Donnybrook contrasted with St. Bartholomew’s—Characteristics of the
company resorting to each fair—Site upon which the former is
held—Description and materials of a Donnybrook tent—Various humours of
the scene—The horse fair—Visit of the author and Counsellor Byrne in
1790—Barter and exchange—The “gentle Coadjutor”—The “master cobbler”—A
head in chancery—Disastrous mishap of Counsellor Byrne—Sympathy
therewith of the author and his steed—The cobbler and his companion—An
extrication—Unexpected intruders—Counsellor Byrne and his doctor—A
glance at the country fairs of Ireland—Sir Hercules Langreish and Mr.
Dundas—Dysart fair—The fighting factions—Various receipts for picking
a quarrel—Recent _civilization_ of the lower classes of Emeralders.
The fair of Donnybrook, near Dublin, has been long identified with the
name and character of the lower classes of Irish people; and so far as
the population of its metropolis may fairly stand for that of a whole
country, the identification is just. This remark applies, it is true, to
several years back; as that entire revolution in the natural Irish
character, which has taken place within my time, must have extended to
all their sports and places of amusement; and Donnybrook fair, of
course, has had its full share in the metamorphosis.
The _old_ Donnybrook fair, however, is on record; and so long as the
name exists, will be duly appreciated. Mr. Lysight’s popular song of
“The Sprig of Shillelah and Shamrock so Green,”[26] gives a most lively
sketch of that celebrated meeting—some of the varieties and
peculiarities of which may be amusing, and will certainly give a
tolerable idea of the Dublin commonalty in the eighteenth century.
-----
Footnote 26:
Two lines of Mr. Lysight’s song describe, quaintly, yet veritably, the
practical _point_ of the scenes which occurred at that place of
licensed eccentricities. He speaks of the real Irish Paddy, who
“Steps into a tent, just to spend half-a-crown,
Slips out, meets a _friend_, and for _joy_ knocks him down!
With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.”
It is a literal fact that the blow is as instantly forgiven, and the
twain set a-drinking together in great harmony, as if nothing had
happened.
A priest constantly attended in former times at an alehouse near
Kilmainham, to marry any couples who may have agreed upon that
ceremony when they were _drunk_, and made up their minds for its
immediate celebration so soon as they should be sober: and after the
ceremony he sent them back to the fair for one more drink; and the
lady then went home an _honest_ woman, and as happy as possible. Many
hundred similar matches used, in old times, to be effected during this
carnival. Mr. Lysight also describes the happy consequences of such
weddings with infinite humour. He says of the ulterior increase of
each family
“and nine months after that
A fine boy cries out, ‘How do ye do, Father Pat?
With your sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.’”
This system may somewhat account for the “alarming population of
Ireland,” as statesmen now call it.
-----
All Ireland is acquainted with the sort of sports and recreations which
characterise Donnybrook. But the English, in general, are as ignorant of
an Irish fair as they are of every other matter respecting the “sister
kingdom,” and that is saying a great deal. John Bull, being the most
egotistical animal of the creation, measures every man’s coat according
to his own cloth, and fancying an Irish mob to be like a London rabble,
thinks that Donnybrook fair is composed of all the vice, robbery,
swindling, and spectacle—together with still rougher manners of its
own—of his dear St. Bartholomew.
Never was John more mistaken. I do not know any one trait of character
conspicuous alike in himself and brother Pat, save that which is their
common disgrace and incentive to all other vices, _drinking_; and even
in drunkenness the English far surpass Pat—though perhaps their
superiority in this respect may be attributable merely to their being
better able to purchase the poison; and if they have _not_ the means
ready, they are far more expert at picking of pockets, burglary, or
murder, to procure them—as Mr. _John Ketch_ (operative at his majesty’s
gaol of Newgate in London) can bear ample testimony.
There is no doubt but all mobs are tumultuous, violent, and more or less
savage (no matter what they meet about): it is the nature of democratic
congregations so to be. Those of England are thoroughly wicked, and,
when roused, most ferocious; but they show little genuine courage, and a
few soldiers by a shot or two generally send thousands of fellows
scampering, to adjourn _sine die_. Formerly, I never saw an Irish mob
that could not easily be rendered tractable and complacent by persons
who, as they conceived, intended them fairly and meant to act kindly by
them. So much waggery and fun ever mingled with their most riotous
adventures, that they were not unfrequently dispersed by a good-humoured
joke, when it would probably have required a regiment and the reading of
a dozen riot acts to do it by compulsion.
