CHAPTER I.
WHO THE PIPER WAS.
Irish Legends almost invariably remind me of the Field of Waterloo. Whenour tourists rushed _en masse_, to behold the plain on which thedestinies of Europe had been decided, they exhibited the usualrelic-hunting and relic-buying mania. Bullets and helmet ornaments,rusty pistols and broken swords, buttons and spurs, and suchthings--actually found on the battle-field--were soon disposed of, whileof the tourists it might be said, as of the host of Dunsinane, "The cryis still 'they come!'" So, the demand exceeding the legitimate supply,the Belgian peasantry began to dispose of fictitious relics, and a veryprofitable trade it was for a long time. To this day, they are carefullymanufactured, "to order," by more than one of the hardware makers ofBirmingham.
In the same manner, Irish legends having become a marketable commodity(Carleton and Crofton Croker, Banim and Griffin, Lover and Whitty,having worked the vein deeply), people had recourse to invention insteadof tradition--like George Psalmanazar's History of Formosa, in whichfiction supplied the place of fact. Very amusing, no doubt; but notquite fair. More ingenious than honest. Therefore, the Irish story Ishall relate, if it possesses none other, shall have the merit, atleast, of being "founded on facts."
Fermoy is one of the prettiest towns in Ireland. It is not very remotefrom that very distinguished Southern metropolis--of pigs andporter--known as "the beautiful city of Cork." Midway between city andtown lies Water-grass-hill, a pretty village, located on the highestarable land in Ireland, and now immortal as having once been theresidence of the celebrated Father Prout. Some people prefer thecountry-town to the crowded city: for, though its trade be small, itssociety rather too fond of scandal, its church without a steeple, andits politicians particularly intolerant, Fermoy is in the heart of afertile and picturesque tract, and there flows through it that nobleriver, the Blackwater, honorably mentioned by Spenser, and honored inlater song as the scene where might be beheld
"The trout and the salmon A-playing backgammon. All on the banks of sweet Castle Hyde."
The scenery around Fermoy is indeed most beautiful, and _above_ all(in more meanings than one) towers Corrig Thierna--the Lord's rock,commonly spoken of as Corran--which, to such of the inhabitants as havenot seen greater elevations, appears a mountain entitled to vie withwhat they have heard of the Alps, Appenines, or Andes.
Although Fermoy now contains fully seven hundred houses (exclusive ofstables and pigsties), and a population of nearly seven thousand souls,men, women, and children--to say nothing of horses, oxen, sheep, mules,donkies, cats, dogs, and such other creatures as have no souls--it wasnot always so extensive and populous.
In every town a high traditional authority is constantly referred to as"within the memory of the oldest inhabitant," and it may be stated, onthis antique authority, that, not much more than half a century since,Fermoy was a very small and obscure hamlet, consisting of no more thanone little pothouse and half a dozen other mud-cabins, luxuriantlylocated, with some ingenuity, so as to enjoy, front and rear, a_maximum_ of the morning and afternoon sunshine. These domiciles wereranged in a row, and hence arose the figurative saying, "All on oneside, like the town of Fermoy." The energy, ability, and capital of oneman (the late John Anderson, who introduced mail-coaches into Ireland),raised the village of Fermoy into a populous and thriving town, which,in 1809, was a merry place--partly owing to the mirth whose chiefminister was Remmy Carroll, son of old Carroll, the piper.
As Remmy is the hero of my tale, it is only proper that I shoulddescribe him. Irish parlance emphatically distinguished him as "a mightyclever boy," which did not mean a compliment to his capacity oracquirements, but was simply a figure of speech to declare that thisHibernian Orpheus stood about "six feet two in his stocking-vamps."Remmy Carroll's personal appearance was not quite as _distingue_ as thatof his great contemporary, Beau Brummell. His coat, originally of bluefrieze, had worn down, by age and service, to a sort of bright gray,tessellated, like mosaic-work, with emendations of the originalsubstance carefully annexed thereto by Remmy's own industrious fingers.The garment, like the wearer, had known many a fray, and Remmy was wontto observe, jocularly, when he sat down to repair these breaches, thatthen, like a man of landed property, he was occupied in "taking hisrents."
Care is not very likely to kill a man who can jest upon his own poverty.Accordingly, Remmy Carroll was as light-hearted a fellow as could be metwith in town or country. He was a gentleman accustomed to live how andwhere he could, and he was welcomed everywhere. It was mentioned, as anundoubted fact, that where men of substance--rich farmers and thrivingshopkeepers--had been very coldly received by bright-eyed angels inpetticoats, looks and even words of encouragement had been extended toRemmy Carroll. The fair sex are proverbially of a kind nature,especially towards young men, who, like Carroll, have handsome featuresand jocund speech, lofty stature and winning smiles, that symmetry oflimb which pleases the eye, and that subduing conversation which pleasesthe ear. What was more, Remmy Carroll knew very well--none better!--thathe was a favorite with the rose-cheeked Venuses of Fermoy and itsvicinity. It may be mentioned also--as _sotto voce_ as type can expressit--that he was also perfectly aware that he was a very personablefellow, what Coleridge has described as "a noticeable man." Was thereever any one, no matter of what age or sex, possessing personaladvantages, who was not fully aware of the fact?
