Part 9

A search being now made, Ned’s headless body was discovered lying half over the bank, and Dennis in a swoon, through fright and loss of blood, was found recumbent by its side. The latter, when brought to himself, (which process was effected by whisky,) recited the whole adventure. The body was attended to the grave by a numerous assemblage of Ned’s countrymen; and the custom of carrying scythes carelessly very much declined. Many accidents had happened before from that cause, and the priest very judiciously told his flock, after the _de profundis_, that Ned’s _misfortune_ was a “devil’s judgment” for his negligence, whereby he had hurt a child a day or two before.

From that time none of the country-people would on any occasion go after dark to the spot where the catastrophe happened, as they say the doctor stole the head to _natomise_ it; which fact was _confirmed_ by a man without any head being frequently seen by the _women and children_ who were occasionally led to pass the moat of Ascole, not three miles from Athy, in the night-time; and they really believed the apparition to be no other than the ghost of poor Ned Maher looking every where for his head that the doctor had made away with.[21]

Footnote 21:

This is only mentioned as indicative of the singular flow of ideas of the Irish peasantry. The most serious and solemn events are frequently converted by them into sources of humour and of comic expression that altogether banish any thing under the head of gravity.

The lower orders are never half so happy as at a _wake_—when they can procure candles, punch, a piper, and tobacco, to enable them to sit and smoke round a human corpse! No matter what death it _suffered_, or disorder it died of (except indeed the _bite of a mad dog_). Their hilarity knows no limits; their humorous phrases and remarks flow in a constant stream of quaint wit and pointed repartee, but not in the style or tone of any other people existing. The _wake_ is also their usual place of _match-making_; and the _marriages_ or _misfortunes_ of the ladies are generally decided on “_going home from the wake_.”

The _cheerfulness_ of _the wake_, however, is intermitting:—every hour or two the most melancholy _howling_ that human voices could raise is set up by the _keeners_, and continued long enough to give the recurrence to mirth and fun increased excitement. These _keeners_, or mourners, are a set of old women, who practise for general use the most lachrymose notes, high and low, it is possible to conceive—which they turn into a sort of song (without words), at one time sinking into the deepest and most plaintive strains, then, on a sudden, raised into a howl, loud, frightful, and continued nearly to a shriek; and then in long notes descending in a tone of almost supernatural cadence.

They say that this is mimicking _wicked_ souls “undergoing their punishment in _purgatory_,” and is used as a _defiance_ to the _devil_, and to show him that the _corpse they_ are _waking_ does not care a “mass for him.” But then, they never trust the corpse to be left _alone_, because _it_ could make no resistance to Belzebub if he came for it; and a priest always remains in the room to guard the body, if the _keeners_ should happen to go away.

If you ask a country fellow how he can be so _merry_ over a “_dead man_”—

“Ough! plase your honour,” he will probably reply, “why shouldn’t we be merry when there’s a _good corpse_ to _the fore_?”

“What do you mean?”

“_Mane_ is it?—fy, sure enough, your honour, Father Corcoran says (and the devil so good a _guess_ in the town-land) that after the month’s _mind_ is over, Tom Dempsey, the _corpse_, will be happier nor any of us.—Ough! your honour! hell to the rap of tythe-cess or hearth-money, he’ll have to pay proctor nor parson!—There’s many a _boy_ in the parish, plase your honour, would not object to be Tom Dempsey, the corpse, fresh and fasting, this blessed morning!”

If you begin to reason with him, he will perhaps say—“Why, plase your honour, sure it’s only his _corpse_ that’s _corpsed_;—after the _masses_ he’ll be out of pain, and better off nor any gentleman in this same county, except our own _landlord_, God bless him _up_ or _down_!”

If you seem to think the defunct’s _family_ will be unhappy in consequence of his death—

“Oh, plase your honour! Tom was a good frind, sure enough, and whilst there’s a shovel and sack in the neighbourhood his family won’t be let to want nothing any how.”

