Phelim, pursuant to his resolution, returned to his hotel, and shut himself up in his room, where he remained in perfect silence and consequent safety till about nine o’clock. Suddenly he heard a great huzzaing in the street; he looked out of the window, and saw that all the houses in the street were illuminated. His landlady came bustling into his apartment, followed by waiters with candles. His spirits instantly rose, though he did not clearly know the cause of the rejoicings. “I give you joy, ma’am. What are you all illuminating for?” said he to his landlady.
“Thank you, sir, with all my heart. I am not sure. It is either for a great victory or the peace. Bob — waiter — step out and inquire for the gentleman.”
The gentleman preferred stepping out to inquire for himself. The illuminations were in honour of the peace. He totally forgot his bet, his silence, and his prudence, in his sympathy with the general joy. He walked rapidly from street to street, admiring the various elegant devices. A crowd was standing before the windows of a house that was illuminated with extraordinary splendour. He inquired whose it was, and was informed that it belonged to a contractor, who had made an immense fortune by the war.
“Then I’m sure these illuminations of his for the peace are none of the most sincere,” said O’Mooney. The mob were of his opinion; and Phelim, who was now, alas! worked up to the proper pitch for blundering, added, by way of pleasing his audience still more—”If this contractor had illuminated in character, it should have been with dark lanterns.”
“Should it? by Jasus! that would be an Irish illumination,” cried some one. “Arrah, honey! you’re an Irishman, whoever you are, and have spoke your mind in character.”
Sir John Bull was vexed that the piece of wit which he had aimed at the contractor had recoiled upon himself. “It is always, as my countryman observed, by having too much wit that I blunder. The deuce take me if I sport a single bon mot more this night. This is only my seventh detection, I have an eighth blunder still to the good; and if I can but keep my wit to myself till I am out of purgatory, then I shall be in heaven, and may sing Io Triumphe in spite of my brother.”
Fortunately, Phelim had not made it any part of his bet that he should not speak to himself an Irish idiom, or that he should not think a bull. Resolved to be as obstinately silent as a monk of La Trappe, he once more shut himself up in his cell, and fell fast asleep — dreamed that fat bulls of Basan encompassed him round about — that he ran down a steep bill to escape them — that his foot slipped — he rolled to the bottom — felt the bull’s horns in his side — heard the bull bellowing in his — ears — wakened — and found Terence M’Dermod bellowing at his room door.
“Sir John Bull! Sir John Bull! murder! murder! my dear master, Sir John Bull! murder, robbery, and reward! let me in! for the love of the Holy Virgin! they are all after you!”
“Who? are you drunk, Terence?” said Sir John, opening the door.
“No, but they are mad — all mad.”
“Who?”
“The constable. They are all mad entirely, and the lord mayor, all along with your honour’s making me swear I would not tell your name. Sure they are all coming armed in a body to put you in jail for a forgery, unless I run back and tell them the truth — will I?”
“First tell me the truth, blunderer!”
“I’ll make my affidavit I never blundered, plase your honour, but just went to the merchant’s, as you ordered, with the draft, signed with the name I swore not to utter till past twelve. I presents the draft, and waits to be paid. ‘Are you Mr. O’Mooney’s servant?’ says one of the clerks after a while. ‘No, sir, not at all, sir,’ said I; ‘I’m Sir John Bull’s, at your sarvice.’ He puzzles and puzzles, and asks me did I bring the draft, and was that your writing at the bottom of it? I still said it was my master’s writing, Sir John Bull’s, and no other. They whispered from one up to t’other, and then said it was a forgery, as I overheard, and I must go before the mayor. With that, while the master, who was called down to be examined as to his opinion, was putting on his glasses to spell it out, I gives them, one and all, the slip, and whips out of the street door and home to give your honour notice, and have been breaking my heart at the door this half hour to make you hear — and now you have it all.”
“I am in a worse dilemma now than when between the horns of the bull,” thought Sir John: “I must now either tell my real name, avow myself an Irishman, and so lose my bet, or else go to jail.”
