An Immodest Proposal

In the coldest days of 1729 a group of men were crowded about a hearth in the Manor House of an Essex village, periwigged and laced, the buckles on their dainty shoes ablaze with the fire’s reflection. ‘Is there anything that can be done?’ said a chap who’d come down from London, where he sat in parliament and represented a constituency constituting few other than himself.  

The host and Lord of the Manor House, Jacob Edwin, nursed an empty sherry glass in his long-fingered hands, which were as pale as the moon peeking through the parlour window. He looked up suddenly and grinned. Minuscule red lights appeared in the centre of his irises. ‘My good man’ he said. ‘What needs to be done? Is it a mass attack of Christian conscience that you fear? These people worship capital. For all that they’ll recoil in disgust it won’t change their ways, not one little book by one little man.’  
 
He strolled to the bookcase and brought down the offending volume. The full title was thus: A Modest Proposal For preventing the Children of Poor People From being a Burthen to Their Parents or Country, and For making them Beneficial to the Publick. A satirical work, it suggested that the starving citizens of Ireland sell their children as food to English gentlemen, thereby improving their lot (the parents’, at least) while serving their Empirical betters. ‘I had it sent down from the publisher’s stock’ Lord Edwin explained to his cronies.  
 
‘Surprised you keep such filth!’ said Judge Whiting, a fat and red-faced man whose coat buttons constantly strained. He was a hale and good-humoured beast, and chuckled as he spoke. ‘Anyone who says I can’t enjoy an Irish rose once in a while isn’t likely to end up on my shelves. In my stocks, perhaps.’  
 
Edwin grinned. ‘Satire, gentlemen, satire’ he said, brandishing the volume. ‘To say one thing while meaning another. This Mister Swift has no idea-‘  
 
Just then there was a furtive knock at the door. Edwin bade the guest enter, and she did, a young servant with a swaddled newborn in her arms. ‘Begging your pardon, sirs’ she said, ‘but you wanted to know when the baby was born...’  
 
Lord Edwin’s guests stared at the new arrivals with wide eyes. Edwin took the baby from her. She seemed almost reluctant to let it go, and said as the exchange was made, ‘his mummy didn’t make it.’ A tear slipped out of one eye and brushing it away, she fetched a cradle from the hall, placing it at Edwin’s direction by the window, in a beam of moonlight.  ‘She tried and tried, bless her soul, but the crash must have done for her bad. She’s with the Lord now.’ Edwin met her gaze. The tiny red lights blossomed and shed, rays probing outwards from the sockets. ‘We’ll take good care of him, my girl’ he said, his voice as soft and soothing as a light breeze through a churchyard. The servant nodded, glanced once more at the newborn, and left.  
 
Lord Edwin placed the child in the cradle. ‘What is this, Jackie, you old rogue?!’ cried the delighted local magistrate. The menfolk gathered around the cot like maiden aunts. The child wriggled and mewled. Edwin took the pin from his tie, revealing it to be a bodkin, slender and silver. He swished it back and forth above the little boy, whose eyes started to follow it as it flashed in the moonlight. ‘What shall we Christen him?’ said Edwin, his canines and those of his fellows becoming prominent as each man grinned at the babe. ‘His mother came here on the offer of a job, all the way from Belfast just to be claimed by the Essex bog. Young Paddy, I have a modest proposal for you...’