The Irishman

My experience, probably, is not different to that of other people who endeavour to trace back the beginnings of things. How difficult it is to lay hold of the beginning of anything in my own history! For instance, when did I first learn that there was a closer tie between me and my mother than between me and some other woman? When did the idea of a God first form itself in my mind? When did I come to learn that I was a separate being? When did the notion of personal responsibility, of sin and of a future world, become part of my consciousness? &c. In the effort to hark back upon a particular point as the beginning of these and similar notions, I find that I have been mistaken, that the goal is farther off than ever; and following it up, I at last lose it in the Un-beginnable. I do not know how to account for this. Does the memory not register the beginning of things in the mind? Must the beginning have happened for a particular space of time before the memory can receive any impression from it? Or, are the beginnings and the memory of them contemporaneous? Has every idea a man may happen to be possessed of been existent in the soul since its creation, only in a state of torpor from which circumstances awaken it; or is it some adaptability that the soul possesses for receiving impressions which by constant accretion become deepened until they at length form themselves into ideas?

At the time I am endeavouring to revert to, I think I must have been about six years old, and my brother Bob about eighteen. Bob, in my estimation, was a great strong man; it being sufficient proof to me that he was able to carry me upon his back without the least trouble. He was a collier; and no one ever admired a brother more than I did mine when I saw him coming home, clogs on feet, and lamp in hand, with a face as black as the chimney. Up to that period I fancy I did not know how mother, Bob and myself obtained our livelihood. I then, or very shortly afterwards, came to understand that none of the good things of this world could be got without money—a truth which, to my sorrow, I have proved a thousand times since. The means, possibly, by which I got the knowledge were my constant requests to my mother for this thing and for that, and her reply that she had not the money wherewith to buy it. An occasion of great interest to us was that on which Bob brought home his wages. We would all three sit about the fire: Bob emptying his pocket into mother’s apron, and she reckoning the money many times over. To me the sum had so large a sound, that I wholly failed to understand how mother could say she was without money. I noticed that in the counting she sometimes looked pleased, at other times serious, at all times thoughtful. I surmised she must be wondering to find herself in possession of so much wealth. Poor innocent! Had I but known it, she was simply planning and puzzling her head how to lay out the few shillings in her apron to the best advantage, how to be able to pay everybody his due. The amount of Bob’s earnings borne in mind, what a splendid Chancellor of the Exchequer must my old mother have been! She and Bob, when the counting was over, would indulge in a lot of confidential talk, of which all I could make out were the words “rent” and “shop.” I came to look forward to pay day with eagerness; because my mother, after receiving the money, would go to the shop for food: and so, for one day at any rate, we had enough to eat. How few are they, as is best, who have experienced the exceeding pleasure of having enough to eat! I am thinking none can know that pleasure save those who, like myself, can tell what it is to have gone short of food. Short, did I say? Yes, without any! But to that I shall have to refer again.

As I have already intimated, Will Bryan and I were great friends, and I cannot help connecting with him the creation or the stirring up of thoughts and ideas within my soul. Particularly do I remember how I used to envy Will Bryan. His father kept a large shop (so I thought it), in which there was an abundance of everything. Will had potatoes and meat every day for dinner; I had browes* only. Will frequently had new clothes; for me there were ever and always my brother Bob’s old ones re-made by mother. Will got a penny every Saturday to spend; I never saw the colour of one save when Bob was emptying his pocket into mother’s apron. But what made me look upon Will as the happiest lad on earth, was the fact that he owned a real live little mule. I did not know of anything in the whole wide world I so much wished to possess as a little mule like Will’s. And I was not the only one who envied Will his happy lot; the feeling was common amongst those of the same age as myself. Will himself was not unconscious of his superiority to us all. If any of us happened to offend him, the heaviest punishment he could possibly inflict was to forbid us to come anywhere near his mule; this, as a rule, being quite sufficient to bring us repentant to his feet. In virtue of this little mule, Will tyrannised over us most unmercifully. so much so (I remember the occasion well), that at one of our gatherings when somebody happened to stray from the subject, he gave orders that nobody, without his permission, was to say a single word of any kind that did not concern the mule. And there was nothing left us but to submit in silence. Now I think of it, what a number of people, of every age and station, have I come in contact with who make capital out of their little mules!

I should never have mentioned this matter, had it not been that Will Bryan’s little mule was the means of rousing or of creating an inquiry in my soul. I remember on one occasion thinking over and envying the happier lot and superior advantages enjoyed by Will, and trying to account for the difference, the conclusion I came to being this—that Will had a father, whilst I had none. Why was I without a father ° When I put the question to my mother, she became agitated, and the tears sprang into her eyes, but instead of saying a word in reply, she tried to draw my attention to something else. I, however, pressed the question, and asked moreover, whether my father were dead?

“Yes,” she anwered, “your father, poor, child, is dead—in sin and transgression.”