A long, erroneous system of ruling that people seems to have gradually,
and at length definitively, changed the nature of the Irish character in
every class and branch of the natives, and turned into political
agitation what I remember only a taste for simple hubbub. The Irish have
an indigenous _goût_ for fighting, (of which they never can be
divested,) quite incomprehensible to a sober English farmer, whose food
and _handiwork_ are as regular as his clock. At Donnybrook, the scene
had formerly no reservation as to the full exhibition of genuine
Hibernian character; and a description of one of the _tents_ of that
celebrated sporting fair will answer nearly for all of them, and
likewise give a tolerable idea of most other fairs in the Emerald island
at the same period. Having twice[27] run a narrow risk of losing my life
at Donnybrook, (the last time at its fair in 1790,) I am entitled to
remember its localities at least as well as any gentleman who never was
in danger of ending his days there.
-----
Footnote 27:
For the first of these occurrences see (Vol. ii.) my adventure with
Counsellor Daly and Balloon Crosby.
-----
The site of the fair is a green flat of no great extent, about a mile
from Dublin city, and on the banks of a very shallow stream that runs
dribbling under a high bridge:—fancy irregular houses on one side, and a
highroad through the middle, and you will have a pretty good idea of
that plain of festivity.
Many and of various proportions were the tents which, in time past,
composed the encampment upon the plains of Donnybrook; and if
persevering turbulence on the part of the Emeralders should ever put it
into the heads of the members of his majesty’s government to hire a few
bands of _Cossacks_ to keep them in order, (and I really believe they
are the only folks upon earth who could frighten my countrymen,) the
model of a Donnybrook tent will be of great service to the Don-Russian
auxiliaries—the materials being so handy and the erection so _facile_. I
shall therefore describe one accurately, that the Emperor Nicholas and
his brother Michael, who has seen something of Ireland already, may,
upon any such treaty being signed, perceive how extremely well his
Imperial Majesty’s Tartars will be accommodated.
_Receipt for a Donnybrook Tent._
Take eight or ten long wattles, or any indefinite number, according to
the length you wish your tent to be (whether two yards, or half a mile,
makes no difference as regards the architecture or construction).
Wattles need not be provided by purchase and sale, but may be readily
procured any dark night by cutting down a sufficient number of young
trees in the demesne or plantation of any gentleman in the
neighbourhood—a prescriptive _privilege_ or rather _practice_, time
immemorial, throughout all Ireland.
Having procured the said wattles _one way or other_, it is only
necessary to stick them down in the sod in two rows, turning round the
tops like a woodbine arbour in a lady’s flower-garden, tying the two
ends together with neat ropes of hay, which any gentleman’s farm-yard
can (during the night time, as aforesaid) readily supply,—then fastening
long wattles in like manner lengthways at top from one end to the other
to keep all tight together; and thus the “wooden walls” of Donnybrook
are ready for roofing in; and as the building materials cost nothing but
_danger_, the _expense_ is very trivial.
A tent fifty feet long may be easily built in about five minutes, unless
the builders should adopt the old mode of _peeling_ the wattles; and
when once a wattle is stripped to its _buff_, he must be a wise landlord
indeed who could swear to the identity of the timber—a species of
evidence nevertheless that the Irish wood-rangers are extremely expert
at.[28] This precaution will not however be necessary for the Don
Cossacks, who being educated as highway robbers by the Emperor of all
the Russias, and acting in that capacity in every country, cannot of
course be called to account for a due exercise of their vocation.
-----
Footnote 28:
I recollect a man at the assizes of Maryborough swearing to the leg of
his own goose, which was stolen—having found it in some _giblet broth_
at the robber’s cabin. The witness was obviously right; the web
between the goose’s toes being, he said, _snipped and cut_ in a way he
could perfectly identify.
-----
The covering of the tents is now only requisite; this is usually done
according to fancy; and being unacquainted with the taste of the Russian
gentlemen on that head, I shall only mention the general mode of
_clothing_ the wattles used in my time—a mode that, from its
singularity, had a far more imposing appearance than any encampment ever
pitched by his majesty’s regular forces, horse, foot, or artillery.
Every cabin, alehouse, and other habitation wherein quilts or bedclothes
were used, or could be procured by _civility_ or _otherwise_ (except
_money_, which was not current for such purposes), was ransacked for
_apparel_ wherewith to cover the wattles. The favourite covering was
_quilts_, as long as such were forthcoming; and when not, old winnowing
sheets, sacks ripped open, rugs, blankets, &c. &c.—Every thing, in fact,
was expended in the _bed_ line (few neighbours using that accommodation
during the fair)—and recourse often had to women’s apparel, as old
petticoats, praskeens, &c. &c.