It would be tedious to expatiate very particularly upon the extent andvariety of Remmy Carroll's accomplishments. He followed the hereditaryprofession of his family, and was distinguished, far and near, for hisreally splendid execution on the Irish pipes--an instrument which can bemade to "discourse most excellent music," and must never be confoundedwith the odious drone of the Scottish bag-pipes. Remmy's performancecould almost excite the very chairs, tables, and three-legged stools todance. One set of pipes is worth a dozen fiddles, for it can "take theshine out of them all" in point of loudness. But then, these same pipescan do more than make a noise. The warrior, boldest in the field, isgentlest at the feet of his ladye-love; and so, the Irish pipes, whichcan sound a strain almost as loud as a trumpet-call, can also breatheforth a tide of gushing melody--sweet, soft, and low as the firstwhisper of mutual love. You have never felt the eloquent expression ofIrish music, if you have not heard it from the Irish pipes.[3] It isquite marvellous that, amid all the novelties of instrumentation (if Imay coin a word) which are thrust upon the patient public, season afterseason--including the Jews'-harping of Eulenstein, the chin-chopping ofMichael Boiai, and the rock-harmonicon of the Derbyshire mechanics--noone has thought of exhibiting the melodious performance of an Irishreally were a first-rate performer, he could not fail to please, todelight, to astonish. But, again I say, do not confound the sweetharmony of the Irish with the drony buzz of the Scotch pipes.
[3] This praise of the Irish pipes is by no means exaggerated. The last performer of any note, in Fermoy, was an apothecary, named O'Donnell, who certainly could make them discourse "most eloquent music." He died about fifteen years ago. It was almost impossible to listen with dry eyes and unmoved heart to the exquisite manner in which he played the Irish melodies--the _real_ ones, I mean--not those which Tom Moore and Sir John Stevenson had "adopted" (and emasculated) for polite and fashionable piano-forte players and singers. There is now in New York a gentleman, named Charles Ferguson, whose performance on the Irish pipes may be said to equal--it could not surpass--that of O'Donnell.
Remmy Carroll's accomplishments were not limited to things musical. Hecould out-walk, out-run, and out-leap any man in the barony of Condonsand Clongibbons; aye, or of any five other baronies in the county ofCork, the Yorkshire of Ireland. He could back the most vicious horsethat ever dared to rear and kick against human supremacy. He hadaccepted the challenge scornfully given to the whole world, by Big Brownof Kilworth, to wrestle, and had given him four fair falls out of five,a matter so much taken to heart by the said Big one, that he emigratedto London,
where, overcome with liquor and loyalty, he was tempted toenlist in an infantry regiment, and was shot through the head at thestorming of Badajoz some short time after.
Remmy Carroll could do, and had done more than defeat Brown. He couldswim like a fish, was the only man ever known to dive under thatminiature Maelstrom which eddies at the base of The Nailer's Rock(nearly opposite Barnaean Well), and, before he was one-and-twenty, hadsaved nine unfortunates from being drowned in the fatal Blackwater.[4]
[4] There really was a person named Carroll residing in Fermoy at the date of this story. He was of gigantic stature and strength, with the mildest temper ever possessed by mortal man. He was noted for his excellence in swimming and his remarkable skill as a diver. Whenever any person had been drowned in the Blackwater, (which runs through Fermoy,) Carroll was sent for, and never quitted the river until he had found the body. There is one part considered particularly dangerous, opposite Barnaean Well, in which a large projection, called the Nailer's Rock, shelves out into the water, making an under-current of such peculiar strength and danger, that even expert swimmers avoid it, from a fear of being drawn within the vortex. Many lives have been lost in this fatal eddy, into which Carroll was accustomed to dive, most fearlessly, in search of the bodies. It was calculated that Carroll had actually saved twenty-two persons from being drowned, and had recovered over fifty corpses from the river. When he died, which event happened at the commencement of the bathing season, a general sorrow fell upon all classes in the town of Fermoy, and for several weeks no one ventured into the river. It was as if their guardian and safeguard had departed. In my youth, passed on the banks of the Blackwater, there was a belief that whenever one person was drowned in that river, two others were sure to follow, in the same season.
No man in the county could beat him at hurly, or foot-ball. He was acrack hand at a faction-fight on a fair day--only, as a natural spiritof generosity sometimes impelled him, with a reckless chivalry, to sidewith the weaker party, he had, more than once, been found magnanimouslybattling against his own friends.
Yet more.--Having had the advantage of three years' instruction at TimDaly's far-famed Academy, Remmy Carroll was master of what a farmer,more alliterative than wise, called "the mystery of the threeR's:--Reading, 'Riting, and 'Rithmetic." He knew, by the simple taste,when the Potheen was sufficiently "above proof." He had a ten-Irishmanpower of love-making, and while the maidens (with blushes, smiles, andsoftly-similated angers) would exclaim, "Ah, then, be done, Remmy!--fora deluder as ye are!" there usually was such a sly intelligence beamingfrom their bright eyes, as assured him that he was not unwelcome; andthen he felt it his duty to kiss them into perfect good-humor andforgiveness.--But I am cataloguing his accomplishments at too muchlength. Let it suffice to declare, that Remmy Carroll was confessedlythe Admirable Crichton of the district.
