Chapter VII: Part 7

After some days of hard labour, bad food, worse wine, and no tranquillity, Mr. Martin (I think that was his name), the owner of an alehouse in our interest, told us with great glee, he had got in a few loaves of good white bread and a paper of tea from Castlebar, fit for the chancellor—together with fresh eggs and new milk; and that if we would vouchsafe to put up with his own “little paved parlour,” we should have a roaring fire, capital buttered toast, and, in short, every thing to our satisfaction, one meal _any how_; it was God’s curse and a thousand pities he had nothing better for the “dear counsellors;” but there was to be a fine slip of a pig killed in the town that night by a friend of his own, and we might have a beautiful griskin next morning broiled to our liking.

My friend Moore and I were delighted at the announcement of a comfortable breakfast (for some time a stranger to us), and immediately went into the little paved parlour, where every thing was soon in full array according to Mr. Daniel Martin’s promises. The turf fire glowed fit to roast an ox; abundance of hot buttered toast was quickly placed before it; plenty of new-laid eggs appeared—some boiled, some poached; a large saucepan with hot water was bubbling on the ashes; our tea was made (as the tea-pot leaked) in a potsheen-jug; and every thing appeared in the most proper state to _feast_ two lately _half-fed_ Dublin barristers (as they called us). My mouth watered, Moore licked his lips, and we never sat down to the sensual enjoyment of the palate with more _goût_ or satisfaction than in Mr. Martin’s “little paved parlour.”

It seemed as if nothing short of an earthquake (perhaps not even that) could have disappointed us. But I do not recollect any incident during a long life so completely verifying the old aphorism of “Many a slip between the cup and the lip.” During our happy state of anticipation, rather a loud rap was heard:—I was just in the act of cracking the shell of an egg, with my back to the door, and cried out, “Come in! come in!” Nobody entered; but another and still louder rap succeeded. My friend, not being at that instant so busily occupied as I, stepped to the door, with the purpose of telling whoever it might be to “call again” in half an hour. I meanwhile proceeded with my egg; when I heard Moore, who was not in the habit of using imprecations, cry out piteously, “Oh! blood and oons!” and his exclamation was accompanied by a crash that alarmed me. On turning rapidly round, to aid him in any possible emergency, I saw my companion extended on the floor, his heels kicked up in the air, and eight or ten young _pigs_ making the best of their way over the counsellor’s prostrate body with great vivacity. Their _mother_, with divers deep and savage grunts, snorting, and catching the air through her enormous proboscis, took her way round the other side of the room, and effectually cut us off both from the door and our weapons on the breakfast-table. This manœuvre certainly would have daunted much greater heroes than either of us pretended to be; and I doubt if there is a field-marshal in the service either of his Britannic or Most Christian Majesty who would have felt himself quite at ease under similar circumstances.

We had no retreat: the foe had anticipated us, and appeared both able and willing to slaughter us for the sake of her progeny. “Mount, Moore,” said I. He limped, for his leg was hurt, to a high old-fashioned chest of drawers, which fortunately stood in a corner. Upon these drawers each of us got, and thence watched ulterior operations, but by no means considering ourselves _out of danger_ from so _frightful_ an enemy.

That the reader who has not been accustomed to associate with swine at Ballinrobe may form a just idea of our situation, he shall be made accurately acquainted with the species of lady visitor we had to deal with. The eight or ten _childer_ were what we call “piggin riggins,” too old for a dainty and too young for bacon—the “_hobble-de-hoys_” of swinehood. Their mother literally “towered above her sex,” and was the lankiest and most bristly sow I ever beheld. Her high arched back, taller than a donkey’s, springing from the abutments of her loins and shoulders, resembled a coarse rustic bridge; her dangling teats swept the ground; long loose flabby ears nearly concealed a pair of small fiery blood-shot sunken eyes, and their ends just covered one half of a mouth which, dividing her head as it were into an upper and under story, clearly showed that she had the means of taking what bite she pleased out of any thing. Her tusks, indeed, like a boar’s, peeped under her broad and undulating nostrils, which were decorated with an iron ring and hook, that appeared to afford the double power of defending the wearer against assaults and hooking in an enemy.

Of such a description was the family that paid us this unwelcome visit, demonstrating thereby the uncertainty of all sublunary expectations. The fact was, that the lady, with ten of her _childer_, had been wallowing in the quagmire by the side of our parlour-window, which we had opened to give a part of the captive smoke an opportunity of escaping—but which at the same time let out the savoury perfume of our repast; this entering piggy’s sensitive nostrils, she was roused to action, and, grunting to her family as a trumpeter sounds “to horse,” they made their way to the well-known door of the little paved parlour, which finding closed (a very unusual circumstance), madam’s temper was somewhat ruffled, and the catastrophe ensued. Ceremony from a sow, under such circumstances, could not be reasonably looked for, and any delay in disposing of our luxuries was still less to be expected. In her haste to accomplish that achievement, she had on gaining admittance run between the legs of Counsellor Thomas Moore, and, as on an inclined plane, she first raised, then deposited him upon the pavement; and leaving him to the discretion of her _piggin riggins_, changed her own course to our breakfast-table, which having duly overset, the whole was at her mercy—of which, however, she showed none;—the toast, the bread, the eggs—in short, _every thing_, disappearing in marvellous quick time.

