Facts for the Kind-Hearted of England! Part 1

Facts for the Kind-Hearted of England!

by Jasper W. Rogers.

In my twentieth year my first visit was made to London--how long since need not be said, lest I make discoveries. I arrived at the "Swan with _two_ necks," in Lad Lane, to the imminent peril of my own _one_, on entering the yard of that then famous hostelry, the gate of which barely allowed admission to the coach itself--and first set foot on London ground, midst the bustle of some half-dozen coaches, either preparing for exit, or discharging their loads of pa.s.sengers and parcels.

Four "insides" were turned out, and eight "outsides" turned in--I, amongst the unfortunates of the latter cla.s.s, taking possession of the nearest point I could to the coffee-room fire. It is to be recollected that in those days one had but _four_ chances in his favour, against perhaps forty applicants for the interior of the mail--and he who was driven in winter, by necessity of time, to the top of a coach in Liverpool, and from thence to Lad Lane, and found himself in the coffee-room there unfrozen, might be well contented. So felt I, then,--and doubly so now, as I think of the dangers of flood, and road, and neck, which I encountered in a twenty-six hours' journey, exposed to the "pelting of the pitiless storm,"--for it snowed half the way.

Dinner discussed, and its etceteras having been partaken, in full consciousness of the comforts which surrounded me, contrasted with the discomforts, &c. from which I had escaped,--I sank into an agreeable reverie; and during a vision,--I must not call it a doze,--composed of port wine and walnuts--the invigorating beams of Wallsend coal--an occasional fancied jolt of the coach--the three mouthfuls of dinner, by the name, I had gotten at Oxford--and the escape of my one neck, when, goose as I was, I presented it where two seemed to be an essential by the sign of the habitation and the dangers of the gate,--I was aroused by a crash, something like the noise of the machine which accompanies the falling of an avalanche or a castle, or some such direful affair at "Astley's;" and starting up, I thought,--had the coach upset? but, much to my gratification, found myself a safe "inside." Still came crash after crash, until I thought it high time to see as well as hear. "What on earth is the matter?" said I to the first waiter I met, as I descended from the coffee-room, and got to the door of the "tap," or room for accommodation of the lower grade of persons frequenting the establishment. "Oh! sir," said he, "it is two dreadful Irishmen fighting: one has broken a table on the other's head; the other smashed a chair." I stopped short, and well do I recollect that the blood rushed to my face as I turned away; I confess, too, that while returning to the coffee-room, when the waiter followed and asked, should he bring tea, I "c.o.c.kneyfied" my accent as much as possible, in the hope that he should not know I was an Irishman:--such was my shame for my country at the moment.

Many minutes, however, had not elapsed until I felt shame another way--namely, that I should for a moment deny the land which gave me birth;--and I at once determined to ascertain the facts and particulars of the outrage. Down I went, therefore, again, and entering the tap-room, found that in truth a table had been broken, and a chair too, not to speak at all of the heads; but, on further investigation, it appeared that the table, being weak in const.i.tution, sunk under the weight of one of the belligerents, who jumped upon it to a.s.sail the other with advantage,--and that the chair had been smashed by coming in contact with the table; the gentleman on the ground having thought it fair to use a chair in his defence when his enemy took to the larger piece of furniture:--hence the awful crash, crash--that awoke me from my--vision.

So far well--but further inquiry brought forth further truths. It came out that one of the party had called the other "a beggarly bogtrotter,"

for which he received in reply a blow upon his nose. Thus the row commenced; but better still, it appeared that _one_ of "the dreadful Irishmen" _was a Welshman_! and that it was _he_ who called poor Paddy "a bogtrotter."

First then, said I to myself, the table was _not_ broken on the Irishman's head; it was smashed by the Welshman's _foot_--and it was _not_ "_two_ dreadful _Irishmen_," but _one_, who had been engaged in the fray, and he was insulted; therefore, at the most, ONLY ONE HALF OF THE STORY IS TRUE! _And in about that proportion have I since found almost all the stories and charges against the lower cla.s.s of my unhappy countrymen_--and so will others too, who please to investigate facts.

Amongst my earliest introductions to "London Society" was "St. Giles's."

Notwithstanding the warnings of my friends, as to the danger attendant even on a walk through its streets, I ventured a little farther; and who ever may have suffered there, I have not, except from witnessing the almost indescribable misery of its inhabitants. Throughout my entire search into its wretchedness, I never received even an uncivil answer but on one occasion, and I am the more desirous to state this fact, because, although "St. Giles" sounds to English ears as a spot _contaminated_ by the abode of Irish only, I found many and many an Englishman there, as wretched as my own wretched countrymen.

