Bits of Blarney

The day had been beautiful – one of those brilliant days of softness and balm so prevalent in Ireland. The noontide sun may have been a little too sunny, but this could be remedied by reposing in the pleasant shadow of some of the lofty cairns which abound in that place. The day gently glided on, until, when a summer-shower made the heath glitter with its diamond drops, we sought shelter in a rustic cabin by the wayside.

No one was within, but an old woman, remarkably talkative. She paid us a world of attention – insinuated a world of compliments on the beaming beauty of the fair lady who accompanied me – would "engage that one so pretty was not without a sweetheart," and, with a smile at myself, "would not be long without a husband" – hoped that she "would be happy as the day was long, and live to see her great-grand-children at her feet," – was certain she was an Irishwoman, "for she had the fair face, and the small hand, and the dark blue eye, and the long black lash, and the bounding step," and prophesied more good fortune than (to one of the party, at least) has yet been fulfilled.

This old woman was a good specimen of a shrewd Irish peasant. Her compliments were insinuated, rather than expressed; and, malgré the brogue, I question when more delicate flattery – pleasant, after all, to one's amour propre– could be more dexterously conveyed in the circles which we call brilliant. This tact in the matter of compliment appears intuitive.

Allusion having been made to the granite column in the neighborhood, our hostess asked whether we should like "to know all about it." The answer was in the affirmative, and then – happy to hear the tones of her own voice, proud of giving information to persons above her own station, and in pleased anticipation of a douceur– she told us a legend which, as she was rather prolix, I shall take leave to give you in my own words.

FINN MAC COUL'S FINGER-STONE

Finn Mac Coul went hunting one day on the Curragh of Kildare. His sport was indifferent, for he brought down only a leash of red deer, and a couple of wolves. He came back to his house, on the hill of Allen, in such bad spirits, that his wife asked him what was the matter, and said that, no doubt, he would have better sport another time. Heaving a deep sigh, he told her that it was not his bad sport that annoyed him, but that news had that morning reached him that Ossian, the Scotch giant, was coming over to challenge him to a trial of strength, and if he lost the day – for he could not decline the contest – his credit, and the credit of Ireland, would be gone forever.

At this news, Finn's wife became as low-spirited as himself. They sat by the fire, like Witherington, "in doleful dumps," and their thoughts were the reverse of happy.

Suddenly, the lady – for the life of me I cannot bring myself to designate her as plain "Mrs. Mac Coul" – asked her disconsolate lord and master at what time Ossian was expected to arrive? Finn told her that the Scottish Hercules had intimated his intention of paying his visit at noon on the following day. "Oh! then," said she, brightening up, "there's no need to despair. Leave all to me, and I'll bring you through it like a Trojan. A blot is no blot until 'tis entered." This remark, showing at once her philosophy and her knowledge of backgammon, was very consolatory to Finn Mac Coul, who, like men before and since, was rather under what is called petticoat government. His mind was relieved when his wife saw daylight.

After breakfast, the next day, Finn (by his wife's direction) went into a huge child's-cradle, a feat which he had some difficulty in accomplishing. There he lay, crumpled up uneasily, while she kept busy in the kitchen, baking some cake or griddle-bread.

By-and-bye, up came Ossian, who knocked at the door, and civilly inquired whether Finn Mac Coul lived there, and if he were at home? "No," said his wife, "he's gone to the fair of Bartlemy; but I am his wife, and, perhaps, I can answer for him."

"What!" said Ossian, "did not he hear that I, Ossian of Scotland, was coming over for a trial of strength with him? I hope he does not mean to skulk. Wherever he may be, I shall not return home until I see him, and until he feel me."

When the wife found that Ossian was too far North to be put off by a "not at home," she put the best face on it, welcomed him to Ireland, hoped he had a pleasant passage, and that the tossing on the salt-water did not disagree with him, invited him into the house, and said that Finn would soon be back, and ready to indulge him in any way he pleased.

Ossian sat down by the fire, quite at his ease. He had a great conceit of himself, and was, indeed, the strongest man in Europe at that time. He noticed the large cakes that were baking in the oven, each of them taking two stone weight of flour, and asked why she made them of such a size. "They are for that little creature in the cradle, there," said she, pointing over her shoulder to Finn. Then Ossian looked round, and noticed the cradle, with Finn in it, and a night-cap on his head, and tied under his chin, and he pretending to be fast asleep all the time.