The two counsellors, from their elevated position, beheld the destruction of all these comforts, and congratulated themselves on the good luck of being personally out of danger: but here also we “reckoned without our host:” we entertained no doubt of madam sow’s peaceable departure, and did not wish to expose ourselves to the ridicule of being discovered perched upon a chest of drawers. One of the _piggins_, however, not content with the prey he had already got, in roaming about for more, and unaccustomed to boiling water, happened to overset the large saucepan which was steaming upon the hob, and which descended full on his unseasoned hide. Hereupon, feeling his tender bristles getting loose, and at the first scratch coming away with a due quantity of scarf-skin to keep them together, he set up the most dreadful cries I ever heard, even from the most obstinate of his race when the butcher was taking the preliminary steps towards manufacturing corned pork—that comrade of pease-pudding, and glory of the British navy!

The _mamma_ of course attributed the cries of her darling to some torture inflicted by the _Christians_ upon the drawers; to the foot of which she therefore trotted, and with deep and loud grunts looked up at us, opening her wide jaws, and seeming to say, “I wish I had you both down here, and my dear little _piggin riggins_ should soon be revenged for your cruelty!” I thought that, once or twice, she appeared disposed to try if she could balance her body on her hind-legs and rear up against the chest of drawers; in which case, even if her jaws did not clearly take hold of us, the strong iron hook in her nose would be sure to catch and hawl down one or other by the leg—as, if once hooked, it would only be a trial of strength between the sow’s snout and the tendon Achilles of either counsellor. We could not kick at her for fear of the same hook; so we kept dancing and stamping, to try if that would deter her. But she was too much bent on mischief to care for our defensive operations; and we were ultimately obliged to resort to that step generally taken by people when they find themselves failing in point of fortitude, and manfully cried out—“Murder! murder!” But as no one came, Moore said they were so used to _that_ cry in Ballinrobe (and particularly in the “little paved parlour”), that the people never minded it; so we changed our tone, and roared “Fire! fire!”

In a second the entire population of the house was in the room, when an _éclaircissement_ took place. Still, however, the _lady_ would not beat a retreat:—sticks, flails, handles of rakes, and pitchforks, belaboured her in vain; she minded them no more than straws. At length, they seized hold of her _tail_:—this action seemed to make her imagine that it was desired to _detain_ her _in_ the room; upon which, that spirit of contradiction inherent in more animals than one, determined her to _go out_. She accordingly rushed off, followed by the whole brood, and we saw no more of her or her hopeful family.

After they were gone, it took Mr. Martin above five minutes to lavish on the sow and _piggin riggins_ every imprecation his vocabulary could furnish; and he concluded thus:—“Ough! May the curse of Crummell light on yee, for a greedy owld sow as you are! yee need not have taken such trouble to cater for your _childer_. If they had just peeped up the chimney, they’d have seen their _father_ as well dried and smoked as any boar that ever was _kilt_ in Ballinrobe these two years, any how; and by my sowl I expect to have six of the _childer_ along with him by next Michaelmas, at latest.”

All being now arranged, we begged Mr. Martin to replenish our board as quickly as possible. Daniel, however, looked grave and chop-fallen, and in two monosyllables apprised us of the extent of our misfortunes. “I can’t,” said he.

“Why?” we both asked in a breath.

“Oh, holy poker!” exclaimed Mr. Dan Martin, “what shall I do to feed yee, counsellors dear! By my sowl, Sir Neil will _skiver_ me! Devil a bit or sup more I have in this same house. Arrah! Mary! Mary!”

“What’s that, avourneen?” said Mary, entering.

“What have you in the house, Mary?” demanded the landlord.

“Ough! the devil a taste was left from the Newport voters, barring what we kept for the counsellors.”

“And have you literally _nothing_, Mr. Martin?” demanded we.

“All as one,” was the reply. “Sir Neil’s men got the last of the meat; and a minute or two ago, who should come in—devil’s cure to him! but Denis Brown Sallough’s body-sarvant, and pretended, the villain, that he was Sir Neil’s man; and he bought all the rest of the bread and tay for ready money. If I had thought, counsellors, of the incivility my sow put on yees—bad luck to her sowl, egg and bird!—I’d have seen Denis Brown Sallough’s body-sarvant _carded_ like a tithe proctor[25] before I’d have sold him as much as would fill a hollow tooth—and by my sowl he has plenty of _them_, counsellors dear!”

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Footnote 25:

_Carding_ the tithe proctors (who certainly were the genuine tyrants
of Ireland) was occasionally resorted to by the White Boys, and was
performed in the following manner.

The tithe proctor was generally waked out of his first sleep by his
door being smashed in; and the _boys_ in white shirts desired him
“never to fear,” as they only intended to _card_ him this bout for
taking a quarter instead of a tenth from every poor man in the parish.
They then turned him on his face upon the bed; and taking a lively ram
cat out of a bag which they brought with them, they set the cat
between the proctor’s shoulders. The beast, being nearly as much
terrified as the proctor, would endeavour to get off; but being held
fast by the tail, he intrenched every claw deep in the proctor’s back,
in order to keep up a firm resistance to the White Boys. The more the
tail was pulled _back_, the more the ram cat tried to go _forward_; at
length, when he had, as he conceived, made his possession quite
secure, main force convinced him to the contrary, and that if he kept
his hold he must lose his tail. So, he was dragged backward to the
proctor’s loins, grappling at every pull, and bringing away here and
there strips of the proctor’s skin, to prove the pertinacity of his
defence.

