Humours of Irish Life Part 23

(Ditto with Tom Whiskey as to fighting.)

General Talmash Barney Broghan.

(A fighting Blacksmith.)

General Mackay Dandy Delaney.

(At present on his keeping--but place of birth unknown.)

Colonels Herbert and Earles Tom M'Roarkin, of Springstown, and Paddy Rafferty, of Dernascrobe.

(Both awfully bellicose, and never properly at peace unless when in a fight.)

The cast of the Catholic leaders was this:--

Monsieur St. Ruth (General of the Irish Forces) Jacky Vengeance.

(An Orangeman who had lost a brother at the battle of Vinegar Hill, hence the nickname of Vengeance.)

Sarsfield Big Jack Tait.

(Master of an Orange Lodge.)

(We know not how far the belief in Sarsfield's immense size is true to fact; but be this as it may, we have it from the tradition that he was a man of prodigious stature, and Jack was six feet four in height, and strong in proportion.)

General Dorrington George Twin.

(Of Mallybarry, another man of prowess in party fights, and an Orangeman.)

Colonel Talbot Lick-Papish Nelson.

Colonel Gordon O'Neill Fighting Grimes.

Sir Charles G.o.dfrey (a young English gentleman of fortune, in love with Colonel Talbot's Daughter, and volunteer in the Irish army) Jemmy Lynch, the fighting tailor.

(He fought for his customers, whether Orange or Green, according as they came in his way.)

Jemima (Colonel Talbot's daughter) Grasey (Grace) Stuart.

(A bouncing virago, at least twelve stone weight.)

Lucinda (wife of Colonel Herbert) Dolly Stuart.

(Her sister, much of the same proportions.)

Ghost c.o.o.ney Mullowney.

(Of the Bohlies, a townland adjoining.)

On the chairs and forms, being the seats of honour, were placed the Protestant portion of the audience, because they were the most wealthy and consequently the most respectable, at least in the eyes of the world--by which we mean the parish. On the barley-sacks were deposited the "Papishes," because they were then the poor and the downtrodden people, so that they and "the Prodestants" sat on opposite sides of the barn. There were no political watch-words, no "three cheers" for either this man or that, owing to the simple reason that no individual present had ever seen a theatre in his life. The only exception was that of an unfortunate flunkey, who had seen a play in Dublin, and shouted "up with the rag," for which, as it was supposed that he meant to turn the whole thing into ridicule, he was kicked out by the Ghost, who, by the way, was one of the stoutest fellows among them, and would have been allotted to a higher part were it not for the vileness of his memory.

At length the play commenced, and went on with remarkable success. The two batches of heroes were in high feather--King William's party (to wit, Tom Whiskey and his friends) standing accidentally on that side of the barn which was occupied by the barley-sacks and the Papishes, and the Catholic generals ranged with the Orange audience on the opposite side. It was now the Ghost's cue to enter from behind the winnowing-cloth, but before the apparition had time to appear, the prompter's attention was struck by a sudden sinking of the party on the sacks, which seemed rather unaccountable. Yet, as it did not appear to have been felt by the parties themselves, who were too much wrapped up in the play, it excited neither notice nor alarm. At length the Ghost came out, dressed in a white sheet his face rendered quite spectral by flour. Sir Charles G.o.dfrey, alias Jemmy Lynch, the tailor, had just concluded the following words, addressed to the Ghost himself, who in life it appeared had been his father:--

"Oh, I'll sacrifice A thousand Romish sowls who, shocked with woe, Shall, bound in shackles, fill the shades below."

Ghost.--"Be not so rash, wild youth----"

He had scarcely uttered the words when a noise like the "crack of doom"

was heard: one-half of the barn-floor had disappeared! The Ghost made a step to approach Sir Charles, his son, when the last object we saw was his heels--his legs dressed in blue woollen stockings and his st.u.r.dy hinder parts cased in strong corduroys, in the act of disappearing in the abyss beneath. Down he and the others went, and were lodged in the cow-house below amid the warm manure.

The consternation, the alarm, the fright and terror among the safe and Protestant side of the audience, could not be described. But the disaster proved to be one of the most harmless for its nature that ever occurred, for it was only destructive to property. Not a single injury was sustained with the exception of that which befell the Ghost, who had his arm dislocated at the elbow. The accident now resumed a religious hue. The Catholics charged the others with the concoction of a Protestant plot, by putting them together on what they called the rotten side of the house. The wrangle became high and abusive, and was fast hastening into polemical theology, when the _dramatis personae_ offered to settle it in a peaceable way, by fighting out the battle on the green. It was the scene of terrible and strong confusion, so much so that all we can glean from our recollection is the image of a desperate personal conflict between the actors whose orange and green ribbons were soon flung off as false emblems of the principles which they had adopted only for the sake of ending the play in a peaceable manner.

