grattan, a Sheridan, and a Cast——?’ said Eugene.
‘Name him not,’ said she hastily, putting her hand on his mouth.
‘At present,’ said Mrs M’Carthy, ‘we see all his actions through the haze of prejudice—posterity will judge better of his character, and say whether he deserves the odium which has been cast upon it.’
‘By the by, you served with our countryman, Wellington, whose fame has sounded through the world,—what character does he hold among the soldiers?’
‘That is a question I am scarcely prepared to answer; but I will give you my own opinion, which may after all be nearly the sense of the army on the subject. I admit that he has many of the qualities which constitute a great general, such as valour, prudence, discrimination, &c., but there is one which, in my opinion, he fell short of.’
‘Indeed!’ said Mrs M’Carthy, ‘what is it?’
‘He had not the art of gaining the men’s affections,—he never identified himself with his army, and being either above or below human sympathy, he was the same cold, stern individual when they performed feats of valour as when they committed faults. In short, he was a being removed from all our associations, who might be admired at a distance, feared or respected on the spot; but never loved.’
‘You seem determined to put me out of conceit with my countrymen,’ said Mary; ‘I need not speak ofMoore, our great national poet, you will have some drawback on his fame also.’
‘He has been accused,’ said Mrs M’Carthy, ‘of loose and voluptuous sentiment. I can say nothing of the minor poems, said to be his, for I never read them; but in reading his Lalla Rookh, and his Irish Melodies, I have caught a portion of the inspiration and enthusiasm which he must have possessed when writing them.’
‘His own apology for his venal errors,’ said Mary, ‘who can withstand!’
Then blame not the bard if in pleasure’s soft dream,He should try to forget what he never can heal:Oh! give but a hope—let a vista but gleamThrough the gloom of his country, and mark how he’ll feel!That instant his heart at her shrine would lay downEvery passion it nursed, every bliss it adored, &c.
Then blame not the bard if in pleasure’s soft dream,He should try to forget what he never can heal:Oh! give but a hope—let a vista but gleamThrough the gloom of his country, and mark how he’ll feel!That instant his heart at her shrine would lay downEvery passion it nursed, every bliss it adored, &c.
Then blame not the bard if in pleasure’s soft dream,He should try to forget what he never can heal:Oh! give but a hope—let a vista but gleamThrough the gloom of his country, and mark how he’ll feel!That instant his heart at her shrine would lay downEvery passion it nursed, every bliss it adored, &c.
Then blame not the bard if in pleasure’s soft dream,
He should try to forget what he never can heal:
Oh! give but a hope—let a vista but gleam
Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he’ll feel!
That instant his heart at her shrine would lay down
Every passion it nursed, every bliss it adored, &c.
‘Whatever may be his faults, his deep and fervent love of country, his enthusiasm in the cause of liberty, and the magic strains in which he “pours the full tide of a patriot’s song,” must endear him to every Irish heart—must endear him to the world.’
‘I’m afraid my sister will make an Irishman of you, before you leave us,’ said Eugene.
‘On that subject her opinion is mine,’ said I, ‘and I am sure it would be no ordinary gratification to Thomas Moore, to hear his praise poured forth so eloquently from the lips of a fair countrywoman. The works of Moore and Byron excite my feelings in reading them, more than those of any modern poet; different in their style, yet each in that style excelling all others. I cannot find a better simile to express my opinion of their powers, than one drawn from the fairy legend of O’Donoghue. The poetry of Moore may be compared to the band of youths and maidens who skim over the lake, to the sound of heavenly music, scattering flowers on every side,—that of Byron to the spectre chief, who, mounted on his resistless spirit-horse, prances through the foam-crested waves.’
‘Well,’ said Eugene, ‘I suppose you have heardenough of Ireland for one night; we may as well retire to rest, for we rise earlier here than you do in town. This is a busy time with us, and we must be all at work by four in the morning.’
‘At work,’ said I, ‘so early?’
‘Yes,’ said Eugene, ‘for although we generally spend our evenings in this manner, we find it necessary to assist in the labours of the farm during the day. Many of the higher class of society laugh at the idea of individuals who earn their bread by manual labour, possessing refined taste or imagination; they consider it as incongruous and unnatural. Not content with engrossing all the pleasures of sense, they seek to rob them of those which a cultivated mind afford; and any attempt of their poorer brethren to soar into the regions of science or imagination, is met by them with the most supercilious contempt and sneering ridicule. The novel writers of our day have contributed much towards this false and unjust association,—all theirdramatis personæare dukes, lords, and squires, rich as Crœsus, with nothing to do but gad about the country. In proportion to the mental powers, intellectual cultivation has the same effect upon the poor man and the rich,—the want of it equally debases them. But knowledge does not altogether depend on going through a certain routine of education. The man of keen observation, who has his eyes and ears open, and compares and draws conclusions from all that comes within his notice, who thinks for himself, and reasons fearlessly on all subjects, that man will gain knowledge under very unfavourable circumstances.’
When I got up next morning, I found them all a-field working at the hay. It was a beautiful morning, and Eugene conducted me round his little estate, which was finely situated, compact, and advantageously laid out. The cottage lay on the top of a small rise in the centre of the farm; before it was a lawn of about an acre, skirted on each side by trees, beyond which lay his pasture ground and meadows, divided from the adjoining farm by a stream, whose margin was fringed with thebirch, the hazel, and the willow. Behind the cottage was his orchard and garden; the house itself consisted of one story, with what is commonly called the loft, formed into bed-rooms, the windows being raised in the neatly-thatched roof; outside it was dashed and white-washed, and around the door and windows was trained a profusion of honeysuckle, whose flowers shed a delightful fragrance through every apartment. The interior corresponded with its appearance outside; without any gaudy superfluity there was every thing conducive to comfort, and the greatest regularity and neatness was apparent throughout the whole. But all this was nothing to the pure affection that reigned in the bosom of its inmates towards each other. Whatever trouble Eugene’s mother might have had with her family when young, she was now richly repaid; they hung on every word she said as if it were the precepts of an angel—they anticipated every wish, shunned every subject which would cause her disquiet, while she treated them with all the affection of a mother and all the confidence of a friend.
The surrounding commotions touched them not. Mrs M’Carthy was almost adored among her neighbours for her benevolence, and, what they termed, hertrue Irish spirit; and Eugene, though a young man, had more influence over the members of the lawless associations in his neighbourhood than almost any individual in the county, which he never failed to exert on all occasions when it was in his power to prevent their atrocities.
After breakfast,—‘Come,’ said Eugene, ‘as I have nothing very particular to do, I will conduct you over the classic ground in the neighbourhood, and as Mary possesses theamor patriain so eminent a degree, she will accompany us, and describe all its beauties, lay open the arcana of every fairy mount, read you long lectures on thegood people, their midnight gambols and mischievous freaks; show you the stream over which theBansheeraises her ominous howl, as a prelude to the death of a M’Carthy, or describe the form andproperties ofCluricaunes,Phookas,Fetches, &c. &c., for she is deeply learned in fairy lore.’
‘Never mind him,’ said Mary, ‘few people delight more in hearing these fairy legends than Eugene himself.’
Having set out on our ramble, about a mile from the house, near a small village, (if a few cottar houses deserved the name,) we passed a well, over which hung a bush covered with white linen rags. Having expressed my surprise at such an unusual thing, ‘This is one of our holy wells,’ said Mary, ‘to which the country people resort, who are troubled with sore eyes, each bringing a linen rag to wash them, and leaving it as an oblation, hanging on the bush.’
On reaching the houses, Eugene stopped us in front of one, the roof of which had fallen in.