When the ram cat had got down to the loins he was once more placed at
the shoulders, and again _carded_ the proctor (_toties quoties_)
according to his sentence.

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“Have you no eggs, Mr. Martin?”

“Why, plase your honour, it’s not two hours since the high sheriff’s cook (as he called himself) came and took every cock and hen I had in the world (he paid like a gentleman, to be sure), for he has a great dinner to-day, and being disappointed of poultry, he _kilt_ every mother’s babe of mine, gentlemen.”

“You have milk?”

“I’d have plenty of that stuff, counsellors, only (oh my poor cow, and the three heifers!) Sir Neil’s voters are generally so _dry_, and by my sowl, I believe not far from _hungry_ either, that they, five or six times a day if they can, get a drink out of the poor animals. They have been milked, indeed, till their teats are raw, gentlemen, and that’s the truth, and nothing else but the _true truth_.” Recollecting himself, however, he added—“But, counsellors, dear, if your honours can put up with _our own_ little breakfast, you’ll be more welcome nor the flowers of May, and there will be plenty of that, gentlemen, such as it is, and I’ll tell you _what_ it is. First and foremost, there’s no better than the apple pratees, and they are ready hot and smothering for ourselves and that d——’d sow and her _childer_, and be cursed to them! but the devil a one they will get this day, for affronting yees, gentlemen!—And next to the pratees, there’s the potsheen. I _still’d_ it myself a year ago, and hid it under ground when the elections came on; but I get a bottle or two out always. And then, gentlemen, I can broil for you (but that’s a secret, plase your honours,) a few beautiful rashers out of the two flitches I have hid on a little shelf up the chimney for fear of the two-guinea freeholders;—it’s more like clear horn nor bacon, counsellors dear,” pursued he, hauling down a side of it as he spoke, and cutting out several large rashers.

“I suppose,” said I, “this is some of your good sow’s family;—if so, I shall have great pleasure in paying her off in her own style?”

“Why, then, counsellor,” said Mr. Martin, laughing and rubbing his hands—“you are the very devil at finding out things!—ha! ha!—By my sowl, it is a _sister_ of the said sow’s, sure enuff—bad luck to the whole breed for eating the buttered toast this blessed morning!”

The result was, that we got rashers, potatoes, and potsheen, for our breakfast; at the end of which Mr. Martin brought in a jug of capital home-brewed ale;—and the possession of this, also, he said was a secret, or the gauger would play the deuce with him. We fared, in a word, very well; I much doubt, to speak truth, if it were not a more appropriate meal for a desperate bad day and much hard work than a lady’s teapot would afford; and, in pursuance of this notion, I had a rasher, potatoe, and draught of good ale, every day afterward during my stay at that abominable election.

English people would hardly credit the circumstances attending an electioneering contest in Ireland, so late as twenty-three years ago. Little attention was then paid by the country gentlemen to their several assize towns; and there was not a single respectable inn at Ballinrobe. Somebody indeed had built the shell of an hotel; but it had not been plastered either within or without, or honoured by any species of furniture: it had not indeed even banisters to the stairs.

Perhaps the time of year and desperate state of the weather (uncheckered by one ray of sunshine) tended to disgust me with the place: but I certainly never in my lifetime was so annoyed as at the election of Ballinrobe, though every thing that could possibly be done for our comfort _was_ done by Sir John Brown—than whom I never met any gentleman more friendly or liberal.

NEW MODE OF SERVING A PROCESS.

The author at Rock House—Galway election—_Searching_ for voters—Mr.
Ned Bodkin—Interesting conversation between him and the
author—Process-serving at Connemara—Burke, the bailiff—His hard
treatment—Irish method of discussing a chancery bill—Ned Bodkin’s
“Lament”—False oaths, and their disastrous consequences—Country
magistrates in Ireland.

The election for County Galway was proceeding whilst I was refreshing myself at Rock House, Castlebar, after various adventures at Ballinrobe—as already mentioned. I met at Rock House an old fellow who told me his name was Ned Bodkin, a Connemara boy; and that he had come with two or three other lads only to _search_ for voters to take to Galway for Squire Martin’s poll. Bodkin came to Mrs. Burke’s house to consult Counsellor Moore, and I determined to have a full conversation with him as to the peninsula of Connemara and its statistics. He sent off eight or nine freeholders (such as they were) in eight-and-forty hours; they were soon polled for the squire, and came back as happy as possible.

I asked Mr. Bodkin where he lived.

“Ah! then where should it be but at Connemara?” said he.

“And what’s your trade or calling, when you’re at home, Mr. Bodkin?” inquired I.

“Why, plase your honour, no poor man could live upon one calling now-a-days as we did in owld times, or no calling at all, as when the squire was _in it_. Now I butchers a trifle, your honour! and burns the kelp when I’m entirely idle. Then I take a touch now and then at the still, and smuggle a few in Sir Neil’s cutter when the coast is clear.”

“Any thing else, Mr. Bodkin?”

“Ough yes, your honour; ’tis me that tans the brogue leather for the colonel’s yeomen: (God bless them!) besides, I’m bailiff-bum of the town lands, and make out our election registries; and when I’ve nothing else to do, I keep the squire’s accounts: and by my sowl that same is no asy matter, plase your honour, till one’s used to it! but, God bless him, up and down, wherever he goes, here or hereafter! he’s nothing else but a good master to us all.”

“Mr. Ned Bodkin,” continued I, “every body says the king’s writ does not _run_ in Connemara?”

