The state of Irish society has changed so rapidly within the last
thirty or forty years, that scarcely any one could believe it possible
for the present generation to be looked upon in many things as the
descendants of that which has immediately gone before them. The old
armorial bearings of society which were empanelled upon the ancient
manners of our country, now hang like tattered scutcheons over the tombs
of customs and usages which sleep beneath them; and unless rescued
from the obliterating hand of time, scarcely a vestige of them will be
left even to tradition itself. That many gross absurdities have been
superseded by a social condition more enlightened and healthy, is a
fact which must gratify every one who wishes to see the general masses
actuated by those principles which follow in the train of knowledge and
civilisation. But at the same time it is undeniable that the simplicity
which accompanied those old vestiges of harmless ignorance has departed
along with them; and in spite of education and science, we miss the old
familiar individuals who stood forth as the representatives of manners,
whose very memory touches the heart and affections more strongly than the
hard creations of sterner but more salutary truths. For our own part,
we have always loved the rich and ruddy twilight of the rustic hearth,
where the capricious tongues of blazing light shoot out from between the
kindling turf, and dance in vivid reflection in the well-scoured pewter
and delft as they stand neatly arranged on the kitchen-dresser--loved,
did we say? ay, and ever preferred it to philosophy, with all her lights
and fashion, with all her heartlessness and hypocrisy. For this reason
it is, that whilst retracing as it were the steps of our early life, and
bringing back to our memory the acquaintances of our youthful days, we
feel our hearts touched with melancholy and sorrow, because we know that
it is like taking our last farewell of old friends whom we shall never
see again, from whom we never experienced any thing but kindness, and
whose time-touched faces were never turned upon us but with pleasure, and
amusement, and affection.
In this paper it is not with the Shanahus whose name and avocations are
associated with high and historical dignity, that we have any thing to
do. Our sketches do not go very far beyond the manners of our own times;
by which we mean that we paint or record nothing that is not remembered
and known by those who are now living. The Shanahus we speak of is the
dim and diminished reflection of him who filled a distinct calling
in a period that has long gone by. The regular Shanahus--the herald
and historian of individual families, the faithful genealogist of his
long-descended patron--has not been in existence for at least a century
and a half, perhaps two. He with whom we have to do is the humble old
man who, feeling himself gifted with a strong memory for genealogical
history, old family anecdotes, and legendary lore in general, passes a
happy life in going from family to family, comfortably dressed and much
respected--dropping in of a Saturday night without any previous notice,
bringing eager curiosity and delight to the youngsters of the house he
visits, and filling the sedate ears of the old with tales and legends, in
which, perhaps, individuals of their own name and blood have in former
ages been known to take a remarkable and conspicuous part.
Indeed, there is no country in the world where, from the peculiar
features of its social and political changes, the chronicles of the
Shanahus would be more likely to produce such a powerful effect as in
Ireland. When we consider that it was once a country of princes and
chiefs, each of whom was followed and looked up to with such a spirit of
feudal enthusiasm and devoted attachment as might naturally be expected
from a people remarkable for the force of their affection and the power
of imagination, it is not surprising that the man who, in a state of
society which presented to the minds of so many nothing but the records
of fallen greatness or the decay of powerful names, and the downfall
of rude barbaric grandeur, together with the ruin of fanes and the
prostration of religious institutions, each invested with some local or
national interest--it is not surprising, we say, that such a man should
be welcomed, and listened to, and honoured, with a feeling far surpassing
that which was awakened by the idle jingle of a Provençal Troubadour, or
the gorgeous dreams begotten by Arabian fiction. Neither the transition
state of society, however, nor the scanty diffusion of knowledge among
the Irish, allowed the Shanahus to produce any permanent impression
upon the people; and the consequence was, that as the changes of society
hurried on, he and his audience were carried along with them; his
traditionary lore was lost in the ignorance which ever arises when a ban
has been placed upon education; and from the recital of the high deeds
and heroic feats of by-gone days, he sank down into the humble chronicler
of hoary legends and dim traditions, for such only has he been within the
memory of the oldest man living, and as such only do we intend to present
him to our readers.
