Their wit is proverbial, their good-nature under all circumstances most remarkable. In Kilkenny, one Sunday, I saw a party in miserable uniform marching about playing rather unskilfully on a few musical instruments, and calling themselves a band. A crowd followed them through the wet, snow-covered streets, and continually assailed the musicians and each other indifferently with snow-balls. A policeman standing on a corner got one behind his ear, but, like most of the rest, laughed and made nothing of it. Imagine a New York M. P. under similar circumstances! On one occasion, I watched a group of men bantering a rather old seaman who complained of toothache; one suggested that he should take a sup of cold water, and sit on the fire until it boiled; another advised him to hang his night-cap on the bed-post, and, mixing a little whiskey and hot water, etc., should drink until he saw two night-caps; a third said the best thing was to tie the tooth to a tree, and run away from it. He heard them all very good-humoredly, but simply remarked, as if it were not worth while now at his time of life to learn cures: “Faix, I can’t have many more o’ them.”
A jolly, witty, careless bachelor lived on his own property in Blackpool. His houses were two; that which he occupied was open to the weather, and the adjoining one looked as if it had been burned. It was a complete ruin. They were in such a state that some friend remarked that they were likely to fall in and bury him. “Faith,” said the poor lonely bachelor, “‘twould be the best thing that could happen me, if I was prepared.” We must repeat here the story of an Irish Protestant, who went to church with his Catholic friend. His surprise at the strange sights and sounds soon got the better of him, and he whispered: “Why, Pat, this beats the very ould divil.” “That’s the intention,” said Pat, and kept on blessing himself all the same.
Americans, who are not taxed to support a foreign despotic master, who have a sure and enduring title to their property, and who stand or fall by their own free, unimpeded efforts, sometimes wonder at the want of enterprise, neatness, and care of the Irish people. But a visit to the country and a look into its circumstances explain why this is the case. The man who feels that his house may be taken from him to-morrow is not likely to spend much on its decoration; the father who knows that his children are destined to the lowest servitude is even tempted to be careless about sending them to school, and no doubt reprehensible habits which may take several generations to eradicate are naturally formed in such a condition of things. I have said enough, however, to show—and a visit to Ireland, combined with a knowledge of her people under a free and favorable government, will convince us—that these faults of some of the Irish are their misfortune rather than their natural character, and that, when they are free from the iron shackles of a barbarous conqueror, they will shine forth in all the virtues which adorn a great Catholic nation.
All the advantages undoubtedly derivable from going abroad are attended with a danger which sometimes overtakes men of limited education and small mind, and which experience teaches we are all obliged to guard against. Contact with the institutions of most parts of Europe has a tendency to undermine the simple, independent qualities of the republican. The splendor of the throne, the tinsel of rank, the worship of mammon, family pride, etc., by which the sterling worth of the individual is overlooked and individual virtue is disregarded for the glitter which often covers the rottenness and impurity of caste—all these appeal temptingly to the wealthy but otherwise undistinguished American. His daughters are sought in marriage by members of broken-down princely houses, because they have money; his sons are courted by noble gamblers, because they are rich; and I need not tell why it is that principle in these cases is often sacrificed to that base tendency of our fallen nature which makes us aspire to power, rank, and title, just as a little boy does to the possession of a whip, a sash, and a cocked hat.
I recall now the case of one of our American admirals, who, when patriotic New Hampshire objected to changing the Indian names of our men-of-war to Saxon ones, defended his action by saying: “He did not see why England should have all the fine names.” The poor man was actually so infatuated by the style, pretension, and wealth of England that he thought even the stale nomenclature of her vessels preferable to the fresh, historically endeared ones taken from our native land—a piece of weakness and folly which drew out the merited protest of the Granite State, which had given some of those fine old Indian names to ships that under them gained glory in war, and won admiration and respect when they visited the coasts of Europe. Imagine exchanging such names as Tuscarora, Niagara, Oneida, for such ones as Vixen, Hornet, Viper, Spitfire, or even for Hector, Ajax, and Captain! It were unjust, however, to the rude health of our republican atmosphere to suppose that weakness such as this can be called characteristic of those nurtured on our soil, and were conclusive against hope in the perpetuity of our institutions. Such exceptional and deplorable examples need not make us fear the consequences of travel to the majority of travellers. The really educated, reflecting man knows the lessons of history too well to be deceived by the glitter of such institutions, which, like the ignis fatuus itself, is a token of the underlying rottenness. The religious man feels deeply that, while obedience to authority is essential to all government, still modesty and simplicity have given life and vigor, while pride and luxury have been the bane and caused the death of nations; and he knows that the conscientious, willing adhesion of the democrat to the laws he has had an influence in making is more trustworthy, as it is more noble, than the abject, servile submission of the slave, disgusting to God, as well as dishonorable to his image. The priest cannot but feel deeply that the only system and the only land which allows the church to stand or fall by her own strength and merits is America; and his consciousness of her increasing prosperity, in contrast to her maimed and bleeding condition in other lands, must only attach him still more to his country and her institutions. And while he adverts, as I have done, to her faults, and wishes her to take pattern by the virtues and warning by the sins of other nations, it is because his heart as well as his interest are bound up with her fate:
“... Sail on, O ship of state!
Sail on, thou Union strong and great
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Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
Our faith, triumphant o’er our fears,
Are all with thee—are all with thee.”
We may theorize about patriotism by our firesides at home, but you feel what it is when you are in a foreign land. The beating of your heart, the brilliancy of your glance, the warmth of your grasp, all without reflection and spontaneously occurring when you meet a fellow-countryman, while they afford a most pure and exquisite delight, prompt us, with the force of unerring instinct, to love our country.
I remember, when out on the broad Atlantic, with the monotonous waste of waters in every direction, to have noticed something in the kiss of the sunbeams, in the familiar sweetness of the air, denoting the nearness of home by these embraces, so to speak, of our own clime. The lifting up of the heart, the light gladness of the spirits that succeeded, were not even due to the thought of home and friends The magic influence of atmosphere alone had been enough to produce them. And is it not natural?