however, could not last. The Catholics felt that they were as capable of
patronising the drama as the victors of Aughrim. A strong historic
spirit awoke among them. They requested of the Orangemen to be allowed
the favour of representing the Catholic warriors of the disastrous
field, and, somewhat to their surprise, the request was immediately
granted. The Orangemen felt that there was something awkward and not
unlike political apostasy in acting the part of Catholics in the play,
under any circumstances, no matter how dramatic. It was consequently
agreed that the Orangemen should represent the officers of the great man
on whose name and title their system had been founded, and the Catholics
should represent their own generals and officers under the name of St.
Ruth, Sarsfield, and Colonel O'Neill. The first representation of this
well-known play took place in the town of Au----. During the few weeks
before the great night nothing was heard but incessant repetitions and
rehearsals of the play.
The fact of this enactment of the play by individuals so strongly
opposed to each other both in religion and politics excited not only an
unusual degree of curiosity, but some apprehension as to the result,
especially when such language as this was heard:--
"We licked them before," said the Orangemen, "an' by japers, we'll lick
them again. Jack Tait acts General Jingle, an' he's the boy will show
them what chance a Papist has against a Prodestan!"
"Well, they bate us at Aughrim," said the Catholics, "but with Tam
Whiskey at our head, we'll turn the tebles and lick them now."
Both parties on that night were armed with swords for the battle scene,
which represented the result of the engagement. Unfortunately, when the
scene came on, instead of the bloodless fiction of the drama they began
to slash each other in reality, and had it not been for the interference
of the audience there is no doubt that lives would have been lost. After
this, swords were interdicted and staves substituted. The consequence,
as might have been expected, was that heads were broken on both sides,
and a general fight between Protestant and Catholic portions of the
actors and the audience ensued.
In the meanwhile the dramatic mania had become an epidemic. Its
fascination carried overt opposition before it. A new system was
adopted. The Orange party was to be represented by staunch Catholics,
all probably Ribbonmen, and the Catholics by the rankest and most
violent Orangemen in the parish. This course was resorted to in order to
prevent the serious quarrels with which the play generally closed. Such
was the state which the dramatic affairs of the parish had reached when
the occasion, a summer evening, arrived that had been appointed by the
herculean manager, John Tait, for the exhibition of "The Battle of
Aughrim," in a large and roomy barn of a wealthy farmer named Jack
Stuart, in the townland of Rark.
His house stood on a little swelling eminence beside which an old road
ran, and into which the little green before the door sloped. The road,
being somewhat lower, passed close to his outhouses, which faced the
road, but in consequence of their positions a loft was necessary to
constitute the barn, so that it might be level with the haggard on the
elevation. The entrance to the barn was by a door in one of the gables,
whilst the stable and cow-house, or byre as it was called, were beneath
the loft, and had their door open to the road. This accurate description
will be found necessary in order to understand what followed.
In preparing the barn for the entertainment, the principal embarrassment
consisted in want of seats.
Necessity, however, is well-known to be the mother of invention; and in
this case that fact was established at the expense of honest Jack
Stuart. Five or six sacks of barley were stretched length-wise on that
side of the wall which faced the road. Now, barley, although the juice
of it makes many a head light, is admitted to be the heaviest of all
grain. On the opposite side, next the haggard, the seats consisted of
chairs and forms, some of them borrowed from the neighbours. The curtain
(i.e., the winnowing-cloth) was hung up at the south end, and
everything, so far as preparation went, was very well managed. Of
course, it was unnecessary to say that the entertainment was free to
such as could find room, for which there was many an angry struggle.
We have said that from an apprehension that the heroes on both sides
might forget the fiction and resort to reality by actual fighting, it
had generally been arranged that the Catholic party should be
represented by the Orangemen, and _vice versa_; and so it was in this
instance. The caste of the piece was as follows:--
Baron de Ginckel (General of the English forces) Tom Whiskey.
(A perfect devil at the cudgels when sober, especially against an
Orangeman.)
Marquis de Ruvigny Denis Shevlin.
(Ditto with Tom Whiskey as to fighting.)
General Talmash Barney Broghan.
(A fighting Blacksmith.)
General Mackay Dandy Delaney.
(At present on his keeping--but place of birth unknown.)
Colonels Herbert and Earles Tom M'Roarkin, of Springstown, and
Paddy Rafferty, of Dernascrobe.
