affront the gintleman in this way, and he kind enough to go for to give
you an examination?--come now, you had betther not vex me, I tell you,
but hould up your head, and spake out loud, that we can all hear
you: now, Father Con, achora, you'll not be too hard upon him in the
beginning, till he gets into it, for he's aisy dashed.”
“Here, Briney,” said Father Philemy, handing him his tumbler, “take
a pull of this and if you have any courage at all in you it will raise
it;--take a good pull.” Briney hesitated.
“Why, but you take the glass out of his Reverence's hand, sarrah,”
said the father--“what! is it without dhrinking his Reverence's health
first?”
Briney gave a most melancholy nod at his Reverence, as he put the
tumbler to his mouth, which he nearly emptied, notwithstanding his
shyness.
“For my part,” said his Reverence, looking at the almost empty tumbler,
“I am pretty sure that that same chap will be able to take care
of himself through life. And so, Captain,--” said he, resuming the
conversation with Captain Wilson--for his notice of Briney was only
parenthetical.
Father Con now took the book, which was AEsop's Fables, and, in
accordance with Briney's intention, it opened exactly at the favorite
fable of Gallus Gallinacexis. He was not aware, however, that Briney had
kept that place open during the preceding part of the week, in order to
effect this point. Father Philemy, however, was now beginning to relate
another anecdote to the Captain, and the thread of his narrative twined
rather ludicrously with that of the examination.
Briney, after, a few hems, at length proceeded--“_Gallus Gallinaceus_, a
dung-hill cock--”
“So, Captain, I was just after coming out of Widow Moylan's--it was in
the Lammas fair--and a large one, by the by, it was--so, sir, who should
come up to me but Branagan. 'Well, Branagan,' said I, 'how does the
world go now with you?'----”
“_Gallus Gallinaceus_, a dunghill cock----”
----“Says he. 'And how is that?' says I.
“_Gallus Gallinaceus_----”
-----“Says he, 'Hut tut, Branagan,' says I--'you're drunk.' 'That's
the thing, sir' says Branagan, 'and I want to explain it all to your
Reverence.' 'Well,' said I, 'go on---”
“_Gallus Gallinaceus_, a dunghill cock----”
----“Says he,----Let your Gallus Gallinaceus go to roost for this night,
Con,” said Father Philemy, who did not relish the interruption of his
story; “I say, Phaddhy, send the boy to bed, and bring him down in your
hand to my house on Saturday morning, and we will both examine him,
but this is no time for it, and me engaged in conversation with
Captain Wilson.--So, Captain ____'Well, sir,' says Branagan, and he
staggering,--'I took an oath against liquor, and I want your Reverence
to break it,' says he. 'What do you mean?' I inquired. 'Why, please your
Reverence,' said he, 'I took an oath against liquor, as I told you,
not to drink more nor a pint of whiskey in one day, and I want your
Reverence to break it for me, and make it only half a pint; for I find
that a pint is too much for me; by the same token, that when I get that
far, your Reverence, I disremember the oath entirely.”
The influence of the bottle now began to be felt, and the conversation
absolutely blew a gale, wherein hearty laughter, good strong singing,
loud argument, and general good humor blended into one uproarious peal
of hilarity, accompanied by some smart flashes of wit and humor which
would not disgrace a prouder banquet. Phaddhy, in particular, melted
into a spirit of the most unbounded benevolence--a spirit that would (if
by any possible means he could effect it) embrace the whole human race;
that is to say, he would raise them, man, woman, and child, to the same
elevated state of happiness which he enjoyed himself. That, indeed, was
happiness in perfection, as pure and unadulterated as the poteen which
created it. How could he be otherwise than happy?--he had succeeded to a
good property, and a stocking of hard guineas, without the hard labor of
acquiring them; he had the “clargy” under his roof at last, partaking
of a hospitality which he felt himself well able to afford them; he had
settled with his Reverence for five years' arrears of sin, all of which
had been wiped out of his conscience by the blessed absolving hand of
the priest; he was training up Briney for the Mission, and though last,
not least, he was--far gone in his seventh tumbler!
“Come, jinteels,” said he, “spare nothing here--there's lashings of
every thing; thrate yourselves dacent, and don't be saying tomorrow or
next day, that ever my father's son was nagerly. Death alive, Father
Con, what are you doin'? Why, then, bad manners to me if that'll sarve,
any how.”
