Peasants after the famine, Superstitions, Blarney Stone.

Chapter VIII

Peasant life after the famine of 1847 - An aged goose - Superstitions and Irish peculiarities - The worship of Baal - The Blarney stone - The wren boys - The direful “Wurrum ”- A remedy for the chin cough, and doctors’ remedies.

Until after the famine of 1847 there was but little change in the mode of life of the people, or in the wages of workmen. When we went to the south the pay of labourers was sevenpence a day; the farmers accused my father of spoiling the market by giving his men ninepence. The peasants, except the few who had land enough to keep a cow, lived altogether on potatoes, with which on rare occasions they had a salt herring or two. Milk they could not get, for when - which was very seldom indeed - they could have afforded to buy it the farmers would not sell it, as they wanted it to feed their calves. The potatoes were boiled in a huge iron pot, from which they were thrown into a big open-work wicker basket, shaped like the bowl of a spoon; this was placed over another large pot or over a trough, till the water was thoroughly drained off; the potatoes were then turned out on the middle of the table in a heap. There was sometimes a coarse tablecloth, more often none. There were no knives or forks, nor any plates, but one on which the herring, if one was there, lay. From time to time each one of the family nipped with finger and thumb a little bit of the herring, to give a flavour to his “pratee.” Meat they never tasted except on Christmas Day and Easter Sunday; but all, no matter how poor, managed to have a bit of meat of some sort on these days.

As I drove from Limerick one Christmas Eve an elderly woman with a small bundle in her hand ran after the car, holding on to the back of it. I got into conversation with her, and after some other talk I asked her what she had in her bundle.

“‘Tis some *cus-a-muck *(pigs’ feet) I have, your honour, for Christmas.” After a pause she added, “I got them for the price of a goose I sold in Limerick to-day.”

“Wouldn’t the goose,” said I,” have been better for dinner than the pigs’ feet?”

“Av course it would, your honour, if we could ate her.”

“Why couldn’t you?” said I.

“She was too ould and tough, your honoun I’m married twenty-five years ago last Shrove, and she was an ould goose then; and I’d never have sold her, only she was stoppin’ of layin’ by rason of her ould age.” She then began to laugh heartily, and said, “It’s what I’m laughing at, your honour, thinking of them that bought her, how they’ll be breakin’ the back of their heads against the wall to-morrow, strivin’ with their teeth to pull the mate off her ould bones!”

It would take volumes to tell of all the old customs and superstitions of the peasantry. Many of them have died out, and others are rapidly dying. Here I shall only mention a few of them.

On St. John’s Eve, the 23rd of June, still may be seen a few bonfires on the mountains; in the old days they blazed on every hill and in every farm. No field was fruitful into which a burning brand had not been thrown, no horse or cow which had not been touched by fire on that night.

This custom had its origin in pre-Christian times, as the name of the fires, Baal thinna (Baal’s fires) shows. It is more than a hundred years since the late Rev. Donald Macqueen, of Kilmuir, in the Isle of Skye, visited Ireland; in the account of his tour, he says that “The Irish have ever been worshippers of fire and of Baal, and are so to this day. The chief festival in honour of the sun and fire is upon the 21st of June, when the sun arrives at the summer solstice, or rather begins its retrogade motion.” Then follows the description of the Baal fires which he saw.

“I was so fortunate in the summer of 1782 as to have my curiosity gratified. At the house where I was entertained it was told me that we should see at midnight the most singular sight in Ireland, which was the lighting of fires in honour of the sun. Accordingly, exactly at midnight, the fires began to appear; and going up to the leads of the house, which had a widely extended view, I saw, on a radius of thirty miles, all round the fires burning on every eminence which the country afforded. I had a further satisfaction of learning, from undoubted authority, that the people danced round the fires) and at the close went through these fires, and made their sons and daughters, together with their cattle, pass through the fire, and the whole was concluded with religious solemnity.”