The most accomplished Shanahus of this kind that ever came within our
observation, was a man called Tom Grassiey, or Tom the Shoemaker. He was
a very stout well-built man, about fifty years of age, with a round head
somewhat bald, and an expansive forehead that argued a considerable reach
of natural intellect. His knowing organs were large, and projected over a
pair of deep-set lively eyes, that scintillated with strong twinklings of
humour. His voice was loud, his enunciation rapid, but distinct; and such
was the force and buoyancy of his spirits, added to the vehemence of his
manner, that altogether it was impossible to resist him. His laughter was
infectious, and so loud that it might be heard of a calm summer evening
at an incredible distance. Indeed, Tom possessed many qualities that
rendered him a most agreeable companion: he could sing a good song for
instance, dance a hornpipe as well as any dancing-master, and we need not
say that he could tell a good story. He could also imitate a Jew’s harp
or trump upon his lips with his mere fingers in such a manner that the
deception was complete; and it was well known that flocks of the country
people used to crowd about him for the purpose of hearing his performance
upon the ivy leaf, which he played upon by putting it in his mouth, and
uttering a most melodious whistle. Altogether, he was a man of great
natural powers, and possessed such a memory as the writer of this never
knew any human being to be gifted with. He not only remembered everything
he saw or was concerned in, but everything he heard also. His language,
when he spoke Irish, was fluent, clear, and sometimes eloquent; but when
he had recourse to the English, although his fluency remained, yet it was
the fluency of a man who made an indiscriminate use of a vocabulary which
he did not understand. His pedantry on this account was highly ludicrous
and amusing, and his wit and humour surprisingly original and pointed.
He had never received any education, and was consequently completely
illiterate, yet he could repeat every word of Gallagher’s Irish Sermons,
Donlevy’s Catechism, Think Well On’t, the Seven Champions of Christendom,
and the substance of Pastorini’s and Kolumb Kill’s Prophecies, all by
heart. Many a time I have seen him read, as he used to call it, one of Dr
Gallagher’s Sermons out of the skirt of his big-coat; a feat which was
looked upon with twice the wonder it would have produced had he merely
said that he repeated it. But to read it out of the skirt of his coat!
Heavens, how we used to look on with awe and veneration, as Tom, in a
loud rapid voice, “rhymed it out of him,” for such was the term we gave
to his recital of it! His learning, however, was not confined to mere
English and Irish, for Tom was also classical in his way, and for want
of a better substitute it was said could serve mass, which must always
be done in Latin. Certain it was that he could repeat the _Deprofundis_,
and the Seven Penitential Psalms, and the _Dies Iræ_, in that language.
We need scarcely add, that in these learned exhibitions he dealt largely
in false quantities, and took a course for himself altogether independent
of syntax and prosody; this, however, was no argument against his natural
talents, or the surprising force of his memory.
Tom was also an easy and happy _Improviser_ both in prose and poetry;
his invention was indeed remarkably fertile, but his genius knew no
medium between encomium and satire. He either lashed his friends, for
the deuce an enemy he had, with rude and fearful attacks of the latter,
or gave them, as Pope did to Berkley, every virtue under heaven, and
indeed a good many more than ever were heard of beyond his own system of
philosophy and morals.
Tom was a great person for attending wakes and funerals, where he
was always a busy man, comforting the afflicted relatives with many
learned quotations, repeating _ranns_, or spiritual songs, together
with the Deprofundis or Dies Iræ, over the corpse, directing even the
domestic concerns, paying attention to strangers, looking after the
pipes and tobacco, and in fact making himself not only generally useful,
but essentially necessary to them, by his happiness of manner, the
cordiality of his sympathy, and his unextinguishable humour.
At one time you might see him engaged in leading a Rosary for the
repose of the soul of the departed, or singing the Hermit of Killarney,
a religious song, to edify the company; and this duty being over, he
would commence a series of comic tales and humorous anecdotes, which he
narrated with an ease and spirit that the best of us all might envy. The
Irish heart passes rapidly from the depths of pathos to the extremes of
humour; and as a proof of this, we can assure our readers that we have
seen the nearest and most afflicted relatives of the deceased carried
away by uncontrollable laughter at the broad, grotesque, and ludicrous
force of his narratives. It was here also that he shone in a character of
which he was very proud, and for the possession of which he was looked
up to with great respect by the people; we mean that of a polemic, or,
as it is termed, “an arguer of Scripture,” for when a man in the country
parts of Ireland wins local fame as a controversialist, he is seldom
mentioned in any other way than as a great arguer of Scripture. To argue
scripture well, therefore, means the power of subduing one’s antagonist
in a religious contest. Many challenges of this kind passed between Tom
and his polemical opponents, in most or all of which he was successful.
