*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 53982 ***

                        THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

      NUMBER 7.        SATURDAY, AUGUST 15, 1840.         VOLUME I.

[Illustration: REMAINS AT MONASTERBOICE. COUNTY LOUTH.]

To the observing and imaginative traveller, our island must present a
great number of peculiarities of aspect which will not fail to excite his
notice, and impress themselves indelibly upon his mind. The scantiness of
wood--for its natural timber has nearly all disappeared--and the abundance
of water, are two of the characteristics that will most strike him; and,
next to these, the great extent of prospect usually afforded to the eye in
consequence of the undulating character of its surface. Sparkling streams
are visible everywhere, and shining lakes and noble rivers come into view
in rapid succession; while ranges of blue mountains are rarely wanting to
bound the distant horizon. The colours with which Nature has painted the
surface of our island are equally peculiar. There is no variety of green,
whether of depth or vivid brightness, which is not to be found covering
it; they are hues which can be seen nowhere else in equal force; and even
our bogs, which are so numerous, with all their mutations of colour, now
purple, and anon red, or brown, or black, by their vigorous contrasts give
additional beauty and life to the landscape, and assist in imparting to it
a sort of national individuality. Our very clouds have to a great degree a
distinctive character--the result of the humidity of our climate; they
have a grandeur of form and size, and a force of light and shadow, that
are but rarely seen in other countries; they are _Irish clouds_--at one
moment bright and sunny, and in the next flinging their dark shadows over
the landscape, and involving it in gloomy grandeur. It is in this striking
force of contrast in almost every thing that we look at, that the
peculiarity of our scenery chiefly consists; and it appears to have
stamped the general character of our people with those contrasting lights
and shades so well exhibited in our exquisite and strongly-marked national
music, in which all varieties of sentiment are so deeply yet harmoniously
blended as to produce on the mind effects perhaps in some degree
saddening, but withal most delightfully sweet and soothing. A country
marked with such peculiarities is not the legitimate abode of the refined
sensualist of modern times, or the man of artificial pleasure and
heartless pursuits, and all such naturally remain away from it, or visit
it with reluctance; but it is the proper habitation of the poet, the
painter, and, above all, the philanthropist; for nowhere else can the
latter find so extensive a field for the exercise of the godlike feelings
of benevolence and patriotism.

Yet the natural features of scenery and climate which we have pointed out,
interesting as all must admit them to be, are not the only ones that
confer upon our country the peculiar and impressive character which it
possesses. The relics of past epochs of various classes; the monuments of
its Pagan times, as revealed to us in its religious, military, and
sepulchral remains; the ruins of its primitive Christian ages, as
exemplified in its simple and generally unadorned churches, and slender
round towers; the more splendid monastic edifices of later date, and the
gloomy castles of still more recent times--these are everywhere present to
bestow historic interest on the landscape, and bring the successive
conditions and changes of society in bygone ages forcibly before the
mind; so that an additional interest, of a deep and poetical nature, is
thus imparted to views in themselves impressive from their wild and
picturesque appearance. So perfect, indeed, is this harmony of the natural
and artificial characteristics of Irish scenery, so comprehensively do
both tell the history of our country, to which Nature has been most
bountiful, and in which, alas! man has not been happy, that if we were
desirous of giving a stranger a true idea of Ireland, and one that would
impress itself on his mind, we should conduct him to one of our green open
landscapes, where the dark and ruined castle, seated on some rocky height,
or the round tower, with its little parent church, in some sequestered
valley, would be the only features to arrest his attention; and of such a
scene we should say emphatically, This is Ireland! And such a scene is
that which is presented by the ruins represented in our prefixed
illustration.

Passing along the great northern road from Drogheda to Dundalk, and about
four miles from the former, the traveller will find himself in an open
pastoral country, finely undulating, thinly dotted with the cottages of
the peasants, and but little adorned by art. On one side, to his left, he
will see a little group of ruins, with a lofty but shattered round tower,
giving index of their age and character. These are the ruins of the long
since celebrated religious establishment of Monasterboice, one of the most
interesting groups of their kind in Ireland. They consist of two small
churches, a round tower, and three most gorgeously sculptured stone
crosses, standing in the midst of a crowd of tombs and head-stones of
various ages. Both the churches are of great antiquity, though, as their
architectural features clearly show, of widely separated ages--the larger
one exhibiting the peculiarities of the ecclesiastical structures of the
twelfth century, and the smaller those of a much earlier date. Both are
also simple oblongs, consisting of a nave and choir; and the round tower
appears to be of coeval architecture with the earlier church.

The tower, which is of excellent construction, is built of the slatey
limestone of the surrounding hills, and is divided into five stories by
belts of stone slightly projecting. The upper story has four oblong
apertures, and the lower ones are each lighted by an aperture having an
angular top. The doorway, which faces the south-east, has a semicircular
arch, and is constructed of chiselled freestone: it is of the usual height
of five feet six inches, by one foot ten inches in breadth, and is six
feet from the present surface of the ground. The circumference of the
tower is fifty-one feet, and its height is one hundred and ten; but its
original height was greater, as a considerable portion of its top has been
destroyed by lightning.

In these churches and this tower Monasterboice has nothing which may not
be found in many other early religious foundations in Ireland; but in the
magnificence of its sculptured stone crosses it may be said to stand
alone. They are the finest of their class in the country; but, as we shall
make them the subjects of distinct notices, with illustrations, in our
future numbers, it is not necessary for us to enter into a more particular
description of them here.

Monasterboice, or, as it is called in the Irish language,
Mainistir-buite--that is, the monastery of Buite, or Boetius--owes its
origin to a celebrated bishop and abbot of this name who flourished about
the close of the fifth century, and who is said to have been a disciple of
St Patrick: according to our ancient annalists, he died on the 7th of
December 522. Of its subsequent history but little is preserved, beyond a
few scattered records of the deaths of several of its abbots and
professors anterior to the twelfth century, of whom the celebrated poet,
antiquary, and historian, Flann, was the most distinguished, and whose
death is thus recorded in the Annals of the Four Masters:--

“1056. Flann of the Monastery, lecturer of Monasterboice, the last
fountain of knowledge of the Irish, in history, poetry, eloquence, and
general literature, died on the fourth of the calends of December (28th
November), of whom it was said,

    ‘Flann of the great church of sweet Buite,
    The piercing eyes of his smooth head were modest;
    The godly man of Meath was he of whom we speak;
    The last professor of the country of the three Finns was Flann.’”

A considerable number of historical poems by this distinguished man have
descended to our times, of which a list is given in O’Reilly’s Irish
Writers; but his more valuable remains are his Synchronisms of the Irish
Kings, with the Eastern and Roman Emperors, and of the Christian
Provincial Kings of Ireland, and the Kings of Scotland of the Irish race,
with the Chief Monarchs of Ireland. Of these works, which are of
inestimable value to the Irish and Scottish historian, perfect copies are
preserved in the MS. Book of Lecan, in the Library of the Royal Irish
Academy.

