Produced by David Widger
THE WORKS
OF
WILLIAM CARLETON.
VOLUME III.
[Illustration: Frontispiece]
[Illustration: Titlepage]
TRAITS AND STORIES OF THE IRISH PEASANTRY
CONTENTS:
Ned M'Keown.
The Three Tasks.
Shane Fadh's Wedding.
Larry M'Farland's Wake.
The Battle Of The Factions.
1881.
TRAITS AND STORIES
OF THE IRISH PEASANTRY.
INTRODUCTION.
It will naturally be expected, upon a new issue of works which may be
said to treat exclusively of a people who form such an important and
interesting portion of the empire as the Irish peasantry do, that the
author should endeavor to prepare the minds of his readers--especially
those of the English and Scotch--for understanding more clearly their
general character, habits of thought, and modes of feeling, as they
exist and are depicted in the subsequent volume. This is a task which
the author undertakes more for the sake of his country than himself; and
he rejoices that the demand for the present edition puts it in his power
to aid in removing many absurd prejudices which have existed for time
immemorial against his countrymen.
It is well known that the character of an Irishman has been hitherto
uniformly associated with the idea of something unusually ridiculous,
and that scarcely anything in the shape of language was supposed to
proceed from his lips, but an absurd congeries of brogue and blunder.
The habit of looking upon him in a ludicrous light has been so strongly
impressed upon the English mind, that no opportunity has ever been
omitted of throwing him into an attitude of gross and overcharged
caricature, from which you might as correctly estimate his intellectual
strength and moral proportions, as you would the size of a man from his
evening shadow. From the immortal bard of Avon down to the writers
of the present day, neither play nor farce has ever been presented to
Englishmen, in which, when an irishman is introduced, he is not drawn as
a broad, grotesque blunderer, every sentence he speaks involving a
bull, and every act the result of headlong folly, or cool but unstudied
effrontery. I do not remember an instance in which he acts upon the
stage any other part than that of the buffoon of the piece uttering
language which, wherever it may have been found, was at all events
never heard in Ireland, unless upon the boards of a theatre. As for the
Captain O'Cutters, O'Blunders, and Dennis Bulgrudderies, of the English
stage, they never had existence except in the imagination of those who
were as ignorant of the Irish people as they were of their language and
feelings. Even Sheridan himself was forced to pander to this erroneous
estimate and distorted conception of our character; for, after all, Sir
Lucius O'Trigger was his Irishman but not Ireland's Irishman. I know
that several of my readers may remind me of Sir Boyle Roche, whose bulls
have become not only notorious, but proverbial. It is well known now,
however, and was when he made them, that they were studied bulls,
resorted to principally for the purpose of putting the government and
opposition sides of the Irish House of Commons into good humor with each
other, which they never failed to do--thereby, on more occasions than
one, probably, preventing the effusion of blood, and the loss of life,
among men who frequently decided even their political differences by the
sword or pistol.
That the Irish either were or are a people remarkable for making bulls
or blunders, is an imputation utterly unfounded, and in every sense
untrue. The source of this error on the part of our neighbors is,
however, readily traced. The language of our people has been for
centuries, and is up to the present day, in a transition state. The
English tongue is gradually superseding the Irish. In my own native
place, for instance, there is not by any means so much Irish spoken now,
as there was about twenty or five-and-twenty years ago. This fact, then,
will easily account for the ridicule which is, and I fear ever will be,
unjustly heaped upon those who are found to use a language which they do
not properly understand. In the early periods of communication between
the countries, when they stood in a hostile relation to each other, and
even long afterwards, it was not surprising that “the wild Irishman” who
expressed himself with difficulty, and often impressed the idiom of his
own language upon one with which he was not familiar, should incur,
in the opinion of those who were strongly prejudiced against him, the
character of making the bulls and blunders attributed to him. Such
was the fact, and such the origin of this national slander upon his
intellect,--a slander which, like every other, originates from the
prejudice of those who were unacquainted with the quickness and
clearness of thought that in general characterizes the language of our
people. At this moment there is no man acquainted with the inhabitants
of the two countries, who does not know, that where the English
is vernacular in Ireland, it is spoken with far more purity, and
grammatical precision than is to be heard beyond the Channel. Those,
then, who are in the habit of defending what are termed our bulls, or of
apologizing for them, do us injustice; and Miss Edgeworth herself, when
writing an essay upon the subject, wrote an essay upon that which does
not, and never did exist. These observations, then, easily account for
the view of us which has always been taken in the dramatic portion of
English literature. There the Irishman was drawn in every instance
as the object of ridicule, and consequently of contempt; for it is
incontrovertibly true, that the man whom you laugh at you will soon
despise.
