In this grave cigar-smoking age of ours, in which Irishmen exhibit so
little of the love of fun and merriment--the drolleries and _escapades_
which distinguished them in preceding ages--it is a pleasant thing to
us septuagenarians to look back occasionally to our youthful days, and
call up from the storehouse of our memories the merry men whom and whose
merry freaks we were either familiar with, or at least had heard of or
seen. One of these choice spirits is just now present with us in our
mind’s eye, and we are certain that we have only to mention his name, to
bring him equally before a great number of our Dublin readers. We mean
the late musical doctor, John Cogan. There, now, Dublin readers, some
thousands of you at least have the man before you, though many of you
are unfortunately too young to have heard his exquisitely delicate and
expressive hands on the piano, extemporising with matchless felicity
upon Garryowen or some other melody of Old Ireland; or participated in
his playful and always inoffensive merriment and good humour. Even the
youngest of you, however, must surely remember the little man--little
indeed in size, but every inch of him a gentleman, who but a few years
since might be occasionally seen taking an airing, when the sun shone
on him, in Sackville Street, sometimes leaning on his servant’s arm,
and at others driven in his pony-phaeton, which his prudence in youth
had enabled him to secure for his days of feebleness and old age. That
pleasant intellectual countenance, bright and playful as his own music
even to the last, has disappeared from amongst us; but the memory of
such a man should not be allowed to die, and we will therefore, while in
the vein, devote a column of our Journal to a sketch of one of the many
incidents remembered of his long life, as illustrative in some degree not
only of his character, but also of that of society in Dublin during the
last century.
From what we have already stated, it will have appeared that Doctor
Cogan was not only great as a musical performer, but also as a performer
in innocent waggery. It would indeed have been difficult to determine
in which performance he most excelled, or whether he most loved his
music or his joke. He was not only a good theorist, but loved a bit of
_harmony_ intensely, and a _laughing chorus_ was his prime delight. Those
he would often accompany or direct as occasion required, to heighten
the pleasures of a musical treat, when he rarely neglected a happy
opportunity of introducing some _vivace_ movement of his own composing,
provided he could previously prepare a _score_ of good fellows capable
of performing effectively the several parts assigned them in it, which
among his apt compeers was rarely a difficult task. A lover of good
cheer and hospitality, which he both gave as well as partook of with a
true Irish spirit, it was a settled point with the Doctor that brother
professors should at all times live in harmony with each other, and
receive brotherly encouragement; nor were such feelings of an exclusively
national character, but extended equally to foreigners coming to Ireland,
who, if at all known to fame, were sure of receiving a friendly and _cead
mile failte_ reception at his hands. If, it is true, he could on such
occasions indulge a little innocent joke, by playing off a specimen of
Irish _counterpoint_ at the expense of such visitors, it was so much the
more agreeable to him, as in the following instance of the concerted
movement which he got up to do honour to the celebrated violinist Pinto,
who visited our city about sixty years since. But before we detail the
circumstances attendant on this reception, it is necessary that we should
tell our worthy readers something of the person who was selected by the
Doctor to play a leading part--the principal fiddle--on the occasion; and
the more particularly as his name is unknown to the great majority of the
present generation, and almost forgotten by the few who may still survive
him.
The person we allude to was Robert Meekins, or, as he was familiarly
called, “Bob,” a violinist of great tavern-playing notoriety in his
day. Like his brother professors, the harpers of the last century, of
whom Mr Bunting has given us such characteristic anecdotes, Bob was a
thoroughly Irish musician in every sense of the word; and though, as
we believe, he had never travelled out of Dublin, his native city, few
were found to equal him on his instrument either in tone, execution, or
expression of feeling. From the earliest period of his musical studies,
however, he had indulged in a wild and extemporaneous mode of practice,
which proved most injurious to his professional career in after life, and
unfortunately for him, being moreover an inveterate hater of _dry_ study,
Bob more frequently wetted his whistle than he rosined his bow. Under the
influence of such _bad practice_ he became at last incurably vicious,
and rarely kept within reasonable bounds, either in the way of drinking
or fiddle-playing. Indeed, whatever command poor Bob retained over his
instrument, he had none over himself. Leader after leader sought to curb
him in his wild extravagances of style, in the vain hope of diverting
his great natural musical powers into legitimate courses; but Bob would
never be led, and as to driving him, that was found to be equally
impracticable. He would go his own way, and no other. He would read
concerted music, not as it was intended, but as he thought it should be.
