Oh! ye whom business or pleasure shall henceforth lead to the county of
Wexford, especially to the baronies of Forth and Bargie, should you see a
tall, stout, lazy-looking fellow, with sleepy eyes and huge cocked nose,
dragging his feet along as if they were clogs imposed on him by nature to
restrain his motion instead of helping him forward, dawdling along the
highways, or lounging about a public-house, with a green bag under his
arm, beware of him, for that is Tim Callaghan!--fling him a sixpence or
shilling if you will, but ask him not for music!
Tim Callaghan seriously assured me “that he sarved seven long years wid
as fine a piper as ever put chanther ondher an arm;” and that at the end
of that well-spent period he began to enchant the king’s lieges on his
own account, master of a splendid set of pipes, and three whole tunes
(_barring_ a few odd turns here and there which couldn’t be conquered,
and of _no consequince_), a golden store in his opinion.
“Ah, then, Tim,” said I, when I was perfectly acquainted with himself and
his musical merits, “what a pity that with your fine taste and superior
set of pipes you did not try to conquer the half dozen at least!”
“Ogh, musha!” quoth Tim, looking sulky and annoyed, “that same quisthen
has been put to me by dozens, an’ I hate to hear it! It was only
yistherday that another lady axt me that same. ‘Arrah, ma’am,’ ses I,
‘did ye ever play a thune on the pipes in yer life?’ ‘Niver, indeed,’
ses she, lookin’ ashamed ov her ignorance, as she ought. ‘Bekase if ye
did,’ ses I agin, ‘ye’d soon say, “bright was yerself, Tim Callaghan,
to get over the three thunes dacently, widout axin’ people to do what’s
onpossible.”’ An’ now I appail to you, Miss, where’s the use ov bodherin’
people’s brains wid six or seven whin three does _my_ business as well?”
As in duty bound, I admitted that his argument was unanswerable, and
thenceforward we were the best friends possible. Grateful for my patience
and forbearance, he eternally mangles the three unfortunates for my
gratification; and I doubt if I could now relish them with their fair
proportions, so accustomed as I have been to Tim’s “short measure!”
After all, Tim Callaghan was a politic fellow; and these three tunes
were expressly chosen and learnt to win the ears and suffrages of
all denominations of Christian men. Thus, the “Boyne water” is the
propitiatory sacrifice at the Protestant’s door, “Patrick’s Day” at
that of the Roman Catholic, and when he is not sure of the creed of the
party he wishes to conciliate, to suit Quakers, Methodists, Seekers,
and _Jumpers_, “God save the Queen” is the third. For many years he was
contented to give these favourite airs in their original purity; but some
wicked wight--a gentleman piper, I suspect--has at last persuaded him
that his melody would be altogether irresistible if he would introduce
some ornamental _variations_, “such as his own fine taste would suggest;”
and poor Tim, unaccustomed to flattery, and wholly unsuspicious of the
jest, caught at the bright idea, conquered his natural and acquired
laziness, and made an attempt. When he thought he had mastered the
difficulties, he did me the honour to select me as judge to pronounce on
his melodious acquisitions; and all I shall say anent them is, let the
blackest hypochondriac that ever looked wistfully at a marl-hole or his
garters, listen to Tim Callaghan’s “varry-a-shins,” and watch his face
while performing them, and he will require “both poppy and mandragora to
medicine him to sleep,” if sleep he ever will again for laughing!
