The Bunsby Papers (second series): Irish Echoes

THE TIPPERARY VENUS

Amongst a people so simple-hearted and enthusiastic as the Irish, it is not at all surprising that a firm and implicit belief in supernal agency should be almost universal. To vivid imaginations, ever on the stretch for the romantic, yearning ever for something beyond the dull realities of commonplace existence, there is something extremely fascinating in the brain revellings of Fairy Land.

Now the Irish fairies are very numerous, and all as well classified, and their varied occupations defined and described by supernaturalists, as though they really were amongst the things that be. The "learned pundits" in such matters declare that the economy of human nature is entirely carried on through their agency. Philosophers have demonstrated the atomic vitality of the universe, and the believer in fairies simply allots them their respective places and duties in the general distribution. They tell you that every breath of air, every drop of water, every leaf and flower, teems with actual life. Myriads of tiny atomies, they say, are employed carrying on the business of existence, animal, vegetable, and atmospheric. Here are crowds of industrious little chemists, extracting dew from moonbeams, which they deliver over to relays of fairy laborers, by them to be applied to the languishing grass. The noxious exhalations of the earth are, by a similar process, gathered from decaying vegetation, and dispersed or condensed into refreshing rain. The warm sunbeams are by them brought down and scattered through the fields; it is the beautiful ministry of one class to breathe upon, and gently force open, the budding blossoms, while, another seduously warms and nurtures the ripening corn, and tends the luscious fruits. Mischievous fellows there also are, whose delight it is to try and frustrate the exertions of the workers. They travel from place to place, loaded with malign influences; blight and mildew, and all the destructive agents that blast the hopes of the agriculturist are under their control; and, with an industry nearly equal to their opponents, they employ their time in training caterpillars and other devouring insects to assist them in the work of desolation.

Many are the battles, we are informed, that occur between the two opposing classes, and it depends upon which side has the best of the contest what the result may be to the defeated object; whether they contend for the life of some delicate flower, or whether the poor farmer's toils were to be rewarded or rendered hopeless by the safety or the destruction of his entire crops.

But to leave this fanciful, and, it must be admitted, poetical theory, our business now is with an individual of a highly responsible class in the world of Fairydom —The Leprechaun. A most important personage he is; being the custodian of all hidden treasure, it is he who fabricates the gold within the rock-encircled laboratory. The precious gems, the diamond, sapphire, ruby, amethyst, emerald, and all the world-coveted jewels, are in the safe guardianship of the Leprechaun; and fatal it is to him when aught is discovered and torn from his grasp – for his fairy existence, his immortal essence, is lost with it; he can no longer sport through the air, invisible to mortal ken, but is compelled to take a tangible form, and to work at a degrading occupation – that of making and mending the shoes of his former fairy companions.

The experiences of the writer of this sketch in fairy lore and anecdote, were mostly gathered from a wild, Tipperary sort of cousin, some dozens of times removed, one Roderick O'Callaghan – familiarly Rory – or as, by an easy corruption, he was known "the country round," Roarin' O'Callaghan, who, in his time, had gathered them from the wilder henchmen and followers by whom he was surrounded, when, a devil-may-care gossoon, he wandered among the Galtie mountains, the especial pet and persecutor of the entire neighborhood.

Many and many were the mischievous pranks recorded of young Rory. I almost wish that I had begun with the determination of recounting a few of them; but, as I have set myself another task, I must defer that intention until a future opportunity. I am not at all certain still, but that my erratic nib – for I write "currente calamo," and without much especial method – may diverge from the grand current of narrative, and, in spite of myself, imperceptibly stray into the now interdicted by-way.

It was from Rory that I heard the strange tale I am now about to relate. Desperate boy-rivals were we, at that time, I must tell you, for the affectionate regards of a young beauty who played old Harry with the juvenile susceptibilities of the whole vicinage. Ah! now that my memory has reverted to that epoch, digression is inevitable. Lovely Polly O'Connor! – bless my soul; a sigh, even at this distant period; how very tenacious these boy-attachments are. I see her as plainly now, mentally pictured, as though in very deed she stood before me.

