| Title: | McMahon Glynn, Patrick to Glynn, James P., 1881 |
|---|---|
| ID | 4364 |
| Collection | Patrick McMahon Glynn_Letters to his family (1874-1927) [Gerald Glynn O'Collins] |
| File | glynn/14 |
| Year | 1881 |
| Sender | McMahon Glynn, Patrick |
| Sender Gender | male |
| Sender Occupation | unemployed |
| Sender Religion | unknown |
| Origin | Melbourne, Victoria, Australia |
| Destination | Gort, Co. Galway, Ireland |
| Recipient | Glynn, James P. |
| Recipient Gender | male |
| Relationship | siblings |
| Source | |
| Archive | |
| Doc. No. | |
| Date | |
| Partial Date | |
| Doc. Type | |
| Log | unknown |
| Word Count | 2048 |
| Genre | family, women, finding work, society, religion, leisure |
| Note | |
| Transcript | 2 Mint Place—La Trobe St. Melbourne April 25th 1881 My dear James There is 'a maxim' in some of the Latin Poets—Horace, I think —scribere jussit amor. Love certainly made you write, and I am glad to hear it. I have been anxiously waiting for a letter from you or Blaquiere, and received yours with pleasure. In fact up to the present I have obtained intimacy with so many persons of respectability in Australia, with whom to contract friendship [would be bad enough], that I would not repine very much if the Indian and Pacific Oceans kissed over the continent. I don't think I gave you a very sweet account of the Glynn faction in my last letter; I am afraid I can't improve on it now. McDonald and his wife are separated under a deed; after having been for a long time by myself I have go[ne] to reside in her boarding house—her means of support-—now. Bye the bye—the last boarding house I was in was a Kip—but I did not su[s]pect it while there. McD. is about the most depraved type of humanity I ever met. Lying, fornicating, egotistical, mean, covering everything with such a veneer of sweet and smiling hypocrisy that he would deceive the devil. I was on the point of leaving several times, but he persuaded me to remain with the seductive blandishments of a siren—while all the time he was badgering his wife at night to get me away, so that he might begin his blackguardism again. To me he was always smiling. But if I was to tell you all about this miserable stew into which I had the misfortune to go as a visitor, I would disgust myself and you. McDonnell, however, might have let his vileness sleep, if he had been married to another woman. A half connected whore would have suited him. His wife was a flightly, gunpowdery, quicksilver, bad tempered woman, capable of a considerable amount of good nature and affection, but the latter of a sort that would nauseate on many; she was sensitive to the slightest lingual slip, always talked too much or too little, recounted her misfortunes to too many friends, liked her own way in opinions—but was stainless in morality. Her fancy for boys and girls was an appearance against her—she took an adopted-son sort of fancy for a fellow of sixteen who was serving his time in the house and placed under her care. McD. when she last left him and commenced divorce proceedings— was prepared to swear she went wrong with him—this would be perjury no doubt—but she continued to act so as to give grounds for suspicion—when having him taken back to Simpson's Rd. and now has him as a lodger when 21 years of age—simply because she considered herself right. I say this to show you what style of woman McDonald was married to—no man is so damnably bad that his villiany is altogether the birth of his own temper;—he saw in her one who possessed some of the quicksilver faults but few of the fascinating graces of woman carnally considered. Her faults are not vices—they are worst when she sits in judgment on those who don't take her side —she can't do them justice—but flatter her and have a taking outside— and you are an angel. Thus much to give you an idea of McDonald and Co. I don't do it for the sake of gabber about woman—unless you meet one able to reciprocate a true affection they are better appreciated when not met—but you might have the misfortune to come out here sometime and it is well to know whom you may meet. I am glad for your sake you have got stricken by one of Cupid's arrows. Nothing gives a man half the enjoyment that a well placed affection does. When you meet a girl that is a woman in every respect, who bears some resemblance, however faint, to one of Shakespeare's women—if I may be so sacreligious as to mention the latter in connection with living females—I can't say that a man makes an ass of himself in falling towards love. The generality of women demoralize men with their damm twaddle; they can scarcely chirp outside their own miserable nests—but I would lock myself up for life with a Viola, an Imogen or a Lizzy Hexam—and a few good books of course. Besides cash is a devillish good sauce to love—so I wish yourself and Daly luck in your amours. I have issued a pamp[h]let a copy of which I send you. The publication of it cost me £23 and left with 30 bob; it has been praised by many, but how the sale goes on I don't know yet— expenses will satisfy me. Trying to get business here as a stranger is like attacking the devil with an icycle. As regards life, fine women, appearances and dash the city is far beyond Dublin. It is more like London. The girls are better built, and more immoral, a fact to which I attribute their development. You generally find nuns flat about the breasts. But you see I have not got a single friend of respectability to introduce me. Poor Maryanne, I think, is not so bad as she was painted. I have found her peculiar, but not radically bad at bottom. I have found a good many other than they were painted. I have inquired about the prospects of bank clerks here. They don't seem to be higher than at home. I don't think you would get £ 100 to start with if you came out—even if you got into a bank at all and were allowed your