I thought to make him a priest.—It was customary amongst those of Thady’s rank in Ireland, whenever they could get a little money, to send their sons abroad to St. Omer’s, or to Spain, to be educated as priests. Now they are educated at Maynooth. The Editor has lately known a young lad, who began by being a post-boy, afterwards turn into a carpenter, then quit his plane and workbench to study his “humanities,” as he said, at the college of Maynooth; but after he had gone through his course of Humanities, he determined to be a soldier instead of a priest. ↩
Flam.—Short for flambeau. ↩
Barrack-room.—Formerly it was customary, in gentlemen’s houses in Ireland, to fit up one large bedchamber with a number of beds for the reception of occasional visitors. These rooms were called “barrack-rooms.” ↩
An innocent—in Ireland, means a simpleton, an idiot. ↩
This part of the history of the Rackrent family can scarcely be thought credible; but in justice to honest Thady, it is hoped the reader will recollect the history of the celebrated Lady Cathcart’s conjugal imprisonment. The Editor was acquainted with Colonel McGuire, Lady Cathcart’s husband; he has lately seen and questioned the maidservant who lived with Colonel McGuire during the time of Lady Cathcart’s imprisonment. Her ladyship was locked up in her own house for many years, during which period her husband was visited by the neighbouring gentry, and it was his regular custom at dinner to send his compliments to Lady Cathcart, informing her that the company had the honour to drink her ladyship’s health, and begging to know whether there was anything at table that she would like to eat? The answer was always, “Lady Cathcart’s compliments, and she has everything she wants.” An instance of honesty in a poor Irishwoman deserves to be recorded. Lady Cathcart had some remarkably fine diamonds, which she had concealed from her husband, and which she was anxious to get out of the house, lest he should discover them. She had neither servant nor friend to whom she could entrust them, but she had observed a poor beggar woman, who used to come to the house; she spoke to her from the window of the room in which she was confined; the woman promised to do what she desired, and Lady Cathcart threw a parcel containing the jewels to her. The poor woman carried them to the person to whom they were directed, and several years afterwards, when Lady Cathcart recovered her liberty, she received her diamonds safely.
At Colonel McGuire’s death her ladyship was released. The Editor, within this year, saw the gentleman who accompanied her to England after her husband’s death. When she first was told of his death she imagined that the news was not true, and that it was told only with an intention of deceiving her. At his death she had scarcely clothes sufficient to cover her; she wore a red wig, looked scared, and her understanding seemed stupefied; she said that she scarcely knew one human creature from another; her imprisonment lasted above twenty years. These circumstances may appear strange to an English reader; but there is no danger in the present times that any individual should exercise such tyranny as Colonel McGuire’s with impunity, the power being now all in the hands of government, and there being no possibility of obtaining from parliament an act of indemnity for any cruelties. ↩
The Curragh—is the Newmarket of Ireland. ↩
The cant.—The auction. ↩
And so should cut him off forever by levying a fine, and suffering a recovery to dock the entail.—The English reader may perhaps be surprised at the extent of Thady’s legal knowledge, and at the fluency with which he pours forth law-terms; but almost every poor man in Ireland, be he farmer, weaver, shopkeeper, or steward, is, besides his other occupations, occasionally a lawyer. The nature of processes, ejectments, custodiams, injunctions, replevins, etc., is perfectly known to them, and the terms as familiar to them as to any attorney. They all love law. It is a kind of lottery, in which every man, staking his own wit or cunning against his neighbour’s property, feels that he has little to lose, and much to gain.
“I’ll have the law of you, so I will!” is the saying of an Englishman who expects justice. “I’ll have you before his honour,” is the threat of an Irishman who hopes for partiality. Miserable is the life of a justice of the peace in Ireland the day after a fair, especially if he resides near a small town. The multitude of the kilt [“kilt” does not mean “killed,” but hurt] and wounded who come before his honour with black eyes or bloody heads is astonishing: but more astonishing is the number of those who, though they are scarcely able by daily labour to procure daily food, will nevertheless, without the least reluctance, waste six or seven hours of the day lounging in the yard or court of a justice of the peace, waiting to make some complaint about—nothing. It is impossible to convince them that time is money. They do not set any value upon their own time, and they think that others estimate theirs at less than nothing. Hence they make no scruple of telling a justice of the peace a story of an hour long about a “tester” [sixpence]; and if he grows impatient, they attribute it to some secret prejudice which he entertains against them.
Their method is to get a story completely by heart, and to tell it, as they call it, “out of the face,” that is, from the beginning to the end, without interruption.
“Well, my good friend, I have seen you lounging about these three hours in the yard; what is your business?”
“Please your honour, it is what I want to