“Ough! then whoever towld your honour that is a big liar. By my sowl, when the King George’s writ (crossing himself) comes within smell of the big house, the boys soon make him run as if the seven red devils was under his tail, saving your presence. It’s King George’s writ that _does run_ at Connemara, plase your worship, all as one as a black greyhound. O the devil a stop he stays till he gets into the court-house of Galway again!”

Mr. Bodkin talked allegorically, so I continued in the same vein:—“And pray if you catch the king’s writ, what do you do then?”

“Plase your honour, that story is asy towld. _Do_, is it? I’ll tell your honour that. Why, if the _prossy-sarver_ is _cotched_ in the territories of Ballynahinch, by my sowl if the squire’s not _in it_, he’ll either eat his parchments every taste, or go down into the owld coal-pit sure enuff, whichever is most _agreeable_ to the said prossy-sarver.”

“And I suppose he generally prefers eating his parchments?” said I.

“Your honour’s right enuff,” replied Mr. Bodkin. “The _varment_ generally gulps it down mighty glib; and, by the same token, he is seldom or ever obstrepulous enuff to go down into the said coal-pit.”

“_Dry_ food, Mr. Bodkin,” said I.

“Ough! by no manner of manes, your honour. We always give the prossy-sarver, poor crethur! plenty to moisten his said food with and wash it down well, any how; and he goes back to the ’sizes as merry as a water-dog, and swears (God forgive him!) that he was _kilt_ at Connemara by people unknown; becaize if he didn’t do that, he knows well enuff he’d soon be kilt dead by people he did know, and that’s the truth, plase your honour, and nothing else.”

“Does it often happen, Mr. Bodkin?” said I.

“Ough! plase your honour, only that our own bailiffs and yeomen soldiers keep the sheriffs’ officers out of Connemara, we’d have a rookery of them afore every ’sizes and sessions, when the master’s amongst the Sassanachs in London city. We made one lad, when the master was in said foreign parts, eat every taste of what he towld us was a chancellor’s bill, that he brought from Dublin town to sarve in our quarter. We laid in ambush, your honour, and cotched him on the bridge; but we did not throw him over that, though we made believe that we would. ‘We have you, you villain!’ said I. ‘Spare my life!’ says he. ‘What for?’ said I. ‘Oh! give me marcy!’ says the sarver. ‘The devil a taste,’ said I. ‘I’ve nothing but a chancellor’s bill,’ said he. ‘Out with it,’ says I. So he ups, and outs with his parchment, plase your honour:—by my sowl, then, there was plenty of that same!

“‘And pray, what name do you go by when you are at home?’ said I. ‘Oh then, don’t you know Burke the _bum_?’ said he. ‘Are you satisfied to _eat_ it, Mr. Burke?’ said I. ‘If I was as hungry as twenty hawks, I could not eat it all in less than a fortnight any how,’ said the sarver, ‘it’s so long and crisp.’ ‘Never fear,’ said I.

“‘Why shu’dn’t I fear?’ said he.

“‘What’s that to you?’ said I. ‘Open your mouth, and take a bite, if you plase.’ ‘Spare my life!’ said he. ‘Take a bite, if you plase, Mr. Burke,’ again said I.

“So he took a bite, plase your honour; but I saw fairly it was too dry and tough for common eating, so I and the rest of _the boys_ brought the bum to my little cabin, and we soaked _the chancellor_ in potsheen in my little keg, and I towld him he should stay his own time till he eat it all as soon as it was _tinder_, and at three meals a day, with every other little nourishment we could give the crethur. So he stayed very agreeable till he had finished the chancellor’s bill every taste, and was drunk with it every day twice, at any rate; and then I towld him he might go back to Galway town and welcome. But he said he’d got kinder treatment and better liquor nor ever the villain of a sub-sheriff gave any poor fellow, and if I’d let him, he’d fain stay another day or two to bid us good bye. ‘So, Mary,’ said I to the woman my wife, ‘’commodate the poor officer a day or two more to bid us good bye.’—‘He’s kindly welcome,’ says she. So Burke stayed till the ’sizes was over, and then swore he lay for dead on the road-side, and did not know what became of the chancellor’s bill, or where it was deposited at said time. I had towld him, your honour, I’d make good his oath for him; and, accordingly, we made him so drunk, that he lay all as one as a dead man in the ditch till we brought him home, and then he said he could kiss the holy ’pistle and gospel safe in the court-house, that he lay for dead in a ditch by reason of the treatment he got at Connemara; and Mr. Burke turned out a good fellow; and the devil a prossy-sarver ever came into Connemara for a year after, but he sent a gossoon aforehand to tell us where we’d cotch the sarver afore sarvice. Oh! God rest your sowl, Bum Burke, and deliver it safe! it’s us that were sorry enuff when we heard the horse kilt you dead—oh bad cess to him! the likes of ye didn’t come since to our quarter.”

This mode of making process-servers _eat_ the process was not at all confined to Connemara. I have myself known it practised often at the colliery of Doonan, the estate of my friend Hartpole, when his father Squire Robert was alive. It was quite the custom; and if a person in those times took his residence in the purlieus of that colliery, serving him with any legal process was entirely out of the question; for if a bailiff attempted it, he was sure to have either a meal of sheepskin or a dive in a coal-pit, for his trouble.

