An Irish peasant cutting his own head off _by mistake_—His reputed
ghost—Humours of an Irish _Wake_—_Natural_ deaths of the Irish
peasantry—Reflections on the Excise laws.
Among my memorandums of singular incidents, I find one which even now
affords me as much amusement as such a circumstance can possibly admit
of: and as it is, at the same time, highly characteristic of the people
among whom it occurred, in that view I relate it. A man _decapitating
himself by mistake_ is indeed a _blunder_ of true Hibernian
character.[20]
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Footnote 20:
This anecdote has been termed “_fabulous_” by some of the sapient
periodical critics, and a “_bounce_” by others. “’Tis quite
impossible,” say the scribblers, “for any man to cut _his own_ head
off.” This no doubt singular decapitation, however, happens to be a
well known and comparatively recent _fact_; and if either of the
aforesaid sceptics will be so obliging as to try the same species of
guillotine that Ned did at the Barrow water, he may, with the greatest
facility, get rid of, probably, the _thickest_ and _heaviest_ article
belonging to him.
The Emperor of Morocco, it is said, to convince his subjects what an
easy matter decapitation was, and what an uncertain tenure a head has
in his dominions, used to cut off the head of a jack-ass every morning
with one back stroke of his sabre. Should his copper-coloured Majesty
honour England with his august presence, to be feasted, fire-worked,
and subsidised like Don Miguel the First, what noble practice at
decapitation, in the absence of his _jack-asses_, he might have in
London among the periodical _scribblers_—without doing much injury to
the _animals_ themselves, and none at all either to the “Société des
lettres,” or what is called in England the “discerning public.”
-----
I think it was in or about the year 1796, a labourer dwelling near the
town of Athy, County Kildare (where my mother then resided), was walking
with his comrade up the banks of the Barrow to the farm of a Mr.
Richardson, on whose meadows they were employed to mow; each, in the
usual Irish way, having his scythe loosely wagging over his shoulder.
Lazily lounging close to the bank of the river, they espied a salmon
partly hid under the bank. It is the nature of this fish that, when his
_head_ is concealed, he fancies no one can see his _tail_ (there are
many wise-acres in the world, besides the salmon, of the same way of
thinking). On the present occasion the body of the fish was visible.
“Oh! Ned—Ned, dear!” said one of the mowers, “look at that big fellow
there: it is a pity we ha’nt no _spear_, now, isn’t it?”
“Maybe,” said Ned, “we could be after piking the _lad_ with the
scythe-handle.”
“True for you!” said Dennis: “the spike of yeer handle is longer nor
mine; give the fellow a _dig_ with it at any rate.”
“Ay, will I,” returned the other: “I’ll give the lad a _prod_ he’ll
never forget any how.”
The spike and their sport was all they thought of: but the _blade_ of
the scythe, which hung over Ned’s shoulders, never came into the
contemplation of either of them. Ned cautiously looked over the bank;
the unconscious salmon lay snug, little imagining the conspiracy that
had been formed against his tail.
“Now hit the lad smart!” said Dennis: “there, now—there! rise your fist:
now you have the boy! now, Ned—success!—success!”
Ned struck at the salmon with all his might and main, and that was not
trifling. But whether “the boy” was piked or not never appeared; for
poor Ned, bending his neck as he struck at the salmon, placed the
vertebræ in the most convenient position for unfurnishing his shoulders;
and his head came tumbling splash into the Barrow, to the utter
astonishment of his comrade, who could not conceive _how_ it could _drop
off_ so suddenly. But the next minute he had the consolation of seeing
the head attended by _one of his own ears_, which had been most
dexterously sliced off by the same blow which beheaded his comrade.
The head and ear rolled down the river in company, and were picked up
with extreme horror at a mill-dam, near Mr. Richardson’s, by one of the
miller’s men.
“Who the devil does this head belong to?” exclaimed the miller.—“Oh
Christ—!”
“Whoever _owned_ it,” said the man, “had _three_ ears, at any rate,
though they don’t _match_.”
A search being now made, Ned’s headless body was discovered lying half
over the bank, and Dennis in a swoon, through fright and loss of blood,
was found recumbent by its side. The latter, when brought to himself,
(which process was effected by whisky,) recited the whole adventure. The
body was attended to the grave by a numerous assemblage of Ned’s
countrymen; and the custom of carrying scythes carelessly very much
declined. Many accidents had happened before from that cause, and the
priest very judiciously told his flock, after the _de profundis_, that
Ned’s _misfortune_ was a “devil’s judgment” for his negligence, whereby
he had hurt a child a day or two before.
