"Marlborough-street.—There is a class of persons now known, called 'Mouchers,' who go about in gangs, plundering the licensed victuallers, eating-house and coffee-shop keepers, to an extent that would be deemed impossible, did not the records of police courts afford sufficient evidence of the fact. The Mouchers are mostly of the lower order of Irish."—London Morning Paper, 12th April, 1847.
"Horrible Murder—(Particulars). Every possible search has been made for the murderers, but unfortunately without effect. However, it is positively known that four Irish harvesters passed through the village the day before, and there cannot be a doubt the dreadful deed was committed by them!"
Such are the kind of announcements seen frequently, particularly in provincial papers. In the latter case, the facts impressed themselves strongly upon my mind. A horrible murder had been committed, as well as I recollect, in Lancashire. The widow of a farmer, much beloved in the neighbourhood, and known to possess considerable property, was barbarously murdered in her bed at night, and her presses and strong box thoroughly rifled; nothing, however, having been taken but money, of which it was known she had received a considerable sum a few days previously. Much sensation was created by the fearful occurrence; and it was fully believed that "the four Irishmen" had committed the murder—why? because they had been seen in the neighbourhood! verifying most fully the adage, that "one man may steal a horse without being suspected, while another dare not look over the hedge." So it eventually turned out. A month elapsed; the four Irishmen could never be traced; but luckily the real murderer was. A labouring man offered a £20. note to be changed in a town some miles distant from the scene of the murder, and suspicion having arisen as to how he obtained it, he was taken up: eventually turning out to be the confidential farm servant of the unfortunate woman, still continuing to live unsuspected where the murder had been actually committed by himself; and he was subsequently executed.
But did this clear "the four Irishmen" from the imputation, or retrieve the character of their class? Not an iota. The journalist who accused them was not the fool to proclaim his own injustice; and perhaps, even if he did, the refutation would never have met the same eye that read the condemnation. No; "the four Irishmen" continued as thoroughly guilty in the public mind as if twelve jurors on their oaths had declared them so. The editorial pen had signed the death warrant of character, if not of life, as it has done in many and many instances with just as much foundation.
Poor, unhappy "Paddy" the labourer has had years and years of outcry to bear up against and suffer under, a thousand times more trying to him than that now raised against "Paddy" the Lord. The poor and lowly struggle single-handed and alone; the rich and high face the enemies of their order shoulder to shoulder, and as one. Poor fellow, he is like the cat in the kitchen: every head broken is as unquestionably laid to his charge, as every jug to pussy's. And he has another direful mark which stamps him at once; namely, that "profanation to ears polite," his brogue! He possibly may not look ill to the eye—perhaps the reverse; his countenance may be honest and open, and his bearing manly, as he approaches an employer to seek for work; up to that point all goes well, perhaps; but once his mouth opens, the tale is told; instantly Prejudice does her office, unknowingly almost, and unless actual need exist, Paddy may apply elsewhere, again and again to meet the same rebuff. Lancashire, Somersetshire, Yorkshire, may revel in their patois without raising a doubtful feeling or a smile, but the brogue of Ireland does the work at once, and the unhappy being from whom it issues slinks back into himself degraded, as he hears the certain laugh which answers his fewest words, and the almost certain refusal to admit him within the pale of his class in England. Hence St. Giles's as it was—the purlieu of Westminster, as it is—the Irish labourer's refuge in England, is often the lowest point, because he cannot be driven lower.
And all this arises, not from ill will, but from long felt prejudice, and the repetition of stories and anecdotes and caricature of Irish character, which trifling circumstances have given rise to and upheld; and which, I grieve to say, is greatly due to the domiciled Irishmen in England, of the middle and better class. They sometimes forget their country, and in place of explaining away fallacies and making known facts which would have roused England long since to our aid, had they been fairly understood, fear to tell truths which they deem to be unpalatable, while perhaps their own palates are being feasted on the good things of the party who declaims against their country: thus permitting the continued existence of prejudice and consequent estrangement.
It is in no small degree amusing to observe the attempt made, in addition, to disguise the fact that the delinquent I speak of (I had almost written renegade) is an Irishman. No wonder that he should attempt the disguise, for he must deeply feel his delinquency. In all cases such as this, the Cockney twang and occasional curtailment is assumed to overcome the brogue, but in vain. For the first half dozen words of each paragraph in a conversation it gets on well enough, but the conclusion is sometimes exquisitely ridiculous.
I had the honour to meet at dinner recently, a person of this class, and a conversation having arisen on the subject, he said, "I aam pe-fectly ce-tain no one caaen know that I aam an I-ishman;" and the next instant, turning to a servant, he added, "Po-ta, if you plaze." When this thoroughly low-bred Irishism came out I could not help smiling, and caught at the same moment the eye of a lady opposite, who seemed greatly amused. In a few minutes after, she said, evidently for the purpose of having another trial of the Anglo-Irishman, "Pray, may I help you to a potato?"—the killing reply was, "Pon my hona' I neva' ate pittatis at all at all."
This was too much for the lady, as well as for myself; so we laughed together. The Irish gentleman, however, perfectly unconscious of the cause.
Having subsequently mentioned the circumstance to an "Irishman in London," who does not fear to acknowledge his country, he said, "O! the feeling descends lower still—the better class of labourers attempt to speak so that they shall not be known." Continuing, he said, "A porter in our establishment, who is an Irishman, came to me the other day, and speaking very confidentially, whispered, 'Sure now, Misthur ——, you woudn't guiss be me taulk, thit I wus an Irishmin.'" "Certainly not," said my friend, laughing, when the fellow replied, quite happily, "Whi-thin that's right any how."