The covering being spread over the wattles as tightly and snugly as the
materials would admit, all was secured by hay ropes and pegs. When
completed, a very tall wattle with a dirty birch-broom, the hairy end of
an old sweeping brush, a cast-off lantern of some watchman, rags of all
colours made into streamers, and fixed at the top by way of sign, formed
the invitation to _drinking_;—and when _eating_ was likewise to be had,
a rusty tin saucepan, or piece of a broken iron pot, was hung dangling
in front, to crown the entrance and announce good cheer.
The most amusing part of the coverings were the quilts, which were
generally of patchwork, comprising scraps of all the hues in the
rainbow—cut into every shape and size, patched on each other, and
quilted together.
As to furniture, down the centre doors, old or new, (whichever were most
handy to be _lifted_,) were stretched from one end to the other, resting
on hillocks of clay dug from underneath, and so forming a capital table
with an agreeable variety both as to breadth and elevation. Similar
constructions for benches were placed along the sides, but not so steady
as the table; so that when the liquor got the mastery of one convivial
fellow, he would fall off, and the whole row generally following his
example, perhaps ten or even twenty gallant _shamrocks_ were seen on
their backs, kicking up their heels, some able to get up again, some
lying quiet and easy, singing, roaring, laughing, or cursing; while
others, still on their legs, were drinking and dancing, and setting the
whole tent in motion, till all began to long for the open air, and a
little wrestling, leaping, cudgelling, or fighting upon the green grass.
The tent was then cleaned out and prepared for a new company of the
shillelah boys.
The best tents, that supplied “neat victuals,” had a pot boiling outside
on a turf fire, with good fat lumps of salt beef and cabbage, called
“spooleens,” always ready simmering for such customers as should like a
_sliver_. The potatoes were plentiful, and salt Dublin-bay herrings also
in abundance. There was, besides, a cold round or rump of beef at double
price for the _quality_ who came to see the _curiosities_.
Except toys and trinkets for children, merchandise of any sort they
seemed to have a contempt for; but these were bought up with great
avidity; and in the evening, when the parents had given the _childer_ a
glass each of the _cratur_ (as they called whisky), “to keep the cowld
out of their little stomachs,” every trumpet or drum, fiddle, whistle,
or pop-gun, which the fond mothers had bestowed, was set sounding (all
together) over the green, and chimed in with a dozen fiddlers and as
many pipers jigging away for the dance,—an amalgamation of sounds among
the most extraordinary that ever _tickled_ the ear of a musician. Every
body, drunk or sober, took a share in the _long_ dance, and I have seen
a row of a hundred couple labouring at their jig steps till they fell
off actually breathless, and rather _wetter_ than if they had been river
deities of the Donnybrook.
This however must be remarked as constituting a grand distinction
between the beloved St. Bartholomew of the cockneys and the Emeralders’
glory;—that at the former, robbers, cheats, gamblers, and villains of
every description collect, and are most active in their respective
occupations; whilst at the latter, no gambling of any sort existed;—nor
were thieves, pickpockets or swindlers often there: for a good
reason—because there was no money worth stealing, and _plenty_ of
_emptiness_ in the pockets of the amateurs. However, love reigned in all
its glory, and Cupid expended every arrow his mother could make for him:
but with this difference, that love is in general represented as
discharging his shafts into people’s hearts, whereas, at Donnybrook, he
always aimed at their _heads_; and before it became quite dusk he never
failed to be very successful in his archery. It was after sunset,
indeed, that sweethearts made up their matches; and a priest (Father
Kearny of Liffy Street, a good _clergy_) told me that more marriages
were celebrated in Dublin the week _after_ Donnybrook fair, than in any
two months during the rest of the year: the month of June being warm and
_snug_ (as he termed it), smiled on every thing that was good, and
helped the _liquor_ in making arrangements; and with great animation he
added, that it was a gratifying sight to see his young parishioners who
had made up their matches at Donnybrook coming there in a couple of
years again, to buy whistles for their children.
The _horse_ part of the fair was not destitute of amusement—as there was
a large ditch with a drain, and a piece of a wall, which the sellers
were always called upon to “leather their horses over” before any body
would bid for them; and the tumbles which those venturous jockies
constantly received, with the indifference wherewith they mounted and
began again, were truly entertaining.
The common Irish are the most heroic horsemen I ever saw:—it was always
one of their attributes. They ride on the horse’s bare back with
rapidity and resolution; and coming from fairs, I have often seen a
couple or sometimes three fellows riding one bare-backed horse as hard
as he could go, and safely—not one of whom, if they were on their own
legs, could stand perpendicular half a minute.