In every point of view this was wrong, but principally in a political
one. At that time England and Englishmen knew very little of Ireland,
and, consequently, the principal opportunities afforded them of
appreciating our character were found on the stage. Of course, it was
very natural that the erroneous estimate of us which they formed there
should influence them everywhere else. We cannot sympathize with, and
laugh at, the same object at the same time; and if the Irishman found
himself undeservedly the object of coarse and unjust ridicule, it was
not very unnatural that he should requite it with a prejudice against
the principles and feelings of Englishmen, quite as strong as that which
was entertained against himself. Had this ridicule been confined to
the stage, or directed at us in the presence of those who had other and
better opportunities of knowing us, it would have been comparatively
harmless. But this was not the case. It passed from the stage into the
recesses of private life, wrought itself into the feelings until it
became a prejudice, and the Irishman was consequently looked upon, and
treated, as being made up of absurdity and cunning,--a compound of knave
and fool, fit only to be punished for his knavery, or laughed at for
his folly. So far, therefore, that portion of English literature
which attempted to describe the language and habits of Irishmen, was
unconsciously creating an unfriendly feeling between the two countries,
a feeling which, I am happy to say, is fast disappearing, and which
only requires that we should have a full and fair acquaintance with each
other in order to be removed for ever.
At present, indeed, their mutual positions, civil, commercial, and
political, are very different from what they were half a century ago,
or even at a more recent period. The progress of science, and the
astonishing improvements in steam and machinery, have so completely
removed the obstructions which impeded their intercourse, that the
two nations can now scarcely be considered as divided. As a natural
consequence, their knowledge of each other has improved; and, as will
always happen with generous people, they begin to see that the one was
neither knave or fool, nor the other a churl or a boor. Thus has
mutual respect arisen from mutual intercourse, and those who hitherto
approached each other with distrust are beginning to perceive, that in
spite of political or religious prejudices, no matter how stimulated,
the truthful experience of life will in the event create nothing but
good-will and confidence between the countries.
Other causes, however, led to this;--causes which in every state of
society exercise a quick and powerful influence over the minds of
men:--I allude to literature.
When the Irishman was made to stand forth as the butt of ridicule to his
neighbors, the first that undertook his vindication was Maria Edgeworth.
During her day, the works of no writer made a more forcible impression
upon the circles of fashionable life in England, if we except the
touching and inimitable Melodies of my countryman, Thomas Moore. After
a lapse of some years, these two were followed by many others, who
stood forth as lofty and powerful exponents of the national heart and
intellect. Who can forget the melancholy but indignant reclamations
of John Banim,--the dark and touching power of Gerald Griffin,--or the
unrivalled wit and irresistible drollery of Samuel Lover? Nor can I omit
remarking, that amidst the array of great talents to which I allude,
the genius of our female writers bore off, by the free award of public
opinion, some of the brightest wreaths of Irish literature. It would be
difficult indeed, in any country, to name three women who have done
more in setting right the character of Ireland and her people, whilst
exhibiting at the same time the manifestations of high genius, than Miss
Edgeworth, Lady Morgan, and Mrs. Hall. About the female creations ol
the last-named lady, especially, there is a touching charm, blending
the graceful and the pensive, which reminds us of a very general but
peculiar style of Irish beauty, where the lineaments of the face combine
at once both the melancholy and the mirthful in such a manner, that
their harmony constitutes the unchangeable but ever-varying tenderness
of the expression.
That national works like these, at once so healthful and so true,
produced by those who knew the country, and exhibiting Irishmen not
as the blundering buffoons of the English stage, but as men capable
of thinking clearly and feeling deeply--that such works, I say, should
enable a generous people, as the English undoubtedly are, to divest
themselves of the prejudices which they had so long entertained against
us, is both natural and gratifying. Those who achieved this great
object, or aided in achieving it, have unquestionably rendered services
of a most important nature to both the countries, as well as to
literature in general.
Yet, whilst the highly gifted individuals whom I have named succeeded
in making their countrymen respected, there was one circumstance which,
nothwithstanding every exhibition of their genius and love of country,
still remained as a reproach against our character as a nation.
For nearly a century we were completely at the mercy of our British
neighbors, who probably amused themselves at our expense with the
greater license, and a more assured sense of impunity, inasmuch as
they knew that we were utterly destitute of a national literature.
Unfortunately the fact could not be disputed. For the last half century,
to come down as far as we can, Ireland, to use a plain metaphor, instead
of producing her native intellect for home consumption, was forced to
subsist upon the scanty supplies which could be procured from the sister
kingdom. This was a reproach which added great strength to the general
prejudice against us.
A nation may produce one man or ten men of eminence, but if they cannot
succeed in impressing their mind upon the spirit and intellect of their
own country, so as to create in her a taste for literature or science,
no matter how highly they may be appreciated by strangers, they have not
reached the exalted purposes of genius. To make this more plain I shall
extend the metaphor a little farther. During some of the years of Irish
famine, such were the unhappy circumstances of the country, that she was
exporting provisions of every description in most prodigal abundance,
which the generosity of England was sending back again for our support.