“Phaddhy,” replied Father Con, “I assure you I have done my duty.”
“Very well, Father Con, granting all that, it's no sin to repate a good
turn you know. Not a word I'll hear, yer Reverence--one tumbler along
with myself, if it was only for ould times.” He then filled Father Con's
tumbler with his own hand, in a truly liberal spirit. “Arrah, Father
Con, do you remember the day we had the leapin'-match, and the bout at
the shoulder-stone?”
“Indeed, I'll not forget it, Phaddhy.”
“And it's yourself that may say that; but I bleeve I rubbed the consate
off of your Reverence--only that's betune ourselves, you persave.”
“You did win the palm, Phaddhy, I'll not deny it; but you are the only
man that ever bet me at either of the athletics.'
“And I'll say this for yer Reverence, that you are one of the best and
most able-bodied gintlemen I ever engaged with. Ah! Father Con, I'm past
all that now--but no matter, here's yer Reverence's health, and a shake.
hands; Father Philomy, yer health, docthor: yer strange Reverence's
health--Captain Wilson, not forgetting you, sir: Mr. Pettier, yours; and
I hope to see you soon with the robes upon you, and to be able to prache
us a good sarmon. Parrah More--_wus dha lauv_ (* give me yer hand),
you steeple you; and I haven't the smallest taste of objection to what
Father Philemy hinted at--yell obsarve. Kitty, you thief of the world,
where are you? Your health, avourneen; come here, and give us your fist,
Katty: bad manners to me if I could forget you afther all;--the best
crathur, your Reverence, under the sun, except when yer Reverence puts
yer _comedher_ on her at confession, and then she's a little, sharp or
so, not a doubt of it: but no matther, Katty ahagur, you do it all for
the best. And Father Philemy, maybe it's myself didn't put the thrick
upon you in the Maragy More, about Katty's death--ha, ha, ha! Jack
M'Craner, yer health--all yer healths, and yer welcome here, if you
war seven times as many. Briney, where are you, ma bouchal? Come up and
shake hands wid yer father, as well as another--come up, acushla, and
kiss me. Ah, Briney, my poor fellow, ye'll never be the cut of a man yer
father was; but no matther, avourneen, ye'll be a betther man, I hope;
and God knows you may asy be that, for Father Philemy, I'm not what I
ought to be, yer Reverence; however, I may mend, and will, maybe, before
a month of Sundays goes over me: but, for all that, Briney, I hope to
see the day when you'll be sitting an ordained priest at my own table;
if I once saw that, I could die contented--so mind yer larning, acushla,
and, his Reverence here will back you, and make inthorest to get you
into the college. Musha, God pity them crathurs at the door--aren't
they gone yet? Listen to them coughin', for fraid we'd forget them: and
throth and they won't be forgot this bout any how--Katty, avourneen,
give them every one, big and little, young and ould, their
skinful--don't lave a wrinkle in them; and see, take one of them
bottles--the crathurs, they're starved sitting there all night in
the cowld--and give them a couple of glasses a-piece--it's good, yer
Reverence, to have the poor body's blessing at all times; and now, as I
was saying, Here's all yer healths! and from the very veins of my heart
yer welcome here.”
Our readers may perceive that Phaddhy
“Was not only blest, but glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious;”
for, like the generality of our peasantry, the _native_ drew to the
surface of his character those warm, hospitable, and benevolent virtues,
which a purer system of morals and education would most certainly keep
in full action, without running the risk, as in the present instance, of
mixing bad habits with frank, manly, and generous qualities.
* * * * *
“I'll not go, Con--I tell you I'll not go till I sing another song.
Phaddhy, you're a prince--but where's the use of lighting more candles
now, man, than you had in the beginning of the night? Is Captain Wilson
gone? Then, peace be with him; it's a pity he wasn't on the right side,
for he's not the worst of them. Phaddhy, where are you?”
“Why, yer Reverence,” replied Katty, “he's got a little unwell, and jist
laid down his head a bit.”
“Katty,” said Father Con, “you had better get a couple of the men to
accompany Father Philemy home; for though the night's clear, he doesn't
see his way very well in the dark--poor man, his eye-sight's failing him
fast.”
