Produced by David Widger
THE WORKS
OF
WILLIAM CARLETON.
VOLUME III.
TRAITS AND STORIES OF THE IRISH PEASANTRY
PART III.
[Illustration: Frontispiece]
[Illustration: Titlepage]
CONTENTS
The Hedge School.
The Midnight Mass.
The Donagh; Or, The Horse Stealers.
THE HEDGE SCHOOL.
There never was a more unfounded calumny, than that which would impute
to the Irish peasantry an indifference to education. I may, on the
contrary, fearlessly assert that the lower orders of no country ever
manifested such a positive inclination for literary acquirements,
and that, too, under circumstances strongly calculated to produce
carelessness and apathy on this particular subject. Nay, I do maintain,
that he who is intimately acquainted with the character of our
countrymen, must acknowledge that their zeal for book learning, not only
is strong and ardent, when opportunities of scholastic education occur,
but that it increases in proportion as these opportunities are rare and
unattainable. The very name and nature of Hedge Schools are proof of
this; for what stronger point could be made out, in illustration of my
position, than the fact, that, despite of obstacles, the very idea of
which would crush ordinary enterprise--when not even a shed could be
obtained in which to assemble the children of an Irish village, the
worthy pedagogue selected the first green spot on the sunny side of a
quickset-thorn hedge, which he conceived adapted for his purpose, and
there, under the scorching rays of a summer sun, and in defiance of
spies and statutes, carried on the work of instruction. From this
circumstance the name of Hedge School originated; and, however it may be
associated with the ludicrous, I maintain, that it is highly creditable
to the character of the people, and an encouragement to those who wish
to see them receive pure and correct educational knowledge. A
Hedge School, however, in its original sense, was but a temporary
establishment, being only adopted until such a school-house could be
erected, as it was in those days deemed sufficient to hold such a number
of children, as were expected, at all hazards, to attend it.
The opinion, I know, which has been long entertained of Hedge
Schoolmasters, was, and still is, unfavorable; but the character of
these worthy and eccentric persons has been misunderstood, for the
stigma attached to their want of knowledge should have rather been
applied to their want of morals, because, on this latter point, were
they principally indefensible. The fact is, that Hedge Schoolmasters
were a class of men from whom morality was not expected by the
peasantry; for, strange to say, one of their strongest recommendations
to the good opinion of the People, as far as their literary talents and
qualifications were concerned, was an inordinate love of whiskey, and if
to this could be added a slight touch of derangement, the character was
complete.
On once asking an Irish peasant, why he sent his children to a
schoolmaster who was notoriously addicted to spirituous liquors, rather
than to a man of sober habits who taught in the same neighborhood,
“Why do I send them to Mat Meegan, is it?” he replied--“and do you
think, sir,” said he, “that I'd send them to that dry-headed dunce, Mr.
Frazher, with his black coat upon him, and his Caroline hat, and him
wouldn't take a glass of poteen wanst in seven years? Mat, sir, likes
it, and teaches the boys ten times betther whin he's dhrunk nor when
he's sober; and you'll never find a good tacher, sir, but's fond of
it. As for Mat, when he's half gone, I'd turn him agin the country for
deepness in learning; for it's then he rhymes it out of him, that it
would do one good to hear him.”
“So,” said I, “you think that a love of drinking poteen is a sign of
talent in a school-master?”
“Ay, or in any man else, sir,” he replied. “Look at tradesmen, and 'tis
always the cleverest that you'll find fond of the drink! If you had hard
Mat and Frazher, the other evening, at it--what a hare Mat made of him!
but he was just in proper tune for it, being, at the time, purty well
I thank you, and did not lave him a leg to stand upon. He took him in
Euclid's Ailments and Logicals, and proved in Frazher's teeth that the
candlestick before them was the church-steeple, and Frazher himself the
parson; and so sign was on it, the other couldn't disprove it, but had
to give in.”
“Mat, then,” I observed, “is the most learned man on this walk.”
“Why, thin, I doubt that same, sir,” replied he, “for all he's so great
in the books; for, you see, while they were ding dust at it, who comes
in but mad Delaney, and he attacked Mat, and, in less than no time,
rubbed the consate out of him, as clane as he did out of Frazher.”
“Who is Delaney?” I inquired.
“He was the makings of a priest, sir, and was in Maynooth a couple of
years, but he took in the knowledge so fast, that, bedad, he got cracked
wid larnin'--for a dunce you see, never cracks wid it, in regard of the
thickness of the skull: no doubt but he's too many for Mat, and can go
far beyant him in the books; but then, like Mat, he's still brightest
whin he has a sup in his head.”
These are the prejudices which the Irish peasantry have long entertained
concerning the character of hedge schoolmasters; but, granting them to
be unfounded, as they generally are, yet it is an indisputable fact,
that hedge schoolmasters were as superior in literary knowledge and
acquirements to the class of men who are now engaged in the general
education of the people, as they were beneath them in moral and
religious character. The former part of this assertion will, I am aware,
appear rather startling to many. But it is true; and one great cause why
the character of Society Teachers is undervalued, in many instances, by
the people, proceeds from a conviction on their parts, that they are,
and must be, incapable, from the slender portion of learning they have
received, of giving their children a sound and practical education.