This species of outrage was, however, productive of greater evil than merely making the process-server eat his bill. Those whose business it was to serve processes in time against the assizes, being afraid to fulfil their missions, took a short cut, and swore they _had_ actually served them, though they had never been on the spot;—whereby many a judgment was obtained surreptitiously, and executed on default upon parties who had never heard one word of the business:—and thus whole families were ruined by the perjury of one process-server.

The magistrates were all country gentlemen, very few of whom had the least idea of law proceedings further than when they happened to be directed against themselves; and the common fellows, when sworn on the holy Evangelists, conceived they could outwit the magistrates by kissing their own thumb, which held the book, instead of the cover of it; or by swearing, “By the vartue of my oath it’s through (true), your worship!” (putting a finger through a button-hole.)

So numerous were the curious acts and anecdotes of the Irish magistrates of those days, that were I to recite many of them, the matter-of-fact English (who have no idea of Irish freaks of this nature) would, I have no doubt, set me down as a complete romancer.

I conceived it would much facilitate the gratification of my desire to learn the customs of the Irish magisterial justices by becoming one myself. I therefore took out my _didimus_ at once for _every_ county in Ireland; and being thus a magistrate for thirty-two counties, I of course, wherever I went, learned all their doings; and I believe no body of men ever united more _authority_ and less _law_ than did the Irish justices of thirty years since.

DONNYBROOK FAIR.

Donnybrook contrasted with St. Bartholomew’s—Characteristics of the
company resorting to each fair—Site upon which the former is
held—Description and materials of a Donnybrook tent—Various humours of
the scene—The horse fair—Visit of the author and Counsellor Byrne in
1790—Barter and exchange—The “gentle Coadjutor”—The “master cobbler”—A
head in chancery—Disastrous mishap of Counsellor Byrne—Sympathy
therewith of the author and his steed—The cobbler and his companion—An
extrication—Unexpected intruders—Counsellor Byrne and his doctor—A
glance at the country fairs of Ireland—Sir Hercules Langreish and Mr.
Dundas—Dysart fair—The fighting factions—Various receipts for picking
a quarrel—Recent _civilization_ of the lower classes of Emeralders.

The fair of Donnybrook, near Dublin, has been long identified with the name and character of the lower classes of Irish people; and so far as the population of its metropolis may fairly stand for that of a whole country, the identification is just. This remark applies, it is true, to several years back; as that entire revolution in the natural Irish character, which has taken place within my time, must have extended to all their sports and places of amusement; and Donnybrook fair, of course, has had its full share in the metamorphosis.

The _old_ Donnybrook fair, however, is on record; and so long as the name exists, will be duly appreciated. Mr. Lysight’s popular song of “The Sprig of Shillelah and Shamrock so Green,”[26] gives a most lively sketch of that celebrated meeting—some of the varieties and peculiarities of which may be amusing, and will certainly give a tolerable idea of the Dublin commonalty in the eighteenth century.

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Footnote 26:

Two lines of Mr. Lysight’s song describe, quaintly, yet veritably, the
practical _point_ of the scenes which occurred at that place of
licensed eccentricities. He speaks of the real Irish Paddy, who

“Steps into a tent, just to spend half-a-crown,
Slips out, meets a _friend_, and for _joy_ knocks him down!
With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.”

It is a literal fact that the blow is as instantly forgiven, and the
twain set a-drinking together in great harmony, as if nothing had
happened.

A priest constantly attended in former times at an alehouse near
Kilmainham, to marry any couples who may have agreed upon that
ceremony when they were _drunk_, and made up their minds for its
immediate celebration so soon as they should be sober: and after the
ceremony he sent them back to the fair for one more drink; and the
lady then went home an _honest_ woman, and as happy as possible. Many
hundred similar matches used, in old times, to be effected during this
carnival. Mr. Lysight also describes the happy consequences of such
weddings with infinite humour. He says of the ulterior increase of
each family

“and nine months after that
A fine boy cries out, ‘How do ye do, Father Pat?
With your sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.’”

This system may somewhat account for the “alarming population of
Ireland,” as statesmen now call it.

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All Ireland is acquainted with the sort of sports and recreations which characterise Donnybrook. But the English, in general, are as ignorant of an Irish fair as they are of every other matter respecting the “sister kingdom,” and that is saying a great deal. John Bull, being the most egotistical animal of the creation, measures every man’s coat according to his own cloth, and fancying an Irish mob to be like a London rabble, thinks that Donnybrook fair is composed of all the vice, robbery, swindling, and spectacle—together with still rougher manners of its own—of his dear St. Bartholomew.

Never was John more mistaken. I do not know any one trait of character conspicuous alike in himself and brother Pat, save that which is their common disgrace and incentive to all other vices, _drinking_; and even in drunkenness the English far surpass Pat—though perhaps their superiority in this respect may be attributable merely to their being better able to purchase the poison; and if they have _not_ the means ready, they are far more expert at picking of pockets, burglary, or murder, to procure them—as Mr. _John Ketch_ (operative at his majesty’s gaol of Newgate in London) can bear ample testimony.

There is no doubt but all mobs are tumultuous, violent, and more or less savage (no matter what they meet about): it is the nature of democratic congregations so to be. Those of England are thoroughly wicked, and, when roused, most ferocious; but they show little genuine courage, and a few soldiers by a shot or two generally send thousands of fellows scampering, to adjourn _sine die_. Formerly, I never saw an Irish mob that could not easily be rendered tractable and complacent by persons who, as they conceived, intended them fairly and meant to act kindly by them. So much waggery and fun ever mingled with their most riotous adventures, that they were not unfrequently dispersed by a good-humoured joke, when it would probably have required a regiment and the reading of a dozen riot acts to do it by compulsion.

