Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  Upon his arrival in London, one of the first things he did was to read the Irish newspapers. — To his inexpressible joy, he saw the estate of Fort-Reilly advertised to be sold — the very estate which had formerly belonged to his own family. Away he posted directly to an attorney’s who was empowered to dispose of the land.

  When this attorney produced a map of the well-known pleasure-ground, and an elevation of that house in which he had spent the happiest hours of his infancy, his heart was so touched, that he was on the point of paying down more for an old ruin than a good new house would cost. The attorney acted honestly by his client, and seized this moment to exhibit a plan of the stabling and offices, which, as sometimes is the case in Ireland, were in a style far superior to the dwelling-house. Our hero surveyed these with transport. He rapidly planned various improvements in imagination, and planted certain favourite spots in the pleasure-ground. During this time the attorney was giving directions to a clerk about some other business: suddenly the name of Owen ap Jones struck his ear — He started.

  “Let him wait in the front parlour; his money is not forthcoming,” said the attorney; “and if he keep Edwards in gaol till he rots.”

  “Edwards! Good heavens! — in gaol! What Edwards?” exclaimed our hero.

  It was his friend Edwards.

  The attorney told him that Mr. Edwards had been involved in great distress by taking upon himself his father’s debts, which had been incurred in exploring a mine in Wales; that of all the creditors none had refused to compound, except a Welsh parson, who had been presented to his living by old Edwards; and that this Mr. Owen ap Jones had thrown young Mr. Edwards into gaol for the debt.

  “What is the rascal’s demand? He shall be paid off this instant,” cried Dominick, throwing down the plan of Fort-Reilly: “send for him up, and let me pay him off upon the spot.”

  “Had not we best finish our business first, about the O’Reilly estate, sir?” said the attorney.

  “No, sir; damn the O’Reilly estate,” cried he, huddling the maps together on the desk, and taking up the bank notes, which he had begun to reckon for the purchase money. “I beg your pardon, sir. If you knew the facts, you would excuse me. Why does not this rascal come up to be paid?”

  The attorney, thunderstruck by this Hibernian impetuosity, had not yet found time to take his pen out of his mouth. As he sat transfixed in his arm-chair, O’Reilly ran to the head of the stairs, and called out in a stentorian voice, “Here, you Mr. Owen ap Jones; come up and be paid off this instant, or you shall never be paid at all.”

  Up stairs hobbled the old schoolmaster, as fast as the gout and Welsh ale would let him. “Cot pless me, that voice,” he began —

  “Where’s your bond, sir?” said the attorney.

  “Safe here, Cot be praised,” said the terrified Owen ap Jones, pulling out of his bosom, first a blue pocket-handkerchief, and then a tattered Welsh grammar, which O’Reilly kicked to the farther end of the room.

  “Here is my bond,” said he, “in the crammer,” which he gathered from the ground; then fumbling over the leaves, he at length unfolded the precious deposit.

  O’Reilly saw the bond, seized it, looked at the sum, paid it into the attorney’s hands, tore the seal from the bond; then, without looking at old Jones, whom he dared not trust himself to speak to, he clapped his hat upon his head, and rushed out of the room. Arrived at the King’s Bench prison, he hurried to the apartment where Edwards was confined. The bolts flew back; for even the turnkeys seemed to catch our hero’s enthusiasm.

  “Edwards, my dear boy! how do you do? Here’s a bond debt, justly due to you for my education. Oh, never mind asking any unnecessary questions; only just make haste out of this undeserved abode: our old rascal is paid off — Owen ap Jones, you know. — Well, how the man stares! Why, now, will you have the assurance to pretend to forget who I am? and must I spake,” continued he, assuming the tone of his childhood, “and must I spake to you again in my ould Irish brogue before you will ricollict your own little Dominick?”

  When his friend Edwards was out of prison, and when our hero had leisure to look into business, he returned to the attorney to see that Mr. Owen ap Jones had been legally satisfied.

  “Sir,” said the attorney, “I have paid the plaintiff in this suit; and he is satisfied: but I must say,” added he, with a contemptuous smile, “that you Irish gentlemen are rather in too great a hurry in doing business: business, sir, is a thing that must be done slowly to be done well.”

  “I am ready now to do business as slowly as you please; but when my friend was in prison, I thought the quicker I did his business the better. Now tell me what mistake I have made, and I will rectify it instantly.”