His memory was infallible, his wit prompt and dexterous, and his humour
either broad or sarcastic, as he found it convenient to apply it. In
these dialectic displays he spared neither logic nor learning: where an
English quotation failed, he threw in one of Irish; and where that was
understood, he posed them with a Latin one, closing the quotation by
desiring them to give a translation of it; if this too were accomplished,
he rattled out the five or six first verses of John in Greek, which some
one had taught him; and as this was generally beyond their reading, it
usually closed the discussion in his favour. Without doubt he possessed
a mind of great natural versatility and power; and as these polemical
exercitations were principally conducted in wake-houses, it is almost
needless to say that the wake at which they expected him was uniformly a
crowded one.
Tom was very punctual in attending fairs and markets, which he did for
the purpose of bringing to the neighbouring farmers a correct account
of the state of cattle and produce; for such was the honour in which
his knowledge and talents were held, that it was expected he should
know thoroughly every topic that might happen to be discussed. During
the peninsular war he was a perfect oracle, but always maintained that
Bonaparte never would prosper, in consequence of his having imprisoned
the Pope. He said emphatically, that he could not be shot unless by a
consecrated bullet, and that the said bullet would be consecrated by
an Irish friar. It was not Bonaparte, he insisted, who was destined to
liberate Ireland: that could never be effected until the Mill of Louth
should be turned three times with human blood, and that could not happen
until a miller with two thumbs on each hand came to be owner of the mill.
So it was prophesied by _Beal Dearg_, or the man with the red mouth, that
Ireland would never be free until we first had the Black Militia in our
own country, and that no rebellion ever was or could be of any use that
did not commence in the Valley of the Black Pig, and move upwards from
the tail to the head. These were axioms which he laid down with great and
grave authority; but on none of his authentic speculations into futurity
did he rely with more implicit confidence than the prophecy he generously
ascribed to St Bridget, that George the Fourth would never fill the
throne of England.
Tom had a good flexible voice, and used to sing the old Irish songs of
our country with singular pathos and effect. He sang Peggy Slevin, the
Red-haired Man’s Wife, and Shula Na Guira, with a feeling that early
impressed itself upon my heart. Indeed we think that his sweet but
artless voice still rings in our ears; and whilst we remember the tears
which the enthusiasm of sorrow brought down his cheeks, and the quivering
pause in the fine old melody which marked what he felt, we cannot help
acknowledging that the memory of these things is mournful, and that the
hearts of many, in spite of new systems of education and incarcerating
poor-houses, will yearn after the homely but touching traits which marked
the harmless Shanahus, and the times in which he lived. Many a tear has
he beguiled us of in our youth when we knew not why we shed them. One of
these sacred old airs, especially, we could never resist, “the Trougha,”
or “the Green Woods of _Trough_;” and to this day we remember with a
true and melancholy recollection that whenever Tom happened to be asked
for it, we used to slink over to his side and whisper, “Tom, don’t sing
_that_; it makes me sorrowful;” and Tom, who had great goodness of heart,
had consideration for the feelings of the boy, and sang some other. But
now all these innocent fireside enjoyments are gone, and we will never
more have our hearts made glad by the sprightly mirth and rich good
humour of the Shanahus, nor ever again pay the artless tribute of our
tears to his old pathetic songs of sorrow, nor feel our hearts softened
at the ideal miseries of tale or legend as they proceeded in mournful
recitative from his lips. Alas! alas! knowledge may be power, but it is
_not_ happiness.