A long, erroneous system of ruling that people seems to have gradually, and at length definitively, changed the nature of the Irish character in every class and branch of the natives, and turned into political agitation what I remember only a taste for simple hubbub. The Irish have an indigenous _goût_ for fighting, (of which they never can be divested,) quite incomprehensible to a sober English farmer, whose food and _handiwork_ are as regular as his clock. At Donnybrook, the scene had formerly no reservation as to the full exhibition of genuine Hibernian character; and a description of one of the _tents_ of that celebrated sporting fair will answer nearly for all of them, and likewise give a tolerable idea of most other fairs in the Emerald island at the same period. Having twice[27] run a narrow risk of losing my life at Donnybrook, (the last time at its fair in 1790,) I am entitled to remember its localities at least as well as any gentleman who never was in danger of ending his days there.

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Footnote 27:

For the first of these occurrences see (Vol. ii.) my adventure with
Counsellor Daly and Balloon Crosby.

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The site of the fair is a green flat of no great extent, about a mile from Dublin city, and on the banks of a very shallow stream that runs dribbling under a high bridge:—fancy irregular houses on one side, and a highroad through the middle, and you will have a pretty good idea of that plain of festivity.

Many and of various proportions were the tents which, in time past, composed the encampment upon the plains of Donnybrook; and if persevering turbulence on the part of the Emeralders should ever put it into the heads of the members of his majesty’s government to hire a few bands of _Cossacks_ to keep them in order, (and I really believe they are the only folks upon earth who could frighten my countrymen,) the model of a Donnybrook tent will be of great service to the Don-Russian auxiliaries—the materials being so handy and the erection so _facile_. I shall therefore describe one accurately, that the Emperor Nicholas and his brother Michael, who has seen something of Ireland already, may, upon any such treaty being signed, perceive how extremely well his Imperial Majesty’s Tartars will be accommodated.

_Receipt for a Donnybrook Tent._

Take eight or ten long wattles, or any indefinite number, according to the length you wish your tent to be (whether two yards, or half a mile, makes no difference as regards the architecture or construction). Wattles need not be provided by purchase and sale, but may be readily procured any dark night by cutting down a sufficient number of young trees in the demesne or plantation of any gentleman in the neighbourhood—a prescriptive _privilege_ or rather _practice_, time immemorial, throughout all Ireland.

Having procured the said wattles _one way or other_, it is only necessary to stick them down in the sod in two rows, turning round the tops like a woodbine arbour in a lady’s flower-garden, tying the two ends together with neat ropes of hay, which any gentleman’s farm-yard can (during the night time, as aforesaid) readily supply,—then fastening long wattles in like manner lengthways at top from one end to the other to keep all tight together; and thus the “wooden walls” of Donnybrook are ready for roofing in; and as the building materials cost nothing but _danger_, the _expense_ is very trivial.

A tent fifty feet long may be easily built in about five minutes, unless the builders should adopt the old mode of _peeling_ the wattles; and when once a wattle is stripped to its _buff_, he must be a wise landlord indeed who could swear to the identity of the timber—a species of evidence nevertheless that the Irish wood-rangers are extremely expert at.[28] This precaution will not however be necessary for the Don Cossacks, who being educated as highway robbers by the Emperor of all the Russias, and acting in that capacity in every country, cannot of course be called to account for a due exercise of their vocation.

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Footnote 28:

I recollect a man at the assizes of Maryborough swearing to the leg of
his own goose, which was stolen—having found it in some _giblet broth_
at the robber’s cabin. The witness was obviously right; the web
between the goose’s toes being, he said, _snipped and cut_ in a way he
could perfectly identify.

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The covering of the tents is now only requisite; this is usually done according to fancy; and being unacquainted with the taste of the Russian gentlemen on that head, I shall only mention the general mode of _clothing_ the wattles used in my time—a mode that, from its singularity, had a far more imposing appearance than any encampment ever pitched by his majesty’s regular forces, horse, foot, or artillery. Every cabin, alehouse, and other habitation wherein quilts or bedclothes were used, or could be procured by _civility_ or _otherwise_ (except _money_, which was not current for such purposes), was ransacked for _apparel_ wherewith to cover the wattles. The favourite covering was _quilts_, as long as such were forthcoming; and when not, old winnowing sheets, sacks ripped open, rugs, blankets, &c. &c.—Every thing, in fact, was expended in the _bed_ line (few neighbours using that accommodation during the fair)—and recourse often had to women’s apparel, as old petticoats, praskeens, &c. &c.

The covering being spread over the wattles as tightly and snugly as the materials would admit, all was secured by hay ropes and pegs. When completed, a very tall wattle with a dirty birch-broom, the hairy end of an old sweeping brush, a cast-off lantern of some watchman, rags of all colours made into streamers, and fixed at the top by way of sign, formed the invitation to _drinking_;—and when _eating_ was likewise to be had, a rusty tin saucepan, or piece of a broken iron pot, was hung dangling in front, to crown the entrance and announce good cheer.

The most amusing part of the coverings were the quilts, which were generally of patchwork, comprising scraps of all the hues in the rainbow—cut into every shape and size, patched on each other, and quilted together.