  “Instantly! ’Tis well, sir, with your promptitude, that you have to deal with what prejudice thinks uncommon — an honest attorney. Here are some bank notes of yours, sir, amounting to a good round sum. You made a little blunder in this business: you left me the penalty, instead of the principal, of the bond — just twice as much as you should have done.”

  “Just twice as much as was in the bond, but not twice as much as I should have done, nor half as much as I should have done, in my opinion,” said O’Reilly; “but whatever I did was with my eyes open: I was persuaded you were an honest man; in which you see I was not mistaken; and as a man of business, I knew you would pay Jones only his due. The remainder of the money I meant, and mean, should lie in your hands for my friend Edwards’s use. I feared he would not have taken it from my hands: I therefore left it in yours. To have taken my friend out of prison merely to let him go back again to-day, for want of money to keep himself clear with the world, would have been a blunder indeed, but not an Irish blunder: our Irish blunders are never blunders of the heart.”

  CHAPTER V. THE BLISS OF IGNORANCE.

  No well-informed Englishman would laugh at the blunders of such a character as little Dominick; but there are people who justify the assertion, that laughter always arises from a sense of real or imaginary superiority. Now if it be true, that laughter has its source in vanity, as the most ignorant are generally the most vain, they must enjoy this pleasure in its highest perfection. Unconscious of their own deficiencies, and consequently fearless of becoming in their turn the objects of ridicule, they enjoy in full security the delight of humbling their superiors. How much are they to be admired for the courage with which they apply, on all occasions, their test of truth! Wise men may be struck with admiration, respect, doubt, or humility; but the ignorant, happily unconscious that they know nothing, can be checked in their merriment by no consideration, human or divine. Theirs is the sly sneer, the dry joke, and the horse laugh: theirs the comprehensive range of ridicule, which takes “every creature in, of every kind.” No fastidious delicacy spoils their sports of fancy: though ten times told, the tale to them never can be tedious; though dull “as the fat weed that grows on Lethe’s bank,” the jest for them has all the poignancy of satire: on the very offals, the garbage of wit, they can feed and batten. Happy they who can find in every jester the wit of Sterne or Swift; who else can wade through hundreds of thickly-printed pages to obtain for their reward such witticisms as the following: —

  “Two Irishmen having travelled on foot from Chester to Barnet, were confoundedly tired and fatigued by their journey; and the more so when they were told that they had still about ten miles to go. ‘By my shoul and St. Patrick,’ cries one of them, ‘it is but five miles a-piece.’”

  Here, notwithstanding the promise of a jest held forth by the words, “By my shoul and St. Patrick,” we are ultimately cheated of our hopes. To the ignorant, indeed, the word of promise is kept to the mind as well as to the ear; but others perceive that, instead of a bull, they have only a piece of sentimental arithmetic, founded upon the elegant theorem, that friendship doubles all our pleasures, and divides all our pains.

  We must not, from false delicacy to our countrymen, here omit a piece of advice to English retailers or inventors of Irish blunders.
Let them beware of such prefatory exclamations as—”By my shoul and St. Patrick! By Jasus! Arrah, honey! My dear joy!” &c., because all such phrases, besides being absolutely out of date and fashion in Ireland, raise too high an expectation in the minds of a British audience, operating as much to the disadvantage of the story-teller as the dangerous exordium of—”I’ll tell you an excellent story;” an exordium ever to be avoided by all prudent wits.

  Another caution should be given to well-meaning ignorance. Never produce that as an Irish bull for which any person of common literature can immediately supply a precedent from our best authors. Never be at the pains, for instance, of telling, from Joe Miller, a good story of an Irish sailor, who travelled with Captain Cook round the world, and afterwards swore to his companions that it was as flat as a table.

  This anecdote, however excellent, immediately finds a parallel in Pope:

  “Mad Mathesis alone was unconfined,

  Too mad for mere material chains to bind;

  Now to pure space lifts her ecstatic stare,

  Now running round the circle finds it square.”

  Pope was led into the blunder of representing Mad Mathesis running round the circle, and finding it square by a confused notion that mathematicians had considered the circle as composed of straight lines. His mathematical friends could have told him, that though it was talked of as a polygon, it was not supposed to be a square; but polygon would not have rhymed to stare; and poets, when they launch into the ocean of words, must have an eye to the helm; at all events a poet, who is not supposed to be a student of the exact sciences, may be forgiven for a mathematical blunder. This affair of squaring the circle seems to be peculiarly liable to error; for even an accurate mathematician cannot speak of it without committing something very like a bull.

