of considerable Talents, Liberality, and worth;--who, with perfect
cheerfulness, have evinced a most laudable disposition to foster,
encourage, and reward, a specimen of Irish Manufacture and Native
Talent, in so humble a person as their extremely grateful, much obliged,
and faithful servant,
“JOHN O'KELLY.”
THE MIDNIGHT MASS.
Frank M'Kenna was a snug farmer, frugal and industrious in his habits,
and, what is rare amongst most men of his class, addicted to neither
drink nor quarrelling. He lived at the skirt of a mountain, which ran up
in long successive undulations, until it ended in a dark, abrupt peak,
very perpendicular on one side, and always, except on a bright day,
capped with clouds. Before his door lay a hard plain, covered only with
a kind of bent, and studded with round gray rocks, protruding somewhat
above its surface. Through this plain, over a craggy channel, ran a
mountain torrent, that issued to the right of M'Kenna's house, from a
rocky and precipitous valley which twisted itself round the base of
the mountain until it reached the perpendicular side, where the peak
actually overhung it. On looking either from the bottom of the valley or
the top of the peak, the depth appeared immense; and, on a summer's day,
when the black thorns and other hardy shrubs that in some placas clothed
its rocky sides were green, to view the river sparkling below you in the
sun, as it flung itself over two or three cataracts of great depth and
boldness, filled the mind with those undefinable sensations of pleasure
inseparable from a contemplation of the sublimities of nature. Nor did
it possess less interest when beheld in the winter storm. Well do we
remember, though then ignorant of our own motives, when we have, in the
turmoil of the elements, climbed its steep, shaggy sides, disappearing
like a speck, or something not of earth, among the dark clouds that
rolled over its summit, for no other purpose than to stand upon its
brow, and look down on the red torrent, dashing with impetuosity from
crag to crag, whilst the winds roared, and the clouds flew in dark
columns around us, giving to the natural wildness of the place an air
of wilder desolation.--Beyond this glen the mountains stretched away for
eight or ten miles in swelling masses, between which lay many extensive
sweeps, well sheltered and abundantly stocked with game, particularly
with hares and grouse. M'Kenna's house stood, as I said, at the foot
of this mountain, just where the yellow surface of the plain began to
darken into the deeper hues of the heath; to the left lay a considerable
tract of stony land in a state of cultivation; and beyond the river,
exactly opposite the house, rose a long line of hills, studded with
houses, and in summer diversified with pasture and corn fields, the
beauty of which was heightened by the columns of smoke that slanted
across the hills, as the breeze carried them through the lucid haze of
the atmosphere.
M'Kenna's family consisted of himself, his wife, two daughters, and
two sons. One of these was a young man addicted to drink, idle,
ill-tempered, and disobedient; seldom taking a part in the labors of
the family, but altogether devoted to field sports, fairs, markets,
and dances. In many parts of Ireland it is usual to play at cards for
mutton, loaves, fowls, or whiskey, and he was seldom absent from such
gambling parties, if held within a reasonable distance. Often had
the other members of the family remonstrated with him on his idle and
immoral courses; but their remonstrances only excited his bad passions,
and produced, on his part, angry and exasperating language, or open
determination to abandon the family altogether and enlist. For some
years he went on in this way, a hardened, ungodly profligate, spurning
the voice of reproof and of conscience, and insensible to the entreaties
of domestic affection, or the commands of parental authority. Such was
his state of mind and mode of life when our story opens.
At the time in which the incidents contained in this sketch took place,
the peasantry of Ireland, being less encumbered with heavy rents, and
more buoyant in spirits than the decay of national prosperity has of
late permitted them to be, indulged more frequently, and to a greater
stretch, in those rural sports and festivities so suitable to their
natural love of humor and amusement. Dances, wakes, and weddings, were
then held according to the most extravagant forms of ancient usage; the
people were easier in their circumstances, and consequently indulged in
them with lighter hearts, and a stronger relish for enjoyment. When any
of the great festivals of their religion approached, the popular mind,
unrepressed by poverty and national dissension, gradually elevated
itself to a species of wild and reckless mirth, productive of incidents
irresistibly ludicrous, and remarkably characteristic of Irish manners.
It is not, however, to be expected, that a people whose love of fighting
is so innate a principle in their disposition, should celebrate these
festive seasons without an occasional crime, which threw its deep shadow
over the mirthful character of their customs. Many such occurred; but
they were looked upon then with a degree of horror and detestation of
which we can form but a very inadequate idea at present.