So was it with literature, our men and women of genius uniformly carried
their talents to the English market, whilst we labored at home under all
the dark privations of a literary famine.
In truth, until within the last ten or twelve years, an Irish author
never thought of publishing in his own country, and the consequence was
that our literary men followed the example of our great landlords; they
became absentees, and drained the country of its intellectual wealth
precisely as the others exhausted it of its rents.
Thus did Ireland stand in the singular anomaly of adding some of her
most distinguished names to the literature of Great Britain, whilst she
herself remained incapable of presenting anything to the world beyond a
school-book or a pamphlet; and even of the latter it is well-known that
if the subject of it were considered important, and its author a man
of any talent or station in society, it was certain to be published in
London.
Precisely in this state was the country when the two first volumes of
the “Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry” were given to the public
by the house of Messrs. Gurry and Co., of Sackville Street. Before they
appeared, their author, in consequence of their originating from an
Irish press, entertained no expectation that they would be read, or
excite any interest whatever in either England or Scotland. He was not,
however, without a strong confidence that notwithstanding the wild
and uncleared state of his own country at the time, so far as native
literature was concerned, his two little pioneers would work their
way with at least moderate success. He felt conscious that everything
depicted in them was true, and that by those who were acquainted with
the manners, and language, and feelings of the people, they would sooner
or later be recognized as faithful delineations of Irish life. In
this confidence the event justified him; for not only were his volumes
stamped with an immediate popularity at home, where they could be best
appreciated, but awarded a very gratifying position in the literature
of the day by the unanimous and not less generous verdict of the English
and Scotch critics.
Thus it was that the publication of two unpretending volumes, written by
a peasant's son, established an important and gratifying fact--that
our native country, if without a literature at the time, was at least
capable of appreciating, and willing to foster the humble exertions
of such as endeavored to create one. Nor was this all; for so far as
resident authors were concerned, it was now clearly established that
an Irish writer could be successful at home without the necessity of
appearing under the name and sanction of the great London or Edinburgh
booksellers.
The rapid sale and success of the first series encouraged the author to
bring out a second, which he did, but with a different bookseller. The
spirit of publishing was now beginning to extend, and the talent of the
country to put itself in motion. The popularity of the second effort
surpassed that of the first, and the author had the gratification of
knowing that the generosity of public feeling and opinion accorded him
a still higher position than before, as did the critics of the day,
without a dissentient voice. Still, as in the case of his first effort,
he saw with honest pride that his own country and his countrymen placed
the highest value upon his works, because they best understood them.
About this time the literary taste of the metropolis began to feel the
first symptoms of life. As yet, however, they were very faint. Two or
three periodicals were attempted, and though of very considerable merit,
and conducted by able men, none of them, I believe, reached a year's
growth. The “Dublin Literary Gazette,” the “National Magazine,” the
“Dublin Monthly Magazine,” and the “Dublin University Review,” all
perished in their infancy--not, however, because they were unworthy of
success, but because Ireland was not then what she is now fast becoming,
a reading, and consequently a thinking, country. To every one of these
the author contributed, and he has the satisfaction of being able to say
that there has been no publication projected purely for the advancement
of literature in his own country, to which he has not given the aid of
his pen, such as it was, and this whether he received remuneration or
not. Indeed, the consciousness that the success of his works had been
the humble means of inciting others to similar exertion in their own
country, and of thus giving the first impulse to our literature, is one
which has on his part created an enthusiastic interest in it which will
only die with him.
Notwithstanding the failure of the periodicals just mentioned, it
was clear that the intellect of the country was beginning to feel its
strength and put forth its power. A national spirit that rose above the
narrow distinctions of creed and party began to form itself, and in the
first impulses of its early enthusiasm a periodical was established,
which it is only necessary to name--the “Dublin University Magazine”--a
work unsurpassed by any magazine of the day; and which, moreover,
without ever departing from its principles, has been as a bond of union
for literary men of every class, who have from time to time enriched its
pages by their contributions. It has been, and is, a neutral spot in a
country where party feeling runs so high, on which the Roman Catholic
Priest and the Protestant Parson, the Whig, the Tory, and the Radical,
divested of their respective prejudices, can meet in an amicable spirit.
I mention these things with great satisfaction, for it is surely a
gratification to know that literature, in a country which has been so
much distracted as Ireland, is progressing in a spirit of noble candor
and generosity, which is ere long likely to produce a most salutary
effect among the educated classes of all parties, and consequently among
those whom they influence. The number, ability, and importance of the
works which have issued from the Dublin press within the last eight or
ten years, if they could be enumerated here, would exhibit the rapid
progress of the national mind, and satisfy the reader that Ireland in
a few years will be able to sustain a native literature as lofty and
generous, and beneficial to herself, as any other country in the world
can boast of.