Astonished at the immense bulk, Ossian called out, "Who's there? What man is that in the cradle?" "Man!" said Finn's wife, with a pleasant little laugh, "that's our youngest child. I am weaning him now, and I sometimes think the fairies have overlooked him, he's so dwarfed and small, and does not promise to be half the size of his father and his brothers."

Ossian never said a word to that; but he could not take his eyes off the cradle, thinking, no doubt, if the undergrown baby was such a bouncer, what must the father be.

By-and-bye, Finn's wife told Ossian that, as he had a long journey, and Finn was staying out longer than she expected, he might as well take some refreshment, without waiting for him. The cakes were nice and brown by this time, and she asked him to break his fast with one of them. He took it, and when he made a bite in it, he roared again with pain, for his two best front teeth were broken. "Oh!" he cried out, "it is as hard as iron," – and so it might be, for she had put an iron griddle into it, and baked it with it in. "Hard?" said she. "Why, that child there would not taste it if it were a bit softer."

Then she recommended Ossian to wash the pain away with a sup of the finest whiskey in the province; and she fetched a wooden piggin, that would hold about a gallon to a gallon and a half, and filled it to the brim. Ossian took a long pull at it; as much as a quart or so. Then Finn's wife laughed downright at him for taking so little. "Why," said she, "the child there in the cradle thinks nothing of emptying that piggin in one draught." So, for shame's sake, and because he did not like to be thought a milk-sop, Ossian took a little more, and a little more yet, until, before long, the liquor got the better of him.

Now, this was the very pass that the good wife wished to bring him to. "While his father is out," said she, "and I wonder why he is not home before now, may-be you'd like to see the child there throw a stone, or try a fall with you, or do any of the diverting little tricks that his father teaches him." Ossian consented, and she went over to the cradle and gave Finn a shake. "Wake up, dear," said she, "and amuse the gentleman."

So Finn stretched himself, and Ossian wondered at his black beard, and his great bulk. "'Pon my word," said he, "you're a fine child for your age." Then, turning to Finn's wife, he asked, "Has he cut any of his teeth yet?" She bade him feel his gums. Then Ossian put two of his fingers into Finn's mouth, and the moment they were there Finn bit them to the bone. Ossian jumped round the room with pain. "Ah!" said Finn's wife, "you should see his father's teeth; he thinks nothing of biting off the head of a two-shilling nail, when he uses it for a tooth-pick."

By this time, Ossian was far from comfortable. But he thought he must put the best face on it; so he said to Finn, "Come, my lad, let us see how your father teaches you to wrestle."

Finn did not say a word, but grappled Ossian round the waist, and laid him sprawling on the ground before he could say "Jack Robinson." Ossian picked himself up, very sulkily, and rubbed the place that had come in contact with the hard floor of the kitchen.

"Now," said Finn's wife, "may-be you'd like to see the child throw a stone." And then Finn went in front of the house, where there was a heap of great rocks, and he took up the very identical stone which now stands in the Breaks of Ballynascorey, and flung it all the way from the hill of Allen. To this day it bears the marks of Finn's five fingers and thumb – for his hand was not like an ordinary hand – when he grasped it; and to this day, also, that stone bears Finn's name.

Ossian was greatly surprised, as well he might be, at such a cast. He asked, "Could your father throw such a stone much farther?" – "Is it my father?" said Finn: "faith, he'd cast it all the way to America, or Scotland, or the Western Injes, and think nothing of it!"

This was enough for Ossian. He would not venture on a trial of strength with the father, when the son could beat him. So he pretended to recollect some sudden business that called him back, posthaste, to Scotland, thinking he never could get away half quick enough. And the stone remains where Finn threw it, and, if you only go that way, any one on or near the Sigham mountain will show you Finn Mac Coul's Finger-Stone.

IRISH STORIES

THE PETRIFIED PIPER

CHAPTER I. – WHO THE PIPER WAS

Irish Legends almost invariably remind me of the Field of Waterloo. When our tourists rushed en masse, to behold the plain on which the destinies of Europe had been decided, they exhibited the usual relic-hunting and relic-buying mania. Bullets and helmet ornaments, rusty pistols and broken swords, buttons and spurs, and such things-actually found on the battle-field-were soon disposed of, while of the tourists it might be said, as of the host of Dunsinane, "The cry is still 'they come!'" So, the demand exceeding the legitimate supply, the Belgian peasantry began to dispose of fictitious relics, and a very profitable trade it was for a long time. To this day, they are carefully manufactured, "to order," by more than one of the hardware makers of Birmingham.