It was upon the advent of one of those festivals--Christmas--which the
family of M'Kenna, like every other family in the neighborhood, were
making preparations to celebrate with the usual hilarity. They cleared
out their barn in order to have a dance on Christmas-eve; and for this
purpose, the two sons and the servant-man wrought with that kind of
industry produced by the cheerful prospect of some happy event. For a
week or fortnight before the evening on which the dance was appointed
to be held, due notice of it had been given to the neighbors, and, of
course, there was no doubt but that it would be numerously attended.
Christmas-eve, as the day preceding Christmas is called, has been always
a day of great preparation and bustle. Indeed the whole week previous to
it is also remarkable, as exhibiting the importance attached by the
people to those occasions on which they can give a loose to their love
of fun and frolic. The farm-house undergoes a thorough cleansing.
Father and sons are, or rather used to be, all engaged in repairing
the out-houses, patching them with thatch where it was wanted, mending
mangers, paving stable-floors, fixing cow-stakes, making boraghs,*
removing nuisances, and cleaning streets.
* The rope with which a cow is tied in the cowhouse.
On the ether hand, the mother, daughters and maids, were also engaged in
their several departments; the latter scouring the furniture with sand:
the mother making culinary preparations, baking bread, killing fowls,
or salting meat; whilst the daughters were unusually intent upon the
decoration of their own dress, and the making up of the family linen.
All, however, was performed with an air of gayety and pleasure; the ivy
and holly were disposed about the dressers and collar beams with great
glee; the chimneys were swept amidst songs and laughter; many bad
voices, and some good ones, were put in requisition; whilst several who
had never been known to chaunt a stave, alarmed the listeners by the
grotesque and incomprehensible nature of their melody. Those who were
inclined to devotion--and there is no lack of it in Ireland--took to
carols and hymns, which they sang, for want of better airs, to tunes
highly comic. We have ourselves often heard the Doxology sung in Irish
verse to the facetious air of “Paudeen O'Rafferty,” and other hymns to
the tune of “Peas upon a Trencher,” and “Cruskeen Lawn.” Sometimes,
on the contrary, many of them, from the very fulness of jollity,
would become pathetic, and indulge in those touching old airs of their
country, which maybe truly,called songs of sorrow, from the exquisite
and simple pathos with which they abound. This, though it may seem
anomalous, is but natural; for there is nothing so apt to recall to
the heart those friends, whether absent or dead, with whom it has been
connected, as a stated festival. Affection is then awakened, and summons
to the hearth where it presides those on whose face it loves to look;
if they be living, it places them in the circle of happiness which
surrounds it; and if they be removed forever from such scenes, their
memory, which, amidst the din of ordinary life, has almost passed away,
is now restored, and their loss felt as if it had been only just then
sustained. For this reason, at such times, it is not at all unusual to
see the elders of Irish families touched by pathos as well as humor. The
Irish are a people whose affections are as strong as their imaginations
are vivid; and, in illustration of this, we may add, that many a time
have we seen them raised to mirth and melted into tears almost at the
same time, by a song of the most comic character. The mirth, however,
was for the song, and the sorrow for the memory of some beloved relation
who had been remarkable for singing it, or with whom it had been a
favorite.
We do not affirm that in the family of the M'Kennas there were, upon the
occasion which we were describing, any tears shed. The enjoyments of the
season and the humors of the expected dance, both combined to give them
a more than usual degree of mirth and frolic At an early hour all that
was necessary for the due celebration of that night and the succeeding
day, had been arranged and completed. The whiskey had been laid in,
the Christmas candles bought, the barn cleared out, the seats laid; in
short, every thing in its place, and a place for everything. About one
o'clock, however, the young members of the family began to betray some
symptoms of uneasiness; nor was M'Kenna himself, though the _farithee_
or man of the house, altogether so exempt from what they felt, as might,
if the cause of it were known to our readers, be expected from a man of
his years and experience.
From time to time one of the girls tripped out as far as the stile
before the door, where she stood looking in a particular direction until
her sight was fatigued.
“Och,' och,” her mother exclaimed during her absence, “but that
colleen's sick about Barny!--musha, but it would be the beautiful joke,
all out, if he'd disappoint the whole of yez. Faix, it wouldn't be
unlike the same man, to go wherever he can make most money; and sure
small blame to him for that; what's one place to him more than another?”
“Hut,” M'Kenna replied, rising, however, to go out himself, “the
girsha's makin' a _bauliore_ (* laughing stock) of herself.”