This hasty sketch of its progress I felt myself called upon to give,
in order that our neighbors may know what we have done, and learn to
respect us accordingly; and, if the truth must be told, from a principle
of honest pride, arising from the position which our country holds, and
is likely to hold, as an intellectual nation.
Having disposed of this topic, I come now to one of not less importance
as being connected with the other,--the condition and character of the
peasantry of Ireland.
It maybe necessary, however, before entering upon this topic, to give
my readers some satisfactory assurance that the subject is one which
I ought well to understand, not only from my humble position in early
life, and my uninterrupted intercourse with the people as one of
themselves, until I had reached the age of twenty-two years, but from
the fact of having bestowed upon it my undivided and most earnest
attention ever since I left the dark mountains and green vales of my
native Tyrone, and began to examine human life and manners as a citizen
of the world. As it is admitted, also, that there exists no people whose
character is so anomalous as that of the Irish, and consequently so
difficult to be understood, especially by strangers, it becomes a
still more appropriate duty on my part to give to the public, proofs
sufficiently valid, that I come to a subject of such difficulty with
unusual advantages on my side, and that, consequently, my exhibitions of
Irish peasant life, in its most comprehensive sense, may be relied on
as truthful and authentic. For this purpose, it will be necessary that
I should give a brief sketch of my own youth, early station in society,
and general education, as the son of an honest, humble peasant.
My father, indeed, was a very humble man, but, in consequence of his
unaffected piety and stainless integrity of principle, he was held in
high esteem by all who knew him, no matter what their rank in life might
be. When the state of education in Ireland during his youth and that of
my mother is considered, it will not be a matter of surprise that what
they did receive was very limited. It would be difficult, however, if
not impossible, to find two persons in their lowly station so highly
and singularly gifted. My father possessed a memory not merely great or
surprising, but absolutely astonishing. He could repeat nearly the whole
of the Old and New Testament by heart, and was, besides, a living index
to almost every chapter and verse you might wish to find in it. In all
other respects, too, his memory was equally amazing. My native place
is a spot rife with old legends, tales, traditions, customs, and
superstitions; so that in my early youth, even beyond the walls of
my own humble roof, they met me in every direction. It was at home,
however, and from my father's lips in particular, that they were
perpetually sounding in my ears. In fact, his memory was a perfect
storehouse, and a rich one, of all that the social antiquary, the man of
letters, the poet, or the musician, would consider valuable. As a teller
of old tales, legends, and historical anecdotes he was unrivalled, and
his stock of them was inexhaustible. He spoke the Irish and English
languages with nearly equal fluency. With all kinds of charms, old
ranns, or poems, old prophecies, religious superstitions, tales of
pilgrims, miracles, and pilgrimages, anecdotes of blessed priests
and friars, revelations from ghosts and fairies, was he thoroughly
acquainted. And so strongly were all these impressed upon my mind, by
frequent repetition on his part, and the indescribable delight they
gave me on mine, that I have hardly ever since heard, during a tolerably
enlarged intercourse with Irish society, both educated and uneducated,
with the antiquary, the scholar, or the humble senachie--any single
tradition, usage, or legend, that, as far as I can at present recollect,
was perfectly new to me or unheard before, in some similar or cognate
dress. This is certainly saying much; but I believe I may assert with
confidence that I could produce, in attestation of its truth, the
dairies of Petrie, Sir W. Betham, Ferguson, and O'Donovan, the most
distinguished antiquaries, both of social usages and otherwise, that
ever Ireland produced. What rendered this, besides, of such peculiar
advantage to me in after life, as a literary man, was, that I heard them
as often in the Irish language as in the English, if not oftener, in
circumstance which enabled me in my writings to transfer the genius, the
idiomatic peculiarity and conversational spirit of the one language
into the other, precisely as the people themselves do in their dialogue,
whenever the heart or imagination happens to be moved by the darker or
better passions.
Having thus stated faithfully, without adding or diminishing, a portion,
and a portion only, of what I owe to one parent, I cannot overlook the
debt of gratitude which is due to the memory of the other.
My mother, whose name was Kelly--Mary Kelly--possessed the sweetest and
most exquisite of human voices. In her early life, I have often been
told by those who had heard her sing, that any previous intimation of
her presence at a wake, dance, or other festive occasion, was sure to
attract crowds of persons, many from a distance of several miles, in
order to hear from her lips the touching old airs of their country. No
sooner was it known that she would attend any such meeting, than the
fact spread throughout the neighborhood like wild-fire, and the people
flocked from all parts to hear her, just as the fashionable world
do now, when the name of some eminent songstress is announced in the
papers; with this difference, that upon such occasions the voice of the
one falls only upon the ear, whilst that of the other sinks deeply into
the heart. She was not so well acquainted with the English tongue as my
father, although she spoke it with sufficient ease for all the purposes
of life; and for this reason, among others, she generally gave the old
Irish versions of the songs in question, rather than the English ones.
