[76] "For fostering, I did never hear or read, that it was in use or reputation in any country, barbarous or civil, as it hath been, and yet is, in Ireland.... In the opinion of this people, fostering hath always been a stronger alliance than blood; and the foster-children do love and are beloved of their foster-fathers and their sept (or _clan_) more than of their natural parents and kindred; and do partic.i.p.ate of their means more frankly, and do adhere unto them, in all fortunes, with more affection and constancy.... Such a general custom in a kingdom, in giving and taking children to foster, making such a firm alliance as it doth in Ireland, was never seen or heard of in any other country of the world beside."--DAVIES.

See in Lodge's Peerage of Ireland an account of an Irish nurse, who went from Kerry to France, and from France to Milan, to see her foster-son, the Lord Thomas Fitzmaurice; and to warn him that his estate was in danger from an heir-at-law, who had taken possession of it in his absence. The nurse, being very old, died on her return home.

[77] Verbatim.

[78] Since Lord Glenthorn's Memoirs were published, the editor has received letters and information from the east, west, north, and south of Ireland, on the present state of posting in that country. The following is one of the many, which is vouched by indisputable authority as a true and recent anecdote, given in the very words in which it was related to the editor ... Mr. ------, travelling in Ireland, having got into a hackney chaise, was surprised to hear the driver knocking at each side of the carriage. "What are you doing?"--"A'n't I nailing your honour up?"--"Why do you nail me up? I don't wish to be nailed up."--"Augh! would your honour have the doors fly off the hinges?" When they came to the end of the stage, Mr. ------ begged the man to unfasten the doors. "Ogh! what would I he taking out the nails for, to be racking the doors?"--"How shall I get out then?"--"Can't your honour get out of the window like any other _jantleman?_" Mr. ------ began the operation; but, having forced his head and shoulder out, could get no farther, and called again to the postilion. "Augh! did any one ever see any one get out of a chay head foremost? Can't your honour put out your feet first, like a Christian?"

Another correspondent from the south relates, that when he refused to go on till one of the four horses, who wanted a shoe, was shod, his two postilions in his hearing commenced thus: "Paddy, where _will_ I get a shoe, and no smith nigh hand?"--"Why don't you see yon _jantleman's_ horse in the field? can't you go and unshoe him?"--"True for ye," said Jem; "but that horse's shoe will never fit him."--"Augh! you can but try it," said Paddy.--So the gentleman's horse was actually unshod, and his shoe put upon the hackney horse; and, fit or not fit, Paddy went off with it.

Another gentleman, travelling in the north of Ireland in a hackney chaise during a storm of wind and rain, found that two of the windows were broken, and two could not by force or art of man be pulled up: he ventured to complain to his Paddy of the inconvenience he suffered from the storm pelting in his face. His consolation was, "Augh! G.o.d bless your honour, and can't you get out and _set_ behind the carriage, and you'll not get a drop at all, I'll engage."

[79] Mirabeau--Secret Memoirs.

[80] See Philosophical Transactions, vol. lxvii. part ii., Sir George Shuckburgh's observations to ascertain the height of mountains--for a full account of the cabin of a couple of Alpine shepherdesses.

[81] See Harrison.

[82] "En pet.i.t compris vous pouvez voir Ce qui comprend beaucoup par renomme, Plume, labeur, la langue, et le devoir Furent vaincus par l'amant de l'aimee.

O gentille ame, etant toute estimee!

Qui te pourra louer, qu'en se taisant?

Car la parole est toujours reprimee Quand le sujet surmonte le disant."

[83] "The stag is roused from the woods that skirt Glenaa mountain, in which there are many of these animals that run wild; the bottoms and sides of the mountains are covered with woods, and the declivities are so long and steep that no horse could either make his way to the bottom, or climb these impracticable hills. It is impossible to follow the hunt, either on foot or on horseback. The spectator enjoys the diversion on the lake, where the cry of hounds, the harmony of the horn, resounding from the hills on every side, the universal shouts of joy along the valleys and mountains, which are often lined with foot-people, who come in vast numbers to partake and a.s.sist at the diversion, re-echo from hill to hill, and give the highest glee and satisfaction that the imagination can conceive possible to arise from the chase, and perhaps can nowhere be enjoyed with that spirit and sublime elevation of soul, that a thorough-bred sportsman feels at a stag-hunt on the Lake of Killarney. There is, however, one imminent danger which awaits him; that in his raptures and ecstasies he may forget himself and jump out of the boat. When hotly pursued, and weary with the constant difficulty of making his way with his ramified antlers through the woods, the stag, terrified at the cry of his open-mouthed pursuers, almost at his heels, now looks toward the lake as his last resource--then pauses and looks upwards; but the hills are insurmountable, and the woods refuse to shelter him--the hounds roar with redoubled fury at the sight of their victim--he plunges into the lake. He escapes but for a few minutes from one merciless enemy to fall into the hands of another--the shouting boat-men surround their victim--throw cords round his majestic antlers--he is haltered and dragged to sh.o.r.e; while the big tears roll down his face, and his heaving sides and panting flanks speak his agonies, the keen searching knife drinks his blood, and savages exult at his expiring groan."