“An' where's yourself slippin' out to?” rejoined his wife, with a wink
of shrewd humor at the rest. “I say, Frank, are you goin' to look for
him too? Mavrone, but that's sinsible! Why, thin, you snakin' ould
rogue, is that the way wid you? Throth I have often hard it said, that
'one fool makes many;' but sure enough, 'an ould fools worse nor any.'
Come in here this minute, I say--walk back--you to have your horn up!
Faix, indeed!”
“Why! I am only goin' to get the small phaties boiled for the pigs, poor
crathurs, for their Christmas dinner. Sure we oughtn't to neglect thim
no more than ourselves, the crathurs, that can't spake their wants,
except by grantin'.”
“Saints above!--the Lord forgive me for bringin' down their names upon
a Christmas Eve, but it's beside himself the man is! an' him knows
that the phaties wor boiled an' made up into balls for them airly this
mornin'!”
In the meantime, the wife's good-natured attack upon her husband
produced considerable mirth in the family. In consequence of what she
said, he hesitated: but ultimately was proceeding towards the door,
when the daughter returned, her brow flushed, and her eye sparkling with
mirth and delight.
“Ha!” said the father, with a complacent smile, “all's right, Peggy, you
seen him, alanna. The music's in your eye, acushla; an' the' feet of you
can't keep themselves off o' the ground; an' all bekase you seen Barny
Dhal (* blind Barney) pokin' acrass the fields, wid his head up, an'
his skirt stickn' out behind him wid Granua Waile.” (* The name of his
fiddle)
The father had conjectured properly, for the joy which animated the
girl's countenance could not be misunderstood.
“Barny's comin',” she exclaimed, clapping her hands with great glee,
“an' our Frank wid him; they're at the river, and Frank has him on his
back, and Granua Waile undhor his arm! Come out, come out! You'll die
for good, lookin' at them staggerin' acrass. I knew he'd come! I knew
it! and be good to thim that invinted Christmas; it's a brave time,
faix!”
In a moment the inmates were grouped before the door, all anxious to
catch a glimpse of Barny and Granua Waile.
“Faix ay! Sure enough.. Sarra doubt if it! Wethen, I'd never mistrust
Barny!” might be heard in distinct exclamations from each.
“Faith he's a Trojan,” said the _farithee_, an' must get lashins of
the best we have. Come in, childher, an' red the hob for him.
“'Och, Christmas comes but wanst a year,
An' Christmas comes but wanst a year;
An' the divil a mouth
Shall be friends wid drouth,
While I have whiskey, ale, or beer.
Och, Christmas comes but wanst a year,
An' Christmas comes but waust a year;
Wid han' in han',
An' can to can,
Then Hi for the whiskey, ale, and beer.
Och, Christmas comes but wanst a year,
An' Christmas comes but wanst a year;
Then the high and the low
Shall shake their toe,
When primed wid whiskey, ale, an' beer.'
For all that, the sorra fig I care for either ale or beer, barrin' in
regard of mere drouth; give me the whiskey, Eh, Alley--won't we have a
jorum any how?”
“Why, thin,” replied the wife, “the devil be from me (the crass about
us for namin' him) but you're a greater _Brinoge_ than some of your
childher! I suppose its your capers Frank has in him. Will you behave
yourself, you old slingpoke? Behave, I say, an let me go. Childher,
will you help me to flake this man out o' the place? Look at him,
here, caperin' an' crackin' his fingers afore me, an' pullin' me out to
dance!”
“Och, och, murdher alive,” exclaimed the good man out of breath, “I seen
the day, any way! An', maybe, could show a step or two yet, if I was
well fixed. You can't forget ould times, Alley? Eh, you thief?”
“Musha, have sinse, man alive,” replied the wife, in a tone of placid
gravity, which only betrayed the pleasure she herself felt in his
happiness. “Have sinse, an' the strange man comin' in, an' don't let him
see you in such figaries.”
The observation of the good woman produced a loud laugh among them.
“Arrah what are yez laughing at?” she inquired.
“Why, mother,” said one of her daughters “how could Barny _Dhal_, a
blind man, see anybody?”
Alley herself laughed at her blunder, but wittily replied, “Faith,
avourneen, maybe he can often see as nately through his ear as you could
do wid your eyes open; sure they say he can hear the grass growin'.”
“For that matther,” observed the farithee, joining in the joke, “he can
see as far as any of us--while we're asleep.”
The conversation was thus proceeding, when Barney _Dhal_ and young Frank
M'Kenna entered the kitchen.