In the instance I allude to, I had entered the first lobby in one of the houses of a most miserable street, where I saw a woman "rocking" in the manner the lower cla.s.s of Irish express silent agony of feeling. Her body moved back and forward in that peculiar motion which told to my heart she was in misery; and entering the room in silent respect for her suffering, I forgot to knock or make any noise to attract attention. In a moment a figure darted from the side of a bed behind the door, and having caught up something as it pa.s.sed between me and the entrance, he, for I then saw my a.s.sailant was a man, brandished the "miserable remains" of a kitchen poker before my face, and demanded, "_What did I want, and how da-ar I come there to throuble thim with my curosity?_"

And what right had I to pry into their miseries, unless to relieve them?

I confess my object in visiting St. Giles's then, had not arisen from so pure a motive, and I felt the justice of his demand--The miseries of the heart are sacred amongst the rich: why should they not be equally so amongst the poor? Nature has made original feeling alike in all; but the poor feel more deeply; for the rich suffer in heart midst countless luxuries and efforts from others to wean them from their sufferings, while the poor suffer midst numberless privations, and almost utter loneliness. Why then should I have "_throubled thim with my curosity_?"

But I made my peace, with little effort too; and then, for the first time, saw a dead body lying on the bed from whence the man had come, "waking," in the Irish fashion of the lower orders. It was a child of about seven years old. Its last resting place on earth was dressed with flowers, and the mother's hand had evidently done the most within its feeble power to give honour to the dead. Rising, she with her ap.r.o.n rubbed the chair she had been sitting on, and placed it for me; thus offering, in her simple way, the double respect of tendering _her own_ seat, and seeking to make it more fit for my reception by dusting it.

I need not repeat all the tale of misery, the cause of their suffering then, was apparent. "She was their last Colleen--th' uther craturs wur at home with the Granny," and "_he_ had c.u.m to thry his forthin in Inglind; _an' bad forthin it was_. But the Lord's will be done, fur the little darlint was happy, any how--an' sure they had more av thim at home--an' why should she be mopin' an' cryin' her eyes out for her Colleen, that was gone to G.o.d!"

Thus the poor creature reasoned as she cried and blamed herself for crying; for miserable as she was, she evidently felt that she should be thankful for the other blessings that were left her. Do we all feel thus? Yet, at the moment that she did so, I believe there was not a morsel of food within reach of her means, and that her last penny had been spent to deck with flowers the death-bed of her child.

It is needless for me to describe the general miseries of "St.

Giles,"--now no more. Its wretched habitations have yielded their place to palaces; its dreaded locality lives but in recollection; and its inhabitants have gone forth--Whither? _Perhaps to greater wretchedness._ Aye, almost surely! The misery of St. Giles's has ceased, mayhap to make misery double elsewhere; but, thank G.o.d! there no longer exists in London a special spot upon which the ban is placed of _Irish residence being tantamount to crime_.

Years and years have since gone by, and many a time the story of "the _two_ dreadful Irishmen" has risen to my mind, as I have read paragraph after paragraph in the English papers, telling of some direful thing which had occurred and was wrapped in mystery, but concluding after the following fashion:--

"HIGHWAY ROBBERY--(_Particulars_). There is no clue whatever to discover the parties who committed this atrocious act--but _two Irish labourers who live in the neighbourhood are, it is supposed, the delinquents_!"

"BURGLARY AT ---- (_Particulars_). The parties who committed this robbery acted in the most daring manner. _The country is now filled with Irish harvest labourers!_"

"FOOTPAD.--A daring attempt was made by a most desperate-looking man to rob a farmer some days since--(_further particulars_) after a great struggle he got off. _He is supposed to be an Irishman!_"

"MARLBOROUGH-STREET.--There is a cla.s.s of persons now known, called 'Mouchers,' who go about in gangs, plundering the licensed victuallers, eating-house and coffee-shop keepers, to an extent that would be deemed impossible, did not the records of police courts afford sufficient evidence of the fact. _The Mouchers are mostly of the lower order of Irish._"--_London Morning Paper, 12th April, 1847._

"HORRIBLE MURDER--(_Particulars_). Every possible search has been made for the murderers, but unfortunately without effect. However, _it is positively known that four Irish harvesters pa.s.sed through the village the day before, and there cannot be a doubt the dreadful deed was committed by them_!"