As to furniture, down the centre doors, old or new, (whichever were most handy to be _lifted_,) were stretched from one end to the other, resting on hillocks of clay dug from underneath, and so forming a capital table with an agreeable variety both as to breadth and elevation. Similar constructions for benches were placed along the sides, but not so steady as the table; so that when the liquor got the mastery of one convivial fellow, he would fall off, and the whole row generally following his example, perhaps ten or even twenty gallant _shamrocks_ were seen on their backs, kicking up their heels, some able to get up again, some lying quiet and easy, singing, roaring, laughing, or cursing; while others, still on their legs, were drinking and dancing, and setting the whole tent in motion, till all began to long for the open air, and a little wrestling, leaping, cudgelling, or fighting upon the green grass. The tent was then cleaned out and prepared for a new company of the shillelah boys.

The best tents, that supplied “neat victuals,” had a pot boiling outside on a turf fire, with good fat lumps of salt beef and cabbage, called “spooleens,” always ready simmering for such customers as should like a _sliver_. The potatoes were plentiful, and salt Dublin-bay herrings also in abundance. There was, besides, a cold round or rump of beef at double price for the _quality_ who came to see the _curiosities_.

Except toys and trinkets for children, merchandise of any sort they seemed to have a contempt for; but these were bought up with great avidity; and in the evening, when the parents had given the _childer_ a glass each of the _cratur_ (as they called whisky), “to keep the cowld out of their little stomachs,” every trumpet or drum, fiddle, whistle, or pop-gun, which the fond mothers had bestowed, was set sounding (all together) over the green, and chimed in with a dozen fiddlers and as many pipers jigging away for the dance,—an amalgamation of sounds among the most extraordinary that ever _tickled_ the ear of a musician. Every body, drunk or sober, took a share in the _long_ dance, and I have seen a row of a hundred couple labouring at their jig steps till they fell off actually breathless, and rather _wetter_ than if they had been river deities of the Donnybrook.

This however must be remarked as constituting a grand distinction between the beloved St. Bartholomew of the cockneys and the Emeralders’ glory;—that at the former, robbers, cheats, gamblers, and villains of every description collect, and are most active in their respective occupations; whilst at the latter, no gambling of any sort existed;—nor were thieves, pickpockets or swindlers often there: for a good reason—because there was no money worth stealing, and _plenty_ of _emptiness_ in the pockets of the amateurs. However, love reigned in all its glory, and Cupid expended every arrow his mother could make for him: but with this difference, that love is in general represented as discharging his shafts into people’s hearts, whereas, at Donnybrook, he always aimed at their _heads_; and before it became quite dusk he never failed to be very successful in his archery. It was after sunset, indeed, that sweethearts made up their matches; and a priest (Father Kearny of Liffy Street, a good _clergy_) told me that more marriages were celebrated in Dublin the week _after_ Donnybrook fair, than in any two months during the rest of the year: the month of June being warm and _snug_ (as he termed it), smiled on every thing that was good, and helped the _liquor_ in making arrangements; and with great animation he added, that it was a gratifying sight to see his young parishioners who had made up their matches at Donnybrook coming there in a couple of years again, to buy whistles for their children.

The _horse_ part of the fair was not destitute of amusement—as there was a large ditch with a drain, and a piece of a wall, which the sellers were always called upon to “leather their horses over” before any body would bid for them; and the tumbles which those venturous jockies constantly received, with the indifference wherewith they mounted and began again, were truly entertaining.

The common Irish are the most heroic horsemen I ever saw:—it was always one of their attributes. They ride on the horse’s bare back with rapidity and resolution; and coming from fairs, I have often seen a couple or sometimes three fellows riding one bare-backed horse as hard as he could go, and safely—not one of whom, if they were on their own legs, could stand perpendicular half a minute.

It is a mistake to suppose that Donnybrook was a remarkable place for _fighting_, or that much _blood_ was ever drawn there. On the contrary, it was a place of good-humour. Men, to be sure, were knocked down now and then, but there was no malice in it. A head was often cut, but quickly tied up again. The women first parted the combatants and then became mediators; and every fray which commenced with a knock-down, generally ended by shaking hands, and the parties getting dead drunk together.

That brutal species of combat, _boxing_, was never practised at our fairs; and that savage nest and hot-bed of ruffians called the “Ring,” so shamefully tolerated in England, was unknown among the Emeralders.[29] With the shillelah, indeed, they had great skill; but it was only like sword exercise, and did not appear savage. Nobody was disfigured thereby, or rendered fit for a doctor. I never saw a bone broken or any dangerous contusion from what they called “_whacks_” of the shillelah (which was never too heavy): it was like fencing: a cut on the skull they thought no more of than we should of the prick of a needle: of course, such accidents frequently occurred, and (I believe very well for them) let out a little of their blood, but did not for a single moment interrupt the song, the dance, the frolicking and good-humour.

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Footnote 29:

I remember one man of tremendous strength from Carlow County (Corcoran
by name): he fancied he could knock down any man or beast on earth
with his fist, and by downright muscular vigour, bear down the guards
of all science or resistance. He went over to England to fight any
“man, woman, or child,” in the whole nation; and when I was at temple,
made sad examples of some of the scientific fancy. He could knock down
the ablest horse with one blow of his fist. I never saw near so strong
a person.