But that we may put this subject in a clearer light, we will give a
sketch of the course of instruction which was deemed necessary for a
hedge schoolmaster, and let it be contrasted with that which falls to
the lot of those engaged in the conducting of schools patronized by the
Education Societies of the present day.
When a poor man, about twenty or thirty years ago, understood from the
schoolmaster who educated his sons, that any of them was particularly
“cute at his larnin',” the ambition of the parent usually directed
itself to one of three objects--he would either make him a priest, a
clerk, or a schoolmaster. The determination once fixed, the boy was set
apart from every kind of labor, that he might be at liberty to bestow
his undivided time and talents to the object set before him. His parents
strained every nerve to furnish him with the necessary books, and always
took care that his appearance and dress should be more decent than those
of any other member of the family. If the church were in prospect, he
was distinguished, after he had been two or three years at his Latin, by
the appellation of “the young priest,” an epithet to him of the
greatest pride and honor; but if destined only to wield the ferula, his
importance in the family, and the narrow circle of his friends, was by
no means so great. If, however, the goal of his future ambition as a
schoolmaster was humbler, that of his literary career was considerably
extended. He usually remained at the next school in the vicinity
until he supposed that he had completely drained the master of all his
knowledge. This circumstance was generally discovered in the following
manner:--As soon as he judged himself a match for his teacher, and
possessed sufficient confidence in his own powers, he penned him a
formal challenge to meet him in literary contest either in his own
school, before competent witnesses, or at the chapel-green, on the
Sabbath day, before the arrival of the priest or probably after it--for
the priest himself was sometimes the moderator and judge upon these
occasions. This challenge was generally couched in rhyme, and either
sent by the hands of a common friend or posted upon the chapel-door.
These contests, as the reader perceives, were always public, and
were witnessed by the peasantry with intense interest. If the master
sustained a defeat, it was not so much attributed to his want of
learning, as to the overwhelming talent of his opponent; nor was
the success of the pupil generally followed by the expulsion of the
master--for this was but the first of a series of challenges which the
former proposed to undertake, ere he eventually settled himself in the
exercise of his profession.
I remember being present at one of them, and a ludicrous exhibition it
was. The parish priest, a red-faced, jocular little man, was president;
and his curate, a scholar of six feet two inches in height, and a
schoolmaster from the next parish, were judges. I will only touch upon
two circumstances in their conduct, which evinced a close, instinctive
knowledge of human nature in the combatants. The master would not
condescend to argue off his throne--a piece of policy to which, in my
opinion, he owed his victory (for he won); whereas the pupil insisted
that he should meet him on equal ground, face to face, in the lower end
of the room. It was evident that the latter could not divest himself
of his boyish terror so long as the other sat, as it were, in the
plentitude of his former authority, contracting his brows with habitual
sternness, thundering out his arguments, with a most menacing and
stentorian voice, while he thumped his desk with his shut fist, or
struck it with his great ruler at the end of each argument, in a manner
that made the youngster put his hands behind him several times, to be
certain that that portion of his dress which is unmentionable was tight
upon him. If in these encounters the young candidate for the honors of
the literary sceptre was not victorious, he again resumed his studies,
under his old preceptor, with renewed vigor and becoming humility; but
if he put the schoolmaster down, his next object was to seek out some
other teacher, whose celebrity was unclouded within his own range. With
him he had a fresh encounter, and its result was similar to what I have
already related.
If victorious, he sought out another and more learned opponent; and
if defeated, he became the pupil of his conqueror--going night about,
during his sojourn at the school, with the neighboring farmers' sons,
whom he assisted in their studies, as a compensation for his support.
He was called during these peregrinations, the Poor Scholar, a character
which secured him the esteem and hospitable attention of the peasantry,
who never fail in respect to any one characterized by a zeal for
learning and knowledge.
In this manner he proceeded, a literary knight errant, filled with a
chivalrous love of letters, which would have done honor to the most
learned peripatetic of them all; enlarging his own powers, and making
fresh acquisitions of knowledge as he went along. His contests, his
defeats, and his triumphs, of course, were frequent; and his habits
of thinking and reasoning must have been considerably improved, his
acquaintance with classical and mathematical authors rendered more
intimate, and his powers of illustration and comparison more clear
and happy. After three or four years spent in this manner, he
usually returned to his native place, sent another challenger to the
schoolmaster, in the capacity of a candidate for his situation, and if
successful, drove him out of the district, and established himself in
his situation. The vanquished master sought a new district, sent a new
challenge, in his turn, to some other teacher, and usually put him to
flight in the same manner. The terms of defeat or victory, according to
their application, were called sacking and bogging. “There was a great
argument entirely, sir,” said a peasant once, when speaking of these
contests, “'twas at the chapel on Sunday week, betiane young Tom Brady,
that was a poor scholar in Munsther, and Mr. Hartigan the schoolmaster.”
“And who was victorious?” I inquired. “Why, sir, and maybe 'twas young
Brady that didn't sack him clane before the priest and all, and went
nigh to bog the priest himself in Greek. His Reverence was only two
words beyant him; but he sacked the masther any how, and showed him in
the Grammatical and Dixonary where he was Wrong.”
“And what is Brady's object in life?” I asked. “What does he intend to
do.”
