That the Irish are a ready-witted people, is a fact to the truth of which
testimony has been amply borne both by their friends and enemies. Many
causes might be brought forward to account for this questionable gift,
if it were our intention to be philosophical; but as the matter has been
so generally conceded, it would be but a waste of logic to prove to the
world that which the world cares not about, beyond the mere fact that
it is so. On this or any other topic one illustration is worth twenty
arguments, and, accordingly, instead of broaching a theory we shall
relate a story.
Behind the hill or rather mountain of Altnaveenan lies one of those deep
and almost precipitous vallies, on which the practised eye of an illicit
distiller would dwell with delight, as a topography not likely to be
invaded by the unhallowed feet of the gauger and his red-coats. In point
of fact, the spot we speak of was from its peculiarly isolated situation
nearly invisible, unless to such as came very close to it. Being so
completely hemmed in and concealed by the round and angular projections
of the mountain hills, you could never dream of its existence at all,
until you came upon the very verge of the little precipitous gorge which
led into it. This advantage of position was not, however, its only one.
It is true indeed that the moment you had entered it, all possibility of
its being applied to the purposes of distillation at once vanished, and
you consequently could not help exclaiming, “what a pity that so safe
and beautiful a nook should have not a single spot on which to erect a
still-house, or rather on which to raise a sufficient stream of water
to the elevation necessary for the process of distilling.” If a gauger
actually came to the little chasm, and cast his scrutinizing eye over it,
he would immediately perceive that the erection of a private still in
such a place was a piece of folly not generally to be found in the plans
of those who have recourse to such practices.
This absence, however, of the requisite conveniences was only apparent,
not real. To the right, about one hundred yards above the entrance to
it, ran a ledge of rocks, some fifty feet high, or so. Along their lower
brows, near the ground, grew thick matted masses of long heath, which
covered the entrance to a cave about as large and as high as an ordinary
farm-house. Through a series of small fissures in the rocks which formed
its roof, descended a stream of clear soft water, precisely in body and
volume such as was actually required by the distiller; but, unless by
lifting up this mass of heath, no human being could for a moment imagine
that there existed any such grotto, or so unexpected and easy an entrance
to it. Here there was a private still-house made by the hand of nature
herself, such as no art or ingenuity of man could equal.
Now it so happened that about the period we write of, there lived in our
parish two individuals so antithetical to each other in their pursuits of
life, that we question whether throughout all the instinctive antipathies
of nature we could find any two animals more destructive of each other
than the two we mean--to wit, Bob Pentland the gauger, and little George
Steen the illicit distiller. Pentland was an old, stanch, well-trained
fellow, of about fifty years or more, steady and sure, and with all the
characteristic points of the high-bred gauger about him. He was a tallish
man, thin but lathy, with a hooked nose that could scent the tread of a
distiller with the keenness of a slew-hound; his dark eye was deep-set,
circumspect, and roguish in its expression, and his shaggy brow seemed
always to be engaged in calculating whereabouts his inveterate foe,
little George Steen, that eternally blinked him, when almost in his very
fangs, might then be distilling. To be brief, Pentland was proverbial for
his sagacity and adroitness in detecting distillers, and little George
was equally proverbial for having always baffled him, and that, too,
sometimes under circumstances where escape seemed hopeless.
