_ CHAPTER I. ORIGINALITY OF IRISH BULLS EXAMINED
The difficulty of selecting from the vulgar herd of Irish bulls one that shall be entitled to the prize, from the united merits of pre-eminent absurdity, and indisputable originality, is greater than hasty judges may imagine. Many bulls, reputed to be bred and born in Ireland, are of foreign extraction; and many more, supposed to be unrivalled in their kind, may be matched in all their capital
points: for instance, there is not a more celebrated bull than Paddy Blake's. When Paddy heard an English gentleman speaking of the fine echo at the lake of Killarney, which repeats the sound forty times, he very promptly observed, "Faith, that's nothing at all to the echo in my father's garden, in the county of Galway: if you say to it, 'How do you do, Paddy Blake?' it will answer, 'Pretty well, I thank you, sir.'"
Now this echo of Paddy Blake's, which has long been the admiration of the world, is not a prodigy
unique in its kind; it can be matched by one recorded in the immortal works of the great Lord Verulam.[1]
[Footnote 1: Natural History, century iii. p. 191.--Bacon produces it to show that echoes will not readily return the letter S..]
"I remember well," says this father of philosophy, "that when I went to the echo at Port Charenton, there was an old Parisian that took it to be the work of spirits, and of good spirits, 'for,' said he, 'call Satan, and the echo will not deliver back the devil's name, but will say, 'Va t'en.'"
The Parisian echo is surely superior to the Hibernian! Paddy Blake's simply understood and practised the common rules of good-breeding; but the Port Charenton echo is "instinct with spirit," and endowed with a nice moral sense.
Amongst the famous bulls recorded by the illustrious Joe Miller, there is one which has been continually quoted as an example of original Irish genius. An English gentleman was writing a letter in a coffee-house, and perceiving that an Irishman stationed behind him was taking that liberty which Hephaestion used with his friend Alexander, instead of putting his seal upon the lips of the
curious impertinent, the English gentleman thought proper to reprove the Hibernian, if not with delicacy, at least with poetical justice: he concluded writing his letter in these words: "I would say more, but a damned tall Irishman is reading over my shoulder every word I write."
"You lie, you scoundrel!" said the self-convicted Hibernian.
This blunder is unquestionably excellent; but it is not originally Irish: it comes, with other riches, from the East, as the reader may find by looking into a book by M. Galland, entitled, "The Remarkable Sayings of the Eastern Nations."
"A learned man was writing to a friend; a troublesome fellow was beside him, who was looking over his shoulder at what he was writing. The learned man, who perceived this, continued writing in these words, 'If an impertinent chap, who stands beside me, were not looking at what I write, I would write many other things to you, which should be known only to you and to me.'
"The troublesome fellow, who was reading on, now thought it incumbent upon him to speak, and said, 'I swear to you, that I have not read or looked at what you are writing.'
"The learned man replied, 'Blockhead, as you are, why then do you say to me what you are now saying?'" [2]
[Footnote 2: "Un savant ecrivoit a un ami, et un importun etoit a cote de lui, qui regardoit par dessus l'epaule ce qu'il ecrivoit. Le savant, qui s'en appercut, ecrivit ceci a la place: 'Si un impertinent qui est a mon cote ne regardoit pas ce que j'ecris, je vous ecrirois encore plusieurs choses qui ne doivent etre sues que de vous et de moi.' L'importun, qui lisoit toujours, prit la parole et dit: 'Je vous jure que je n'ai regarde ni lu ce que vous ecriviez.' Le savant repartit, 'Ignorant, que vous etes, pourquoi me dites-vous done ce que vous dites?'" Les Paroles Remarquables des Orientaux; traduction de leurs ouvrages en Arabe, en Persan, et en Turc (suivant la copie imprimee a Paris), a la Haye, chez Louis et Henry Vandole, marchands libraires, dans le Pooten, a l'enseigne du Port Royal, M.DC.XCIV.]
Making allowance for the difference of manners in eastern and northern nations, there is, certainly, such a similarity between this oriental anecdote and Joe Miller's story, that we may conclude the latter is stolen from the former. Now, an
Irish bull must be a species of blunder
peculiar to Ireland; those that we have hitherto examined, though they may be called Irish bulls by the ignorant vulgar, have no right, title, or claim to such a distinction. We should invariably exclude from that class all blunders which can be found in another country. For instance, a speech of the celebrated Irish beauty, Lady C----, has been called a bull; but as a parallel can be produced in the speech of an English nobleman,
it tells for nothing. When her ladyship was presented at court, his majesty, George the Second, politely hoped, "that, since her arrival in England, she had been entertained with the gaieties of London."
"Oh, yes, please your majesty, I have seen every sight in London worth seeing, except a coronation."
This
naivete is certainly not equal to that of the English earl marshal, who, when his king found fault with some arrangement at his coronation, said, "Please your majesty, I hope it will be better next time."