It is a mistake to suppose that Donnybrook was a remarkable place for
_fighting_, or that much _blood_ was ever drawn there. On the contrary,
it was a place of good-humour. Men, to be sure, were knocked down now
and then, but there was no malice in it. A head was often cut, but
quickly tied up again. The women first parted the combatants and then
became mediators; and every fray which commenced with a knock-down,
generally ended by shaking hands, and the parties getting dead drunk
together.
That brutal species of combat, _boxing_, was never practised at our
fairs; and that savage nest and hot-bed of ruffians called the “Ring,”
so shamefully tolerated in England, was unknown among the
Emeralders.[29] With the shillelah, indeed, they had great skill; but it
was only like sword exercise, and did not appear savage. Nobody was
disfigured thereby, or rendered fit for a doctor. I never saw a bone
broken or any dangerous contusion from what they called “_whacks_” of
the shillelah (which was never too heavy): it was like fencing: a cut on
the skull they thought no more of than we should of the prick of a
needle: of course, such accidents frequently occurred, and (I believe
very well for them) let out a little of their blood, but did not for a
single moment interrupt the song, the dance, the frolicking and
good-humour.
-----
Footnote 29:
I remember one man of tremendous strength from Carlow County (Corcoran
by name): he fancied he could knock down any man or beast on earth
with his fist, and by downright muscular vigour, bear down the guards
of all science or resistance. He went over to England to fight any
“man, woman, or child,” in the whole nation; and when I was at temple,
made sad examples of some of the scientific fancy. He could knock down
the ablest horse with one blow of his fist. I never saw near so strong
a person.
-----
I have said, that the danger I underwent at Donnybrook sank deep into my
memory. The main cause of it was not connected with my rencounter with
Counsellor Daly, recited in the second volume of the present work, but
with one which was to the full as hazardous, though it involved none of
those points of honour or “fire-eating” which forced me to the other
conflict.
In the year 1790, Counsellor John Byrne, (afterward one of his majesty’s
counsel-at-law,) a very worthy man, and intimate friend of mine, called
on me to ride with him and aid him in the purchase of a horse at the
fair of Donnybrook. I agreed, and away we rode, little anticipating the
sad discomfiture we should experience. We found the fair rich in all its
glories of drinking, fighting, kissing, making friends, knocking down,
women dragging their husbands out of frays, and wounded men joining as
merrily in the dance as if the clout tied round their heads were a
Turkish turban. Whatever happened _in_ the fair, neither revenge nor
animosity went _out_ of it with any of the parties; to be sure, on the
road to town, there were always seen plenty of pulling, hauling, and
dragging about, in which the ladies were to the full as busily employed
as the gentlemen; but for which the latter offered, next day, one
general excuse to their wives, who would be mending their torn coats and
washing their stockings and cravats.
“Sure, Moll, it wasn’t _myself_ that was _in it_ when I knocked Tom
Sweeny down in the tent; it was the _drink_, and nothing else.”
“True for you, Pat, my jewel!” would the wife cry, (scrubbing away as
hard as she could,) “true for you, my darling: by my sowl, the whisky
and _water_ was all _spirits_. Myself would as soon strike my owld
mother, God forgive me for the word! as have struck Mary Casey, only for
that last noggin that put the devil into me just when I was aggravated
at your _head_, Pat, my jewel. So I hit Mary Casey a wipe; and by my
sowl it’s I that am sorry for that same, becaize Mary had neither act
nor part in cutting your head, Pat; but I was aggravated, and did not
think of the _differ_.”
This dialogue, with variations, I have heard a hundred times; and it
will serve as a true specimen of the species of quarrels at Donnybrook
in former times, and their general conclusion;—and such were the scenes
that the visitors of the fair were making full preparation for, when
Counsellor John Byrne, myself, and a servant lad of mine (not a very
good horseman), entered it in the year 1790. The boy was mounted on a
fiery horse, which Byrne wanted to exchange; and as I never liked _any
thing_ that was too tame, the horse I rode always had spirit enough,
particularly for a gentleman who was not very remarkable for _sticking
over-fast_ to those animals.
Into the fair we went, and riding up and down, got here a curse, and
there a blessing; sometimes a fellow who knew one of us, starting out of
a tent to offer us a glass of the “cratur.” When we had satisfied our
reasonable curiosity, and laughed plentifully at the grotesque scenes
interspersed through every part, we went to the horse-fair on the green
outside. There the jockies were in abundance; and certainly no fair ever
exhibited a stranger _mélange_ of the halt and blind, the sound and
rotten, rough and smooth—all galloping, leaping, kicking, or
tumbling—some in clusters, some singly; now and then a lash of the long
whip, and now and then a crack of the loaded butt of it! At length, a
horse was produced (which we conceived fit for any counsellor) by Mr.
