Obrazy na stronie
PDF
ePub

more or less a humbug, gives in his Monks of the West' an unwilling testimony to the characteristic vices, as well as to the characteristic virtues, of the race. He

finds the Irish from the beginning pure (thanks to St Bridget) but murderous—moral but bloody, their early story when they were undisturbed by strangers nothing but a succession of mutual struggle and massacre. It is not a new feature, but the characteristic of the race. "An Englishman," says the proverb, "is never content but when he's grumbling; a Scotsman is never at home but when he's abroad; an Irishman is never at peace but when he's fighting." We all gave a very genial interpretation to that fighting in former days, when it was associated with Donnybrook and the shillelagh. It has grown into a darker vision now, with a love of blood and torture which perhaps always was inherent in the gloomier developments of the national character more than any looker-on was willing to acknowledge, but which native perception has embodied in some of those darker tales which we owe to the once well-known O'Hara family, to Carleton, and other genuine romancers of the race. The extraordinary and powerful picture lately added to these by the author of 'Hurrish,' brings a fresher insight into that longstanding wonder the phenomenon of a people, the last in the world to retain, through all the efforts of civilisation, that primitive development, the absolute indifference to human life, the love of blood, and pleasure in the sight of suffering, which philosophers hope belong to savage races only. The

1 Hurrish: A Study. By the Hon. Householder,' A Millionaire's Cousin.' Sons, Edinburgh and London.

first thing to be done towards the extirpation of a disease is the diagnosis of it, and recognition of its character. In this point of view it would be a good thing that this national characteristic should be understood. The bad quality is like the good, inherent. Englishmen and Scotsmen are less moral, but they are also less cruel. They have more pleasure in vice, but less in blood. If we acknowledge the one, which no one has ever attempted to deny, it is right that we should acknowledge the other also. Perhaps in no other country could such spotless relations between man and woman exist as those which Miss Lawless depicts in the wretched cabin where her noble peasant, in the full force of his life, lives side by side with the tender visionary girl, the predestined saint, Ally, without thought or dream of harm; but at the same time it must be allowed that in no other country called civilised could it be so natural a thing, so simple, almost laudable, to take vengeance on your enemy. Even in Corsica a vendetta is a horror and wild dramatic excitement. But in Clare it is the course of everyday. The Irish mother triumphs in the fact that her son has had the courage to rise superior to prejudice and kill his foe, as if she had been the mother of a Sioux brave. And even Hurrish himself, the good-natured and mild, has no sense of pain or regret, no haunting consciousness of that first great remorse of humanity, "I have slain a man to my wounding." Nothing can be more curious than this survival, certainly not of the fittest, of primitive inclinations, which is as real and

Emily Lawless, Author of A Chelsea Third Edition. William Blackwood &

characteristic as are the finer uni- that is necessary to make her versal qualities of the race.

It is not to this tragic particularity, however, but to other characteristics equally real, and almost equally serious, that our attention is called by the book before us. I Mr Dennis's little work is of the calmest, both in subject and treatment. It has nothing to do with politics. It does not even inquire into that fertile question whether English misgovernment is the occasion of all Irish ills. It takes the Irish ills as existent, not the criminal part of them, but the economic and practical, and suggests the remedya remedy not far to seek, having nothing to do with rivalries of race, or conflicts for ascendancy. His very plain statement is that Irish industry is dying, as Irish comfort has died, if it ever indeed existed, not from political causes, but from the extraordinary carelessness and indifference of the Irish nation. The indictment is very broad and general, and it is not of an agreeable character. Lynch-law might easily, we should think, lay hold of the man who thus ventures to charge a quarrelsome race with neglect of its best interests and a deliberate throwing away of all its advantages. Mr Dennis does not do this, however, with any heat or indignation. He pours forth no lamentations nor even very much blame. It is rather to the world, and the bystanders who look on at the lamentable spectacle of a whole country sinking into idleness and want, that he states the case with the seriousness which it demands, than as making any assault upon the culprits themselves. Ireland hss every hing a country wants for prosperity-all

