[Pg 65]

THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

LEIGHLIN-BRIDGE AND THE BLACK CASTLE.

The ancient Bridge and Black Castle of Leighlin-Bridge,
seated on “the goodly Barrow,” must be familiar to such
of our readers as have ever travelled on the mail-coach road
between Carlow and Kilkenny, for it is a scene of much picturesque
beauty, and of a character very likely to impress
itself on the memory.

These are the most striking features of the town called
Leighlin-Bridge, a market and post town, situated partly in
the parish of Augha and barony of Idrone-East, and partly
in the parish of Wells and barony of Idrone-West, in the
county of Carlow, six miles south from the town of that name,
and forty-five miles S.S.W. from Dublin. This town contains
about 2000 inhabitants, and is seated on both sides of the
Barrow; the bridge, which contains nine arches, dividing it
into nearly equal portions: that on the east side consists of
178 houses, and that on the west of 191, being 369 houses in
all. The parish church of Wells, the Roman Catholic chapel,
and a national school-house, are on the Wells side of the river,
as is also the ruined castle represented in our illustration.

To the erection of this castle the town owes its origin. As
a position of great military importance to the interests of the
first Anglo-Norman settlers in Ireland, it was erected in 1181,
either by the renowned Hugh de Lacy himself, or by John de
Clahull, or De Claville, “to whom De Lacy gave the marshallshipp
of all Leinster, and the land between Aghavoe and
Leighlin.”

From a minute description of the remains of this castle
given by Mr Ryan in his History and Antiquities of the County
of Carlow, a work of much ability and research, it appears
that it was constructed on the Norman plan, and consisted
of a quadrangular enclosure, 315 feet in length and 234 feet
in width, surrounded by a wall seven feet thick, with a fosse
on the exterior of three sides of the enclosure, and the river
on the fourth. Of this wall the western side only is now in
existence. The keep or great tower of this fortress, represented
in our sketch, is situated at the north-western angle of
the square, and is of an oblong form, and about fifty feet in
height. It is much dilapidated; but one floor, resting on an
arch, remains, to which there is an ascent by stone steps, as
there is to the top, which is completely covered over with ivy,
planted by the present possessors of the castle. At the other,
or south-west angle of the enclosure, are the remains of a lesser
tower, which is of a rotund form and of great strength, the walls
being ten feet thick. It is still more dilapidated than the
great keep, and is only 24 feet high, having a flight of steps
leading to its summit.

The present name of the town, however, is derived from the
bridge, which was erected in 1320 to facilitate the intercourse
between the religious houses of old and new Leighlin, by Maurice
Jakis, a canon of the cathedral of Kildare, whose memory
as a bridge-builder is deservedly preserved, having also erected
the bridges of Kilcullen and St Woolstan’s over the Liffey,[Pg 66]
both of which still exist. Previously to the erection of this
bridge, the town was called New Leighlin, in contradistinction
to the original Leighlin, a town of more ancient and ecclesiastical
origin, which was situated about two miles to the west,
and which was afterwards known by the appellation of Old
Leighlin. The erection of this bridge, by giving a new direction
to the great southern road, led rapidly to the increase of
the new town and the decay of the old one, whose site is only
marked at present by the remains of its venerable cathedral
church.

In addition to the Black Castle and the bridge already noticed,
Leighlin-Bridge had formerly a second castle, as well as
a monastery, of which there are at present no remains. The
former, which was called the White Castle, was erected
in 1408 by Gerald, the fifth Earl of Kildare: its site, we believe,
is now unknown. The monastery was erected for Carmelite
or White Friars, under the invocation of the Virgin
Mary, by one of the Carews, in the reign of Henry III., and
was situated at the south side of the Black Castle. After the
suppression of religious houses, this monastery, being in the
hands of government, was in 1547 surrounded with a wall,
and converted into a fort, by Sir Edward Bellingham, Lord
Deputy of Ireland, who also established within it a stable of
twenty or thirty horses, of a superior breed to that commonly
used in Ireland, for the use of his own household, and for the
public service. The dispersed friars did not, however, remove
far from their original mansion when dispossessed of their
tenements; they withdrew to a house on the same side of the
river, about two hundred yards from the castle; and an establishment
of the order was preserved till about the year 1827,
when it became extinct, on the death of the last friar of the
community.

As the English settlement here became very insecure towards
the close of the fourteenth century, and was peculiarly
exposed to the hostile attacks of the native Irish, who continued
powerful in its immediate vicinity, a grant of ten marks
annually was made by King Edward III. in 1371, to the Prior
of this monastery, for the repairing and rebuilding of the house,
which grant was renewed six years afterwards; and in 1378,
Richard II., in consideration of the great labour, burden, and
expense which the Priors had in supporting their house, and the
bridge contiguous to it, against the king’s enemies, granted to
the Priors an annual pension of twenty marks out of the rents
of the town of Newcastle of Lyons, which grant he confirmed
to them in 1394, and which was ratified by his successors Henry
IV. and V. in the first years of their reigns (1399, 1412), the
latter monarch ordering at the same time that all arrears of
rent then due should be paid.

In the civil wars of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries
the possession of Leighlin-Bridge and its castle became an
object of much importance to the combatants on both sides. In
1577, when the celebrated chieftain of Leix, Rory Oge O’More,
rose in rebellion, among other depredations he burned a part
of the town of Leighlin-Bridge, and endeavoured to get possession
of its castle, which was then feebly garrisoned under
the command of Sir George Carew, constable of the fort and
town. With the slender force of seven horse, as it is stated
by Hooker, but under the cover of night, Carew made a sally
on his assailants, numbering two hundred and forty, who, being
taken by surprise, lost many men, and the remainder for a
time fled. Having soon however discovered the extremely small
force by which they had been attacked, they rallied, and in
turn became the assailants, pursuing Carew’s party to the
gate of Leighlin-Bridge Castle, and some of them even entering
within its walls; but by the bravery of the garrison they
were soon expelled. Carew had two men and one horse killed,
and every man of his party was wounded. The rebels lost
sixteen men, among whom was one of their leaders, which so
discomfited them that they retired, leaving one-half of the
town uninjured.