This, however, as I said, was not her sole motive. In the first place,
she had several old songs, which at that time,--I believe, too, I may
add at this,--had never been translated; and I very much fear that some
valuable ones, both as to words and airs, have perished with her. Her
family were all imbued with a poetical spirit, and some of her immediate
ancestors composed in the Irish tongue several fine old songs, in the
same manner as Carolan did; that is, some in praise of a patron or a
friend, and others to celebrate rustic beauties, that have long since
been sleeping in the dust. For this reason she had many old compositions
that were almost peculiar to our family, which I am afraid could not now
be procured at all, and are consequently lost. I think her uncle, and
I believe her grandfather, were the authors of several Irish poems and
songs, because I know that some of them she sang, and others she only
recited.
Independently of this, she had a prejudice against singing the Irish
airs to English words; an old custom of the country was thereby invaded,
and an association disturbed which habit had rendered dear to her. I
remember on one occasion, when she was asked to sing the English version
of that touching melody, “The Red-haired Man's Wife,” she replied,
“I will sing it for you; but the English words and the air are like a
quarrelling man and wife: the Irish melts into the tune, but the English
doesn't,” an expression scarcely less remarkable for its beauty than its
truth. She spoke the words in Irish.
This gift of singing with such sweetness and power the old sacred songs
and airs of Ireland, was not the only one for which she was remarkable.
Perhaps there never lived a human being capable of giving the Irish cry,
or Keene, with such exquisite effect, or of pouring into its wild notes
a spirit of such irresistible pathos and sorrow. I have often been
present when she has “raised the keene” over the corpse of some relative
or neighbor, and my readers may judge of the melancholy charm which
accompanied this expression of her sympathy, when I assure them that
the general clamor of violent grief was gradually diminished, from
admiration, until it became ultimately hushed, and no voice was heard
but her own--wailing in sorrowful but solitary beauty. This pause, it
is true, was never long, for however great the admiration might be which
she excited, the hearts of those who heard her soon melted, and even
strangers were often forced to confess her influence by the tears which
she caused them to shed for those whose deaths could, otherwise, in no
other way have affected them. I am the youngest, I believe, of fourteen
children, and of course could never have heard her until age and the
struggles of life had robbed her voice of its sweetness. I heard enough,
however, from her blessed lips, to set my heart to an almost painful
perception of that spirit which steeps these fine old songs in a
tenderness which no other music possesses. Many a time, of a winter
night, when seated at her spinning-wheel, singing the _Trougha_, or
_Shuil agra_, or some other old “song of sorrow,” have I, then little
more than a child, gone over to her, and with a broken voice and eyes
charged with tears, whispered, “Mother dear, don't sing that song, it
makes me sorrowful;” she then usually stopped, and sung some one which I
liked better because it affected me less. At this day I am in possession
of Irish airs, which none of our best antiquaries in Irish music have
heard, except through me, and of which neither they nor I myself know
the names.
Such, gentle reader, were my humble parents, under whose untaught, but
natural genius, setting all other advantages aside, it is not to be
wondered at that my heart should have been so completely moulded into
that spirit and, those feelings which characterize my country and her
children.
These, however, were my domestic advantages; but I now come to others,
which arose from my position in life as the son of a man who was one
of the people. My father, at the farthest point to which my memory goes
back, lived in a townland called Prillisk, in the parish of Clogher, and
county of Tyrone; and I only remember living there in a cottage. From
that the family removed to a place called Tonagh, or, more familiarly,
Towney, about an English mile from Prillisk. It was here I first went to
school to a Connaught-man named Pat Frayne, who, however, remained there
only for a very short period in the neighborhood. Such was the neglected
state of education at that time, that for a year or two afterwards there
was no school sufficiently near to which I could be sent. At length it
was ascertained that a master, another Connaught-man by the way, named
O'Beirne, had opened a school--a hedge-school of course--at Pindramore.