In a moment all hands were extended to welcome Barney: “_Millia failte
ghud_, Barny!” “_Cead millia failte ghud_, Barny!” “Oh, Barny, did you
come at last? You're welcome.” “Barny, my Trojan, how is every cart-load
of you?” “How is Granua Waile, Barny?”
“Why, thin, holy music, did you never see Barny _Dhal_ afore? Clear off
from about me, or, by the sweets of rosin, I'll play the devil an' brake
things. 'You're welcome, Barny!'--an' 'How are you, Barny?' Why thin,
piper o' Moses, don't I know I'm welcome, an' yit you must be tellin' me
what everybody knows! But sure I have great news for you all!”
“What is that, Barny?”
“Well, but can yez keep a sacret? Can yez, girls?”
“Faix can we, Barny, achora.”
“Well, so can I--ha, ha, ha! Now, are,yez sarved? Come, let me to the
hob.”
“Here, Barny; I'll lead you, Barny.”
“No, I _have_ him; come, Barny, I'll lead you: here, achora, this is the
spot--that's it. Why, Barny,” said the arch girl, as she placed him in
the corner, “sorra one o' the hob but knows you: it never stirs--ha, ha,
ha!”
“Throth, a colleen, that tongue o' yours will delude some one afore
long, if it hasn't done so already.”
“But how is Granua Waile, Barny?”
“Poor Granua is it? Faith, times is hard wid her often. 'Granua,' says
I to her 'what do you say, acushla? we're axed to go to two or three
places to-day--what do you say? Do you lead, an' I'll follow: your
will is my pleasure.' 'An' where are we axed to?' says Granua, sinsible
enough. 'Why,' says I, 'to Paddy Lanigan's, to Mike Hartigan's, to
Jack Lynch's, an' at the heel o' the hunt, to Frank M'Kenna's, of the
Mountain Bar.' 'By my song,' says she, 'you may go where you plase; as
for me, I'm off to Frank M'Kenna's, one of the dacentest men in Europe,
an' his wife the same. Divil a toe I'll set a waggin' in any other place
this night,' says she; 'for 'tis there we're both well thrated wid the
best the house can afford. So,' says she, 'in the name of all that's
musical, you're welcome to the poker an' tongs anywhere else; for me,
I'm off to Frank's.' An' faith, sure enough, she took to her pumps; an'
it was only comin' over the hill there, that young Frank an' I overtuck
her: divil a lie in it.”
In fact, Barney, besides being a fiddler, was a senachie of the first
water; could tell a story, or trace a genealogy as well as any man
living, and draw the long bow in either capacity much better than he
could in the practice of his more legitimate profession.
“Well, here she is, Barny, to the fore,” said the aforesaid arch girl,
“an' now give us a tune.”
“What!” replied the farithee, “is it wid-out either aitin' or dhrinkin'?
Why, the girsha's beside herself! Alley, aroon, get him the linin' * an'
a sup to tighten his elbow.”
* Linin'--lining, so eating and drinking are often
humorously termed by the people.
The good woman instantly went to provide refreshments for the musician.
“Come, girls,” said Barny, “will yez get me a scythe or a handsaw.”
“A scythe or a handsaw! eh, then what to do, Barny?”
“Why, to pare my nails, to be sure,” replied Barny, with a loud laugh;
“but stay--come back here--I'll make shift to do wid a pair of scissors
this bout.
“'The parent finds his sons,
The tutherer whips them;
The nailer makes his nails,
The fiddler clips them.'”
Wherever Barny came there was mirth, and a disposition to be pleased, so
that his jokes always told.
“Musha, the sorra _pare_ you, Barny,” said one of the girls; “but
there's no bein' up to you, good or bad.”
“The sorra _pair_ me, is it? faix, Nancy, you'll soon be paired yourself
wid some one, avourneen. Do you know a sartin young man wid a nose on
him runnin' to a point like the pin of a sun-dial, his knees brakin' the
king's pace, strikin' one another ever since he was able to walk, an'
that was about four years afther he could say his Father Nosther; an'
faith, whatever you may think, there's no makin' them paceable except by
puttin' between them! The wrong side of his shin, too, is foremost;
an' though the one-half of his two feet is all heels, he keeps the same
heels for set days an' bonfire nights, an' savinly walks on his ankles.