Such is, we fear, an imperfect outline of Tom’s life. It was one of ease
and comfort, without a care to disturb him, or a passion that was not
calmed by the simple but virtuous integrity of his life. His wishes were
few, and innocently and easily gratified. The great delight of his soul
was not that he should experience kindness at the hands of others, but
that he should communicate to them, in the simple vanity of his heart,
that degree of amusement and instruction and knowledge which made them
look upon him as a wonderful man, gifted with rare endowments; for in
what light was not that man to be looked upon who could trace the old
names up to times when they were great, who could climb a genealogical
tree to the top branch, who could repeat the Seven Penitential Psalms
in Latin, tell all the old Irish tales and legends of the country, and
beat Paddy Crudden the methodist horse-jockey, who had the whole Bible
by heart, at arguing Scripture? Harmless ambition! humble as it was, and
limited in compass, to thee it was all in all; and yet thou wert happy in
feeling that it was gratified. This little boon was all thou didst ask
of life, and it was kindly granted thee. The last night we ever had the
pleasure of being amused by Tom was at a wake in the neighbourhood, for
it somehow happened that there was seldom either a wake or a dance within
two or three miles of us that we did not attend; and God forgive us,
when old Poll Doolin was on her death-bed, the only care that troubled
us was an apprehension that she might recover, and thus defraud us of a
right merry wake! Upon the occasion we allude to, it being known that
Tom Grassiey would be present, of course the house was crowded. And when
he did come, and his loud good-humoured voice was heard at the door,
heavens! how every young heart bounded with glee and delight!
The first thing he did on entering was to go where the corpse was laid
out, and in a loud rapid voice repeat the Deprofundis for the repose
of her soul, after which he sat down and smoked a pipe. Oh, well do I
remember how the whole house was hushed, for all was expectation and
interest as to what he would do or say. At length he spoke--“Is Frank
Magaveen there?”
“All’s that left o’ me’s here, Tom.”
“An’ if the sweep-chimly-general had his due, Frank, that wouldn’t be
much; and so the longer you can keep him out of that same, the betther
for yourself.”
“Folly on Tom! you know there’s none of us all able to spake up to _you_,
say what you will.”
“It’s not so when you’re beside a purty girl, Frank. But sure that’s not
surprisin’; you were born wid butther in your mouth, an’ that’s what
makes your orations to the fair sect be so soft an’ meltin’, ha, ha, ha!
Well, Frank, never mind; there’s worse where you’ll go to: keep your own
counsel fast: let’s salt your gums, an’ you’ll do yet. Whisht, boys; I’m
goin’ to sing a _rann_, an’ afther that Frank an’ I will pick a couple o’
dozen out o’ yez ‘to box the Connaughtman.’” Boxing the Connaughtman is
a play or diversion peculiar to wakes; it is grotesquely athletic in its
character, but full, besides, of comic sentiment and farcical humour.
He then commenced an Irish rann or song, the substance of which was as
follows, according to his own translation:--
“St Patrick, it seems, was one Sunday morning crossing a mountain on his
way to a chapel to say mass, and as he was an humble man (coaches wern’t
then invented, at any rate) an’ a great pedestrium (pedestrian), he took
the shortest cut across the mountain. In one of the lonely glens he met
a herd-caudy, who spent his time in eulogizin’ his masther’s cattle,
according to the precepts of them times, which was not by any means so
larned an’ primogenitive as now. The countenance of the dog was clear
an’ extremely sabbathical; every thing was at rest barring the little
river before him, an’ indeed one would think that it flowed on with more
decency an’ betther behaviour than upon other sympathising occasions.
The birds, to be sure, were singin’, but it was aisy to see that they
chirped out their best notes in honour of the day. ‘Good morrow on you,’
said St Patrick; ‘what’s the raison you’re not goin’ to prayers, my fine
little fellow?’
‘What’s prayers?’ axed the boy. St Patrick looked at him with a very
pitiful and calamitous expression in his face. ‘Can you bless yourself?’
says he. ‘No,’ said the boy. ‘I don’t know what it means?’ ‘Worse and
worse,’ thought St Patrick.
‘Poor bouchal, it isn’t your fault. An how do you pass your time here?’
‘Why, my mate (food) ’s brought to me, an’ I do be makin’ kings’ crowns
out of my rushes, whin I’m not watching the cows an’ sheep.’
St Patrick sleeked down his head wid great dereliction, an’ said, ‘Well,
acushla, you do be operatin’ kings’ crowns, but I tell you you’re born
to wear a greater one than a king’s, an’ that is a crown of glory. Come
along wid me.’
‘I can’t lave my cattle,’ said the other, ‘for fraid they might go
astray.’