He preferred going to jail. He resolved to pretend to be dumb, and he charged Terence not to betray him. The officers of justice came to take him up: Sir John resigned himself to them, making signs that he could not speak. He was carried before a magistrate. The merchant had never seen Mr. Phelim O’Mooney, but could swear to his handwriting and signature, having many of his letters and drafts. The draft in question was produced. Sir John Bull would neither acknowledge nor deny the signature, but in dumb show made signs of innocence. No art or persuasion could make him speak; he kept his fingers on his lips. One of the bailiffs offered to open Sir John’s mouth. Sir John clenched his hand, in token that if they used violence he knew his remedy. To the magistrate he was all bows and respect: but the law, in spite of civility, must take its course.
Terence McDermod beat his breast, and called upon all the saints in the Irish calendar when he saw the committal actually made out, and his dear master given over to the constables. Nothing but his own oath and his master’s commanding eye, which was fixed upon him at this instant, could have made him forbear to utter, what he had never in his life been before so strongly tempted to tell — the truth.
Determined to win his wager, our hero suffered himself to be carried to a lock-up house, and persisted in keeping silence till the clock struck twelve! Then the charm was broken, and he spoke. He began talking to himself, and singing as loud as he possibly could. The next morning Terence, who was no longer bound by his oath to conceal Phelim’s name, hastened to his master’s correspondent in town, told the whole story, and O’Mooney was liberated. Having won his bet by his wit and steadiness, he had now the prudence to give up these adventuring schemes, to which he had so nearly become a dupe; he returned immediately to Ireland to his brother, and determined to settle quietly to business. His good brother paid him the hundred guineas most joyfully, declaring that he had never spent a hundred guineas better in his life than in recovering a brother. Phelim had now conquered his foolish dislike to trade: his brother took him into partnership, and Phelim O’Mooney never relapsed into Sir John Bull.
CONCLUSION.
Unable any longer to support the tone of irony, we joyfully speak in our own characters, and explicitly declare our opinion, that the Irish are an ingenious, generous people; that the bulls and blunders of which they are accused are often imputable to their neighbours, or that they are justifiable by ancient precedents, or that they are produced by their habits of using figurative and witty language. By what their good-humour is produced we know not; but that it exists we are certain. In Ireland, the countenance and heart expand at the approach of wit and humour: the poorest labourer forgets his poverty and toil, in the pleasure of enjoying a joke. Amongst all classes of the people, provided no malice is obviously meant, none is apprehended. That such is the character of the majority of the nation there cannot to us be a more convincing and satisfactory proof than the manner in which a late publication64 was received in Ireland. The Irish were the first to laugh at the caricature of their ancient foibles, and it was generally taken merely as good-humoured raillery, not as insulting satire. If gratitude for this generosity has now betrayed us unawares into the language of panegyric, we may hope for pardon from the liberal of both nations. Those who are thoroughly acquainted with Ireland will most readily acknowledge the justice of our praises; those who are ignorant of the country will not, perhaps, be displeased to have their knowledge of the people of Ireland extended. Many foreign pictures of Irishmen are as grotesque and absurd as the Chinese pictures of lions: having ne
ver seen that animal, the Chinese can paint him only from the descriptions of voyagers, which are sometimes ignorantly, sometimes wantonly exaggerated.
