so strong as in Ireland. The Irish language actually flows with the milk
and honey of love and friendship. Sweet and palatable is it to the other
sex, and sweetly can Paddy, with his deluding ways, administer it to
them from the top of his mellifluous tongue, as a dove feeds her young,
or as a kind mother her babe, shaping with her own pretty mouth every
morse of the delicate viands before it goes into that of the infant. In
this manner does Paddy, seated behind a ditch, of a bright Sunday, when
he ought to be at Mass, feed up some innocent girl, not with “false
music,” but with sweet words; for nothing more musical or melting than
his brogue ever dissolved a female heart. Indeed, it is of the danger
to be apprehended from the melody of his voice, that the admirable and
appropriate proverb speaks; for when he addresses his sweetheart, under
circumstances that justify suspicion, it is generally said--“Paddy's
feedin' her up wid false music.”
What language has a phrase equal in beauty and tenderness to _cushla
machree_--_pulse of my heart?_ Can it be paralleled in the whole
range of all that are, ever were, or ever will be spoken, for music,
sweetness, and a knowledge of anatomy? If Paddy is unrivalled at
swearing, he fairly throws the world behind him at the blarney. In
professing friendship, and making love, give him but a taste of the
native, and he is a walking honey-comb, that every woman who sees him
wishes to have a lick at; and Heaven knows, that frequently, at all
times, and in all places, does he get himself licked on their account.
Another expression of peculiar force is _vick machree_--or, son of my
heart. This is not only elegant, but affectionate, beyond almost any
other phrase except the foregoing. It is, in a sense, somewhat different
from that in which the philosophical poet has used it, a beautiful
comment upon the sentiment of “the child's the father of the man,”
uttered by the great, we might almost say, the glorious, Wordsworth.
We have seen many a youth, on more occasions than one, standing in
profound affliction over the dead body of his aged father, exclaiming,
“_Ahir, vick machree--vick machree--wuil thu marra wo'um? Wuil thu marra
wo'um?_ Father, son of my heart, son of my heart, art thou dead
from me--art thou dead from me?” An expression, we think, under
any circumstances, not to be surpassed in the intensity of domestic
affection which it expresses; but under those alluded to, we consider
it altogether elevated in exquisite and poetic beauty above the most
powerful symbols of Oriental imagery.
A third phrase peculiar to love and affection, is “_Manim asthee
hu--or_, My soul's within you.” Every person acquainted with languages
knows how much an idiom suffers by a literal translation. How beautiful,
then, how tender and powerful, must those short expressions be, uttered,
too, with a fervor of manner peculiar to a deeply feeling people, when,
even after a literal translation, they carry so much of their tenderness
and energy into a language whose genius is cold when compared to the
glowing beauty of the Irish.
_Mauourneen dheelish_, too, is only a short phrase, but, coming warm and
mellowed from Paddy's lips into the ear of his _colleen dhas_, it is
a perfect spell--a sweet murmur, to which the _lenis susurrus_ of the
Hybla bees is, with all their honey, jarring discord. How tame is
“My sweet darling,” its literal translation, compared to its soft and
lulling intonations. There is a dissolving, entrancing, beguiling,
deluding, flattering, insinuating, coaxing, winning, inveigling,
roguish, palavering, come-overing, comedhering, consenting, blarneying,
killing, willing, charm in it, worth all the philters that ever the
gross knavery of a withered alchemist imposed upon the credulity of
those who inhabit the other nations of the earth--for we don't read that
these shrivelled philter-mongers ever prospered in Ireland.
No, no--let Paddy alone. If he hates intensely and effectually, he loves
intensely, comprehensively, and gallantly. To love with power is a proof
of a large soul, and to hate well is, according to the great moralist,
a thing in itself to be loved. Ireland is, therefore, through all its
sects, parties, and religions, an amicable nation. Their affections are,
indeed, so vivid, that they scruple not sometimes to kill each other
with kindness: but we hope that the march of love and friendship will
not only keep pace with, but outstrip, the march of intellect.
*****
Peter Cornell was for many years of his life a pattern and proverb
for industry and sobriety. He first began the world as keeper of a
shebeen-house at the cross-roads, about four miles from the town of
Ballypoteen. He was decidedly an honest man to his neighbors, but a
knave to excisemen, whom he hated by a kind of instinct that he had,
which prompted him, in order to satisfy his conscience, to render
them every practicable injury within the compass of his ingenuity.