To this I was sent, along with my brother John, the youngest of the
family next to myself. I continued with him for about a year and a
half, when who should return to our neighborhood but Pat Frayne, the
redoubtable prototype of Mat Kavanagh in “The Hedge School.” O'Beirne,
it is true, was an excellent specimen of the hedge-schoolmaster, but
nothing at all to be compared to Frayne. About the period I write of,
there was no other description of school to which any one could be sent,
and the consequence was, that rich and poor (I speak of the peasantry),
Protestant and Catholic, Presbyterian and Methodist, boys and girls,
were all congregated under the same roof, to the amount of from a
hundred to a hundred and fifty, or two hundred. In this school I
remained for about a year or two, when our family removed to a place
called Nurchasy, the property of the Rev. Dr. Story, of Corick. Of
us, however, he neither could nor did know anything, for we were
under-tenants, our immediate landlord being no less a person than Hugh
Traynor, then so famous for the distillation, sub rosa, of exquisite
mountain dew, and to whom the reader will find allusions made in that
capacity more than once in the following volume. Nurchasy was within
about half a mile of Findramore, to which school, under O'Beirne, I was
again sent. Here I continued, until a classical teacher came to a place
called Tulnavert, now the property of John Birney, Esq., of Lisburn,
to whom I had the pleasure of dedicating the two first volumes of my
“Traits and Stories.” This tyrannical blockhead, whose name I do not
choose to mention, instead of being allowed to teach classics, ought to
have been put into a strait-waistcoat or the stocks, and either whipped
once in every twenty-four hours, or kept in a madhouse until the day of
his death. He had been a student in Maynooth, where he became deranged,
and was, of course, sent home to his friends, with whom he recovered
sufficiently to become cruel and hypocritical, to an extent which I have
never yet seen equalled. Whenever the son of a rich man committed an
offence, he would grind his teeth and growl like a tiger, but in no
single instance had he the moral courage or sense of justice to correct
him. On the contrary, he uniformly “nursed his wrath to keep it warm,”
until the son of a poor man transgressed, and on his unfortunate body
he was sure to wreak signal vengeance for the stupidity or misconduct of
the wealthy blockhead. This was his system, and my readers may form some
opinion of the low ebb at which knowledge and moral feeling were at the
time, when I assure them, that not one of the humbler boys durst make a
complaint against the scoundrel at home, unless under the certainty of
being well flogged for their pains. A hedge-schoolmaster was then held
in such respect and veneration, that no matter how cruel or profligate
he might be, his person and character, unless in some extraordinary case
of cruelty, resulting in death or mutilation, were looked upon as free
from all moral or legal responsibility. This certainly was not the fault
of the people, but of those laws, which, by making education a crime,
generated ignorance, and then punished it for violating them.
For the present it is enough to say, that a most interesting child,
a niece of my own, lost her life by the severity of Pat Frayne, the
Connaught-man. In a fit of passion he caught the poor girl by the ear,
which he nearly plucked out of her head. The violence of the act broke
some of the internal muscles or tendons,--suppuration and subsequently
inflammation, first of the adjoining Parts and afterwards of the brain,
took place, and the fine intelligent little creature was laid in
a premature grave, because the ignorance of the people justified a
pedantic hedge-schoolmaster in the exercise of irresponsible cruelty.
Frayne was never prosecuted, neither was the classical despot, who by
the way sits for the picture of the fellow in whose school, and at whose
hands, the Poor Scholar receives the tyrannical and heartless treatment
mentioned in that tale. Many a time the cruelty exercised towards that
unhappy boy, whose name was Qum, has wrung my heart and brought the
involuntary tears to my eyes,--tears which I was forced to conceal,
being very well assured from experience, that any sympathy of mine, if
noticed, would be certain to procure me or any other friend of his, an
ample participation in his punishment. He was, in truth, the scape-goat
of the school, and it makes my blood boil, even whilst I write, to think
how the poor friendless lad, far removed from either father or mother,
was kicked, and cuffed, and beaten on the naked head, with a kind of
stick between a horse-rod and a cudgel, until his poor face got pale,
and he was forced to totter over to a seat in order to prevent himself
from fainting or falling in consequence of severe pain.
At length, however, the inhuman villain began to find, when it was too
late, that his ferocity, in spite of the terror which it occasioned, was
soon likely to empty his school. He now became as fawning and slavish as
he had before been insolent and savage; but the wealthy farmers of the
neighborhood, having now full cognizance of his conduct, made common
cause with the poorer men whose children were so shamefully treated, and
the result was, that in about six weeks they forced him to leave that
part of the country for want of scholars, having been literally groaned
out of it by the curses and indignation of all who knew him.
Here then was I once more at a loss for a school, and I must add, in no
disposition at all to renew my acquaintance with literature. Our family
had again removed from Nurchasy, to a place up nearer the mountains,
called Springtown, on the northern side of the parish. I was now
about fourteen, and began to feel a keen relish for all the sports and
amusements of the country, into which I entered with a spirit of youth
and enthusiasm rarely equalled. For about two years I attended no
school, but it was during this period that I received, notwithstanding,
the best part of my education. Our farm in Springtown was about sixteen
or eighteen acres, and I occasionally assisted the family in working at
it, but never regularly, for I was not called upon to do so, nor would I
have been permitted even had I wished it. It was about six months after
our removal to Springtown, that an incident in my early life occurred
which gave rise to one of the most popular tales perhaps, with the
exception of “The Miser,” that I have written--that is “The Poor
Scholar.” There being now no classical school within eighteen or twenty
miles of Springtown, it was suggested to our family by a nephew of the
parish priest, then a young man of six or eight and twenty, that, under
the circumstances, it would be a prudent step on their part to prepare
an outfit, and send me up to Munster as a poor scholar, to complete my
education. Pat Frayne, who by the way had been a poor scholar himself,
had advised the same thing before, and as the name does not involve
disgrace I felt no reluctance in going, especially as the priest's
nephew, who proposed it, had made up his mind on accompanying me for
a similar purpose. Indeed, the poor scholars who go to Munster are
indebted for nothing but their bed and board, which they receive
kindly and hospitably from the parents of the scholars. The masters are
generally paid their full terms by these pitiable beings, but this rule,
like all others, of course, has its exceptions. At all events, my
outfit was got ready, and on a beautiful morning in the month of May
I separated from my family to go in quest of education. There was no
collection, however, in my case, as mentioned in the tale; as my own
family supplied the funds supposed to be necessary. I have been present,
however, at more than one collection made for similar purposes, and
heard a good-natured sermon not very much differing from that given in
the story.
