Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  W —— . “No.”

  Mr. —— . “Do you think that book is alive?”

  W —— . “No.”

  Mr. —— . “The horses?”

  W —— . “Yes.”

  Mr. —— . “Do you think that the chaise is alive?”

  W —— . “Yes.” Then, after looking in Mr. — —’s face, he changed his opinion, and said no.

  W —— did not seem to know what was meant by the word alive.

  Mr. —— called H. (5 years old) and asked her whether she thought that the watch was alive. She at first said Yes; but, as soon as she had time to recollect herself, she said that the watch was not alive.

  This question was asked, to try whether Reid was right in his conjecture as to the answers a child would give to such a question. (V. Reid’s Essays on the Intellectual Powers of Man.)

  We frequently say, that flowers, &c. are dead: we should explain to children that there are two kinds of life; or rather, that the word life is used to express two ideas; vegetable life, and animal life.

  (July, 1797.) Miss Louisa —— told us, that when a rose bud begins to wither, if you burn the end of the stalk, and plunge it red hot into water, the rose will be found revived the next day; and by a repetition of this burning, the lives of flowers may be fortunately prolonged many days. Miss Louisa —— had seen many surprising recoveries performed by this operation, and several of her friends had adopted the practice with uniform success.

  We determined to repeat the experiment. Children should never take any thing upon trust which they can verify. Two roses, gathered at the same time, from the same tree, were put into separate glasses of water. The stalk of one of these roses was burnt, according to prescription; they were left a night in water, and the next day the rose that had been burnt, appeared in much better health than that which had not been burnt. The experiment was afterwards several times repeated; and should be tried by others until the fact be fully ascertained.

  (July, 1797.) Little W —— (three years old) was shown Miss B — —’s beautiful copy of the Aurora surgens of Guido. The car of Apollo is encircled by the dancing hours, so that its shape is not seen; part of one wheel only is visible between the robes of the dancing figures. We asked little W —— why that man (pointing to the figure of Apollo in his invisible car) looked so much higher up in the air than the other people?

  W —— . “Because he is in a carriage; he is sitting in a carriage.”

  We pointed to the imperfect wheel, and asked if he knew what that was? He immediately answered, “Yes, the wheel of the carriage.” We wanted to see whether the imagination of a child of three years old, would supply the invisible parts of the car: and whether the wheel and horses, and man holding the reins, would suggest the idea of a phæton. (V. Chapter on Taste and Imagination.)

  We shall not trespass upon the reader’s patience with any more anecdotes from the nursery. We hope, that candid and intelligent parents will pardon, if they have discovered any desire in us to exhibit our pupils. We may mistake our own motives, and we do not pretend to be perfectly impartial judges upon this occasion; but we have hoped, that only such conversations or anecdotes have been produced, as may be of some use in Practical Education. From conversation, if properly managed, children may learn with ease, expedition, and delight, a variety of knowledge; and a skilful preceptor can apply in conversation all the principles that we have laboriously endeavoured to make intelligible.

  ESSAY ON IRISH BULLS

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION.

  CHAPTER I. ORIGINALITY OF IRISH BULLS EXAMINED.

  CHAPTER II. IRISH NEWSPAPERS.

  CHAPTER III. THE CRIMINAL LAW OF BULLS AND BLUNDERS.

  CHAPTER IV. LITTLE DOMINICK.

  CHAPTER V. THE BLISS OF IGNORANCE.

  CHAPTER VI. “THOUGHTS THAT BREATHE, AND WORDS THAT BURN.”

  CHAPTER VII. PRACTICAL BULLS.

  CHAPTER VIII. THE DUBLIN SHOEBLACK.

  CHAPTER IX. THE HIBERNIAN MENDICANT.

  CHAPTER X. IRISH WIT AND ELOQUENCE.

  CHAPTER XI. THE BROGUE.

  CHAPTER XII. BATH COACH CONVERSATION.

  CHAPTER XIII. BATH COACH CONVERSATION.

  CHAPTER XIV. THE IRISH INCOGNITO.

