October 19th.
In the course of the day we met two men of very suspicious appearance in a wood. My companion very cooly pointed them out to me as notorious robbers, who had managed, partly by cunning, partly by the general terror they inspired, to preserve their liberty;—another proof how defective is the government and how entirely perverted are all the relations and sentiments of society; two things by which Ireland is specially characterized. Both of these men, who called themselves farmers because they rented a little bit of potatoe-field were of a singularly striking and national aspect. The one, a slender man of about forty, handsome, with a wild but imposing physiognomy, was a highly picturesque figure, even in his rags. Contempt of all danger was impressed upon his noble brow;—indifference in all disgrace played scornfully about his audacious mouth. His history confirmed the language of his features. He wore three or four military medals, which he had gained in the wars in Spain and France. In consequence of repeated proofs of his remarkable courage he had been raised to the rank of a non-commissioned officer, from which his disorderly conduct soon caused him to be degraded: he had then served a second time, again distinguished himself, and again for the same reasons as before been disgraced, though not convicted of any capital offence.—He is now strongly suspected of being the leader of the band of robbers who infest the Galtees, and have committed several murders. His companion was in external appearance the complete reverse of him; he was, for an Irish farmer, unusually well clad, that is to say, in whole clothes; sixty years old, short and thick-set, and in his whole aspect almost like a Quaker. In his sanctified countenance, however, lurked such an expression of cunning and of pitiless determination, that he appeared to me much more terrible than the other. He was prosecuted two years ago for forging bank-notes; and was very nearly convicted, when he was rescued from the gallows by a dexterous lawyer to whom he entrusted his case. With tears of gratitude he put fifty pounds into the hand of his deliverer, lamenting most pathetically that he could not requite him better. The advocate was satisfied with his success, and put the notes into his pocket-book. What was his indignation at finding that Paddy had paid him in the very notes from the consequences of the manufacture of which he had just saved him! When the Irish take a bad turn, (and the only wonder is that they do not all do so,) they are the most dangerous people in the world; their most prominent qualities—courage, levity, and cunning,—are but too efficient in enabling them to dare every thing and to effect much.
Oct. 21st.
I had so often laid the hospitality of these worthy squires under contribution, that I was obliged ‘en conscience’ to make some return. I therefore invited them all to dine with me before my departure. In the morning I gave a cock-fight, ‘car il faut hurler avec les loups;’ then a concert of the great piper; then we had a ride; and lastly ‘grand festin, grand chère, et bon feu.’ During our ride we came to a spot at which a magistrate named Baker was shot three years ago. He was a man exactly in the stile of the Bailiffs (Amtmäner) in Ifflands’s Plays; only, alas! there was no noble character to thwart and counteract him. The day before his death, in discharging a man whom he had imprisoned for six weeks on a charge of suspected revolutionary practices, he publicly said, “Last month I sent you word that I wanted to speak to you;—you would not come. I have given you this little lesson for it, which I hope will make you more complying in future: if not, in six weeks more you shall swing; of that you may rest assured!” The county was at that time under ‘martial law,’ in consequence of some disturbances; and almost unlimited power was given to the local authorities, whose insolence and atrocity therefore knew no bounds. The immediate cause of Baker’s death was of a kind which deprives one of all pity for him. He was indebted £500 to a dairyman, partly for articles supplied to his household, partly for money he had borrowed. This he had promised to pay as soon as the man found a suitable match for his daughter, whose portion the money was to be. In a few years this took place, and the dairyman humbly entreated to be paid. Baker, however, continually put him off under various pretences; and finding he could obtain nothing but vain promises, the poor fellow at length threatened him with an action, and set off for Cork to consult a lawyer. Taking advantage of his absence, Baker appeared the next day at his house, followed by a detachment of soldiers, and with infernal hypocrisy asked his wife, then pregnant of her seventh child, whether she knew of any concealed arms, and told her that her husband was strongly accused of having secreted some. The woman answered without fear or hesitation, that she was sure no such thing existed in her house; that her husband would never have any thing to do with such plots; as Mr. Baker himself, who was an old acquaintance, well knew. “Take care what you say,” said Baker; “for if any thing is found after you have denied it, you are subject to transportation for life.” The woman persisted in her denial “Well, then, at your peril be it,” said he. “Soldiers, search the house thoroughly, and bring me word what you find.” They found nothing; but a second search being made, under Baker’s own superintendance, a loaded pistol was produced by some man, who pretended to have found it under some straw; into which it was always suspected Baker himself had just thrust it. The woman was immediately dragged away, and being regarded as convicted by the presence of the corpus delicti, was, after a short trial, sentenced to transportation. In a few days her husband returned, and moved heaven and earth to obtain her pardon. In vain did he entreat that at least he might be suffered to go to Botany Bay instead of his unhappy wife, the pregnant mother of six children. He offered to give Baker the £500. But this fiend remained inexorable, jeeringly reminding the despairing husband “that he wanted the money to portion off his daughter, who,” he added, “might now keep house for him, if after the consequences of the search he had still any house to keep. That he need not trouble himself about his wife’s travelling expenses, for that the Government would generously provide for them.” The law had its course; the poor woman was transported, and is perhaps now at Port Jackson. The husband, made furious by despair, and joined by her brothers and two other men, shortly after avenged her, by Baker’s cruel death. They fell upon him in the open fields, hunted him like a wild beast, and killed him slowly by a number of shots. All were taken and hanged.
Tales of horror like this were formerly of daily occurrence in this unhappy land, and even now have not entirely ceased. That such a contrast should exist between England and Ireland, and under the same Government too; that it should be suffered to endure for centuries, is indeed afflicting to every philanthropic mind. Unbridled bigotry, and rapacity unwilling to disgorge any part of its former prey, are the causes;—six millions of human beings the victims.
I have nothing remarkable to relate concerning my dinner-party: it was like its predecessors, and lasted far too long.
It was formerly the custom to give parties, of which the sole and avowed object was desperate drinking,—a fashion which is comparatively fallen into disuse. It was a common thing for a man to lock himself into a room with a hogshead of wine and some jolly companions, and not to leave it till the last drop was emptied. Barrington mentions such a party in his memoirs. It was given in a shooting lodge, in which the wall had been covered with mortar only the day before, and was of course still wet. Here the company were locked in with a pipe of claret, just arrived from France; and when some of them who had tumbled against the wall, awoke in the morning from their night’s debauch, they found themselves so thoroughly identified with it that they were obliged to be cut away, some with the loss of their clothes and others of their hair.
After my guests had exhausted their store of anecdotes, which were not precisely of a kind to entertain you with, they resorted to all sorts of practical jokes and ‘tours de force.’ One of these was quite new to me. It is an experiment which any body may try, and it struck me as curious enough. The wildest and fiercest game-cock may be rendered motionless, and compelled to lie in deathlike stillness as long as you please, by simply laying him on a table, with his beak close to a white line drawn across it. Nothing is necessary but first to draw this line with chalk, then to take the cock in your hands and lay him on the table with his beak turned towards it. You press him down, and there he will lie as if bound by some spell; his beak stretched out, and his eyes immoveably fixed on the white line, till you take him away. The experiment must be tried by candlelight.
‘Voilà de grandes bagatelles, mais à la guerre comme à la guerre.’
Oct. 22d.