“But his poor wife?”

“Ough! then it’s she that’s sorry for poor Tom, your honour! Whilst the _keeners_ were washing and stretching the corpse, and she crying her eyes out of her head—oh, the cratur!—Father Corcoran whispered all as one as a mass, and plenty of comfort into Mrs. Dempsey’s own ear, cheek by jowl, and by my sowl the devil a drop of a tear came out of her afterward, plase your honour!”

What is termed the _Irish cry_, is _keening_ on an _extensive scale_, and is perhaps the most terrific _yell_ ever yet practised in any country.

It is used in processions on the roads, as the people are carrying a dead body to its place of interment—and occasionally, on any great misfortune where the lamentation should be general.

If there are twenty thousand persons in a procession, they all set up the same cry as the _keeners_, but a hundred times more horrid and appalling. It may be heard many miles from the spot.

One mode formerly of _raising the people_ in the least possible time, was the carrying a coffin under pretence of a burial. The procession, which sets out probably with only a dozen persons, amounts in the course of an hour to some twenty thousand. When once the yell is set up, every person within hearing is expected immediately to join the corpse by the shortest road—scampering across fields, ditches, &c.; so that, as the numbers increase, the roar becomes more tremendous, and answers better than a hundred bells in bringing a population together.

It is usual for every man, woman, and child to pick up a stone or two, as they go along, and throw them into a heap, which tradition sometimes marks out as the site of some remarkable battle, murder, &c.

The above plan was occasionally resorted to by the insurgents in the year 1798; and there can be no doubt, if they all set out with processions at one hour of any given day, that it would be a tremendous species of muster for such a people as the Irish, who are as little known or understood by the generality of the _English_, as the Cossacks.

This cry certainly is not calculated to excite so great a _variety_ of passions as Mr. Dryden attributes to the music at Alexander’s Feast. But I will venture to assert, that if his Macedonian Majesty had been ever so tipsy, and thoroughly bent upon ever so much mischief, one sudden, _thundering_ burst of the Irish cry in his banqueting-room would have quickly brought Alexander and all his revellers to their senses—rendered their heels as light as their heads—and _Miss Thais_ would have been left by her lover to the protection of _Captain Rock_ and his _merry men_.

I believe the very best of our composers would find it rather difficult to set the Irish cry to _music_—though by the _new light_, every noise whatsoever must be a _note_ or _half a note_; and it is reported that Mr. Moore and Sir John Stephenson used their joint and several efforts to turn this national cry into _melody_, but without success. I cannot see why such able persons should fail on so interesting a composition. There are plenty of notes in it whole and half, sharp, flat, and natural;—sufficient to compose any piece of music. It is only therefore to select the best among them scientifically; put an “andante affettuoso” in front; then send it to a barrel organ-builder;—and no doubt it would grind out to the entire satisfaction of the whole Irish population.

This leads me to a digression more important. The superstition of the lower orders of Irish, when death occurs in any peculiar manner, is superlative. In truth, the only three kinds of death they consider as _natural_ are, dying quietly in their own cabins;—being hanged, about the assize-time;—or starving when the potato crop is deficient. All these they regard as matters of course; but any other species of dissolution is contemplated with much horror; though, to be sure, they make no very strong objection to being shot at by a regular army. They say their “fathers and forefathers before them were always _used_ to _that same_;” and all they expect in such case is, that there should be some sort of reason for it, which they themselves frequently furnish. But those manslaughters which occur through the activity of the revenue-officers in prevention of distillation, they never can reconcile themselves to, and never forgive. They cannot understand the _reason_ for this at all, and treasure up a spirit of savage revenge to the last day of their lives against excisemen.[22]

An ignorant poor cottager says to his landlord, naturally enough, “Ough! then isn’t it mighty odd, plase your honour, that we are not hindered from _eating_ oats, whenever we can _get any_? but if we attempt to _drink_ them, by J——s, we are kilt and battered and shot and burned out like a parcel of dogs by the _excisemen_, that’s twice greater rogues nor we are, plase your honour.”