Irvin the jockey, and engaged, upon his _honour_, to be as sound as a
_roach_, and as steady as any beast between Donnybrook and _Loughrea_,
where he had been the favourite gelding of Father Lynch, the parish
priest, who called him “Coadjutor”—(he had broken the holy father’s
neck, by the bye, about a year before). “Do just try him, Counsellor
Byrne,” said Mr. Irvin; “just mount him a bit, and if ever you get off
him again till you grease my fist, I’ll forgive you the luck-penny.
He’ll want neither whip nor spur; he’ll know your humour, counsellor,
before you’re five minutes on his body, and act accordingly.”
“You’re sure he’s _gentle_?” said Byrne.
“Gentle, is it? I’ll give you leave to skin both himself and me if you
won’t soon like him as well as if he was (begging your pardon) your own
cousin-german. If he wasn’t the thing from muzzle to tail that would
suit you, I’d hang him before I’d give him to a counsellor—the like of
yees at any rate.”
A provisional bargain and exchange was soon struck, and Byrne mounted
for trial on the favourite gelding of the late Father Lynch of Loughrea,
called Coadjutor;—and in truth he appeared fully to answer all Mr.
Irvin’s eulogiums: we rode through the fair, much amused—I trotting
carelessly close by the side of Byrne, and our servant on the fiery mare
behind us; when, on a sudden, a drunken shoemaker, or _master cobbler_,
as he called himself, whom my family had employed in heeling, soling,
&c. seeing me pass by, rushed out of his tent with a bottle of whisky in
one hand and a glass in the other, and roared, “Ough! by J—s, Barnton,
you go no further till you take a drop with me, like your father’s son,
that I’ve been these many a long year tapping and foxing for: here, my
darling, open your gob!”
Byrne being nearest, the cobbler stepped under the neck of my friend’s
horse, and his sconce getting entangled in the loose reins, the horse
(not understanding that species of interruption) began to caper—which at
the same time rather shaking Counsellor Byrne in his seat, and further
entangling the shoemaker’s head, I leant across to get Byrne’s rein
fair; but being unable to do so, from the fury of the son of Crispin,
who was hitting Bucephalus on the skull as hard as he could with the
bottle, to make him _stand easy_ and to get his own head clear, my leg
got entangled in the reins; and Byrne’s _gentle_ gelding making one or
two simultaneous leaps forward and kicks behind, I had the horror of
seeing my poor friend fly far over his horse’s head, alight rather
heavily upon his own, and having done so, lie quite flat and still,
seeming to take no further notice either of the fair, the horses,
myself, or any earthly matter whatsoever.
My steed now began to follow so bright a precedent;—the cobbler,
meanwhile, still cracking away with his bottle at both beasts. My seat
of course became less firm; and at length I yielded to imperative
circumstances, and being detached from my saddle (and also, fortunately,
from the stirrups), I came easily down—but not clear of either horse;
for I reluctantly fell just between the two, one of my legs being fast
in Byrne’s bridle and the other in my own. Both animals were prepared to
set off with the utmost expedition; but I believe without the least idea
as to whither they were going. The cobbler fought hard to get his head
loose; but in vain; so with me he must come, go wherever I might. The
two geldings now wheeled us off, plunging, kicking, and giving me to
understand (so far as I could understand any thing) that I had little
further to do than commend my soul to Heaven, which, to tell truth, I
had neither leisure nor presence of mind to attempt. It was lucky that
the horses’ heads were pulled together by the bridles; by holding which,
I defeated the attempt of “Coadjutor” to kick me to pieces—a compliment
that, with might and main, he strove to pay me; and while dragged on my
back through a short space of the fair of Donnybrook in company with the
shoemaker (who was obliged to run obliquely or be strangled by the
bridles), I had the additional pleasure of feeling the wind of
“Coadjutor’s” heels every second dashing about my head, and also of
looking up at the bellies of both steeds; for I could see nothing else,
except the cobbler, who roared in a voice that brought every man, woman
and child out of the tents. Some men, at the risk of their own lives,
closed on “the mad horses,” and with their knives cut the bridles of
both, and then away went the two geldings, quite disencumbered, as hard
as their legs could carry them,—upsetting tables, forms, pots of hot
water, and in fact every thing that came in their way—till they reached
the spot where Mr. Irvin stood, and sundry members of their own species
were disporting under their master. When they were caught, and the
_death_ of the two counsellors announced by the Dublin horse-jockies,
who were jealous of Mr. Irvin, news was instantly sent to town that
Galway Irvin, a horse-jockey, had sold a vicious animal to Counsellor
Byrne, which had killed both him and Counsellor Barrington on the green
of Donnybrook.