The priest's nephew, on the day we were to start, suddenly changed his
mind, and I consequently had to undertake the journey alone, which I
did with a heavy heart. The farther I got from home, the more my spirits
sank, or in the beautiful image of Goldsmith,
“I dragged at each remove a lengthening chain.”
I travelled as far as the town of Granard, and during the journey, it
is scarcely necessary to say, that the almost parental tenderness
and hospitality which I received on my way could not be adequately
described. The reader will find an attempt at it in the story. The
parting from home and my adventures on the road are real.
Having reached Granard my courage began to fail, and my family at home,
now that I had departed from them, began also to feel something like
remorse for having permitted one so young and inexperienced as I then
was, to go abroad alone upon the world. My mother's sorrow, especially,
was deep, and her cry was, “Oh, why did I let my boy go? maybe I will
never see him again!”
At this time, as the reader may be aware from my parental education,
there was not a being alive more thoroughly imbued with superstition;
and, whether for good or ill, at all events that superstition returned
me to my family. On reaching Granard, I felt, of course, fatigued,
and soon went to bed, where I slept soundly. It was not, however, a
dreamless sleep: I thought I was going along a strange path to some
particular place, and that a mad bull met me on the road, and pursued
me with such speed and fury that I awoke in a state of singular terror.
That was sufficient; my mind had been already wavering, and the
dream determined me. The next morning after breakfast I bent my steps
homewards, and, as it happened, my return took a weighty load of bitter
grief from the heart of my mother and family. The house I stopped at
in Granard was a kind of small inn, kept by a man whose name was Peter
Grehan. Such were the incidents which gave rise to the tale of “The Poor
Scholar.”
I was now growing up fast, and began to feel a boyish ambition of
associating with, those who were older and bigger than myself. Although
miserably deficient in education--for I had been well beaten but never
taught--yet I was looked upon as a prodigy of knowledge; and I can
assure the reader that I took very good care not to dispel that
agreeable delusion. Indeed, at this time, I was as great a young
literary coxcomb as ever lived, my vanity being high and inflated
exactly in proportion to my ignorance, which was also of the purest
water. This vanity, however, resulted as much from my position and
circumstances as from any strong disposition to be vain on my part.
It was generated by the ignorance of the people, and their extreme
veneration for any thing in the shape of superior knowledge. In fact,
they insisted that I knew every earthly subject, because I had been a
couple of years at Latin, and was designed for a priest. It was useless
to undeceive men who would not be convinced, so I accordingly gave them,
as they say, “the length of their tether;” nay, to such, purpose did I
ply them with proofs of it, that my conversation soon became as fine a
specimen of pedantic bombast as ever was uttered. Not a word under
six feet could come out of my lips, even of English; but as the best
English, after all, is but commonplace, I peppered them with vile
Latin, and an occasional verse in Greek, from St. John's Gospel, which
I translated for them into a wrong meaning, with an air of lofty
superiority that made them turn up their eyes with wonder. I was then,
however, but one of a class which still exists, and will continue to do
so until a better informed generation shall prevent those who compose it
from swaggering about in all the pompous pride of young impostors,
who boast of knowing “the seven languages.” The reader will find an
illustration of this in the sketch of “Denis O'Shaughnessy going to
Maynooth.”
In the meantime, I was unconsciously but rapidly preparing myself for
a position in Irish literature, which I little dreamt I should ever
occupy. I now mingled in the sports and pastimes of the people, until
indulgence in them became the predominant passion of mv youth. Throwing
the stone, wrestling, leaping, foot-ball, and every other description
of athletic exercise filled up the measure of my early happiness. I
attended every wake, dance, fair, and merry-making in the neighborhood,
and became so celebrated for dancing hornpipes, jigs, and reels, that I
was soon without a rival in the parish.