There is another Irish phrase (“Baal-o-yerib!”) connected with the worship of Baal. But before I go further I had better confess that I am not an Irish scholar; and although I know the meaning of a great many Irish words, I do not know how to spell one of them. Any I give I have spelt phonetically, as nearly as I can to the way I heard them spoken by the peasantry. I believe this will give a better idea how they sound when spoken than if I had been able to write them correctly; for any Irish words which I have happened to see, written by those who know the language, do not bear the slightest resemblance to the same words when spoken.

But to return to our “Baal-o-yerib!”- it was and, where Irish is spoken, still is the salutation addressed by any one passing by to men working in a field, or, on entering a house, to the inmates, who reply, “Dhe-as-maer~guth!” None of the peasantry whom I have asked could give me a translation of this salutation; they said they thought it meant “God bless the work!” or “God save all here!” They all knew what the reply means. The late Rev. Patrick Fitzgerald, a good Irish scholar, told me that “Baal-o-yerib!” means “Baal or God, be with you!” and was originally used when there were worshippers of Baal still in Ireland. The reply of a Christian, “Dhe-as-maera-guth!” means “God and Mary be with you!” In recent times, where Irish has died out, the salutation is changed to “God bless the work!” or “God save all here!” as the ease may be, to which the reply is, “God save you kindly!”

I have seen it told in an Irish story - one of Mrs. S.C. Hall’s, I think - that a peasant, on entering a house, says, “God bless all here, barrin’ the dog and the cat!” This is, I believe, a complete mistake. I have never heard it said, nor have I met any one who has. It is, however; founded on the fact that the peasantry will never say, ” God bless it ! to a dog or cat, though they do say it to everything else, animate or inanimate. Of a child they would say, “That’s a nice child; God bless it!,’ of a pig, “That’s a nate pig; God bless it”, or of a gun, “That’s a beautiful piece; God bless it!” but of a dog or cat only “That’s a great dog,” or “That’s a purty cat,” but never ” God bless it!” indeed, they would think it profane in the highest degree to say so. An English friend who was staying with us, but did not know of this exception, wishing to make himself agreeable to a countryman who showed him a dog, said, “That’s a fine dog; God bless him!” I shall never forget the expression of that peasant’s face. He said nothing, but devoutly crossed himself.

I have seen in the same or some other story a similar mistake, where a peasant is made to say to some one who sneezes, “God bless you, barrin’ it’s the snuff!” They would never say so. If one sneezes in a natural way, they always say, “God bless you!” but if the sneeze is caused by snuff, or any other artificial means, they never bless the sneezer.

When speaking of the Baal fires, I should have said that fire is a great protection against fairies. Whenever churning is going on, a small bit of burning turf is put under the churn to prevent the abstraction of the butter by the “good people.”

Another custom is, that any one coming into a house where churning is going on must take the churn-dash and churn for a few seconds. His doing this prevents a person with an evil eye, should any such come in, charming away the butter or otherwise spoiling the churning.

The belief in magpies still prevails. It is lucky to see two, unlucky to see one. The ill results from seeing only one can be mitigated, sometimes altogether escaped, by taking off your hat and bowing to the bird. This belief and custom is not very old in Ireland, as it is not so very long since the magpie was first introduced here. Holinshed, when speaking of birds in Ireland, says, “They also lacke the bird called the pie.”

There are, I fear, few who still believe that after a dip in the Shannon the bather will never blush again.

The Blarney stone too, I am afraid, is going out of date. In former days, whoever kissed it was at once endowed with the gift of the blarney, as the old song, “The Groves of Blarney,” tells us.

“‘Tis there’s the stone that whoever kisses

He never misses to grow eloquent;

‘Tis he may clamber to a lady’s chamber,

Or become a member of Parliament.

“A noble spouter he’ll sure turn out, or

An out and outer to be let alone;

Don’t try to hinder him, or to bewilder him,

For he is a pilgrim from the Blarney stone.”

But many, especially ladies, who climbed to the top of the old castle for the express purpose of kissing the Blarney stone, found that none of these good results followed. But why? Their guide, to save himself and them trouble, had made them kiss the wrong stone - a little stone in the corner of the tower, which has no virtue whatever

The real stone, which I am proud to say I kissed many a year ago, is about four feet below the parapet on the outside of the castle. To kiss it, you must be held by the legs, head downwards, over the battlements.

