“I did, sir, no later than last week. A fellow that I caught stealing my turf, instead of sending him to jail, I said to him, with a great deal of lenity, My honest fellow, did you never hear of the eighth commandment, ‘Thou shalt not steal?’ He confessed he had; but did not know it was the eighth. I showed it to him, and counted it to him myself; and set him, for a punishment, to get his whole catechism. Well, sir, the next week I found him stealing my turf again! and when I caught him by the wrist in the fact, he said, it was because the priest would not let him learn the catechism I gave him, because it was a Protestant one. Now you see, sir, there’s a bar for ever to all education.”
Mr. M’Leod smiled, said something about time and patience, and observed, “that one experiment was not conclusive against a whole nation.” Any thing like a general argument Mr. Hardcastle could not comprehend. He knew every blade of grass within the reach of his tether, but could not reach an inch beyond. Any thing like an appeal to benevolent feelings was lost upon him; for he was so frank in his selfishness, that he did not even pretend to be generous. By sundry self-complacent motions he showed whilst his adversary spoke, that he disdained to listen almost as much as to read: but, as soon as M’Leod paused, he said, “What you observe, sir, may possibly be very true; but I have made up my mind.” Then he went over and over again his assertions, in a louder and a louder voice, ending with a tone of interrogation that seemed to set all answer at defiance, “What have you to answer to me now, sir?—Can any man alive doubt this, sir?”
M’Leod was perfectly silent. The company broke up; and, as we were going out of the room, I maliciously asked M’Leod, why he, who could say so much in his own defence, had suffered himself to be so completely silenced? He answered me, in his low, deliberate voice, in the words of Moiré—“‘Qu’est-ce que la raison avec un filet de voix contre une gueule comme celle-là?’ At some other time,” added Mr. M’Leod, “my sentiments shall be at your lordship’s disposal.”
Indolent persons love positive people, when they are of their own opinion; because they are saved the trouble of developing their thoughts, or supporting their assertions: but the moment the positive differs in sentiment from the indolent man, there is an end of the friendship. The indolent man then hates his pertinacious adversary as much as he loved his sturdy friend. So it happened between Mr. Hardcastle and me. This gentleman was a prodigious favourite with me, so long as his opinions were not in opposition to my own; but an accident happened, which brought his love of power and mine into direct competition, and then I found his peremptory mode of reasoning and his ignorance absurd and insufferable.
Before I can do justice to my part of this quarrel, I must explain the cause of the interest which I took in behalf of the persons aggrieved. During the time that my first hot fit of benevolence was on me, I was riding home one evening after dining with Mr. Hardcastle, and I was struck with the sight of a cabin, more wretched than any I had ever before beheld: the feeble light of a single rush-candle through the window revealed its internal misery.
“Does any body live in that hovel?” said I
“Ay, sure, does there: the Noonans, plase your honour,” replied a man on the road. Noonans! I recollected the name to be that of the pugilist, who had died in consequence of the combat at which I had been present in London; who had, with his dying breath, besought me to convey his only half-guinea and his silk handkerchief to his poor father and sister. I alighted from my horse, asking the man, at the same time, if the son of this Noonan had not died in England.
“He had, sir, a son in England, Mick Noonan, who used to send him odd guineas, I mind, and was a good lad to his father, though wild; and there’s been no account of him at-all-at-all this long while: but the old man has another boy, a sober lad, who’s abroad with the army in the East Indies; and it’s he that is the hope of the family. And there’s the father—and old as he is, and poor, and a cripple, I’d engage there is not a happier man in the three counties at this very time speaking: for it is just now I seen young Jemmy Riley, the daughter’s bachelor, go by with a letter. What news? says I. ‘Great news!’ says he: ‘a letter from Tom Noonan to his father; and I’m going in to read it for him.’”
By the time my voluble informant had come to this period, I had reached the cabin door. Who could have expected to see smiles and hear exclamations of joy under such a roof?
I saw the father, with his hands clasped in ecstasy, and looking up to heaven, with the strong expression of delight in his aged countenance. I saw every line of his face; for the light of the candle was full upon it. The daughter, a beautiful girl, kneeling beside him, held the light for the young man, who was reading her brother’s letter. I was sorry to interrupt them.