In the great rebellion of O’Neil, at the close of the reign of
Elizabeth, the castle of Leighlin-Bridge was repaired and garrisoned
for the Queen, though the surrounding country was
laid waste by the Kavanaghs. In the beginning of the succeeding
reign (1604), the site of the castle, together with that
of the monastery, &c. &c., were granted by the king to George
Tutchett, Lord Awdeley, to be held of the crown for ever in
common soccage.

In the great rebellion of 1641, the castle of Leighlin-Bridge
was garrisoned for the confederate Catholics, in 1646, with
one hundred men, under the command of Colonel Walter Bagnall;
it was here also that in 1647 the Marquis of Ormond
assembled his forces, to attack the republicans, who had got
possession of Dublin; and he rested his forces here in 1649.
It was, however, surrendered to the parliamentary forces under
Colonel Hewson in the following year, soon after which the
main army under Ireton sojourned here for a time, and plundered
the surrounding country. Since this period, Leighlin-Bridge
has enjoyed the blessings of peace, and has made those
advances in prosperity which follow in its train. Its market
is on Monday and Saturday amply supplied with corn and butter,
&c., and it has four well-attended fairs, on Easter Monday,
May 14th, September 25th, and December 27th. Much beautiful
scenery and many interesting remains of antiquity exist
in its immediate vicinity.

P.

IRISH MUSIC.

The following song on the harp of our country has been
sent to us by our friend Samuel Lover, the painter, poet,
musician, dramatist, story-writer, and novelist of Ireland, for
it is his pride to be in every thing Irish; and for this, no less
than for his manly independence of character and sterling qualities
of heart, we honour him. It cannot be said of him as
of some of our countrymen at the other side of the water, that
he is ashamed of us; and we are not, and we feel assured never
shall be, ashamed of him.

We may remark that these verses owe their origin to an
examination of Bunting’s delightful “Ancient Music of Ireland”—a
work of which we have already expressed our opinion
in our first number—and are adapted to be sung to the first
melody in that collection, “Sit down under my protection.”
We may also add, that it is the intention of the poet, when he
prints the music and words together, to dedicate them to Mr
Bunting, as a memorial of his gratitude for the services rendered
to Ireland in the preservation of her national music—services
which, as the author says, “will make his name be
remembered amongst our bards.”

SONG.
BY SAMUEL LOVER.

Poverty.—Poverty has in large cities very different appearances.
It is often concealed in splendour, and often in
extravagance. It is the care of a very great part of mankind
to conceal their indigence from the rest. They support themselves
by temporary expedients, and every day is lost in contriving
for to-morrow.

When you intend to marry, look first at the heart, next at
the mind, then at the person.

Pride is a vice, which pride itself inclines every man to find
in others and to overlook in himself.—Johnson.

[Pg 67]

HUMBUG.

If the reader’s attention is now called to it for the first time,
he will be rather surprised, we dare say, to find how much
humbug is incorporated with our social system. It will rather
surprise him to find, as a little reflection will certainly enable
him to do, that humbug forms, in fact, the cement by which society
is held together; that it pervades every department of it,
fills up all its crevices and crannies, and, in truth, permeates
its very substance. We, in short, all humbug one another;
that’s beyond all manner of doubt.

Don’t we every day write cards and letters beginning with
“My dear, or My very dear sir,” and ending with, “Yours sincerely,
truly, &c. &c.,” knowing, in our conscience, that in
ninety-nine instances out of the hundred—always excepting
cases where a man’s interest is concerned—we do not care one
straw for these very dear sirs—not one farthing although they
were six feet below the ground to-morrow.

Suppose an intimation card of the death of one of these very
dear sirs, or of some “good friend” or intimate acquaintance,
waits us on our arrival home to dinner.

“Guess who’s dead?” says some member of our family, running
towards us with joyful anticipation of our perplexity.

“Can’t say, indeed,” reply we. “Who is it?”

“Mr O’Madigan.”

“Ah, dear me, poor follow, is he dead? Very sudden, very
unexpected.—Is dinner ready?”

What is the civility of the landlord and his waiters but
humbug? What the smirking, smiling, ducking and bowing
of the shopkeeper, but humbug? What his sweet and gentle
“yes, sirs,” and “no, sirs,” and “proud to serve you, sirs,”
but humbug? You are not goose enough to believe for a moment
that he is serious, that he has either the least regard or respect
for you. Not he; he would not care a twopence although
you were hanged, drawn, and quartered before his shop-door
to-morrow, except, perhaps, for the inconvenience of the thing.

What is the civility of the servant to his employer but humbug?
Do you imagine for a moment that that man who, hat
in hand, is looking up to you with such a respectful air—looking
up to you as if you were a god—as if his very existence
depended on your slightest breath—do you imagine for a
moment, we ask, that he has in his heart that deference for
you that he would make you believe? that he conceives you to
be so very superior a being as his manner would imply? Not
he, indeed. Depend upon it, it is all humbug; humbug all.
And if you saw or heard him when he feels secure that you
can do neither the one nor the other, you would speedily be
convinced that it is.

But it is in the wheel-within-wheel of social life, the domestic
circle, in what are called the friendly relations of life,
that the system of humbug assumes, perhaps, its most deceptive
character. See what a loving and friendly set of people
are gathered together around that dinner table! See how
blandly, how affectionately they look on each other! How
delighted they are with one another—with mine host and
hostess in particular! Why, they would die for them—die on
the spot. They would go any length to serve one another.
See that shake of the hand, how cordial it is! that smile, how
affectionate! how winning! how full of kindly promise!
Now, do these people in reality feel the smallest interest in
each other’s welfare? Would they make the slightest sacrifice
to serve one another? Not they, indeed. If you doubt
it, try any one of them next day; try any of your “dear
friends” if they will lend you a pound or five, as the case may
be. Until you do this, or something like it, depend upon it
you don’t know your men; no, nor your women either.

“Oh! but,” says the moralist, “mere civility, my good sir,
mere civility; absurd idea to suppose that every man to whom
you are civil should have a claim also on your purse.”

“But in the case of a ‘dear friend,’ Mr Moralist, or intimate
acquaintance—eh?—for it is of them only that I speak.
Surely they might do something for you.”

“Oh! that as it may be. But as a general rule”——

“Then all this cordiality of greeting, this affectionate
shaking of hands, these sweet smiles and sweeter words, are
all to go for nothing? They are to be understood as meaning
nothing.”