  CONCLUSION.

  APPENDIX.

  ESSAY ON IRISH BULLS

  Summos posse viros, et magna exempla daturos, Vervecum in patria,

  crassoque sub aëre nasci. JUVENAL.

  IRISH BULLS

  INTRODUCTION.

  What mortal, what fashionable mortal, is there who has not, in the midst of a formidable circle, been reduced to the embarrassment of having nothing to say? Who is there that has not felt those oppressive fits of silence which ensue after the weather, and the fashions, and the politics, and the scandal, and all the common-place topics of the day have been utterly exhausted? Who is there that, at such a time, has not tried in vain to call up an idea, and found that none would come when they did call, or that all that came were impertinent, and must be rejected, some as too grave, others too gay, some too vulgar, some too refined for the hearers, some relating to persons, others to circumstances that must not be mentioned? Not one will do! and all this time the silence lasts, and the difficulty of breaking it increases every instant in an incalculable proportion.

  Let it be some comfort to those whose polite sensibility has laboured under such distress to be assured, that they need never henceforward fear to be reduced to similar dilemmas. They may be insured for ever against such dangers at the slight premium and upon the easy condition of perusing the following little volume. It will satisfy them that there is a subject which still affords inexhausted and inexhaustible sources of conversation, suited to all tastes, all ranks, all individuals, democratic, aristocratic, commercial, or philosophic; suited to every company which can be combined, purposely or fortuitously, in this great metropolis, or in any of the most remote parts of England, Wales, or Scotland. There is a subject which dilates the heart of every true Briton, which relaxes his muscles, however rigid, to a smile, — which opens his lips, however closed, to conversation. There is a subject “which frets another’s spleen to cure our own,” and which makes even the angelic part of the creation laugh themselves mortal. For who can forbear to laugh at the bare idea of an Irish bull?

  Nor let any one apprehend that this subject can ever become trite and vulgar. Custom cannot stale its infinite variety. It is in the main obvious, and palpable enough for every common understanding; yet it leads to disquisitions of exquisite subtlety, it branches into innumerable ramifications, and involves consequences of surprising importance; it may exercise the ingenuity of the subtlest wit, the fancy of the oddest humourist, the imagination of the finest poet, and the judgment of the most profound metaphysician. Moreover, this happy subject is enveloped in all that doubt and confusion which are so favourable to the reputation of disputants, and which secures the glorious possibility of talking incessantly, without being stopped short by a definition or a demonstration. For much as we have all heard and talked of Irish bulls, it has never yet been decided what it is that constitutes a bull. Incongruity of ideas, says one. But this supposition touches too closely upon the definition of wit, which, according to the best authorities, Locke, Burke, and Stewart, consists in an unexpected assemblage of ideas, apparently discordant, but in which some point of resemblance or aptitude is suddenly discovered.

  Then, perhaps, says another, the essence of a bull lies in confusion of ideas. This sounds plausible in theory, but it will not apply in practice; for confusion of ideas is common to both countries: for instance, was there not some slight confusion of ideas in the mind of that English student, who, when he was asked what progress he had made in the study of medicine, replied, “I hope I shall soon be qualified to be a physician, for I think I am now able to cure a child?”

  To amend our bill, suppose we insert the word laughable, and say that a laughable confusion of ideas constitutes a bull. But have we
not a laughable confusion of ideas in our English poet Blackmore’s famous lines in Prince Arthur? —

  “A painted vest prince Vortigern had on,

  Which from a naked Pict his grandsire won.”