[84] Than.

[85] An Irishman in using this word has some confused notion that it comes from _negro_; whereas it really means n.i.g.g.ard.

THE DUN.

"Horrible monster! hated by G.o.ds and men."--PHILLIPS.

"In the higher and middle cla.s.ses of society," says a celebrated writer, "it is a melancholy and distressing sight to observe, not unfrequently, a man of a n.o.ble and ingenuous disposition, once feelingly alive to a sense of honour and integrity, gradually sinking under the pressure of his circ.u.mstances, making his excuses at first with a blush of conscious shame, afraid to see the faces of his friends from whom he may have borrowed money, reduced to the meanest tricks and subterfuges to delay or avoid the payment of his just debts, till, ultimately grown familiar with falsehood, and at enmity with the world, he loses all the grace and dignity of man."

Colonel Pembroke, the subject of the following story, had not, at the time his biographer first became acquainted with him, "grown familiar with falsehood;" his conscience was not entirely callous to reproach, nor was his heart insensible to compa.s.sion; but he was in a fair way to get rid of all troublesome feelings and principles. He was connected with a set of selfish young men of fashion, whose opinions stood him in stead of law, equity, and morality; to them he appealed in all doubtful cases, and his self-complacency being daily and hourly dependent upon their decisions, he had seldom either leisure or inclination to consult his own judgment. His amus.e.m.e.nts and his expenses were consequently regulated by the example of his companions, not by his own choice. To follow them in every absurd variety of the mode, either in dress or, equipage, was his first ambition; and all their fact.i.tious wants appeared to him objects of the first necessity. No matter how good the boots, the hat, the coat, the furniture, or the equipage might be, if they had outlived the fashion of the day, or even of the hour, they were absolutely worthless in his eyes. _n.o.body_ could be seen in such things--then of what use could they be to _any body_? Colonel Pembroke's finances were not exactly equal to the support of such _liberal_ principles; but this was a misfortune which he had in common with several of his companions. It was no check to their spirit--they could live upon credit--credit, "that talisman, which realizes every thing it imagines, and which can imagine every thing." [See Des Casaux sur le Mechanisme de la Societe.] Without staying to reflect upon the immediate or remote consequences of this system, Pembroke, in his first attempts, found it easy to reduce it to practice: but, as he proceeded, he experienced some difficulties. Tradesmen's bills acc.u.mulated, and applications for payment became every day more frequent and pressing. He defended himself with much address and ingenuity, and practice perfected him in all the Fabian arts of delay. "_No faith with duns_" became, as he frankly declared, a maxim of his morality. He could now, with a most plausible face, protest to a _poor devil_, upon the honour of a gentleman, that he should be paid to-morrow; when nothing was farther from his intentions or his power than to keep his word: and when _to-morrow_ came, he could, with the most easy a.s.surance, _d.a.m.n the rascal_ for putting a gentleman in mind of his promises. But there were persons more difficult to manage than _poor devils_. Colonel Pembroke's tailor, who had begun by being the most accommodating fellow in the world, and who had in three years run him up a bill of thirteen hundred pounds, at length began to fail in complaisance, and had the impertinence to talk of his large family, and his urgent calls for money, etc. And next, the colonel's shoe and boot-maker, a man from whom he had been in the habit of taking two hundred pounds' worth of shoes and boots every year, for himself and his servants, now pretended to be in distress for ready money, and refused to furnish more goods upon credit. "Ungrateful dog!" Pembroke called him; and he actually believed his creditors to be ungrateful and insolent, when they asked for their money; for men frequently learn to believe what they are in the daily habit of a.s.serting [Rochefoucault], especially if their a.s.sertions be not contradicted by their audience. He knew that his tradesmen overcharged him in every article he bought, and therefore he thought it but just to delay payment whilst it suited his convenience. "Confound them, they can very well afford to wait!" As to their pleas of urgent demands for ready money, large families, &c., he considered these merely as words of course, tradesmen's cant, which should make no more impression upon a gentleman than the whining of a beggar.

