Smith O'Brien's Rebellion, married by mistake, fooling the English.

Chapter XIII

Smith O’Brien’s rebellion - Louis Philippe’s interview with the Queen, as seen by the Boy Jones - Plain fare and pleasant -Married by mistake - A time for everything - A pagan altar-piece - Drawing the long-bow - Proof against cross-examination - Fooling the English - Larceny, or trespass?

In 1848 I went to live at Rathpeacon House, near Cork, as I was then engaged in carrying out the completion of the Great Southern and Western Railway to that city.

At the time of my arrival, the French Revolution had just broken out, and all through the south, especially in “Rebel Cork,” there was the wildest excitement. A rebellion under Smith O’Brien and the other Young Ireland leaders was daily expected. A revolution in England, too, was hoped for; but this hope was extinguished by the suppression of the great Chartist meeting in London, and all chance of a successful rebellion in Ireland ended with the arrest of Smith O’Brien and the dispersion of his followers, after the abortive rising at Slievenaman. It was here that, on being ordered to attack a police barrack garrisoned by half a dozen constables, his gallant troops replied, “Is it what your honour wants us to go up there to be shot?” and thereupon fled, leaving their general alone.

In Cork many Young Irelanders were arrested, amongst them a friend of mine, Michael Joseph Barry, a clever young barrister, who had written some stirring songs and pleasant Irish stories, and whom I visited several times when he was in prison.

It will be remembered that about that time a boy named Jones had been found two or three times concealed in Buckingham Palace, not, as it came out, with any felonious intentions, but simply from curiosity. It will also be remembered that when Louis Philippe fled from France, nothing was heard of him for some days; and as all the world ;wondered what had become of him, Barry wrote the following squib, supposed to be from the boy Jones, which appeared in the *Southern Reporter, *then, as now, an influential Liberal newspaer in Cork:-

“THE FRENCH REVOLUTION

“To the Editor of the Southern Reporter

“Mr. Editor,

“My mother being a Blackpool woman, I wish to give you the first news of what happened between Louis Philippe and her Grayshus Majesty. I was behind a curtain listenin’ to the dialogue on Friday evening.

‘My dear Vic, ses he,

I’m mighty sick, ses he,

For I’ve cut my stick, ses he,

Tarnation quick, ses he,

From the divil’s breeze, ses he,

At the Tooleyrees, ses he;

For the blackguards made, ses he,

A barricade, ses he.

They’re up to the trade, ses he,

And I was afraid, ses he,

And greatly in dread, ses he,

I’d lose my head, ses he;

And if I lost that, ses he,

I’d have no place for my hat, ses he.

‘Stop a while, ses she;

Take off your tile, ses she.

You’re come a peg down, ses she,

By the loss of your crown, ses she.

‘Mille pardon, ses he,

For keepin’ it on, ses he;

But my head isn’t right, ses he,

Since I took to flight, ses he;

For the way was long, ses he,

And I’m not over sthrong, ses he.

‘Indeed, my ould buck, ses she,

You look mighty shuck, ses she.

‘You may say I am, ses he;

I’m not worth a damn, ses he,

Till I get a dhram, ses he,

And a cut of mate, ses he;

For I’m dead bate, ses he.

I’m as cowld as ice, ses he.

Never say it twice, ses she;

I’ll get you a slice, ses she,

of something nice, ses she;

And we’ll make up a bed, ses she,

In the room overhead, ses she.

‘I like a mathrass, ses he,

Or a pallyass, ses he;

But in my present pass, ses he,

Anything of the kind, ses he,

I shouldn’t much mind, ses he.’

“Here a grand waither dhressed all in goold brought in the ateables. Her Majesty helped Looey to some cowld ham, which he tucked in as if he hadn’t tasted a bit since he left the Tooleyrees. By degrees he lost his appetite and found his tongue, but he didn’t like talking while the waither was there, so he touched her Majesty, and ses he in an undertone -

‘Bid that flunkey go, ses he,

And I’ll let you know, ses he,

About my overthrow, ses he.’