“Certainly.”

“Then we are perfectly agreed—it is all deception.”

“Oh! you may call it what you please.”

“Thank you. Then with your leave I shall call it humbug.
It is not a very elegant word, but it is pretty expressive.”

But, lo! here comes a funeral. See how grave and melancholy
these sable-clad gentlemen look. Why, you would imagine
that under that dismal pall lay all the earthly hopes of
every individual present, that every heart in the solemn train
was well-nigh broken. All this is very becoming no doubt,
and it would scarcely be decorous to go either singing or
laughing along the streets on such an occasion, when carrying
the poor remains of mortality to its last resting-place. But
it’s humbug, nevertheless—humbug all! Not one of these
sorrowing mourners, excepting perhaps one or two of the
nearest relations, cares one twopenny piece for the defunct.
Not one of them would have given him sixpence to keep him
from starving.

Notwithstanding, however, the very general diffusion of
humbug, it may be classed under regular heads, and we rather
think this would not be a bad way of illustrating it. We shall
try; beginning with

THE MILITARY OR HEROIC HUMBUG.

My brave fellow soldiers, we are now on the eve of encountering
the enemy. See, there he stands in hostile array
against you. He thinks to terrify you by his formidable appearance.
But you regard him with a steady and a fearless
eye.

Soldiers! the world rings with the fame of your deeds.
Your glory is imperishable: it will live for ever.

Regardless of wounds and death, you have ever been foremost
where honour was to be won. Recollect, then, your
ancient fame, and let your deeds this day show that you are
still the same brave men who have so often chased your enemies
from the field; the same brave men who have ever looked
on death as a thing unworthy a moment’s consideration—on
dishonour as the greatest of all evils.

Band of heroes, advance! On, on to victory, death, wounds,
glory, honour, and immortality! (Hurra, hurra, General
Fudge for ever!—lead us on, general, lead us on!) Lead ye
on, my brave fellows! Would to heaven my duties would
permit me that enviable honour! But it would be too much
for one so unworthy. Alas! I dare not. My duties call me
to another part of the field. I obey the call with reluctance.
But my confidence in your courage, my brave fellows, enables
me to trust you to advance yourselves. On, then, on, my
band of heroes, and fear nothing! (General raises his hat
gracefully, bows politely to his “band of heroes,” and rides
off to a height at a safe distance, from which he views the
battle comfortably through his telescope.)

THE LITERARY HUMBUG—THE AUTHOR’S.

In putting this work into the hands of the public, the author
has not been influenced by any of those motives that usually
urge writers to publication. Neither vanity, nor the desire
of gaining what is called a name, has had the slightest share
in inducing him to take this step; still less has he been influenced
by any sordid love of gain; he looks for neither praise
nor profit. His sole motive for writing and publishing this
book has been to promote the general good, by contributing
his mite to the stock of general information.

The author is but too well aware that the merits of his
work, if indeed it have any at all, are of a very humble order;
that it has, in short, many defects: but a liberal, discerning,
and indulgent public, will make every allowance for one who
makes no pretension to literary excellence.

The author may add, that part of the blame of his now obtruding
himself on the public rests on the urgent entreaties
of some perhaps too partial friends.

THE PUBLISHERS’ HUMBUG.

The publishers of this new undertaking have long been of
opinion that a new and more efficient course of moral instruction
was wanted, to raise the bulk of mankind to that standard
of perfection which every Christian, every good member
of society, must be desirous of seeing attained.

It is with the most poignant regret they have marked the
almost total failure of all preceding attempts of this kind.
How much it has pained them—how much they have grieved
to see the inadequacy of the supplies of knowledge to the increasing
wants of the community, especially alluding to the
working and lower classes generally, whose interests they have
deeply at heart, they need not say: but they may say, that
they anticipate the most triumphant success in their present
efforts to supply the desideratum alluded to.

The publishers may add, that as regards the undertaking
they are now about to commence, profit is with them but a secondary
consideration. Their great object is to promote the[Pg 68]
general good by a wide diffusion of knowledge, and a liberal
infusion of sound and healthy principle. If they effect this,
their end is gained. The work, on which no expense will be
spared, will be sold at a price so low as to leave but a bare
remuneration for workmanship and material—so low, indeed,
that a very large demand only can protect the publishers
from positive loss. But it is not the dread of even the result
that can deter them from commencing and carrying on a work
undertaken from the purest and most disinterested motives.

THE CRITICAL HUMBUG.

A more delightful work than this, a work more rich and
racy, more brilliant in style or more graphic in delineation, it
has rarely been our good fortune to meet with. Every page
bears the stamp of a master-mind, every sentence the impress
of genius.

What a flow of ideas! What an outpouring of eloquence!
What a knowledge of the human heart with all its nicer intricacies!
What an intimacy with the springs of human
action! What a mastery over the human passions! Ay, this
is indeed the triumph of genius.

The author of this exquisite production writes with the pen
of a Junius, and thinks with the intellect of a Bacon or a
Locke. His language is forcible and epigrammatic, his reasoning
clear and profound; yet can nothing be more racy than
his pleasantry when he condescends to be playful—nothing
more delicately cutting than his irony when he chooses to be
satirical—nothing more striking or impressive than his ratiocination
when he prefers being philosophical.

We confidently predict a wide and lasting popularity for
this extraordinary production. Indeed, if we are not greatly
mistaken, it will create quite a sensation in the literary circles
of Europe.

PATRIOTIC HUMBUG.

My country, oh! my country! it is for thee, for thee
alone, I live; and for thee, my country, will I at any time
cheerfully die—(Who’s that calling out fudge?) Nearest my
heart is the wish for thy welfare. To see thee happy is the
one only desire of my soul, and that thou mayest be so, is my
constant prayer.

Night and day dost thou engross my thoughts, and all, all
would I sacrifice to thy welfare! My private interests are as
dust in the balance—(Who’s that again calling fudge?—turn
him out, turn him out)—My private interests are as dust in
the balance; and shame, shame, oh! eternal shame to the
sordid wretch, unworthy to live, who should for a moment
prefer his individual aggrandisement to his country’s good.
Perish his name—perish the name of the miserable miscreant!