Both Rory and I endeavored, in the ardent enthusiasm of our fledgling passion, to give vent to the burning thoughts that flamed within us, through the lover's peculiar channel – poetry. My own extraordinary effusion I remember – his I have preserved, and although, at the time, I knew well which was best entitled to the world's consideration, I submit both productions now without a remark. They will at least serve for a description, however insufficient, of our inspiratress.

I had an immense advantage over my competitor in one instance; for, having an acquaintance in the editorial department of the local newspaper, my lucubration lent a lustre to the poets' corner, while, I am ashamed to confess, I exerted, successfully, the same influence to keep Rory's out; it was ungenerous, I own, unpardonable; but what won't a boy-rival do to clear the onward path before the impetuosity of a first love.

But here is the affair, just as it appeared in the Tipperary Gazette, headed, as I thought, with becoming modesty:

LINES TO A YOUNG LADYI will not venture to compareThose flashing eyesTo sunny skies;To threads of gold thy wealth of hair;Thy cheek unto the rose's glow;Thy polished brow,To lilies glancing in the light,Or Parian white;Thy bosom to the virgin snow —For theseAre weak and well-worn similes.Thine eyes are like – like – let me see;The violet's hue,Reflected throughA drop of dew;No, that won't do.No semblance trueIn ample nature can there beTo equal their intensity —Their heavenly blue.T'were just as vain to seek,Through every flower to match thy glowing cheek.No gold could shedSuch radiant glory as ensaints thy head.Besides, I now remember,Your golden tresses are but flattered red,And thine are living amber,As, when 'tis ripest through the waving corn,The sunbeams glance upon a harvest morn.To the pale lustre of thy brow,The lily's self perforce must bow —The marbles cold,And very old;Thy bosom as the new-fallen snowIs quiteAs white,And melts as soon with Love's warm glow.But then,While that receives an early stain,Thy purer bosom doth still pure remain.Since, to my mind,I cannot findA simile of any kind,I argue henceThou art the senseAnd spirit of all excellence;The charm-bestowing fount, from whenceFate doth dispenseIts varied bounties to the fair,The loveliest of whom but shareA portion of the gifts thou well canst spare.

It will scarcely be credited, that after that brilliant compliment to Polly's charms, the little jilt, her well-fortified heart not being assailable by Parnassian pellets, looked still colder upon the suffering perpetrator. However, the persevering nature of my passion – and, indeed, it was then a real one – was not to be set aside by rebuffs. Again and again I returned to the attack, and, pen in hand, racked my unfortunate brains through all the strategy of acrostics, birth-day odes, and sonnets. It was not until some time afterwards that I discovered the real reason of my ill-success. The writing of the "Lines" was, perhaps, a pardonable liberty, but printing them was atrocious; so that, in fact, my unworthy suppression of Rory's concoctions brought its own punishment – not that he was a bit more successful than I, for, as we soon became sensibly aware, the charming, but conscienceless little coquette had even more strings to her bow than she could conveniently fiddle with; indeed, that there wasn't a decent-looking boy in the academy that she didn't encourage, or seem to encourage, so generalizing was her flirtation system.

And, after all, to decline upon foxy Tom Gallagher, the more than middle-aged Dispensary doctor, a long, straggling, splay-footed disciple of Æsculapius, with a head of hair like a door-mat – that she has time and again watched and laughed her little ribs sore at, as he shuffled along the street. Ah! Polly O'Connor!

But, allow me to present to your notice Rory's poetical offering at her inexorable feet. It is, as you may perceive, ambitious, and, however I might have underrated its merits at one time, I now think it smacks somewhat of the old Elizabethan relish.

Judge for yourself:

Upon some sly affairConnubially dishonest —Vide Lempriere —Jupiter was non est.And dame Juno thoughtScandal and écartéConsolation brought,So gave a little party.Soon the Graces threeCame, in evening dresses,Very fond of teaThey were, with water-cresses.Venus came, and son,Who richly did deserve aBirching for the funHe made of Miss Minerva.Soon an earthly guestCame by invitation,And, among the rest,Created a sensation.My Polly 'twas, and shePerfection so resembled,For her sov'reigntyThe Queen of Beauty trembled.After tea there cameA gambling speculation,Bringing with the game,Celestial perturbation.For my Polly, then,Playing with discretion,From each goddess wonAll her rich possession.Pallas lost her mind,With wit and wisdom glowing;Aphrodite pinedTo see her beauty going.Juno speedilyLost her regal presence;And the Graces three,Lost their very essence.On this earthly ballMy Polly thus alighted,With the gifts of allThe goddesses united.Is it strange that she,Without much endeavor,Quickly won from meHeart and soul for ever?

