Part 2

Before going farther with our Illustrations--indeed we don’t know whether we shall go any farther with them at all or not, as we rather think we have given quite enough of them--before going farther, then, with any thing in the more direct course of our subject, we may pause a moment to remark how carefully every one who comes before the public to claim its patronage, conceals the real object of his doing so. How remote he keeps from this very delicate point! He never whispers its name--never breathes it. How cautiously he avoids all allusion to his own particular interest in the matter! From the unction with which he speaks of the excellences of the thing he has to dispose of, be it what it may, a Dutch cheese or a treatise on philosophy, the enthusiasm with which he dwells on them, you would imagine that he spoke out of a pure feeling of admiration of these excellences. You would never dream--for this he carefully conceals from you--that his sole object is to get hold of as much of your cash as he can; the Dutch cheese or the treatise on philosophy being a mere instrument to accomplish the desired transfer.

It is rather a curious feature this in the social character: every thing offered for sale is so offered through a pure spirit of benevolence, either for the public good or individual benefit; nothing for the sake of mere filthy lucre, or the particular interest of the seller--not at all. He, good soul, has no such motive--not he, indeed.

We said a little while since that we doubted whether we would give any farther illustrations of the great science of humbug. We have now made up our minds that we shall not. Although we could easily give fifty more, it is unnecessary.

We confess, however, to be under strong temptations to give “the candidate’s humbug”--to exhibit that gentleman _doing_ over the constituency, making them, whether he be whig or tory, swallow the grossest fudge that ever was thrust down an unsuspecting gullet; but we refrain. We refrain also, in the meantime, from giving what we would call “the liberty and equality humbug;” together with several other humbugs equally instructive and edifying.

And now we think we hear our readers exclaim of ourselves, what a humbug!

By no means, gentle readers; there are exceptions to every general rule. We have sketched the great mass of mankind, but we have no doubt that there are some truly sincere persons--few indeed--in all the classes we have sketched; and we trust that we ourselves shall be reckoned amongst the number.

C.

ANCIENT IRISH LITERATURE, NUMBER I.

The ancient literature of Ireland is as yet but little known to the world, or even to ourselves. Existing for the most part only in its original Celtic form, and in manuscripts accessible only to the Irish scholar resident in our metropolis, but few even of those capable of understanding it have the opportunity to become acquainted with it, and from all others it is necessarily hidden. We therefore propose to ourselves, as a pleasing task, to make our literature more familiar, not only to the Irish scholar, but to our readers generally who do not possess this species of knowledge, by presenting them from time to time with such short poems or prose articles, accompanied with translations, as from their brevity, or the nature of their subjects, will render them suitable to our limited and necessarily varied pages--our selections being made without regard to chronological order as to the ages of their composition, but rather with a view to give a general idea of the several kinds of literature in which our ancestors of various classes found entertainment.

The specimen which we have chosen to commence with is of a homely cast, and was intended as a rebuke to the saucy pride of a woman in humble life, who assumed airs of consequence from being the possessor of three cows. Its author’s name is unknown, but its age may be determined, from its language, as belonging to the early part of the seventeenth century; and that it was formerly very popular in Munster, may be concluded from the fact, that the phrase, Easy, oh, woman of the three cows! [Go réiḋ a bhean na ttrí mbó] has become a saying in that province, on any occasion upon which it is desirable to lower the pretensions of proud or boastful persons.

P.

BEAN NA TTRI MBO.

Go réiḋ a ḃean na ttrí mbó Ar to ḃólacht ná bí teann Do ċonairc meisi, gan gó, Gean is ba dá ṁó a beann.

Ní ṁaireann saiḋḃrios do ġnúiṫ Do neaċ ná taḃair táir go mór Chúġut an téag ar gaċ taoḃ Go réiḋ a ḃean na ttrí mbó.

Slioċt Eóġain ṁóir sa Múṁain A nimṫeaċt do ní clú dóiḃ A seólta gur léigeadar síos Go réiḋ a ḃean na ttrí mbó.

Clann ġaisce ṫiġearna an Chláir A nimṫeaċt sin ba lá leóin Sgan súil re na tteaċt go bráṫ, Go réiḋ a ḃean na ttrí mbó.

Dóṁnall ó Dún-buíḋe na long O’Súilleaḃáin nár ṫím glór Féaċ gur ṫuit san Spáin re cloiḋeain Go réiḋ a ḃean na ttrí mbó.

O’Ruairc is Maguiḋir do ḃí Tá i n-Eirinn na lán beóil Féaċ féin gur imṫiġ an dís, Go réiḋ a ḃean na ttrí mbó.

Síol gCearḃuill do ḃí teann Te mbeirṫí gaċ geall ingleó Ní ṁaireann aon díoḃ mo ḋíṫ Go réiḋ a ḃean na ttrí mbó.