(Both awfully bellicose, and never properly at peace unless when in
a fight.)
The cast of the Catholic leaders was this:--
Monsieur St. Ruth (General of the Irish Forces) Jacky Vengeance.
(An Orangeman who had lost a brother at the battle of Vinegar Hill,
hence the nickname of Vengeance.)
Sarsfield Big Jack Tait.
(Master of an Orange Lodge.)
(We know not how far the belief in Sarsfield's immense size is true
to fact; but be this as it may, we have it from the tradition that
he was a man of prodigious stature, and Jack was six feet four in
height, and strong in proportion.)
General Dorrington George Twin.
(Of Mallybarry, another man of prowess in party fights, and an
Orangeman.)
Colonel Talbot Lick-Papish Nelson.
Colonel Gordon O'Neill Fighting Grimes.
Sir Charles Godfrey (a young English gentleman of fortune, in love with
Colonel Talbot's Daughter, and volunteer in the Irish army)
Jemmy Lynch, the fighting tailor.
(He fought for his customers, whether Orange or Green, according as
they came in his way.)
Jemima (Colonel Talbot's daughter) Grasey (Grace) Stuart.
(A bouncing virago, at least twelve stone weight.)
Lucinda (wife of Colonel Herbert) Dolly Stuart.
(Her sister, much of the same proportions.)
Ghost Cooney Mullowney.
(Of the Bohlies, a townland adjoining.)
On the chairs and forms, being the seats of honour, were placed the
Protestant portion of the audience, because they were the most wealthy
and consequently the most respectable, at least in the eyes of the
world--by which we mean the parish. On the barley-sacks were deposited
the "Papishes," because they were then the poor and the downtrodden
people, so that they and "the Prodestants" sat on opposite sides of the
barn. There were no political watch-words, no "three cheers" for either
this man or that, owing to the simple reason that no individual present
had ever seen a theatre in his life. The only exception was that of an
unfortunate flunkey, who had seen a play in Dublin, and shouted "up
with the rag," for which, as it was supposed that he meant to turn the
whole thing into ridicule, he was kicked out by the Ghost, who, by the
way, was one of the stoutest fellows among them, and would have been
allotted to a higher part were it not for the vileness of his memory.
At length the play commenced, and went on with remarkable success. The
two batches of heroes were in high feather--King William's party (to
wit, Tom Whiskey and his friends) standing accidentally on that side of
the barn which was occupied by the barley-sacks and the Papishes, and
the Catholic generals ranged with the Orange audience on the opposite
side. It was now the Ghost's cue to enter from behind the
winnowing-cloth, but before the apparition had time to appear, the
prompter's attention was struck by a sudden sinking of the party on the
sacks, which seemed rather unaccountable. Yet, as it did not appear to
have been felt by the parties themselves, who were too much wrapped up
in the play, it excited neither notice nor alarm. At length the Ghost
came out, dressed in a white sheet his face rendered quite spectral by
flour. Sir Charles Godfrey, alias Jemmy Lynch, the tailor, had just
concluded the following words, addressed to the Ghost himself, who in
life it appeared had been his father:--
"Oh, I'll sacrifice
A thousand Romish sowls who, shocked with woe,
Shall, bound in shackles, fill the shades below."
Ghost.--"Be not so rash, wild youth----"
He had scarcely uttered the words when a noise like the "crack of doom"
was heard: one-half of the barn-floor had disappeared! The Ghost made a
step to approach Sir Charles, his son, when the last object we saw was
his heels--his legs dressed in blue woollen stockings and his sturdy
hinder parts cased in strong corduroys, in the act of disappearing in
the abyss beneath. Down he and the others went, and were lodged in the
cow-house below amid the warm manure.
The consternation, the alarm, the fright and terror among the safe and
Protestant side of the audience, could not be described. But the
disaster proved to be one of the most harmless for its nature that ever
occurred, for it was only destructive to property. Not a single injury
was sustained with the exception of that which befell the Ghost, who had
his arm dislocated at the elbow. The accident now resumed a religious
hue. The Catholics charged the others with the concoction of a
Protestant plot, by putting them together on what they called the rotten
side of the house. The wrangle became high and abusive, and was fast
hastening into polemical theology, when the _dramatis personae_ offered
to settle it in a peaceable way, by fighting out the battle on the
green. It was the scene of terrible and strong confusion, so much so
that all we can glean from our recollection is the image of a desperate
personal conflict between the actors whose orange and green ribbons were
soon flung off as false emblems of the principles which they had adopted
only for the sake of ending the play in a peaceable manner.
