THE VILLAGE SCHOOL.
‘This is all that remains of our village school. Here, in his noisy
mansion, sat Phil. Sullivan, wielding his birch as if it had been
a sceptre, while his little subjects were ranged around on benches
formed of sods, that you may still see along the wall. The fire,
when any was required, was made in the centre of the apartment, the
fuel being furnished by each scholar daily bringing a turf with him.
The door was formed of stakes interlaced with _wattles_, a loop of
which thrown over a crooked nail served the purpose of a lock, and
a rude table that the master sat at was all the desk in his school.
As they came in at the door, the urchins were obliged to make their
best bow, by drawing back the left leg, catching the tuft of hair
that hung over the forehead, and bringing their stiff necks to the
precise mathematical curve that constituted politeness; while Phil.
sat in the middle, sometimes talking English, sometimes Irish, to
suit himself to the comprehension of his pupils. As a specimen of
the manner in which he accomplished this, I will give you a journal
of my first day at school.
‘While the more advanced scholars were conning their tasks, he taught
the younger tyros the alphabet—“Come up here, Pat Geehan,” said he to
a red-headed boy, dressed in a grey frieze coat, which came down to
his heels, and a pair of old leather breeches, that, only reaching
half-way down his thighs, exposed his red measled legs,—“Come, stand
up here on the table, and let the boys hear how well you can say your
letters.”—Pat mounted with great confidence; but when his phiz, by
being raised into the light, became more distinctly seen, “Ubbaboo,
tearin’ murder!” exclaimed Phil., “where have you been wid that face?
why, man alive, you’ve been kissing the prata pot; and your hair,
too, stannin’ up for a price, like the bristles of a fighting pig. Is
there no water in the stream? and it would have been no great trouble
to draw your fingers through your hair any how.”—Pat very composedly
lifted up the tail of his coat, and, spitting upon it, gave his face
a wipe that left it streaked like a branded cow—“There now,” said
Phil., “blow your nose, and hold up your head like a gentleman.
What’s this, avick?” said he, pointing to the first letter of the
alphabet—Pat scratched his head—“You don’t know what it is?—small
blame to you, for your mother keeps you running after the cows, when
you should be at your larnin’; but look up at the couples of the
house, and try if you can’t remember it.”—“A,” said Pat.—“Well done!
What’s the name of the next one?” Pat hesitated again.—“What do you
call the big fly that makes the honey?”—“B.”—“Och you’re a genus,
Pat, ready made.” So on he went illustrating in this manner, until
he came to the letter O. Having tried Pat’s “genus” with it two or
three ways to no purpose, Phil. was getting out of patience—“What
would you say if I was to hit you a palthog on the ear?” (suiting
the action to the word,)—“O!” cried Pat, clapping his hand upon the
afflicted spot, which rung with the blow.—“I knew you would find
it,” said Phil.—By the help of this admonition Pat struggled through
the rest of the letters,—“Well, you may sit down now, and send up
Mick Moriarty.”—Mick was rather farther on than Pat—he was spelling
words. After spelling two or three tolerably well, he came to the
word “what”—“Well, what does w-h-a-t make?”—Mick was not sure about
it—“W-h-a-t,” said Phil., “sounds _fat_; but,” (conscious of his own
error in the pronunciation) “when I say fat, don’t you say fat; but
do you say fat your own way.”’
‘Eugene is caricaturing,’ said Mary, ‘Phil. Sullivan was scarcely so
bad as he represents; although I must confess his mode of instruction
was at times rather ludicrous. Yet it was perhaps better suited
to the poor children he had to teach, than that of a more refined
instructor; and for all his blundering at the English, there was not
one in the county a match for him at Latin or Irish.’
‘That is certainly true,’ said Eugene, ‘it was from him I learned the
rudiments of Latin, and he has taught it to half the cow-boys in the
parish, to keep them, as he said himself, out o’ longin’. This may
account in some measure for the acquaintance with Heathen Mythology,
which some of our most ignorant poetasters possess, and which is so
profusely and sometimes ridiculously made use of in our songs. I do
not mean those blundering songs misnamed Irish, that are written by
blockheads as utterly ignorant of the idiom of our language, as they
appear to be of common sense; but in songs which, though little known
out of Ireland, must be familiar to all who have been any time in the
country,—such as the following:—A young man meets a pretty girl in a
morning, and falling head and ears in love with her at first sight,
he breaks out with this rhapsody:—
Are you Aurora or the goddess Flora?