“Then, the more's the pity, Father Con. Here, Denis, let yourself and
Mat go home wid Father Philemy.”
“Good-night, Katty,” said Father Con--“Good-night: and may our blessing
sanctify you all.”
“Good-night, Father Con, ahagur,” replied Katty; “and for goodness' sake
see that they take care of Father Philemy, for it's himself that's the
blessed and holy crathur, and the pleasant gintleman out and out.”
“Good-night, Katty,” again repeated Father Con, as the cavalcade
proceeded in a body--“Good-night!” And so ended the Station.
THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL.
We ought, perhaps, to inform our readers that the connection between a
party fight and funeral is sufficiently strong to justify the author in
classing them under the title which is prefixed to this story. The one
being usually the natural result of the other, is made to proceed from
it, as is, unhappily, too often the custom in real life among the Irish.
It has been long laid down as a universal principle, that
self-preservation is the first law of nature. An Irishman, however, has
nothing to do with this; he disposes of it as he does with the other
laws, and washes his hands out of it altogether. But commend him to a
fair, dance, funeral, or wedding, or to any other sport where there is
a likelihood of getting his head or his bones broken, and if he survive,
he will remember you with a kindness peculiar to himself to the last
day of his life--will drub you from head to heel if he finds that any
misfortune has kept you out of a row beyond the usual period of three
months--will render the same service to any of your friends that stand
in need of it; or, in short, will go to the world's end, or fifty miles
farther, as he himself would say, to serve you, provided you can
procure him a bit of decent fighting. Now, in truth and soberness, it
is difficult to account for this propensity; especially when the task
of ascertaining it is assigned to those of another country, or even to
those Irishmen whose rank in life places them too far from the customs,
prejudices, and domestic opinions of their native peasantry, none
of which can be properly known without mingling with them. To my own
knowledge, however, it proceeds in a great measure from education. And
here I would beg leave to point out an omission of which the several
boards of education have been guilty, and which, I believe, no one but
myself has yet been sufficiently acute and philosophical to ascertain,
as forming a _sine qua non_ in the national instruction of the lower
orders of Irishmen.
The cream of the matter is this:--a species of ambition prevails in the
Green Isle, not known in any other country. It is an ambition of about
three miles by four in extent; or, in other words, is bounded by the
limits of the parish in which the subject of it may reside. It puts
itself forth early in the character, and a hardy perennial it is. In my
own case, its first development was noticed in the hedge-school which I
attended. I had not been long there, till I was forced to declare myself
either for the Caseys or the Murphys, two tiny factions, that had split
the school between them. The day on which the ceremony of my declaration
took place was a solemn one. After school, we all went to the bottom of
a deep valley, a short distance from the school-house; up to the moment
of our assembling there, I had not taken my stand under either banner:
that of the Caseys was a sod of turf, stuck on the end of a broken
fishing-rod--the eagle of the Murphy's was a Cork red potato, hoisted
in the same manner. The turf was borne by an urchin, who afterwards
distinguished himself in fairs and markets as a _builla batthah_ (*
cudgel player) of the first grade, and from this circumstance he was
nicknamed _Parrah Rackhan_. (* Paddy the Rioter) The potato was borne
by little Mickle M'Phauden Murphy, who afterwards took away Katty Bane
Sheridan, without asking either her own consent or her father's. They
were all then boys, it is true, but they gave a tolerable promise of
that eminence which they subsequently attained.
When we arrived at the bottom of the glen, the Murphys and the Caseys,
including their respective followers, ranged themselves on either side
of a long line, which was drawn between the belligerent powers with the
but-end of one of the standards. Exactly on this line was I placed. The
word was then put to me in full form--“Whether will you side with the
dacent Caseys, or the blackguard Murphys?” “Whether will you side with
the dacent Murphys, or the blackguard Caseys?” “The potato for ever!”
said I, throwing up my caubeen, and running over to the Murphy standard.