The notices in our Annals of the other distinguished men connected with
Monasterboice are of little interest; but as they have never been properly
collected together, we think them worthy of publication, for the use of
the Irish topographical historian, to whom we trust our Journal will
become a valuable repertory of authorities:

722. Ailchon, of Monasterboice, died.

769. Cormac, the son of Ailliolla, Abbot of Monasterboice, was drowned in
the Boyne.

786. Dubdainber, the son of Cormac, Abbot of Monasterboice, died.

800. Cuanna, Abbot of Monasterboice, died.

836. Flaithri, Abbot of Monasterboice, a Bishop and Anchorite, died.

844. Muireadhach, the son of Flann, Abbot of Monasterboice, died.

853. Radgus, the son of Maicniada, Abbot of Monasterboice, was drowned in
the Boyne.

864. Colga and Aodh, two Abbots of Monasterboice, died this year.

875. Maolpatrick, the son of Ceallach, Abbot of Monasterboice, died.

881. Dunadach, the son of Cormac, Abbot of Monasterboice, died.

887. Fothaidh, Abbot of Monasterboice, died.

922. Muireadhach, the son of Donall, Abbot of Monasterboice, chief
beadsman to all the men of Bregia, youths, clerks, and the stewart of
Patrick’s people, from Sliabh Fuaid (the Fews Mountain) to Leinster, died.

933. Maolbrigid, Abbot of Monasterboice, died.

965. Dubdaboirenn, Abbot of Monasterboice, died.

1004. Donall, the son of Macniadha, Abbot of Monasterboice, a Bishop and
Holy Senior, died.

1039. Macniadha, a Bishop, and Abbot of Monasterboice, died.

1059. Donall, the son of Eodhossa, Abbot of Monasterboice, died.

1067. Echtigern, the son of Flann, Aircinneach of Monasterboice, died.

1117. Eogan, the son of Echtigern, Abbot of Monasterboice, died.

These notices, extracted from the Annals of Ulster, and of the Four
Masters, will show the great antiquity of the Abbey of Monasterboice, as
well as the distinguished rank which it held among the religious
establishments of Ireland previous to the occupation of the ancient
kingdom of Meath by the English, after which period it disappears from
history.

The following records from the same authorities relate to its general
history:--

968. Monasterboice and Lan Lere were plundered on the Danes by Donall,
King of Ireland, and he burned three hundred and fifty of them in one
house.

1097. The _Cloictheach_ (viz. round tower belfry) of Monasterboice,
containing books and several other valuables, was burned.

This last notice, and many others of the kind which occur in our Annals,
are of great value in showing the original uses of our round towers, as
set forth in Mr Petrie’s Essay on the Round Towers of Ireland, now in
course of publication.

In concluding these notices of a spot so long the abode of the piety, art,
and learning of remote times, we may add, that in its present deserted and
ruined state it is a scene of the deepest and most solemn interest; and
the mind must indeed be dull and earthly in which it fails to awaken
feelings of touching and permanent interest. Silence and solitude the most
profound are impressed on all its time-worn features; we are among the
dead only; and we are forced, as it were, to converse with the men of
other days. In all our frequent visits to these ruins we never saw a
living human being among them but once. It was during a terrific
thunder-storm, which obliged us to seek shelter behind one of the stone
crosses for an hour. The rain poured down in impetuous torrents, and the
clouds were so black as to give day the appearance of night. It was at
such an awful hour, that a woman of middle age, finely formed, and of a
noble countenance, entered the cemetery, and, regardless of the storm
raging around, flung herself down upon a grave, and commenced singing an
Irish lamentation in tones of heart-rending melancholy and surpassing
beauty. This wail she carried on as long as we remained; and her voice
coming on the ear between the thunder-peals, had an effect singularly wild
and unearthly: it would be fruitless to attempt a description of it. The
reader, if he know what an Irishwoman’s song of sorrow is, must imagine
the effect it would have at such a moment among those lightning-shattered
ruins, and chanted by such a living vocal monument of human woe and
desolation.

We subsequently learned on inquiry that this poor creature’s history was a
sad one; she was slightly crazed, in consequence of the death of her only
son, who had been drowned; and her mania lay in a persuasion, which
nothing could remove, that he was not lost, but would yet return to her to
bless her, and close her long-weeping eyes in peace.

                                                                       P.




THE RED MEN OF AMERICA.

SECOND ARTICLE.


We could relate many instances of the gratitude with which Indians repay a
kindness, and of their firmness in friendship, but our limits restrain us.
We must besides admit, that they are equally resentful of injury as
mindful of favours, and persecute an enemy with as much constancy as they
cherish a friend. Mr Catlin has preserved the portrait of a Mandan chief,
named Mah-to-tôh-pa, or the Four Bears, whose life affords many singular
illustrations of the above truths. We have room for one only. His brother
had been surprised while asleep by a Riccaree, who left the spear with
which he had murdered the sleeping man in the wound, and boasted of what
he had done. The Four Bears took possession of the spear, preserved it
carefully, with the blood of his brother encrusted on its point, and swore
to cover that stain with the heart’s blood of the Riccaree. Many moons
elapsed, many snows even went by, and the Four Bears had not yet found the
much desired opportunity of revenge. At length the _culpability_ of his
enforced delay became too heavy a reproach, and he resolved on seeking the
Riccaree in his distant home, to do which he had to steal his way through
his enemy’s country for hundreds of miles; a task, the difficulty of which
can be appreciated only by those who know the watchfulness of Indian
habits, and the vigilance of those whom he had to circumvent. But “when
Greek meets Greek,” we all know what “comes;” in this case, however,
“diamond-cut-diamond” were perhaps the more appropriate metaphor: let our
readers settle that point. The Four Bears accomplished his task; he had
traversed many a weary plain, had threaded many a tangled forest, swam
many a river; but at length he stood, famished and outworn, before the
village of his enemy. This was surrounded by a stockade, but he overcame
that with little difficulty. It was night, but the dwelling of the
offender was known to him, and entering it, he sat down before the fire,
over which hung a pot containing food, which the provident squaw had set
to simmer through the night. The family were in their beds, which consist
of skins stretched on low frames, and ranged around the walls of the hut.
The Riccaree, the object of the Mandan’s visit, was also on his couch,
with his arms close beside him, as is the custom. But he was not asleep;
the flame as it rose fitfully was reflected from his glittering eyes,
which rested, but with no particular interest, on his visitor. The latter,
conscious that his then exhausted strength was not equal to the _duty_ he
became to perform, sat collected within himself for a certain time; he
then took part of the food that filled the pot, and ate in such measure as
he thought advisable. This done, he lighted his pipe, and sat to smoke it.
The squaw meanwhile had asked her husband what man it was who was reposing
at their hearth. “He is a hungry man, for thou seest he is eating; what
matter for the rest?” was her husband’s reply, and the uninvited guest
concluded his meal without interruption. Was the Mandan shaken by what we
feel to be the most touching appeal of this deep confidence to his better
sympathies? He scarcely felt that it was one. Among Indians, hospitality
is neither offered nor accepted as a matter of favour, but of right, and
of course; nor would he have replied to such an appeal could he have felt
it. He believed himself to be in the performance of a most solemn duty,
and would have scorned all vacillation as weakness. Nor shall we be just
ourselves if we lose sight of this in our abhorrence of his deed.