‘Right enough.’ replied St Patrick, ‘but I’ll let you see that they
won’t.’ Now, any how St Patrick undherstood cattle irresistibly himself,
havin’ been a herd-caudy (boy) in his youth; so he clapped his thumb to
his thrapple, an’ gave the Soy-a-loa to the sheep, an’ behould you they
came about him wid great relaxation an’ respect. ‘Keep yourselves sober
an’ fictitious,’ says he, addressin’ them, ‘till this boy comes back, an’
don’t go beyant your owner’s property; or if you do, it’ll be worse for
yez. If you regard your health durin’ the approximatin’ season, mind an’
attend to my words.’
Now, you see, every sheep, while he was spakin’, lifted the right fore
leg, an’ raised the head a little, an’ behould when he finished, they
kissed their foot, an’ made him a low bow as a mark of their estimation
an’ superfluity. He thin clapped his finger an’ thumb in his mouth, gave
a loud whistle, an’ in a periodical time he had all the other cattle on
the hill about him, to which he addressed the same ondeniable oration,
an’ they bowed to him wid the same polite gentility. He then brought the
lad along wid him, an’ as they made progress in the journey, the little
fellow says,
‘You seem frustrated by the walk, an’ if you’ll let me carry your bundle,
I’ll feel obliged to you.’
‘Do so,’ said the saint; ‘an’ as it’s rather long, throw the bag that the
things are in over your shoulder; you’ll find it the aisiest way to carry
it.’
Well, the boy adopted this insinivation, an’ they went ambiguously along
till they reached the chapel.
‘Do you see that house?’ said St Patrick.
‘I do,’ said the other; ‘it has no chimley on it.’
‘No,’ said the saint; ‘it has not; but in that house, Christ, he that
saved you, will be present to-day.’ An’ the boy thin shed tears, when
he thought of the goodness of Christ in saving one that was a stranger
to him. So they entered the chapel, an’ the first thing the lad was
struck with was the beams of the sun that came in through the windy
shinin’ beside the altar. Now, he had never seen the like of it in a
house before, an’ thinkin’ it was put there for some use or other in the
intarior, he threw the wallet, which was like a saddle-bag, across the
sunbeams, an’ lo an’ behould you the sunbeams supported them, an’ at the
same time a loud sweet voice was heard, sayin’, ‘This is my servant St
Kieran, an’ he’s welcome to the house o’ God!’ St Patrick then tuck him
an’ instructed him in the various edifications of the larned languages
until he became one of the greatest saints that ever Ireland saw, with
the exception an’ liquidation of St Patrick himself.”
Such is a faint outline of the style and manner peculiar to the
narratives of Tom Grassiey. Indeed, it has frequently surprised not only
us, but all who knew him, to think how and where and when he got together
such an incredible number of hard and difficult words. Be this as it
may, one thing was perfectly clear, that they cost him little trouble
and no study in their application. His pride was to speak as learnedly
as possible, and of course he imagined that the most successful method
of doing this was to use as many sesquipedalian expressions as he could
crowd into his language, without any regard whatsoever as to their
propriety.
Immediately after the relation of this legend, he passed at once into
a different spirit. He and Frank Magaveen marshalled their forces, and
in a few minutes two or three dozen young fellows were hotly engaged in
the humorous game of “Boxing the Connaughtman.” Boxing the Connaughtman
was followed by “the Standing Brogue” and “the Sitting Brogue,” two
other sports practised only at wakes. And here we may observe generally,
that the amusements resorted to on such occasions are never to be found
elsewhere, but are exclusively peculiar to the house of mourning, where
they are benevolently introduced for the purpose of alleviating sorrow.
Having gone through a few more such sports, Tom took a seat and addressed
a neighbouring farmer, named Gordon, as follows:--“Jack Gordon, do you
know the history of your own name and its original fluency?”
“Indeed no, Tom, I cannot say I do.”
“Well, boys, if you derogate your noise a little, I’ll tell you the
origin of the name of Gordon; it’s a story about ould Oliver Crummle,
whose tongue is on the look-out for a drop of wather ever since he went
to the lower story.” This legend, however, is too long and interesting
to be related here: we are therefore forced to defer it until another
opportunity.