The mare my servant rode, though she did not know what all this row was
about, thought proper to emulate so good an example. But being fonder of
_galloping_ than _rearing_, she fairly ran away; and the lad being
unable to hold her in, they upset every thing in their course, till
having come in contact with the cord of a tent, and being entangled
therein, down went horse and rider plump against the wattles, which
(together with the quilts) yielding to their pressure, Byrne’s mare and
my groom instantly made an unexpected portion of the company inside.
My readers must picture to themselves a runaway horse and his rider
tumbling head foremost into a tent among from ten to twenty Irishmen,
who had got _the drink in them_. Many were the bruises and slight
scarifications of the company before they could get clear of what they
thought nothing but the devil or a whirlwind could possibly have sent
thus, without the least notice, to destroy them. In fact Byrne had, a
few months after, a considerable sum to advance to satisfy all parties
for broken ware, &c.: but the poor fellows would charge nothing for
broken heads or damaged carcases.
The shoemaker, who had certainly stood a narrow risk of being choked,
was the first to tell every body his sad adventure; and to the end of my
days, I never shall forget the figure he cut. His waistcoat was quite
torn off his back while on the ground; he lost both shoes; and the lower
part of his shirt acting as _locum tenens_ for the back of his
small-clothes, which had likewise been rent aside, nothing (with the
conjunction of his horrified countenance) ever presented a more
ludicrous appearance. He continued to roar “Murder! murder!” much in the
yelping tone of a poor dog run over by a carriage, or of a little cur,
when, having got a shrewd bite from a big one, he is galloping off with
his tail between his legs, to claim the protection of his mistress. On
being disengaged, the son of Crispin limped off to the next tent, where
(every body flocking round him) he held up the bottle, of which he
loudly swore he had never quitted his gripe,—“Not,” he said, “for the
lucre of a glass bottle—the bottle be d—’d! but for the sake of the
_cratur_ that was in it, though that was all spilt.”
As for myself, I really know not how I escaped so well: my hat stuck
fast, which saved my head; I held as tightly as I could by both reins;
and in the short distance we were dragged, received very few hard bumps
upon the ground, which, fortunately for all parties, was grassy, and had
neither stones nor gravel. My coat was torn, my hands a little cut by
the reins, and my ankle by the stirrup, as my foot got disentangled
therefrom;—but I received no injury of any consequence.
The most melancholy part of the story relates to my friend Byrne, who
(though by far the simplest process) was the only material sufferer. So
soon as I could set myself to rights in the next tent, and had taken a
large tumbler of hot punch—as they said, to _drive the fright_ out of
me—I hastened to my companion, who, when last I saw him, lay motionless
on the ground. I was told he had been brought into a tent, and there
laid out upon a table as if dead; and had he not exhibited signs of life
pretty soon, the folks would have proceeded to _wake_ and _stretch_ him,
and when he was _decent_, to cover him with a quilt, and carry him home
_next morning_ on a door to his family.
On my arrival, I found him greatly confused, and quite helpless: there
was, however, no bone broken, or any wound or bruise that I could see.
He merely complained of a pain in his neck and shoulders, and I
considered that the general shock he had received was his only injury.
While he lay nearly insensible, but had shown signs of life, the women
forced burnt whisky down his throat out of a bottle, which certainly
revived him. He was then bled by a farrier, and we got him home in a
carriage, though in considerable pain. The surgeon employed (I don’t
name him) said nothing was injured; but in less than a week, to the
horrible torture of poor Byrne, and the discomfiture of the _doctor_, it
turned out that his right shoulder had been dislocated, and the use of
his arm entirely destroyed. After the lapse of such an interval, of
course extreme inflammation took place, and for many months he could
scarcely move.
I fancy _horse jockeying_ and the _fair of Donnybrook_ never
subsequently escaped Byrne’s memory. In fact, the circumstance proved
nearly fatal to him several years after. His shoulder having remained so
long unset, the muscles became rigid, and he never had the power of
raising his right arm upon a level again. This deprivation, as mentioned
in Vol. ii., he felt acutely on his duel with the Earl of Kilkenny, who
hit him before he could bring up his arm to any position.