The Quare Gander.

_From "The Purcell Papers."_

BY JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU

Terence Mooney was an honest boy and well-to-do--an' he rinted the biggest farm on this side iv the Galties, an' bein' mighty cute an' a sevare worker, it was small wonder he turned a good penny every harvest; but, unluckily, he was blessed with an ilegant large family iv daughters, an' iv coorse his heart was allamost bruck, strivin' to make up fortunes for the whole of them--an' there wasn't a conthrivance iv any sort of description for makin' money out iv the farm but he was up to. Well, among the other ways he had iv gettin' up in the world, he always kep' a power iv turkies, and all soarts iv poultry; an' he was out iv all raison partial to geese--an' small blame to him for that same--for twiste a year you can pluck them as bare as my hand--an' get a fine price for the feathers, and plenty of rale sizeable eggs--an' when they are too ould to lay any more, you can kill them, an' sell them to the gintlemen for goslings, d'ye see,--let alone that a goose is the most manly bird that is out. Well, it happened in the coorse iv time, that one ould gandher tuck a wondherful likin' to Terence, an' sorra a place he could go serenadin' about the farm, or lookin' afther the men, but the gandher id be at his heels, an' rubbin' himself agin his legs, and lookin' up in his face just like any other Christian id do; and the likes iv it was never seen, Terence Mooney an' the gandher wor so great.

An' at last the bird was so engagin' that Terence would not allow it to be plucked any more; an' kept it from that time out for love an'

affection; just all as one like one iv his children. But happiness in perfection never lasts long; an' the neighbours begin'd to suspect the nathur and intentions iv the gandher; an' some iv them said it was the divil, and more iv them that it was a fairy. Well Terence could not but hear something of what was sayin', and you may be sure he was not altogether aisy in his mind about it, an' from one day to another he was gettin' more ancomfortable in himself, until he detarmined to sind for Jer Garvan, the fairy docthor in Garryowen, an' it's he was the ilegant hand at the business, and sorra a sperit id say a cra.s.s word to him, no more nor a priest; an' moreover, he was very great wid ould Terence Mooney, this man's father that was. So without more about it, he was sent for; an' sure enough, not long he was about it, for he kem back that very evening along wid the boy that was sint for him; an' as soon as he was there, an' tuk his supper, an' was done talkin' for a while, he bigined, of coorse, to look into the gandher. Well, he turned it this way an' that way, to the right and to the left, an' straight-ways, an'

upside down, an' when he was tired handlin' it, says he to Terence Mooney:

"Terence," says he, "you must remove the bird into the next room," says he, "an' put a petticoat," says he, "or any other convaynience round his head," says he.

"An' why so?" says Terence.

"Becase," says Jer, says he.

"Becase what?" says Terence.

"Becase," says Jer, "if it isn't done--you'll never be aisy agin," says he, "or pusilanimous in your mind," says he; "so ax no more questions, but do my biddin," says he.

"Well," says Terence, "have your own way," says he.

An' wid that he tuk the ould gandher, and giv' it to one iv the gossoons.

"An' take care," says he, "don't smother the crathur," says he.

Well, as soon as the bird was gone, says Jer Garvan, says he, "Do you know what that ould gandher is, Terence Mooney?"

"Sorra a taste," says Terence.

"Well, then," says Jer, "the gandher is your own father," says he.

"It's jokin' you are," says Terence, turnin' mighty pale; "how can an ould gandher be my father?" says he.

"I'm not funnin' you at all," says Jer, "it's thrue what I tell you--it's your father's wandherin' sowl," says he, "that's naturally tuk p.i.s.session iv the ould gandher's body," says he; "I know him many ways, and I wondher," says he, "you do not know the c.o.c.k iv his eye yourself,"

says he.

"Oh!" says Terence, "what will I ever do, at all, at all," says he; "it's all over wid me, for I plucked him twelve times at the laste,"

says he.

"That can't be helped now," says Jer, "it was a sevare act, surely,"

says he, "but it's too late to lamint for it now," says he; "the only way to prevint what's past," says he, "is to put a stop to it before it happens," says he.