“So the Queen made a sign with her hand, and the flunkey tuck himsAf off with a very bad grace, as if he’d have liked to be listening. When the door was shut Looey went on -

”Twas that Guizot, ses he -

That chap you knew, ses he,

When we were at Eu, ses he,

At our interview, ses he.

‘Is that thrue? ses she.

I thought he and you, ses she,

Were always as thick, ses she,

As -

‘Don’t say pickpockets, Vic, ses he.

Indeed, we wor friends, ses he,

And had the same ends, ses he,

Always in view, seshe;

But we little knew, ses he,

That a Paris mob, ses he,

Would spoil our job, ses he.

They’re the divil’s lads, ses lie -

What you call Rads, ses he;

But your Rads sing small, ses he,

Before powdher and ball, ses he,

While mine don’t care a jot, ses he,

For round or grape shot, ses he.

Well, those chaps of mine, ses he,

They wanted to dine, ses he,

And to raise up a storm, ses he,

About getting reform, ses he;

Which isn’t the thing, ses he,

For a citizen king, ses he,

Or a well-ordhered state, ses he,

To tolerate, ses he.

So says I to Guizot, ses he,

We must sthrike a blow, ses he.

Ses Guizot, You’re right, ses he,

For they’ll never fight, ses he;

They’re sure to he kilt, ses he,

By them forts you built ses he;

And the throops is thrue, ses he,

And they’ll stand to you, ses he.

Then ses I to Guizot, ses he,

Proclaim the banquo, ses he,

And let them chaps know, ses lie,

That Reform’s no go, ses he.

But bad luck to our haste, sos he,

For stoppin’ the faste, ses he,

For the people riz, ses he.

And that’s how it is, ses he,

That you find me here, ses he,

At this time of year, ses he,

Hard up for a bed, ses he,

To rest my head, ses he.

‘Did you save your tin? ses she.

‘Did I? (with a grin), ses he.

Faix, it’s I that did, ses he,

For I had it hid, ses he,

Lest a storm should burst, ses he,

To be fit for the worst, ses he.’

“Here Looey stopped, and little Lord Johnny, who had been peepin’ in at the door, walked into the room, just as the Queen, who had caught sight of him, put up her finger for him to come in. Looey rose up to meet him.

‘Are you there, ses he,

My little Premier? ses he.

Gad! you’re lookin’ ill, ses he.

Troth, I am, King Phil, ses he.

Would you cash a bill, ses he,

For a couple of mille? ses he.

I’ve no tin in the till, ses he.

Good night, ses Phil, ses he.

I’ve a cowld in my head, ses he,

And I’ll go to bed, sos he.’

“And he walked out of the room in a great hurry, leaving Lord Johnny in a great foosther, and indeed her Majesty didn’t look over well pleased; but there the matter ended.

“P.S. - You’ll hear that Looey wasn’t in London at all,

but you may thrust to the thruth of the above.

“Yours to command,

“The Boy Jones.”

It was some time after this a western member of Parliament, who thought he knew French well, went to Paris with a deputation of Irishmen to present an address to Louis Napoleon. The member of Parliament addressed Napoleon in French, but had not gone far when Napoleon said he must ask him to be so good as to speak English, which he understood, as he did not understand Irish.

About a mile from my house at Rathpeacon lived Father Horgan, the good old parish priest of Blarney, a fine sample of a Roman Catholic priest of former days, and as worthy a man as ever lived. He was well known as an Irish scholar and antiquarian, and such was his interest in and love for the old round towers of Ireland that he determined to build a facsimile of one in his chapel-yard as a mausoleum for himself. It is not however, so like its prototype as he meant it to be. The difference arose in this way. A large subscription had been made in the parish for its erection, and Father Horgan rashly began to build before he had sufficiently considered whether he had enough to finish. When the tower had risen to one-half its height the funds began to fail, and as he either could not or would not raise more money in the parish, he had to cut his coat according to his cloth, and was forced to diminish its diameter. Its appearance as it stands is not unlike that of a gigantic champagne bottle.