  We are sensible that, to many people, the most vulgar Irish bull would appear more laughable merely from its being Irish, — therefore we cannot make the propensity to laughter in one man the criterion of what is ridiculous in another; though we have a precedent for this mode of judging in the laws of England, which are allowed to be the perfection of human reason. If a man swear that his neighbour has put him in bodily fear, he may have the cause of his terror sent to gaol; thus the feelings of the plaintiff become the measure of the defendant’s guilt. As we cannot extend this convenient principle to all matters of taste, and all subjects of risibility, we are still compelled to acknowledge that no accurate definition of a bull has yet been given. The essence of an Irish bull must be of the most ethereal nature, for notwithstanding the most indefatigable research, it has hitherto escaped from analysis. The crucible always breaks in the long-expected moment of projection: we have nevertheless the courage to recommence the process in a new mode. Perhaps by ascertaining what it is not, we may at last discover what it is: we must distinguish the genuine from the spurious, the original from all imitations, the indigenous from the exotic; in short, it must be determined in what an Irish bull essentially differs from a blunder, or in what Irish blunders specifically differ from English blunders, and from those of all other nations. To elucidate these points, or to prove to the satisfaction of all competent judges that they are beyond the reach of the human understanding, is the object of the following Essay concerning the Nature of Bulls and Blunders.

  CHAPTER I. ORIGINALITY OF IRISH BULLS EXAMINED.

  The difficulty of selecting from the vulgar herd of Irish bulls one that shall be entitled to the prize, from the united merits of pre-eminent absurdity, and indisputable originality, is greater than hasty judges may imagine. Many bulls, reputed to be bred and born in Ireland, are of foreign extraction; and many more, supposed to be unrivalled in their kind, may be matched in all their capital points: for instance, there is not a more celebrated bull than Paddy Blake’s. When Paddy heard an English gentleman speaking of the fine echo at the lake of Killarney, which repeats the sound forty times, he very promptly observed, “Faith, that’s nothing at all to the echo in my father’s garden, in the county of Galway: if you say to it, ‘How do you do, Paddy Blake?’ it will answer, ‘Pretty well, I thank you, sir.’”

  Now this echo of Paddy Blake’s, which has long been the admiration of the world, is not a prodigy unique in its kind; it can be matched by one recorded in the immortal works of the great Lord Verulam.24

  “I remember well,” says this father of philosophy, “that when I went to the echo at Port Charenton, there was an old Parisian that took it to be the work of spirits, and of good spirits, ‘for,’ said he, ‘call Satan, and the echo will not deliver back the devil’s name, but will say, ‘Va t’en.’”

  The Parisian echo is surely superior to the Hibernian! Paddy Blake’s simply understood and practised the common rules of good-breeding; but the Port Charenton echo is “instinct with spirit,” and endowed with a nice moral sense.

  Amongst the famous bulls recorded by the illustrious Joe Miller, there is one which has been continually quoted as an example of original Irish genius. An English gentleman was writing a letter in a coffee-house, and perceiving that an Irishman stationed behind him was taking that liberty which Hephaestion used with his friend Alexander, instead of putting his seal upon the lips of the curious impertinent, the English gentleman thought proper to reprove the Hibernian, if not with delicacy, at least with poetical justice: he concluded writing his letter in these words: “I would say more, but a damned tall Irishman is reading over my shoulder every word I write.”

  “You lie, you scoundrel!” said the self-convicted Hibernian.

  This blunder is unquestionably excellent; but it is not originally Irish: it comes, with other riches, from the East, as the reader may find by looking into a book by M. Galland, entitled, “The Remarkable Sayings of the Eastern Nations.”

  “A learned man was writing to a friend; a troublesome fellow was beside him, who was looking over his shoulder at what he was writing. The learned man, who perceived this, continued writing in these words, ‘If an impertinent chap, who stands beside me, were not looking at what I write, I would write many other things to you, which should be known only to you and to me.’

  “The troublesome fellow, who was reading on, now thought it incumbent upon him to speak, and said, ‘I swear to you, that I have not read or looked at what you are writing.’

  “The learned man replied, ‘Blockhead, as you are, why then do you say to me what you are now saying?’” 25

  Making allowance for the difference of manners in eastern and northern nations, there is, certainly, such a similarity between this oriental anecdote and Joe Miller’s story, that we may conclude the latter is stolen from the former. Now, an Irish bull must be a species of blunder peculiar to Ireland; those that we have hitherto examined, though they may be called Irish bulls by the ignorant vulgar, have no right, title, or claim to such a distinction. We should invariably exclude from that class all blunders which can be found in another country. For instance, a speech of the celebrated Irish beauty, Lady C —— , has been called a bull; but as a parallel can be produced in the speech of an English nobleman, it tells for nothing. When her ladyship was presented at court, his majesty, George the Second, politely hoped, “that, since her arrival in England, she had been entertained with the gaieties of London.”