A
naivete of the same species entailed a heavy tax upon the inhabitants of Beaune, in France. Beaune is famous for burgundy; and Henry the Fourth, passing through his kingdom, stopped there, and was well entertained by his loyal subjects. His Majesty praised the burgundy which they set before him--"It was excellent! it was admirable!"
"Oh, sire!" cried they, "do you think this excellent?
we have much finer burgundy than this."
"Have you so? then you can afford to pay for it," replied Harry the Fourth; and he laid a double tax thenceforward upon the burgundy of Beaune.
Of the same class of blunders is the following speech, which we actually heard not long ago from an Irishman:--
"Please your worship, he sent me to the devil, and I came straight to your honour."
We thought this an original Irish blunder, till we recollected its prototype in Marmontel's Annette and Lubin. Lubin concludes his harangue with, "The bailiff sent us to the devil, and we come to put ourselves under your protection, my lord." [3]
[Footnote 3: "Le bailli nous donne an diable, et nous nous recommandons a vous, monseigneur."]
The French, at least in former times, were celebrated for politeness; yet we meet with a
naive compliment of a Frenchman, which would have been accounted a bull if it had been found in Ireland.
A gentleman was complimenting Madame Denis on the manner in which she had just acted Zaire. "To act that part," said she, "a person should be young and handsome." "Ah, madam!" replied the complimenter
naivement, "you are a complete proof of the contrary." [4]
[Footnote 4] On faisoit compliment a madame Denis de la facon dont elle venoit de jouer Zaire. "Il faudroit," dit elle, "etre belle et jeune." "Ah, madame!" reprit le complimenteur naivement, "vous etes bien la preuve du contraire."
We know not any original Irish blunder superior to this, unless it be that which Lord Orford pronounced to be the best bull that he ever heard.
"I hate that woman," said a gentleman, looking at one who had been his nurse; "I hate that woman, for she changed me at nurse."
Lord Orford particularly admires this bull, because in the confusion of the blunderer's ideas he is not clear even of his personal identity. Philosophers will not perhaps be so ready as his lordship has been to call this a blunder of the first magnitude. Those who have never been initiated into the mysteries of metaphysics may have the presumptuous ignorance to fancy that they understand what is meant by the common words
I, or
me; but the able metaphysician knows better than Lord Orford's changeling how to prove, to our satisfaction, that we know nothing of the matter.
"Personal identity," says Locke, "consists not in the identity of substance, but in the identity of consciousness, wherein Socrates and the present mayor of Queenborough agree they are the same person: if the same Socrates, sleeping and waking, do not partake of the same consciousness, Socrates waking and sleeping is not the same person; and to punish Socrates waking for what sleeping Socrates thought, and waking Socrates was never conscious of, would be no more of right than to punish one twin for what his brother twin did, whereof he knew nothing, because their outsides are so like that they could not be distinguished; for such twins have been seen." [5]
[Footnote 5: Locke's Essay concerning the Human Understanding, fifteenth edit. vol. i. p. 292.]
We may presume that our Hibernian's consciousness could not retrograde to the time when he was changed at nurse; consequently there was no continuity of identity between the infant and the man who expressed his hatred of the nurse for perpetrating the fraud. At all events, the confusion of identity which excited Lord Orford's admiration in our Hibernian is by no means unprecedented in France, England, or ancient Greece, and consequently it cannot be an instance of national idiosyncracy, or an Irish bull. We find a similar blunder in Spain, in the time of Cervantes:--
"Pray tell me, squire," says the duchess, in Don Quixote, "is not your master the person whose history is printed under the name of the sage Hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha, who professes himself the admirer of one Dulcinea del Toboso?"
"The very same, my lady," answered Sancho; "and I myself am that very squire of his, who is mentioned, or ought to be mentioned, in that history,
unless they have changed me in the cradle."
In Moliere's Amphitrion there is a dialogue between Mercure and Sosie, evidently taken from the
Attic Lucian. Sosie being completely puzzled out of his personal identity, if not out of his senses, says literally, "of my being myself I begin to doubt in good earnest; yet when I feel myself, and when I recollect myself, it seems to me that
I am I." [6]
[Footnote 6:
"De moi je commence a douter tout de ben.
Pourtant quand je me tate, et quand je me rappelle,
Il me semble que je suis moi."]
We see that the puzzle about identity proves at last to be of Grecian origin. It is really edifying to observe how those things which have long been objects of popular admiration shrink and fade when exposed to the light of strict examination. An experienced critic proposed that a work should be written to inquire into the pretensions of modern writers to original invention, to trace their thefts, and to restore the property to the ancient owners. Such a work would require powers and erudition beyond what can be expected from any ordinary individual; the labour must be shared amongst numbers, and we are proud to assist in ascertaining the rightful property even of bulls and blunders; though without pretending, like some literary blood-hounds, to follow up a plagiarism, where common sagacity is at a fault. _