“No,” replied his father; “a more inappropriate position you could not have possibly found for it.”
“Is not that the happy country where the people live without food? Where they lead a life of independence, and starve in such an heroic spirit?”
“My dear Dunroe,” said his father, seriously, “never sport with the miseries of a people, especially when that people are your own countrymen.”
“My lord,” he replied, disregarding the rebuke he had received, “for Heaven's sake conceal that disgraceful fact. Remember, I am a young nobleman; call me profligate—spendthrift—debauchee—anything you will but an Irishman. Don't the Irish refuse beef and mutton, and take to eating each other? What can be said of a people who, to please their betters, practise starvation as their natural pastime, and dramatize hunger to pamper their most affectionate lords and masters, who, whilst the latter witness the comedy, make the performers pay for their tickets? And yet, although the cannibal system flourishes, I fear they find it anything but a Sandwich island.”
“Papa,” said Lady Emily, in a whisper, and with tears in her eyes, “I fear John's head is a little unsettled by his illness.”
“You will injure yourself, my dear Dunroe,” said his father, “if you talk so much.”
“Not at all, my good lord and father. But I think I recollect one of their bills of performance, which runs thus: 'On Saturday, the 25th inst., a tender and affectionate father, stuffed by so many cubic feet of cold wind, foul air, all resulting from extermination and the benevolence of a humane landlord, will in the very wantonness of repletion, feed upon, the dead body of his own child—for which entertaining performance he will have the satisfaction, subsequently, of enacting with success the interesting character of a felon, and be comfortably lodged at his Majesty's expense in the jail of the county.' Why, my lord, how could you expect me to acknowledge such a country? However, I must talk to Tom Norton about this. He was born in the country you speak of—and yet Tom has an excellent appetite; eats like other people; abhors starvation; and is no cannibal. It is true, I have frequently seen him ready enough to eat a fellow—a perfect raw-head-and-bloody-bones—for which reason, I suppose, the principle, or instinct, or whatever you call it, is still latent in his constitution. But, on the other hand, whenever Tom gnashed his teeth at any one a la cannibale, if the other gnashed his teeth at him, all the cannibal disappeared, and Tom was quite harmless.”
* This alludes to a dreadful fact of cannibalism, which
occurred in the South of Ireland in 1846.
“By the way, Dunroe,” said his father, “who is this Tom Norton you speak of?”
“He is my most particular friend, my lord—my companion—and traveled with me over the Continent. He is kind enough to take charge of my affairs: he pays my servants, manages my tradesmen—and, in short, is a man whom I could not do without. He's up to everything; and is altogether indispensable to me.”