Shebeen-house keepers and excisemen have been, time out of mind,
destructive of each other; the exciseman pouncing like a beast or bird
of prey upon the shebeen man and his illicit spirits; the shebeen man
staving in the exciseman, like a barrel of doublings, by a knock
from behind a hedge, which sometimes sent him to that world which is
emphatically the world of spirits. For this, it some happened that the
shebeen man was hanged; but as his death only multiplied that of the
excisemen in a geometrical ratio, the sharp-scented fraternity resolved,
if possible, not to risk their lives, either by exposing themselves to
the necessity of travelling by night, or prosecuting by day. In this
they acted wisely and prudently: fewer of the unfortunate peasantry
were shot in their rencounters with the yeomanry or military on such
occasions, and the retaliations became by degrees less frequent, until,
at length, the murder of a gauger became a rare occurrence in the
country.
Peter, before his marriage, had wrought as laboring servant to a man
who kept two or three private stills in those caverns among the remote
mountains, to which the gauger never thought of penetrating, because he
supposed that no human enterprise would have ever dreamt of advancing
farther into them than appeared to him to be practicable. In this he
was frequently mistaken: for though the still-house was in many cases
inaccessible to horses, yet by the contrivance of slipes--a kind of
sledge--a dozen men could draw a couple of sacks of barley with less
trouble, and at a quicker pace, than if horses only had been employed.
By this, and many other similar contrivances, the peasantry were often
able to carry on the work of private distillation in places so distant,
that few persons could suspect them as likely to be chosen for such
purposes. The uncommon personal strength, the daring spirit, and great
adroitness of Peter Connell, rendered him a very valuable acquisition
to his master in the course of his illicit occupations. Peter was,
in addition to his other qualities, sober and ready-witted, so that
whenever the gauger made his appearance, his expedients to baffle him
were often inimitable. Those expedients did not, however, always arise
from the exigency of the moment; they were often deliberately, and with
much exertion of ingenuity, planned by the proprietors and friends
of such establishments, perhaps for weeks before the gauger's visit
occurred. But, on the other hand, as the gauger's object was to
take them, if possible, by surprise, it frequently happened that his
appearance was as unexpected as it was unwelcome. It was then that the
prompt ingenuity of the people was fully seen, felt, and understood
by the baffled exciseman, who too often had just grounds for bitterly
cursing their talent at outwitting him.
Peter served his master as a kind of superintendent in such places,
until he gained the full knowledge of distilling, according to the
processes used by the most popular adepts in the art. Having acquired
this, he set up as a professor, and had excellent business. In the
meantime, he had put together by degrees a small purse of money, to
the amount of about twenty guineas--no inconsiderable sum for a
young Irishman who intends to begin the world on his own account. He
accordingly married, and, as the influence of a wife is usually not to
be controlled during the honey-moon, Mrs. Connell prevailed on Peter
to relinquish his trade of distiller, and to embrace some other mode of
life that might not render their living so much asunder necessary. Peter
suffered himself to be prevailed upon, and promised to have nothing more
to do with private distillation, as a distiller. One of the greatest
curses attending this lawless business, is the idle and irregular habit
of life which it gradually induces. Peter could not now relish the
labor of an agriculturist, to which he had been bred, and yet he was
too prudent to sit down and draw his own and his wife's support from so
exhaustible a source as twenty guineas. Two or three days passed, during
which “he cudgelled his brains,” to use his own expression, in plans for
future subsistence; two or three consultations were held with Ellish,
in which their heads were laid together, and, as it was still the
honey-moon, the subject-matter of the consultation, of course, was
completely forgotten. Before the expiration of a second month, however,
they were able to think of many other things, in addition to the
fondlings and endearments of a new-married couple. Peter was every day
becoming more his own man, and Ellish by degrees more her own woman.
“The purple light of love,” which had changed Peter's red head into
a rich auburn, and his swivel eye into a knowing wink, exceedingly
irresistible in his bachelorship, as he made her believe, to the country
girls, had passed away, taking the aforesaid auburn along with it and
leaving nothing but the genuine carrot behind. Peter, too, on opening
his eyes one morning about the beginning of the third month, perceived
that his wife was, after all, nothing more than a thumping red-cheeked
wench, with good eyes, a mouth rather large, and a nose very much
resembling, in its curve, the seat of a saddle, allowing the top to
correspond with the pummel.