service hitherto. As to the civil service here I would advise no fellow to think about it. It is uncertain in tenure and badly paid—partisanship being the mode of appointment. Artisans and farmers are the only class to whom I would give advice to emigrate; not that the country is poor in resources, but in the present stage of their development, the produce of the soil, which, except in the case of a really manufacturing country like England, constitutes real wealth, is too small for the number of distributers. In time this country will be able to support 40 millions; but the influx of unproductive labourers must be put a stop to. Unskilled gentlemen, professional men, unless they are doctors who wish to go up country, had better remain at home. This is not [a] religious country by any means. I don't say that it is not Church-going, but it is not religious. The newspapers, from whom the multitude unbible their morals, in fact are almost professedly sceptical. Education is secular under State Regulation and pay—the Catholics as usual wanting to have it in their own fashion; I would upset the system, if at all, because it is too expensive, but not because it is secular. I am afraid Macaulay's New Zealander will sketch St. Paul's, when the doings of Rome will interest only antiquarians. The theological fabric of eighteen centuries is politely nodding to the world in the manner that preludes a fall. It is extraordinary when one looks back on history to see through what a feculent sink of crime, blood, misery, blindness, and general horrers our ancesters from Adam had to pass in order to leave us the legacy of half civilization. People will be better educated and consequently less slaves for the future. Every one plays the Piano here—all the rising generation I mean. It is in general played in a manner that the Irish never think of attempting. How much less barberous would the lower orders of society be if they cultivated music and refinement of taste in literature a little more! In this land of flowers you may pass a pretty little cottage, with vine tracery across the verandah, and see through the flowers a buxom girl seated at a Piano. What is she? Not Mrs Snub nor the Hon. Mrs Turn-up-my-nose's daughter, but probably Tom Stonearse—the Mason's, or Jim Waxhole the Shoemaker's. The working man is all right here—for the present. I have been out for a bath with another of the circumcised since the last sentence. It is very hot—the north or hot winds are blowing. When they are not, the climate is very soft and chastely sunny. It was at its worst when I arrived here. The baths are very fine, nearly an acre of the sea being fenced in to prevent the ingress of sharks. This is the devil's place for bank holidays. Every notable event is recorded in a general holiday. For the last few days I have begun to study German. There are two Germans in the house, so I determined to take advantage of the fact. It is not so hard as I thought; and is a language that often turns up on cross-examination here. Poor Johnny Wallsh has settled business in a place called Derrugville [?=Dowlingville], York Peninsula, South Australia. It is a city of three houses, but one being in the occupation of a blacksmith. His sister Lizzy is in Wagga, New South Wales, I wished to heavens the Wallshs were near me and not the Glynns. I think with pleasure of the former, while the latter are a queer lot. I don't know what I said to you about Cissey, but I find her, as many others, not so bad as Fanny painted her. She may not be as sound principled as her sister, but she has not got that snappish temper that like tightening turns a smile into a snarl. She has endeavoured to get me business etc., whatever the devil that means. Fanny says that Elly Glynn of Sydney is a perfect devil, but I would like to know in some other way before believing it. As soon as I can afford private chambers I will seclude myself with myself and books. An old fellow named Ryder called here to see me a few times. He knew my father well; and, though at present in the benevolent asylum, has been in affluent circumstances here. The death of all his family has left him a lone old man. You might mention this to the Gort people. I think I have told you as many things of importance as I can remember. As for myself I spend my time in dodging about the Courts and libraries. A guinea a year entitles me to a volume from a fine lending library called the Atheneun; the institution is supplied with all the English papers, magazines, Daily Papers etc.; and has a ladies reading Room, a large general Reading Room, and a small one. Melbourne is so much beyond Dublin in this respect that the latter city seems still in the last century. The theatres are much more after the London and Paris fashion, and the streets at night twenty times as animated. You remember on Kingstown pier you mentioned to me that I would miss the Irish women in the land of ogres. It is the contrary. At first I thought not, as I only saw the country people in certain streets, but I would guarantee a fellow would feel less virtuously inclined here than in Ireland; but I have not indulged in those interesting amusements since July last. Considering I am the centre of a circle of correspondence, from whom numerous letters are expected to radiate, and that you are only one point on the circumference, I consider I have not written you a short letter. Let me see what you will do in Return—for the present remember me of course to dear Miss Tobin, O'Leary, Daly etc. etc. Your affect, brother P. McM. Glynn N.B. My mother sent me Thorn's copy of the Iudicature act instead of Dillon's Iudicature Act. Tell her what I want is the Iudicature Act edited and annot[at]ed by Dillon—price 10s. Blaquiere knows it. There is a certificate for oratory in Trinity College for me; ask about it. PS. Send one of pamphlets home. |