When Tim arrives at a gentleman’s door, his usual plan is to commence
with the _suitable_ serenade, and drone away at that till the few
pence he is piping for sends him away content. But if he is detained
long, and he sees no great chance of reward or entertainment within
doors, he becomes furious, and in his ire he rattles up that one of
the three which he supposes most disagreeable and opposite to the
politics of the offender. If the party be a Roman Catholic, he will
be unpleasantly electrified, and all his antipathies aroused, by “the
Boyne water,” performed with unusual spirit; and if a church-goer, he
will never recover the shock of “Patrick’s Day,” given with an energy
that will render the wound unhealable! If he is asked for any favourite
or fashionable air--and you might as well ask Tim Callaghan to repeat
a passage of Homer in the original Greek--his civilest reply is, “I
haven’t that, but I’ll give yez one as good,” when one of the _trio_
follows of course; and if the impertinent suitor for novelties in his
ignorance persists in demanding more than is to be had, he is angrily cut
short, especially if of inferior rank, with “How bad ye are for sortins!
Yer masther wud be contint wid what I gave ye, an’ thankful into the
bargin!” Thus qualified to please, it is not to be wondered at that he is
celebrated through three baronies as “the piper!”
When first I had the pleasure to see and hear Tim Callaghan, it was
in the middle of winter, dark and dreary, and in a retired country
place, where even the “vile screeching of the wry-necked fife” would
have been welcome in lieu of better. Conceive our ecstacy, then, when
the inspiring drone of the bagpipe startled our ears into attention
and expectation! The very servants were clamorous in expressing their
delight, and in beseeching that the piper should be brought into the
house and entertained. The petition was granted, the minstrel was led in
“nothing loth,” and seated in the hall. Well, Tim’s first essay at the
_minister’s_ house was of course “the Boyne,” played very spiritedly and
accurately on the whole, with the exception of a few rather essential
notes that he omitted as unnecessary and troublesome, or (as the servants
supposed) in consequence of the cold of his fingers; and finally they
took him to the kitchen, and seated him opposite to a blazing fire. “Now
he’ll play in airnest!” cried they, as one and all gathered round him in
expectation of music.
Our piper being now in the lower regions, among the inferior gentry, and
willing to please all orders and conditions, begins to consider whether
he shall repeat the “Boyne,” or commence the all-enlivening “Patrick’s
Day.”
“What _religion_ is the sarvints ov?” replied he at length to a little
cow-boy gaping with wonder at the grand ornaments of the pipes.
“They are ov all soarts, sur,” whispered Tommy in reply, and reddening
all over at the great man’s especial notice.
“Ov _all_ soarts!” mutters Tim significantly; then deciding instantly,
with much solemnity of face and strength of arm he squeezed forth the
conciliating “God save the King.”
The butler listened awhile with the sapient air of a judge. “You’re a
capitial performer, piper!” said he at length patronizingly, and with a
hand on each hip; “an’ that’s a fine piece ov _Hannibal’s_ composition!
but it is not shutable for all occashins, an’ a livelier air would agree
with our timperament betther. Change it to somethin’ new.” And tucking
his apron aside, he gallantly took the rosy tips of the housemaid’s
fingers and led her out, while the gardener as politely handed forth the
cook. The piper looked sullen, and still continued the national anthem
as if he knew what he was about, and was determined to play out his tune.
The butler’s dignity bristled up.
“Railly,” he observed, and smiled superciliously, “we are very loyal
people hereabouts, but at this pertickler moment we don’t want to join in
a prayer for our _savren’s_ welfare! Stop that melancholic thing, man!
an’ give us one of Jackson’s jigs.”
“Out ov fashin,” quoth Tim sullenly, “_but I’ll give yez one as good_,”
and “Patrick’s Day” set them all in motion for a quarter of an hour.
“Oh, we’re quite tired ov that!” at length lisped the housemaid
“do, piper, give us a _walse_ or _co-dhreelle_. Do you play
‘Tanty-_pol_pitty?’ Jem Sidebottom and I used to dance it beautifully
when I lived at Mr A----’s!”
“What does yez call it?” asked Tim rather sneeringly.
“Tanty-_pol_pitty,” replied the damsel, drawing herself up with an air
enough to kill a piper!