I have thus given a true sketch of Donnybrook fair forty years ago. I,
however, remember it twenty years earlier—as I used to be taken thither
when a child by the maid-servants, under pretence of diverting “little
master;” and they and their sweethearts always crammed me with cakes to
a surfeit, that I might not tell my grandmother what I saw of them.
The _country_ fairs of Ireland, though of the same genus, were of a
different species; and there were great varieties among that
species—according to the habits, customs, and manners of the several
provinces, counties, or parishes, wherein they were held. The southern,
eastern, and western fairs had considerable similitude to each other;
but the northern, if I may apply exaggerated epithets, could boast more
_rogues_, while at the former the preponderance was of _madmen_. The
_southerns_ certainly loved fighting vastly better, and after they had
done were vastly less vindictive than the northern descendants of the
Caledonians.[30]
-----
Footnote 30:
I do not think that the southern and western Irish have, or ever will
have, any ardent brotherly affection for their northern
fellow-countrymen (exclusive of differences in religion). The former
descended direct from the aboriginals of the land; the latter are
deduced from Scotch colonists, and those not of the very best
occupations or character either.
An anecdote told of Sir Hercules Langreish and Mr. Dundas is
illustrative of this observation, and was one of our standing jokes,
when Ireland existed as a nation.
Mr. Dundas, himself a keen sarcastic man, who loved his bottle nearly
as well as Sir Hercules, invited the baronet to a grand dinner in
London, where the wine circulated freely, and wit kept pace with it.
Mr. Dundas, wishing to procure a laugh at Sir Hercules, said:—
“Why, Sir Hercules, is it true that we Scotch formerly _transported_
all our criminals and felons to Ireland?”
“I dare say,” replied Sir Hercules; “but did you ever hear, Mr.
Dundas, of any of your countrymen _returning_ to _Scotland_ from
transportation?”
-----
At country fairs, the feasting and drinking were still more
boisterous—what they call _obstropulous_ in Ireland; but being generally
held in towns, there was less character exhibited, and consequently less
food for observation to spectators. The fighting, too, was of a
different nature, and far more serious than at Donnybrook. I will cite a
fair that I seldom missed attending for several years, solely in order
to see the fight which was sure to conclude it. It was called the fair
of Dysart, held in a beautiful country in the valley below the green
Timahoe hills, and close to one of the most interesting and beautiful of
Irish ruins, the rock of Donnamase, where, in ancient times, sword-duels
were fought, as I have heretofore mentioned. Cromwell battered it, and
slaughtered the warders of the O’Moores, who held their hereditary
fortress while they had an arm to defend it.
To this fair resorted sundry factions—as they were termed; a _faction_
consisting of one of two parishes, baronies, or town-lands, that were
very good friends in small parties or individually, but had a
prescriptive deadly hatred to each other at all great meetings, fairs,
returns from alehouses, &c. At races or hurlings, where gentlemen
presided, no symptoms of animosity were apparent.
But a tacit compact was always understood to exist that the _factions_
should fight at the fair of Dysart once a year; and accordingly, none of
them ever failed to attend the field of battle with their wives, and
generally a reasonable number of infant children, whose cries and
shrieks during their _daddies’_ conflict formed a substitute for martial
music—mingled, indeed, with the incessant rattle of the ladies’ tongues,
as they fought and struggled, like the Sabine women, to separate
combatants, who would come on purpose to fight again.
The fair went on quietly enough at first as to buying, selling, and
_trucking_ of cows, pigs, frieze and other merchandise: but when trade
grew slack, the whisky got in vigour, and the time came when the same
little “whacking, plase your honour, that our fathers before us always
did at Dysart,” could no longer be deferred. There being however no
personal or ostensible cause of dispute, one or two _boys_ were always
sent out to _pick_ a quarrel and give just reason for the respective
_factions_ to come to the rescue.
Their weapon was almost exclusively an oaken cudgel:—neither iron,
steel, nor indeed any deadlier substance, so far as I ever saw, was in
use among them; and “boxing matches,” as before observed, were
considered altogether too gross and vulgar for the direct descendants of
Irish _princes_, as in fact many of them were. The friends and
neighbours of the pugnacious factions, always in bodies, joined more or
less warmly in the fray. In truth, it would be totally impossible to
keep an Irish peasant, man or woman (if _the drop_ was in), from joining
in any battle going merrily on. Before the fray had ended, therefore,
the entire assemblage was engaged in some degree; and it was commonly a
drawn battle, seldom concluding till all parties and each sex, fairly
out of breath, were unable to fight any more. Two hours or thereabouts
was considered as a decent period for a beating match, and some priest
generally put an end to it when the _factions_ were themselves tired.
