AN IRISH PECULIARITY.

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.” 595Railways 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 596Honours,” 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.