The pipe of the Mandan exhausted, he adjusted his raiment for departure;
he rose, collected his force, sprang on his unsuspecting host, whom he
stabbed to the heart with the spear already named, then scalped him, and,
springing from the hut, was out of the village, and deep in a neighbouring
watercourse, by the time that his enemies’ dogs were upon him; again, by
many a night march and day of hunger and suffering, he arrived in his
village, _his_ conscience set at rest by the act at which _we_ shudder.

Mr Catlin, who knew this chief intimately, relates many stories of his
bravery and general elevation of character, but we have room for the tale
of his death only. In the year 1837, Mr Catlin had left the friendly
Mandans some three years, when the small-pox was carried among them by the
traders; the whole family of the Four Bears perished by this disease;
wife, child, not one was left him; he stood alone in his desolation, and
gathering the corpses together, he covered all with skins, after the
manner of his people; the songs for the dead then performed, he seated
himself by the mound he had raised, which he addressed from time to time
in the most touching terms of endearment, as each individual composing the
mournful group rose to his memory. This continued through nine days and
nights, during all which he took neither food nor sleep, and on the tenth
he was himself a corpse.

The native American is deeply imbued with religious feeling; no Indian who
maintains a fair character in his tribe is without some place of
retirement for worship and meditation; a lonely tree, a nook in the bank
of a stream, the hollow of a rock, are frequently selected for this
purpose; nor is the habit confined to such tribes as have no fixed
religious ceremonies; it was practised by the Mandans and others, many of
whom possessed oratories such as we have just described, in addition to
their “medicine” or “mystery lodges,” which may be called their public
temples. The Osages, Kansas, and other tribes west of the Mississippi,
never fail to implore the blessing of the Great Spirit on breaking up
their encampments, and they return thanks devoutly for the food they have
found, and the preservation they have experienced, on arriving at the end
of their journey. Thanks and praises are also publicly offered at every
new moon, at the commencement of the buffalo hunts in spring, and at the
ingathering of the corn; at which latter period a feast is held, called
the corn feast: over this, among some tribes, the oldest woman presides.
The Minatarrees boil a large kettle full of the new corn in presence of
all the people, four medicine men, painted with white clay, dancing round
the kettle until its contents are well boiled; these are next burnt to
ashes as an offering to the Great Spirit; the fire is then extinguished;
new fire is immediately created by rubbing two sticks together; with this
they cook the corn for their own feast, and the remainder of the day is
spent in festivity.

Dances are also performed to the Great Spirit on various occasions, as
among the Ojibbeways on the first fall of snow; this is danced in
snow-shoes. All believe in a future state of existence--in the reward of
the good by an eternal residence in pleasant and plentifully supplied
hunting grounds beyond the great waters--and in the punishment of the
wicked by transformation into some loathsome beast, reptile, or insect,
and by banishment to barren, parched, and desolate regions, the abodes of
bad spirits, for a period proportionate to the enormity of their guilt.
Prayers are also offered to the evil spirit in deprecation of his enmity,
but on none of these ceremonies is attendance compelled; that Indian is,
however, less respected, who is known constantly to absent himself from
all.

The “medicine man” of the Indians is at once prophet, priest, and
physician; he has sometimes great influence. The ceremony by which this
dignity is attained among the Sioux, is one involving no little suffering.
The candidate for this honour has innumerable splints of wood driven
through the most sensitive parts of his flesh, and being suspended by some
of these to a pole, with his medicine bag in his hand, he is expected to
keep his eyes steadily fixed on the sun from its rising to its setting,
when he is taken down, and entitled to be called a medicine or mystery man
for the remainder of his life; but he has to make ceaseless efforts for
the support of his character, since the failure of either his cures or his
prophecies renders him liable to universal contempt.

Almost every family has its medicine or mystery bag, which consists of a
beaver or otter skin curiously ornamented; this contains the medicinal
stores and smaller consecrated articles of the family; it is considered a
great disgrace to sell or otherwise part with an article once consecrated,
and the medicine bag is always held sacred and inviolate to every hand but
that of its owner. When a warrior of the Sac and Fox tribe falls in
battle, his widow suspends his mystery bag on the pole before his tent,
and sits herself within the lodge; the warriors, returned from the battle,
and adorned with the scalps they have taken from the enemy, then assemble
before the lodge; they dance to the medicine bag of their lost brother,
and throw presents to his widow, of such articles as they think may best
console her for her loss.

The Indian dwelling is much varied in its form and manner among the
various tribes; the Pawnees, for example, live in lodges thatched with
prairie grass, and which are not unlike immense bee-hives.

The Sioux, the Camanchees, the Crows, and others inhabiting a vast tract
on the upper waters of the Mississippi and Missouri rivers, and extending
to the base of the Rocky Mountains, have moveable tents formed of buffalo
skins richly ornamented, according to Indian notions of ornament, and
fastened to poles sometimes twenty-five feet high; some of these tents
will shelter eighty persons, and require from thirty to thirty-five
buffalo skins to cover them.

The Riccarees, Mandans, &c. are, or _were_, lodged in villages fortified
by strong stockades eighteen feet high; their huts are formed of poles
covered closely and smoothly with earth, and this in process of time
becomes so compact and hard, that men, women, and children, recline and
play on their tops.

It has been sometimes asserted that the Indian people have a common
language, but this is not the case; scarcely any two of their nations
between whom no intercourse exists, possess a language understood by both,
but this inconvenience is obviated by a “language of signs,” so effective
and eloquent that by this every Indian is enabled to communicate with his
brother of whatever nation or tribe, and hence perhaps has arisen the
supposition that all speak a common language. The mode of writing among
Indians is entirely hieroglyphic, and is of course liable to wide
misconstruction; but they lay down maps with no mean degree of accuracy,
and the chiefs wear the boundaries of their hunting-grounds traced on
their robes; a counterpart being kept in the public lodge among such other
records as the nation may possess, and those are referred to if any
dispute arise among neighbouring tribes.

Their manufactures are of course few and simple. Stones are cut into
pestles and mortars, tomahawks, knives, pipes, &c.; pottery is formed for
domestic purposes from the clays furnished by all parts of their country;
mats are woven from grass or rushes, and blankets from the hair of the
buffalo. These articles are mostly the work of the women, who with the
children plant, cultivate, and gather in the crops, collect wild rice and
pash-e-quah, a large bulbous root, in form like the sweet potato and in
taste like the chesnut, but more juicy. Nuts of many sorts, several kinds
of plums, osage oranges, gooseberries, strawberries, and many sorts of
grapes, are also collected in their season. Besides this, the women dress
buffalo skins, procure wood and water, and in some tribes fetch home the
game which the hunter, having tracked and killed, then leaves to their
further disposal.

Beaver and other skins, belts of wampum, and coloured shells ground to an
oval form, serve as coin; but the most important wealth of the Indian is
in his horses and dogs, which assist him in the chase, and of which some
possess great numbers. Many tribes of Indians are exceedingly bold and
expert horsemen, the Camanchees more particularly, many of whom perform
feats of dexterity on their wild horses that would astonish our boldest
equestrians. These men are often seen to throw themselves on one side of
their horses, to avoid the arrows of an enemy or the attack of an enraged
buffalo, in such a manner that the extremity of one foot only seems to
hold by the animal, and that while he continues to move at full speed;
nay, some have been even known to shoot arrows while in that position, the
tenure of which is altogether inconceivable to the European rider.