Father Morgan was the soul of hospitality, and gave many a dinner party, where all sorts and conditions of men were wont to meet; at the upper end of his table were clergy and gentry of the neighbourhood, peasant farmers at the lower. The eatables were alike for all - alternate dishes of chicken and bacon all down the table. With the drinkables it was different; there was wine at the upper end, whisky (which they preferred) for the farmers at the lower. He said to me, “You see, my dear friend, I don’t know how to order a big dinner with all sorts of dishes; and if I did, old Bridget could not cook it. So I just have a pair of chickens and then a dish of bacon and greens, then another pair of chickens and another dish of bacon and greens, and so on all the way down. Every one likes chickens and bacon, and when a man sees these before him he looks for nothing else. I am saved a world of trouble, and every one seems happy and contented.” And so they were, and right pleasant those homely dinners were quite as pleasant as those given by a Mr. A---, a wealthy solicitor in Dublin, famous for his cook and for the excellence and abundance of his wine, especially his claret.

A few of the most agreeable men in Dublin met at one of these parties and spent a thoroughly enjoyable evening. A few days afterwards Chief Justice Doherty, who had been one of the guests, met Mr. A---, and said to him, “What a pleasant party we had with you last Tuesday!” “Do you call that a pleasant party?” said A-. “*I *don’t.” “Why not?” said Doherty. “Too much talk, too much talk, you couldn’t enjoy your wine, you drank little more than a bottle each. On Wednesday I had nine men to dinner, and they drank three bottles a man; and you’d have heard a pin drop the whole time. That’s what *I *call a pleasant party.”

Amongst my friends in Cork was another priest, Father O’Sullivan, generally known as “Father Rufus” from his red hair. He gave me the following account of a wedding at which he was called upon to officiate in a hurry. Just as he had put on his hat and coat and was leaving his house to drive to Passage, where he was engaged to dine, a young couple met him at his door and said they had come to be married; they showed him their papers of authority for him to marry them, which were all right. He told them to come early next morning, as he was in too great a hurry then; but they said they were in a greater hurry, as they were going to America, and had to start for Liverpool by the Cork steamer that evening. So he brought them into his sitting-room, told them to kneel down, and commenced to read the service. When he had gone on for a while the young man said, “I don’t know, your raverence, whether it makes any difference, but I’m only a witness in the case. The boy himself will be here directly.” I am greatly afraid, from what Father Rufus told me, the ceremony had gone so far that the witness, before he had interrupted, was married to the girl; but if this was so it never was divulged. The right boy very soon arrived, the ceremony was performed *de novo, *and the happy bride, with her husband (number two), was in time for the Liverpool boat. Not so lucky was his reverence, who was much put out by losing his good dinner at Passage. Priests are, after all, but men, and dislike as much as others being disturbed just at or immediately before or after meal-times.

Father H---, the pleasantest of all priests, past or present, gave me an instance of this kind, when his temper was sorely tried. Amongst his parishioners, was Tom Burns, a drunken fellow, who, when in his cups, was violent, and often beat his wife. One cold and stormy winter’s evening, Father H---, having had his dinner, had settled himself snugly by his bright fireside, and was just brewing his tumbler of whisky punch, when his servant rushed into his room, crying out, “Your raverence is wanted out instantly. Tom Burns is killing his wife, and if you’re not there at once she will be dead.” Down he ran to the cottage, and on his arrival found that they had succeeded in quieting Tom, who was lying in a state of drunken exhaustion on his bed. Father H--- was in no frame of mind to speak gently to him; his language, I fear, was not quite clerical, “blackguard,” “drunken ruffian” being about his mildest expressions. Tom turned his face to the wall, and in a meek and humble voice said, “Go away, your raverence, go away. I’m not in a fit state to listen to your holy voice.”