From that time none of the country-people would on any occasion go after
dark to the spot where the catastrophe happened, as they say the doctor
stole the head to _natomise_ it; which fact was _confirmed_ by a man
without any head being frequently seen by the _women and children_ who
were occasionally led to pass the moat of Ascole, not three miles from
Athy, in the night-time; and they really believed the apparition to be
no other than the ghost of poor Ned Maher looking every where for his
head that the doctor had made away with.[21]
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Footnote 21:
This is only mentioned as indicative of the singular flow of ideas of
the Irish peasantry. The most serious and solemn events are frequently
converted by them into sources of humour and of comic expression that
altogether banish any thing under the head of gravity.
The lower orders are never half so happy as at a _wake_—when they can
procure candles, punch, a piper, and tobacco, to enable them to sit
and smoke round a human corpse! No matter what death it _suffered_, or
disorder it died of (except indeed the _bite of a mad dog_). Their
hilarity knows no limits; their humorous phrases and remarks flow in a
constant stream of quaint wit and pointed repartee, but not in the
style or tone of any other people existing. The _wake_ is also their
usual place of _match-making_; and the _marriages_ or _misfortunes_ of
the ladies are generally decided on “_going home from the wake_.”
The _cheerfulness_ of _the wake_, however, is intermitting:—every hour
or two the most melancholy _howling_ that human voices could raise is
set up by the _keeners_, and continued long enough to give the
recurrence to mirth and fun increased excitement. These _keeners_, or
mourners, are a set of old women, who practise for general use the
most lachrymose notes, high and low, it is possible to conceive—which
they turn into a sort of song (without words), at one time sinking
into the deepest and most plaintive strains, then, on a sudden, raised
into a howl, loud, frightful, and continued nearly to a shriek; and
then in long notes descending in a tone of almost supernatural
cadence.
They say that this is mimicking _wicked_ souls “undergoing their
punishment in _purgatory_,” and is used as a _defiance_ to the
_devil_, and to show him that the _corpse they_ are _waking_ does not
care a “mass for him.” But then, they never trust the corpse to be
left _alone_, because _it_ could make no resistance to Belzebub if he
came for it; and a priest always remains in the room to guard the
body, if the _keeners_ should happen to go away.
If you ask a country fellow how he can be so _merry_ over a “_dead
man_”—
“Ough! plase your honour,” he will probably reply, “why shouldn’t we
be merry when there’s a _good corpse_ to _the fore_?”
“What do you mean?”
“_Mane_ is it?—fy, sure enough, your honour, Father Corcoran says (and
the devil so good a _guess_ in the town-land) that after the month’s
_mind_ is over, Tom Dempsey, the _corpse_, will be happier nor any of
us.—Ough! your honour! hell to the rap of tythe-cess or hearth-money,
he’ll have to pay proctor nor parson!—There’s many a _boy_ in the
parish, plase your honour, would not object to be Tom Dempsey, the
corpse, fresh and fasting, this blessed morning!”
If you begin to reason with him, he will perhaps say—“Why, plase your
honour, sure it’s only his _corpse_ that’s _corpsed_;—after the
_masses_ he’ll be out of pain, and better off nor any gentleman in
this same county, except our own _landlord_, God bless him _up_ or
_down_!”
If you seem to think the defunct’s _family_ will be unhappy in
consequence of his death—
“Oh, plase your honour! Tom was a good frind, sure enough, and whilst
there’s a shovel and sack in the neighbourhood his family won’t be let
to want nothing any how.”
“But his poor wife?”
“Ough! then it’s she that’s sorry for poor Tom, your honour! Whilst
the _keeners_ were washing and stretching the corpse, and she crying
her eyes out of her head—oh, the cratur!—Father Corcoran whispered all
as one as a mass, and plenty of comfort into Mrs. Dempsey’s own ear,
cheek by jowl, and by my sowl the devil a drop of a tear came out of
her afterward, plase your honour!”
What is termed the _Irish cry_, is _keening_ on an _extensive scale_,
and is perhaps the most terrific _yell_ ever yet practised in any
country.
It is used in processions on the roads, as the people are carrying a
dead body to its place of interment—and occasionally, on any great
misfortune where the lamentation should be general.