Their weapons for hunting are lances five or six feet long, and tipped
with stone or the bone of some animal, and bows with arrows similarly
pointed. The buffalo is sometimes hunted by men who have partially
concealed their persons in the skin of the white wolf, and who creep to
within shot of their game by favour of this disguise; for the buffalo,
accustomed to the white wolf, and safe from his attack unless, when,
separated from the herd, he becomes the prey of a pack, permits the
approach of the Indian thus masked, the latter being careful to keep to
leeward of his game, whose scent is very acute.

Indians sometimes drive whole herds of buffalo, elk, and deer, into
impassable ravines or to the brink of precipices, when they slaughter as
many as they may need; but none were ever destroyed wantonly before the
introduction of whisky; whereas at this time whole herds are killed merely
for their skins, the flesh being left to decay on the prairies; and this,
by depopulating the hunting-grounds, induces famine, and is another cause
of Indian suffering and final extinction.

Buffaloes are often destroyed by the panther; solitary individuals
sometimes fall a prey to a pack of wolves; others perish in the burning
prairies, that awfully peculiar feature of the American solitudes; a few
are drowned every season in attempting to cross the ice of rivers not
firmly frozen; but the principal element of their destruction is in the
rapacity of the trader; and it has been calculated that the activity of
this last-named agent will ensure the extermination of this most valuable
creature within a very short period of time.

The education of the Indian child is an object of the most profound
interest, not only to his own family but to the whole tribe. He is taught
to love his country and tribe, to contemn falsehood, to reverence age, to
be modest and silent; he is strictly enjoined to reward a kindness, but
also to avenge an injury; to aid and guard a friend, but also to injure,
by every means in his power, and relentlessly to persecute, an enemy; to
abhor theft, unless it be practised on the property of an enemy, when it
is called highly meritorious. The sports of youth are watched attentively
by their elders, and all evidences of cowardice, meanness, &c., are
followed by the needful discipline. The Indian usually retains his
mother’s name until he has entitled himself, by some remarkable act of
prowess, endurance, &c., to choose one for himself, or been distinguished
by some appellation bestowed by the tribe. Some of these “names” are
sufficiently amusing, as, for example, “He who jumps over every one,” “The
very sweet man,” “The man of good sense,” “No fool,” “The bird that goes
to war,” “He who strikes two at once,” &c. The names of women are not
always inelegant. Take as a specimen of Indian taste in this matter, “The
bending willow,” “The pure fountain,” “The sweet-scented grass.” Others
are scarcely so complimentary, as, “The female bear,” “The woman who lives
in the bear’s den,” “The creature that creeps,” &c.

The constancy with which an Indian endures tortures, is among the best
known traits of his character, but his power of enduring labour has been
less insisted on; nay, it has been denied by those who despair of the
civilization of the race, or who believe that its destruction is a
consequence inevitable to the white man’s progress: but those who so judge
know little of our Red brothers. We could adduce many facts in proof of
this, were our space not wholly exhausted; but we must defer these, as
well as the account we had purposed giving of the very extraordinary
religious ceremonies practised among some of the tribes. We may, however,
possibly return to the subject at some other time.




THE IRISH FIDDLER.

BY W. CARLETON.


What a host of light-hearted associations are revived by that living
fountain of fun and frolic, an Irish fiddler! Every thing connected with
him is agreeable, pleasant, jolly. All his anecdotes, songs, jokes,
stories, and secrets, bring us back from the pressure and cares of life,
to those happy days and nights when the heart was as light as the heel,
and both beat time to the exhilarating sound of his fiddle.

The old harper was a character looked upon by the Irish rather as a
musical curiosity, than a being specially created to contribute to their
enjoyment. There was something about him which they did not feel to be in
perfect sympathy with their habits and amusements. He was above them, not
of them; and although they respected him, and treated him kindly, yet was
he never received among them with that spontaneous ebullition of warmth
and cordiality with which they welcomed their own musician, the fiddler.
The harper, in fact, belonged to the gentry, and to the gentry they were
willing to leave him. They listened to his music when he felt disposed to
play for them, but it only gratified their curiosity, instead of
enlivening their hearts--a fact sufficiently evident from the circumstance
of their seldom attempting to dance to it. This preference, however, of
the fiddle to the harp, is a feeling generated by change of times and
circumstances, for it is well known that in days gone by, when Irish
habits were purer, older, and more hereditary than they are now, the harp
was the favourite instrument of young and old, of high and low.

The only instrument that can be said to rival the fiddle, is the bagpipe;
but every person knows that Ireland is a loving country, and that at our
fairs, dances, weddings, and other places of amusement, Paddy and his
sweetheart are in the habit of indulging in a certain quiet and
affectionate kind of whisper, the creamy tones of which are sadly curdled
by the sharp jar of the chanter. It is not, in fact, an instrument adapted
for love-making. The drone is an enemy to sentiment, and it is an
unpleasant thing for a pretty blushing girl to find herself put to the
necessity of bawling out her consent at the top of her lungs, which she
must do, or have the ecstatic words lost in its drowsy and monotonous
murmur. The bagpipe might do for war, to which, with a slight variation,
it has been applied; but in our opinion it is only fit to be danced to by
an assembly of people who are hard of hearing. Indeed, we have little
doubt but its cultivation might be introduced with good effect as a system
of medical treatment, suitable to the pupils of a deaf and dumb
institution; for if any thing could bring them to the use of their ears,
its sharp and stiletto notes surely would effect that object.

The fiddle, however, is the instrument of all others most essential to the
enjoyment of an Irishman. Dancing and love are very closely connected, and
of course the fiddle is never thought of or heard, without awakening the
tenderest and most agreeable emotions. Its music, soft, sweet, and
cheerful, is just the thing for Paddy, who under its influence partakes of
its spirit, and becomes soft, sweet, and cheerful himself. The very tones
of it act like a charm upon him, and produce in his head such a bland and
delightful intoxication, that he finds himself making love just as
naturally as he would eat his meals. It opens all the sluices of his
heart, puts mercury in his veins, gives honey to a tongue that was, Heaven
knows, sufficiently sweet without it, and gifts him with a pair of feather
heels that Mercury might envy; and to crown all, endows him, while
pleading his cause in a quiet corner, with a fertility of invention, and
an easy unembarrassed assurance, which nothing can surpass. In fact, with
great respect for my friend Mr Bunting, the fiddle it is that _ought_ to
be our national instrument, as it is that which is most closely and
agreeably associated with the best and happiest impulses of the Irish
heart. The very language of the people themselves is a proof of this; for
whilst neither harp nor bagpipe is ever introduced as illustrating
peculiarities of feeling by any reference to their influence, the fiddle
is an agreeable instrument in their hands, in more senses than one.
Paddy’s highest notion of flattery towards the other sex is boldly
expressed by an image drawn from it, for when he boasts that he can, by
honied words, impress such an agreeable delusion upon his sweetheart as to
make her imagine “that there is a fiddler on every rib of the house,”
there can be no metaphor conceived more strongly or beautifully expressive
of the charm which flows from the tones of that sweet instrument. Paddy,
however, is very often hit by his own metaphor, at a time when he least
expects it. When pleading his cause, for instance, and promising golden
days to his fair one, he is not unfrequently met by, “Ay, ay, it’s all
very well now; you’re sugary enough, of coorse; but wait till we’d be a
year married, an’ maybe, like so many others that promised what you do,
you’d never come home to me widout ‘hangin’ up your fiddle behind the
door;’” by which she means to charge him with the probability of being
agreeable when abroad, but morose in his own family.