To return to Father Rufus, one of his oldest friends was Father Prout, the eccentric parish priest of Ardnagehy, in the county of Cork; it was from him that Father Frank Mahony took his well-known *nom de plume, *under which he wrote so charmingly. When Father Rufus was in Rome studying for the Church, old Prout came there to purchase an altar-piece for his chapel - a subscription had been raised for the purpose - and called on him to ask his assistance and advice. He went with him to many dealers and artists whom he knew; but after a long day’s search, nothing was found to satisfy his friend. A few days afterwards Prout called again to say he had just found exactly what he wanted; but before buying it, he would like Father Rufus to see it, and give his opinion. When he saw it he exclaimed, “Why, man, that is a Diana!” “I don’t care what it is,” said Prout; “it’s lovely, and I’ll have it; those chaps of mine at Ardnagehy will never know the difference.”

In giving answers the Irish peasantry, as a rule, have no great regard for truth, but like to give the answer which they think will be most agreeable to the questioner. A poor Italian organ-grinder, weary after the long walk, asked a peasant whom he met near Carricktuohil how far he was from Cork. “Just four short miles,” was the answer. “What do you mean,” said Father Rufus, who happened to pass at the time, “by deceiving the poor fellow? you know well enough it’s eight long miles.” “Sure, your raverence,” said the other, “I seen the poor boy was tired, and I wanted to keep his courage up. If he heard your raverence - but I’m plazed to think he didn’t - he’d be down-hearted entirely.”

A story which is well known in Kerry was told me long ago by a Mr. R---, of Tralee. He was shooting with an English friend, a Mr. B---. They had very little sport; so Mr. B--- said, “I’ll ask this countryman whether there are any birds about here.” “No use to ask him,” said Mr. R---; “he’ll only tell you lies.” “I’ll ask him, at all events,” said Mr. B--- “My good man, are there any birds about here?” “Lots of birds, your honour,” said he. “Tell me what sort of birds?” “Well now, your honour, there’s grouses, and woodcocks, and snipes, and ducks, and pillibines, and all sorts of birds.” “Ask him,” whispered R---, “whether there are any thermometers.” “Tell me,” said B , “do you ever see any thermometers here?”

“Well now, your honour, if there was a night’s frost the place would be alive with them.”

Many years afterwards, as I drove with my wife from Killarney to Kenmare, I told her this story.

She said she could hardly believe it. I said, “I’ll try with this boy, and you’ll see he’ll say much the same.” So I said to the bare-legged boy who was running along beside the carriage -

“What is the name of the little river near us?”

Boy. “‘Tis the Finnhry, your honour.”

“Are there many fish in it?”

Boy. “There is, your honour.”

“What sort of fish?”

Boy. “There do be throuts and eels, your honour.”

“Any salmon?”

Boy. “There do be an odd one.”

“Any white trout?”

Boy. “There do be a good lot of them.”

“Any thermometers ?”

Boy. “Them does be there, too, your honour; but they comes up lather in the season than the white throuts.”

At Carrigtuohil, which I mentioned just now, I got a curious answer. It often is hard to get from a peasant the meaning of the Irish name of a place. This probably arises from the name having been a good deal changed from what it originally had been. For instance, “Tipperary” was originally Tubber Ara (the Well of Ara); “Raduane” was Rathduffown (the Fort of the Black River). I asked a country fellow, “What is the English of Carrigtuohil?” “I never heard any English or Irish name upon it, only Carrigtuohil alone,” said he. “I know,” said I,” it has no other name, but I want to know the meaning of the name.” “Well now, your honour,” he answered, “I never heard any meaning for it only Carrigtuohil alone” “I know ‘Carrig’ means a rock,” I said; “but what does ‘tuohil’ mean?” “Well now, your honour, it’s what I can’t tell you why its called Carrigtuohil, unless it’s because Mr. Coppinger lives below there in Barry’s Court.”