In the same manner, Irish legends having become a marketable commodity (Carleton and Crofton Croker, Banim and Griffin, Lover and Whitty, having worked the vein deeply), people had recourse to invention instead of tradition-like George Psalmanazar's History of Formosa, in which fiction supplied the place of fact. Very amusing, no doubt; but not quite fair. More ingenious than honest. Therefore, the Irish story I shall relate, if it possesses none other, shall have the merit, at least, of being "founded on facts."

Fermoy is one of the prettiest towns in Ireland. It is not very remote from that very distinguished Southern metropolis-of pigs and porter-known as "the beautiful city of Cork." Midway between city and town lies Water-grass-hill, a pretty village, located on the highest arable land in Ireland, and now immortal as having once been the residence of the celebrated Father Prout. Some people prefer the country-town to the crowded city: for, though its trade be small, its society rather too fond of scandal, its church without a steeple, and its politicians particularly intolerant, Fermoy is in the heart of a fertile and picturesque tract, and there flows through it that noble river, the Blackwater, honorably mentioned by Spenser, and honored in later song as the scene where might be beheld

"The trout and the salmon
A-playing backgammon.
All on the banks of sweet Castle Hyde."

The scenery around Fermoy is indeed most beautiful, and above all (in more meanings than one) towers Corrig Thierna-the Lord's rock, commonly spoken of as Corran-which, to such of the inhabitants as have not seen greater elevations, appears a mountain entitled to vie with what they have heard of the Alps, Appenines, or Andes.

Although Fermoy now contains fully seven hundred houses (exclusive of stables and pigsties), and a population of nearly seven thousand souls, men, women, and children-to say nothing of horses, oxen, sheep, mules, donkies, cats, dogs, and such other creatures as have no souls-it was not always so extensive and populous.

In every town a high traditional authority is constantly referred to as "within the memory of the oldest inhabitant," and it may be stated, on this antique authority, that, not much more than half a century since, Fermoy was a very small and obscure hamlet, consisting of no more than one little pothouse and half a dozen other mud-cabins, luxuriantly located, with some ingenuity, so as to enjoy, front and rear, a maximum of the morning and afternoon sunshine. These domiciles were ranged in a row, and hence arose the figurative saying, "All on one side, like the town of Fermoy." The energy, ability, and capital of one man (the late John Anderson, who introduced mail-coaches into Ireland), raised the village of Fermoy into a populous and thriving town, which, in 1809, was a merry place-partly owing to the mirth whose chief minister was Remmy Carroll, son of old Carroll, the piper.

As Remmy is the hero of my tale, it is only proper that I should describe him. Irish parlance emphatically distinguished him as "a mighty clever boy," which did not mean a compliment to his capacity or acquirements, but was simply a figure of speech to declare that this Hibernian Orpheus stood about "six feet two in his stocking-vamps." Remmy Carroll's personal appearance was not quite as distingué as that of his great contemporary, Beau Brummell. His coat, originally of blue frieze, had worn down, by age and service, to a sort of bright gray, tessellated, like mosaic-work, with emendations of the original substance carefully annexed thereto by Remmy's own industrious fingers. The garment, like the wearer, had known many a fray, and Remmy was wont to observe, jocularly, when he sat down to repair these breaches, that then, like a man of landed property, he was occupied in "taking his rents."

Care is not very likely to kill a man who can jest upon his own poverty. Accordingly, Remmy Carroll was as light-hearted a fellow as could be met with in town or country. He was a gentleman accustomed to live how and where he could, and he was welcomed everywhere. It was mentioned, as an undoubted fact, that where men of substance-rich farmers and thriving shopkeepers-had been very coldly received by bright-eyed angels in petticoats, looks and even words of encouragement had been extended to Remmy Carroll. The fair sex are proverbially of a kind nature, especially towards young men, who, like Carroll, have handsome features and jocund speech, lofty stature and winning smiles, that symmetry of limb which pleases the eye, and that subduing conversation which pleases the ear. What was more, Remmy Carroll knew very well-none better! – that he was a favorite with the rose-cheeked Venuses of Fermoy and its vicinity. It may be mentioned also-as sotto voce as type can express it-that he was also perfectly aware that he was a very personable fellow, what Coleridge has described as "a noticeable man." Was there ever any one, no matter of what age or sex, possessing personal advantages, who was not fully aware of the fact?