Having thus shown that the fiddle and its music are mixed up so strongly
with our language, feelings, and amusements, it is now time to say
something of the fiddler. In Ireland it is impossible, on looking through
all the classes of society, to find any individual so perfectly free from
care, or, in stronger words, so completely happy, as the fiddler,
especially if he be blind, which he generally is. His want of sight
circumscribes his other wants, and, whilst it diminishes his enjoyments,
not only renders him unconscious of their loss, but gives a greater zest
to those that are left him, simple and innocent as they are. He is in
truth a man whose lot in life is happily cast, and whose lines have fallen
in pleasant places. The phase of life which is presented to him, and in
which he moves, is one of innocent mirth and harmless enjoyment.
Marriages, weddings, dances, and merry-makings of all descriptions, create
the atmosphere of mirth and happiness which he ever breathes. With the
dark designs, the crimes, and outrages of mankind, he has nothing to do,
and his light spirit is never depressed by their influence. Indeed, he
may be said with truth to pass through none but the festivals of life, to
hear nothing but mirth, to feel nothing but kindness, and to communicate
nothing but happiness to all around him. He is at once the source and the
centre of all good and friendly feelings. By him the aged man forgets his
years, and is agreeably cheated back into youth; the labourer snatches a
pleasant moment from his toil, and is happy; the care-worn ceases to
remember the anxieties that press him down; the boy is enraptured with
delight, and the child is charmed with a pleasure that he feels to be
wonderful.

Surely such a man is important, as filling up with enjoyment so many of
the painful pauses in human misery. He is a thousand times better than a
politician, and is a true philosopher without knowing it. Every man is his
friend, unless it be a rival fiddler, and he is the friend of every man,
with the same exception. Every house, too, every heart, and every hand, is
open to him; he never knows what it is to want a bed, a dinner, or a
shilling. Good heavens! what more than this can the cravings of a human
heart desire! For my part, I do not know what others might aim at; but I
am of opinion that in such a world as this, the highest proof of a wise
man would be, a wish to live and die an Irish fiddler.

And yet, alas! there is no condition of life without some remote or
contingent sorrow. Many a scene have I witnessed connected with this very
subject, that would wring the tears out of any eye, and find a tender
pulse in the hardest heart. It is indeed a melancholy alternative that
devotes the poor sightless lad to an employment that is ultimately
productive of so much happiness to himself and others. This alternative is
seldom resorted to, unless when some poor child--perhaps a favourite--is
deprived of sight by the terrible ravages of the small-pox. In life there
is scarcely any thing more touching than to witness in the innocent
invalid the first effects, both upon himself and his parents, of this
woeful privation. The utter helplessness of the pitiable darkling, and his
total dependence upon those around him--his unacquaintance with the
relative situation of all the places that were familiar to him--his
tottering and timid step, and his affecting call of “Mammy, where are
you?” joined to the bitter consciousness on her part that the light of
affection and innocence will never sparkle in those beloved eyes
again--all this constitutes a scene of deep and bitter sorrow. When,
however, the sense of his bereavement passes away, and the cherished child
grows up to the proper age, a fiddle is procured for him by his parents,
if they are able, and if not, a subscription is made up among their
friends and neighbours to buy him one. All the family, with tears in their
eyes, then kiss and take leave of him; and his mother, taking him by the
hand, leads him, as had been previously arranged, to the best fiddler in
the neighbourhood, with whom he is left as an apprentice. There is
generally no fee required, but he is engaged to hand his master all the
money he can make at dances, from the time he is proficient enough to play
at them. Such is the simple process of putting a blind boy in the way of
becoming acquainted with the science of melody.

In my native parish there were four or five fiddlers--all good in their
way; but the Paganini of the district was the far-famed Mickey M’Rorey.
Where Mickey properly lived, I never could actually discover, and for the
best reason in the world--he was not at home once in twelve months. As
Colley Cibber says in the play, he was “a kind of a here-and-thereian--a
stranger nowhere.” This, however, mattered little; for though perpetually
shifting day after day from place to place, yet it somehow happened that
nobody ever was at a loss where to find him. The truth is, he never felt
disposed to travel _incog._, because he knew that his interest must suffer
by doing so; the consequence was, that wherever he went, a little nucleus
of local fame always attended him, which rendered it an easy matter to
find his whereabouts.

Mickey was blind from his infancy, and, as usual, owed to the small-pox
the loss of his eyesight. He was about the middle size, of rather a
slender make, and possessed an intelligent countenance, on which beamed
that singular expression of inward serenity so peculiar to the blind. His
temper was sweet and even, but capable of rising through the buoyancy of
his own humour to a high pitch of exhilaration and enjoyment. The dress he
wore, as far as I can remember, was always the same in colour and
fabric--to wit, a brown coat, a sober-tinted cotton waistcoat, grey
stockings, and black corduroys. Poor Mickey! I think I see him before me,
his head erect, as the heads of all blind men are, the fiddle-case under
his left arm, and his hazel staff held out like a feeler, exploring with
experimental pokes the nature of the ground before him, even although
some happy urchin leads him onward with an exulting eye; an honour of
which he will boast to his companions for many a mortal month to come.

The first time I ever heard Mickey play was also the first I ever heard a
fiddle. Well and distinctly do I remember the occasion. The season was
summer--but summer _was_ summer then--and a new house belonging to Frank
Thomas had been finished, and was just ready to receive him and his
family. The floors of Irish houses in the country generally consist at
first of wet clay; and when this is sufficiently well smoothed and
hardened, a dance is known to be an excellent thing to bind and prevent
them from cracking. On this occasion the evening had been appointed, and
the day was nearly half advanced but no appearance of the fiddler. The
state of excitement in which I found myself could not be described. The
name of Mickey M’Rorey had been ringing in my ears for God knows how long,
but I had never seen him, or even heard his fiddle. Every two minutes I
was on the top of a little eminence looking out for him, my eyes straining
out of their sockets, and my head dizzy with the prophetic expectation of
rapture and delight. Human patience, however, could bear this painful
suspense no longer, and I privately resolved to find Mickey, or perish. I
accordingly proceeded across the hills, a distance of about three miles,
to a place called Kilnahushogue, where I found him waiting for a guide. At
this time I could not have been more than seven years of age; and how I
wrought out my way over the lonely hills, or through what mysterious
instinct I was led to him, and that by a path too over which I had never
travelled before, must be left unrevealed, until it shall please that
Power which guides the bee to its home, and the bird for thousands of
miles through the air, to disclose the principle upon which it is
accomplished.

On our return home I could see the young persons of both sexes flying out
to the little eminence I spoke of, looking eagerly towards the point we
travelled from, and immediately scampering in again, clapping their hands,
and shouting with delight. Instantly the whole village was out, young and
old, standing for a moment to satisfy themselves that the intelligence was
correct; after which, about a dozen of the youngsters sprang forward, with
the speed of so many antelopes, to meet us, whilst the elders returned
with a soberer but not less satisfied manner into the houses. Then
commenced the usual battle, as to who should be honoured by permission to
carry the fiddle-case. Oh! that fiddle-case! For seven long years it was
an honour exclusively allowed to myself, whenever Mickey attended a dance
any where at all near us; and never was the Lord Chancellor’s mace--to
which, by the way, with great respect for his lordship, it bore a
considerable resemblance--carried with a prouder heart or a more exulting
eye. But so it is--

    “These little things are great to _little_ men.”