The Quare Gander.
_From "The Purcell Papers."_
BY JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU
Terence Mooney was an honest boy and well-to-do--an' he rinted the
biggest farm on this side iv the Galties, an' bein' mighty cute an' a
sevare worker, it was small wonder he turned a good penny every harvest;
but, unluckily, he was blessed with an ilegant large family iv
daughters, an' iv coorse his heart was allamost bruck, strivin' to make
up fortunes for the whole of them--an' there wasn't a conthrivance iv
any sort of description for makin' money out iv the farm but he was up
to. Well, among the other ways he had iv gettin' up in the world, he
always kep' a power iv turkies, and all soarts iv poultry; an' he was
out iv all raison partial to geese--an' small blame to him for that
same--for twiste a year you can pluck them as bare as my hand--an' get a
fine price for the feathers, and plenty of rale sizeable eggs--an' when
they are too ould to lay any more, you can kill them, an' sell them to
the gintlemen for goslings, d'ye see,--let alone that a goose is the
most manly bird that is out. Well, it happened in the coorse iv time,
that one ould gandher tuck a wondherful likin' to Terence, an' sorra a
place he could go serenadin' about the farm, or lookin' afther the men,
but the gandher id be at his heels, an' rubbin' himself agin his legs,
and lookin' up in his face just like any other Christian id do; and the
likes iv it was never seen, Terence Mooney an' the gandher wor so great.
An' at last the bird was so engagin' that Terence would not allow it to
be plucked any more; an' kept it from that time out for love an'
affection; just all as one like one iv his children. But happiness in
perfection never lasts long; an' the neighbours begin'd to suspect the
nathur and intentions iv the gandher; an' some iv them said it was the
divil, and more iv them that it was a fairy. Well Terence could not but
hear something of what was sayin', and you may be sure he was not
altogether aisy in his mind about it, an' from one day to another he was
gettin' more ancomfortable in himself, until he detarmined to sind for
Jer Garvan, the fairy docthor in Garryowen, an' it's he was the ilegant
hand at the business, and sorra a sperit id say a crass word to him, no
more nor a priest; an' moreover, he was very great wid ould Terence
Mooney, this man's father that was. So without more about it, he was
sent for; an' sure enough, not long he was about it, for he kem back
that very evening along wid the boy that was sint for him; an' as soon
as he was there, an' tuk his supper, an' was done talkin' for a while,
he bigined, of coorse, to look into the gandher. Well, he turned it this
way an' that way, to the right and to the left, an' straight-ways, an'
upside down, an' when he was tired handlin' it, says he to Terence
Mooney:
"Terence," says he, "you must remove the bird into the next room," says
he, "an' put a petticoat," says he, "or any other convaynience round his
head," says he.
"An' why so?" says Terence.
"Becase," says Jer, says he.
"Becase what?" says Terence.
"Becase," says Jer, "if it isn't done--you'll never be aisy agin," says
he, "or pusilanimous in your mind," says he; "so ax no more questions,
but do my biddin," says he.
"Well," says Terence, "have your own way," says he.
An' wid that he tuk the ould gandher, and giv' it to one iv the
gossoons.
"An' take care," says he, "don't smother the crathur," says he.
Well, as soon as the bird was gone, says Jer Garvan, says he, "Do you
know what that ould gandher is, Terence Mooney?"
"Sorra a taste," says Terence.
"Well, then," says Jer, "the gandher is your own father," says he.
"It's jokin' you are," says Terence, turnin' mighty pale; "how can an
ould gandher be my father?" says he.
"I'm not funnin' you at all," says Jer, "it's thrue what I tell
you--it's your father's wandherin' sowl," says he, "that's naturally tuk
pissession iv the ould gandher's body," says he; "I know him many ways,
and I wondher," says he, "you do not know the cock iv his eye yourself,"
says he.
"Oh!" says Terence, "what will I ever do, at all, at all," says he;
"it's all over wid me, for I plucked him twelve times at the laste,"
says he.