The “wren boys,” on Saint Stephen’s Day, still drag on a poor and miserable existence. Half a dozen ragged urchins, carrying a little bit of holly, with a wren, or more often some other little dead bird, tied to it, come to the hall door begging for halfpence. In former days, in the south, one of the Christmas amusements, which we looked forward to with pleasure, was the visit of the wren boys, or mummers,” as they sometimes called themselves. There were generally 12 or 14 of them, fine strapping young fellows, between 18 and five and twenty years of age; they were dressed in their Sunday’s best, with many-coloured ribbons in their hats, and scarfs across their breasts. One of them carried the holly bush, also adorned with ribbons, on top of which was the wren. Another was dressed up as the *aumadhawn, *or fool; his coat was a sack, with holes in it for his head, legs, and arms to come through; his head-dress was a bare-skin, and on his face he wore a hideous mask; in his hand he carried a stick with a bladder tied to the end of it. His duty was to keep order. This he did by whacking all offenders with this weapon. The party was accompanied by a piper or a fiddler, often by both; they were followed by a crowd of country boys and girls, whom the aumadhawn kept at a respectful distance. Thus equipped and accompanied, they visited the houses of the gentry and strong farmers.

The entertainment began by the singing of the wren song, of which I remember only the following verse:-

“The wren, the wren, the king of all birds,

Saint Stephen’s Day, was caught in the furze;

Although he is little, his family’s great,

Rise up, lords and ladies, and give us a treat.”

Then came the dancing of merry jigs and reels. There was no lack of partners for the boys; amongst them were the young ladies of the house and the servant-maids, not to mention the pretty girls in the crowd that followed them. When they had had refreshments, or a present of money wherewith to get them, off they went, with three hearty cheers for the master and mistress of the house.

The dreadful beast, the “wurrum,” half fish, half dragon, still survives in many a mountain lake -seldom seen indeed, but often heard. Near our fishing quarters in Kerry there are two such lakes; one, the beautiful little lake at the head of the Blackwater river, called Lough Brin, from Brin, or Bran, as he is now called, the direful wurrum which inhabits it. The man who minds the boat there, speaks with awe of Bran; he tells me he has never seen him, and hopes he never may, but has often heard him roaring on a stormy night. On being questioned as to what the noise was like, he said it was like the roaring of a young bull. To my suggestion that perhaps “it might have been a young bull,” he made no reply, but the expression of his face showed what he thought of the levity, or perhaps even the irreverence, of the remark.

Some miles further on, between Lough Brin and Glencar, there is another lake, from which two years ago a boy, while bathing, was driven and chased by the dreadful wurrum which dwells in it. It bit him on the back, and hunted him all the way home, where he arrived naked and bleeding: he had not waited even to take up his clothes. On being asked what the beast was like, he said, “‘Twas something like the form of a donkey.” What may have really happened to the boy we have never been able to discover.

On the opposite side of Kenmare Bay is still to be seen one of these wurrums of enormous size. It was slain by St. Patrick, and turned into stone, and, as a worm-like ledge of rock, now winds along the side of Coom na Peastha (“the Valley of the Worm”). St. Patrick, as is well known, banished all venomous and poisonous creatures from Ireland. His feats in this direction are celebrated in the well-known song in his praise, in the following verses:

“Nine hundred thousand vipers blue

He charmed with sweet discourses,

And dined on them at Killaloe

In soups and second dourses.

When blind worms, crawling through the grass,

Disgusted all the nation,

He gave them a rise

That opened their eyes

To a sense of their situation.

“There’s not a mile in Ireland’s isle

Where dirty vermin musters

But there he put his neat fore-foot,

And murdered them in clusters.

The frogs went hop,

The toads went flop,

Splash, dash into the water;

The snakes committed suicide

To save themselves from slaughter.

“Oh success attend Saint Patrick’s fist,

For he’s the saint so clever;

He gave the snakes and toads a twist,

And bothered them for ever.”