His passion for _obligatoes_ was unconquerable, and he rarely arrived at
an _ad libitum_ that he did not avail himself of it with a vengeance; and
thus, while his brother musicians were attending to the pauses, perfectly
content with the single note before them, an impromptu cadence would be
heard meandering through a chord, telling of Bob’s wanderings, and he
the while so absorbed as to be equally heedless of the elbow-punchings
of his neighbours, the authority of his leader, or the intentions of the
composer. No composer indeed came up to his fancy--entirely; something
was always wanting, and his fingers were ever upon the alert to supply
that something which was not set down for him: and should a remonstrance
come from the leader, it but too frequently produced a _presto_ movement
on the part of Bob, leaving a vacancy in the orchestra to be filled up
as it might, at the shortest possible notice. Vain of his powers, and
scorning restraint, his kicks against orchestral rule became beyond all
bearing, and so he was himself at last kicked out from all decent musical
society. Thus finding himself alone, he naturally turned _solo_ player,
and became one of the lions of Dublin, drawing nightly crowds to the
taverns he frequented, where he could indulge his love for flights of
fancy to his heart’s content. But, unfortunately for him, in this new
sphere he was enabled by the liberal contributions of his admirers to
indulge also without restraint that more fatal passion for drink which
had proved his bane through life, leading him step by step, as usual
with such reckless characters, to an untimely and degraded grave. It
is generally believed that poor Bob Meekins died from the effects of
intemperance in some wretched doorway in an alley of our city.
Such, then, was the person selected by Doctor Cogan to perform a
principal part in the little musical drama which he had prepared for
the reception of the great foreign violinist of the day, and the place
chosen for its performance was the once celebrated hotel or tavern called
the Pigeon-house, which at that period was the common resort for the
meetings or departures of friends to or from England by the Holyhead
packets. Thither accordingly the Doctor and his musical companions
repaired, to await the expected arrival of the Signor, and ordered
dinner with the determination that he should be their guest. It is not
necessary to dilate upon the reception given to the brother professor,
or to particularise all the good things that were said, sung, and eaten
upon the occasion. It is sufficient to say that every thing passed off
in true Hibernian style, to the astonishment as well as gratification
of Pinto, who was delighted to find himself surrounded by so many new
and warm-hearted friends, each keeping up the tide of merriment by a
rapid circulation of the bottle amid the joyous flow of song, jest, and
laugh. But where was Bob all this time? He was placed in an adjoining
passage awaiting a silent signal, and being primed for action, was
impatient for the moment of attack upon the excitable nerves of the
delighted Italian. This signal was at length given, and so effectually
arranged were the parts given to each of the Doctor’s apt pupils, that
as the soul-thrilling tones of Bob’s violin vibrated through the room,
it seemed to produce no other effect upon their ears than a _sotto voce_
expression of displeasure, or _forzando_ of horror. All this seemed quite
spontaneous, and was at the same time so judiciously managed as to allow
the instrument to predominate over the voices, and thus enable the
practised ear of Pinto to discover in the invisible minstrel a master
spirit--nor did the well-timed _crescendo_ of “Turn the scraping villain
out,” “Curse the noisy blackguard,” &c. &c. arrive at its climax, until
Bob’s varied and expressive execution had completely bewildered the poor
Signor with amazement. To him, indeed, the scene was one as unusual as it
was unexpected; and when silence was somewhat restored, he eagerly asked
in his broken English whence the tones had come; and truly ludicrous
were the varied expressions of the Italian’s intellectual countenance
on being assured by the Doctor and his assistants that the performer
who had so enraptured him was a rascally itinerant fiddler, who gained
a precarious livelihood by scraping at taverns. The effect may easily
be imagined. The Signor insisted upon seeing him; and when Bob’s whisky
face and tattered habiliments became visible, Pinto sat fixed in mute
bewilderment, conjuring up in his excited imagination the apparition of
a Meekins at the corner of every street; and the success of the Doctor’s
joke was complete, when the poor Italian, with a forlorn and chopfallen
visage, was heard to mutter, “Lit-el fid-el--lit-el fid-el--you call--if
dis lit-el fidel, me go back, me no use!”
A simultaneous burst of laughter was the response to these hurried and
broken accents of surprise and chagrin. But enough was effected, and
in quick compassion for poor Pinto’s feelings, he was at once made to
understand the whole contrivance, on which he laughed as loudly as any
of the merry Irish group around him. The scene of joyousness was kept
up till an _early_ hour, during which Meekins occasionally revelled in
the music of his own dear land, to the increased delight not only of the
Signor, but of all present on the occasion.