The power thus exhibited of acquiring such accurate knowledge of localities, and of atmospheric appearances and influences, without the aid of sight, affords a striking example of the capabilities beneficently vested in us, of supplying the want created by the accidental loss of one organ, by an increase of activity and acuteness in some other, or others. These capabilities are equally observable in the lower animals as in man; but their degree is very various in individuals of both species, being dependent on the delicacy of organization and amount of intellectuality which the individual may happen to possess. Thus the power to supply the want of vision by the exercise of other organs, is not given to every blind man in any thing like the degree enjoyed by the Galway piper, who is a creature of the most delicate nervous organization, and a man of a high degree of intellectuality. Paddy is a genuine inductive philosopher, never indolent or idle, always in quest of knowledge either by inquiry or experimental observation, and drawing his own conclusions accordingly. To observe his processes in this way is not only amusing but instructive, and has often afforded us a high enjoyment. When Paddy comes to a place with which he has no previous acquaintance, he commences his topographical researches with as little delay as possible, first about the exterior of the house, which he examines all round, measuring with his stick its length and breadth, and calculates its height; ascertains the situation of its doors and the number of its windows, and makes himself acquainted with the peculiarities of their form and material: he next proceeds to the out-offices, which he surveys in a similar manner, feeling even any stray cart, car, or wheel-barrow, which may be lying in the courtyard or barn, and determining whether they are well made or not. If a cow or horse come in his way, he will subject them to a similar examination, and, if asked, pronounce accurately on their points, condition, and value. Having satisfied himself with an examination of all these nearer objects, if time permit he then extends his researches to those more distant—as the roads, ascertaining their breadth, &c.; the neighbouring bridges, streams, rivers, and even mountains; the nature of the soil too, and state of the crops, are attended to. While we were sojourning at the hotel at Maam last year, we found him one sunny morning standing on the very brink of a deep river, about a quarter of a mile distant, and examining the construction of the arch of a bridge which crossed it. How he had got there we could not possibly imagine, for there was no other mode of reaching it than by a descent from the road of a bank nearly perpendicular, and eighteen or twenty feet in height. But our friend Paddy made light of it, and remarked that there was not the slightest danger of him in such explorings.
On another occasion, being about to visit the island castle on Lough Corrib, called Caislean-na-Circe, Paddy expressed to us his desire to accompany us, as he said he never had an opportunity of seeing it. We took him with us accordingly; and there was not a spot on the rocky island that with the aid of his stick he did not examine, or a crumbling wall that he did not scale, even to places that we should have supposed only accessible to jackdaws. “Dear me, Sir,” he exclaimed on our return, “but that’s a mighty curious castle, and must be very ancient. I never saw walls in a castle so thick before, and how beautiful and smooth the arches were! I think they were a kind of grit-stone?” This was added inquiringly; and so they were—red sandstone chiselled.
But we are dwelling too long on these characteristics, forgetting that we have others to notice of greater interest; and of these perhaps the most eminent is his habitual, and, as we might say, constitutional benevolence. Of this trait in his character we heard many interesting instances, but our space will only allow us to notice one or two which we artfully extracted from himself. Having heard of his kindnesses to some of his neighbours who are poorer than himself, we had determined to make himself speak on the matter; and, accordingly, when passing through the village in which he resides, about two miles and a half from Galway, we remarked to him that some of those neighbours seemed very poor. “Indeed they are, Sir, very,” he replied; “they have been very badly off this year in consequence of the wet, the want of firing, and the dearness of potatoes.” “And how,” I rejoined, “have they contrived to keep body and soul together?” “Why, Sir, just by the assistance of those a little better off than themselves.” Paddy would not name himself as their benefactor, so we had to ask him if he had been able to give them any aid, and then his ingenuousness obliged him to confess that he had: he had lent thirty shillings to one family to buy seed for their bit of ground, ten shillings to another to buy meal, and so on. “And will they ever pay you, Paddy?” we inquired. “Och! the creatures, they will, to be sure, Sir,” Paddy replied in a tone expressive of surprise at the imputation on their honesty; but added in a lower voice, “if they can; and if they can’t, Sir, why, please God, I’ll get over it; sure one couldn’t see the creatures starve!” This was last year. In the present summer we had heard that Paddy’s turf was all stolen from him shortly after—perhaps by some of the very persons whom he had assisted—and we were curious to ascertain how he took his loss. So we inquired, “How were you off, Paddy, for firing last winter?” “Very badly, Sir. I had no turf of my own, and was obliged to buy turf in Galway at four shillings the kish. It would have been cheaper to buy coal, only I don’t like a grate, for the children burn themselves at it.” “And how did it happen that you had no turf of your own?” “Because, Sir, it was all stolen from me, after I had paid two pounds for cutting and drying it.” “Did you ever,” I inquired, “discover who were the robbers?” “Oh, yes, Sir,” he replied. “And could you prove the theft against them?” “I could, to be sure.” “Did you prosecute them?” “Tut, tut, Sir, what good would that do me?” and Paddy added, in a tone of pity, “the creatures! sure they were poor rogues, or they would not have taken every bit away.” “Well, then, Paddy,” I inquired, “did you ever speak to them about it?” “I did, Sir.” “And what answer or apology did they make?” “They said, Sir, that they wouldn’t have touched it if they knew it was mine.” “Did they ever return any of it?” Paddy replied with a laugh, “Oh, no!”