“Phew!” returned the musician contemptuously, “that’s out ov fashin
too; _but I’ll give yez one as good_;” and the “Boyne” followed, played
neither faster nor slower than he had been taught it, which was in right
time, and any thing but _dancing_ time, to the no small annoyance of the
dancers. Another and another jig and reel was demanded, and to all and
each Tim Callaghan replied, “I haven’t _that, but I’ll give yez one as
good_;” and the “King,” the “Boyne,” and the “Day,” followed each other
in due succession.
Was there anything more provoking! There stood four active, zealous
votaries of Terpsichore, with toes pointed and heads erect, anxiously
awaiting a further developement of Tim Callaghan’s powers! There stood
the dancers, looking beseechingly at the piper; there sat the piper
staring at the dancers, wondering what the deuce they waited for, quite
satisfied that they had got all that could reasonably be expected from
_him_.
“An’ _have_ you nothin’ else in yer chanther?” at last angrily demanded
the butler.
“E--ah?” drawled Tim Callaghan, as if he did not understand the querist.
The question was repeated in a higher key.
“Arrah, how bad yez are for sortins!” retorted the piper; “yer masther
wud be contint wid what I gave yez, an’ thankful into the bargin!”
“By Jupither _Amond_!” exclaimed he of the white apron, “this beats
all the playin’ I ever heerd in my life! Arrah, do ye ever attind the
nobility’s concerts?--Ha! ha! ha!”
“’Pon my _vo_racity,” cried the smiling housemaid, “I am greatly afeerd
he will get ‘piper’s pay--more kicks than halfpence.’--Ha! ha! ha!”
“An’ good enough for him!” added the gardener; “a fella that has but
_three half thunes_ in the world, an’ none ov them right! Arrah, what’s
yer name, avie?”
“What’s that to you?” growled the piper.
“Oh, nothin’! Only I thought that you might be ‘the piper that played
before Moses.’--Ha! ha! ha!”
“Oh! the world may wag
Since _he_ got the _bag_,”
sang the cook, as she returned to her avocations. But the butler, as
master of the ceremonies, showed his disappointment and displeasure in
a summary ejection of the unfortunate minstrel from the comforts of the
fire and the house altogether.
Again I had the exquisite delight of hearing Tim Callaghan. It was in
another part of our county, and where he was quite a stranger. A lady had
assembled a number of young persons to a sea-side dance one evening; but,
alas! ere the hour of meeting arrived, she had heard that the fiddler she
expected was ill, and could not possibly attend her. What was to be done?
Nothing!
When the guests arrived, and the dire news communicated, the gentlemen
in spite of themselves looked terrifically glum, as if they anticipated
a dull evening; and the bright countenances of the ladies were overcast,
though as usual, sweet creatures! they tried to look delightful under all
visitations. In this dilemma one of the beaux suddenly recollected that
“he had seen a piper coming into the village that evening; and he thought
it was probable he would stop for the night at one of the public-houses.”
Hope instantly illuminated all faces, and a messenger was forthwith
dispatched for the man of music. For my part, whenever I heard _a piper_
mentioned, I knew who was full before me.
“What sort of person is your piper?” asked I of the gentleman that had
introduced the subject.
“A tall, stout, rather drowsy-looking fellow,” was the reply.
“Oh!” cried I, “it is the Inimitable!--it is Tim Callaghan!”
I was eagerly asked if he were a good performer; and as I could not
venture to reply with any degree of gravity, one other person present,
who knew honest Timothy and his ways, with admirable composure answered,
“That under the shield of Miss Edgeworth’s mighty name he would decline
trumpeting the praises of any one, she having expressly declared in
her novel of ‘Ennui,’ that ‘whoever enters thus announced appears to
disadvantage;’ and therefore,” said my friend, “we leave Tim Callaghan’s
musical merit to speak for itself.” Nothing could be better than this,
and the effect Tim produced was corresponding.
While the messenger is away for our piper, I must relate an anecdote of
another servant, and a rustic one too, once sent on a similar errand.
John’s master had friends spending the evening with him, and he desired
his servant to procure a musician for the young folks for love or money.
