But a petticoat short,
Shows an ancle the best, an ancle the best,
And a leg, but, O murther!
I dare not go further,
So here’s to the West, so here’s to the West.
—From “Charles O’Malley.”
SOME ACCOUNT OF AN IRISH DARE-DEVIL.
People may talk about the idleness and indolence of Irishmen, but in my mind they merely betray their ignorance in so doing. Positively there is no other country on the face of the earth, the inhabitants of which have wrought out for themselves so many different professions, occupations, and ingenious expedients, to make the time pass agreeably: let any change in the constitution of society require the exercise of any particular faculty for good or for evil, and straightway the vacancy is filled up with an expedition and efficiency truly wonderful. Astounding as the proposition may sound to the wise men and women of the empire, the fact is, that Irishmen hate idleness; it is an intolerable load to them; they are ever on the look-out for something to do; and as all parties concede to them the possession of almost infallible ingenuity, it would be strange indeed, if, in a spot of land so fertile in adventure, any one of them should be long at fault in such a pursuit.
That the occupations upon which they occasionally fix, in their amiable detestation of idleness, are not always the best calculated to promote the well-being or comforts of the rest of the community, I am quite free to confess; but this is all matter of taste, and does not at all interfere with the validity of my argument, which merely seeks to assert that an Irishman will do anything sooner than be doing nothing. To be sure they have their propensities, among the most favourite of which are fighting, farming, and love-making; but should any untoward obstacle prevent their indulgence in any of these tastes, they by no means sink into an apathetic despondency like many of their neighbours: they have too many resources for that, upon some one of which they immediately fall back with as much zeal and energy as if it had been the original occupation of their choice. Nor are they fastidious: in the generality of cases it is quite immaterial to them whether they are practising gunnery upon a denounced landlord, or figuring in a procession: they are ready for anything, good, bad, or indifferent—anything but idleness. It was said of old that were you to put an Irishman on the spit, you would not long be at a loss for another to turn it. Whoever he was that first propounded that maxim, certes he knew our nation well; nay, I would venture to say that in ninety-nine cases an Irishman would roast his mother, if driven to that melancholy alternative, sooner than remain either idle or inactive. Joking apart, I wish those who grumble most about Ireland would give us something to do, and find for us some rational occupation which might obviate the daily occurrence of those little extravagances of conduct which render our people a puzzle and a wonder to better regulated communities.