Amongst the leading counsel engaged for and against the Great Southern Railway Company, who were purchasing land for their line in the county of Tipperary, were Fitzgibbon and Rolleston. They, with two or three others, were out for a walk, one fine Sunday afternoon, and sat down to rest on a sunny bank in a field near Templemore. Rolleston pointed out the spot in an adjoining field where a Mr. F--- had been murdered some time before. Two men had been tried for the murder, but were not convicted, though it was well known through the country that they were the murderers. Rolleston had been counsel for the prosecution.

“Ah,” said Fitzgibbon, “if I had been in that case I’d have got a conviction.”

“Why do you think so?” said Rolleston. “Because,” said Fitzgibbon, “I would have broken down the witnesses for the defence on cross-examination. I never saw a lying witness that I could not break down.”

It was quite true that Fitzgibbon was a very powerful cross-examiner; but it was supposed that he somewhat overrated his powers.

“Well” said Rolleston, “try your hand on that boy standing over there; you may be sure he knows all about the murder; and I’ll bet you a pound you won’t get any satisfactory information about it from him.”

“Done,” said Fitzgibbon. “Come here, my boy. Do you live near here?”

Boy. “I do, your honour; I live in that house below there.”

*Fitzgibbon. *“Do you know Mr. E---?”

Boy. “I do not, **sir.”

*Fitzgibbon. “I *heard he lived near this.”

*Boy. ” *So he did, your honour, in that big white house.”

*Fitzgibbom. *“Then how is it you don’t know him?”

*Boy. *“Because he is dead, sir.”

*Fitzgibbon. *“I’m sorry to hear that, but are you sure he is dead?”

*Boy. *“Didn’t I see him dead?”

*Fitzgibbon. *“Where?”

*Boy. *“In that field below, your honour.”

*Fitzgibbon. *“Did you perceive anything particular about him?”

*Boy. *“I did.”

*Fitzgibbon. *“What was it?”

*Boy. *“He was lying in a lough of blood, sir.”

*Fitzgibbon. *“Then perhaps he had been killed?”

*Boy. *“Begorra, he was killed, your honour.”

*Fitzgibbon. *“Now, like a good boy, tell me did you ever hear how, or by whom, he was killed?”

*Boy. *“I did, your honour.”

Hereupon Fitzgibbon looked triumphantly at Rolleston; and, confident that he would win his bet, said to the boy -“Now, tell me exactly what you heard ?” “Well, your honour, I heard it was what he fell asleep in the field, and a weazel sucked him.”

Upon this there was such a laugh at Fitzgibbon, that he gave up his examination, and handed a pound to Rolleston.

I heard a very bullying counsel, Deane Freeman, completely put out in his cross-examination by a very simple answer. *

Freeman (to Witness). *“So you had a pistol?”

*Witness. *“I had, sir.?”

*Freeman. *“Who did you intend to shoot with it?”

*Witness. *“I wasn’t intending to shoot no one.”

*Freeman. *“Then was it for nothing that you got it?”

*Witness. *“No, it wasn’t.”

*Freeman. *“Come, come, sir, on the virtue of your solemn oath, what did you get that pistol for?”

*Witness. *“On the virtue of my solemn oath, I got it for three and ninepence in Mr. Richardson’s shop.” (Much laughter in court.)

*Freeman. *“Oh, how very witty you are! You may go down.”

At another time he said to a witness, “You’re a nice fellow, ain’t you?” Witness replied, “I am a nice fellow; and if I was not on my oath, I’d say the saine of you.”

I was told of another witness, a labouring man, whose answers oh his direct examination were rather discursive. He was asked by the cross-examining counsel, “Now, my good man, isn’t all this that you have been telling to my friend here only a hypothesis ?” *

Witness. *“Well, if your honour says so, I suppose it was.”