“Blood alive. Mickey, you’re welcome!” “How is every bone of you, Mickey?
Bedad we gev you up.” “No, we didn’t give you up, Mickey; never heed him;
sure we knew very well you’d not desart the Towny boys--whoo!--Fol de rol
lol.” “Ah, Mickey, won’t you sing ‘There was a wee devil come over the
wall?’” “To be sure he will, but wait till he comes home and gets his
dinner first. Is’t off an empty stomach you’d have him to sing?” “Mickey,
give me the fiddle-case, won’t you, Mickey?” “No, to _me_, Mickey.” “Never
heed them, Mickey: you promised it to me at the dance in Carntaul.”

“Aisy, boys, aisy. The truth is, none of yez can get the fiddle-case.
Shibby, my fiddle, hasn’t been well for the last day or two, and can’t
bear to be carried by any one barrin’ myself.”

“Blood alive! sick is it, Mickey?--an’ what ails her?”

“Why, some o’ the doctors says there’s a frog in her, an’ others that she
has the cholic; but I’m goin’ to give her a dose of balgriffauns when I
get up to the house above. Ould Harry Connolly says she’s with fiddle; an’
if that’s true, boys, maybe some o’ yez won’t be in luck. I’ll be able to
spare a young fiddle or two among yez.”

Many a tiny hand was clapped, and many an eye was lit up with the hope of
getting a young fiddle; for gospel itself was never looked upon to be more
true than this assertion of Mickey’s. And no wonder. The fact is, he used
to amuse himself by making small fiddles of deal and horse-hair, which he
carried about with him as presents for such youngsters as he took a fancy
to. This he made a serious business of, and carried it on with an
importance becoming the intimation just given. Indeed, I remember the time
when I watched one of them, which I was so happy as to receive from him,
day and night, with the hope of being able to report that it was growing
larger; for my firm belief was, that in due time it would reach the usual
size.

As we went along, Mickey, with his usual tact, got out of us all the
information respecting the several courtships of the neighbourhood that
had reached us, and as much, too, of the village gossip and scandal as we
knew.

Nothing can exceed the overflowing kindness and affection with which the
Irish fiddler is received on the occasion of a dance or merry-making; and
to do him justice he loses no opportunity of exaggerating his own
importance. From habit, and his position among the people, his wit and
power of repartee are necessarily cultivated and sharpened. Not one of his
jokes ever fails--a circumstance which improves his humour mightily; for
nothing on earth sustains it so much as knowing, that, whether good or
bad, it will be laughed at. Mickey, by the way, was a bachelor, and,
though blind, was able, as he himself used to say, to see through his ears
better than another could through the eyes. He knew every voice at once,
and every boy and girl in the parish by name, the moment he heard them
speak.

On reaching the house he is bound for, he either partakes of, or at least
is offered, refreshment, after which comes the ecstatic moment to the
youngsters: but all this is done by due and solemn preparation. First he
calls for a pair of scissors, with which he pares or seems to pare his
nails; then asks for a piece of rosin, and in an instant half a dozen boys
are off at a break-neck pace, to the next shoemaker’s, to procure it;
whilst in the meantime he deliberately pulls a piece out of his pocket and
rosins his bow. But, heavens! what a ceremony the opening of that
fiddle-case is! The manipulation of the blind man as he runs his hand down
to the key-hole--the turning of the key--the taking out of the fiddle--the
twang twang--and then the first ecstatic sound, as the bow is drawn across
the strings; then comes a screwing; then a delicious saw or two; again
another screwing--twang twang--and away he goes with the favourite tune of
the good woman, for such is the etiquette upon these occasions. The house
is immediately thronged with the neighbours, and a preliminary dance is
taken, in which the old folks, with good-humoured violence, are literally
dragged out, and forced to join. Then come the congratulations--“Ah, Jack,
you could do it wanst,” says Mickey, “an’ can still; you have a kick in
you yet.” “Why, Mickey, I seen dancin’ in my time,” the old man will
reply, his brow relaxed by a remnant of his former pride, and the hilarity
of the moment, “but you see the breath isn’t what it used to be wid me,
when I could dance the _Baltehorum Jig_ on the bottom of a ten-gallon
cask. But I think a glass o’ whisky will do us no harm afther that.
Heighho!--well, well--I’m sure I thought _my_ dancin’ days wor over.”

“Bedad an’ you wor matched any how,” rejoined the fiddler. “Molshy carried
as light a heel as ever you did; sorra a woman of her years ever I seen
could cut the buckle wid her. You would know the tune on her feet still.”

“Ah, Mickey, the thruth is,” the good woman would say, “we have no sich
dancin’ now as there was in my days. Thry that glass.”

“But as good fiddlers, Molshy, eh? Here’s to you both, and long may ye
live to shake the toe! Whoo! bedad that’s great stuff. Come now, sit down.
Jack, till I give you your ould favourite, ‘_Cannie Soogah_.’”

These were happy moments and happy times, which might well be looked upon
as picturing the simple manners of country life with very little of moral
shadow to obscure the cheerfulness which lit up the Irish heart and hearth
into humble happiness. Mickey, with his usual good nature, never forgot
the younger portion of his audience. After entertaining the old and
full-grown, he would call for a key, one end of which he placed in his
mouth, in order to make the fiddle sing for the children their favourite
song, beginning with

    “Oh! grand-mamma, will you squeeze my wig?”

This he did in such a manner, through the medium of the key, that the
words seemed to be spoken by the instrument, and not by himself. After
this was over, he would sing us, to his own accompaniment, another
favourite, “There was a wee devil looked over the wall,” which generally
closed that portion of the entertainment so kindly designed for _us_.

Upon those moments I have often witnessed marks of deep and pious
feeling, occasioned by some memory of the absent or the dead, that were as
beautiful as they were affecting. If, for instance, a favourite son or
daughter happened to be removed by death, the father or mother,
remembering the air which was loved best by the departed, would pause a
moment, and with a voice full of sorrow, say, “Mickey, there is _one tune_
that I would like to hear; I love to think of it, and to hear it; I do,
for the sake of them that’s gone--my darlin’ son that’s lyin’ low: it was
he that loved it. His ear is closed against it now; but for _his_
sake--ay, for your sake, avourneen machree--we will hear it wanst more.”

Mickey always played such tunes in his best style, and amidst a silence
that was only broken by sobs, suppressed moanings, and the other tokens of
profound sorrow. These gushes, however, of natural feeling soon passed
away. In a few minutes the smiles returned, the mirth broke out again, and
the lively dance went on as if their hearts had been incapable of such
affection for the dead--affection at once so deep and tender. But many a
time the light of cheerfulness plays along the stream of Irish feeling,
when cherished sorrow lies removed from the human eye far down from the
surface.