O aon ḃoin aṁáin do ḃreis Ar ṁnaoi eile is í a dó Do rinnisi iomorca aréir Go réiḋ a ḃean na ttrí mbó.

An ceangal.

Gíoḋ ar mfallaing a ainnir as uaiḃreaċ gnúis Do ḃíos gan dearmad seasṁaċ buan sa tnúiṫ Tríd an raċmus do ġlacais red ḃuaiḃ ar túis Da ḃfaġainnsi reilḃ a ceaṫair do ḃuailfinn tú.

C.

THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS.

TRANSLATION OF THE ABOVE.

O, Woman of Three Cows, agragh! don’t let your tongue thus rattle! O, don’t be saucy, don’t be stiff, because you may have cattle. I have seen--and, here’s my hand to you, I only say what’s true-- A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you.

Good luck to you, don’t scorn the poor, and don’t be their despiser, For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser, And Death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows; Then don’t be stiff, and don’t be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!

See where Momonia’s heroes lie, proud Owen More’s descendants, ’Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants! If _they_ were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows, Can _you_ be proud, can _you_ be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows!

The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning; Movrone! for they were banished, with no hope of their returning-- Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house? Yet _you_ can give yourself these airs, O, Woman of Three Cows!

O, think of Donnell of the Ships, the Chief whom nothing daunted-- See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted! He sleeps, the great O’Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse-- Then, ask yourself, should _you_ be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!

O’Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined in story-- Think how their high achievements once made Erin’s greatest glory-- Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress boughs, And so, for all your pride, will yours, O, Woman of Three Cows!

The O’Carrolls also, famed when Fame was only for the boldest, Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin’s best and oldest; Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or carouse? Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows!

Your neighbour’s poor, and you it seems are big with vain ideas, Because, _inagh!_[1] you’ve got three cows, one more, I see, than _she_ has, That tongue of yours wags more at times than Charity allows, But, if you are strong, be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows!

THE SUMMING UP.

Now, there you go! You still, of course, keep up your scornful bearing, And I’m too poor to hinder you; but, by the cloak I’m wearing, If I had but _four_ cows myself, even though you were my spouse, I’d thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows!

[1] Forsooth.

M.

THE COUNTRY DANCING-MASTER, AN IRISH SKETCH, BY WILLIAM CARLETON.

In those racy old times, when the manners and usages of Irishmen were more simple and pastoral than they are at present, dancing was cultivated as one of the chief amusements of life, and the dancing-master looked upon as a person essentially necessary to the proper enjoyment of our national recreation. Of all the amusements peculiar to our population, dancing is by far the most important, although certainly much less so now than it has been, even within our own memory. In Ireland it may be considered as a very just indication of the spirit and character of the people; so much so, that it would be extremely difficult to find any test so significant of the Irish heart, and its varied impulses, as the dance, when contemplated in its most comprehensive spirit. In the first place, no people dance so well as the Irish, and for the best reason in the world, as we shall show. Dancing, every one must admit, although a most delightful amusement, is not a simple, nor distinct, nor primary one. On the contrary, it is merely little else than a happy and agreeable method of enjoying music; and its whole spirit and character most necessarily depend upon the power of the heart to _feel_ the melody to which the limbs and body move. Every nation, therefore, remarkable for a susceptibility of music, is also remarkable for a love of dancing, unless religion or some other adequate obstacle, arising from an anomalous condition of society, interposes to prevent it. Music and dancing being in fact as dependent the one on the other as cause and effect, it requires little argument to prove that the Irish, who are so sensitively alive to the one, should in a very high degree excel at the other; and accordingly it is so.