Such are the kind of announcements seen frequently, particularly in provincial papers. In the latter case, the facts impressed themselves strongly upon my mind. A horrible murder had been committed, as well as I recollect, in Lancashire. The widow of a farmer, much beloved in the neighbourhood, and known to possess considerable property, was barbarously murdered in her bed at night, and her presses and strong box thoroughly rifled; nothing, however, having been taken but money, of which it was known she had received a considerable sum a few days previously. Much sensation was created by the fearful occurrence; and it was fully believed that "the four Irishmen" had committed the murder--why? _because they had been seen in the neighbourhood!_ verifying most fully the adage, that "one man may steal a horse without being suspected, while another dare not look over the hedge." So it eventually turned out. A month elapsed; the four Irishmen could never be traced; but luckily the real murderer was. A labouring man offered a 20. note to be changed in a town some miles distant from the scene of the murder, and suspicion having arisen as to how he obtained it, he was taken up: eventually turning out to be the confidential farm servant of the unfortunate woman, still continuing to live unsuspected where the murder had been actually committed by himself; and he was subsequently executed.

But did this clear "_the four Irishmen_" from the imputation, or retrieve the character of their cla.s.s? Not an iota. The journalist who accused them was not the fool to proclaim his own injustice; and perhaps, even if he did, the refutation would never have met the same eye that read the condemnation. No; "the four Irishmen" continued as thoroughly guilty in the public mind as if twelve jurors on their oaths had declared them so. The editorial pen had signed the death warrant of _character_, if not of life, as it has done in many and many instances with just as much foundation.

Poor, unhappy "Paddy" the labourer has had years and years of outcry to bear up against and suffer under, a thousand times more trying to him than that now raised against "Paddy" the Lord. The poor and lowly struggle single-handed and alone; the rich and high face the enemies of their order shoulder to shoulder, and as one. Poor fellow, he is like the cat in the kitchen: every head broken is as unquestionably laid to his charge, as every jug to p.u.s.s.y's. And he has another direful mark which stamps him at once; namely, that "profanation to ears polite,"

_his brogue_! He possibly may not look ill to the eye--perhaps the reverse; his countenance may be honest and open, and his bearing manly, as he approaches an employer to seek for work; up to that point all goes well, perhaps; but once his mouth opens, the tale is told; instantly _Prejudice_ does her office, unknowingly almost, and unless actual need exist, Paddy may apply elsewhere, again and again to meet the same rebuff. Lancashire, Somersetshire, Yorkshire, may revel in their patois without raising a doubtful feeling or a smile, but the brogue of Ireland does the work at once, and the unhappy being from whom it issues slinks back into himself degraded, as he hears the certain laugh which answers his fewest words, and the almost certain refusal to admit him within the pale of his cla.s.s in England. Hence St. Giles's as it was--the purlieu of Westminster, as it is--the Irish labourer's refuge in England, is often the lowest point, because he cannot be driven lower.

And all this arises, not from ill will, but from long felt prejudice, and the repet.i.tion of stories and anecdotes and caricature of Irish character, which trifling circ.u.mstances have given rise to and upheld; and which, I grieve to say, is greatly due to the domiciled Irishmen in England, of the middle and better cla.s.s. They sometimes forget their country, and in place of explaining away fallacies and making known facts which would have roused England long since to our aid, had they been fairly understood, _fear_ to tell truths which they deem to be unpalatable, while perhaps their own palates are being feasted on the good things of the party who declaims against their country: thus permitting the continued existence of prejudice and consequent estrangement.

It is in no small degree amusing to observe the _attempt_ made, in addition, to disguise the fact that the delinquent I speak of (I had almost written renegade) is an Irishman. No wonder that he should attempt the disguise, for he must deeply feel his delinquency. In all cases such as this, the c.o.c.kney tw.a.n.g and occasional curtailment is a.s.sumed to overcome the _brogue_, but in vain. For the first half dozen words of each _paragraph_ in a conversation it gets on well enough, but the conclusion is sometimes exquisitely ridiculous.

I had the _honour_ to meet at dinner recently, a person of this cla.s.s, and a conversation having arisen on the subject, he said, "I aam pe-fectly ce-tain no one caaen know that I aam an I-ishman;" and the next instant, turning to a servant, he added, "Po-ta, if you _plaze_."