These preliminary amusements being now over, Mickey is conducted to the
dance-house, where he is carefully installed in the best chair, and
immediately the dancing commences. It is not my purpose to describe an
Irish dance here, having done it more than once elsewhere. It is enough to
say that Mickey is now in his glory; and proud may the young man be who
fills the honourable post of his companion, and sits next him. He is a
living storehouse of intelligence, a travelling directory for the
parish--the lover’s text-book--the young woman’s best companion; for where
is the courtship going on of which he is not cognizant? where is there a
marriage on the tapis, with the particulars of which he is not acquainted?
He is an authority whom nobody would think of questioning. It is now, too,
that he scatters his jokes about; and so correct and well trained is his
ear, that he can frequently name the young man who dances, by the
peculiarity of his step.

“Ah ha! Paddy Brien, you’re there? Sure I’d know the sound of your
smoothin’-irons any where. Is it thrue, Paddy, that you wor sint for down
to Errigle Keerogue, to kill the clocks for Dan M’Mahon? But, nabuklish!
Paddy, what’ll you have?”

“Is that Grace Reilly on the flure? Faix, avourneen, you can do it; devil
o’ your likes I _see_ any where. I’ll lay Shibby to a penny trump that you
could dance your own namesake--the _Calleen dhas dhun_, the bonny brown
girl--upon a spider’s cobweb, widout breakin’ it. Don’t be in a hurry,
Grace dear, to tie the knot; _I’ll_ wait for you.”

Several times in the course of the night a plate is brought round, and a
collection made for the fiddler: this was the moment when Mickey used to
let the jokes fly in every direction. The timid he shamed into liberality,
the vain he praised, and the niggardly he assailed by open hardy satire;
all managed, however, with such an under-current of good humour, that no
one could take offence. No joke ever told better than that of the broken
string. Whenever this happened at night, Mickey would call out to some
soft fellow, “Blood alive, Ned Martin, will you bring me a candle?--I’ve
broken a string.” The unthinking young man, forgetting that he was blind,
would take the candle in a hurry, and fetch it to him.

“Faix, Ned. I knew you wor jist fit for’t; houldin’ a candle to a dark
man! Isn’t he a beauty, boys?--look at him, girls--as cute as a pancake.”

It is unnecessary to say, that the mirth on such occasions was convulsive.
Another similar joke was also played off by him against such as he knew to
be ungenerous at the collection.

“Paddy Smith, I want a word wid you. I’m goin’ across the counthry as far
as Ned Donnelly’s, and I want you to help me along the road, as the night
is dark.”

“To be sure, Mickey. I’ll bring you over as snug as if you wor on a clane
plate, man alive!”

“Thank you, Paddy; throth you’ve the dacency in you; an’ kind father for
you, Paddy. Maybe I’ll do as much for you some other time.”

Mickey never spoke of this until the trick was played off, after which, he
published it to the whole parish; and Paddy of course was made a standing
jest for being so silly as to think that night or day had any difference
to a man who could not see.

Thus passed the life of Mickey M’Rorey, and thus pass the lives of most of
his class, serenely and happily. As the sailor to his ship, the sportsman
to his gun, so is the fiddler attached to his fiddle. His hopes and
pleasures, though limited, are full. His heart is necessarily light, for
he comes in contact with the best and brightest side of life and nature;
and the consequence is, that their mild and mellow lights are reflected on
and from himself. I am ignorant whether poor Mickey is dead or not; but I
dare say he forgets the boy to whose young spirit he communicated so much
delight, and who often danced with a buoyant and careless heart to the
pleasant notes of his fiddle. Mickey M’Rorey, farewell! Whether living or
dead, peace be with you!

There is another character in Ireland essentially different from the mere
fiddler--I mean the country dancing-master. In a future number of the
Journal I will give a sketch of one who was eminent in his line. Many will
remember him when I name BUCKRAM-BACK.




THE PASSING BELL.

BY J. U. U.


    With its measured pause, and its long-drawn wail,
    The minster bell swings on the gale,
    And saddens the vale with its solemn toll,
    That passeth away like a passing soul--
    Pulse after pulse still diminishing on,
    Till another rings forth for the dead and gone.

    The minute-sound of that mourning bell
    Is the lord’s of the valley--the rich man’s knell:
    While it swells o’er his lawns and his woodlands bright,
    He breathes not, hears not, nor sees the light:
    On the couch of his ease he lies stiff and wan--
    In the midst of his pomp he is dead and gone.

    The pride hath passed from his haughty brow--
    Where are his plans and high projects now?
    Another lord in his state is crowned,
    To level his castles with the ground;
    Respect and terror pass reckless on--
    His frowns and favours are dead and gone.

    Had he wisdom, and wealth, and fame,
    Mortal tongue shall forget his name:
    Other hands shall disperse his store--
    Earthly dream shall he dream no more:
    His chair is vacant--his way lies yon,
    To the formless cells of the dead and gone.

    Passing bell, that dost sadly fling
    Thy wailing wave on the air of spring.
    There is no voice in thy long, wild moan,
    To tell where the parted soul is flown,
    To what far mansion it travels on--
    While thou tollest thus for the dead and gone.

    Yet, bell of death, on the living air
    Thy tones come bound from the house of prayer--
    They speak of the Valley of Shadow, trod
    On a path once walked by the Son of God,
    Whose word of promise inviteth on,
    Through the gate unclosed for the dead and gone.

       *       *       *       *       *

CURRENT COIN OF CHINA.--The only coin made in China is the tchen, or
_cash_, as it is called in Canton. It is composed of base metal, having
the date and reigning emperor’s name stamped on it. According to Gutzlaff,
they had coins of this description a thousand years before our era. It is
nearly as large as an old shilling. There is a square hole in the centre,
to admit of a number of them being strung on a bamboo. From seven to eight
hundred of these, according to the exchange, may be had for a Spanish
dollar. Silver is the commercial medium of barter; it is not coined, but
passes by weight, after being purified, when it is called sycee silver. It
is then cast into lumps of one tael, or Chinese ounce, each, the value of
which in English money is about six shillings. When decimal parts are
required, it is cut. Spanish dollars are current in Canton, and they are
also cut when required for lesser portions. Whenever one of these gets
into the possession of a Chinese, he stamps his name on it; hence in a
short time the Spanish marks become quite obliterated, and then they are
called chop dollars, and are melted into sycee silver. Gold is like any
other article of trade, and is not used as a medium of barter.--_Dr
Fulton’s Travelling Sketches in Various Countries._




EXTRAORDINARY ANOMALY.

BERNARD CAVANAGH.


In the hope that the narration of the following singular circumstances may
attract the attention of medical and scientific men towards its
extraordinary subject, we lay it before the readers of the _Irish Penny
Journal_:--

Bernard Cavanagh is about twenty-four years of age, and now living with
his parents at nearly a mile distant from the little town of Swineford,
county Mayo. The parents are respectable, of reputable character, and in
comfortable circumstances. They assert--indeed they have made affidavits
before a magistrate of the county--that for nearly the last four years he
has existed without tasting sustenance of any kind. They state also that
from the 2d September 1836 to the 2d July 1840, he neither spoke nor rose
from his bed except to allow it to be arranged, during which operation he
never opened his mouth; and this portion of the statement is borne out to
a considerable extent by the fact of his having been visited frequently,
and at various periods, by persons of high respectability as well as of
the lower class, on all which occasions he was observed invariably in the
same position, with his hands on his breast and his eyes fixed on the
window.