His leg, too, Nancy, is stuck in the middle of his foot, like a poker in
a pick-axe; an', along wid all--”
“Here, Barny, thry your hand at this,” said the good woman, who had
not heard his ludicrous description of her fictitious son-in-law--“_eeh
arran agus bee laudher_, Barny, _ate bread and be strong_. I'll warrant
when you begin to play, they'll give you little time to do anything but
scrape away;--taste the dhrink first, anyway, in the name o' God,”--and
she filled him a glass.
“Augh, augh! faith you're the moral of a woman. Are you there, Frank
M'Kenna?--here's a sudden disholution to your family! May they be
scattered wid all speed--manin' the girls--to all corners o' the
parish!--ha, ha, ha! Well, that won't vex them, anyhow; an' next, here's
a merry Chris'mas to us, an' many o' them! Whooh! blur-an'-age! whooh!
oh, by gorra!--that's--that's--Frank run afther my breath--I've lost
it--run, you tory: oh, by gor, that's stuff as sthrong as Sampson, so
it is. Arrah, what well do you dhraw that from? for, faith, 'twould be
mighty convanient to live near it in a hard frost.”
Barny was now silent for some time, which silence was produced by the
industry he displayed in assailing the substantial refreshments before
him. When he had concluded his repast he once more tasted the liquor;
after which he got Granua Waile, and continued playing their favorite
tunes, and amusing them with anecdotes, both true and false, until the
hour drew nigh when his services were expected by the young men and
maidens who had assembled to dance in the barn. Occasionally, however,
they took a preliminary step in which they were joined by few of their
neighbors. Old Frank himself felt his spirits elevated by contemplating
the happiness of his children and their young associates.
“Frank,” said he, to the youngest of his sons, “go down to Owen
Reillaghan's, and tell him an' his family to come up to the dance early
in the evenin'. Owen's a pleasant man,” he added, “and a good neighbor,
but a small thought too strict in his duties. Tell him to come up,
Frank, airly, I say; he'll have time enough to go to the Midnight Mass
afther dancin' the 'Rakes of Ballyshanny,' and 'the Baltihorum jig;' an'
maybe he can't do both in style!”
“Ay,” said Frank, in a jeering manner, “he carries a handy heel at
the dancin', and a soople tongue at the prayin'; but let him alone for
bringin' the bottom of his glass and his eyebrow acquainted. But if he'd
pray less--”
“Go along, a _veehonce_, (* you profligate) an' bring him up,” replied
the father: “you to talk about prayin'! Them that 'ud catch you at a
prayer ought to be showed for the world to wondher at: a man wid two
heads an him would be a fool to him. Go along, I say, and do what you're
bid.”
“I'm goin',” said Frank. “I'm off; but what if he doesn't come? I'll
then have my journey for nothin'.”
“An' it's good payment for any journey ever you'll make, barrin' it's to
the gallows,” replied the father, nearly provoked at his reluctance in
obeying him: “won't you have dancin' enough in the coorse o' the night,
for you'll not go to the Midnight Mass, and why don't you be off wid you
at wanst?”
Frank shrugged his shoulders two or three times, being loth to leave
the music and dancing; but on seeing his father about to address him
in sharper language, he went out with a frown on his brows, and a
half-smothered imprecation bursting from his lips.
He had not proceeded more than a few yards from the door, when he met
Rody Teague, his father's servant, on his way to the kitchen. “Rody,”
said he, “isn't this a purty business? My father wantin' to send me down
to Owen Reillaghan's; when, by the vartue o' my oath, I'd as soon go
half way into hell, as to any place where his son, Mike Reillaghan, 'ud
be. How will I manage, Rody?”
“Why,” replied Rody, “as to meetin' wid Mike, take my advice and avoid
him. And what is more I'd give up Peggy Gartland for good. Isn't it a
mane thing for you, Frank, to be hangin' afther a girl that's fonder
of another than she is of yourself. By this and by that, I'd no more do
it--avvouh! catch me at it--I'd have spunk in me.”
Frank's brow darkened as Rody spoke; instead of instantly replying', he
was silent and appeared to be debating some point in his own mind, on
which he had not come to a determination.
“My father didn't hear of the fight between Mike and me?” said he,
interrogatively--“do you think he did, Rody?”
“Not to my knowledge,” replied the servant; “if he did, he wouldn't
surely send you down; but talking of the fight, you are known to be a
stout, well-fought boy--no doubt of that--still, I say, you had no right
to provoke Mike as you did, who, it's well known, could bate any two men
in the parish; and so sign, you got yourself dacently trounced, about a
girl that doesn't love a bone in your skin.”