Reader, are you richer in a worldly sense than Paddy Coneely? And if, as it is probable, you are so, let us ask you, do you just now feel an unusual warmth in your cheeks? If so, you need not be greatly ashamed of it, for believe us, there are many nobles in our land who might well feel a similar sensation on reading these anecdotes of the benevolence of Paddy Coneely.
Paddy, like all or most genuine Irishmen, has a dash of quiet Irish humour and much excitability in his character, of which we must venture to give an instance or two.
On a certain day, while Paddy was stopping at Mr O’Flaherty’s of Knock-ban, the coachman, who was blind of one eye, was airing two horses, one of which was similarly wanting in a visual organ, and the other stone blind. A gentleman present remarking that here were four animals, two men and two horses, that had but two eyes among them, proposed a race, to which Paddy and the coachman assented. Paddy was placed upon the horse which could see a little, and the coachman got up on the blind one. Off they started with whip and spur, and to his great delight, Paddy won. This is one of the feats of which Paddy is most proud.
Again—We were standing in the kitchen at Maam one day, listening to Paddy telling his stories to a happy group of young people, when he was addressed by a middle-aged woman, who, from her imperfect knowledge of English, misunderstood him, and imagined that he was paying court to a blooming girl, and representing himself as an unmarried man. To his great surprise, therefore, Paddy heard himself attacked with terrific vituperation, in whole Irish and broken English, on the heinousness of his conduct. Before, however, she had got to the end of her oration, Paddy’s face had assumed an expression which announced that he was determined to lend himself to her mistake, and carry on the joke. Accordingly, when he was allowed to reply, he rated her in turn upon her silly stupidity in supposing that she knew him—denied having ever seen her before—declared that he was not Paddy Coneely at all, and never had heard of or seen such a person; and added, that “it was a shame for a woman with her two eyes to be so foolish.” The woman looked at him for a while in mute bewilderment, and actually seemed to doubt the evidences of her own senses. But she gradually became satisfied of his identity, and, excited into a virtuous rage, she rushed out of the house, declaring that she would never stop till she told his wife—poor woman—of his misconduct! And she kept her word, for we actually met her at Oughterard in a couple of days after, on her return from Paddy’s residence.
We would gladly record some other instances of Paddy’s humour, but our limits will not permit us; and we can only add a few words on one or two other traits in his character.
We have already stated that Paddy, despite of his humble condition, and that loss of sight which would be deemed by most persons as one of the greatest of human calamities, is a happy man—a happier one we never saw. He is always singing—in sunny weather, sprightly airs, and in gloomy weather, pathetic ones; but he never looks or is sad, except when a tale of sorrow excites his pity, or when he is about to separate from friends. The calamity of want of sight he thinks of little moment, and inferior to the loss of any other organ—that of hearing, in particular, which he considers as the greatest of all possible bodily afflictions. “I don’t remember,” said Paddy, “ever wishing for sight but once in my life; ’twas when I went to a horse race. I went with two friends, and somehow we got parted in the throng, and I could not make them out. There was a great deal of bustle and confusion, and I knew that the race would soon begin; and I was a long way from the starting-post, and had not any one to lead me to it. Dear, dear, said I, if I had my sight now, I might be able to hear the horses starting. Just then I heard some one calling Paddy, Paddy! It was one of my friends looking for me; and I think I never seen men so distressed when they found they had lost me. It was mighty pleasant; they never let me go all day after, and we were just in time to hear the horses start.”
We are, indeed, reluctantly constrained to confess that Paddy, notwithstanding his humanity, is, like many other benevolent men of higher grade, who are equally blind in this respect, an ardent lover of field sports, as an instance will show. We were seated at our breakfast in the hotel at Maam one morning, when our ears were assailed by a strange din, composed of the barking of dogs and the shouting of men. We started to the oriel window which commands a view of the road beyond the bridge for a mile or more, and the reader may judge of our astonishment when we saw Paddy Coneely hand in hand with Paddy Lee, one of our car-drivers from Clifden, racing at their utmost speed—Paddy throwing his heels twice as high in the air as the other—both shouting joyously, and attended by a number of greyhounds and terriers, who barked in chorus—and so they raced till they were out of sight. “What in the world,” we inquired of our host, Rourke, “is the meaning of that?” “It’s Paddy and Lee, Sir, who have borrowed my dogs, and are gone off to course!”