The incidents which we are about to detail occurred at that period of
time when the collective wisdom of our legislators thought it advisable
to impose a fine upon the whole townland in which the still head and
worm might be found; thus opening a door for knavery and fraud, and,
as it proved in most cases, rendering the innocent as liable to suffer
for an offence they never contemplated as the guilty who planned and
perpetrated it. The consequence of such a law was, that still-houses were
always certain to be erected either at the very verge of the neighbouring
districts, or as near them as the circumstances of convenience and
situation would permit. The moment of course that the hue-and-cry of the
gauger and his myrmidons was heard upon the wind, the whole apparatus was
immediately heaved over the _mering_ to the next townland, from which
the fine imposed by parliament was necessarily raised, whilst the crafty
and offending district actually escaped. The state of society generated
by such a blundering and barbarous statute as this, was dreadful. In
the course of a short time, reprisals, law-suits, battles, murders, and
massacres, multiplied to such an extent throughout the whole country,
that the sapient senators who occasioned such commotion were compelled
to repeal their own act as soon as they found how it worked. Necessity,
together with being the mother of invention, is also the cause of many an
accidental discovery. Pentland had been so frequently defeated by little
George, that he vowed never to rest until he had secured him; and George
on the other hand frequently told him--for they were otherwise on the
best terms--that he defied him, or as he himself more quaintly expressed
it, “that he defied the devil, the world, and Bob Pentland.” The latter,
however, was a very sore thorn in his side, and drove him from place to
place, and from one haunt to another, until he began to despair of being
able any longer to outwit him, or to find within the parish any spot at
all suitable for distillation with which Pentland was not acquainted. In
this state stood matters between them, when George fortunately discovered
at the hip of Altnaveenan hill the natural grotto we have just sketched
so briefly. Now, George was a man, as we have already hinted, of great
fertility of resources; but there existed in the same parish another
distiller who outstripped him in that farsighted cunning which is so
necessary in misleading or circumventing such a sharp-scented old hound
as Pentland. This was little Mickey M’Quade, a short-necked squat little
fellow with bow legs, who might be said rather to creep in his motion
than to walk. George and Mickey were intimate friends, independently of
their joint antipathy against the gauger, and, truth to tell, much of
the mortification and many of the defeats which Pentland experienced at
George’s hands, were, _sub rosa_, to be attributed to Mickey. George was
a distiller from none of the motives which generally actuate others of
that class. He was in truth an analytic philosopher--a natural chemist
never out of some new experiment--and we have reason to think might have
been the Kane or Faraday or Dalton of his day, had he only received a
scientific education. Not so honest Mickey, who never troubled his head
about an experiment, but only thought of making a good running, and
defeating the gauger. The first thing of course that George did, was to
consult Mickey, and both accordingly took a walk up to the scene of their
future operations. On examining it, and fully perceiving its advantages,
it might well be said that the look of exultation and triumph which
passed between them was not unworthy of their respective characters.
“This will do,” said George. “Eh--don’t you think we’ll put our finger in
Pentland’s eye yet?” Mickey spat sagaciously over his beard, and after a
second glance gave one grave grin which spoke volumes. “It’ll do,” said
he; “but there’s one point to be got over that maybe you didn’t think of;
an’ you know that half a blink, half a point, is enough for Pentland.”
“What is it?”
“What do you intend to do with the smoke when the fire’s lit? There’ll
be no keepin’ _that_ down. Let but Pentland see as much smoke risin’ as
would come out of an ould woman’s dudeen, an’ he’d have us.”
George started, and it was clear by the vexation and disappointment which
were visible on his brow that unless this untoward circumstance could be
managed, their whole plan was deranged, and the cave of no value.
“What’s to be done?” he inquired of his cooler companion. “If we can’t
get over this, we may bid good bye to it.”
“Never mind,” said Mickey; “I’ll manage it, and _do_ Pentland still.”
“Ay, but how?”
“It’s no matter. Let us not lose a minute in settin’ to work. Lave
the other thing to me; an’ if I don’t account for the smoke without
discoverin’ the entrance to the still, I’ll give you lave to crop the
ears off my head.”
George knew the cool but steady self-confidence for which Mickey was
remarkable, and accordingly, without any further interrogatory, they both
proceeded to follow up their plan of operations.
In those times when distillation might be truly considered as almost
universal, it was customary for farmers to build their out-houses with
secret chambers and other requisite partitions necessary for carrying it
on. Several of them had private stores built between false walls, the
entrance to which was only known to a few, and many of them had what
were called _Malt-steeps_ sunk in hidden recesses and hollow gables, for
the purpose of steeping the barley, and afterwards of turning and airing
it, until it was sufficiently hard to be kiln-dried and ground. From the
mill it was usually conveyed to the still-house upon what were termed
_Slipes_, a kind of car that was made without wheels, in order the more
easily to pass through morasses and bogs which no wheeled vehicle could
encounter.
In the course of a month or so, George and Mickey, aided by their
friends, had all the apparatus of keeve, hogshead, &c., together with
still head and worm, set up and in full work.
“And now, Mickey,” inquired his companion, “how will you manage about
the smoke? for you know that the two worst informers against a private
distiller, barrin’ a _stag_, is a smoke by day an’ a fire by night.”
“I know that,” replied Mickey; “an’ a rousin’ smoke we’ll have, for fraid
a little puff wouldn’t do us. Come, now, an’ I’ll show you.”
