“Which, cunningly, were without mortar laid.”
thinly thatched with straw; an aperture in the roof served rather to admit the air than emit the smoke, a circumstance to which the wretched inhabitants of those wretched hovels seem so perfectly naturalized, that they live in a constant state of fumigation; and a fracture in the side wall (meant I suppose as a substitute for a casement) was stuffed with straw, while the door, off its hinges, was laid across the threshhold, as a barrier to a little crying boy, who sitting within, bemoaned his captivity in a tone of voice not quite so mellifluous as that which Mons. Sanctyon ascribes to the crying children of a certain district in Persia, but perfectly in unison with the vocal exertions of the companion of his imprisonment, a large sow. I approached—removed the barrier: the boy and the animal escaped together, and I found myself alone in the centre of this miserable asylum of human wretchedness—the residence of an Irish peasant. To those who have only contemplated this useful order of society in England, “where every rood of ground maintains its man,” and where the peasant liberally enjoys the comforts as well as the necessaries of life, the wretched picture which the interior of an Irish cabin presents, would be at once an object of compassion and disgust. *
* Sometimes excavated from a hill, sometimes erected with
loose stones, but most generally built of mud, the cabin is
divided into two apartments, the one littered with straw and
coarse rugs, and sometimes, (but very rarely) furnished with
the luxury of a chaff bed, serves as a dormitory not only
to the family of both sexes, but in general to any animal
they are so fortunate as to possess; the other chamber
answers for every purpose of domesticity, though almost
destitute of every domestic implement, except the iron pot
in which the potatoes are boiled, and the stool on which
they are flung. From those wretched hovels (which often
appears amidst scenes that might furnish the richest models
to poetic imitation) it is common to behold a group of
children rush forth at the sound of a horse’s foot, or
carriage wheel, regardless of the season’s rigours, in a
perfect state of nudity, or covered with the drapery of
wretchedness, which gives to their appearance a still
stronger character of poverty; yet even in these miserable
huts you will seldom find the spirit of urbanity absent—the
genius of hospitality never. I remember meeting with an
instance of both, that made a deep impression on my heart;
in the autumn of 1804, in the course of a morning ramble
with a charming Englishwoman, in the county of Sligo, I
stopped to rest myself in a cabin, while she proceeded to
pay a visit to the respectable family of the O’H———s, of
Nymph’s Field: when I entered I found it occupied by an old
woman and her three granddaughters; two of the young women
were employed scutching flax, the other in some domestic
employment. I was instantly hailed with the most cordial
welcome; the hearth was cleared, the old woman’s seat forced
on me, eggs and potatoes roasted, and an apology for the
deficiency of bread politely made, while the manners of my
hostesses betrayed a courtesy that almost amounted to
adulation. They had all laid by their work on my entrance,
and when I requested I might not interrupt their avocations,
one of them replied “I hope we know better—we can work any
day, but we cannot any day have such a body as you under our
roof.” Surely this was not the manners of a cabin but a
court.
Almost suffocated, and not surprised that it was deserted pro tempo, I hastened away, and was attracted towards a ruinous barn by a full chorus of female voices—where a group of young females were seated round an old hag who formed the centre of the circle; they were all busily employed at their wheels, which I observed went merrily round in exact time with their song, and so intently were they engaged by both, that my proximity was unperceived. At last the song ceased—the wheel stood still—and every eye was fixed on the old primum mobile of the circle, who, after a short pause, began a solo that gave much satisfaction to her young auditors, and taking up the strain, they again turned their wheels round in unison.—The whole was sung in Irish, and as soon as I was observed, suddenly ceased; the girls looked down and tittered—and the old woman addressed me sans ceremonie, and in a language I now heard for the first time.
Supposing that some one among the number must understand English, I explained with all possible politeness the cause of my intrusion on this little harmonic society. The old woman looked up in my face and shook her head; I thought contemptuously—while the young ones, stifling their smiles, exchanged looks of compassion doubtlessly at my ignorance of their language.
“So many languages a man knows,” said Charles V., “so many times is he a man,” and it is certain I never felt myself less invested with the dignity of one, than while I stood twirling my stick, and “biding the encounter of the eyes,” and smiles of these “spinners in the sun.” Here you will say was prejudice opposed to prejudice with a vengeance; but I comforted myself with the idea that the natives of Greenland, the most gross and savage of mortals, compliment a stranger by saying, “he is as well bred as a Greenlander.”
While thus situated, a sturdy looking young fellow with that figure and openness of countenance so peculiar to the young Irish peasants, and with his hose and brogues suspended from a stick over his shoulder, approached and hailed the party in Irish: the girls instantly pointed his attention towards me; he courteously accosted me in English, and having learnt the nature of my dilemma, offered to be my guide—“it will not take me above a mile out of my way, and if it did two, it would make no odds,” said he. I accepted his offer, and we proceeded together over the summit of the mountain.
In the course of our conversation (which was very fluently supported on his side,) I learnt, that few strangers ever passing through this remote part of the province, and even very many of the gentry here speaking Irish, it was a rare thing to meet with any one wholly unacquainted with the language, which accounted for the surprise, and I believe contempt, my ignorance had excited.
When I enquired into the nature of those choral strains I had heard, he replied—“O! as to that, it is according to the old woman’s fancy and in fact I learnt that Ireland, like Italy, has its improvisatores, and that those who are gifted with the impromptu talent are highly estimated by their rustic compatriots;” and by what he added, I discovered that their inspirations are either drawn from the circumstances of the moment, from one striking excellence or palpable defect in some of the company present, or from some humourous incident, or local event generally known.
As soon as we arrived at the little auberge of the little village, I ordered my courteous guide his breakfast, and having done all due honour to my own, we parted.