“Intend to do, is it? I am tould nothing less nor going into Trinity
College in Dublin and expects to bate them all there, out and out:
he's first to make something they call a seizure; (* Sizar) and, afther
making that good he's to be a counsellor. So, sir, you see what it is to
resave good schoolin', and to have the larnin'; but, indeed, it's Brady
that's the great head-piece entirely.”
Unquestionably, many who received instruction in this manner have
distinguished themselves in the Dublin University; and I have no
hesitation in saying, that young men educated in Irish hedge schools, as
they were called, have proved themselves to be better classical scholars
and mathematicians, generally speaking, than any proportionate number
of those educated in our first-rate academies. The Munstor masters have
long been, and still are, particularly celebrated for making excellent
classical and mathematical scholars.
That a great deal of ludicrous pedantry generally accompanied this
knowledge is not at all surprising, when we consider the rank these
worthy teachers held in life, and the stretch of inflation at which
their pride was kept by the profound reverence excited by their learning
among the people. It is equally true, that each of them had a stock
of _crambos_ ready for accidental encounter, which would have puzzled
Euclid or Sir Isaac Newton himself; but even these trained their minds
to habits of acuteness and investigation. When a schoolmaster of this
class had established himself as a good mathematician, the predominant
enjoyment of his heart and life was to write the epithet Philomath after
his name; and this, whatever document he subscribed, was never omitted.
If he witnessed a will, it was Timothy Fagan, Philomath; if he put his
name to a promissory note, it was Tim. Pagan, Philomath; if he addressed
a love-letter to his sweetheart, it was still Timothy Fagan--or whatever
the name might be--Philomath; and this was always written in legible and
distinct copy-hand, sufficiently large to attract the observation of the
reader.
It was also usual for a man who had been a preeminent and extraordinary
scholar, to have the epithet Great prefixed to his name. I remember one
of this description, who was called the Great O'Brien par excellence. In
the latter years of his life he gave up teaching, and led a circulating
life, going round from school to school, and remaining a week or a month
alternately among his brethren. His visits were considered an honor,
and raised considerably the literary character of those with whom he
resided; for he spoke of dunces with the most dignified contempt, and
the general impression was, that he would scorn even to avail himself of
their hospitality. Like most of his brethren, he could not live without
the poteen; and his custom was, to drink a pint of it in its native
purity before he entered into any literary contest, or made any display
of his learning at wakes or other Irish festivities; and most certainly,
however blamable the practice, and injurious to health and morals, it
threw out his talents and his powers in a most surprising manner.
It was highly amusing to observe the peculiarity which the consciousness
of superior knowledge impressed upon the conversation and personal
appearance of this decaying race. Whatever might have been the original
conformation of their physical structure, it was sure, by the force of
acquired habit, to transform itself into a stiff, erect, consequential,
and unbending manner, ludicrously characteristic of an inflated sense of
their extraordinary knowledge, and a proud and commiserating contempt
of the dark ignorance by which, in despite of their own light, they were
surrounded. Their conversation, like their own _crambos_, was dark and
difficult to be understood; their words, truly sesquipedalian; their
voice, loud and commanding in its tones; their deportment, grave and
dictatorial, but completely indescribable, and certainly original to the
last degree, in those instances where the ready, genuine humor of their
country maintained an unyielding rivalry in their disposition, against
the natural solemnity which was considered necessary to keep up the due
dignity of their character.
In many of these persons, where the original gayety of the disposition
was known, all efforts at the grave and dignified were complete
failures, and these were enjoyed by the peasantry and their own pupils,
nearly with the sensations which the enactment of Hamlet by Liston would
necessarily produce. At all events, their education, allowing for
the usual exceptions, was by no means superficial; and the reader has
already received a sketch of the trials which they had to undergo,
before they considered themselves qualified to enter upon the duties of
their calling. Their life was, in fact, a state of literary warfare; and
they felt that a mere elementary knowledge of their business would
have been insufficient to carry them, with suitable credit, through the
attacks to which they were exposed from travelling teachers, whose mode
of establishing themselves in schools, was, as I said, by driving away
the less qualified, and usurping their places. This, according to the
law of opinion and the custom which prevailed, was very easily effected,
for the peasantry uniformly encouraged those whom they supposed to be
the most competent; as to moral or religious instruction, neither was
expected from them, so that the indifference of the moral character was
no bar to their success.
The village of Findramore was situated at the foot of a long green hill,
the outline of which formed a low arch, as it rose to the eye against
the horizon. This hill was studded with clumps of beeches, and sometimes
enclosed as a meadow. In the month of July, when the grass on it was
long, many an hour have I spent in solitary enjoyment, watching the
wavy motion produced upon its pliant surface by the sunny winds, or
the flight of the cloud-shadows, like gigantic phantoms, as they
swept rapidly over it, whilst the murmur of the rocking-trees, and
the glancing of their bright leaves in the sun produced a heartfelt
pleasure, the very memory of which rises in my imagination like some
fading recollection of a brighter world. At the foot of this hill ran a
clear, deep-banked river, bounded on one side by a slip of rich, level
meadow, and on the other by a kind of common for the village geese,
whose white feathers, during the summer season, lay scattered over its
green surface. It was also the play-ground for the boys of the village
school; for there ran that part of the river which, with very correct
judgment, the urchins had selected as their bathing-place. A little
slope, or watering-ground in the bank, brought them to the edge of
the stream, where the bottom fell away into the fearful depths of the
whirlpool, under the hanging oak on the other bank. Well do I remember
the first time I ventured to swim across it, and even yet do I see,
in imagination, the two bunches of water flaggons on which the
inexperienced swimmers trusted themselves in the water.
