Читать книгу Seventy Years of Irish Life - William Richard le Fanu - Страница 9

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Good will of the peasantry before 1831—A valentine—A justice’s bulls—A curious sight indeed—Farms to grow fat on—Some cooks—“What the Dean wears on his legs”—Bloodthirsty gratitude—Old servants and their theories.

From the year 1826 to 1831 we lived on most friendly terms with the peasantry. They appeared to be devoted to us; if we had been away for a month or two, on our return they met us in numbers some way from our home, took the horses from the carriage and drew it to our house amid deafening cheers of welcome, and at night bonfires blazed on all the neighbouring hills. In all their troubles and difficulties the people came to my father for assistance. There was then no dispensary nor doctor near us, and many sick folk or their friends came daily to my mother for medicine and advice; I have often seen more than twenty with her of a morning. Our parish priest also was a special friend of ours, a constant visitor at our home. In the neighbouring parishes the same kindly relations existed between the priest and his flock and the Protestant clergyman. But in 1831 all this was suddenly and sadly changed when the tithe war, of which I shall say more by-and-by, came upon us.

A VALENTINE.

Amongst our neighbours was a Mr. K——, who lived about five miles from us, and had a very pretty daughter, with whose beauty and brightness my brother, when about nineteen, was much taken. In those days it was the custom on St. Valentine’s Day for every lover to send a “valentine” to the lady of his heart, so to Miss K—— he sent the following:—

“Life were too long for me to bear If banished from thy view; Life were too short a thousand year, If life were passed with you. “Wise men have said, ‘Man’s lot on earth Is grief and melancholy,’ But where thou art there joyous mirth Proves all their wisdom folly. “If fate withhold thy love from me, All else in vain were given; Heaven were imperfect wanting thee, And with thee earth were heaven.”

After a few days he wrote to her the further lines which follow:—

“My dear good madam, You can’t think how very sad I’m; I sent you, or mistake myself foully, A very excellent imitation of the poet Cowley, Containing three very fair stanzas, Which number, Longinus, a very critical man, says, And Aristotle, who was a critic ten times more caustic, To a nicety fits a valentine or an acrostic. And yet for all my pains to this moving epistle I have got no answer, so I suppose I may go whistle. Perhaps you’d have preferred that like an old monk I had pattered on In the style and after the manner of the unfortunate Chatterton; Or that, unlike my very reverend daddy’s son, I had attempted the classicalities of the dull, though immortal Addison. I can’t endure this silence another week; What shall I do in order to make you speak? Shall I give you a trope In the manner of Pope, Or hammer my brains like an old smith To get out something like Goldsmith? Or shall I aspire on The same key touched by Byron, And laying my hand its wire on, With its music your soul set fire on By themes you ne’er can tire on? Or say, I pray, Would a lay Like Gay Be more in your way? I leave it to you, Which am I to do? It plain on the surface is That any metamorphosis, Which to effect you study, You may work on my soul or body. Your frown or your smile makes me Savage or Gay In action, as well as in song; And if ‘tis decreed I at length become Gray, Express but the word, and I’m Young. And if in the church I should ever aspire With friars and abbots to cope, By a nod, if you please, you can make me a Prior— By a word you can render me Pope. If you’d eat, I’m a Crabbe; if you’d cut, I’m your Steel, As sharp as you’d get from the cutler; I’m your Cotton whene’er you’re in want of a reel, And your livery carry, as Butler. I’ll ever rest your debtor If you’ll answer my first letter; Or must, alas I eternity Witness your taciturnity? Speak—and oh! speak quickly— Or else I shall grow sickly, And pine, And whine, And grow yellow and brown As e’er was mahogany, And lay me down And die in agony. P.S. You’ll allow I have the gift To write like the immortal Swift.”

JUSTICE’S BULLS.

There were not many other gentry in our neighbourhood. One of those nearest to us was Captain Evans, of Ashroe, whose father had recently died. He had been a man of little education, but a stirring magistrate during the disturbances which had occurred some time previously. Many stories were told of him. It was said that in forwarding his reports on the state of the country to the authorities in Dublin Castle, he always began his letter, “My dear Government.” In one of these reports he said, “You may rely on it, I shall endeavour to put down all nocturnal meetings, whether by day or by night.” It was also told that in committing a man for climbing over his garden wall, he added the following words to the charge:—“He did there and then feloniously say that he would be damned if he wouldn’t climb over it as often as he pleased.” I forget whether it was he who was foreman of a jury in a libel case, in which the libel was that the plaintiff had been accused of stealing a goose. The verdict of the jury was, “We find for the plaintiff, with damages, the price of a goose.”

