University of Virginia Library

ON THE HABITS OF IRISHMEN.

The Green island of Erin, which should more properly
be called the Red island of Ire, is situated off the
northwest coast of England. It is about two hundred
and seventy-eight miles in length, by one hundred and
fifty-five in breadth, differing therein from the brogue of
the country, which is as broad as it is long. It is inhabited
by a race known familiarly as Irishmen. Its principal
exports are linens, whiskey, and emigrants, the two latter
usually going together, the former by itself. It is also
famous for its breed of bulls, specimens of which, pontifical
and otherwise, may be found in any history of Erin:
passim.

Ireland is also celebrated for its wit and poverty: two

words which have become synonyms in almost every language.
Its cleanliness is proverbial, the very pigs being as
clean, if not cleaner, than their owners; while in regard
to honesty, we are assured by Swift “that the children
seldom pick up a livelihood by stealing until they arrive
at six years old;” although he confesses they get the
rudiments much earlier. The cultivation of vegetables
is an object of national interest in Ireland, especially the
shamrock and shillelah; the latter, in fact, may be seen
flourishing all over the island. As to vermin, if there be
any truth in history, St. Patrick gave them their quietus
in the year 526; then, or thenabout: I am not critical
as to the exact date, but a traditional something to that
effect has been running in every Irishman's head since the
epoch of the Saint's visit in that century.

Ireland is also famous for sobriety, although the Maine
Law has not yet been introduced: “for how,” says Pat,
“can we have a `Maine Law' upon an island? Besides,
we could only carry it out at the point of the bayonet,
which would be the biggest bull poor Paddy ever yet
made in the way of philanthropy!” But there is another
reason. It is embodied in a legend of St. Patrick, and a
legend with an Irishman is as good as an axiom with a
mathematician. It is this:—

Perhaps no people in the world possess more of the
“amor patriæ” than the inhabitants of this interesting
country. Thousands come to our shores every week who
would live or die for ould Ireland, but who would neither
live nor die in ould Ireland: it being a notion with Pat
that the best way to enjoy himself at home is by going
abroad. This patriotic and philosophical sentiment has
been sometimes emulated in the land of the free and the
home of the brave.

In foreign climes two arts, two sciences, engage the
attention of the Hibernian: Horticulture and Architecture.
Passing along the streets, the spectator is struck
with façades of beautiful buildings in process of erection,
adorned with picturesque Paddies in alto relievo, or beholds
them swarming on domes like bees, excavating like moles,
bridging and damming like beavers, and like

approving “each jutty, frieze, buttress, and coign of vantage,
by his loved mansionry.” “Where they most breed
and haunt (says Shakspeare) I have observed the air is
delicate!”

Horticulture is a passion with Paddy. It is himself
that makes his way through the world with Pomona in his
arms. Strip him of his hoe, cast his hod to the winds, let
every rung of his ambitious ladder be scattered to the corners
of the earth, and Pat has still a resource. See him
laden with golden oranges, with fragrant bananas, with
cocoa-nuts that resemble his own head when clipped with
the sheep-shears, with embossed and spiky pines! Not
indigenous, but tropical fruits; exotics, like himself. And
did any living being ever see him eat a fruit? Never!
To him they are sacred. As well might you persuade the
circumcised Levite to eat the shew-bread.

Pat believes in the usefulness of meat, but was there
ever seen an Irish butcher? His tender disposition prevents
him trafficking in his household gods. He is more
than a Brahmin in that respect. If you live in the country
and lose your cow, or a favorite ram stray from the
fold, look for it among your Irish neighbors. In those

rude cottages, displaying on their outer walls the ragged
ensigns of poverty, is hidden the jewel of charity. From
pure compassion your Io, or Aries, has probably been sheltered
in the most comfortable and secluded part of some
Irishman's barn.

Irish mechanics are not common. To be sure there are
tailors and shoemakers who speak the language of Brian
Borheime, but they puzzle not their heads with more abstruse
and scientific mechanical pursuits. Many as we find
perishing annually by steamboat and railroad disasters, no
Hibernian has ever bethought himself of any thing to prevent
the explosion of boilers. If he did, in all probability
he would get it on the wrong end, and make matters worse
instead of better. Whether it arise from his haughty
Spanish or Scythian blood, I know not, but Pat has never
made one useful invention since the beginning of the
world: and in calamities like the above, as he has done
nothing for his fellows, his loss is not considered as a public
disaster: they give a list of the rest of the sufferers,
and the Paddies are usually thrown in.

I am inclined to believe Pat will find “Stame” a more
powerful antagonist than his present ally, and enemy,
England. To be sure he is often found on the track of
improvements, but the ratio of his velocity is not in proportion

to the square of the distance. The consequence is
an affair with the cow-catcher, in which he usually comes
off second best. This however might be easily obviated by
keeping outside the rails; but his ruthless enemy, like the
grim Afrite in the eastern tale, ever assumes new shapes,
the most formidable of which is the most recent. Stame
enters the arena, with a mighty pair of arms and a mighty
shovel, in the shape of an excavator! How can a real
Paddy compete with a steam-paddy? One convulsive
throb of the iron museles, and a ton of earth drops from
the enormous spade!

I have touched on, or rather hinted at, two virtues
peculiar to Patrick—honesty and sobriety: but there is
yet an unnamed virtue belonging to him, which everybody
will recognize. It is his modesty. An Irish blush is the
most cunning sleight of Nature's hand.