Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “All entirely,” was the first answer.

  “Not one but one,” was the second answer. The third made the other two intelligible.

  “Plase your honour, we are all her sons-in-law, except myself, who am her lawful son.”

  “Then you are my foster-brother?”

  “No, plase your honour, it’s not me, but my brother, and he’s not in it.”

  “Not in it?’

  “No, plase your honour; becaase he’s in the forge, up abow.”

  “Abow!” said I; “what does he mean?”

  “Sure he’s the blacksmith, my lard.”

  “And what are you?”

  “I’m Ody, plase your honour; the short for Owen.”

  “And what is your trade?”

  “Trade, plase your honour! I was bred to none, more than another; but expects, only that my mother’s not willing to part with me, to go into the militia next month; and I’m sure she’d let me, if your honour’s lordship would spake a word to the colonel, to see to get me made a serjeant immadiately.”

  As Ody made his request, all his companions came forward in sign of sympathy, and closed round my horse’s head to make me sinsible of their expectations; but at this instant Ellinor came up, her old face colouring all over with joy when she saw me.

  “So, Ellinor,” said I, “you were affronted, I hear, and left the castle in anger?”

  “In anger! And if I did, more shame for me — but anger does not last long with me any way; and against you, my lord, dear, how could it? Oh, think how good he is, coming to see me in such a poor place!”

  “I will make it a better place for you, Ellinor,” said I. Far from being eager to obtain promises, she still replied, that “all was good enough for her.” I desired that she would come and live with me at the castle, till a better house than her present habitation could be built for her; but she seemed to prefer this hovel. I assured her that she should be permitted to light my fire.

  “Oh, it’s better for me not,” said she; “better keep out of the way. I could not be asy if I got any one ill-will.”

  I assured her that she should be at liberty to do just as she liked: and whilst I rode home I was planning a pretty cottage for her near the porter’s lodge. I was pleased with myself for my gratitude to this poor woman. Before I slept, I actually wrote a letter, which obtained for Ody the honour of being made a serjeant in the —— militia; and Ellinor, dazzled by this military glory, was satisfied that he should leave home, though he was her favourite.

  “Well, let him leave me then,” said she; “I won’t stand in his light. I never thought of my living to see Ody a serjeant. Now, Ody, have done being wild, honey-dear, and be a credit to your family, and to his honour’s commendation — God bless him for ever for it! From the very first I knew it was he that had the kind heart.”

  I am not sure that it was a very good action to get a man made a serjeant, of whom I knew nothing but that he was son to my nurse. Self-complacency, however, cherished my first indistinct feelings of benevolence. Though not much accustomed to reflect upon my own sensations, I think I remember, at this period, suspecting that the feeling of benevolence is a greater pleasure than the possession of barouches, and horses, and castles, and parks — greater even than the possession of power. Of this last truth, however, I had not as yet a perfectly clear conception. Even in my benevolence I was as impatient and unreasonable as a child. Money, I thought, had the power of Aladdin’s lamp, to procure with magical celerity the gratification of my wishes. I expected that a cottage for Ellinor should rise out of the earth at my command. But the slaves of Aladdin’s lamp were not Irishmen. The delays, and difficulties, and blunders, in the execution of my orders, provoked me beyond measure; and it would have been difficult for a cool spectator to decide whether I or my workmen were most in fault; they for their dilatory habits, or I for my impatient temper.

  “Well, plase your honour, when the pratees are set, and the turf cut, we’ll fall-to at Ellinor’s house.”

  “Confound the potatoes and the turf! you must fall-to, as you call it, directly.”

  “Is it without the lime, and plase your honour? Sure that same is not drawn yet, nor the stones quarried, since it is of stone it will be — nor the foundations itself dug, and the horses were all putting out dung.”

  Then after the bog and the potatoes, came funerals and holidays innumerable. The masons were idle one week waiting for the mortar, and the mortar another week waiting for the stones, and then they were at a stand for the carpenter when they came to the door-case, and the carpenter was looking for the sawyer, and the sawyer was gone to have the saw mended. Then there was a stop again at the window-sills for the stone-cutter, and he was at the quarter-sessions, processing his brother for tin and tinpence, hay-money. And when, in spite of all delays and obstacles, the walls reached their destined height, the roof was a new plague; the carpenter, the slater, and the nailer, were all at variance, and I cannot tell which was the most provoking rogue of the three. At last, however, the house was roofed and slated: then I would not wait till the walls were dry before I plastered, and papered, and furnished it. I fitted it up in the most elegant style of English cottages; for I was determined that Ellinor’s habitation should be such as had never been seen in this part of the world. The day when it was finished, and when I gave possession of it to Ellinor, paid me for all my trouble; I tasted a species of pleasure that was new to me, and which was the sweeter from having been earned with some difficulty. And now, when I saw a vast number of my tenants assembled at a rural feast which I gave on Ellinor’s installation, my benevolence enlarged, even beyond the possibility of its gratification, and I wished to make all my dependants happy, provided I could accomplish it without much trouble. The method of doing good, which seemed to require the least exertion, and which I, therefore, most willingly practised, was giving away money. I did not wait to inquire, much less to examine into the merits of the claimants; but, without selecting proper objects, I relieved myself from the uneasy feeling of pity, by indiscriminate donations to objects apparently the most miserable.