Wealth! what is wealth to me, my country, compared to
thy happiness? Station! what is station, unless thou, too,
art advanced? Power! what is power, unless the power
of doing thee good? Oh, my country! My country, oh!—(Oh!
oh! oh! from various parts of the house.) The patriot
sits down, wiping his patriotic forehead with a white handkerchief,
amidst thunders of applause.

Before going farther with our Illustrations—indeed we
don’t know whether we shall go any farther with them at all
or not, as we rather think we have given quite enough of them—before
going farther, then, with any thing in the more direct
course of our subject, we may pause a moment to remark how
carefully every one who comes before the public to claim its
patronage, conceals the real object of his doing so. How remote
he keeps from this very delicate point! He never whispers
its name—never breathes it. How cautiously he avoids
all allusion to his own particular interest in the matter! From
the unction with which he speaks of the excellences of the thing
he has to dispose of, be it what it may, a Dutch cheese or a
treatise on philosophy, the enthusiasm with which he dwells
on them, you would imagine that he spoke out of a pure feeling
of admiration of these excellences. You would never
dream—for this he carefully conceals from you—that his sole
object is to get hold of as much of your cash as he can; the
Dutch cheese or the treatise on philosophy being a mere
instrument to accomplish the desired transfer.

It is rather a curious feature this in the social character:
every thing offered for sale is so offered through a pure spirit
of benevolence, either for the public good or individual benefit;
nothing for the sake of mere filthy lucre, or the particular
interest of the seller—not at all. He, good soul, has no such
motive—not he, indeed.

We said a little while since that we doubted whether we
would give any farther illustrations of the great science of
humbug. We have now made up our minds that we shall not.
Although we could easily give fifty more, it is unnecessary.

We confess, however, to be under strong temptations to
give “the candidate’s humbug”—to exhibit that gentleman
doing over the constituency, making them, whether he be whig
or tory, swallow the grossest fudge that ever was thrust down
an unsuspecting gullet; but we refrain. We refrain also, in
the meantime, from giving what we would call “the liberty
and equality humbug;” together with several other humbugs
equally instructive and edifying.

And now we think we hear our readers exclaim of ourselves,
what a humbug!

By no means, gentle readers; there are exceptions to every
general rule. We have sketched the great mass of mankind,
but we have no doubt that there are some truly sincere persons—few
indeed—in all the classes we have sketched; and
we trust that we ourselves shall be reckoned amongst the
number.

C.

ANCIENT IRISH LITERATURE,
NUMBER I.

The ancient literature of Ireland is as yet but little known
to the world, or even to ourselves. Existing for the most
part only in its original Celtic form, and in manuscripts accessible
only to the Irish scholar resident in our metropolis, but
few even of those capable of understanding it have the opportunity
to become acquainted with it, and from all others it is
necessarily hidden. We therefore propose to ourselves, as a
pleasing task, to make our literature more familiar, not only
to the Irish scholar, but to our readers generally who do not
possess this species of knowledge, by presenting them from
time to time with such short poems or prose articles, accompanied
with translations, as from their brevity, or the nature
of their subjects, will render them suitable to our limited and
necessarily varied pages—our selections being made without
regard to chronological order as to the ages of their composition,
but rather with a view to give a general idea of the
several kinds of literature in which our ancestors of various
classes found entertainment.

The specimen which we have chosen to commence with is
of a homely cast, and was intended as a rebuke to the saucy
pride of a woman in humble life, who assumed airs of consequence
from being the possessor of three cows. Its author’s
name is unknown, but its age may be determined, from its
language, as belonging to the early part of the seventeenth century;
and that it was formerly very popular in Munster, may
be concluded from the fact, that the phrase, Easy, oh, woman
of the three cows! [Go réiḋ a bhean na ttrí mbó]
has become a saying in that province, on any occasion upon
which it is desirable to lower the pretensions of proud or
boastful persons.

P.

C.

THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS.
TRANSLATION OF THE ABOVE.

THE SUMMING UP.

M.

THE COUNTRY DANCING-MASTER, AN IRISH SKETCH,
BY WILLIAM CARLETON.

In those racy old times, when the manners and usages of Irishmen
were more simple and pastoral than they are at present,
dancing was cultivated as one of the chief amusements of life,
and the dancing-master looked upon as a person essentially
necessary to the proper enjoyment of our national recreation.
Of all the amusements peculiar to our population, dancing is
by far the most important, although certainly much less so
now than it has been, even within our own memory. In Ireland
it may be considered as a very just indication of the
spirit and character of the people; so much so, that it would
be extremely difficult to find any test so significant of the Irish
heart, and its varied impulses, as the dance, when contemplated
in its most comprehensive spirit. In the first place, no people
dance so well as the Irish, and for the best reason in the world,
as we shall show. Dancing, every one must admit, although
a most delightful amusement, is not a simple, nor distinct, nor
primary one. On the contrary, it is merely little else than a
happy and agreeable method of enjoying music; and its whole
spirit and character most necessarily depend upon the power
of the heart to feel the melody to which the limbs and body
move. Every nation, therefore, remarkable for a susceptibility
of music, is also remarkable for a love of dancing, unless
religion or some other adequate obstacle, arising from an
anomalous condition of society, interposes to prevent it.
Music and dancing being in fact as dependent the one on the
other as cause and effect, it requires little argument to prove
that the Irish, who are so sensitively alive to the one, should
in a very high degree excel at the other; and accordingly it
is so.