These battles commenced in the most extraordinary manner; the different
modes of picking a quarrel being truly comical. One fellow generally
took off his long frieze coat, and flourishing his shillelah, which he
trailed along the ground, vociferated, “Horns! horns! ram’s horns! who
dares say any thing’s crookeder than ram’s horns?”
“By J—s, I know _fat_ will be twice crookeder nor any ram’s horns before
the fair’s over,” another sturdy fellow would reply, leaping, as he
spoke, out of a tent, armed with his “walloper” (as they called their
cudgel), and spitting in his fist—“By J—s, I’ll make your own skull
crookeder nor any ram’s horn in the barony.” The _blow_ of course
followed the _word_;—the querist was laid sprawling on the ground;—out
rushed the _factious_ from every tent, and to work they fell—knocking
down right and left, tumbling head over heels, then breaking into small
parties, and fighting through and round the tents. If one fellow lost
his “walloper,” and was pressed by numbers, he sometimes tugged at a
wattle till he detached it from a tent, and sweeping it all around him,
prostrated men, women, and children:—one, tumbling, tripped up another;
and I have seen them lying in hillocks, yet scarcely any body in the
least injured. Sometimes one faction had clearly the best of it; then
they ran away in their turn, for there was no determined stand made by
any party—so that their alternate advancing, retreating, running away,
and rallying, were productive of huge diversion. Whoever got his head
cut (and that was generally the case with more than half of them), ran
into some tent, where the women tied up the hurt, gave the _sufferer_ a
glass of whisky, and kept him fair and easy till news arrived that the
priest was come—when the combatants soon grew more quiet. The priest
then told them how sinful they were. They thanked his reverence, and
said “they’d stop, _becaize_ he desired them; but it wasn’t _becaize_
they wouldn’t like to make _sartain_ who’d have the best of it.”
The hair being detached from about the cuts on the head, the cuts
themselves dressed, rags applied to battered shins, &c., the whisky went
round merrily again, and the several _factions_ seldom departed till
they were totally _unable_ to fight any more. Some were escorted home by
the priests upon garrons (their wives behind them); some on straw in
cars; and some, too drunk to be moved, remained in the neighbourhood. No
animosity was cherished; and until next fair they would do each other
any kind office. I witnessed many of these _actions_, and never heard
that any man was “dangerously wounded.” But if they fought on the road
home, in very small parties, serious mischief was not unfrequently the
consequence.
The _quere_ as to ram’s horns was only one of many curious schemes
whereby to get up a quarrel. I have seen a fellow going about the fair
dragging his coat, which was always considered a challenge, like
throwing down a glove or gauntlet in olden times—and in fact was a
relict of that practice. Another favourite mode was, exclaiming “black’s
the white of my eye!—who dares say _black_ is _not_ the _white_ of my
eye?”
These scenes certainly took place at a time when Ireland was reputed,
and with truth, to be in a very rough state. It has since undergone
plenty of civilization. Sunday schools, improved magistracy, and a
regular police, have recently been introduced; and the present state of
Ireland proves the great advances it has made in consequence. Of late
years, therefore, though the factions still fight, as usual, it is with
more civilised weapons. Instead of shillelahs and “wallopers,” swords,
pistols, and guns are the genteel implements resorted to: and (to match
the agriculturists) scythes, hatchets, bill-hooks, and pitchforks are
used in their little encounters: and surely the increased refinement of
the country is not to be relinquished on account of the loss of a few
lives.
I fear some of my readers may call the latter observations _ironical_;
but the best way for them to avoid that supposition is, to reflect what
_savage_ Ireland was at the time I allude to, and what _civilised_
Ireland is at the moment I am writing;—in the year 1780, when the
peasantry fighting at the fair of Dysart was in a savage state, the
government were so stingy of their army that they would only spare the
Irish five or six thousand soldiers, and no militia, to teach them to
behave themselves: but after an interval of forty years, they are now so
kind as to allow us five-and-thirty thousand troops to teach the new
rudiments of civilization—the old six thousand having had nothing to do
amongst these semi-barbarous islanders. Nay, the government finding that
Ballinrobe (where, as I have stated, a sow and her ten _piggin riggins_
came to breakfast with two counsellors) was making slow progress to this
desirable state of refinement, was so considerate as to send certainly
the best-bred regiment in the king’s service to give lessons of urbanity
to the people for three hundred and sixty-five days without
intermission.
This boon to so backward a population as County Mayo presented, must
ever be remembered with gratitude by the _undressed_ gentlemen of that
county, though I have not seen any authentic _exposé_ of those
beneficial effects which no doubt resulted.