In truth it is to be lamented that this distinction between solids and fluids should not be better reconciled to the common sense of the peasantry, or be somehow regulated so as to prevent perpetual resort to that erroneous system of mountain warfare and revenue bloodshed, which ever has kept, and ever will keep, whole districts of Ireland in a state of excitement and distraction. I know that I speak the sentiments of some of his Majesty’s enlightened Ministers on this subject.

Footnote 22:

To the imperfection of the excise laws, and the totally erroneous system of licensing public houses, (as to numbers, qualifications, and police regulations respecting them,) is greatly to be attributed the increase of crime of late years.

An unconnected and independent board, for the exclusive purpose of granting licenses and registering complaints; convenient and responsible country branches, and monthly reports, would tend much to produce sobriety, and check those drunken conspiracies, the common sources of robbery and murder. _Punishment_ rather than _prevention_ is the greatest error a police can fall into.

FATHER O’LEARY.

Humorous story of Father O’Leary and a bear—Mistaken notions respecting Ireland on the Continent—Lord Ventry and his tenant: an anecdote characteristic of the Irish peasant.

I frequently had an opportunity of meeting at my father-in-law’s, Mr. Grogan’s, where he often dined, a worthy and celebrated priest, Father O’Leary;—and have listened with great zest to anecdotes which he used to tell with a quaint yet spirited humour quite unique. His manner, his air, his countenance, all bespoke wit, talent, and a good heart. I liked his company excessively, and have often regretted I did not cultivate his acquaintance more, or recollect his witticisms better: but I was then young, not a public person, and somewhat out of his line in society. It was singular, but it was fact, that even before Father O’Leary opened his lips, a stranger would say, “That is an _Irishman_,” and at the same time guess him to be a priest.

One anecdote, in particular, I remember his relating with singular animation. Coming from St. Omer, he told us, he stopped a few days to visit a brother priest in the town of Boulogne sur Mer (who lives there still). Here he heard of a great curiosity which all the people were running to see,—a curious _bear_ that some fishermen had taken at sea out of a wreck; it had sense, and attempted to utter a sort of lingo which they called _patois marine_, but which nobody understood.

O’Leary gave his six sous to see the wonder, which was shown at the port by candle-light, and was a very odd kind of animal, no doubt. The bear had been taught a hundred tricks, all to be performed at the keeper’s word of command. It was late in the evening when O’Leary saw him, and the bear seemed sulky: the keeper, however, with a short spike at the end of a pole, made him move about briskly. He marked on sand what o’clock it was with his paw, and distinguished the men and women in a very comical way; in fact, our priest was quite diverted. The beast at length grew tired; the keeper hit him with the pole; he stirred a little, but continued quite sullen: his master coaxed him—no! he would not work! At length, the brute of a keeper gave him two or three sharp pricks with the goad, when he roared out most tremendously, and rising on his hind legs, cursed his tormentor in very good Irish. O’Leary went immediately to the mayor, whom he informed that the blackguards of fishermen had sewed up a poor Irishman in a bear-skin, and were showing him for six sous! This civic dignitary, who had himself seen the bear, would not believe it: at last O’Leary prevailed on him to accompany him to the room. On their arrival the bear was still upon duty; and O’Leary, stepping up to him, says, “_Gand e tha hawn, Pat?_” (How do you do, Pat?)—“_Slonger a mahugouthe_,” (Pretty well, thank’ee,) says the bear. The people were surprised to hear how plainly he spoke: but the mayor directly ordered him to be ripped up; and after some opposition and a good deal of difficulty, Pat stepped forth (stark naked) out of the bear-skin wherein he had been fourteen or fifteen days most cleverly stitched. The women made off; the men stood astonished; and the mayor ordered the keepers to be put in gaol unless they _satisfied_ the bear and the authorities, which was presently done. The bear afterward told O’Leary that he was very well fed, and did not care much about the clothing, only they worked him too hard. The fishermen had found him at sea on a hen-coop, which had saved him from going to the bottom with a ship wherein he had a little venture of dried cod from Dungarvon, and which was bound from Waterford to Bilboa. He could not speak a word of any language but Irish, and had never been at sea before. The fishermen had brought him in, fed him well, and endeavoured to repay themselves by showing him as a curiosity.