Notwithstanding all this, there still exists a species of toad (the natchet, I think) in the barony of Iveragh, in the west of Kerry. I was fishing in the Carah river the first time I saw them. I said to two countrymen, who were standing by, “How was it that these toads escaped Saint Patrick?” “Well, now, yer honour,” said one of them, “It’s what I’m tould that when Saint Patrick was down in these parts he went up the Reeks, and when he seen what a wild and dissolute place Iveragh was, he wouldn’t go any further; and that’s the rason them things does be here still.” “Well now, yer honour,” said the other fellow, “I wouldn’t altogether give into that, for av coorse the saint was, many’s the time, in worse places than Iveragh. It’s what I hear, yer honour, that it was a lady that sent them from England in a letter 50 or 60 years ago.”

Possibly they may have been imported. I know that many attempts have been made to introduce snakes and vipers into Ireland - happily, so far, unsuccessfully.

Of the effect of the soil of Ireland on toads and snakes, Holinshed, in his “Chronicles,” gives the -following anecdotes: -“Certeine merchants affirme, that when they had unladen their ships, in Ireland, they found, by hap, some toads under their balast. And they had no sooner cast them on the shore, than they would puffe and swell unmeasurablie, and shortlie after turning up their bellies, they would burst in sunder.

“And not onlie the earth and dust of Ireland, but also the verie thongs of Irish leather have the verie same force and virtue. I have scene it, saith Cambrensis, experimented, that a toad being incompassed with a thong of Irish leather, and creeping thitherward, indevoring to have skipt over it, suddenlie reculed backe, as though it had beene rapt in the head; whereupon it began to sprall to the other side. But at length perceiving that the thong did embaie it of all parts, it began to thirle, and as it were to dig the earth, where finding an hole, it slunke awaie in the presence of sundrie persons.

“It happened also in my time, saith Giraldus Cambrensis, that in the north of England a knot of yongkers tooke a nap in the fields: as one of them laie snorting with his mouth gaping, as though he would have caught flies, it happened that a snake or adder slipt into his mouth, and glided down into his bellie, where harboring itselfe, it began to roame up and downe, and to feede on the yoong man his entrals. The patient being sore distracted and above measure tormented with the biting pangs of this greedie ghest, incessantlie praied to God, that if it stood with His gratious will, either wholie to bereave him of his life, or else of his unspeakable mercie to ease him of his paine. The worme would never ceasse from gnawing the patient his carcasse, but when he had taken his repast, and his meat was no sooner digested, than it would give a fresh onset in boring his guts. Diverse remidies were sought, and medicins, pilgrimages to saints, but all could not prevaile. Being at length schooled by the grave advice of some sage and expert father, that willed him to make his speedie repair to Ireland, would tract no time, but busked himselfe over sea and arrived in Ireland. He did no sooner drinke of the water of that Iland, and taken of the vittels of Ireland, but he forthwith kild the snake, and so being lustie and livlie, he returned into England.” Holinshed goes on to say, “There be some that move question; whether the want of venemous wormes in Ireland be to be imputed to the propertie of the soile, or to be ascribed to the praiers of Saint Patrike, who converted that hand. The greater part father it on Saint Patrike, especiallie such as write his life as well apart, as in the legend of Irish saints.”

There are still in Ireland two small creatures which the saint might as well have abolished when his hand was in, as they are, or certainly were in my early days, held in great abhorrence by the peasantry in the south of Ireland. One is a small brown lizard, which is occasionally found under stones; the other is a long, ugly-looking beetle, black and shining, with a forceps in his tail, which, when he is disturbed, he turns up over his back. A remarkably disagreeable-looking beast he is. The belief was that the little lizard, or *ardlucher *(as they called it in Irish), if you happened to fall asleep in a field or a wood, would watch its opportunity, slip into your mouth, and glide down into your inside, where it would feed and fatten till you pined away and died. I do not think they had any English name for the other beast, which they called a *darraghdeoul *(red devil). The tradition as to him was that he had, in some form or way, guided or accompanied Judas Iscariot to the garden of Gethsemane, the night of our Lord’s betrayal. I have often seen a country boy kill one of them. The way he did it was always the same; he held it on the thumb-nail of his left hand and crushed it with the thumb-nail of his right hand. He believed that if he killed it so, saying at the same time a “Pater” or an “Ave,” he was forgiven seven deadly sins; but unless the execution was carried out in strict conformity with the established rules no good result followed.