About two hundred yards from this, the boreen (* A little road) which
led from the village to the main road, crossed the river, by one of
those old narrow bridges whose arches rise like round ditches across
the road--an almost impassable barrier to horse and car. On passing the
bridge in a northern direction, you found a range of low thatched houses
on each side of the road: and if one o'clock, the hour of dinner, drew
near, you might observe columns of blue smoke curling up from a row of
chimneys, some made of wicker creels plastered over with a rich coat of
mud; some, of old, narrow, bottomless tubs; and others, with a greater
appearance of taste, ornamented with thick, circular ropes of straw,
sewed together like bees' skeps, with a peel of a briar; and many having
nothing but the open vent above. But the smoke by no means escaped
by its legitimate aperture, for you might observe little clouds of it
bursting out of the doors and windows; the panes of the latter being
mostly stopped at other times with old hats and rags, were now left
entirely open for the purpose of giving it a free escape.
Before the doors, on right and left, was a series of dunghills, each
with its concomitant sink of green, rotten water; and if it happened
that a stout-looking woman, with watery eyes, and a yellow cap hung
loosely upon her matted locks, came, with a chubby urchin on one arm,
and a pot of dirty water in her hand, its unceremonious ejection in the
aforesaid sink would be apt to send you up the village with your finger
and thumb (for what purpose you would yourself perfectly understand)
closely, but not knowingly, applied to your nostrils. But, independently
of this, you would be apt to have other reasons for giving your horse,
whose heels are by this time surrounded by a dozen of barking curs, and
the same number of shouting urchins, a pretty sharp touch of the spurs,
as well as for complaining bitterly of the odor of the atmosphere. It
is no landscape without figures; and you might notice, if you are, as
I suppose you to be, a man of observation, in every sink as you pass
along, a “slip of a pig,” stretched in the middle of the mud, the very
beau ideal of luxury, giving occasionally a long, luxuriant grunt,
highly-expressive of his enjoyment; or, perhaps, an old farrower, lying
in indolent repose, with half a dozen young ones jostling each other for
their draught, and punching her belly with their little snouts, reckless
of the fumes they are creating; whilst the loud crow of the cock, as he
confidently flaps his wings on his own dunghill, gives the warning note
for the hour of dinner.
As you advance, you will also perceive several faces thrust out of the
doors, and rather than miss a sight of you, a grotesque visage peeping
by a short cut through the paneless windows--or a tattered female flying
to snatch up her urchin that has been tumbling itself, heels up, in the
dust of the road, lest “the gentleman's horse might ride over it;” and
if you happen to look behind, you may observe a shaggy-headed youth in
tattered frieze, with one hand thrust indolently in his breast, standing
at the door in conversation with the inmates, a broad grin of sarcastic
ridicule on his face, in the act of breaking a joke or two upon
yourself, or your horse; or perhaps, your jaw may be saluted with a
lump of clay, just hard enough not to fall asunder as it flies, cast by
some ragged gorsoon from behind a hedge, who squats himself in a ridge
of corn to avoid detection.
Seated upon a hob at the door, you may observe a toil-worn man, without
coat or waistcoat; his red, muscular, sunburnt shoulder peering through
the remnant of a skirt, mending his shoes with a piece of twisted
flax, called a _lingel_, or, perhaps, sewing two footless stockings (or
_martyeens_) to his coat, as a substitute for sleeves.
In the gardens, which are usually fringed with nettles, you will see
a solitary laborer, working with that carelessness and apathy that
characterizes an Irishman when he labors for himself--leaning upon his
spade to look after you, glad of any excuse to be idle. The houses,
however, are not all such as I have described--far from it. You see here
and there, between the more humble cabins, a stout, comfortable-looking
farm-house, with ornamental thatching and well-glazed windows;
adjoining to which is a hay-yard, with five or six large stacks of corn,
well-trimmed and roped, and a fine, yellow, weather-beaten old hay-rick,
half cut--not taking into account twelve or thirteen circular strata of
stones, that mark out the foundations on which others had been raised.
Neither is the rich smell of oaten or wheaten bread, which the good wife
is baking on the griddle, unpleasant to your nostrils; nor would the
bubbling of a large pot, in which you might see, should you chance to
enter, a prodigious square of fat, yellow, and almost transparent bacon
tumbling about, to be an unpleasant object; truly, as it hangs over a
large fire, with well-swept hearthstone, it is in good keeping with the
white settle and chairs, and the dresser with noggins, wooden trenchers,
and pewter dishes, perfectly clean, and as well polished as a French
courtier.