In Voltaire’s Age of Lewis the Fourteenth we find the following passage:—”Some nations seem made to be subject to others. The English have always had over the Irish the superiority of genius, wealth, and arms. The superiority which the whites have over the negroes.” 65 A note in a subsequent edition informs us, that the injurious expression—”The superiority which the whites have over the negroes,” was erased by Voltaire; and his editor subjoins his own opinion. “The nearly savage state in which Ireland was when she was conquered, her superstition, the oppression exercised by the English, the religious fanaticism which divides the Irish into two hostile nations, such were the causes which have held down this people in depression and weakness. Religious hatreds are appeased, and this country has recovered her liberty. The Irish no longer yield to the English, either in industry or in information.” 66
The last sentence of this note might, if it had reached the eyes or ears of the incensed Irish historian, Mr. O’Halloran, have assuaged his wrath against Voltaire for the unguarded expression in the text; unless the amor patriae of the historian, like the amour propre of some individuals, instead of being gratified by congratulations on their improvement, should be intent upon demonstrating that there never was anything to improve. As we were neither born nor bred in Ireland, we cannot be supposed to possess this amor patriae in its full force: we profess to be attached to the country only for its merits; we acknowledge that it is a matter of indifference to us whether the Irish derive their origin from the Spaniards, or the Milesians, or the Welsh: we are not so violently anxious as we ought to be to determine whether or not the language spoken by the Phoenician slave, in Terence’s play, was Irish; nay, we should not break our hearts if it could never be satisfactorily proved that Albion is only another name for Ireland.67 We moreover candidly confess that we are more interested in the fate of the present race of its inhabitants than in the historian of St. Patrick, St. Facharis, St. Cormuc; the renowned Brien Boru; Tireldach, king of Connaught; M’Murrough, king of Leinster; Diarmod; Righ-Damnha; Labra-Loing-seach; Tighermas; Ollamh-Foldha; the M’Giolla-Pha-draigs; or even the great William of Ogham; and by this declaration we have no fear of giving offence to any but rusty antiquaries. We think it somewhat, more to the honour of Ireland to enumerate the names of some of the men of genius whom she has produced: Milton and Shakspeare stand unrivalled; but Ireland can boast of Usher, Boyle, Denham, Congreve, Molyneux, Farquhar, Sir Richard Steele, Bickerstaff, Sir Hans Sloane, Berkeley, Orrery, Parnell, Swift, T. Sheridan, Welsham, Bryan Robinson, Goldsmith, Sterne, Johnsons68, Tickel, Brooke, Zeland, Hussey Burgh, three Hamiltons, Young, Charlemont, Macklin, Murphy, Mrs. Sheridan,69 Francis Sheridan, Kirwan, Brinsley Sheridan, and Burke.
We enter into no invidious comparisons: it is our sincere wish to conciliate both countries; and if in this slight essay we should succeed in diffusing a more just and enlarged idea of the Irish than has been generally entertained, we hope the English will deem it not an unacceptable service. Whatever might have been the policy of the English nation towards Ireland whilst she was a separate kingdom, since the union it can no longer be her wish to depreciate the talents or ridicule the language of Hibernians. One of the Czars of Russia used to take the cap and bells from his fool, and place it on the head of any of his subjects whom he wished to disgrace. The idea of extending such a punishment to a whole nation was ingenious and magnanimous; but England cannot now put it into execution towards Ireland. Would it not be a practical bull to place the bells upon her own imperial head?
1801.
APPENDIX.
The following collection of Foreign Bulls was given us by a man of letters, who is now father of the French Academy.
RECUEIL DE BÊTISES.
Toutes les nations ont des contes plaisans de bêtises échappées non seulement à des personnes vraiment bêtes, mais aux distractions de gens qui ne sont pas sans esprit. Les Italiens ont leurs spropositi, leur arlequin ses balourdises, les Anglois leurs blunders, les Irlandois leurs bulls.
Mademoiselle Maria Edgeworth ayant fait un recueil de ces derniers, je prends la liberté de lui offrir un petit recueil de nos bêtises qui méritent le nom qu’elles portent aussi bien que les Irish bulls. J’ai fait autrefois une dissertation où je recherchois quelle étoit la cause du rire qu’excitent les bêtises, et dans laquelle j’appuyois mon explication de beaucoup d’exemples et peut-être même du mien sans m’en appercevoir; mais la femme d’esprit à qui j’ai adressé cette folie l’a perdue, et je n’ai pas pu la recouvrir.
Je me souviens seulement que j’y prouvois savamment que le rire excité par les bêtises est l’effet du contraste que nous saisissons entre l’effort que fait l’homme qui dit la bêtise, et le mauvais succès de son effort. J’assimilois la marche de l’esprit dans celui qui dit une bêtise, à ce qui arrive à un homme qui cherchant à marcher légèrement sur un pavé glissant, tombe lourdement, ou aux tours mal-adroits du paillasse de la foire. Si l’on veut examiner les bêtises rassemblèes ici, on y trouvera toujours un effort manqué de ce genre.
Un homme, dont la femme avoit été saignée, interrogé le lendemain pourquoi elle ne paroissoit pas à table, répondit:—”Elle garde la chambre: Morand l’a saignée hier, et une saignée affoiblit beaucoup quand elle est faite par un habile homme.”
M. de Baville, intendant du Languedoc, avoit un secrétaire fort bête: il se servoit un jour de lui pour écrire au ministre sur des affaires très importantes et dicta ces mots: “Ne soyez point surpris de ce que je me sers d’une main étrangère pour vous écrire sur cet objet. Mon secrétaire est si bête qu’à ce moment même il ne s’apperçoit pas que je vous parle de lui.”