Nobody, unless one who has seen and also felt it, can conceive
the incredible, nay, the inexplicable exhilaration of the
heart, which a dance communicates to the peasantry of Ireland.
Indeed, it resembles not so much enthusiasm as inspiration.
Let a stranger take his place among those who are
assembled at a dance in the country, and mark the change
which takes place in Paddy’s whole temperament, physical
and moral. He first rises up rather indolently, selects his own
sweetheart, and assuming such a station on the floor as renders
it necessary that both should “face the fiddler,” he commences.
On the dance then goes, quietly at the outset; gradually
he begins to move more sprightly; by and bye the right
hand is up, and a crack of the fingers is heard; in a minute
afterwards both hands are up and two cracks are heard, the
hilarity and brightness of his eye all the time keeping pace with
the growing enthusiasm that is coming over him, and which
eye, by the way, is most lovingly fixed upon, or, we should
rather say, into, that of his modest partner. From that partner
he never receives an open gaze in return, but in lieu
of this an occasional glance, quick as thought and brilliant as
a meteor, seems to pour into him a delicious fury that is made
up of love—sometimes a little of whisky, kindness, pride of
his activity, and a reckless force of momentary happiness that
defies description. Now commences the dance in earnest.
Up he bounds in a fling or a caper—crack go the fingers—cut
and treble go the feet, heel and toe, right and left. Then he
flings the right heel up to the ham, up again the left, the whole
face in a furnace-heat of ecstatic delight. “Whoo! whoo!
your sowl! Move your elbow, Mickey (this to the fiddler).
Quicker, quicker, man alive, or you’ll lose sight of me.
Whoo! Judy, that’s the girl; handle your feet, avourneen;
that’s it, acushla! stand to me! Hurroo for our side of the
house!” And thus does he proceed with a vigour, and an
agility, and a truth of time, that are incredible, especially
when we consider the whirlwind of enjoyment which he has
to direct. The conduct of his partner, whose face is lit up[Pg 70]
into a modest blush, is evidently tinged with his enthusiasm—for
who could resist it?—but it is exhibited with great natural
grace, joined to a delicate vivacity that is equally gentle
and animated, and in our opinion precisely what dancing in a
female ought to be—a blending of healthful exercise and innocent
enjoyment.

I have seen not long since an Irish dance by our talented
countryman Mr M’Clise, and it is very good, with the exception
of the girl who is dancing. That, however, is a sad
blot upon what is otherwise a good picture. Instead of dancing
with the native modesty so peculiar to our countrywomen,
she dances with the unseemly movements of a tipsy virago,
or a trull in Donnybrook; whilst her face has a leer upon it
that reminds one of some painted drab on the outside of a
booth between the periods of performance. This must neither
be given to us, nor taken as a specimen of what Irishwomen
are—the chastest and modestest females on the earth.

There are a considerable variety of dances in Ireland, from
the simple “reel of two” up to the country-dance, all of
which are mirthful. There are however, others which are
serious, and may be looked upon as the exponents of the pathetic
spirit of our country. Of the latter I fear several are
altogether lost; and I question whether there be many persons
now alive in Ireland who know much about the Horo
Lhèig, which, from the word it begins with, must necessarily
have been danced only on mournful occasions. It is only at
wakes and funereal customs in those remote parts of the
country where old usages are most pertinaciously clung to,
that any elucidation of the Horo Lhèig and others of our forgotten
dances could be obtained. At present, I believe, the
only serious one we have is the cotillon, or, as they term it in
the country, the cut-a-long. I myself have witnessed, when
very young, a dance which, like the hornpipe, was performed
but by one man. This, however, was the only point in which
they bore to each other any resemblance. The one I allude
to must in my opinion have been of Druidic or Magian descent.
It was not necessarily performed to music, and could not be
danced without the emblematic aids of a stick and handkerchief.
It was addressed to an individual passion, and was
unquestionably one of those symbolic dances that were used
in pagan rites; and had the late Henry O’Brien seen it, there
is no doubt but he would have seized upon it as a felicitous
illustration of his system.

Having now said all we have to say here about Irish dances,
it is time we should say something about the Irish dancing-master;
and be it observed, that we mean him of the old school,
and not the poor degenerate creature of the present day, who,
unless in some remote parts of the country, is scarcely worth
description, and has little of the national character about him.

Like most persons of the itinerant professions, the old Irish
dancing-master was generally a bachelor, having no fixed
residence, but living from place to place within his own walk,
beyond which he seldom or never went. The farmers were
his patrons, and his visits to their houses always brought a
holiday spirit along with them. When he came, there was
sure to be a dance in the evening after the hours of labour, he
himself good-naturedly supplying them with the music. In
return for this they would get up a little underhand collection
for him, amounting probably to a couple of shillings or half-a-crown,
which some of them, under pretence of taking the
snuff-box out of his pocket to get a pinch, would delicately and
ingeniously slip into it, lest he might feel the act as bringing
down the dancing-master to the level of the mere fiddler. He
on the other hand, not to be outdone in kindness, would at
the conclusion of the little festivity desire them to lay down a
door, on which he usually danced a few favourite hornpipes to
the music of his own fiddle. This indeed was the great master-feat
of his art, and was looked upon as such by himself as
well as by the people.

Indeed, the old dancing-master had some very marked
outlines of character peculiar to himself. His dress, for
instance, was always far above the fiddler’s, and this was
the pride of his heart. He also made it a point to wear a
castor or Caroline hat, be the same “shocking bad” or
otherwise; but above all things, his soul within him was set
upon a watch, and no one could gratify him more than by
asking him before company what o’clock it was. He also contrived
to carry an ornamental staff, made of ebony, hiccory,
mahogany, or some rare description of cane—which, if possible,
had a silver head and a silk tassel. This the dancing-masters
in general seemed to consider as a kind of baton or
wand of office, without which I never yet knew one of them to
go. But of all the parts of dress used to discriminate them
from the fiddler, we must place as standing far before the
rest the dancing-master’s pumps and stockings, for shoes he
seldom wore. The utmost limit of their ambition appeared
to be such a jaunty neatness about that part of them in which
the genius of their business lay, as might indicate the extraordinary
lightness and activity which were expected from them
by the people, in whose opinion the finest stocking, the lightest
shoe, and the most symmetrical leg, uniformly denoted the
most accomplished teacher.

The Irish dancing-master was also a great hand at match-making,
and indeed some of them were known to negociate
as such between families as well as individual lovers, with all
the ability of a first-rate diplomatist. Unlike the fiddler, the
dancing-master had fortunately the use of his eyes; and as there
is scarcely any scene in which to a keen observer the symptoms
of the passion—to wit, blushings, glances, squeezes of the
hand, and stealthy whisperings—are more frequent or significant,
so is it no wonder indeed that a sagacious looker-on,
such as he generally was, knew how to avail himself of them,
and to become in many instances a necessary party to their
successful issue.

In the times of our fathers it pretty frequently happened
that the dancing-master professed another accomplishment,
which in Ireland, at least, where it is born with us, might
appear to be a superfluous one; we mean, that of fencing, or,
to speak more correctly, cudgel-playing. Fencing-schools of
this class were nearly as common in these times as dancing-schools,
and it was not at all unusual for one man to teach
both.