  I was quite angry with Mr. M’Leod, my agent, and considered him as a selfish, hard-hearted miser, because he did not seem to sympathize with me, or to applaud my generosity. I was so much irritated by his cold silence, that I could not forbear pressing him to say something.

  “I doubt, then,” said he, “since you desire me to speak my mind, my lord, I doubt whether the best way of encouraging the industrious is to give premiums to the idle.”

  “But, idle or not, these poor wretches are so miserable, that I cannot refuse to give them something; and, surely, when one can do it so easily, it is right to relieve misery. Is it not?”

  “Undoubtedly, my lord; but the difficulty is, to relieve present misery, without creating more in future. Pity for one class of beings sometimes makes us cruel to others. I am told that there are some Indian Brahmins so very compassionate, that they hire beggars to let fleas feed upon them: I doubt whether it might not be better to let the fleas starve.”

  I did not in the least understand what Mr. M’Leod meant: but I was soon made to comprehend it, by crowds of eloquent beggars, who soon surrounded me: many who had been resolutely struggling with their difficulties, slackened their exertions, and left their labour for the easier trade of imposing upon my credulity. The money I had bestowed was wasted at the dram-shop, or it became the subject of family-quarrels; and those whom I had relieved returned to my honour, with fresh and insatiable expectations. All this time my industrious tenants grumbled, because no encouragement was given to them; and, looking upon me as a weak good-natured fool, they combined in a resolution to ask me for long leases, or reduction of rent.

  The rhetoric of my tenants succeeded in some instances; and again I was mortified by Mr. M’Leod’s silence. I was too proud to ask his opinion. I ordered, and was obeyed. A few leases for long terms were signed and sealed; and when I had thus my own way completely, I could not ref
rain from recurring to Mr. M’Leod’s opinion.

  “I doubt, my lord,” said he, “whether this measure may be as advantageous as you hope. These fellows, these middle-men, will underset the land, and live in idleness, whilst they rack a parcel of wretched under-tenants.”

  “But they said they would keep the land in their own hands, and improve it; and that the reason why they could not afford to improve before was, that they had not long leases.”

  “It may be doubted whether long leases alone will make improving tenants; for in the next county to us, there are many farms of the dowager Lady Ormsby’s land let at ten shillings an acre, and her tenantry are beggars: and the land now, at the end of the leases, is worn out, and worse than at their commencement.”

  I was weary listening to this cold reasoning, and resolved to apply no more for explanations to Mr. M’Leod; yet in my indolence I wanted the support of his approbation, at the very time I was jealous of his interference.

  At one time I had a mind to raise the wages of labour; but Mr. M’Leod said, “It might be doubted whether the people would not work less, when they could with less work have money enough to support them.”

  I was puzzled: and then I had a mind to lower the wages of labour, to force them to work or starve. Still provoking Mr. M’Leod said, “It might be doubted whether it would not be better to leave them alone.”

  I gave marriage-portions to the daughters of my tenants, and rewards to those who had children; for I had always heard that legislators should encourage population. Still Mr. M’Leod hesitated to approve; he observed, “that my estate was so populous, that the complaint in each family was, that they had not land for the sons. It might be doubted whether, if a farm could support but ten people, it were wise to encourage the birth of twenty. It might be doubted whether it were not better for ten to live, and be well fed, than for twenty to be born, and to be half-starved.”

  To encourage manufactures in my town of Glenthorn, I proposed putting a clause in my leases, compelling my tenants to buy stuffs and linens manufactured at Glenthorn, and no where else. Stubborn M’Leod, as usual, began with, “I doubt whether that will not encourage the manufacturers at Glenthorn to make bad stuffs and bad linen, since they are sure of a sale, and without danger of competition.”

  At all events, I thought my tenants would grow rich and independent, if they made every thing at home that they wanted: yet Mr. M’Leod perplexed me by his “doubt whether it would not be better for a man to buy shoes, if he could buy them cheaper than he could make them.” He added something about the division of labour, and Smith’s Wealth of Nations; to which I could only answer—”Smith’s a Scotchman.”

  I cannot express how much I dreaded Mr. M’Leod’s I doubt — and — It may be doubted.

  From the pain of doubt, and the labour of thought, I was soon most agreeably reprieved by the company of a Mr. Hardcastle, whose visits I constantly encouraged by a most gracious reception. Mr. Hardcastle was the agent of the dowager Lady Ormsby, who had a large estate in my neighbourhood: he was the very reverse of my Mr. M’Leod in his deportment and conversation. Talkative, self-sufficient, peremptory, he seemed not to know what it was to doubt; he considered doubt as a proof of ignorance, imbecility, or cowardice. “Can any man doubt?” was his usual beginning. On every subject of human knowledge, taste, morals, politics, economy, legislation; on all affairs, civil, military, or ecclesiastical, he decided at once in the most confident tone. Yet he “never read, not he!” he had nothing to do with books; he consulted only his own eyes and ears, and appealed only to common sense. As to theory, he had no opinion of theory; for his part, he only pretended to understand practice and experience — and his practice was confined steadily to his own practice, and his experience uniformly to what he had tried at New-town-Hardcastle.