Mother frequently used a Scriptural simile. I did not understand this one, but I took her to mean that my father had been put down the “black hole,” as I at that time called the grave. The reflection made me very sad for a while, but the sadness speedily passed away,

Some time after this—I cannot be particular to a month or two —I remember mother had been to the shop, because it was pay night, and we had just finished a good supper. All three were gathered round the fire, I, at any rate, feeling exceedingly comfortable, whatever might have been the case with mother and Bob. Mother always permitted me to remain up an hour or two later on nights when Bob received his pay. I cannot convey in words the mighty satisfaction and happiness this staying up late afforded me. Thinking what very little things were those which brought me so much happiness in my boyhood, I am grieved to the heart to find that it was not possible to remain a boy for ever. We three sat by the fire, I say; it was winter, and the night was cold and stormy. 1 occupied my own little stool listening to the wind roaring in the chimney and whistling through the keyhole. I felt very sleepy, but made desperate efforts not to close my eyes lest mother should send me to bed, and my privilege of remaining up late on the following pay night be thereby forfeited. I was just on the point of surrender when I heard some one knock at the door. I became wide awake at once. Before time had been given to open, there came in a repulsive looking fellow, who shut the door and walked straight to the fire without saying a word. Directly I saw him, I made up my mind that he was a bad man. He was ragged and dirty, and his clothes filled the house with a disagreeable odour. Even though I heard him speak Welsh I felt certain he was an Irishman. I used to think that all the dirty, ragged ones must be Irish, He had no sooner made his appearance than my brother Bob, white in the face and trembling in every limb, jumped to his feet. I knew from Bob’s attitude that he wanted to collar the intruder, and pitch him out—a task he could easily have accomplished, the man being puny and weak, while Bob was well-built, supple, and strong. Mother discerning Bob’s intention, tremulously begged him to refrain.

I thought I had never seen such another ugly dirty lout as this stranger, and I marvelled at his impudence in coming thus into our house. Never had I known mother so profoundly agitated, and making such efforts at self-control, uttering the while something to this effect: “James, I have told you many times you are not to come here. I never wish to see you again.”

The stranger pretended not to hear her. He tried instead, by tender words, to make friends with me, whom he addressed by my own name. I wondered greatly how he knew it, and recoiled from him as from a serpent. At length he took hold of me and tried to put me on his knee. Fairly driven wild, I struck him my hardest with my little fist right in the face, Bob, at the same time, dragging me from his clutches. Mother asked him once more to leave; but he refused to go, whereupon Bob again jumped to his feet to pitch him out, and was again prevented by my mother. I grew perfectly savage at her interference. The Irishman, as I called him, asked for food, which, to my surprise, my mother placed before him. He ate at such an unconscionable rate, that I at one time thought he would never give over. I begrudged him every bit lie put into bis mouth, and I knew my brother Bob did the same, because I sat upon his knee, and felt his limbs to be in a constant tremble of anger.

When, at last, he had done eating, the Irishman coolly drew up to the fire, just as if he meant to settle down for the night. Mother begged him once more to go away, but this, he said, he would not do, unless she gave him money. To my utter astonishment, I saw her hand him some. Bob flew into a passion, and I heard him angrily telling mother she was mad. He wouldn’t go into the mine, he declared, to toil and sweat, if his hard earnings were to be given to a drunken thieving scamp in this fashion. I too, was highly incensed at the idea that mother had given the Irishman more money than would have sufficed to buy me a little live mule like Will Bryan’s. Young as I was, I sympathised greatly with her, the impression being left upon my mind that the stranger had some secret influence over her, and that she could not help herself in what she had done. Bob’s bad temper had not the slighest effect upon the Irishman, who, after he got the money, seemed more than ever determined to stay the night. He lit his pipe, and began undoing his boot laces.

Bob, losing all patience at the sight, sprang to his feet, opened wide the door, took the Irishman by the nape of the neck, flung him as if he were so much carrion, out into the street, and barred the door. All this took only a quarter of a minute to do. I was clapping my hands with joy, when seeing my mother had swooned, and was dying, as I thought, I went nearly wild with grief. Bob having sprinkled water over her face, she came to herself, and began to cry, Bob and I mingling our tears with hers for a while. Drying her eyes she held confidential converse with Bob, of which I could very well make out that the subject was the Irishman, whom they alluded to as “He.” Spite of earnest question and inquiry, directed both to Bob and mother, I entirely failed to find out who the stranger was. All the answer I got was, that he was a bad man, and that I must never speak of him to anybody.

Well would it have been for me had I acquired no better knowledge of him subsequently. Providence, however, ordained it otherwise. Is it not this “Irishman” who has been the bane of my existence? Is it not he who has dropped wormwood into my sweetest cup? How different would my history have been but for him! I When my friends have thought me blessed and happy, he, like some spirit of evil, has blighted my every enjoyment, and sat upon me like a nightmare when I should have been at rest.