Another neighbour of ours was the Rev. George Madder, Rector of Ballybrood, an old bachelor, who lived with a maiden sister, an elderly lady, solemn and stately, whom he held in great awe. She was very fond of flowers. When arranging some one morning in the drawing-room, she found a curious blossom which she had never seen before. Just as she discovered it her gardener passed the window, which was open. “Come in, James,” she called to him; “I want to show you one of the most curious things you ever saw.” James accordingly came in. Miss Madder sat down, not perceiving that the bottom of the chair had been lifted out. Down she went through the frame, nearly sitting on the floor. James went into fits of laughter, and said, “Well, ma’am, sure enough, it is one of the most curious things I ever seen in my life.” “Stop, James,” said she; “conduct yourself, and lift me out.” “Oh, begorra, ma’am, I can’t stop,” said he; “it’s so curious; it bates all I ever seen.” It was some time before she could make him understand that her performance was not what he had been called in to see; and when he had helped her up, he was dismissed with a strong rebuke for his levity.

Mr. Madder was very fond of riding. He had bought a spirited young horse, which ran away with him and threw him; but he escaped with a few bruises. Shortly afterwards my father met him, and said, “I hope, Madder, you are none the worse for your fall.” “I’m all right, thank you, Dean,” said he. “And how is Miss Madder?” said my father; “she must have got a fright.” “She is quite well,” said he, “but rather skittish, rather skittish.” He was rather deaf, and thought my father was inquiring for the mare, not for Miss Madder. I am not sure whether it was she who, when my father, at dinner, had helped her to turkey, at once said to him, “Sir, did you ever see a dean stuffed with chestnuts?” meaning of course to have asked, “Mr. Dean, did you ever see a turkey stuffed with chestnuts?”

HIGH FARMING.

Two of our more distant neighbours were Considine of Dirk and Croker of Ballinagard, both men of considerable property, and each having in his hands a large farm. It was a moot point which held the richer land; each maintained the superiority of his own. At one time Considine had a farm to let. A man from the county of Kerry, where the land is very poor, came to see it, with a view of becoming tenant. “My good man,” said Considine, “I don’t think you are the man to take a farm like this. It is not like your miserable Kerry land, where a mountain sheep can hardly get enough to eat. You don’t know how the grass grows here! It grows so fast and so high, that if you left a heifer out in that field there at night, you would scarcely find her in the morning.” “Bedad, yer honour,” replied the Kerry man, “there’s many a part of my own county where, if you left a heifer out at night, the devil a bit of her you’d ever see again!”

In a dispute as to the comparative merits of their farms, “I tell you what,” said Considine, “an acre of Dirk would fatten a bullock.” “Don’t tell me!” said Croker; “an acre of Ballinagard would fatten a bullock and a sheep.” “What is that to Dirk?” said the other; “I tell you an acre of Dirk would fatten Spaight of Limerick.” Spaight was a merchant in Limerick, the thinnest man in the county.

This reminds me of a story recently told me of a Roman Catholic bishop, one of the most agreeable men in Ireland. Cardinal Manning, who was, as we all know, as thin and emaciated as “Spaight of Limerick,” when in Liverpool was visiting a convent where an Irishwoman was cook. She begged and prayed for the blessing of the cardinal. The lady superior presented the request to him, with which he kindly complied. The cook was brought in, knelt down before him, and received his blessing; whereupon she looked up at him, and said, “May the Lord preserve your Eminence, and oh, may God forgive your cook!”

NO WOMAN.

Apropos of cooks, I may here mention one who lived with my grandmother, and had formerly been cook to a Mrs. Molloy, a lady who was housekeeper to the Irish House of Lords, and who had recently died. The cook never ceased talking of Mrs. Molloy, holding her up to the fellow-servants as the highest authority on all points, saying, “Mrs. Molloy wouldn’t have done this,” or “Mrs. Molloy wouldn’t have allowed that.” This irritated the servants, and one day, as she was holding forth in this way, the butler said to her, “For God’s sake, let the woman rest in her grave!” She drew herself up with much dignity, and said, “Mrs. Molloy was no woman; she was a lady; and I’ll not let her rest in her grave for you or for any man.” She described Mrs. Molloy’s splendour when going to the castle, “with a turbot on her head, with beautiful oxe’s feathers in it.” It was she who, hearing her mistress tell the kitchen-maid to say “peas,” not “pays,” said to her, “Don’t mind her; say ‘pays,’ as your honest mother and father did before you.”

Another neighbour of ours was a retired barrister, named Holland, a pompous old gentleman, who lived at Ballyporeen, about two miles from us.

One Saturday afternoon two of my father’s gaiters, both for the same leg, had been sent for repair to one Halloran, a shoemaker in the village of Murroe, not far off, with strict orders to him to mend one, at least, of them that evening, and send it home early next morning. It was near eleven o’clock on Sunday morning—service began at twelve—and the gaiters had not arrived, so the servant told the stable-boy, a wild-looking youth, and as wild as he looked, to run off as fast as he could to Halloran’s, and to bring the gaiters, done or undone—not to come without them. “What is a gaiter?” said the boy. “What the Dean wears on his legs,” said the servant. The boy thought the man had said Holland’s, not Halloran’s, and so off he ran to Ballyporeen, rang violently at the hall door, and, when a servant appeared, said, “Give me what the Dane wears on his legs.” “What do you mean?” said the servant. “I mane what I say, and I must get it, done or undone, so you may as well give it to me at once.” Mr. Holland, hearing loud voices in the hall, came out and asked what the noise was about. “Give me,” said the boy, “what the Dane wears on his legs.” “The boy is mad,” said Holland. “I’m not mad. I must have it, done or undone, and I wonder at a gentleman of your affluence refusing to give it up; but it’s no use for you, for I won’t go till I get it.” Supposing him to be a lunatic, Holland shut the door, and the boy had finally to go home. Meantime Halloran had sent the gaiters in time for my father to wear them going to church.