In about half an hour John returned after a fruitless search; and instead
of saying in the usual style that “he could not find one,” he flung open
the drawing-room door, and announced his unsuccess in the following
impromptu,[1] spoken with all due emphasis and discretion--
“I searched the city’s cir-cum-fe-rence round,
And not a musician is there to be found!
I fear for music you’ll be at a loss,
For the fiddler has taken the road to Ross!”
and then made his bow and retired. The _city_, by the way, was a village
of some half-dozen houses. So much for John, and now for Tim Callaghan.
Presently the identical Tim made his appearance, and was placed in high
state at the top of the room, with a degree of attention and respect
fully due to his abilities. For my part, the very sight of Tim, and the
thought of his consummate assurance or stupidity in attempting to play
for dancing, amused me beyond expression; but I suppressed all symptoms
of this, and kept my eyes and ears on the alert in expectation of what
was to follow. A bumper of his favourite punch was prepared for him, and
while sipping it, I thought he cast a scrutinizing and anxious glance
on the company, probably thinking how he should adjust his _politics_
there. But he had little time to pause. A quadrille set was immediately
formed, and he was called on to play!--the sapient belles and beaux never
dreaming that a modern piper even _might_ not play quadrilles. Never
did I find it so difficult to restrain myself from immoderate laughter!
There stood the eight _elegantes_, ringleted, perfumed, white-gloved, and
refined; and there sat Tim Callaghan in all his native surly stupidity,
dreadfully puzzled, “looking unutterable things,” humming and hawing, and
tuning and droning much longer than necessary--not in the least aware of
the demand that was to be made on himself or his pipes, but puzzling his
brains as to which of his own he should play _first_.
“A quadrille, piper!--the first of Montague’s!” called out the leading
gentleman.
“E--ah!” said Tim Callaghan, opening his sleepy eyes, surprised into some
little animation.
“The first of Montague’s set of quadrilles!” repeated the beau.
“Ogh, _Mountycute’s_ is out ov fashin; _but I’ll give yez one as good_;”
and the company being mixed, of whose _opinions_ he could not be sure,
the quadrillers were astounded with “God save the King” in most execrable
style!
All stared, and most laughed heartily; but what was of more consequence
to poor Tim, his arm was fiercely seized, and he was stopt short in
the midst of his loyalty by an angry demand “if he could play _no_
quadrilles? Not ---- or ----?” and the names of a dozen quadrilles and
waltzes were mentioned, that the unfortunate minstrel had never heard
of in all his days and travels! In his dire extremity be commenced “the
Boyne,” when at the instant some person called the lady of the house.
The name seemed a _Catholic_ one--a sudden ray of joy shot through his
frame to his fingers’ ends, and from thence to his pipes, and poor
“Patrick’s Day” was the result. A kind of jigging quadrille was then
danced by the least fastidious and better humoured of the party; the
_first_ top couple, superfine exquisites!--the lady an importation from
London, and odorous of “Bouquet a-la-Reine,” and the gentleman a perfect
“Pelham,” from the aristocratic arch of his brow to his shoe-tie--having
retreated to their seats with looks and gestures of horror and disgust,
quite unnoticed by Tim Callaghan, who bore himself with all the dignity
of a household bard of the olden time, in his element, playing his own
favourite tune, and _quollity_ actually dancing to his music! It _was_ a
great day for the house of Callaghan!
Well! as there seemed nothing better to be had, “Patrick’s Day” continued
in requisition, now as a quadrille, now as a country-dance, by all who
preferred motion to sitting still, before and after supper, till at last
every one was weary of it, and a general vow was made to drop the “Day”
and take the “Boyne,” and endeavour to move it as we best could. By that
time, too, our piper seemed most heartily tired of his patron saint, and
having quaffed his fourth full-flowing goblet, appeared to be rather
inclined for a doze than to renew his melody. But he was roused up by our
worthy host, who, good, gay old man! was the very soul of cheerfulness.