  At first I thought him a mighty clever man, and I really rejoiced to see my doubter silenced. After dinner, when he had finished speaking in this decisive manner, I used frequently to back him with a — Very true — very fair — very clear — though I understood what he said as little as he did himself; but it was an ease to my mind to have a disputed point settled — and I filled my glass with an air of triumph, whilst M’Leod never contradicted my assertions, nor controverted Mr. Hardcastle’s arguments. There was still an air of content and quiet self-satisfaction in M’Leod’s very silence, which surprised and vexed me.

  One day, when Hardcastle was laying down the law upon several subjects in his usual dictatorial manner, telling us how he managed his people, and what order he kept them in, I was determined that M’Leod should not enjoy the security of his silence, and I urged him to give us his general opinion, as to the means of improving the poor people in Ireland.

  “I doubt,” said M’Leod, “whether any thing effectual can be done till they have a better education.”

  “Education! — Pshaw! — There it is now — these book-men,” cried Hardcastle: “Why, my dear sir, can any man alive, who knows this country, doubt that the common people have already too much education, as it is called — a vast deal too much? Too many of them know how to read, and write, and cipher, which I presume is all you mean by education.”

  “Not entirely,” said M’Leod; “a good education comprehends something more.”

  “The more the worse,” interrupted Hardcastle. “The more they know, the worse they are, sir, depend on that; I know the people of this country, sir; I have a good right to know them, sir, being born amongst them, and bred amongst them; so I think I may speak with some confidence on these matters. And I give it as my decided humble opinion, founded on irrefragable experience, which is what I always build upon, that the way to ruin the poor of Ireland would be to educate them, sir. Look at the poor scholars, as they call themselves; and what are they? a parcel of young vagabonds in rags, with a book under their arm instead of a spade or a shovel, sir. And what comes of this? that they grow up the worst-disposed, and the most troublesome seditiousrascals in the community. I allow none of them about New-town-Hardcastle — none — banished them all. Useless vagrants — hornets, vipers, sir: and show me a quieter, better-managed set of people than I have made of mine. I go upon experience, sir; and that’s the only thing to go upon; and I’ll go no farther than New-town-Hardcastle: if that won’t bring conviction home to you, nothing will.”

  “I never was at New-town-Hardcastle,” said M’Leod, drily.

  “Well, sir, I hope it will not be the case long. But in the mean time, my good sir, do give me leave to put it to your own common sense, what can reading or writing do for a poor man, unless he is to be a bailiff or an exciseman? and you know all men can’t expect to be bailiffs or excisemen. Can all the book-learning in the world, sir, dig a poor man’s potatoes for him, or plough his land, or cut his turf? Then, sir, in this country, where’s the advantage of education, I humbly ask? No, sir, no, trust me — keep the Irish common people ignorant, and you keep ’em quiet; and that’s the only way with them; for they are too quiet and smart, as it is, naturally. Teach them to read and write, and it’s just adding fuel to fire — fire to gunpowder, sir. Teach them any thing, and directly you set them up: now it’s our business to keep them down, unless, sir, you’d wish to have your throat cut. Education, sir! Lord bless your soul, sir! they have a great deal too much; they know too much already, which makes them so refractory to the laws, and so idle. I will go no farther than New-town-Hardcastle, to prove all this. So, my good sir,” concluded he, triumphantly, “education, I grant you, is necessary for the rich; but tell me, if you can, what’s the use of education to the poor?”

  “Much the same, I apprehend, as to the rich,” answered M’Leod. “The use of education, as I understand it, is to teach men to see clearly, and to follow steadily, their real interests. All morality, you know, is comprised in this definition; and—”

  “Very true, sir; but all this can never apply to the poor in Ireland.”

  “Why, sir; are they not men?”

  “Men, to be sur
e; but not like men in Scotland. The Irish know nothing of their interests; and as to morality, that’s out of the question: they know nothing about it, my dear sir.”

  “That is the very thing of which I complain,” said M’Leod. “They know nothing, because they have been taught nothing.”

  “They cannot be taught, sir.”

  “Did you ever try?”

  “I did, sir, no later than last week. A fellow that I caught stealing my turf, instead of sending him to jail, I said to him, with a great deal of lenity, My honest fellow, did you never hear of the eighth commandment, ‘Thou shalt not steal?’ He confessed he had; but did not know it was the eighth. I showed it to him, and counted it to him myself; and set him, for a punishment, to get his whole catechism. Well, sir, the next week I found him stealing my turf again! and when I caught him by the wrist in the fact, he said, it was because the priest would not let him learn the catechism I gave him, because it was a Protestant one. Now you see, sir, there’s a bar for ever to all education.”