Some years after this the same boy acted as my fishing attendant or gillie, and, later on, when I was in Dublin, wrote to me to say that he was anxious to emigrate to America, and begging that I would send him a little money to help him to do so. I sent him a few pounds, and received from him the following letter:—

“Honoured Sir,

“God bless you for what you sent me. If I gets on I’ll send as much back; but if I dies, plaze God I’ll meet you in the Lizzum fields, and pay your honour then. But any way you always have the prayers of your humble servant,

“Michael Brien.

“P.S.—Is there any one here that ever done anything to injure or offend you, that your honour would like anything to be done to? I’d like to do something for your honour before I goes, to show how thankful I am.”

When speaking of our coachman, the amateur surgeon, I forgot to mention that he loved to bring in a few French words, which he had picked up in his travels. One day as he drove across a ford on the Bilboa river, near Doon, seeing that my mother was rather frightened, he turned to her and said, “Never fear, madam; but, indeed, if you had a faux pas of a coachman instead of me you might be drowned.” Another day he had been telling me of a robbery of a large quantity of plate from Mr. Loyd’s house at Tower Hill. “I wonder,” I said to him, “how they disposed of all that plate.” “You may be sure,” he said, “they sent it up to them connoisseurs in Dublin.”

My father’s sexton was named Young—a queer old fellow too. When asked his name by any one, his invariable reply was, “Well, sir, I’m Young by name, but old by nature.” One Sunday morning in the vestry room my father could not find his stole. “This is most provoking,” said he; “the congregation will wonder why I do not wear it to-day.” “Let them wonder,” said Young; “but what does it signify if your raverence had not a tack upon you, so long as you preach a good sermon?”

Another day one of the parishioners having died very suddenly, my father said to him, “How terribly sudden the death of poor Keys was!” “Ah! your raverence,” said he, “the Lord gave that poor man no sort of fair play.”

In ploughing a field near the rectory, some old coins had been found; when Young saw some of them he said he did not think they could be very old, for “Don’t you see the family of the Rexes was on the throne when they were made?”

The same mistake has been made by others. Darwin mentions that when in Chili he found a Cornish man, who was settled there, who thought that “Rex” was the name of the reigning family.

My nurse, who still lived with us, said she was sure the coins must have been hid there by the bishops. “What bishops?” I asked her. “The bishops that conquered Ireland long ago,” said she. On my telling her that bishops had never conquered this country, “Well,” said she, “it must have been the danes (deans), or clergy of some sort.”

When first we were at Abington, a peasant girl came two or three times to the rectory with a hare and other game for sale. My father wishing to ascertain whether she came by them honestly, asked her where she got them. “Sure, your raverence,” said she, “my father is poacher to Lord Clare.”

A GRATEFUL POACHER.

Something of the same sort occurred five and twenty years later. When I was engaged as engineer on the railway from Mallow to Fermoy, then in course of construction, a friend asked me to get employment for a man who lived near Doneraile, in whom he felt an interest. I succeeded in getting him a good post under the contractor; he wrote me a letter full of gratitude. He had no doubt heard that I was fond of fishing, and must have thought that what I liked best was eating the trout, not catching them, for to his letter was added the following postscript: “I understand your honour is fond of trouts, so I hopes before long to send your honour some good ones, for I do, sometimes, draw my Lord Doneraile’s preserves by night.” Lord Doneraile very strictly preserved his part of the Awbey river (Spencer’s “gentle Mullagh”), which is famous for the size and beauty of its trout.

It was in the year 1838 that Father Mathew, one of the simplest minded men I have ever known, began his noble temperance work, which soon was crowned with such marvellous and unparalleled success. I have seen several of his monster meetings, where thousands took the pledge; many of the great processions too, marching to meetings. As one of these with bands and banners passed through Sackville Street, a tipsy man, leaning with his back to the railings, was gazing at it with a contemptuous stare, and as my brother and I passed by him we heard him say, “What are they after all? what are they but a pack of cast drunkards?”

Another drunken man, whom a friend was trying to bring to his home some miles away, was constantly crossing from one side of the road to the other, so his friend said to him, “Come on, Pat, come on; the road is long.” “I know it is long,” said Pat; “but it isn’t the length of it, but the breadth of it that is killing me.”

It was only a few months ago that I was told of a man, in like condition, who was knocked down by the buffer of an engine, which was shunting some waggons, near Bray station. He was stunned for a moment, but very slightly hurt. The porters ran to his assistance. One of them said, “Bring him to the station at once.” He thought they meant the police station. “What do you want to take me to the station for?” said he. “You know who I am; and if I have done any damage to your d—— machine, sure I’m able to pay for it?”