Nobody, unless one who has seen and _also felt_ it, can conceive the incredible, nay, the inexplicable exhilaration of the heart, which a dance communicates to the peasantry of Ireland. Indeed, it resembles not so much enthusiasm as inspiration. Let a stranger take his place among those who are assembled at a dance in the country, and mark the change which takes place in Paddy’s whole temperament, physical and moral. He first rises up rather indolently, selects his own sweetheart, and assuming such a station on the floor as renders it necessary that both should “face the fiddler,” he commences. On the dance then goes, quietly at the outset; gradually he begins to move more sprightly; by and bye the right hand is up, and a crack of the fingers is heard; in a minute afterwards both hands are up and two cracks are heard, the hilarity and brightness of his eye all the time keeping pace with the growing enthusiasm that is coming over him, and which eye, by the way, is most lovingly fixed upon, or, we should rather say, _into_, that of his modest partner. From that partner he never receives an _open_ gaze in return, but in lieu of this an occasional glance, quick as thought and brilliant as a meteor, seems to pour into him a delicious fury that is made up of love--sometimes a little of whisky, kindness, pride of his activity, and a reckless force of momentary happiness that defies description. Now commences the dance in earnest. Up he bounds in a fling or a caper--crack go the fingers--cut and treble go the feet, heel and toe, right and left. Then he flings the right heel up to the ham, up again the left, the whole face in a furnace-heat of ecstatic delight. “Whoo! whoo! your sowl! Move your elbow, Mickey (this to the fiddler). Quicker, quicker, man alive, or you’ll lose sight of me. Whoo! Judy, that’s the girl; handle your feet, avourneen; that’s it, acushla! stand to me! Hurroo for our side of the house!” And thus does he proceed with a vigour, and an agility, and a truth of time, that are incredible, especially when we consider the whirlwind of enjoyment which he has to direct. The conduct of his partner, whose face is lit up into a modest blush, is evidently tinged with his enthusiasm--for who could resist it?--but it is exhibited with great natural grace, joined to a delicate vivacity that is equally gentle and animated, and in our opinion precisely what dancing in a female ought to be--a blending of healthful exercise and innocent enjoyment.

I have seen not long since an Irish dance by our talented countryman Mr M’Clise, and it is very good, with the exception of the girl who is dancing. That, however, is a sad blot upon what is otherwise a good picture. Instead of dancing with the native modesty so peculiar to our countrywomen, she dances with the unseemly movements of a tipsy virago, or a trull in Donnybrook; whilst her face has a leer upon it that reminds one of some painted drab on the outside of a booth between the periods of performance. This must neither be given to us, nor taken as a specimen of what Irishwomen are--the chastest and modestest females on the earth.

There are a considerable variety of dances in Ireland, from the simple “reel of two” up to the country-dance, all of which are mirthful. There are however, others which are serious, and may be looked upon as the exponents of the pathetic spirit of our country. Of the latter I fear several are altogether lost; and I question whether there be many persons now alive in Ireland who know much about the _Horo Lhèig_, which, from the word it begins with, must necessarily have been danced only on mournful occasions. It is only at wakes and funereal customs in those remote parts of the country where old usages are most pertinaciously clung to, that any elucidation of the _Horo Lhèig_ and others of our forgotten dances could be obtained. At present, I believe, the only serious one we have is the _cotillon_, or, as they term it in the country, the cut-a-long. I myself have witnessed, when very young, a dance which, like the hornpipe, was performed but by one man. This, however, was the only point in which they bore to each other any resemblance. The one I allude to must in my opinion have been of Druidic or Magian descent. It was not necessarily performed to music, and could not be danced without the emblematic aids of a stick and handkerchief. It was addressed to an individual passion, and was unquestionably one of those symbolic dances that were used in pagan rites; and had the late Henry O’Brien seen it, there is no doubt but he would have seized upon it as a felicitous illustration of his system.

Having now said all we have to say here about Irish dances, it is time we should say something about the Irish dancing-master; and be it observed, that we mean him of the old school, and not the poor degenerate creature of the present day, who, unless in some remote parts of the country, is scarcely worth description, and has little of the national character about him.

Like most persons of the itinerant professions, the old Irish dancing-master was generally a bachelor, having no fixed residence, but living from place to place within _his own walk_, beyond which he seldom or never went. The farmers were his patrons, and his visits to their houses always brought a holiday spirit along with them. When he came, there was sure to be a dance in the evening after the hours of labour, he himself good-naturedly supplying them with the music. In return for this they would get up a little underhand collection for him, amounting probably to a couple of shillings or half-a-crown, which some of them, under pretence of taking the snuff-box out of his pocket to get a pinch, would delicately and ingeniously slip into it, lest he might feel the act as bringing down the dancing-master to the level of the mere fiddler. He on the other hand, not to be outdone in kindness, would at the conclusion of the little festivity desire them to lay down a door, on which he usually danced a few favourite hornpipes to the music of his own fiddle. This indeed was the great master-feat of his art, and was looked upon as such by himself as well as by the people.

Indeed, the old dancing-master had some very marked outlines of character peculiar to himself. His dress, for instance, was always far above the fiddler’s, and this was the pride of his heart. He also made it a point to wear a castor or Caroline hat, be the same “shocking bad” or otherwise; but above all things, his soul within him was set upon a watch, and no one could gratify him more than by asking him before company what o’clock it was. He also contrived to carry an ornamental staff, made of ebony, hiccory, mahogany, or some rare description of cane--which, if possible, had a silver head and a silk tassel. This the dancing-masters in general seemed to consider as a kind of baton or wand of office, without which I never yet knew one of them to go. But of all the parts of dress used to discriminate them from the fiddler, we must place as standing far before the rest the dancing-master’s pumps and stockings, for shoes he seldom wore. The utmost limit of their ambition appeared to be such a jaunty neatness about that part of them in which the genius of their business lay, as might indicate the extraordinary lightness and activity which were expected from them by the people, in whose opinion the finest stocking, the lightest shoe, and the most symmetrical leg, uniformly denoted the most accomplished teacher.