One day when Pembroke was just going out to ride with some of his gay companions, he was stopped at his own door by a pale, thin, miserable-looking boy, eight or nine years old, who presented him with a paper, which he took for granted was a pet.i.tion; he threw the child half-a-crown. "There, take that," said he, "and stand out of the way of my horse's heels, I advise you, my little fellow."

The boy, however, still pressed closer; and, without picking up the half-crown, held the paper to Colonel Pembroke, who had now vaulted into his saddle.

"O no! no! That's too much, my lad--I never read pet.i.tions--I'd sooner give half-a-crown at any time than read a pet.i.tion."

"But, sir, this is not a pet.i.tion--indeed, sir, I am not a beggar."

"What is it then?--Heyday! a bill!--Then you're worse than a beggar--a dun!--a dun! in the public streets, at your time of life! You little rascal, why what will you come to before you are your father's age?"

The boy sighed. "If," pursued the colonel, "I were to serve you right, I should give you a good horse-whipping. Do you see this whip?"

"I do, sir," said the boy; "but----"

"But what? you insolent little dun!--But what?"

"My father is dying," said the child, bursting into tears, "and we have no money to buy him bread, or any thing."

Struck by these words, Pembroke s.n.a.t.c.hed the paper from the boy, and looking hastily at the total and t.i.tle of the bill, read--"Twelve pounds fourteen--John White, weaver."--"I know of no such person!--I have no dealings with weavers, child," said the colonel, laughing: "My name's Pembroke--Colonel Pembroke."

"Colonel Pembroke--yes, sir, the very person Mr. Close, the tailor, sent me to!"

"Close the tailor! D--n the rascal: was it he sent you to dun me? For this trick he shall not see a farthing of my money this twelvemonth. You may tell him so, you little whining hypocrite!--And, hark you! the next time you come to me, take care to come with a better story--let your father and mother, and six brothers and sisters, be all lying ill of the fever--do you understand?"

He tore the bill into bits as he spoke, and showered it over the boy's head. Pembroke's companions laughed at this operation, and he facetiously called it "powdering a dun." They rode off to the Park in high spirits; and the poor boy picked up the half-crown, and returned home. His home was in a lane in Moorfields, about three miles distant from this gay part of the town. As the child had not eaten any thing that morning, he was feeble, and grew faint as he was crossing Covent Garden. He sat down upon the corner of a stage of flowers.

"What are you doing there?" cried a surly man, pulling him up by the arm; "What business have you lounging and loitering here, breaking my best balsam?"

"I did not mean to do any harm--I am not loitering, indeed, sir,--I'm only weak," said the boy, "and hungry."

"Oranges! oranges! fine China oranges!" cried a woman, rolling her barrow full of fine fruit towards him. "If you've a two-pence in the world, you can't do better than take one of these fine ripe China oranges."

"I have not two-pence of my own in the world," said the boy.

"What's that I see through the hole in your waistcoat pocket?" said the woman; "is not that silver?"

"Yes, half-a-crown; which I am carrying home to my father, who is ill, and wants it more than I do."

"Pooh! take an orange out of it--it's only two-pence--and it will do you good--I'm sure you look as if you wanted it badly enough."

"That may be; but father wants it worse.--No, I won't change my half-crown," said the boy, turning away from the tempting oranges.

The gruff gardener caught him by the hand.

"Here, I've moved the balsam a bit, and it is not broke, I see; sit ye down, child, and rest yourself, and eat this," said he, putting into his hand half a ripe orange, which he just cut.

"Thank you!--G.o.d bless you, sir!--How good it is!--But," said the child, stopping after he had tasted the sweet juice, "I am sorry I have sucked so much; I might have carried it home to father, who is ill; and what a treat it would be to him!--I'll keep the rest."

"No--that you sha'n't," said the orange-woman. "But I'll tell you what you shall do--take this home to your father, which is a better one by half--I'm sure it will do him good--I never knew a ripe China orange do harm to man, woman, or child."

The boy thanked the good woman and the gardener, as only those can thank who have felt what it is to be in absolute want. When he was rested, and able to walk, he pursued his way home. His mother was watching for him at the street-door.

"Well, John, my dear, what news? Has he paid us?"

The boy shook his head.

"Then we must bear it as well as we can," said his mother, wiping the cold dew from her forehead.