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I have said, that the danger I underwent at Donnybrook sank deep into my memory. The main cause of it was not connected with my rencounter with Counsellor Daly, recited in the second volume of the present work, but with one which was to the full as hazardous, though it involved none of those points of honour or “fire-eating” which forced me to the other conflict.

In the year 1790, Counsellor John Byrne, (afterward one of his majesty’s counsel-at-law,) a very worthy man, and intimate friend of mine, called on me to ride with him and aid him in the purchase of a horse at the fair of Donnybrook. I agreed, and away we rode, little anticipating the sad discomfiture we should experience. We found the fair rich in all its glories of drinking, fighting, kissing, making friends, knocking down, women dragging their husbands out of frays, and wounded men joining as merrily in the dance as if the clout tied round their heads were a Turkish turban. Whatever happened _in_ the fair, neither revenge nor animosity went _out_ of it with any of the parties; to be sure, on the road to town, there were always seen plenty of pulling, hauling, and dragging about, in which the ladies were to the full as busily employed as the gentlemen; but for which the latter offered, next day, one general excuse to their wives, who would be mending their torn coats and washing their stockings and cravats.

“Sure, Moll, it wasn’t _myself_ that was _in it_ when I knocked Tom Sweeny down in the tent; it was the _drink_, and nothing else.”

“True for you, Pat, my jewel!” would the wife cry, (scrubbing away as hard as she could,) “true for you, my darling: by my sowl, the whisky and _water_ was all _spirits_. Myself would as soon strike my owld mother, God forgive me for the word! as have struck Mary Casey, only for that last noggin that put the devil into me just when I was aggravated at your _head_, Pat, my jewel. So I hit Mary Casey a wipe; and by my sowl it’s I that am sorry for that same, becaize Mary had neither act nor part in cutting your head, Pat; but I was aggravated, and did not think of the _differ_.”

This dialogue, with variations, I have heard a hundred times; and it will serve as a true specimen of the species of quarrels at Donnybrook in former times, and their general conclusion;—and such were the scenes that the visitors of the fair were making full preparation for, when Counsellor John Byrne, myself, and a servant lad of mine (not a very good horseman), entered it in the year 1790. The boy was mounted on a fiery horse, which Byrne wanted to exchange; and as I never liked _any thing_ that was too tame, the horse I rode always had spirit enough, particularly for a gentleman who was not very remarkable for _sticking over-fast_ to those animals.

Into the fair we went, and riding up and down, got here a curse, and there a blessing; sometimes a fellow who knew one of us, starting out of a tent to offer us a glass of the “cratur.” When we had satisfied our reasonable curiosity, and laughed plentifully at the grotesque scenes interspersed through every part, we went to the horse-fair on the green outside. There the jockies were in abundance; and certainly no fair ever exhibited a stranger _mélange_ of the halt and blind, the sound and rotten, rough and smooth—all galloping, leaping, kicking, or tumbling—some in clusters, some singly; now and then a lash of the long whip, and now and then a crack of the loaded butt of it! At length, a horse was produced (which we conceived fit for any counsellor) by Mr. Irvin the jockey, and engaged, upon his _honour_, to be as sound as a _roach_, and as steady as any beast between Donnybrook and _Loughrea_, where he had been the favourite gelding of Father Lynch, the parish priest, who called him “Coadjutor”—(he had broken the holy father’s neck, by the bye, about a year before). “Do just try him, Counsellor Byrne,” said Mr. Irvin; “just mount him a bit, and if ever you get off him again till you grease my fist, I’ll forgive you the luck-penny. He’ll want neither whip nor spur; he’ll know your humour, counsellor, before you’re five minutes on his body, and act accordingly.”

“You’re sure he’s _gentle_?” said Byrne.

“Gentle, is it? I’ll give you leave to skin both himself and me if you won’t soon like him as well as if he was (begging your pardon) your own cousin-german. If he wasn’t the thing from muzzle to tail that would suit you, I’d hang him before I’d give him to a counsellor—the like of yees at any rate.”

A provisional bargain and exchange was soon struck, and Byrne mounted for trial on the favourite gelding of the late Father Lynch of Loughrea, called Coadjutor;—and in truth he appeared fully to answer all Mr. Irvin’s eulogiums: we rode through the fair, much amused—I trotting carelessly close by the side of Byrne, and our servant on the fiery mare behind us; when, on a sudden, a drunken shoemaker, or _master cobbler_, as he called himself, whom my family had employed in heeling, soling, &c. seeing me pass by, rushed out of his tent with a bottle of whisky in one hand and a glass in the other, and roared, “Ough! by J—s, Barnton, you go no further till you take a drop with me, like your father’s son, that I’ve been these many a long year tapping and foxing for: here, my darling, open your gob!”

Byrne being nearest, the cobbler stepped under the neck of my friend’s horse, and his sconce getting entangled in the loose reins, the horse (not understanding that species of interruption) began to caper—which at the same time rather shaking Counsellor Byrne in his seat, and further entangling the shoemaker’s head, I leant across to get Byrne’s rein fair; but being unable to do so, from the fury of the son of Crispin, who was hitting Bucephalus on the skull as hard as he could with the bottle, to make him _stand easy_ and to get his own head clear, my leg got entangled in the reins; and Byrne’s _gentle_ gelding making one or two simultaneous leaps forward and kicks behind, I had the horror of seeing my poor friend fly far over his horse’s head, alight rather heavily upon his own, and having done so, lie quite flat and still, seeming to take no further notice either of the fair, the horses, myself, or any earthly matter whatsoever.