“Pether,” said she, “it's like a dhrame to me that you're neglectin'
your business, alanna.”
“Is it you, beauty? but, maybe, you'd first point out to me what
business, barrin' buttherin' up yourself, I have to mind, you phanix
bright?”
“Quit yourself, Pether! it's time for you to give up your ould ways; you
caught one bird wid them, an' that's enough. What do you intind to do!
It's full time for you to be lookin' about you.”
“Lookin' about me! What do you mane Ellish?”
“The dickens a bit o' me thought of it,” replied the wife, laughing
at the unintentional allusion to the circumspect character of Peter's
eyes,--“upon my faix, I didn't--ha, ha, ha!”
“Why, thin, but you're full o'your fun, sure enough, if that's what
you're at. Maybe, avourneen, if I had looked right afore me, as I ought
to do, it's Katty Murray an' her snug farm I'd have, instead of”--
Peter hesitated. The rapid feelings of a woman, and an Irishwoman, quick
and tender, had come forth and subdued him. She had not voluntarily
alluded to his eyes; but on seeing Peter offended, she immediately
expressed that sorrow and submission which are most powerful when
accompanied by innocence, and when meekly assumed, to pacify rather than
to convince. A tear started to her eye, and with a voice melted into
unaffected tenderness, she addressed him, but he scarcely gave her time
to speak.
“No, avourneen, no, I won't say what I was goin' to mintion. I won't
indeed, Ellish, dear; an' forgive me for woundin' your feelin's _alanna
dhas_. (* My pretty child.) Hell resave her an' her farm! I dunna what
put her into my head at all; but I thought you wor jokin' me about my
eyes: an' sure if you war, acushla, that's no rason that I'd not allow
you to do that an' more wid your own Pether. Give me a slewsther, (* a
kiss of fondness) agrah--a sweet one, now!”
He then laid his mouth to hers, and immediately a sound, nearly
resembling a pistol-shot, was heard through every part of the house. It
was, in fact, a kiss upon a scale of such magnitude, that the Emperor
of Morocco might not blush to be charged with it. A reconciliation took
place, and in due time it was determined that Peter, as he understood
poteen, should open a shebeen house. The moment this resolution was
made, the wife kept coaxing him, until he took a small house at the
cross-roads before alluded to, where, in the course of a short time,
he was established, if not in his own line, yet in a mode of life
approximating to it as nearly as the inclination of Ellish would permit.
The cabin which they occupied had a kitchen in the middle, and a room at
each end of it, in one of which was their own humble chaff bed, with its
blue quilted drugget cover; in the other stood a couple of small tables,
some stools, a short form, and one chair, being a present from his
father-in-law. These constituted Peter's whole establishment, so far +as
it defied the gauger. To this we must add! a five-gallon keg of spirits
hid in the garden, and a roll of smuggled tobacco. From the former he
bottled, over night, as much as was usually drank the following day;
and from the tobacco, which was also kept under ground, he cut, with the
same caution, as much as to-morrow's exigencies might require. This he
kept in his coat-pocket, a place where the gauger would never think
of searching for it, divided into halfpenny and pennyworths, ounces or
half-ounces, according as it might be required; and as he had it without
duty, the liberal spirit in which he dealt it out to his neighbors soon
brought him a large increase of custom.
Peter's wife was an excellent manager, and he himself a pleasant,
good-humored man, full of whim and inoffensive mirth. His powers of
amusement were of a high order, considering his station in life and his
want of education. These qualities contributed, in a great degree, to
bring both the young and old to his house during the long winter nights,
in order to hear the fine racy humor with which he related his frequent
adventures and battles with excisemen. In the summer evenings, he
usually engaged a piper or a fiddler, and had a dance, a contrivance by
which he not only rendered himself popular, but increased his business.
In this mode of life, the greatest source of anxiety to Peter and Ellish
was the difficulty of not offending their friends by refusing to give
them credit. Many plans, were, with great skill and forethought, devised
to obviate this evil; but all failed. A short board was first procured,
on which they got written with chalk--
“No credit giv'n--barrin' a thrifle to Pether's friends.”