They both ascended to the top, where Mickey had closed all the open
fissures of the roof with the exception of that which was directly over
the fire of the still. This was at best not more than six inches in
breadth and about twelve long. Over it he placed a piece of strong plate
iron perforated with holes, and on this he had a fire of turf, beside
which sat a little boy who acted as a vidette. The thing was simple but
effective. Clamps of turf were at every side of them, and the boy was
instructed, if the gauger, whom he well knew, ever appeared, to heap on
fresh fuel, so as to increase the smoke in such a manner as to induce
him to suppose that _all_ he saw of it proceeded merely from the fire
before him. In fact, the smoke from the cave below was so completely
identified with and lost in that which was emitted from the fire above,
that no human being could penetrate the mystery, if not made previously
acquainted with it. The writer of this saw it during the hottest process
of distillation, and failed to make the discovery, although told that
the still-house was within a circle of three hundred yards, the point
he stood on being considered the centre. On more than one occasion has
he absconded from home, and spent a whole night in the place, seized
with that indescribable fascination which such a scene holds forth to
youngsters, as well as from his irrepressible anxiety to hear the old
stories and legends with the recital of which they generally pass the
night.
In this way, well provided against the gauger--indeed much better than
our readers are yet aware of, as they shall understand by and bye--did
George, Mickey, and their friends, proceed for the greater part of a
winter without a single visit from Pentland. Several successful runnings
had come off, which had of course turned out highly profitable, and
they were just now preparing to commence their last, not only for the
season, but the last they should ever work together, as George was
making preparations to go early in the spring to America. Even this
running was going on to their satisfaction, and the singlings had been
thrown again into the still, from the worm of which projected the strong
medicinal _first-shot_ as the doubling commenced--this last term meaning
the spirit in its pure and finished state. On this occasion the two
worthies were more than ordinarily anxious, and certainly doubled their
usual precautions against a surprise, for they knew that Pentland’s
visits resembled the pounces of a hawk or the springs of a tiger more
than any thing else to which they could compare them. In this they were
not disappointed. When the doubling was about half finished, he made
his appearance, attended by a strong party of reluctant soldiers--for
indeed it is due to the military to state that they never took delight
in harassing the country people at the command of a keg-hunter, as they
generally nicknamed the gauger. It had been arranged that the vidette
at the iron plate should whistle a particular tune the moment that
the gauger or a red-coat, or in fact any person whom he did not know,
should appear. Accordingly, about eight o’clock in the morning they
heard the little fellow in his highest key whistling up that well-known
and very significant old Irish air called “Go to the devil an’ shake
yourself”--which in this case was applied to the gauger in any thing but
an allegorical sense.
“Be the pins,” which was George’s usual oath, “be the pins, Mickey, it’s
over with us--Pentland’s here, for there’s the sign.”
Mickey paused for a moment and listened very gravely; then squirting out
a tobacco spittle, “Take it aisy,” said he; “I have half a dozen fires
about the hills, any one as like this as your right hand is to your left.
I didn’t spare trouble, for I knew that if we’d get over this day, we’d
be out of his power.”
“Well, my good lad,” said Pentland, addressing the vidette, “what’s this
fire for?”
“What is it for, is it?”
“Yes; if you don’t let me know instantly, I’ll blow your brains out,
and get you hanged and transported afterwards.” This he said with a
thundering voice, cocking a large horse pistol at the same time.
“Why, sir,” said the boy, “it’s watchin’ a still I am; but be the hole o’
my coat if you tell upon me, it’s broilin’ upon these coals I’ll be soon.”
“Where is the still then? An’ the still-house, where is it?”
“Oh, begorra, as to where the still or still-house is, they wouldn’t tell
_me_ that.”
“Why, sirra, didn’t you say this moment you were watching a still?”
“I meant, sir,” replied the lad with a face that spoke of pure idiocy,
“that it was the gauger I was watchin’, an’ I was to whistle upon my
fingers to let the boy at that fire on the hill there above know that he
was comin’.”
“Who told you to do so?”
“Little George, sir, an’ Mickey M’Quade.”