This kind of life, though very delightful to a boy of my years, was not,
however, quite satisfactory, as it afforded me no ultimate prospect, and
the death of my father had occasioned the circumstances of the family
to decline. I heard, about this time, that a distant relative of mine,
a highly respectable priest, had opened a classical school near
Glasslough, in the county of Monaghan. To him I accordingly went,
mentioned our affinity, and had my claims allowed. I attended his school
with intermission for about two years, at the expiration of which period
I once more returned to our family, who were then very much reduced.
I was now about nineteen, strong, active, and could leap two-and-twenty
feet on a dead level; but though thoroughly acquainted with Irish life
among my own class, I was as ignorant of the world as a child. Ever
since my boyhood, in consequence of the legends which I had heard from
my father, about the far-famed Lough-derg, or St. Patrick's Purgatory, I
felt my imagination fired with a romantic curiosity to perform a station
at that celebrated place. I accordingly did so, and the description of
that most penal performance, some years afterwards, not only constituted
my debut in literature, but was also the means of preventing me from
being a pleasant, strong-bodied parish priest at this day; indeed, it
was the cause of changing the whole destiny of my subsequent life.
“The Loughderg Pilgrim” is given in the present edition, and may be
relied on, not so much as an ordinary narrative, as a perfect transcript
of what takes place during the stations which are held there in the
summer months.
Having returned from this, I knew not exactly how to dispose of myself.
On one thing I was determined--never to enter the Church;--but this
resolution I kept faithfully to myself. I had nothing for it now but to
forget my sacerdotal prospects, which, as I have said, had already been
renounced, or to sink down as many others like me had done, into a mere
tiller of the earth,--a character in Ireland far more unpopular than
that which the Scotch call “a sticket minister!”
It was about this period, that chance first threw the inimitable
Adventures of the renowned Gil Bias across my path. During my whole
life I had been an insatiable reader of such sixpenny romances and
history-books as the hedge-schools afforded. Many a time have I given
up my meals rather than lose one minute from the interest excited by
the story I was perusing. Having read _Gil Bias_, however, I felt an
irrepressible passion for adventure, which nothing could divert; in
fact, I was as much the creature of the impulse it excited, as the ship
is of the helmsman, or the steam-engine of the principle that guides it.
Stimulated by this romantic love of adventure, I left my native place,
and directed my steps to the parish of Killanny, in the county of Louth,
the Catholic clergyman of which was a nephew of our own Parish Priest,
brother to him who proposed going to Munster with me, and an old
school-fellow of my own, though probably twenty years my senior. This
man's residence was within a quarter or half a mile's distance of the
celebrated Wild-goose Lodge, in which, some six months before, a
whole family, consisting of, I believe, eight persons, men, women, and
children, had been, from motives of personal vengeance, consumed to
ashes. I stopped with him for a fortnight, and succeeded in procuring
a tuition in the house of a wealthy farmer named Piers Murphy, near
Corcreagh. This, however, was a tame life, and a hard one, so I resolved
once more to give up a miserable salary and my board, for the fortunate
chances which an ardent temperament and a strong imagination perpetually
suggested to me as likely to be evolved out of the vicissitudes of life.
Urged on, therefore, by a spirit of romance, I resolved to precipitate
myself on the Irish Metropolis, which I accordingly entered with two
shillings and ninepence in my pocket; an utter stranger, of course
friendless; ignorant of the world, without aim or object, but not
without a certain strong feeling of vague and shapeless ambition, for
the truth was I had not yet begun to think, and, consequently, looked
upon life less as a reality than a vision.
Thus have I, as a faithful, but I fear a dull guide, conducted my reader
from the lowly cottage in Prillisk, where I first drew my breath, along
those tangled walks and green lanes which are familiar to the foot of
the peasant alone, until I enter upon the highways of the world, and
strike into one of its greatest and most crowded thoroughfares--the
Metropolis. Whether this brief sketch of my early and humble life, my
education, my sports, my hopes and struggles, be calculated to excite
any particular interest, I know not; I can only assure my reader that
the details, so far as they go, are scrupulously correct and authentic,
and that they never would have been obtruded upon him, were it not from
an anxiety to satisfy him that in undertaking to describe the Irish
peasantry as they are, I approach the difficult task with advantages of
knowing them, which perhaps few Irish writers ever possessed; and this
is the only merit which I claim.
A few words now upon the moral and physical condition of the people may
not be unsuitable before I close, especially for the sake of those who
may wish to acquire a knowledge of their general character, previous to
their perusal of the following volume. This task, it is true, is not
one of such difficulty now as it was some years ago. Much light has
been thrown on the Irish character, not only by the great names I have
already enumerated, but by some equally high which I have omitted. On
this subject it would be impossible to overlook the names of
Lever, Maxwell, or Otway, or to forget the mellow hearth-light and
chimney-corner tone, the happy dialogue and legendary truth which
characterize the exquisite fairy legends of Crofton Croker. Much of the
difficulty of the task, I say, has been removed by these writers,
but there remains enough still behind to justify me in giving a short
dissertation upon the habits and feelings of my countrymen.