Before a week passed, after this intimation, the number of “Pether's
friends” increased so rapidly, that neither he nor Ellish knew the half
of them. Every scamp in the parish was hand and glove with him: the
drinking tribe, particularly, became desperately attached to him and
Ellish. Peter was naturally kind-hearted, and found that his firmest
resolutions too often gave way before the open flattery with which he
was assailed. He then changed his hand, and left Ellish to bear the
brunt of their blarney. Whenever any person or persons were seen
approaching the house, Peter, if he had reason to suspect an attack upon
his indulgence, prepared himself for a retreat. He kept his eye to
the window, and if they turned from the direct line of the road, he
immediately slipped into bed, and lay close in order to escape them. In
the meantime they enter.
“God save all here. Ellish, agra machree, how are you?”
“God save you kindly! Faix, I'm mid-dim', I thank you, Condy: how is
yourself, an' all at home?”
“Devil a heartier, barrin' my father, that's touched wid a loss of
appetite afther his meals--ha, ha, ha!”
“Musha, the dickens be an you, Condy, but you're your father's son, any
way; the best company in Europe is the same man. Throth, whether you're
jokin' or not, I'd be sarry to hear of anything to his disadvantage,
dacent man. Boys, won't you go down to the other room?”
“Go way wid yez, boys, till I spake to Ellish here about the affairs
o' the nation. Why, Ellish, you stand the cut all to pieces. By the
contints o' the book, you do; Pether doesn't stand it half so well. How
is he, the thief?”
“Throth, he's not well, to-day, in regard of a smotherin' about the
heart he tuck this mornin' afther his breakfast. He jist laid himself
on the bed a while, to see if it would go off of him--God be praised for
all his marcies!”
“Thin, upon my _sole_vation, I'm sarry to hear it, and so will all at
home, for there's not in the parish we're sittin' in a couple that our
family has a greater regard an' friendship for, than him and yourself.
Faix, my modher, no longer ago than Friday night last, argued down
Bartle Meegan's throath, that you and Biddy Martin wor the two portliest
weemen that comes into the chapel. God forgive myself, I was near
quarrelin' wid Bartle on the head of it, bekase I tuck my modher's part,
as I had a good right to do.”
“Thrath, I'm thankful to you both, Condy, for your kindness.”
“Oh, the sarra taste o' kindness was in it at all, Ellish, 'twas only
the truth; an' as long as I live, I'll stand up for that.”
“Arrah, how is your aunt down at Carntall?”
“Indeed, thin, but middlin', not gettin' her health: she'll soon give
the crow a puddin', any way; thin, Ellish, you thief, I'm in for the
yallow boys. Do you know thim that came in wid me?”
“Why, thin, I can't say I do. Who are they, Condy?”
“Why one o' them's a bachelor to my sisther Norah, a very dacent boy,
indeed--him wid the frieze jock upon him, an' the buckskin breeches.
The other three's from Teernabraighera beyant. They're related to my
brother-in-law, Mick Dillon, by his first wife's brother-in-law's uncle.
They're come to this neighborhood till the 'Sizes, bad luck to them,
goes over; for you see, they're in a little throuble.”
“The Lord grant them safe out of it, poor boys!”
“I brought them up here to treat them, poor fellows; an', Ellish,
avourneen, you must credit me for whatsomever we may have. The thruth
is, you see, that when we left home, none of us had any notion of
drinkin' or I'd a put somethin' in my pocket, so that I'm taken at an
average.--Bud-an'-age! how is little Dan? Sowl, Ellish, that goorsoon,
when he grows up, will be a credit to you. I don't think there's a finer
child in Europe of his age, so there isn't.”
“Indeed, he's a good child, Condy. But Condy, avick, about givin'
credit:--by thim five crasses, if I could give score to any boy in the
parish, it 'ud be to yourself. It was only last night that I made a
promise against doin' such a thing for man or mortual. We're a'most
broken an' harrish'd out o' house an' home by it; an' what's more,
Condy, we intend to give up the business. The landlord's at us every day
for his rint, an' we owe for the two last kegs we got, but hasn't a
rap to meet aither o' thim; an' enough due to us if we could get
it together: an' whisper, Condy, atween ourselves, that's what ails
Pettier, although he doesn't wish to let an to any one about it.”
“Well, but you know I'm safe, Ellish?”
“I know you are, avourneen, as the bank itself; an' should have what you
want wid a heart an' a half, only for the promise I made an my two knees
last night, aginst givin' credit to man or woman. Why the dickens didn't
you come yistherday?”