When this thoroughly low-bred Irishism came out I could not help smiling, and caught at the same moment the eye of a lady opposite, who seemed greatly amused. In a few minutes after, she said, evidently for the purpose of having another trial of the Anglo-Irishman, "Pray, may I help you to a potato?"--the killing reply was, "Pon my hona' I neva'

_ate_ pittatis at all at all."

This was too much for the lady, as well as for myself; so we laughed together. The Irish _gentleman_, however, perfectly unconscious of the cause.

Having subsequently mentioned the circ.u.mstance to an "Irishman in London," who does not fear to acknowledge his country, he said, "O! the feeling descends lower still--the better cla.s.s of labourers attempt to speak so that they shall not be known." Continuing, he said, "A _porter_ in our establishment, who is an Irishman, came to me the other day, and speaking very confidentially, whispered, 'Sure now, Misthur ----, you woudn't guiss be me taulk, thit I wus an Irishmin.'" "Certainly not,"

said my friend, laughing, when the fellow replied, quite happily, "Whi-thin that's right any how."

Who will excuse the man in a better grade who panders to prejudices, and not only forgets the country of his birth, but aids, _by consent_, to let her remain in misery? But must we not excuse the low and helpless, who are driven by such prejudices to keep themselves in existence by following the example of those above them? who, thus, have double sin to answer for; _their own_, and that which their dastardly conduct creates.

Still, why should the unhappy labourer who feels that the tone of his voice keeps bread from his mouth, not wish it changed?

"Move on," said a policeman to a poor Irishman, who was gazing with astonishment at a shop window in the Strand, his eyes and mouth open equally, with intensity of admiration. But Paddy neither heard nor moved. "Move on, Sir, I say," came in a voice of command delivered into his very ear. "_Arrah, ph-why?_" said the poor fellow, looking up with wonder, and still retaining his place. "_You must move on, you Irish vagabond_," now roared the policeman, "_and not stop the pathway_,"

accompanying the "must" with a push of no very gentle nature. Paddy did move, for he could not help it; but as he turned away from the sight which was yielding him harmless enjoyment, to the forgetfulness of misery for the moment, and perhaps to create in him desires for better things, and give him greater energy to work and labour for them; he was rudely branded, with a mark of debas.e.m.e.nt, and I could see in the poor fellow's eye and gait, though _labourer_ he was, pride and degradation contending for the mastery; but the latter conquered, and he did "move on," almost admitting by the act that he _was_ "AN IRISH VAGABOND."

The position of the lower cla.s.s of Irish in England is evidently not to be envied, but what is it in Ireland?

In the paper annexed, on "_The Potato Truck System of Ireland_," will be found the ground-work of the misery of the peasantry. The whole recompense for their labour is the potato. If it fail, they starve. In summer's heat and winter's cold the potato is their only food; water their only drink. They hunger from labour and exertion--the potato satisfies their craving appet.i.te. Sickness comes, and they thirst from fever--water quenches their burning desire. Nature overcomes disease, and they long for food to re-invigorate their frame. What get they?--the potato! The child sinks in weakness towards its grave. What holds it betwixt life and death?--the potato. It is the Alpha and Omega of their existence. A blessing granted by Providence to man, but made by man a curse to his fellow-beings. From what causes come the charges made, and made with truth, against the Irish peasant, of "_indolence_" and "_filth in and about their habitations_?"--One and all from that dreadful system, the "_potato truck_!"

Tourists tell that "_the cabin of the Irish peasant must be approached through heaps of manure at either side, making it necessary to step over pool after pool, to reach the entrance_." This is no more than fact, but the cause should be told too.

From the detail of the truck-system, it will be seen that the unfortunate peasant is paid for his labour by land to cultivate the potatoes which sustain his existence, and these potatoes cannot be effectively grown without manure. His cabin is usually situate on some road-side, his potato-garden rarely with it, and the only spot he possesses, upon which he can collect manure to obtain food for himself and family throughout the year, is the little s.p.a.ce reserved before his door. He has nothing else, it may be said, in the world, but that manure. It is that which is to yield sustenance to his family, and if he have it not, they starve. If put outside the precincts of his holding it is lost to him, and that which he collects sc.r.a.p after sc.r.a.p from the road side, or elsewhere--that upon which his life actually depends, is too precious to be risked beyond his care. Why should he be blamed then for the apparent "filth" which surrounds it? Whether is it his fault, or that of the system which has driven him to this degrading necessity? Not his, surely!