I have already stated that the Irish dancing-master was for
the most part a bachelor. This, however, was one of those
general rules which have very little to boast of over their
exceptions. I have known two or three married dancing-masters,
and remember to have witnessed on one occasion a
very affecting circumstance, which I shall briefly mention.
Scarlatina had been very rife and fatal during the spring of
the year when this occurred, and the poor man was forced by
the death of an only daughter, whom that treacherous disease
had taken from him, to close his school during such a
period as the natural sorrow for those whom we love usually
requires. About a month had elapsed, and I happened to be
present on the evening when he once more called his pupils
together. His daughter had been a very handsome and interesting
young creature of sixteen, and was, until cut down
like a flower, attending her father’s school at the period I
allude to. The business of the school went on much in the
usual way, until a young man who had generally been her
partner got up to dance. The father played a little, but the
music was unsteady and capricious; he paused, and made a
strong effort to be firm; the dancing for a moment ceased,
and he wiped away a few hot tears from his eyes. Again he
resumed, but his eye rested upon the partner of that beloved
daughter, as he stood with the hand of another girl in his.
“Don’t blame me,” said the poor fellow meekly, at the same
time laying aside his fiddle and bursting into tears; “she
was all I had, and my heart was in her; sure you are all here
but her, and she—— Go home, boys and girls, oh, go home
and pity me. You knew what she was. Give me another
fortnight for Mary’s sake, for, oh, I am her father! I will
meet you all again; but never, never will I see you here
without feeling that I have a breaking heart. I miss the light
sound of her foot, the sweetness of her voice, and the smile of
the eye that said to me, ‘these are all your scholars, father, but
I, sure I am your daughter.’” Although the occasion was joyous
and mirthful, yet such is the sympathy with domestic sorrow
entertained in Ireland, that there were few dry eyes present,
and not a heart that did not feel deeply and sincerely for
his melancholy and most afflicting loss.

After all, the old dancing-master, in spite of his most
strenuous efforts to the contrary, bore, in simplicity of manners,
in habits of life, and in the happy spirit which he received
from and impressed upon society, a distant but not indistinct
resemblance to the fiddler. Between these two, however,
no good feeling subsisted. The one looked up at the other
as a man who was unnecessarily and unjustly placed above
him; whilst the other looked down upon him as a mere drudge,
through whom those he taught practised their accomplishments.
This petty rivalry was very amusing, and the “boys,”
to do them justice, left nothing undone to keep it up. The
fiddler had certainly the best of the argument, whilst the other
had the advantage of a higher professional position. The one[Pg 71]
was more loved, the other more respected. Perhaps very
few things in humble life could be so amusing to a speculative
mind, or at the same time capable of affording a better lesson
to human pride, than the almost miraculous skill with which
the dancing-master contrived, when travelling, to carry his
fiddle about him, so as that it might not be seen, and he himself
mistaken for nothing but a fiddler. This was the sorest
blow his vanity could receive, and a source of endless vexation
to all his tribe. Our manners, however, are changed,
and neither the fiddler nor the dancing-master possesses the
fine mellow tints nor that depth of colouring which formerly
brought them and their rich household associations home at
once to the heart.

One of the most amusing specimens of the dancing-master
that I ever met, was the person alluded to at the close of my
paper on the Irish Fiddler, under the nickname of Buckram-Back.
This man had been a drummer in the army for some
time, where he had learned to play the fiddle; but it appears
that he possessed no relish whatever for a military life, as
his abandonment of it without even the usual forms of a discharge
or furlough, together with a back that had become
cartilaginous from frequent flogging, could abundantly testify.
It was from the latter circumstance that he had received his
nickname.

Buckram-Back was a dapper light little fellow, with a rich
Tipperary brogue, crossed by a lofty strain of illegitimate
English, which he picked up whilst in the army. His habiliments
sat as tight upon him as he could readily wear them,
and were all of the shabby-genteel class. His crimped black
coat was a closely worn second-hand, and his crimped face
quite as much of a second-hand as the coat. I think I see his
little pumps, little white stockings, his coaxed drab breeches,
his hat, smart in its cock but brushed to a polish and standing
upon three hairs, together with his tight questionably coloured
gloves, all before me. Certainly he was the jauntiest little
cock living—quite a blood, ready to fight any man, and a great
defender of the fair sex, whom he never addressed except in
that highflown bombastic style so agreeable to most of them,
called by their flatterers the complimentary, and by their
friends the fulsome. He was in fact a public man, and up to
every thing. You met him at every fair, where he only had
time to give you a wink as he passed, being just then engaged
in a very particular affair; but he would tell you again. At
cockfights he was a very busy personage, and an angry better
from half-a-crown downwards. At races he was a knowing
fellow, always shook hands with the winning jockey, and then
looked pompously about, that folks might see that he was
hand and glove with those who knew something.

The house where Buckram-Back kept his school, which
was open only after the hours of labour, was an uninhabited
cabin, the roof of which, at a particular spot, was supported
by a post that stood upright from the floor. It was built
upon an elevated situation, and commanded a fine view
of the whole country for miles about it. A pleasant sight it
was to see the modest and pretty girls, dressed in their best
frocks and ribbons, radiating in little groups from all directions,
accompanied by their partners or lovers, making way
through the fragrant summer fields of a calm cloudless evening,
to this happy scene of innocent amusement.

And yet what an epitome of general life, with its passions,
jealousies, plots, calumnies, and contentions, did this little
segment of society present! There was the shrew, the slattern,
the coquette, and the prude, as sharply marked within
this their humble sphere, as if they appeared on the world’s
wider stage, with half its wealth and all its temptations to
draw forth their prevailing foibles. There, too, was the bully,
the rake, the liar, the coxcomb, and the coward, each as perfect
and distinct in his kind as if he had run through a
lengthened course of fashionable dissipation, or spent a fortune
in acquiring his particular character. The elements of
the human heart, however, and the passion that make up the
general business of life, are the same in high and low, and
exist with impulses as strong in the cabin as they have in the
palace. The only difference is, that they have not equal room
to play.

Buckram-Back’s system, in originality of design, in comic
conception of decorum, and in the easy practical assurance
with which he wrought it out, was never equalled, much
less surpassed. Had the impudent little rascal confined himself
to dancing as usually taught, there would have been nothing
so ludicrous or uncommon in it; but no: he was such a
stickler for example in every thing, that no other mode of instruction
would satisfy him. Dancing! Why, it was the least
part of what he taught or professed to teach.