  “Oh, yes, please your majesty, I have seen every sight in London worth seeing, except a coronation.”

  This naïveté is certainly not equal to that of the English earl marshal, who, when his king found fault with some arrangement at his coronation, said, “Please your majesty, I hope it will be better next time.”

  A naïveté of the same species entailed a heavy tax upon the inhabitants of Beaune, in France. Beaune is famous for burgundy; and Henry the Fourth, passing through his kingdom, stopped there, and was well entertained by his loyal subjects. His Majesty praised the burgundy which they set before him—”It was excellent! it was admirable!”

  “Oh, sire!” cried they, “do you think this excellent? we have much finer burgundy than this.”

  “Have you so? then you can afford to pay for it,” replied Harry the Fourth; and he laid a double tax thenceforward upon the burgundy of Beaune.

  Of the same class of blunders is the following speech, which we actually heard not long ago from an Irishman: —

  “Please your worship, he sent me to the devil, and I came straight to your honour.”

  We thought this an original Irish blunder, till we recollected its prototype in Marmontel’s Annette and Lubin. Lubin concludes his harangue with, “The bailiff sent us to the devil, and we come to put ourselves under your protection, my lord.” 26

  The French, at least in former times, were celebrated for politeness; yet we meet with a naïve compliment of a Frenchman, which would have been accounted a bull if it had been found in Ireland.

  A gentleman was complimenting Madame Denis on the manner in which she had just acted Zaire. “To act that part,” said she, “a person should be young and handsome.” “Ah, madam!” replied the complimenter naïvement, “you are a complete proof of the contrary.” 27

  We know not any original Irish blunder superior to this, unless it be that which Lord Orford pronounced to be the best bull that he ever heard.

  “I hate that woman,” said a gentleman, looking at one who had been his nurse; “I hate that woman, for she changed me at nurse.”

  Lord Orford particularly admires this bull, because in the confusion of the blunderer’s ideas he is not clear even of his personal identity. Philosophers will not perhaps be so ready as his lordship has been to call this a blunder of the first magnitude
. Those who have never been initiated into the mysteries of metaphysics may have the presumptuous ignorance to fancy that they understand what is meant by the common words I, or me; but the able metaphysician knows better than Lord Orford’s changeling how to prove, to our satisfaction, that we know nothing of the matter.

  “Personal identity,” says Locke, “consists not in the identity of substance, but in the identity of consciousness, wherein Socrates and the present mayor of Queenborough agree they are the same person: if the same Socrates, sleeping and waking, do not partake of the same consciousness, Socrates waking and sleeping is not the same person; and to punish Socrates waking for what sleeping Socrates thought, and waking Socrates was never conscious of, would be no more of right than to punish one twin for what his brother twin did, whereof he knew nothing, because their outsides are so like that they could not be distinguished; for such twins have been seen.” 28

  We may presume that our Hibernian’s consciousness could not retrograde to the time when he was changed at nurse; consequently there was no continuity of identity between the infant and the man who expressed his hatred of the nurse for perpetrating the fraud. At all events, the confusion of identity which excited Lord Orford’s admiration in our Hibernian is by no means unprecedented in France, England, or ancient Greece, and consequently it cannot be an instance of national idiosyncracy, or an Irish bull. We find a similar blunder in Spain, in the time of Cervantes: —

  “Pray tell me, squire,” says the duchess, in Don Quixote, “is not your master the person whose history is printed under the name of the sage Hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha, who professes himself the admirer of one Dulcinea del Toboso?”

  “The very same, my lady,” answered Sancho; “and I myself am that very squire of his, who is mentioned, or ought to be mentioned, in that history, unless they have changed me in the cradle.”