As you leave the village, you have, to the left, a view of the hill
which I have already described, and to the right a level expanse of
fertile country, bounded by a good view of respectable mountains,
peering decently into the sky; and in a line that forms an acute angle
from the point of the road where you ride, is a delightful valley, in
the bottom of which shines a pretty lake; and a little beyond, on the
slope of a green hill, rises a splendid house, surrounded by a park,
well wooded and stocked with deer. You have now topped the little hill
above the village, and a straight line of level road, a mile long, goes
forward to a country town, which lies immediately behind that white
church, with its spire cutting into the sky, before you. You descend on
the other side, and, having advanced a few perches, look to the left,
where you see a long, thatched chapel, only distinguished from a
dwelling-house by its want of chimneys and a small stone cross that
stands on the top of the eastern gable; behind it is a graveyard; and
beside it a snug public-house, well whitewashed; then, to the right,
you observe a door apparently in the side of a clay bank, which rises
considerably above the pavement of the road. What! you ask yourself,
can this be a human habitation?--but ere you have time to answer the
question, a confused buzz of voices from within reaches your ear, and
the appearance of a little “gorsoon,” with a red, close-cropped head
and Milesian face, having in his hand a short, white stick, or the
thigh-bone of a horse, which you at once recognize as “the pass” of
a village school, gives you the full information. He has an ink horn,
covered with leather, dangling at the button-hole (for he has long
since played away the buttons) of his frieze jacket--his mouth is
circumscribed with a streak of ink--his pen is stuck knowingly behind
his ear--his shins are dotted over with fire-blisters, black, red, and
blue--on each heel a kibe--his “leather crackers,” videlicet--breeches
shrunk up upon him, and only reaching as far down as the caps of his
knees. Having spied you, he places his hand over his brows, to throw
back the dazzling light of the sun, and peers at you from under it, till
he breaks out into a laugh, exclaiming, half to himself, half to you:--
“You a gintleman!--no, nor one of your breed never was, you procthorin'
thief, you!”
You are now immediately opposite the door of the seminary, when half a
dozen of those seated next it notice you.
“Oh, sir, here's a gintleman on a horse!--masther, sir, here's
a-gintleman on a horse, wid boots and spurs on him, that's looking in at
us.”
“Silence!” exclaims the master; “back from the door; boys, rehearse;
every one of you, rehearse, I say, you Boeotians, till the gintleman
goes past!”
“I want to go out, if you plase, sir.”
“No, you don't, Phelim.”
“I do, indeed, sir.”
“What!--is it after conthradictin' me you'd be? Don't you see the
'porter's' out, and you can't go.”
“Well, 'tis Mat Meehan has it, sir: and he's out this half-hour, sir; I
can't stay in, sir--iplrfff--iphfff!”
“You want to be idling your time looking at the gintleman, Phelim.”
“No, indeed, sir--iphfff!”
“Phelim, I know you of ould--go to your sate. I tell you, Phelim, you
were born for the encouragement of the hemp manufacture, and you'll die
promoting it.”
In the meantime, the master puts his head out of the door, his body
stooped to a “half bend”--a phrase, and the exact curve which it forms,
I leave for the present to your own sagacity--and surveys you until you
pass. That is an Irish hedge school, and the personage who follows you
with his eye, a hedge schoolmaster. His name is Matthew Kavanagh; and,
as you seem to consider his literary establishment rather a curiosity in
its kind, I will, if you be disposed to hear it, give you the history of
him and his establishment, beginning, in the first place, with
THE ABDUCTION OF MAT KAVANAGH,
THE HEDGE SCHOOLMASTER.
For about three years before the period of which I write, the village
of Findramore, and the parish in which it lay, were without a teacher.
Mat's predecessor was a James Garraghty, a lame young man, the son of
a widow, whose husband lost his life in attempting to extinguish a fire
that broke out in the dwelling-house of Squire Johnston, a neighboring
magistrate. The son was a boy at the time of this disaster, and the
Squire, as some compensation for the loss of his father's life in his
service, had him educated at his own expense; that is to say, he gave
the master who taught in the village orders to educate him gratuitously,
on the condition of being horsewhipped out of the parish, if he refused.
As soon as he considered himself qualified to teach, he opened a school
in the village on his own account, where he taught until his death,
which happened in less than a year after the commencement of his little
seminary. The children usually assembled in his mother's cabin; but
as she did not long survive the son, this, which was at best a very
miserable residence, soon tottered to the ground. The roof and thatch
were burnt for firing, the mud gables fell in, and were overgrown with
grass, nettles, and docks; and nothing remained but a foot or two of
the little clay side-walls, which presented, when associated with the
calamitous fate of their inoffensive inmates, rather a touching image of
ruin upon a small scale.
Garraghty had been attentive to his little pupils, and his instructions
were sufficient to give them a relish for education--a circumstance
which did not escape the observation of their parents, who duly
appreciated it. His death, however, deprived them of this advantage; and
as schoolmasters, under the old system, were always at a premium, it
so happened, that for three years afterwards, not one of that class
presented himself to their acceptance. Many a trial had been made, and
many a sly offer held out, as a lure to the neighboring teachers, but
they did not take; for although the country was densely inhabited, yet
it was remarked that no schoolmaster ever “thruv” in the neighborhood of
Findramore. The place, in fact, had got a bad name. Garraghty died, it
was thought, of poverty, a disease to which the Findramore schoolmasters
had been always known to be subject. His predecessor, too, was hanged,
along with two others, for burning the house of an “Aagint.”