Or are you Venus or the morning sun? &c.
‘Poor Phil. Sullivan is now no more, and those who once composed his
school are dispersed to the four quarters of the globe—a new parish
school-house is built, but few attend it, in consequence of some
attempt made to interfere with the belief of the children.’
When we left the school-house, we were met by a sedate-looking
old gentleman, who saluted us as he passed. ‘That,’ said Eugene,
‘is Father ——, our parish priest, a good and upright man; but
eccentric in his manners, and more so in his preaching—that the
latter is affected for the purpose of accommodating himself to
the comprehension of his hearers, I believe, for he is a man of
learning, and shines in conversation, when in company with people who
understand him; but if you heard him from the pulpit, I doubt much
whether you would be able to refrain from laughing.
‘When the congregation are all composed, with their eyes fixed
on him, he begins: “There you are all of ye, looking demure and
mim-mouthed, like as many saints, as if butter wouldn’t melt in
your mouths. Who would think, now, that half-an-hour ago you were
busy scandalizing one another, making your remarks on this one’s
dress, and that one’s face, while more of ye were bargaining about
your pratas and corn; and this is all done when you come here on
the pretence of hearing the word of God on the Lord’s-day; but what
do you do on the week-days?—why, you curse, and swear, and tell
lies, and drink, and fight; and worse than all that, you go scheming
about at night, doing mischief to every one that doesn’t please you;
and after doing all this, you’ll come to me, hanging a lip like a
motherless foal, and a whine in your face, to make your confession,
and get absolution for your sins. But how can I give you absolution?
people that never think of God, only when the devil’s at their
elbow—And when I refuse ye, ye fall to blubbering, and say, O Father
—— dear! hear me; what will I do, if you don’t hear me? And what
answer can I make ye, only that you’ll go to hell and be damned—and
indeed it’s as true as I say it, if you don’t mend your manners, that
will be the end of ye. So I would advise you to mind what you’re
about, and don’t forget that there’s One above ye, that’s taking
note of all your misdeeds. I am sure you know yourselves there’s no
pleasure in the world in doing what’s wrong, and you all know how
contented you feel when you do what’s right. Then take my advice, and
‘make your souls’ without any delay, for the Lord knows which of you
may be alive to see next Sunday.”
‘That is but a very imperfect specimen of his powers; for, in this
rude style, he is a most merciless dissector of the human heart,
and his hearers often wonder how he attains a knowledge of their
most secret failings, even when they are not regular in their duty.
Rude, however, as his oratory is, at times it is very impressive,
and I have often seen his audience in tears. He possesses a strong
influence over his flock, and I have frequently seen him plunge into
the midst of an hundred fellows who were fighting with sticks, and
with his horse-whip disperse the whole of them.
‘There is a very unjust prejudice raised against our clergymen, from
the supposition that they encourage or abet the disturbances that
agitate this country. Nothing can be more unjust: they not only
denounce and excommunicate all concerned in them, from the pulpit,
but I have known them risk their lives in the endeavour to prevent
outrages. I am sure, take them as a body, that there is not a more
useful or exemplary set of men in the world, than the parish priests
of Ireland. There are, no doubt, exceptions; but what would become
of the character of the clergymen of the Established Church, were
individual instances brought forward to criminate the whole body?
For my part, although I am a Catholic, and of course must condemn
the upholding an expensive church establishment at the charge of
people who are not members of it, yet there are many clergymen of
that church whom I esteem and respect. With the one belonging to our
parish we are on the most friendly terms; his family and ours are
almost constantly together, and I am sure love each other sincerely.
It would be well for you to bear in mind, that in this country
_Protestant_ and _Catholic_ is not so much the distinguishing name of
a religious sect, as it is the _shibboleth_ of a political faction.
There is, indeed, very little religion among the zealots on either
side,—their own aggrandisement, and the possession of power or
popularity, being their ruling motive. Poor Ireland has been torn to
pieces between these conflicting parties, and has alternately been
the dupe or the victim of the one or the other. Among well-informed
and really religious people, these distinctions are little thought
of.’