  Dr. Hutton, in his Treatise on Mensuration, p. 119, says, “As the famous quadrature of the late Mr. John Machin, professor of astronomy in Gresham College, is extremely expeditious and but little known, I shall take this opportunity of explaining it.”

  It is to be presumed, that the doctor here uses the word famous in that acceptation in which it is daily and hourly employed by our Bond-street loungers, by city apprentices, and men of the ton. “That was a famous good joke;” “He is a famous whip;” “We had a famous hop,” &c. Now it cannot be supposed that any of these things are in themselves entitled to fame; but they may, indeed, by the courtesy of England, be at once famous, and but little known. It is unnecessary to enter into the defence either of Dr. Hutton or of Pope, for they were not born in Ireland, therefore they cannot make bulls; and assuredly their mistakes will not, in the opinion of any person of common sense or candour, derogate from their reputation.

  “Never strike till you are sure to wound,” is a maxim well known to the polite37 and politic part of the world. “Never laugh when the laugh can be turned against you,” should be the maxim of those who find their chief pleasure in making others ridiculous. This principle, if applied to our subject, would lead, however, to a very extensive and troublesome system of mutual forbearance; troublesome in proportion to the good or ill humour of the parties concerned; extensive in proportion to their knowledge and acquirements. A man of cultivated parts will foresee the possibility of the retort courteous, where an ignorant man will enjoy the fearless bliss of ignorance. For example, an illiterate person may enjoy a hearty laugh at the common story of an old Irish beggar-man, who, pretending to be dumb, was thrown off his guard by the question, “How many years have you been dumb?” and answered, “Five years last St. John’s Eve, please your honour.”

  But our triumph over the Irishman abates, when we recollect in the History of England, and in Shakspeare, the case of Saunder Simcox, who pretended to be miraculously and instantaneously cured of blindness at St. Alban’s shrine.

  Since we have bestowed so much criticism on the blunder of a beggar-man, a word or two must be permitted on the blunder of a thief. It is natural for ignorant people to laugh at the Hibernian who said that he had stolen a pound of chocolate to make tea of. But philosophers are disposed to abstain from the laugh of superiority when they recollect that the Irishman could probably make as good tea from chocolate as the chemist could make butter, sugar, and cream, from antimony, sulphur, and tartar. The absurdities in the ancient chemical nomenclature could not be surpassed by any in the Hibernian catalogue. If the reader should think this a rash and unwarrantable assertion, we refer him to an essay,38 in which the flagrant abuses of speech in the old language of chemistry are admirably exposed and ridiculed. Could an Irishman confer a more appropriate appellation upon a white powder than that of beautiful black?

  It is really provoking to perceive, that as our knowledge of science or literature extends, we are in more danger of finding, in our own and foreign languages, parallels and precedents for Irish blunders; so that a very well informed man can scarcely with any grace or conscience smile, where a booby squire might enjoy a long and loud horse-laugh of contempt.

  What crowds were collected to see the Irish bottle conjuror39 get into a quart bottle; but Dr. Desaguliers had prepared the English to think such a condensation of animal particles not impossible. He says, vol. i. p. 5, of his Lectures on Natural Philosophy, “that the nature of things should last, and their natural course continue the same; all the changes made in bodies must arise only from the various separations, new conjunctions, and motions, of these original particles. These must be imagined of an unconceivable smallness, but by the union of them there are made bigger lumps,” &c.

  Indeed things are now come to such a lamentable pass, that without either literary or scientific acquirements, mere local knowledge, such as can be obtained from a finger-post, may sometimes prevent us from the full enjoyment of the Boeotian absurdity of our neighbours. What can, at first view, appear a grosser blunder than that of the Irishman who begged a friend to look over his library, to find for him the history of the world before the creation? Yet this anachronism of ideas is not unparalleled; it is matched, though on a more contracted scale, by an inscription on a British finger-post —

  “Had you seen these roads before they were made,

  You’d lift up your eyes, and bless Marshal Wade!”

  There is, however, a rabbi, mentioned by Bayle, who far exceeds both the Irishman and the finger-post. He asserts, that Providence questioned Adam concerning the creation before he was born; and that Adam knew more of the matter than the angels who had laughed at him.