It would be tedious to expatiate very particularly upon the extent and variety of Remmy Carroll's accomplishments. He followed the hereditary profession of his family, and was distinguished, far and near, for his really splendid execution on the Irish pipes-an instrument which can be made to "discourse most excellent music," and must never be confounded with the odious drone of the Scottish bag-pipes. Remmy's performance could almost excite the very chairs, tables, and three-legged stools to dance. One set of pipes is worth a dozen fiddles, for it can "take the shine out of them all" in point of loudness. But then, these same pipes can do more than make a noise. The warrior, boldest in the field, is gentlest at the feet of his ladye-love; and so, the Irish pipes, which can sound a strain almost as loud as a trumpet-call, can also breathe forth a tide of gushing melody-sweet, soft, and low as the first whisper of mutual love. You have never felt the eloquent expression of Irish music, if you have not heard it from the Irish pipes.[3 - This praise of the Irish pipes is by no means exaggerated. The last performer of any note, in Fermoy, was an apothecary, named O'Donnell, who certainly could make them discourse "most eloquent music." He died about fifteen years ago. It was almost impossible to listen with dry eyes and unmoved heart to the exquisite manner in which he played the Irish melodies-the real ones, I mean-not those which Tom Moore and Sir John Stevenson had "adopted" (and emasculated) for polite and fashionable piano-forte players and singers. There is now in New York a gentleman, named Charles Ferguson, whose performance on the Irish pipes may be said to equal-it could not surpass-that of O'Donnell.] It is quite marvellous that, amid all the novelties of instrumentation (if I may coin a word) which are thrust upon the patient public, season after season-including the Jews'-harping of Eulenstein, the chin-chopping of Michael Boiai, and the rock-harmonicon of the Derbyshire mechanics-no one has thought of exhibiting the melodious performance of an Irish really were a first-rate performer, he could not fail to please, to delight, to astonish. But, again I say, do not confound the sweet harmony of the Irish with the drony buzz of the Scotch pipes.

Remmy Carroll's accomplishments were not limited to things musical. He could out-walk, out-run, and out-leap any man in the barony of Condons and Clongibbons; aye, or of any five other baronies in the county of Cork, the Yorkshire of Ireland. He could back the most vicious horse that ever dared to rear and kick against human supremacy. He had accepted the challenge scornfully given to the whole world, by Big Brown of Kilworth, to wrestle, and had given him four fair falls out of five, a matter so much taken to heart by the said Big one, that he emigrated to London, where, overcome with liquor and loyalty, he was tempted to enlist in an infantry regiment, and was shot through the head at the storming of Badajoz some short time after.

Remmy Carroll could do, and had done more than defeat Brown. He could swim like a fish, was the only man ever known to dive under that miniature Maëlstrom which eddies at the base of The Nailer's Rock (nearly opposite Barnäan Well), and, before he was one-and-twenty, had saved nine unfortunates from being drowned in the fatal Blackwater.[4 - There really was a person named Carroll residing in Fermoy at the date of this story. He was of gigantic stature and strength, with the mildest temper ever possessed by mortal man. He was noted for his excellence in swimming and his remarkable skill as a diver. Whenever any person had been drowned in the Blackwater, (which runs through Fermoy,) Carroll was sent for, and never quitted the river until he had found the body. There is one part considered particularly dangerous, opposite Barnäan Well, in which a large projection, called the Nailer's Rock, shelves out into the water, making an under-current of such peculiar strength and danger, that even expert swimmers avoid it, from a fear of being drawn within the vortex. Many lives have been lost in this fatal eddy, into which Carroll was accustomed to dive, most fearlessly, in search of the bodies. It was calculated that Carroll had actually saved twenty-two persons from being drowned, and had recovered over fifty corpses from the river. When he died, which event happened at the commencement of the bathing season, a general sorrow fell upon all classes in the town of Fermoy, and for several weeks no one ventured into the river. It was as if their guardian and safeguard had departed. In my youth, passed on the banks of the Blackwater, there was a belief that whenever one person was drowned in that river, two others were sure to follow, in the same season.]