Then the Findramore boys were not easily dealt with, having an ugly
habit of involving their unlucky teachers in those quarrels which they
kept up with the Ballyscanlan boys, a fighting clan that lived at the
foot of the mountains above them. These two factions, when they met,
whether at fair or market, wake or wedding, could never part without
carrying home on each side a dozen or two of bloody coxcombs. For these
reasons, the parish of Aughindrum had for a few years been afflicted
with an extraordinary dearth of knowledge; the only literary
establishment which flourished in it being a parochial institution,
which, however excellent in design, yet, like too many establishments of
the same nature, it degenerated into a source of knowledge, morals, and
education, exceedingly dry and unproductive to every person except the
master, who was enabled by his honest industry to make a provision for
his family absolutely surprising, when we consider the moderate nature
of his ostensible income. It was, in fact, like a well dried up, to
which scarcely any one ever thinks of going for water.
Such a state of things, however, could not last long. The youth of
Findramore were parched for want of the dew of knowledge; and their
parents and grown brethren met one Saturday evening in Barny Brady's
shebeen-house, to take into consideration the best means for procuring
a resident schoolmaster for the village and neighborhood. It was a
difficult point, and required great dexterity of management to enable
them to devise any effectual remedy for the evil which they felt. There
were present at this council, Tim Dolan, the senior of the village, and
his three sons, Jem Coogan, Brian Murphy, Paddy Delany, Owen Roe O'Neil,
Jack Traynor, and Andy Connell, with five or six others, whom it is not
necessary to enumerate.
“Bring us in a quart, Barny,” said Dolan to Brady, whom on this occasion
we must designate as the host; “and let it be rale hathen.”
“What do you mane, Tim?” replied the host.
“I mane,” continued Dolan, “stuff that was never christened, man alive.”
“Thin I'll bring you the same that Father Maguire got last night on his
way home afther anointin' 'ould Katty Duffy,” replied Brady. “I'm sure,
whatever I might be afther giving to strangers, Tim, I'd be long sorry
to give _yous_ anything but the right sort.”
“That's a gay man, Barny,” said Traynor, “but off wid you like a shot,
and let us get it under our tooth first, an' then we'll tell you more
about it--A big rogue is the same Barny,” he added, after Brady had gone
to bring in the poteen, “an' never sells a dhrop that's not one whiskey
and five wathers.”
“But he couldn't expose it on you; Jack,” observed Connell; “you're too
ould a hand about the pot for that. Warn't you in the mountains last
week?”
“Ay: but the curse of Cromwell upon the thief of a gauger,
Simpson--himself and a pack o' redcoats surrounded us when we war
beginnin' to double, and the purtiest runnin' that ever you seen was
lost; for you see, before you could cross yourself, we had the bottoms
knocked clane out of the vessels; so that the villains didn't get a hole
in our coats, as they thought they would.”
“I tell you,” observed O'Neil, “there's a bad pill* somewhere about us.”
* This means a treacherous person who cannot depended
upon.
“Ay, is there, Owen,” replied Traynor; “and what is more, I don't think
he's a hundhre miles from the place where we're sittin' in.”
“Faith, maybe so Jack,” returned the other.
“I'd never give into that,” said Murphy. “'Tis Barny Brady that would
never turn informer--the same thing isn't in him, nor in any of his
breed; there's not a man in the parish I'd thrust sooner.”
“I'd jist thrust him,” replied Traynor, “as far as I could throw a cow
by the tail. Arrah, what's the rason that the gauger never looks next
or near his place, an' it's well known that he sells poteen widout a
license, though he goes past his door wanst a week?”
“What the h---- is keepin' him at all?” inquired one of Dolan's sons.
“Look at him,” said Traynor, “comin' in out of the garden; how much
afeard he is! keepin' the whiskey in a phatie ridge--an' I'd kiss the
book that he brought that bottle out in his pocket, instead of diggin'
it up out o' the garden.”
Whatever Brady's usual habits of _christening_ his poteen might have
been, that which he now placed before them was good. He laid the bottle
on a little deal table with cross legs, and along with it a small
drinking glass fixed in a bit of flat circular wood, as a substitute for
the original bottom, which had been broken. They now entered upon the
point, in question, without further delay.
“Come, Tim,” said Coogan, “you're the ouldest man, and must spake
first.”
“Troth, man,” replied Dolan, “beggin' your pardon, I'll dhrink
first--healths apiece, your sowl; success boys--glory to ourselves, and
confusion to the Scanlon boys, any way.”
“And maybe,” observed Connell, “'tis we that didn't lick them well in
the last fair--they're not able to meet the Findramore birds even on
their own walk.”
“Well, boys,” said Delany, “about the masther? Our childre will grow
up like bullockeens (* little bullocks) widout knowing a ha'porth; and
larning, you see, is a burdyen that's asy carried.”
“Ay,” observed O'Neil, “as Solvester Maguire, the poet, used to say--
'Labor for larnin, before you grow ould,
For larnin' is better nor riches nor gould;
Riches an' gould they may vanquish away,
But larnin' alone it will never decay.'”
“Success, Owen! Why, you might put down the pot and warm an air to it,”
said Murphy.
“Well, boys, are we all safe?” asked Traynor.
“Safe?” said old Dolan. “Arrah, what are you talkin' about? Sure 'tisn't
of that same spalpeen of a gauger that we'd be afraid!”
During this observation, young Dolan pressed Traynor's foot under the
table, and they both went out for about five minutes.
“Father,” said the son, when he and Traynor re-entered the room, “you're
a wanting home.”