“Didn't I tell you, woman alive, that it was by accident, an' that I
wished to sarve the house, that we came at all. Come, come, Ellish;
don't disgrace me afore my sisther's bachelor an' the sthrange boys
that's to the fore. By this staff in my hand, I wouldn't for the best
cow in our byre be put to the blush afore thim; an' besides, there's a
_cleeveen_ (* a kind of indirect relationship) atween your family an'
ours.”
“Condy, avourneen, say no more: if you were fed from the same breast wid
me, I couldn't, nor wouldn't break my promise. I wouldn't have the sin
of it an me for the wealth o' the three kingdoms.”
“Beclad, you're a quare woman; an' only that my regard for you is great
entirely, we would be two, Ellish; but I know you're dacent still.”
He then left her and joined his friends in the little room that was
appropriated for drinking, where, with a great deal of mirth, he related
the failure of the plan they had formed for outwitting Peter and Ellish.
“Boys,” said he, “she's too many for us! St. Pettier himself wouldn't
make a hand of her. Faix, she's a cute one. I palavered her at the
rate of a hunt, an' she ped me back in my own coin, with dacent
intherest--but no whiskey!--Now to take a rise out o' Pettier. Jist sit
where ye are, till I come back.”
He left them enjoying the intended “spree,” and went back to Ellish.
“Well, I'm sure, Ellish, if any one had tuck their book oath that you'd
refuse my father's son such a thrifle, I wouldn't believe them. It's not
wid Pettier's knowledge you do it, I'll be bound. But bad as you thrated
us, sure we must see how the poor fellow is, at an rate.”
As he spoke, and before Ellish had time to prevent him, he pressed into
the room where Peter lay.
“Why, tare alive, Pether, is it in bed you are at this hour of the day?”
“Eh? Who's that--who's that? oh!”
“Why thin, the sarra lie undher you, is that the way wid you?”
“Oh!--oh! Eh? Is that Condy?”
“All that's to the fore of him. What's asthray wid you man alive?”
“Throth, Condy, I don't know, rightly. I went out, wantin' my coat,
about a week ago, an' got cowld in the small o' the back; I've a pain in
it ever since. Be sittin'.”
“Is your heart safe? You have no smotherin' or anything upon it?”
“Why thin, thank goodness, no; it's all about my back an' my inches.”
“Divil a thing it is but a complaint they call an _alloverness_ ails
you, you shkaimer o' the world wide. 'Tis the oil o' the hazel, or a
rubbin' down wid an oak towel you want. Get up, I say, or, by this an'
by that, I'll flail you widin an inch o' your life.”
“Is it beside yourself you are, Condy?”
“No, no, faix; I've found you out: Ellish is afther tellin' me that it
was a smotherin' on the heart; but it's a pain in the small o' the back
wid yourself. Oh, you born desaver! Get up, I say agin, afore I take the
stick to you!”
“Why, thin, all sorts o' fortune to you, Condy--ha, ha, ha!--but you're
the sarra's pet, for there's no escapin' you. What was that I hard
atween you an' Ellish?” said Peter, getting up.
“The sarra matther to you. If you behave yourself, we may let you into
the wrong side o' the sacret afore you die. Go an' get us a pint of what
you know,” replied Condy, as he and Peter entered the kitchen.
“Ellish,” said Peter, “I suppose we must give it to thim. Give it--give
it, avourneen. Now, Condy, whin 'ill you pay me for this?”
“Never fret yourself about that; you'll be ped. Honor bright, as the
black said whin he stole the boots.”
“Now Pettier,” said the wife, “sure it's no use axin' me to give it,
afther the promise I made last night. Give it yourself; for me, I'll
have no hand in such things good or bad. I hope we'll soon get out of it
altogether, for myselfs sick an' sore of it, dear knows!”
Pettier accordingly furnished them with the liquor, and got a promise
that Condy would certainly pay him at mass on the following Sunday,
which was only three days distant. The fun of the boys was exuberant
at Condy's success: they drank, and laughed, and sang, until pint after
pint followed in rapid succession.
Every additional inroad upon the keg brought a fresh groan from Ellish;
and even Peter himself began to look blank as their potations deepened.
When the night was far advanced they departed, after having first
overwhelmed Ellish with professions of the warmest friendship, promising
that in future she exclusively should reap whatever benefit was to be
derived from their patronage.