If there are twenty thousand persons in a procession, they all set up
the same cry as the _keeners_, but a hundred times more horrid and
appalling. It may be heard many miles from the spot.
One mode formerly of _raising the people_ in the least possible time,
was the carrying a coffin under pretence of a burial. The procession,
which sets out probably with only a dozen persons, amounts in the
course of an hour to some twenty thousand. When once the yell is set
up, every person within hearing is expected immediately to join the
corpse by the shortest road—scampering across fields, ditches, &c.; so
that, as the numbers increase, the roar becomes more tremendous, and
answers better than a hundred bells in bringing a population together.
It is usual for every man, woman, and child to pick up a stone or two,
as they go along, and throw them into a heap, which tradition
sometimes marks out as the site of some remarkable battle, murder, &c.
The above plan was occasionally resorted to by the insurgents in the
year 1798; and there can be no doubt, if they all set out with
processions at one hour of any given day, that it would be a
tremendous species of muster for such a people as the Irish, who are
as little known or understood by the generality of the _English_, as
the Cossacks.
This cry certainly is not calculated to excite so great a _variety_ of
passions as Mr. Dryden attributes to the music at Alexander’s Feast.
But I will venture to assert, that if his Macedonian Majesty had been
ever so tipsy, and thoroughly bent upon ever so much mischief, one
sudden, _thundering_ burst of the Irish cry in his banqueting-room
would have quickly brought Alexander and all his revellers to their
senses—rendered their heels as light as their heads—and _Miss Thais_
would have been left by her lover to the protection of _Captain Rock_
and his _merry men_.
I believe the very best of our composers would find it rather
difficult to set the Irish cry to _music_—though by the _new light_,
every noise whatsoever must be a _note_ or _half a note_; and it is
reported that Mr. Moore and Sir John Stephenson used their joint and
several efforts to turn this national cry into _melody_, but without
success. I cannot see why such able persons should fail on so
interesting a composition. There are plenty of notes in it whole and
half, sharp, flat, and natural;—sufficient to compose any piece of
music. It is only therefore to select the best among them
scientifically; put an “andante affettuoso” in front; then send it to
a barrel organ-builder;—and no doubt it would grind out to the entire
satisfaction of the whole Irish population.
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This leads me to a digression more important. The superstition of the
lower orders of Irish, when death occurs in any peculiar manner, is
superlative. In truth, the only three kinds of death they consider as
_natural_ are, dying quietly in their own cabins;—being hanged, about
the assize-time;—or starving when the potato crop is deficient. All
these they regard as matters of course; but any other species of
dissolution is contemplated with much horror; though, to be sure, they
make no very strong objection to being shot at by a regular army. They
say their “fathers and forefathers before them were always _used_ to
_that same_;” and all they expect in such case is, that there should be
some sort of reason for it, which they themselves frequently furnish.
But those manslaughters which occur through the activity of the
revenue-officers in prevention of distillation, they never can reconcile
themselves to, and never forgive. They cannot understand the _reason_
for this at all, and treasure up a spirit of savage revenge to the last
day of their lives against excisemen.[22]
An ignorant poor cottager says to his landlord, naturally enough, “Ough!
then isn’t it mighty odd, plase your honour, that we are not hindered
from _eating_ oats, whenever we can _get any_? but if we attempt to
_drink_ them, by J——s, we are kilt and battered and shot and burned out
like a parcel of dogs by the _excisemen_, that’s twice greater rogues
nor we are, plase your honour.”
In truth it is to be lamented that this distinction between solids and
fluids should not be better reconciled to the common sense of the
peasantry, or be somehow regulated so as to prevent perpetual resort to
that erroneous system of mountain warfare and revenue bloodshed, which
ever has kept, and ever will keep, whole districts of Ireland in a state
of excitement and distraction. I know that I speak the sentiments of
some of his Majesty’s enlightened Ministers on this subject.
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Footnote 22:
To the imperfection of the excise laws, and the totally erroneous
system of licensing public houses, (as to numbers, qualifications, and
police regulations respecting them,) is greatly to be attributed the
increase of crime of late years.
An unconnected and independent board, for the exclusive purpose of
granting licenses and registering complaints; convenient and
responsible country branches, and monthly reports, would tend much to
produce sobriety, and check those drunken conspiracies, the common
sources of robbery and murder. _Punishment_ rather than _prevention_
is the greatest error a police can fall into.
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