The Irish dancing-master was also a great hand at match-making, and indeed some of them were known to negociate as such between families as well as individual lovers, with all the ability of a first-rate diplomatist. Unlike the fiddler, the dancing-master had fortunately the use of his eyes; and as there is scarcely any scene in which to a keen observer the symptoms of the passion--to wit, blushings, glances, squeezes of the hand, and stealthy whisperings--are more frequent or significant, so is it no wonder indeed that a sagacious looker-on, such as he generally was, knew how to avail himself of them, and to become in many instances a necessary party to their successful issue.

In the times of our fathers it pretty frequently happened that the dancing-master professed another accomplishment, which in Ireland, at least, where it is born with us, might appear to be a superfluous one; we mean, that of fencing, or, to speak more correctly, cudgel-playing. Fencing-schools of this class were nearly as common in these times as dancing-schools, and it was not at all unusual for one man to teach both.

I have already stated that the Irish dancing-master was for the most part a bachelor. This, however, was one of those general rules which have very little to boast of over their exceptions. I have known two or three married dancing-masters, and remember to have witnessed on one occasion a very affecting circumstance, which I shall briefly mention. Scarlatina had been very rife and fatal during the spring of the year when this occurred, and the poor man was forced by the death of an only daughter, whom that treacherous disease had taken from him, to close his school during such a period as the natural sorrow for those whom we love usually requires. About a month had elapsed, and I happened to be present on the evening when he once more called his pupils together. His daughter had been a very handsome and interesting young creature of sixteen, and was, until cut down like a flower, attending her father’s school at the period I allude to. The business of the school went on much in the usual way, until a young man who had generally been her partner got up to dance. The father played a little, but the music was unsteady and capricious; he paused, and made a strong effort to be firm; the dancing for a moment ceased, and he wiped away a few hot tears from his eyes. Again he resumed, but his eye rested upon the partner of that beloved daughter, as he stood with the hand of another girl in his. “Don’t blame me,” said the poor fellow meekly, at the same time laying aside his fiddle and bursting into tears; “she was all I had, and my heart was in her; sure you are all here _but her_, and she---- Go home, boys and girls, oh, go home and pity me. You knew what she was. Give me another fortnight for Mary’s sake, for, oh, I am her father! I will meet you all again; but never, never will I see you here without feeling that I have a breaking heart. I miss the light sound of her foot, the sweetness of her voice, and the smile of the eye that said to me, ‘these are all your _scholars_, father, but I, sure I am _your daughter_.’” Although the occasion was joyous and mirthful, yet such is the sympathy with domestic sorrow entertained in Ireland, that there were few dry eyes present, and not a heart that did not feel deeply and sincerely for his melancholy and most afflicting loss.

After all, the old dancing-master, in spite of his most strenuous efforts to the contrary, bore, in simplicity of manners, in habits of life, and in the happy spirit which he received from and impressed upon society, a distant but not indistinct resemblance to the fiddler. Between these two, however, no good feeling subsisted. The one looked up at the other as a man who was unnecessarily and unjustly placed above him; whilst the other looked down upon him as a mere drudge, through whom those he taught practised their accomplishments. This petty rivalry was very amusing, and the “boys,” to do them justice, left nothing undone to keep it up. The fiddler had certainly the best of the argument, whilst the other had the advantage of a higher professional position. The one was more loved, the other more respected. Perhaps very few things in humble life could be so amusing to a speculative mind, or at the same time capable of affording a better lesson to human pride, than the almost miraculous skill with which the dancing-master contrived, when travelling, to carry his fiddle about him, so as that it might not be seen, and he himself mistaken for nothing but a fiddler. This was the sorest blow his vanity could receive, and a source of endless vexation to all his tribe. Our manners, however, are changed, and neither the fiddler nor the dancing-master possesses the fine mellow tints nor that depth of colouring which formerly brought them and their rich household associations home at once to the heart.

One of the most amusing specimens of the dancing-master that I ever met, was the person alluded to at the close of my paper on the Irish Fiddler, under the nickname of Buckram-Back. This man had been a drummer in the army for some time, where he had learned to play the fiddle; but it appears that he possessed no relish whatever for a military life, as his abandonment of it without even the usual forms of a discharge or furlough, together with a back that had become cartilaginous from frequent flogging, could abundantly testify. It was from the latter circumstance that he had received his nickname.