"That can't be helped now," says Jer, "it was a sevare act, surely,"
says he, "but it's too late to lamint for it now," says he; "the only
way to prevint what's past," says he, "is to put a stop to it before it
happens," says he.
"Thrue for you," says Terence, "but how did you come to the knowledge iv
my father's sowl," says he, "bein' in the ould gandher?" says he.
"If I tould you," says Jer, "you would not understand me," says he,
"without book-larnin' an' gasthronomy," says he; "so ax me no
questions," says he, "an I'll tell you no lies; but b'lieve me in this
much," says he, "it's your father that's in it," says he, "an' if I
don't make him spake to-morrow mornin'," says he, "I'll give you lave to
call me a fool," says he.
"Say no more," says Terence, "that settles the business," says he; "an'
oh! is it not a quare thing," says he, "for a dacent, respictable man,"
says he, "to be walkin' about the counthry in the shape iv an ould
gandher," says he; "and, oh, murdher, murdher! is it not often I plucked
him," says he, "an' tundher and turf, might not I have ate him," says
he; and wid that he fell into a could parspiration, savin' your
prisince, an' was on the pint iv faintin' wid the bare notions iv it.
Well, whin he was come to himself agin, says Jerry, to him, quite an
aisy--"Terence," says he, "don't be aggravatin' yourself," says he, "for
I have a plan composed that'll make him spake out," says he, "an' tell
what it is in the world he's wantin'," says he; "an' mind an' don't be
comin' in wid your gosther an' to say agin anything I tell you," says
he, "but jist purtind, as soon as the bird is brought back," says he,
"how that we're goin' to sind him to-morrow mornin' to market," says he;
"an' if he don't spake to-night," says he, "or gother himself out iv the
place," says he, "put him into the hamper airly, and sind him in the
cart," says he, "straight to Tipperary, to be sould for aitin'," says
he, "along wid the two gossoons," says he; "an' my name isn't Jer
Garvan," says he, "if he doesn't spake out before he's half way," says
he; "an' mind," says he, "as soon as ever he says the first word," says
he, "that very minute bring him off to Father Crotty," says he, "an' if
his Raverance doesn't make him ratire," says he, "into the flames of
Purgathory," says he, "there's no vartue in my charms," says he.
Well, wid that the ould gandher was let into the room agin, an' they all
begined to talk iv sindin' him the nixt mornin' to be sould for roastin'
in Tipperary, jist as if it was a thing andoubtingly settled; but not a
notice the gandher tuk, no more nor if they wor spaking iv the Lord
Liftenant; an' Terence desired the boy to get ready the _kish_ for the
poulthry "an' to settle it out wid hay soft and shnug," says he, "for
it's the last jauntin' the poor ould gandher 'ill get in this world,"
says he.
Well, as the night was getting late, Terence was growin' mighty
sorrowful an' down-hearted in himself entirely wid the notions iv what
was going to happen. An' as soon as the wife an' the crathurs war fairly
in bed, he brought out some illigant potteen, an' himself and Jer Garvan
sot down to it, an' the more anasy Terence got, the more he dhrank, and
himself and Jer Garvan finished a quart betune them: it wasn't an
imparial though, an' more's the pity, for them wasn't anvinted antil
short since; but sorra a much matther it signifies any longer if a pint
could hould two quarts, let alone what it does, sinst Father Mathew
begin'd to give the pledge, an' wid the blessin' iv timperance to
deginerate Ireland. An' sure I have the medle myself; an' it's proud I
am iv that same, for abstamiousness is a fine thing, although it's
mighty dhry.
Well, whin Terence finished his pint, he thought he might as well stop,
"for enough is as good as a faste," says he, "an' I pity the vagabone,"
says he, "that is not able to conthroul his liquor," says he, "an' to
keep constantly inside iv a pint measure," says he, an' wid that he
wished Jer Garvan a good night, an' walked out iv the room. But he wint
out the wrong door, being a trifle hearty in himself, an' not rightly
knowin' whether he was standin' on his head or his heels, or both iv
them at the same time, an' in place iv gettin' into bed, where did he
thrun himself but into the poulthry hamper, that the boys had settled
out ready for the gandher in the mornin'; an', sure enough, he sunk down
snug an' complate through the hay to the bottom; an' wid the turnin' an'
roulin' about in the night, not a bit iv him but was covered up as snug
as a lumper in a pittaty furrow before mornin'.