"the source of employment and comfort to her own people," he says. Mr Dennis does not even tell us that she is over-populated. He says of the Irish that they are "a starving people in a land of plenty." "A country," he tells us, "capable of producing in abundance every necessary of life for a population as dense as that of Belgium, fails in point of fact to support a population less dense by 280 persons per square mile." It is not, then, even overpopulation that does it not too many mouths to feed, not an impossible problem such as we have been made to believe could only be solved by emigration. But perhaps emigration itself, with all its difficulties, would be an easy cure in comparison with the simple remedy which Mr Dennis proposes, which is in so many words that the Irish nation, that much-discussed, much-described, little-understood entity, should get up like a man and work out its own salvation by honest act and deed, by no new expedients but the use of means which lie ready at his hand; by simple care and pains, and a fair day's work, and the sweat of its brow. This is a very tremendous prescription-it is almost as hard as that which Bishop Berkeley, a sanguine Irishman, proposed to his people in his day-which was only to be good and honest and true, no more. Mr Dennis does not trouble himself about the goodness of the people he discusses. It is as a practical man of business that he regards them and their ways. He speaks the language of proverbs, but without their terseness. He says, in other words, Waste not, want not; he says, If a man will not work, it stands to

1 Industrial Ireland. By Robert Dennis. London: John Murray.

reason that neither shall he have wherewithal to eat. All this is as plain as any pikestaff; but whether it will convince any Irishman that this and not Home Rule is the panacea for his country, or persuade a troubled Government to set up model farms, model fisheries, model dairies, in order to teach that "bould pisantry, its country's pride," how to do its own work, is a different matter, and one less easy to decide.

Here is Mr Dennis's description of the foundation of evil, the first cause of Irish wretchedness:

"Why is the potato so much grown and consumed in Ireland? It is because potato-growing and potato-eating form the simplest process by which the Irish tenant can keep body and soul together. He turns up his land, plants it, waits four or five months, and then digs the crop. The product of these operations is his sustenance. It has not, like cattle, or wheat, or any of the higher products of farming, to be turned into money before it can be made available for his own use. The complex transactions by which producers and consumers in a civilised society provide for the wants of others and secure the satisfaction of their own, do not enter into the economics of the Irish peasant. He sticks his potato into the ground, and in due time he gathers the harvest. Feeling hungry, he goes to his store, deals himself out potatoes enough for a meal, claps them into a pot, eats them, and is content. The substitution of oats for the potato would place him one degree higher in the scale of agricultural progress by processes which need not be described. We should then get the Irish tenant past the stage at which a man lives from hand to mouth on

the free yield of nature, into the stage at which agriculture becomes an industey, providing him by exchange or sale not only with mere sustenance, but with comforts of which he has hitherto had no experience."

We have always ourselves had a great fancy for the idea of self-sus

tenance in this primitive way, and remember considering the condition of a Highland proprietor on a little estate, where he grew his own mutton, grouse, and trout, gooseberries and honey, as one of almost perfect bliss. To be sure, the laird bought a good many things in addition and sold some, and his table was more varied than that of the potato-grower.

We had fancied also that the potato was modified, in all but the poorest cases, with occasional stirabout; and perhaps Mr. Dennis's estimate of the kindly root is a somewhat stern one. But when he comes to subjects better within our understanding,-to the crop which is left to rot because

Irish farmers have not yet learned the simple art of compressing hay for carriage by rail"-nay, more, refuse to learn it; and the butter, which loses its market and is superseded on all sides because it is badly made, badly packed, produced from cows uncared for by workers careless and untrained,the repetition of the endless story begins to work upon the mind with a sickening effect. Fish swarming at the very doors, but no boats to take them, no nets the women with their handy fingers so easily trained to lace and other dainty work, unable to weave these first necessities of the natural trade, an almost incredible folly; flax, for which Irish fields are specially adapted, a most profitable crop, abandoned for the trouble it gives, so that it has to be imported for the use of the happily still existing loom, the only persistent trade that keeps its hold of Ireland, thanks to the energy of the North; the recurrence of these fatuities and failures, the constantly repeated tale of waste and loss, the work dropping from nerveless hands, will at last begin to tell upon the nerves of the calmest reader.

characteristic as are the finer uni- that is necessary to make her versal qualities of the race.

"the source of employment and comfort to her own people," he says. Mr Dennis does not even tell us that she is over-populated.