O’Leary’s mode of telling this story was quite admirable. I never heard any anecdote (and I believe this one to have been true) related with so much genuine drollery, which was enhanced by his not changing a muscle himself, while every one of his hearers was in a paroxysm of laughter.

Another anecdote he used to give, though dry enough in itself, with incomparable dramatic humour. By-the-bye, all his stories were in some way _national_; and this affords me occasion to remark, that I think Ireland is at this moment nearly as little known on many parts of the continent as it seems to have been then. I have myself heard it more than once spoken of in Brittany as an _English town_.

At Nancy, where Father O’Leary, as he told us, was travelling, his native country happened to be mentioned; when one of the _société_, a quiet French farmer of Burgundy, asked in an unassuming tone, “If Ireland stood _encore_?”—“_Encore!_” said an astonished John Bull, a courier coming from Germany, “_encore!_ to be sure she does: _we have_ her yet, I assure you, Monsieur.”—“Though neither very safe nor very sound,” interposed an officer of the Irish brigade, who happened to be present, looking over significantly at O’Leary, and not very complacently at the courier.—“And pray, Monsieur,” rejoined the John Bull to the Frenchman, “why _encore_?”—“Pardon, Monsieur,” replied the Frenchman, “I heard it had been worn out, (_fatigué_) long ago by the great number of people that were living in it!”

The fact was (I believe it not at all exaggerated), the Frenchman had been told, and really understood, that Ireland was a large _house_ where the English were wont to send their idle vagabonds, and from whence they were drawn out again as they were wanted to fill the ships and army:—and (I speak this from my own personal knowledge,) in some interior parts of the continent the existence of Ireland, _as a kingdom_, is totally unknown; it is at best considered as about a match for Jersey, or some other little island. On the sea-coasts they are better informed. This need not surprise us, when we have heard of a native of St. Helena formerly, (who never had been out of the island,) who seriously asked an English officer “If there were many _landing-places_ in _England_?” This may be a _standing jest_, but it is highly _illustrative_.

Some ideas of the common Irish are so strange, and uttered so unconsciously, that in the mouths of any other people they might be justly considered profane. In those of my countrymen, however, such expressions are _idiomatic_, and certainly spoken without the least idea of _profanity_.

The last Lord Ventry was considered, before his father’s death, the oldest heir-apparent in the Irish Peerage, to which his father (originally low enough) had been raised in 1800, in consequence of an arrangement made with Lord Castlereagh at the time of the Union. He had for many years been bed-ridden, and had advanced to a _very_ great age latterly without any corresponding utility: yet little apprehensions were entertained of his speedy dissolution, and the family were in despair.

A tenant on the estate, the stability of whose lease depended entirely on the son surviving the father, and who was beginning to doubt which of them might die of _old age_ first, said seriously to the heir-apparent, but without the slightest idea of any sort of impropriety either as respected God or man—

“Ah, then, Master Squire Mullins, isn’t it mighty strange that my poor ould landlord (Heaven preserve his noble Lordship!) shou’d lie covered up in the bed all this time past?—I think, plase your honour, that it would be well done to take his Lordship (Lord bless his honour!) up to Crow-Patrick, and hold him up there as high as could be—just to _show_ his Lordship a bit to the _Virgin_. For I’m sure and sartin, plase your honour, if God Almighty hadn’t quite _forgot_ his Lordship, he would have taken him home to _himself_ long and many a day ago.”