Then he is described as to be seen "supporting his door-frame, and smoking his 'dhudeen,'[1] while he should be at work." It is true; but whence his seeming idleness? The truck system again! He is engaged by the year to some farmer, and is bound to do his work, for which he gets his potato land; but the farmer is not bound, as he should be, to give him continuous labour throughout the year. And many a day, and half-day, and quarter-day is cut off his year's labour, when the weather, or the farmer's absence, or his _mighty_ will and pleasure, may make him think it fit to stop the work. When this occurs, and it is sadly frequent, it is impossible that the poor labourer can either seek or find a half, or even a whole day's labour. He has no garden, or patch of ground upon which he might expend with profit his leisure, or his extra time; he has nothing to occupy him; nor can he make an occupation perhaps, for he has not the most trifling means to obtain even lime to whitewash his cabin.

Then, if he do smoke his "dhudeen, leaning against his door-way," where so proper for him to be, as with his wife and children? And is the so-named "weed of peacefulness" sought for by the highest in the land as a soothing enjoyment; by those who have but to wish for and obtain every luxury and blessing that wealth can give--is the scanty use of the meanest portion of it, improper or slothful in him who knows no single blessing but his wife and family? But it cannot be fairly deemed so. The custom is universal, and the Irish peasant, declared by the Legislature it may be said, to endure more privation than the peasant of any other country in Europe, ought not to be set down as _slothful_, because, to soothe his care, he smokes his "dhudeen."

Again, we are told by tourists of the fearful fact, that men, women, children, a cow, a horse, a pig, congregate together at night in one cabin; _one bed for all_! How dreadful the truth--for it is true to the letter. But we are not told the cause; on the contrary, subsequent commentary ascribes the fact, in no gentle terms, to the "slothful, filthy habits of the people." Yet, when such realities exist, it is not wonderful that they who so patiently bear, should be set down as the producers of their own misery--still they are not only not so, but they have no power to release themselves from the thraldom which sinks them day by day deeper in degradation.

Once more I return to the truck system of the potato. If 4,000,000 of the people of Ireland have sustained life, and barely, on that root alone--many and many a day without even salt--how well may it be understood that they have not means to buy proper clothing. In fact, their only hope for this, is on "_the woman_," as they express, whose sole dependance has been on eggs from her few hens--knitting stockings, in some localities, in others, spinning. But the numerous calls for family necessities swallow up these little means; and it may with truth be said, that except a single blanket, or a coa.r.s.e rug, there is rarely to be found any thing in their cabins as covering for the night. The clothes of all are clubbed together to do the office of the blanket and the counterpane. Then, think of the cabins they live in. In one county alone, Mayo, there are 31,084 composed of one apartment only, without gla.s.s windows, and without chimneys; and the door so frail and badly made, that every blast finds its way through it. The floors are _mud_, the beds straw or ferns strewed sometimes on stones raised above the ground. The father and mother sleep in the centre, the children at each side, and the pig and horse, or goat, as may be, at one end. How dreadful it is to contemplate that such should be a fact existing in a Christian country--and worse, that this most fearful reality, which arises from the people's helpless misery, should be made a charge of "filthy habit" in place of being urged as the ground-work for the perfect change of a system which could allow so crying an evil. It is a truth, that men, _women_ and children, pigs and cattle, lie in one bed!--but what causes it? Their hopeless, helpless, poverty. They have not a sufficiency of clothes to cover them at night in winter; _and if they did not bring in the pig and cattle to create warmth in their cabins, they must perish of cold_. This is the cause, and the only cause, and the true proof is, no tourist will pretend to tell you it occurs in summer.

Having now seen what the lower cla.s.s of Irish endure, it may be well to look into their natural character, and ascertain what is the cause of that endurance--what are their virtues, and what their vices?

That "endurance under privation, greater than that of any country in Europe," is the true characteristic of the peasantry, cannot be questioned, particularly after being declared by the high authority of the Devon Commission. That it is innate in their character, is evident.

They believe that "whatever is, is best"--not as fatalists; for under the most severe suffering, you will hear them say, "Well, shure, it's a marcy 'twasn't worse any how." "Well, I'm shure, I might be contint, bekase it might be double as bad." And every sentence ends--"And G.o.d is good." They have also a certain natural _spring_ (lessening daily) which upholds them, and they _try_ to make the best of every thing as it comes.