“Ay, ay, right enough there, my lad--two of the most notorious schemers
unhanged they are both. But now, like a good boy, tell me the truth, an’
I’ll give you the price of a pair of shoes. Do you know where the still
or still-house is? Because if you do, an’ won’t tell me, here are the
soldiers at hand to make a prisoner of you; an’ if they do, all the world
can’t prevent you from being hanged, drawn, and quartered.”
“Oh, bad cess may seize the morsel o’ me knows that; but if you’ll give
me the money, sir, I’ll tell you who can bring you to it, for he tould
me yestherday mornin’ that he knew, an’ offered to bring me there last
night, if I’d steal him a bottle that my mother keeps the holy water in
at home, tal he’d put whisky in it.”
“Well, my lad, who is this boy?”
“Do you know Harry Neil, or Mankind, sir?”
“I do, my good boy.”
“Well, it’s a son of his, sir; an’ look, sir; do you see the smoke
farthest up to the right, sir?”
“To the right? Yes.”
“Well, ’tis there, sir, that Darby Neil is watchin’; and he _says_ he
knows.”
“How long have you been watching here?”
“This is only the third day, sir, for _me_; but the rest, them boys
above, has been here a good while.”
“Have you seen nobody stirring about the hills since you came?”
“Only once, sir, yesterday, I seen two men having an empty sack or two,
runnin’ across the hill there above.”
At this moment the military came up, for he had himself run forward in
advance of them, and he repeated the substance of his conversation with
our friend the vidette. Upon examining the stolidity of his countenance,
in which there certainly was a woful deficiency of meaning, they agreed
among themselves that his appearance justified the truth of the story
which he told the gauger, and upon being still further interrogated, they
were confirmed that none but a stupid lout like himself would entrust to
his keeping any secret worth knowing. They now separated themselves into
as many detached parties as there were fires burning on the hills about
them, the gauger himself resolving to make for that which Darby Neil had
in his keeping, for he could not help thinking that the vidette’s story
was too natural to be false. They were just in the act of separating
themselves to pursue their different routes, when the lad said,
“Look, sir! look, sir! bad scran be from me but there’s a still any way.
Sure I often seen a still; that’s jist like the one that Philip Hogan the
tinker mended in George Steen’s barn.”
“Hollo, boys,” exclaimed Pentland, “stoop! stoop! they are coming this
way, and don’t see us: no, hang them, no! they have discovered us now,
and are off towards Mossfield. By Jove this will be a bitter trick if
they succeed; confound them, they are bent for Ballagh, which is my own
property; and may I be hanged if we do not intercept them; but it is I
myself who will have to pay the fine.”
The pursuit instantly commenced with a speed and vigour equal to the
ingenuity of this singular act of retaliation on the gauger. Pentland
himself being long-winded from much practice in this way, and being
further stimulated by the prospective loss which he dreaded, made as
beautiful a run of it as any man of his years could do. It was all in
vain, however. He merely got far enough to see the still head and worm
heaved across the march ditch into his own property, and to reflect after
seeing it that he was certain to have the double consolation of being
made a standing joke of for life, and of paying heavily for the jest out
of his own pocket. In the mean time, he was bound of course to seize the
still, and report the caption; and as he himself farmed the townland in
question, the fine was levied to the last shilling, upon the very natural
principle that if he had been sufficiently active and vigilant, no man
would have attempted to set up a still so convenient to his own residence
and property.
This manœuvre of keeping in reserve an old or second set of apparatus,
for the purpose of acting the lapwing and misleading the gauger, was
afterwards often practised with success; but the first discoverer of
it was undoubtedly Mickey M’Quade, although the honour of the discovery
is attributed to his friend George Steen. The matter, however, did not
actually end here, for in a few days afterwards some malicious wag--in
other words, George himself--had correct information sent to Pentland
touching the locality of the cavern and the secret of its entrance. On
this occasion the latter brought a larger military party than usual along
with him, but it was only to make him feel that he stood in a position
if possible more ridiculous than the first. He found indeed the marks
of recent distillation in the place, but nothing else. Every vessel and
implement connected with the process had been removed, with the exception
of one bottle of whisky, to which was attached by a bit of twine the
following friendly note:--
“MR PENTLAND, SIR--Take this bottle home and drink your own
health. You can’t do less. It was distilled _under your nose_
the first day you came to look for us, and bottled for you
while you were speaking to the little boy that made a hare of
you. Being distilled then under your nose, let it be drunk in
the same place, and don’t forget while doing so to drink the
health of