In the first place, he undertook to teach every one of us—for
I had the honour of being his pupil—how to enter a drawing-room
“in the most fashionable manner alive,” as he said
himself.

Secondly. He was the only man, he said, who could in the
most agreeable and polite style taich a gintleman how to salute,
or, as he termed it, how to shiloote, a leedy. This he
taught, he said, wid great success.

Thirdly. He could taich every leedy and gintleman how to
make the most beautiful bow or curchy on airth, by only imitating
himself—one that, would cause a thousand people, if
they were all present, to think that it was particularly intended
only for aich o’ themselves!

Fourthly. He taught the whole art o’ courtship wid all peliteness
and success, accordin’ as it was practised in Paris
durin’ the last saison.

Fifthly. He could taich thim how to write love-letthers and
valentines, accordin’ to the Great Macademy of compliments,
which was supposed to be invinted by Bonaparte when he was
writing love-letthers to both his wives.

Sixthly. He was the only person who could taich the famous
dance called Sir Roger de Coverley, or the Helter-Skelter
Drag, which comprehinded widin itself all the advantages and
beauties of his whole system—in which every gintleman was at
liberty to pull every leedy where he plaised, and every leedy
was at liberty to go wherever he pulled her.

With such advantages in prospect, and a method of instruction
so agreeable, it is not to be wondered at that his establishment
was always in a most flourishing condition. The
truth is, he had it so contrived that every gentleman should
salute his lady as often as possible, and for this purpose actually
invented dances, in which not only should every gentleman
salute every lady, but every lady, by way of returning
the compliment, should render a similar kindness to every
gentleman. Nor had his male pupils all this prodigality of
salutation to themselves, for the amorous little rascal always
commenced first and ended last, in order, he said, that they
might cotch the manner from himself. “I do this, leedies and
gintlemen, as your moral (model), and because it’s part o’ my
system—ahem!”

And then he would perk up his little hard face, that was too
barren to produce more than an abortive smile, and twirl like
a wagtail over the floor, in a manner that he thought irresistible.

Whether Buckram-Back was the only man who tried to reduce
kissing to a system of education in this country, I do not know.
It is certainly true that many others of his stamp made a knowledge
of the arts and modes of courtship, like him, a part of
the course. The forms of love-letters, valentines, &c. were
taught their pupils of both sexes, with many other polite particulars,
which it is to be hoped have disappeared for ever.

One thing, however, to the honour of our countrywomen we
are bound to observe, which is, that we do not remember a
single result incompatible with virtue to follow from the little
fellow’s system, which by the way was in this respect peculiar
only to himself, and not the general custom of the country.
Several weddings, unquestionably, we had more than might
otherwise have taken place, but in not one instance have we
known any case in which a female was brought to unhappiness
or shame.

We shall now give a brief sketch of Buckram-Back’s manner
of tuition, begging our readers at the same time to rest
assured that any sketch we could give would fall far short of
the original.

“Paddy Corcoran, walk out an’ inther your drawin’-room;
an’ let Miss Judy Hanratty go out along wid you, an’ come in
as Mrs Corcoran.”

“Faith, I’m afeard, masther, I’ll make a bad hand of it;
but, sure, it’s something to have Judy here to keep me in
countenance.”

“Is that by way of compliment, Paddy? Mr Corcoran,
you should ever an’ always spaik to a leedy in an alyblasther
tone; for that’s the cut.”

[Paddy and Judy retire.

“Mickey Scanlan, come up here, now that we’re braithin’ a
little; an’ you, Miss Grauna Mulholland, come up along wid
him. Miss Mulholland, you are masther of your five positions
and your fifteen attitudes, I believe?” “Yes, sir.” “Very well,
Miss. Mickey Scanlan—ahem!—Misther Scanlan, can you
perfome the positions also, Mickey?”

“Yes, sir; but you remimber I stuck at the eleventh
altitude.”

[Pg 72]

“Attitude, sir—no matther. Well, Misther Scanlan, do
you know how to shiloote a leedy, Mickey?”

“Faix, it’s hard to say, sir, till we thry; but I’m very
willin’ to larn it. I’ll do my best, an’ the best can do no more.”

“Very well—ahem! Now merk me, Misther Scanlan; you
approach your leedy in this style, bowin’ politely, as I do.
Miss Mulholland, will you allow me the honour of a heavenly
shiloote? Don’t bow, ma’am; you are to curchy, you know;
a little lower eef you plaise. Now you say, ‘Wid the greatest
pleasure in life, sir, an’ many thanks for the feevour.’ (Smack.)
There, now, you are to make another curchy politely, an’ say,
‘Thank you, kind sir, I owe you one.’ Now, Misther Scanlan,
proceed.”

“I’m to imitate you, masther, as well as I can, sir, I
believe?”

“Yes, sir, you are to imiteet me. But hould, sir; did you
see me lick my lips or pull up my breeches? Be gorra, that’s
shockin’ unswintemintal. First make a curchy, a bow I mane, to
Miss Grauna. Stop agin, sir; are you goin’ to sthrangle the
leedy? Why, one would think that it’s about to teek laive
of her for ever you are. Gently, Misther Scanlan; gently,
Mickey. There:—well, that’s an improvement. Practice,
Misther Scanlan, practice will do all, Mickey; but don’t smack
so loud, though. Hilloo, gintlemen! where’s our drawin’-room
folk? Go out, one of you, for Misther an’ Mrs Paddy Corcoran.”

Corcoran’s face now appears peeping in at the door, lit up
with a comic expression of genuine fun, from whatever cause
it may have proceeded.

“Aisy, Misther Corcoran; an’ where’s Mrs Corcoran, sir?”

“Are we both to come in together, masther?”

“Certainly. Turn out both your toeses—turn them out,
I say.”

“Faix, sir, it’s aisier said than done wid some of us.”