*Counsel. *“Come, sir, on your oath, do you know what a hypothesis is?”

*Witness. *“Well, now, I think I do.”

*Counsel. *“Then tell me what it is?”

*Witness. *“Well, now, I think it’s some part of the inside of a pig, but I’m not exactly shure what part it is.”

Judge Burton, who was a very old and wizened little man, was trying a ease, when another very old man, scarcely able to walk, came into court to give evidence. Instead of going to the witness-box, he went towards the passage leading to the bench. MeDonagh, the counsel, called out to him. “Come back, sir, where are you going? Do you think you are a judge?” “Indeed, sir,” said the old man looking up at Judge Burton -“indeed, sir, I believe I am fit for little else.

It is sometimes hard to say whether such answers are given in truthful simplicity or not; but certainly the peasants, particularly in the south, do like to take in a stranger. A nephew of mine was staying with me, some years ago, at my fishing quarters in Kerry. In the evening of the day he had arrived he told me that young Dan Neale, then my fishing boy, or gillie, had given him a wonderful account of an enormous eel, which ran ashore near Black-water Pier. It was very nearly as thick as a horse, and it had a great mane on its neck; he and a dozen of the other men and boys had great work in killing it with spades and shovels.

“He was humbugging you,” said I.

“No,” said he. “It must be true; he told me every detail about it, and the names of some of the men who helped to kill ft, and he was perfectly serious at the time.”

Next morning, when Dan appeared, I called him up before my nephew., and said, “Dan Neale, did you ever see an enormous eel run ashore at Black-water Pier?”

“I never did, your honour,” said Dan. “Then why did you tell me that long story about it?” said my nephew.

“To be making a fool of your honour,” said Dan. When I told this to my old friend, the late Mr. Valentine O’Connor, he gave me the following account of how a young English lady, who had never been in Irland before, was made a fool of by a Kingstown car-driver. O’Connor, who lived near Blackrock, about two miles from Kingstown, was expecting the arrival from England of a governess for his daughters. He and Mrs. O’Connor had just sat down to breakfast when an outside car drove past the window to the hall door, the young governess sitting up on high in the driver’s seat, while he sat on the side of the car. On inquiry, it came out that on leaving Kingstown the driver was sitting on one side (as they often do), and the young lady on the other. She pointed to the driving seat, and said to him, “Carman, what is that seat there for?” “Well, my lady,” said he, “that sate up there is mostly for tourists. They gets a betther view of the country from it than they would from the side of the car. We mostly charges them a shilling extra for it, but you seem to be such a plasin’ young lady that you may get up into it for sixpence.” So she paid him sixpence and got up.

Amongst those who afforded amusement to their neighbours in Cork was an old lady, Miss McCall, generally known as “Betty McCall,” who, with her niece, lived at a very pretty place near Glanmire. She was very tenacious of her rights, and was known to wander about with a large horse-pistol in her hand in quest of trespassers. She heard that some of her neighbours, amongst them being Mr. Abbott the Quaker, were in the habit of bathing, early in the morning, in the river that passed through her grounds. This annoyed and shocked her much, and finding that notices threatening prosecution were posted up in vain, she told her gardener she would not keep him unless by some means he put a stop to these dreadful practices. Having turned the matter over in his mind, he thought the most effectual way would be to conceal himself and watch for bathers and take away their clothes. One morning as Betty and her niece Lizzie were sitting in their bow-window at their early breakfast, a tall and portly figure, devoid of clothing, passed the window and rang violently at the hall door, which was quickly opened by her maid, but still more quickly shut; whereupon Mr. Abbott, for it was he, put his mouth to the keyhole and called out, “Tell Betty McCall that Brother Abbott, having done nothing whereof to be ashamed, has come to ask for his clothes.” Betty took out a summons against Abbott for trespass, he against her for larceny of his clothes. Much amusement was expected in court, but neither case ever came on, as, through the interference of friends, a compromise was effected.

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