So wid the first light, up gets the two boys that war to take the
sperit, as they consaved, to Tipperary; an' they cotched the ould
gandher, an' put him in the hamper and clapped a good whisp iv hay on
the top iv him, and tied it down sthrong wid a bit iv a coard, an med
the sign iv the crass over him, in dhread iv any harum, an' put the
hamper up on the car, wontherin' all the while what in the world was
makin' the ould burd so surprisin' heavy.
Well, they wint along on the road towards Tipperary, wishin' every
minute that some iv the neighbours bound the same way id happen to fall
in with them, for they didn't half like the notions iv havin' no company
but the bewitched gandher, an' small blame to them for that same. But,
although they wor shakin' in their skins in dhread iv the ould bird
beginin' to convarse them every minute, they did not let on to one
another, bud kep' singin' and whistlin', like mad to keep the dhread out
iv their hearts. Well, afther they wor on the road betther nor half an
hour, they kem to the bad bit close by Father Crotty's, an' there was
one rut three feet deep at the laste; an' the car got sich a wondherful
chuck goin' through it, that wakened Terence within the basket.
"Oh!" says he, "my bones is bruck wid yer thricks, what are ye doin' wid
me?"
"Did ye hear anything quare, Thady?" says the boy that was next to the
car, turnin' as white as the top iv a musharoon; "did ye hear anything
quare soundin' out iv the hamper?" says he.
"No, nor you," says Thady, turnin' as pale as himself, "it's the ould
gandher that's gruntin' wid the shakin' he's gettin'," says he.
"Where have ye put me into," says Terence, inside; "let me out," says
he, "or I'll be smothered this minute," says he.
"There's no use in purtending," says the boy; "the gandher's spakin',
glory be to God!" says he.
"Let me out, you murdherers," says Terence.
"In the name iv all the holy saints," says Thady, "hould yer tongue, you
unnatheral gandher," says he.
"Who's that, that dar call me nicknames," says Terence inside, roaring
wid the fair passion; "let me out, you blasphamious infiddles," says he,
"or by this crass, I'll stretch ye," says he.
"Who are ye?" says Thady.
"Who would I be but Terence Mooney," says he, "It's myself that's in it,
you unmerciful bliggards," says he; "let me out, or I'll get out in
spite iv yez," says he, "an' I'll wallop yez in arnest," says he.
"It's ould Terence, sure enough," says Thady; "isn't it cute the fairy
docthor found him out," says he.
"I'm on the p'int iv suffication," says Terence; "let me out, I tell
ye, an' wait till I get at ye," says he, "for sorra a bone in your body
but I'll powdher," says he; an' wid that he bigined kickin' and flingin'
in the hamper, and drivin' his legs agin the sides iv it, that it was a
wondher he did not knock it to pieces. Well, as the boys seen that, they
skelped the ould horse into a gallop as hard as he could peg towards the
priest's house, through the ruts, an' over the stones; an' you'd see the
hamper fairly flyin' three feet in the air with the joultin'; so it was
small wondher, by the time they got to his Raverance's door, the breath
was fairly knocked out iv poor Terence; so that he was lyin' speechless
in the bottom iv the hamper. Well, whin his Raverance kem down, they up
an' they tould him all that happened, an' how they put the gandher into
the hamper, an' how he begined to spake, an' how he confissed that he
was ould Terence Mooney; and they axed his honour to advise them how to
get rid iv the sperit for good an' all. So says his Raverance, says he:
"I'll take my booke," says he, "an' I'll read some rale sthrong holy
bits out iv it," says he, "an' do you get a rope and put it round the
hamper," says he, "an' let it swing over the runnin' wather at the
bridge," says he, "an' it's no matther if I don't make the sperit come
out iv it," says he.
Well, wid that, the priest got his horse, an' tuk his booke in undher
his arum, an' the boys follied his Raverance, ladin' the horse, and
Terence houldin' his whisht, for he seen it was no use spakin', an' he
was afeard if he med any noise they might thrait him to another gallop
an' finish him intirely. Well, as soon as they wur all come to the
bridge the boys tuk the rope they had with them, an' med it fast to the
top iv the hamper an' swung it fairly over the bridge; lettin' it hang
in the air about twelve feet out iv the wather; and his Raverance rode
down to the bank iv the river, close by, an' begined to read mighty loud
and bould intirely.