In the twinkling of an eye we were at it; and in a short time the deuce
an eye some of us had to twinkle. A battle royal succeeded, that lasted
near half an hour, and it would probably have lasted above double the
time, were it not for the appearance of the “master,” who was seen by a
little shrivelled vidette, who wanted an arm, and could take no part in
the engagement. This was enough--we instantly radiated in all possible
directions, so that by the time he had descended through the intricacies
of the glen to the field of battle, neither victor nor vanquished was
visible, except, perhaps, a straggler or two as they topped the brow of
the declivity, looking back over their shoulders, to put themselves out
of doubt as to their visibility by the master. They seldom looked in
vain, however, for there he usually stood, shaking at us his rod, silently
prophetic of its application on the following day. This threat, for the
most part, ended in smoke; for except he horsed about forty or fifty of
us, the infliction of impartial justice was utterly out of his power.
[Illustration: PAGE 763-- Usually stood, shaking at us his rod]
But besides this, there never was a realm in which the evils of a
divided cabinet were more visible: the truth is, the monarch himself was
under the influence of female government--an influence which he felt
it either contrary to his inclination or beyond his power to throw
off. “Poor Norah, long may you reign!” we often used to exclaim, to the
visible mortification of the “master,” who felt the benevolence of the
wish bottomed upon an indirect want of allegiance to himself. Well, it
was a touching scene!--how we used to stand with the waistbands of our
small-clothes cautiously grasped in our hands, with a timid show of
resistance, our brave red faces slobbered over with tears, as we stood
marked for execution! Never was there a finer specimen of deprecation
in eloquence than we then exhibited--the supplicating look right up into
the master's face--the touching modulation of the whine--the additional
tightness and caution with which we grasped the waistbands with one
hand, when it was necessary to use the other in wiping our eyes and
noses with the polished sleeve-cuff--the sincerity and vehemence with
which we promised never to be guilty again, still shrewdly including the
condition of present impunity for our offence:--“this--one--time--
master, if ye plaise, sir;” and the utter hopelessness and despair which
were legible in the last groan, as we grasp the “master's” leg in utter
recklessness of judgment, were all perfect in their way. Reader, have
you ever got a reprieve from the gallows? I beg pardon, my dear sir; I
only meant to ask, are you capable of entering into what a personage of
that description might be supposed to feel, on being informed, after the
knot had been neatly tied under the left ear, and the cap drawn over his
eyes, that her majesty had granted him a full pardon? But you remember
your own schoolboy days, and that's enough.
The nice discrimination with which Norah used to time her interference
was indeed surprising. God help us! limited was our experience, and
shallow our little judgments, or we might have known what the master
meant, when with upraised arm hung over us, his eye was fixed upon the
door of the kitchen, waiting for Norah's appearance.
Long, my fair and virtuous countrywomen, I repeat it to you all, as
I did to Norah--may you reign in the hearts and affections of your
husbands (but nowhere else), the grace, ornaments, and happiness of
their hearths and lives, you jewels, you! You are paragons of all that's
good, and your feelings are highly creditable to yourselves and to
humanity.
When Norah advanced, with her brawny, uplifted arm (for she was a
powerful woman) and forbidding aspect, to interpose between us and the
avenging, terrors of the birch, do you think that she did not reflect
honor on her sex and the national character! I sink the base allusion
to the _miscaun_* of fresh butter, which we had placed in her hands that
morning, or the dish of eggs, or of meal, which we had either begged or
stolen at home, as a present for her; disclaiming, at the same time, the
rascally idea of giving it as a bribe, or from any motive beneath the
most lofty minded and disinterested generosity on our part.
* A portion of butter, weighing from one pound to six or
eight, made in the shape of a prism.
Then again, never did a forbidding face shine with so winning and
amicable an expression as did hers on that merciful occasion. The sun
dancing a hornpipe on Easter Sunday morning, or the full moon sailing as
proud as a peacock in a new halo head-dress, was a very disrespectable
sight, compared to Norah's red beaming face, shrouded in her dowd cap
with long ears, that descended to her masculine and substantial neck.
Owing to her influence, the whole economy of the school was good; for
we were permitted to cuff one another, and do whatever we pleased, with
impunity, if we brought the meal, eggs, or butter; except some scapegoat
who was not able to accomplish this, and he generally received on his
own miserable carcase what was due to us all.