“Who wants me, Larry, avick?” says the father.
The son immediately whispered to him for a moment, when the old man
instantly rose, got his hat, and after drinking another bumper of the
poteen, departed.
“Twas hardly worth while,” said Delany; “the ould fellow is mettle to
the back-bone, an' would never show the garran-bane at any rate, even if
he knew all about it.”
“Bad end to the syllable I'd let the same ould cock hear,” said the
son; “the divil thrust any man that didn't switch the primer (* take and
oath) for it, though he is my father; but now, boys, that the coast's
clear, and all safe--where will we get a schoolmaster? Mat Kavanagh
won't budge from the Scanlon boys, even if we war to put our hands
undher his feet; and small blame to him--sure, you would not expect him
to go against his own friends?”
“Faith, the gorsoons is in a bad state,” said Murphy; “but, boys where
will we get a man that's up? Why I know 'tis betther to have anybody nor
be without one; but we might kill two birds wid one stone--if we could
get a masther that would carry 'Articles,' * an' swear in the boys, from
time to time--an' between ourselves, if there's any danger of the hemp,
we may as well lay it upon strange shoulders.”
* A copy of the Whiteboy oath and regulations.
“Ay, but since Corrigan swung for the Aagint,” replied Delaney, “they're
a little modest in havin' act or part wid us; but the best plan is to
get an advartisement wrote out, an' have it posted on the chapel door.”
This hint was debated with much earnestness; but as they were really
anxious to have a master--in the first place, for the simple purpose of
educating their children; and in the next, for filling the situation of
director and regulator of their illegal Ribbon meetings--they determined
on penning an advertisement, according to the suggestion of Delaney.
After drinking another bottle, and amusing themselves with some further
chat, one of the Dolans undertook to draw up the advertisement, which
ran as follows:--
“ADVARTAAISEMENT.”
“_Notes to Schoolmasthers, and to all others whom it may consarn_.
“WANTED,
“For the nabourhood and the vircinity of the Townland of Findramore, in
the Parish of Aughindrum, in the Barony of Lisnamoghry, County of Sligo,
Province of Connaught, Ireland.
“TO SCHOOLMASTERS.'
“Take Notes--That any Schoolmaster who understands Spellin'
gramatically--Readin' and Writin', in the raal way, accordin' to the
Dixonary--Arithmatick, that is to say, the five common rules, namely,
addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division--and addition,
subtraction, multiplication, and division, of Dives's denominations.
Also reduction up and down--cross multiplication of coin--the Rule
of Three Direck--the Rule of Three in verse--the double Rule of
Three--Frackshins taught according to the vulgar and decimatin' method;
and must be well practised to tache the Findramore boys how to manage
the Scuffle.*
* The Scuffle was an exercise in fractions, illustrated
by a quarrel between the first four letters of the
alphabet, who went to loggerheads about a sugar-plum.
A, for instance, seized upon three-fourths of it; but B
snapped two-thirds of what he had got, and put it into
his hat; C then knocked off his hat, and as worthy Mr.
Gough says, “to Work they went.” After kicking and
cuffing each other in prime style, each now losing and
again gaining alternately, the question is wound up by
requiring the pupil to ascertain what quantity of the
sugar-plum each had at the close.
“N.B. He must be will grounded in _that_. Practis, Discount, and
_Rebatin'_. N.B. Must be well grounded in that also.
“Tret and Tare--Fellowship--Allegation--Barther--Rates per
Scent--Intherest--Exchange--Prophet in Loss--the Square root--the Kibe
Root--Hippothenuse--'Arithmatical and Jommetrical Purgation--Compound
Intherest--Loggerheadism--Questions for exercise, and the Conendix to
Algibbra. He must also know Jommithry accordin' to Grunther's
scale--the Castigation of the Klipsticks--Surveying, and the use of the
Jacob-staff.
“N.B. Would get a good dale of Surveyin' to do in the vircinity of
Findramore, particularly in _Con-acre_ time. If he know the use of the
globe, it would be an accusation. He must also understand the Three
Sets of Book-keeping, by single and double entry, particularly Loftus
& Company of Paris, their Account of Cash and Company. And above all
things, he must know how to tache the _Sarvin' of Mass_ in Latin, and be
able to read Doctor Gallaher's Irish Sarmints, and explain Kolumkill's
and Pasterini's Prophecies.
“N.B. If he understands _Cudgel-fencin'_, it would be an accusation
also--but mustn't tache us wid a staff that bends in the middle, bekase
it breaks one's head across the guard. Any schoolmaster capacious and
collified to instruct in the above-mintioned branches, would get a good
school in the townland Findramore and its vircinity, be well fed, an'
get the hoith o' good livin' among the farmers, an' would be ped--
“For Book-keepin', the three sets, _a ginny and half_.'
“For Gommethry, &c, _half a qinny a quarther_.
“Arithmatic, _aight and three-hapuns_.
“Readin”, Writin', &c, _six Hogs_.
“Given under our hands, this 37th day of June, 18004.
“Larry Dolan.
“Dick Dolan, his (X) mark.
“Jem Coogan, his (X) mark.
“Brine Murphey.
“Paddy Delany, his (X) mark.
“Jack Traynor.
“Andy Connell.
“Owen Roe O'Neil, his (X) mark.”