On demandoit à un abbé de Laval Montmorency quel âge avoit son frère le maréchal dont il étoit l’aîné. “Dans deux ans,” dit-il, “nous serons du même âge.”
On se préparoit à observer une éclipse, et le roi devoit assister à l’observation. M. de Jonville disoit à M. Cassini—”N’attendra-t-on pas le roi pour commencer l’éclipse?”
Une femme du peuple qui avoit une petite fille malade avec le transport au cerveau, disoit au médecin, “Ah, monsieur, si vous l’aviez entendu cette nuit! elle a déraisonnée comme une grande personne.”
Un homme avoit parié 25 louis qu’il traverseroit le grand bassin des Thuileries par un froid très rigoureux; il alla jusqu’au milieu, renonça à son entreprise, et revint par le même chemin en disant, “J’aime mieux perdre vingt-cinq louis que d’avoir une fluxion de poitrine.”
Un homme voyoit venir de loin un médecin de sa connoissance qui l’avoit traité plusieurs années auparavant dans une maladie; il se détourna, et cacha son visage pour n’être pas reconnu. On lui demandoit, “Pourquoi.”—”C’est,” dit-il, “que je suis honteux devant lui de ce qu’il y a fort long temps que je n’ai été malade.”
On demande à un homme qui vouloit vendre un cheval, “Votre cheval est-il peureux?” “Oh, point du tout,” répond-il; “il vient de passer plusieurs nuits tout seul dans son écurie.”
Dans une querelle entre un père et son fils, le père reprochoit à celui-ci son ingratitude. “Je ne vous ai point d’obligations,” disoit le fils; “vous m’avez fait beaucoup de tort; si vous n’étiez point né, je serois à présent l’héritier de mon grand-père.”
Un avare faisant son testament, se fit lui-même son héritier.
Un homme voyoit un bateau si chargé que les bords en étoient à fleur d’eau: “Ma foi,” dit-il, “si la rivière étoit un peu plus haute le bateau iroit à fond.”
M. Hume, dans son histoire d’Angleterre, parlant de la conspiration attribuée aux Catholiques en 1678 sous Charles II. rapporte le mot d’un chevalier Player qui félicitoit la ville des précautions qu’elle avoit prises—”Et sans lesquelles,” disoit-il, “tous les citoyens auroient couru risque de se trouver égorgés le lendemain à leur réve
il.”
Le maire d’une petite ville, entendant une querelle dans la rue au milieu de la nuit, se lève du lit, et ouvrant la fenêtre, crie aux passans, “Messieurs, me lèverai-je?”
Un sot faisoit compliment à une demoiselle don’t la mère venoit de se marier en secondes noces avec un ancien ami de la maison—”Mademoiselle,” lui dit-il, “je suis ravi de ce que monsieur votre père vient d’épouser madame votre mère.”
Racine, qui avoit été toute sa vie courtisan très attentif, étoit enterré à Port Royal des Champs dont les solitaires s’étoient attirés l’indignation de Louis XIV. M. de Boissy, célèbre par ses distractions, disoit, “Racine n’auroit pas fait cela de son vivant.”
On racontait dans une conversation que Monsieur de Buffon avoit disséqué une de ses cousines, et une femme se récrioit sur l’inhumanité de l’anatomiste. M. de Mairan lui dit, “Mais, madame, elle étoit morte.”
On parloit avec admiration de la belle vieillesse d’un homme de quatre-vingt dix ans, quelqu’un dit—”Cela vous étonne, messieurs; si mon père n’étoit pas mort, il auroit à présent cent ans accomplis.”
Mouet, de l’opera comique, conte qu’arrivant de Lyon, et ne voulant pas qu’on sut qu’il étoit à Paris, il recommanda à son laquais, supposé qu’il fut rencontré, de dire qu’il étoit à Lyon. Le laquais trouve un ami de son maitre, qui lui en demande des nouvelles. “Il est à Lyon,” dit-il, “et il ne sera de retour que la semaine prochaine.” “Mais,” continue le questionneur, “que portez-vous là?” “Ce sont quelques provisions qu’il m’a envoyé chercher pour son diner.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 764