  Those who see things in a philosophical light must have observed more frequently than others, that there is in this world a continual recurrence or rotation of ideas, events, and blunders. With his utmost ingenuity, or his utmost absurdity, a man, in modern days, cannot contrive to produce a system for which there is no prototype in antiquity, or to commit a blunder for which there is no precedent. For example: during the late rebellion in Ireland, at the military execution of some wretched rebel, the cord broke, and the criminal, who had been only half hanged, fell to the ground. The Major, who was superintending the execution, exclaimed, “You rascal, if you do that again, I’ll kill you, as sure as you breathe.”

  Now this is by no means an original idea. In an old French book, called “La Charlatanerie des Savans,” is the following note:—”D’autres ont proposé et résolu en même tems des questions ridicules; par exemple celle-ci: Devroit-on faire souffrir une seconde fois le même genre de mort à un criminel, qui après avoir eu la tête coupée viendroit à résusciter?” — Finkelth, Praef. ad Observationes Pract. num. 12.

  The passionate major, instead of being a mere Irish blunderer, was, without knowing it, a learned casuist; for he was capable of deciding, in one word, a question, which, it seems, had puzzled the understandings of the ablest lawyers of France, or which had appalled their conscientious sensibility.

  Alas! there is nothing new under the sun.

  “Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise.”

  CHAPTER VI. “THOUGHTS THAT BREATHE, AND WO
RDS THAT BURN.”

  We lamented, in our last chapter, that there is nothing new under the sun; yet, perhaps, the thoughts and phraseology of the following story may not be familiar to the English.

  “Plase your honour,” says a man, whose head is bound up with a garter, in token and commemoration of his having been at a fair the preceding night—”Plase your honour, it’s what I am striving since six o’clock and before, this morning, becààse I’d sooner trouble your honour’s honour than any man in all Ireland, on account of your character, and having lived under your family, me and mine, twinty years, aye, say forty again to the back o’ that, in the old gentleman’s time, as I well remember before I was born; that same time I heard tell of your own honour’s riding a little horse in green with your gun before you, a grousing over our town-lands, which was the mill and abbey of Ballynagobogg, though ’tis now set away from me (owing to them that belied my father) to Christy Salmon, becààse he’s an Orangeman — or his wife — though he was once (let him deny it who can), to my certain knowledge, behind the haystack in Tullygore, sworn in a United man by Captain Alick, who was hanged —— Pace to the dead any how! —— — Well, not to be talking too much of that now, only for this Christy Salmon, I should be still living under your honour.”

  “Very likely; but what has all this to do with the present business? If you have any complaint to make against Christy Salmon, make it — if not, let me go to dinner.”

  “Oh, it would be too bad to be keeping your honour from your dinner, but I’ll make your honour sinsible immadiately. It is not of Christy Salmon at-all-at-all I’m talking. May be your honour is not sinsible yet who I am — I am Paddy M’Doole, of the Curragh, and I’ve been a flax-dresser and dealer since I parted your honour’s land, and was last night at the fair of Clonaghkilty, where I went just in a quiet way thinking of nothing at all, as any man might, and had my little yarn along with me, my wife’s and the girl’s year’s spinning, and all just hoping to bring them back a few honest shillings as they desarved — none better! — Well, plase your honour, my beast lost a shoe, which brought me late to the fair, but not so late but what it was as throng as ever; you could have walked over the heads of the men, women, and childer, a foot and a horseback, all buying and selling; so I to be sure thought no harm of doing the like; so I makes the best bargain I could of the little hanks for my wife and the girl, and the man I sold them to was just weighing them at the crane, and I standing forenent him—’Success to myself!’said I, looking at the shillings I was putting into my waistcoat pocket for my poor family, when up comes the inspector, whom I did not know, I’ll take my oath, from Adam, nor couldn’t know, becááse he was the deputy inspector, and had been but just made, of which I was ignorant, by this book and all the books that ever were shut and opened — but no matter for that; he seizes my hanks out of the scales that I had just sold, saying they were unlawful and forfeit, becááse by his watch it was past four o’clock, which I denied to be possible, plase your honour, becááse not one, nor two, nor three, but all the town and country were selling the same as myself in broad day, only when the deputy came up they stopped, which I could not, by rason I did not know him.—’Sir,’ says I (very civil), ‘if I had known you, it would have been another case, but any how I hope no jantleman will be making it a crime to a poor man to sell his little matter of yarn for his wife and childer after four o’clock, when he did not know it was contrary to law at-all-at-all.’