In some places pilgrimages are still made to holy lakes and wells of well-known healing virtues; and although the fairy doctors of whom I have spoken are now almost unknown, there still prevail, or lately did prevail, some peculiar ways of curing sickness. Amongst them were two modes of dealing with the whooping-cough, or “chin cough,” as the peasantry call it. One is this: if any one should happen to pass by riding a piebald horse the father or mother of the whooper runs after him, crying out, “You that rides the piebald horse, what’s good for ‘the chin cough?” Whatever the rider prescribes, no matter how absurd, is procured and administered to the patient. This remedy, though the surest in its results, cannot always be secured, as it requires the presence of a piebald horse, and a man riding it. The other, though not quite so much to be depended on, is always at hand. It is to pass the child three times over and under a donkey, certain prayers being said during the operation. But there are donkeys and donkeys. Some are all but useless, while others are nearly as good as the piebald horse. I remember one, 40 years ago, in Cork, famous for his powers. He was the property of one Ned Sullivan, who supported himself and a large family on what this remarkable donkey earned for him. Ned wandered through the city and surrounding country day after day with his ass, crying out, “Will any one come under my ass for the chin cough?”

Illnesses are also treated by remedies of comparatively recent date. Some five and forty years ago a temperance medal was found to be a specific for every ailment; not all medals, however, but only those which had been blest and given by Father Mathew, the great apostle of temperance. Rubbing with one of these at once relieved rheumatic pains. I have known one to be tied on the back of a man’s hand to cure a boil, and I have seen ophthalmia treated by hanging two of these medals over a girl’s eyes.

More recently still, knock Chapel, in the county of Mayo, has been famous for its healing powers; but it, like the doctor, sometimes has its failures. Of one of these I was told by a Roman Catholic gentleman, my friend Mr. D---, a large employer of labour. One of his overseers had for years suffered much from his liver. Having consulted many doctors and spent much money on them, and being nothing better, he asked his employer to allow him to go for a few days to Knock to try what it could do for him. On his return Mr. D--- said to him -

“Well, James, I hope you are better?”

*James. *“Indeed, I’m no better, thank you, sir; it’s what I think I’m rather worse.”

Mr. D. “But did you go through all the forms required there?”

*James. *“Indeed I did, sir, and took all the rounds and said all the prayers, but it was all of no use; not but what it’s a grand place. It would astonish you to see all the sticks and crutches hanging up there, left behind by poor cripples that went home cured. It’s my opinion, Mr. D---, that for rheumatism and the like of that it’s a grand place entirely; but as for the liver, it’s not worth a d---.”

Some men are sceptical about the power of medals and of Knock as others are as to that of doctors. Of the latter, was a peasant lad, who, when asked by a gentleman how his father was, replied -

“Ah, my poor father died last Wednesday, your honour.”

“I’m sorry indeed to hear it,” said the other.

“It must have been very sudden. What doctor attended him?”

“Ah, sir,” said the toy, “my poor father wouldn’t have a doctor; he always used to say he’d like to die a natural death.”

Of such, too, was my friend B---, who was one of a committee of subscribers to a fund for a monument to be erected in Mount Jerome Cemetery to the memory of a celebrated Dublin physician. A discussion arose as to the inscription. My friend recommended that it should be the same as that to Sir Christopher Wren in St. Paul’s -” Si monumentum requiris circumspice.”

Doctor Nedley, physician to the Dublin Metropolitan Police, told me he heard a voice from the crowd call out, “Three cheers for Doctor Nedley! He killed more policemen than ever the Fenians did!”

But if some men are sceptical, others place an implicit faith in the doctor’s prescriptions; and of these was a man in Limerick who went to the undertaker to order a coffin for Pat Connell.

“Dear me,” said the undertaker, “is poor Pat dead?”

“No, he’s not dead yet,” answered the other; “but he’ll die to-night, for the doctor says he can’t live till morning, and he knows what he gave him.”

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