“I know that, Misther Corcoran; but practice is every
thing. The bow legs are strongly against you, I grant. Hut
tut, Misther Corcoran—why, if your toes wor where your heels
is, you’d be exactly in the first position, Paddy. Well, both
of you turn out your toeses; look street forward; clap your
caubeen—hem!—your castor undher your ome (arm), an’ walk
into the middle of the flure, wid your head up. Stop, take care
o’ the post. Now, take your caubeen, castor I mane, in your
right hand; give it a flourish. Aisy, Mrs Hanratty—Corcoran
I mane—it’s not you that’s to flourish. Well, flourish
your castor, Paddy, and thin make a graceful bow to the
company. Leedies and gintlemen”—

“Leedies and gintlemen”—

“I’m your most obadient sarvint”—

“I’m your most obadient sarwint.”

“Tuts, man alive! that’s not a bow. Look at this: there’s
a bow for you. Why, instead of meeking a bow, you appear
as if you wor goin’ to sit down wid an embargo (lumbago) in
your back. Well, practice is every thing; an’ there’s luck in
leisure.

“Dick Doorish, will you come up, and thry if you can meek
any thing of that threblin’ step. You’re a purty lad, Dick;
you’re a purty lad, Misther Doorish, wid a pair o’ left legs an
you, to expect to larn to dance; but don’t despeer, man alive.
I’m not afeard but I’ll meek a graceful slip o’ you yet. Can
you meek a curchy?”

“Not right, sir. I doubt.”

“Well, sir, I know that; but, Misther Doorish, you ought
to know bow to meek both a bow and a curchy. Whin you
marry a wife, Misther Doorish, it mightn’t come wrong for you
to know how to taich her a curchy. Have you the gad and suggaun
wid you?” “Yes, sir.” “Very well, on wid them; the
suggaun on the right foot, or what ought to be the right foot,
an’ the gad upon what ought to be the left. Are you ready?”
“Yes, sir.” “Come, thin, do as I bid you—Rise upon suggaun
an’ sink upon gad; rise upon suggaun an’ sink upon
gad; rise upon—— Hould, sir; you’re sinkin’ upon suggaun
an’ risin’ upon gad, the very thing you ought not to do. But,
God help you! sure you’re left-legged! Ah, Misther Doorish,
it ’ud be long time before you’d be able to dance Jig Polthogue
or the College Hornpipe upon a drum-head, as I often did.
However, don’t despeer, Misther Doorish—if I could only get
you to know your right leg—but, God help you! sure you
hav’nt sich a thing—from your left, I’d make something of you
yet, Dick.”

The Irish dancing-masters were eternally at daggers-drawn
among themselves; but as they seldom met, they were forced to
abuse each other at a distance, which they did with a virulence
and scurrility proportioned to the space between them. Buckram-Back
had a rival of this description, who was a sore thorn
in his side. His name was Paddy Fitzpatrick, and from having
been a horse-jockey, he gave up the turf, and took to the
calling of a dancing-master. Buckram-Back sent a message
to him to the effect that “if he could not dance Jig Polthogue
on the drum-head, he had better hould his tongue for ever.”
To this Paddy replied, by asking if he was the man to dance
the Connaught Jockey upon the saddle of a blood-horse, and
the animal at a three-quarter gallop.

At length the friends on each side, from a natural love of
fun, prevailed upon them to decide their claims as follows:—Each
master, with twelve of his pupils, was to dance against
his rival with twelve of his; the match to come off on the top
of Mallybeny Hill, which commanded a view of the whole
parish. I have already mentioned that in Buckram-Back’s
school there stood near the middle of the floor a post, which
according to some new manœuvre of his own was very convenient
as a guide to the dancers when going through the
figure. Now, at the spot where this post stood it was necessary
to make a curve, in order to form part of the figure
of eight, which they were to follow; but as many of them
were rather impenetrable to a due conception of the line of
beauty, he forced them to turn round the post rather than
make an acute angle of it, which several of them did. Having
premised thus much, we proceed with our narrative.

At length they met, and it would have been a matter of much
difficulty to determine their relative merits, each was such an
admirable match for the other. When Buckram-Back’s pupils,
however, came to perform, they found that the absence of the
post was their ruin. To the post they had been trained—accustomed;—with
it they could dance; but wanting that, they
were like so many ships at sea without rudders or compasses.
Of course a scene of ludicrous confusion ensued, which turned
the laugh against poor Buckram-Back, who stood likely to
explode with shame and venom. In fact he was in an agony.

“Gintlemen, turn the post!” he shouted, stamping upon the
ground, and clenching his little hands with fury; “leedies,
remimber the post! Oh, for the honour of Kilnahushogue
don’t be bate. The post! gintlemen; leedies, the post if
you love me! Murdher alive, the post!”

“Be gorra, masther, the jockey will distance us,” replied
Bob Magawly; “it’s likely to be the winnin’-post to him
anyhow.”

“Any money,” shouted the little fellow, “any money for
long Sam Sallaghan; he’d do the post to the life. Mind it,
boys dear, mind it or we’re lost. Divil a bit they heed me; it’s
a flock o’ bees or sheep they’re like. Sam Sallaghan, where
are you? The post, you blackguards!”

“Oh, masther dear, if we had even a fishin’-rod, or a crow-bar,
or a poker, we might do yet. But, anyhow, we had better
give in, for it’s only worse we’re gettin’.”

At this stage of the proceedings Paddy came over to him,
and making a low bow, asked him, “Arra, how do you feel,
Misther Dogherty?” for such was Buckram-Back’s name.

“Sir,” replied Buckram-Back, bowing low, however, in return,
“I’ll take the shine out o’ you yet. Can you shiloote a
leedy wid me?—that’s the chat! Come, gintlemen, show them
what’s betther than fifty posts—shiloote your partners like
Irishmen. Kilnahushogue for ever!”

The scene that ensued baffles all description. The fact is,
the little fellow had them trained as it were to kiss in platoons,
and the spectators were literally convulsed with laughter
at this most novel and ludicrous character which Buckram-Back
gave to his defeat, and the ceremony which he introduced.
The truth is, he turned the laugh completely against
his rival, and swaggered off the ground in high spirits, exclaiming,
“He know how to shiloote a leedy! Why, the poor
spalpeen never kissed any woman but his mother, an’ her only
when she was dyin’. Hurra for Kilnahushogue!”

Such, reader, is a slight and very imperfect sketch of an
Irish dancing-master, which if it possesses any merit at all, is
to be ascribed to the circumstance that it is drawn from life,
and combines, however faintly, most of the points essential to
our conception of the character.