‘Nor should they be,’ replied I; ‘but, in my opinion, the influence
of your clergymen over the mind and conscience of their flock extends
too far, when used among ignorant and debased people. To restrain
them from what is wrong, it may be beneficial, but it can also be
turned to a bad purpose; and few intelligent people would like to
have their conscience so much in the keeping of men frail and erring
in their nature.’
‘Their influence is not so great as you imagine,’ replied Eugene; ‘we
exercise a freedom of opinion on many points; for instance, there
are many Catholics who cannot believe that all other sects will be
eternally lost, and the enlightened of our clergy do not insist upon
the point.’
‘It is an article of belief,’ said I, ‘that in my opinion is replete
with mischief, and is the strongest weapon in the hands of your
adversaries against emancipation. What can we expect, say they, from
people who believe we are running the broad road to destruction?
Even their pity can only extend so far as to drag us from its brink
forcibly, as we would restrain a man from committing suicide. Would
there not be an end of our political and religious freedom, the
moment they got the ascendancy?’
‘It is certainly the most feasible argument they use,’ replied
Eugene; ‘but at most we could not treat you worse than we have been
treated, and if knowledge, by enlarging the mind, creates a more
liberal feeling, its effects will extend to the poor Catholics as
well as others. It is, after all, but a puerile argument; we find
Protestants tolerated in France, and other Catholic countries. The
evil you dread springs from ignorance, which produces bigotry,
intolerance, and persecution, among Protestants as well as
Catholics.—But I am sure you must be teazed with our incessantly
talking about our country?’
‘Far from it,’ said I, ‘the subject to me is very interesting.’
‘For once,’ said Mary, ‘I am tired of it; let us shift the subject,
if you please, to something else.’
‘Then I hope you will conduct us to the fairy haunts in the
neighbourhood, and give us some of the traditions about them.’
‘With all my heart,’ said she; ‘but we do not need to travel far—this
green mount on our left is said to be a favourite resort of the “good
people,” and as its summit commands a view of all the places of note
in the neighbourhood, we may seat ourselves there.’ So saying, she
led the way.[19]
As we were returning home,—‘I see you are like the rest of your
countrymen,’ said she, ‘a good listener; but you take care that we
shall not know much of your adventures. You, that have been ranging
the world over, amid scenes of every kind, must surely have much more
interesting subjects in store, than those who have been always at
home.’
‘The life of a soldier is not so varied,’ said I, ‘as you may
imagine; there is a sameness in his duty, and so little liberty of
his own in all that he does, that he cannot see or feel objects
through the same medium as those who travel on pleasure or business.
In general, he is secluded in a barrack or a camp from the rest of
the world, and therefore there can be little variation in his life at
home or abroad. In war, he is placed in circumstances which often
strongly excite his mind, but the repetition of even these, soon
renders it incapable of the impression. When we had been some time
abroad, we went into action with nearly as much indifference as we
did any minor point of duty.’
‘Then we are led to believe, from what you say, that soldiers are
thus rendered incapable of the finer feelings of humanity.’
‘Under particular circumstances it may have that effect,’ said I,
‘But, after all, there is no class of men so susceptible of feeling,
if the proper chord is touched. I know many instances of their
disinterested and generous conduct in assisting the distressed; and
the story which I am going to relate may exemplify the manner in
which their sensibilities may be wrought upon, even in the tumult and
excitation of an assault, where, in general, the kindly feelings of
nature are entirely excluded.
‘The adventure is not one of my own, but it was related to me by my
friend H——, whom you have heard me mention, and whose veracity I
cannot question.’
FOOTNOTES:
[19] Here I had introduced some fairy traditions, which she recited
with all the arch and witty accompaniments of voice and manner, which
render even a common story interesting; but having accidentally met
with a very entertaining book lately published, entitled, ‘Fairy
Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland,’ where I find similar
stories, related in a style so much superior to mine, that it would
have been presumption in me to follow the same track; I have thought
it proper to cancel that part of my MS. and must now refer the reader
to the above work for the gratification of his curiosity.