“N.B. _By making airly application to any of the undher-mintioned, he
will hear of further particklers_; and if they find that he will shoot
them, he may expect the best o' thratement, an' be well fed among the
farmers.*
“N.B. Would get also a good _Night-school_ among the vircinity.”
* Nothing can more decidedly prove the singular and
extraordinary thirst for education and general
knowledge which characterizes the Irish people, than
the shifts to which they have often gone in order to
gain even a limited portion of instruction. Of this the
Irish Night School is a complete illustration. The
Night School was always opened either for those of
early age, who from their poverty were forced to earn
something for their own support during the day; or to
assist their parents; or for grown young men who had
never had an opportunity of acquiring education in
their youth, but who now devoted a couple of hours
during a winter's night, when they could do nothing
else, to the acquisition of reading and writing, and
sometimes of accounts. I know not how it was, but the
Night School boys, although often thrown into the way
of temptation, always conducted themselves with
singular propriety. Indeed, the fact is, after all,
pretty easily accounted for--inasmuch as none but the
steadiest, _most_ sensible, and best conducted young
men ever attended it.
Having penned the above advertisement, it was carefully posted early the
next morning on the chapel-doors, with an expectation on the part of the
patrons that it would not be wholly fruitless. The next week, however,
passed without an application--the second also--and the third produced
the same result; nor was there the slightest prospect of a school-master
being blown by any wind to the lovers of learning at Findramore. In the
meantime, the Ballyscanlan boys took care to keep up the ill-natured
prejudice which had been circulated concerning the fatality that
uniformly attended such schoolmasters as settled there; and when this
came to the ears of the Findramore folk, it was once more resolved that
the advertisement should be again put up, with a clause containing an
explanation on that point. The clause ran as follows:
“N.B.--The two last masthers that was hanged out of Findramore, that
is, Mickey Corrigan, who was hanged for killing the Aagent, and Jem
Garraghty, that died of a declension--Jem died in consequence of
ill-health, and Mickey was hanged contrary to his own wishes; so that it
wasn't either of their faults--as witness our hands this 207th of July.
“Dick Dolan, his (X) mark.”
This explanation, however, was as fruitless as the original
advertisement; and week after week passed over without an offer from
a single candidate. The “vicinity” of Findramore and its “naborhood”
seemed devoted to ignorance; and nothing remained, except another effort
at procuring a master by some more ingenious contrivance.
Debate after debate was consequently held in Barney Brady's; and, until
a fresh suggestion was made by Delany, the prospect seemed as bad as
ever. Delany, at length fell upon a new plan; and it must be confessed,
that it was marked in a peculiar manner by a spirit of great originality
and enterprise, it being nothing less than a proposal to carry off,
by force or stratagem, Mat Kavanagh, who was at that time fixed in the
throne of literature among the Ballyscanlan boys, quite unconscious of
the honorable translation to the neighborhood of Findramore which was
intended for him. The project, when broached, was certainly a startling
one, and drove most of them to a pause, before they were sufficiently
collected to give an opinion on its merits.
“Nothin', boys, is asier,” said Delaney. “There's to be a patthern
in Ballymagowan, on next Sathurday--an' that's jist half way betune
ourselves and the Scanlan boys. Let us musther, an' go there, any how.
We can keep an eye on Mat widout much trouble, an' when opportunity
sarves, nick him at wanst, an' off wid him clane.”
“But,” said Traynor, “what would we do wid him when he'd be here?
Wouldn't he cut an' run the first opportunity.
“How can he, ye omadhawn, if we put a manwill* in our pocket, an' sware
him? But we'll butther him up when he's among us; or, be me sowks, if it
goes that, force him either to settle wid ourselves, or to make himself
scarce in the country entirely.”
* Manual, a Roman Catholic prayer-book, generally
pronounced as above.
“Divil a much force it'll take to keep him, I'm thinkin',” observed
Murphy. “He'll have three times a betther school here; and if he wanst
settled, I'll engage he would take to it kindly.”
“See here, boys,” says Dick Dolan, in a whisper, “if that bloody
villain, Brady, isn't afther standin' this quarter of an hour, strivin'
to hear what we're about; but it's well we didn't bring up anything
consarnin' the other business; didn't I tell yees the desate was in 'im?
Look at his shadow on the wall forninst us.”
“Hould yer tongues, boys,” said Traynor; “jist keep never mindin', and,
be me sowks, I'll make him sup sorrow for that thrick.”
“You had betther neither make nor meddle wid him,” observed Delany,
“jist put him out o' that--but don't rise yer hand to him, or he'll
sarve you as he did Jem Flannagan: put ye three or four months in the
_Stone Jug_” (* Gaol).
Traynor, however, had gone out while he was speaking, and in a
few minutes dragged in Brady, whom he caught in the very act of
eaves-dropping.
“Jist come in, Brady,” said Traynor, as he dragged him along; “walk in,
man alive; sure, and sich an honest man as you are needn't be afeard of
lookin' his friends in the face! Ho!--an' be me sowl, is it a spy we've
got; and, I suppose, would be an informer' too, if he had heard anything
to tell!”
“What's the manin' of this, boys?” exclaimed the others, feigning
ignorance. “Let the honest man go, Traynor. What do ye hawl him that way
for, ye gallis pet'?”