These fiery manifestations, however, had not the slightest effect upon the arctic nature of the frigid Polly. To be sure, her smile was still "kindly, but frosty," to reverse the Shakespearean aphorism, and as it was dispensed with due impartiality amongst the entire school of her admirers, none were driven to immediate despair, but each flattered himself at the time being that he was the favored one. Our limited supply of pocket-money was transmuted into rings and brooches, for Polly had an inordinate, or rather, the usual predilection of her sex, for bijouterie, and as the rings on trees denote the number of years that have rolled over their leafy heads, so the corresponding trophies upon Polly's taper fingers, denoted the amount of her victims.

The majority of her swains began, however, to slacken in their attentions, finally dropping off one by one, until the course was left to Rory and me – praiseworthy examples of a constancy of many months, although as yet not fully known to each other. It was about this time that rumors began to reach us that old Tom Gallagher, the red-headed, rusty-jointed medico, was a constant, and it was hinted, not unwelcome visitor at Polly's father's house – by the way, I forgot to mention that the O'Connor, père, was the master of a Charter-house school in the town, and as very a character as such individuals almost invariably are. He had originally been a soldier, so rough, unpolished, and uncouth, that it was a serious question in the neighborhood, if pretty Polly could by any possibility be an offshoot from such a crabbed stock.

At the time of which I write, availability for the particular post assigned to favorites at court, was the last thing thought of, and the O'Connor having rendered some questionable service to the then government, either in making rebels or ensnaring them, he was rewarded with the position he occupied, although he did not possess a single requisite for that responsible situation.

Ignorant of the first principles of education, he delegated his task to subordinates, whose capacity he was incompetent to judge of. His military antecedents made him a harsh, unbending disciplinarian, and as it was in a routine of which he knew nothing whatever, he felt it incumbent upon him to make up in severity and bluster for his lack of knowledge.

But to return to Polly. When the certainty of her prodigious perfidy reached me, I imagined myself a kind of master of Ravenswood, and took to melancholy and light food for some days. Reflection and strong physic, however, soon restored me to something like equanimity, and, becoming a little better reconciled to the annoyance of life, I rushed for consolation and revenge to the poet's corner of the Tipperary Gazette. It was then and there that I produced the following solemn warning to Polly O'Connor, and all others of her sex, who, when love and a full purse are weighed together, get into the scale on the lucre side, making poor, shivering Cupid "kick the beam." It was near the 14th of February, so, in the savage expectation of crushing her heart beneath the satirical avalanche, I designated my contribution —

A VALENTINE FOR HER WHO WILL UNDERSTAND ITAs Plutus one day, in his chariot of gold,Was languidly taking the air,Looking, spite of his riches, distressingly old,Although dressed with remarkable care;He met with young Cupid, who, stayed in his flightBy the wealthy god's dazzling array,Hovered joyously round on his pinions of light,Highly pleased with the tempting display."Ride with me," said Plutus, "all this you may share;Ride with me, and garments of gold you may wear."Quite delighted, the urchin stepped into the car,Little deeming the roads were so rough;But, repenting his rashness, before he went farHe cried, "Stop! I've been jolted enough.Pray excuse me, friend Plutus, though rich be the prizeYou obligingly offer to me,Your realm is the gloomy earth, mine the bright skies,'Tis not likely that we should agree.Farewell," said the boy, as he mounted in air,"The heart that Gold worships, Love never can share."

Having boldly appended my own initials to this scarifying outburst, I waited patiently to watch its effect upon the false one. In a few days I saw her – she looked sad. Ha! she is touched, thought I; and, alas for the ferocity of human nature, I rejoiced in her apparent affliction. In a few moments, the sadness deepened on her brow; her lovely lashes became burdened with her pearly tears; resolution, revenge, injured feelings, all dissolved into nothing before the cruel shower. I'm not quite certain what immediately followed. I believe I flung myself enthusiastically on the carpet, before the Tipperary Niobe – beseeching her to repose her sorrows in my sympathizing bosom. At all events, I succeeded in calming her agitation, and after a delicious interview, wherein she thrilled my soul to its centre by the avowal that, however appearances might convict her of vacillation, I was, ever had been, and ever should be, the sole lord of her affections.