He was an independent citizen of the world--for he had no particularsettled habitation. He was a popular character--for every habitation wasopen to him, from Tim Mulcahy's, who lived with his wife and pig, in awindowless mud-cabin, at the foot of Corran, to Mr. Bartle Mahony'stwo-story slated house, on a three hundred acre farm, at Carrigabrick,on the banks of the Blackwater. At the latter abode of wealth, however,Remmy Carroll had not lately called.
Mr. Bartholomew Mahony--familiarly called "Bartle"--was a man ofsubstance. Had he lived now, he might have sported a hunter for himself,and set up a jaunting-car for his daughter. But the honest, well-to-dofarmer had at once too much pride and sagacity to sink into the_Squireen_. He was satisfied with his station in life, and did notaspire beyond it. He was passing rich in the world's eye. Many, even ofthe worldlings, thought less of his wealth than of his daughter, Mary.Of all who admired, none loved her half so well as poor Remmy Carroll,who loved the more deeply, because very hopelessly, inasmuch as herwealth and his own poverty shut him out from all reasonable prospect ofsuccess. He admired--nay, that is by far too weak a word: he almostadored her, scarcely daring to confess, even to his own heart, howclosely her image was blended with the very life of his being.
Mary Mahony was an Irish beauty; that most indescribable of allbreathing loveliness, with dark hair, fair skin, and violet eyes, acombination to which the brilliant pencil of Maclise has often renderedjustice. She had a right to look high, in a matrimonial way, for she wasan heiress in her own right. She had L500 left her as a legacy by an oldmaiden-aunt, near Mitchelstown, who had taken care of her from hertwelfth year, when she left the famous Academy of the renowned Tim Daly(where she and Remmy used to write together at the same desk), untilsome eight months previous to the date of this authentic narrative, whenthe maiden-aunt died, bequeathing her property, as aforesaid, to MaryMahony, who then returned to her father.
With all her good fortune, including the actual of the legacy, and theideal of inheritance to her father's property--with beauty sufficient tohave turned the head of any other damsel of eighteen, Mary Mahony wasfar from pride or conceit. She had the lithest form and the mostgraceful figure in the world, but many maidens, with far less means,wore much more showy and expensive apparel. Her dark hair was plainlybraided off her white brow, in bands, in the simplest and most gracefulmanner; while, from beneath, gleamed orbs so beautiful, that one mighthave said to her, in the words of John Ford, the dramatist,
"Once a young lark Sat on thy hand, and gazing on thine eyes, Mounted and sung, thinking them moving skies."
The purple stuff gown (it was prior to the invention of merinos andmuslins-de-laine), which, in its close fit, exhibited the exquisitebeauty of her form, and set off, by contrast, the purity of hercomplexion, was also a within-doors article of attire: when she wentout, she donned a long cloak of fine blue cloth, with the sides and hoodneatly lined with pink sarsnet. Young and handsome Irish girls, in herrank of life, were not usually satisfied, at that time, with a dress soquiet and so much the reverse of gay.
But Mary Mahony's beauty required nothing to set it off. I do notexaggerate when I say that it was literally dazzling. I saw her twentyyears after the date of this narrative, and was even then struck withadmiration of her matured loveliness;--how rich, then, must it have beenin the bud!
Mary, as Remmy Carroll said _before_ he knew that he loved her--for_then_, he never breathed her name to mortal ear,--was "the moral of adarling creature, only t'would be hard to say whether she was most goodor handsome." Her hair, as I have said, was dark (light tresses arecomparatively rare in Ireland), and her eyes were of so deep a blue thatnine out of ten on whom they glanced mistook them for black. Then, too,the long lashes veiling them, and the lovely cheek ("oh, call it fair,not pale"), on which their silky length reposed,--and the lips so redand pouting, and the bust whose gentle heavings were just visible behindthe modest kerchief which covered it,--and the brow white as snow (butneither too high nor too prominent),--and the fingers tapering andround, and the form lithe and graceful,--and the feet small andwell-shaped, and the nameless air which gave dignity and grace to everymotion of this country-girl! Oh, beautiful was Mary Mahony, beautiful asthe bright image of a poet's dream, the memory of which shadows he forthin the verse which challenges immortality in the minds of men.
The _contour_ of her face was neither Roman, nor Grecian, norGothic;--it was essentially Irish, and I defy you to find a finer. Theonly drawback (for I must be candid) was that her nose hadsomewhat--just the slightest--of an upward inclination. This, whichsometimes lent a sort of piquancy to what would otherwise have beenquite a Madonna-like face, only made her not too handsome; at least, sothought her admirers. Lastly, she had a voice as sweet as ear ever lovedto listen to. No doubt, it had the distinguishing accents of hercountry, but with her, as with Scott's Ellen, they were
"Silvery sounds, so soft, so dear, The listener held his breath to hear."