No man in the county could beat him at hurly, or foot-ball. He was a crack hand at a faction-fight on a fair day-only, as a natural spirit of generosity sometimes impelled him, with a reckless chivalry, to side with the weaker party, he had, more than once, been found magnanimously battling against his own friends.

Yet more. – Having had the advantage of three years' instruction at Tim Daly's far-famed Academy, Remmy Carroll was master of what a farmer, more alliterative than wise, called "the mystery of the three R's: – Reading, 'Riting, and 'Rithmetic." He knew, by the simple taste, when the Potheen was sufficiently "above proof." He had a ten-Irishman power of love-making, and while the maidens (with blushes, smiles, and softly-similated angers) would exclaim, "Ah, then, be done, Remmy! – for a deluder as ye are!" there usually was such a sly intelligence beaming from their bright eyes, as assured him that he was not unwelcome; and then he felt it his duty to kiss them into perfect good-humor and forgiveness. – But I am cataloguing his accomplishments at too much length. Let it suffice to declare, that Remmy Carroll was confessedly the Admirable Crichton of the district.

He was an independent citizen of the world-for he had no particular settled habitation. He was a popular character-for every habitation was open to him, from Tim Mulcahy's, who lived with his wife and pig, in a windowless mud-cabin, at the foot of Corran, to Mr. Bartle Mahony's two-story slated house, on a three hundred acre farm, at Carrigabrick, on the banks of the Blackwater. At the latter abode of wealth, however, Remmy Carroll had not lately called.

Mr. Bartholomew Mahony-familiarly called "Bartle" – was a man of substance. Had he lived now, he might have sported a hunter for himself, and set up a jaunting-car for his daughter. But the honest, well-to-do farmer had at once too much pride and sagacity to sink into the Squireen. He was satisfied with his station in life, and did not aspire beyond it. He was passing rich in the world's eye. Many, even of the worldlings, thought less of his wealth than of his daughter, Mary. Of all who admired, none loved her half so well as poor Remmy Carroll, who loved the more deeply, because very hopelessly, inasmuch as her wealth and his own poverty shut him out from all reasonable prospect of success. He admired-nay, that is by far too weak a word: he almost adored her, scarcely daring to confess, even to his own heart, how closely her image was blended with the very life of his being.

Mary Mahony was an Irish beauty; that most indescribable of all breathing loveliness, with dark hair, fair skin, and violet eyes, a combination to which the brilliant pencil of Maclise has often rendered justice. She had a right to look high, in a matrimonial way, for she was an heiress in her own right. She had £500 left her as a legacy by an old maiden-aunt, near Mitchelstown, who had taken care of her from her twelfth year, when she left the famous Academy of the renowned Tim Daly (where she and Remmy used to write together at the same desk), until some eight months previous to the date of this authentic narrative, when the maiden-aunt died, bequeathing her property, as aforesaid, to Mary Mahony, who then returned to her father.

With all her good fortune, including the actual of the legacy, and the ideal of inheritance to her father's property-with beauty sufficient to have turned the head of any other damsel of eighteen, Mary Mahony was far from pride or conceit. She had the lithest form and the most graceful figure in the world, but many maidens, with far less means, wore much more showy and expensive apparel. Her dark hair was plainly braided off her white brow, in bands, in the simplest and most graceful manner; while, from beneath, gleamed orbs so beautiful, that one might have said to her, in the words of John Ford, the dramatist,

"Once a young lark
Sat on thy hand, and gazing on thine eyes,
Mounted and sung, thinking them moving skies."

The purple stuff gown (it was prior to the invention of merinos and muslins-de-laine), which, in its close fit, exhibited the exquisite beauty of her form, and set off, by contrast, the purity of her complexion, was also a within-doors article of attire: when she went out, she donned a long cloak of fine blue cloth, with the sides and hood neatly lined with pink sarsnet. Young and handsome Irish girls, in her rank of life, were not usually satisfied, at that time, with a dress so quiet and so much the reverse of gay.

But Mary Mahony's beauty required nothing to set it off. I do not exaggerate when I say that it was literally dazzling. I saw her twenty years after the date of this narrative, and was even then struck with admiration of her matured loveliness; – how rich, then, must it have been in the bud!