In that moment of blinding delirium, of course, all that had hitherto occurred was blotted from my memory as thoroughly as a damp sponge obliterates the records on a tablet of ass-skin. With the unreserved confidence of a relieved heart, she rested her cheek in dangerous proximity to my eager lips, but I had not sufficient courage to take advantage of the position. Her wonderful eyes looked sincerity and love even into the very depths of my soul. I was fascinated – bewildered – doubled up and done for, most effectually. "The evenings were now beautiful," she hinted, together with remote allusions to "soft twilight's balmy hour," setting suns, and such like delectations, until I actually summoned up courage sufficient to make an appointment to meet her

"By moonlight alone."

Nor had she any reserve while naming the particular grove where our trysting was to take place.

It was with the proud port of a conqueror that I deigned to tread the vulgar pavement after my never-to-be-forgotten interview with the Circean Polly; victory swelled within my expanding chest, like too much soup. Polly was mine; what a triumph I had achieved. I do verily believe, if, at this juncture, it were at all essential, or even could be remotely conducive to Polly's tranquillity, that I should go through the then popular amusement of hanging, I would have gone to the halter with nearly as much cheerfulness as though it were the altar; but, fortunately, I was not called upon to testify the loyalty of my devotion by asphyxiation.

Rory and I met as usual that afternoon, and I remarked that a sort of ill-concealed joy was working like an undercurrent through his features – now he would sing vociferously; anon, suddenly subside into quiet – it was very curious – I determined, however, to discover, if possible, the cause of his self-satisfaction.

"Rory," said I.

"Hallo!"

"What makes you so silent?"

"Am I silent?" he replied, bursting instantly into a merry song.

"There's something on your mind, at all events; that I know."

"May-be there is; but do you know that's exactly what I was going to say to you?"

"Is it possible?" I rejoined, as demurely as I could, but my stinging cheek betrayed me.

"Why, how you blush," he went on. "Ha! have I found you out?"

"What do you mean?" said I, in an instant changed from convict to criminal.

"You have a sweetheart."

"And so have you," I retorted, as severely as I could.

"I don't deny it," said he, laughing like mad.

"Neither do I, if it comes to that."

Now, be it understood, we had neither of us, as yet, confessed to the other the reality of the attachment we had each conceived for the divine Polly.

"You are really in love, then, Rory?"

"Oh! don't mention it," replied he. "Ocean deep, my boy; fathomless; out of soundings one instant; the next, floating nautilus-like upon the warm, tranquil bosom of an oriental lake; now, lifted upon the very top wave of lunacy, to clutch at stars; and sunk in the hollow depths of dark despair." Rory was curiously ornate in his amatory outbreaks. "What do you think?" he went on, with a dash of his hitherto confidence. "I have been at the Heliconian again."

"No!"

"Upon my life! deep draughts! inspiration. Her eyes – oh! such eyes. You've seen them; small heavens, with a sun in each; saw her to-day – all fixed, my boy; she loves me – said so, and yet my pulse didn't overflow and choke me; heart in my mouth, to be sure – but gulped it down again with a ponderous effort; going to meet her to-night, by appointment; what do you think of that, my boy? what do you think of that?"

Curious coincidence, thought I, but said nothing.

"Shall I read you what I have been doing?" said Rory, with a slightly apologetic gesture.

"Only too happy, of course," said I, mentally anathematizing him for an injudicious bore, thus to parade his flaming productions before – ahem! a writer for the press; but here is Rory's effusion; he gave me a copy.

"You must know," he premised, "that I had some misgivings about a certain elderly codger, whom I frequently discovered in tantalizing companionship with my beloved; hence my Valentine is a little suggestive."