It is not to this tragic particularity, however, but to other characteristics equally real, and almost equally serious, that our attenHe says of the Irish that tion is called by the book before they are "a starving people in a us. I Mr Dennis's little work is land of plenty." "A country," of the calmest, both in subject he tells us, "capable of producing and treatment. It has nothing in abundance every necessary of to do with politics. It does not life for a population as dense as even inquire into that fertile ques- that of Belgium, fails in point of tion whether English misgovern- fact to support a population less ment is the occasion of all Irish dense by 280 persons per square ills. It takes the Irish ills as ex- mile." It is not, then, even overistent, not the criminal part of population that does it not too them, but the economic and prac- many mouths to feed, not an imtical, and suggests the remedy- possible problem such as we have a remedy not far to seek, having been made to believe could only nothing to do with rivalries of be solved by emigration. But perrace, or conflicts for ascendancy. haps emigration itself, with all its His very plain statement is that difficulties, would be an easy cure Irish industry is dying, as Irish in comparison with the simple comfort has died, if it ever in- remedy which Mr Dennis proposes, deed existed, not from political which is in so many words that causes, but from the extraordi- the Irish nation, that much-disnary carelessness and indifference cussed, much-described, little-unof the Irish nation. The indict- derstood entity, should get up like ment is very broad and general, a man and work out its own salvaand it is not of an agreeable char- tion by honest act and deed, by acter. Lynch-law might easily, no new expedients but the use of we should think, lay hold of the means which lie ready at his hand; man who thus ventures to charge by simple care and pains, and a a quarrelsome race with neglect fair day's work, and the sweat of of its best interests and a delib- its brow. This is a very tremendous erate throwing away of all its ad- prescription-it is almost as hard vantages. Mr Dennis does not do as that which Bishop Berkeley, a this, however, with any heat or sanguine Irishman, proposed to indignation. He pours forth no his people in his day-which was lamentations nor even very much only to be good and honest and blame. It is rather to the world, true, no more. Mr Dennis does and the bystanders who look on not trouble himself about the goodat the lamentable spectacle of a ness of the people he discusses. It whole country sinking into idle- is as a practical man of business ness and want, that he states the that he regards them and their case with the seriousness which ways. He speaks the language of it demands, than as making any proverbs, but without their terseassault upon the culprits them- ness. He says, in other words, selves. Ireland hss everything a Waste not, want not; he says, If country wants for prosperity-all a man will not work, it stands to

1 Industrial Ireland. By Robert Dennis. London: John Murray.

reason that neither shall he have wherewithal to eat. All this is as plain as any pikestaff; but whether it will convince any Irishman that this and not Home Rule is the panacea for his country, or persuade a troubled Government to set up model farms, model fisheries, model dairies, in order to teach that "bould pisantry, its country's pride," how to do its own work, is a different matter, and one less easy to decide.

Here is Mr Dennis's description of the foundation of evil, the first cause of Irish wretchedness:

tenance in this primitive way, and remember considering the condition of a Highland proprietor on a little estate, where he grew his own mutton, grouse, and trout, gooseberries and honey, as one of almost perfect bliss. To be sure, the laird bought a good many things in addition and sold some, and his table was more varied than that of the potato-grower. We had fancied also that the potato was modified, in all but the poorest cases, with occasional stirabout; and perhaps Mr. Dennis's estimate of the kindly root is a somewhat stern one. But when he comes to subjects better within our understanding,—to the crop which is left to rot because

"Why is the potato so much grown and consumed in Ireland? It is because potato-growing and potato-eating form the simplest process by Irish farmers have not yet learned which the Irish tenant can keep body and soul together. He turns up his land, plants it, waits four or five months, and then digs the crop. The product of these operations is his sustenance. It has not, like cattle, or wheat, or any of the higher products of farming, to be turned into money before it can be made available for his own use. The complex transactions by which producers and consumers in a civilised society provide for the wants of others and secure the satisfaction of their own, do not enter into the economics of the Irish peasant. He sticks his potato into the ground, and in due time he gathers the harvest. Feeling hungry, he goes to his store, deals himself out potatoes enough for a meal, claps them into a pot, cats them, and is content. The substitution of oats for the potato would place him one degree higher in the scale of agricultural progress by processes which need not be described. We should then get the Irish tenant past the stage at which a man lives from hand to mouth on

the free yield of nature, into the stage at which agriculture becomes an industey, providing him by exchange or sale not only with mere sustenance, but with comforts of which he has hitherto had no experience."

We have always ourselves had a great fancy for the idea of self-sus

the simple art of compressing hay for carriage by rail"-nay, more, refuse to learn it; and the butter, which loses its market and is superseded on all sides because it is badly made, badly packed, produced from cows uncared for by workers careless and untrained,— the repetition of the endless story begins to work upon the mind with a sickening effect. Fish swarming at the very doors, but no boats to take them, no nets-the women with their handy fingers so easily trained to lace and other dainty work, unable to weave these first necessities of the natural trade, an almost incredible folly; flax, for which Irish fields are specially adapted, a most profitable crop, abandoned for the trouble it gives, so that it has to be imported for the use of the happily still existing loom, the only persistent trade that keeps its hold of Ireland, thanks to the energy of the North; the recurrence of these fatuities and failures, the constantly repeated tale of waste and loss, the work dropping from nerveless hands, will at last begin to tell upon the nerves of the calmest reader.

« PoprzedniaDalej »