The relation of this anecdote appears to have been ominous, as my Lord the son was also carried off to his forefathers (if he could _find_ them) a few months after the first edition of this work was published.

The eccentric traits of the genuine Irish character are certainly wearing fast away; and if some _contemporary_ of by-gone persons and customs did not take the trouble of recording those traits, they would be considered (if related in future times) as ridiculous fabrications.

DEATH OF LORD ROSSMORE.

Strictures on Dr. Johnson—His biographer, Boswell—False definitions and erroneous ethics—Superstition—Supernatural appearances—Theological argument of the author in favour of his peculiar faith—Original poetry by Miss T * * *—The author purchases Lady Mayo’s demesne, County Wicklow—Terrific and cultivated scenery contrasted—Description of the Golden Belt of Ireland and the beauties of the above-mentioned county—Lord Rossmore—His character—Supernatural incident of a most extraordinary nature, vouched by living witnesses, and attendant on the sudden death of his Lordship.

It is not pleasant to differ essentially from the general opinions of the world, and nothing but a firm belief that we are right can bear us up in so doing. I feel my own fallibility poignantly, when I venture to remark upon the celebrated personage yclept “the great moralist of England.”

To criticise the labours of that giant of literature I am unequal: to detract from his ethics is not my object. But it surely savours not of treason to avow that parts of his Lexicon I condemn, and much of his philosophy I dissent from.

It is fortunate for the sake of truth that Boswell became Johnson’s biographer; for, as the idolaters of China devoutly attach a full proportion of bad qualities to the object of their adoration, so in like manner has “Bozzy” shown no want of candour as to the Doctor’s failings; and if he had reflected on the unkind constructions of this wicked world, his eulogiums would probably have been rendered less fulsome, and his biography yet more correct.—It could not be more entertaining.

The English language had been advancing gradually in its own jog-trot way from the days of Bayley to those of Johnson: it travelled over a plain smooth surface and on a gentle ascent. Every body formerly appeared to understand each other tolerably well: words were then very intelligible, and women, in general, found no difficulty in pronouncing them. But the great lexicographer soon convinced the British people (the Irish are out of the question) that they had been reading, writing, and spouting in a starved, contracted tongue, and that the magnificent _dapimibominus’s_ of the Grecian language were ready in polysyllables to relieve that wretched poverty under which ours had so long languished.

This noble revolution in letters has made a progress so rapid, that I found in one essay of a Magazine, a few months ago, no fewer than twenty words which required me to make as many references to our great Lexicon.

Nobody can deny the miraculous labour which that work must have required: yet now, when enthusiasm has somewhat abated, and no danger exists of being clapper-clawed by the Doctor himself, some ungrateful English grammarians have presumed to assert that, under the gaberdine of so great an authority, any body is lawfully entitled to coin any _English_ word he chooses out of any foreign language he thinks proper; and that we may thus tune up our vocabulary to the key of a _lingua franca_, an assemblage of all tongues, sounds, and idioms, dead or living. It has also been asserted, since his decease, that the Doctor’s logic is frequently false both in premises and conclusion, his ethics erroneous, his philosophy often unintelligible, and his diction generally bombastic. However, there are so many able and idle gentlemen of law, physic, and divinity, amply educated, with pens stuck behind their ears ready for action, who are much better skilled in the art and practice of criticism than I am, that I shall content myself with commenting on one solitary word out of forty thousand, which word not only bears strongly on my own tenets and faith, but also affects one of the most extraordinary occurrences of my life.

This comprehensive and important word, (which has upon occasion puzzled me more than any other in the English language,) is “_superstition_:”—whereof one of the definitions given by the Doctor, in his Lexicon, appears to be rather inconsiderate, namely,—“religion without morality.”—Now, I freely and fully admit that I am _superstitious_, yet I think it is rather severe and somewhat singular in the Doctor to admit my religion and extinguish my morality, which I always considered as marching hand in hand—or, in truth, I thought the latter should go foremost.