The night before he betook himself to bed, he knocked at the door of the
priest’s house, and stated that he wished to communicate something to him;
but the reverend gentleman declined admitting him, in consequence of the
lateness of the hour, saying that he could impart whatever he wished to
state on the morrow.

“But I will not be here to-morrow,” responded Cavanagh; and he was right:
the next day he took to his bed.

In the interval between September 1836 and the present season, public
attention on a limited scale was occasionally directed towards Cavanagh.
But the report of his utter and continued abstinence from food was treated
as a monstrous fable by every one at any distance from his immediate
locality, and the extraordinary allegations respecting him were beginning
to fade from general recollection, when, to the utter astonishment of
every one in his neighbourhood, he arose from bed and recovered his speech
and powers of moving about; since which time he continues, according to
the accounts, without sustenance in any shape, and has been visited by
thousands of persons from various quarters.

In boyhood, Cavanagh’s education extended barely as far as the acquirement
of reading and writing; but he constantly exhibited strong marks of
religious enthusiasm, often proceeding to Meelick chapel (about three
miles from his residence) to one mass, and then attending another at his
own parish chapel of Swineford. It is said, too, that he at one time
constructed a sort of rude building for his private devotion in the open
fields, and repeatedly went to prayers at meal-times in his father’s
house, contenting himself with _one_ meal in the day, as if preparing
himself for his total fast. Accordingly, since resuming his speech and
motion he haunts the chapel at all hours by day and night, continuing for
hours together apparently in private prayer, and generally attended by a
large concourse of the peasantry, whom he addresses by fits and starts,
and many of whom are naturally, under the circumstances, beginning to deem
him not a human being at all, but a shadow.

He seems not inclined to speak much, though he states he has had “high
visions.” His reply to the clergymen respecting his revelations and
fasting, is, that he is fed by the Word; that he is not at liberty to
detail his visions for the gratification of man; and that no one should
judge lest he be judged.

Cavanagh is about the middle height, of a grave emaciated countenance; his
motions are quite unembarrassed, and his voice is sonorous and distinct
when he speaks, which is still but seldom, as he seems to utterly
disregard his visitors, whatever their rank.

As we said before, he continues daily to draw thousands of the peasantry
around him, who eagerly watch every word that falls from his lips, as they
place implicit faith in the assertion that he has lived without any
description of food for the last four years, and of course regard him as
something entirely beyond the pale of ordinary humanity. _We_ are,
however, not so easy of belief in a case so much at variance with the
ordinary regulations of nature; at the same time that we are free to admit
that it is hard to conceive what motive the young man or his parents could
have for carrying on such an imposition, as the latter endeavoured at
first to conceal the matter altogether, and, in the next place, have
repeatedly refused money offered by their respectable visitors, though,
in fact, their means are a good deal diminished by the hospitality
extended to each successive guest; while a young sister, who has
constantly attended Cavanagh since he has lain and fasted according to the
statement, persists in declaring, with the strongest appearance of
innocence and belief in the truth of her own assertion, that it was
impossible he could have tasted any thing during any part of that time
unknown to her, and that he never had.

That a person of narrow intellect and strong devotional propensities
should be seized with a religious monomania, and that to a being of a weak
mind and a debilitated frame strange visions should occur, is perfectly
comprehensible; but that the frail materials of the human frame, which
needs the nourishment of food as much as the flower requires sunshine and
moisture, should endure for such a period without support, is so
unprecedented in all the records of mankind, and so contradictory to the
general laws of nature, that it would require the most powerful proofs
indeed to convince the intelligent mind of its truth. We therefore again
express our strong hope that this slight sketch may produce the effect of
having Cavanagh’s case submitted to the test of eminent medical skill--a
test to which the parents profess their entire willingness to assent, and
thus a case of the grossest imposition be detected, and thousands of
simple beings disabused, or one of the most extraordinary of nature’s
anomalies be clearly ascertained and exhibited.

                                                                       A.

       *       *       *       *       *

SCENE IN THE THEATRE AT LEGHORN.--My time passed delightfully while I
remained in Leghorn. The Russian fleet was at anchor in the Bay, commanded
by Admiral O’Dwyer, a distinguished seaman, and an Irishman by birth. The
Storaces and myself often went on board his ship, and were delighted by
hearing the Russians chaunt their evening hymn. The melody is beautifully
simple, and was always sung completely in tune by this immense body of
men. There was at the same time in the harbour a privateer from Dublin,
called the Fame, Captain Moore: he and his first officer Campbell were
Irishmen, and had a fine set of Irish lads under them. When Storace’s
benefit took place, the officers and crew who could be spared from their
duty, to a man (and a famous sight it was) marched to the theatre, and
almost filled the par-terre. At the end of the opera, Storace sang the
Irish ballad “Molly Astore,” at the conclusion of which, the boatswain of
the Fame gave a loud whistle, and the crew in a body rose and gave three
cheers. The dismay of the Italian part of the audience was ludicrous in
the extreme. The sailors then sang “God save the King” in full chorus, and
when done, applauded themselves to the very skies: nothing could be more
unanimous or louder than their self-approbation.--_Reminiscences of
Michael Kelly._

       *       *       *       *       *

TRUTH.--Truth is the foundation of virtue. An habitual regard for it is
absolutely necessary. He who walks by the light of it has the advantage of
the mid-day sun; he who would spurn it, goes forth amid clouds and
darkness. There is no way in which a man strengthens his own judgment, and
acquires respect in society so surely, as by a scrupulous regard to truth.
The course of such an individual is right on and straight on. He is no
changeling, saying one thing to-day and another to-morrow. Truth to him is
like a mountain landmark to the pilot: he fixes his eye upon a point that
does not move, and he enters the harbour in safety. On the contrary, one
who despises truth and loves falsehood is like a pilot who takes a piece
of drift-wood for his landmark, which changes with every changing wave. On
this he fixes his attention, and, being insensibly led from his course,
strikes upon some hidden reef, and sinks to rise no more. Thus truth
brings success; falsehood results in ruin and contempt.--_Dr Channing._

       *       *       *       *       *

GAMING.--I look upon every man as a suicide from the moment he takes the
dice-box desperately in his hand; and all that follows in his fatal career
from that fatal time is only sharpening the dagger before he strikes it to
his heart.--_Cumberland._


    Printed and Published every Saturday by GUNN and CAMERON, at the
    Office of the General Advertiser, No. 6, Church Lane, College Green,
    Dublin.--Agents:--R. GROOMBRIDGE, Panyer Alley, Paternoster Row,
    London. SIMMS and DINHAM, Exchange Street, Manchester. J. DAVIES,
    North John Street, Liverpool. J. DRAKE, Birmingham. M. BINGHAM,
    Broad Street, Bristol. FRASER and CRAWFORD, George Street,
    Edinburgh. DAVID ROBERTSON, Trongate, Glasgow.



Transcriber’s Note: In the original, the date of 766 was given for the
death of “Dubdainber, the son of Cormac, Abbot of Monasterboice”. Based
on its order in the chronology (and cross-reference with other historical
sources) this is presumed to be a misprint and has been changed to 786.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 7,
August 15, 1840, by Various

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 53982 ***