Poor Jack Murray! His last words on the scaffold, for being concerned in
the murder of Pierce the gauger, were, that he got the first of his
bad habits under Pat Mulligan and Norah--that he learned to steal by
secreting at home, butter and meal to paste up the master's eyes to
his bad conduct--and that his fondness for quarrelling arose from being
permitted to head a faction at school; a most ungrateful return for the
many acts of grace which the indulgence of Norah caused; to be issued in
his favor.
I was but a short time under Pat, when, after the general example, I
had my cudgel, which I used to carry regularly to a certain furze
bush within fifty perches of the “seminary,” where I hid it till after
“dismiss.*”! I grant it does not look well in me to become I my own
panegyrist; but I can at least declare, that there were few among the
Gaseys able to, resist the prowess of this right arm, puny as it was at
the period in question. Our battles were obstinate and frequent; but as
the quarrels of the two families and their relations on each side, were
as bitter and pugnacious in fairs and markets as ours were in school, we
hit upon the plan of holding our Lilliputian engagements upon the same
days on which our fathers and brothers contested. According to this
plan, it very often happened that the corresponding parties were
successful, and as frequently, that whilst the Caseys were well drubbed
in the fair, their sons were victorious at school, and vice versa.
For my part, I was early trained in cudgelling, and before I reached my
fourteenth year, could pronounce as sage and accurate an opinion upon
the merits of a shillelagh, as it is called, or cudgel, as a veteran
of sixty could at first sight. Our plan of preparing them was this: we
sallied out to any place where there was an underwood of blackthorn or
oak, and, having surveyed the premises with the eye of a connoisseur, we
selected the straightest root-growing piece which we could find: for
if not root-growing we did not consider it worth cutting, knowing from
experience that a mere branch, how straight and fair soever it might
look, would be apt to snap in the twist and tug of war. Having cut it as
close to the root as possible, we then lopped off the branches, and
put it up the chimney to season. When seasoned, we took it down, and
wrapping it in brown paper, well steeped in hog's lard or oil, we buried
it in a horse dunghill, paying it a daily visit for the purpose of
making it straight by doubling back the bends or angles across the knee,
in a direction contrary to their natural tendency. Having daily repeated
this until we had made it straight, and renewed the oil wrapping paper
until the staff was perfectly saturated, we then rubbed it well with a
woollen cloth, containing a little black-lead and grease, to give it
a polish. This was the last process, except that if we thought it too
light at the top, we used to bore a hole in the lower end with a red-hot
iron spindle, into which we poured melted lead, for the purpose of
giving it the knock-down weight.
There were very few of Paddy Mulligan's scholars without a choice
collection of such cudgels, and scarcely one who had not, before his
fifteenth year, a just claim to be called the hero of a hundred fights,
and the heritor of as many bumps on the cranium as would strike both
Gall and Spurzheim speechless.
Now this, be it known, was, and in some districts yet is, an integral
part of an Irish peasant's education. In the northern parts of Ireland,
where the population of the Catholics on the one side, and of Protestant
and Dissenters on the other, is nearly equal, I have known the
respective scholars of Catholic and Protestant schools to challenge each
other and meet half-way to do battle, in vindication of their respective
creeds; or for the purpose of establishing the character of their
respective masters as the more learned man; for if we were to judge by
the nature of the education then received, we would be led to conclude
that a more commercial nation than Ireland was not on the face of the
earth, it being the indispensable part of every scholar's business to
become acquainted with the _three sets of Bookkeeping_.
The boy who was the handiest and the most daring with the cudgel at
Paddy Mulligan's school was Denis Kelly, the son of a wealthy farmer
in the neighborhood. He was a rash, hot-tempered, good-natured lad,
possessing a more than common share of this blackthorn ambition; on
which account he was cherished by his relations as a boy that was likely
at a future period to be able to walk over the course of the parish,
in fair, market, or patron. He certainly grew up a stout, able young
fellow; and before he reached nineteen years, was unrivalled at the
popular exercises of the peasantry. Shortly after that time he made
his debut in a party-quarrel, which took place in one of the Christmas
Margamores, (* Big Markets) and fully sustained the anticipations which
were formed of him by his relations. For a year or two afterwards no
quarrel was fought without him; and his prowess rose until he had gained
the very pinnacle of that ambition which he had determined to reach.
About this time I was separated from him, having found it necessity,
in order to accomplish my objects in life, to reside with a relation in
another part of the country.