“For pity’s sake, piper,” said he, “try to give us something that we can
foot it to! I was not in right mood for dancing to-night till now. If
you be an Irishman, look at the pretty girl that is to be my partner for
the next dance, and perhaps her eyes may inspire even _you_, you drowsy
fellow, with momentary animation, and perform a miracle on your pipes!”
Short as this address was, and gaily as it was uttered, it had no other
effect on our piper than administering an additional soporific.
While the old gentleman was speaking, the drowsy god was descending
faster and faster on Tim Callaghan. He dozed and was shaken up.
“What does yez want?” growled he at length. “What the d--l does yez
want?” looking as if he would say,
“Now my weary lips I close;
Leave me, leave me to repose.”
“Music! music!” said our host, laughing. “Any sort of music, any sort of
noise,” and he left the piper and took his place amongst the dancers.
Tim mechanically fumbled at his pipes, while the gentlemen busied
themselves in procuring partners. There was silence for some seconds.
“Begin, piper,” called out our host.
“Out ov fashin,” muttered Tim in broken half-finished sentences;
“but--I’ll--give--yez--one--as--good----;” and a long, a loud
reverberating _snore_ at the instant made good his promise of music
almost as harmonious as the sounds elicited from his bagpipe!!
Imagine to yourselves, ye who can, the scene that followed. The
salts-bottle and perfumed handkerchief of the _exquisites_ were in
instant requisition, as if they felt sensations of fainting! the nervous
started as if a pistol went off at their heads, and those who bore the
explosion with fortitude joined in a chorus of laughter, increased to
pain when it was perceived that the Inimitable, noways disturbed or
alarmed, prolonged his repose, and agreeably to the laws of music, and in
excellent taste, bringing in his _nasal_ performance as a grand _finale_
to each resounding peal!
“Now,” observed the friend who had answered for me at a critical crisis,
“has not Tim Callaghan made his own panegyric? Has not his merit spoken
for itself? What a figure our inimitable piper would have cut, had we
ushered him in with a flourish of trumpets!”
When the cachinnatory storm had subsided, and when all considered that
their unrivalled musician had had enough of slumber, he was once more
aroused, to receive his well-earned guerdon, when the following colloquy
commenced:--
“Pray, piper, what is your name?” demanded the master of the house, with
all the gravity of a magistrate on the bench, and drawing forth his
tablets.
“E--ah? Why, Tim Callaghan.”
“Ha! Tim Callaghan (writing), I shall certainly remember Tim Callaghan! I
suppose, Tim, you are quite celebrated?”
“E--ah?”
“I suppose you are very well known?”
“Why, those that knowed me _wanst_, knows me agin,” quoth Tim Callaghan.
“I do believe so! I think I shall know you at all events. Who taught you
to play the pipes?”
“One Tim Hartigan, of the county Clare.”
“Had he much trouble in teaching you?”
“_He_ thrubble! I knows nothin’ ov _his_ thrubble, but faix I well
remimber me own! There is lumps in my head to this very day, from the
onmarciful cracks he used to give it when I wint asthray.”
“Ha! ha! ha! Oh, poor fellow! Well, farewell, Tim Callaghan!--pleasant be
your path through life; and may your fame spread through the thirty-two
counties of green Erin, till you die surfeited with glory!”
“Faix, I’d rather be _surfeited_ wid a good dinner!” quoth Tim Callaghan,
and made his exit.
For a couple of years I quite lost sight of Tim, and I began to fear that
he had evanished from the earth altogether “without leaving a copy;”
but, lo! this very summer, that “bright particular star” appeared unto
us again, with a strapping wife, and a young Timotheus at his heels--a
perfect facsimile of its father, nose, sleepy eyes, shovel feet and
all; and all subsisting, nay _flourishing_, on _three_ tunes and their
unrivalled “_varry-a-shins_!”