More curious coincidences, said something within me, striking upon the ear of my heart rather alarmingly; but the great pacificator, conceit, soon quelled the emotion, and I was all absorbed in self love and delicious anticipations, when Rory cleared his throat, and read

AN ALLEGORYAs Cupid one day, with his quiver well stored,Fluttered round, upon wickedness bent,Right and left, his insidious love-messengers poured,And hearts by the hundred were shamefully scored,To the mischievous archer's content.'Till at last he encountered King Death on his way,Whose arrows more fatally flew.In vain did the emulous urchin displayAll his arts, his companion still carried the day,For his shafts were, as destiny, true.Boy Cupid, annoyed at the other's success,Invoked cousin Mercury's aid,Who, having for mischief a talent no less,Changed their quivers, so featly that neither could guess,Such complete transposition were made.The result, up to this very hour you may see,For when very old folk feel love's smart,Cupid's arrow by Death surely missioned must be;But when youth in its loveliness sinks to decay,Death's quiver doth furnish the dart.

Here was a startling resemblance, with a vengeance; in spite of my new-fledged confidence, and the unmistakably excellent opinion I entertained of number one, I began to feel somewhat nervous.

"How do you like it?" said Rory, evidently nettled at my inattention.

"I don't like it all."

"Eh!"

"I don't mean that; I mean – the poetry is superb – lovely – but" —

"But what? you are laboring to give vent to something, evidently – out with it, man," Rory continued, moodily.

"Well, then, since you press me," said I, "I certainly have my misgivings."

"And what about, pray?"

"May I venture to ask who the elderly person is, at whom your allegory is directed?"

"I have no objection at all," Rory replied, "if you give me your word you won't mention it again."

"Honor bright."

"Well, then, it's old Tom Gallagher, the saw-bones."

Oh! my internal machinery ceased working, for an instant; had I a girl's privilege, I should have fainted outright; it was a shock; a stunning one, and no mistake.

"What's the matter with you?" inquired Rory, seeing me gasp like a fresh-caught perch.

"Oh! Rory," I cried, grasping his hand with the sudden affection that similarity of misfortune always instigates. "Rory, my friend, did you see my Valentine in the Tipperary Gazette?"

"Yes, and liked it," said he, in a tone of sincerity; "but who was Plutus?"

"By all that's excruciating, old Tom Gallagher."

Rory turned as pale as a turnip.

"And the confounded little coquette who bamboozled you to day," I continued, courageously, despite of Rory's dark frown, "and who conglomerated my reasoning faculties in the same way, was Miss Polly O'Connor."

It was now Rory's turn to have his mechanism bothered.

"What do you mean?" he whispered, tremblingly.

"I mean," said I, "that this very morning, Miss Polly O'Conner swore as binding an oath as ever flashed out of a pair of eyes, or was sealed upon a pair of lips, that I was to have the fee simple of her heart for life, and to settle the affair, we are to meet this evening, at eight o'clock, in Duffy's borieen, at the little stile leading into Murphy's lane."

"Just the spot, and just the time, by Jove, that I was to be there for the same purpose," cried Rory, gnashing his teeth in a biting rage.

For a few moments, we stood silently regarding each other, and at last, broke into a violent fit of laughter; it was what old Tom himself, confound his coppery heart, would call "the crisis;" we were cured – not immediately, however – the dangerous point was passed – time and low diet did the rest.

The inhuman little savage confessed, shortly after, that she had adopted that nefarious plan, in order that, by meeting together, we might – how, she didn't care – come to some explanation with regard to the duality of our attachment, and the double duplicity of our Tipperary Venus.

And now to return – it's a long way back, but never mind. I'm riding an old hack; few that's used to such journeys. To my first intention; that is, to illustrate the position in Fairydom of the Leprechaun.

It is one Rory's wild tales, and, as it mightily interested me – to be sure, I was young at the time – I trust, gentle reader, it may not prove entirely devoid of attraction for you.

In the little village of Templeneiry, situated at the base of one of the Galtee mountains, whose summit looks down upon the diminutive hamlet from the altitude of two thousand feet, there dwelt a very celebrated and greatly-sought-after individual, one Terry Magra, the Piper; there wasn't a pathern, fair, wake, wedding, or merriment of any description, for miles round, in which he and his dhrones were not called into requisition: there wasn't a performer on that noisy, but much-loved instrument, that could at all compare with Terry; it was solemnly asserted, indeed, that his superiority was the result of fairy agency; a belief which he was not unwilling to foster and encourage, inasmuch, as it gave him a wonderful importance among the superstitious peasantry.

Now, with grief it must be recorded, Terry was too much addicted to the almost national failing, that of intoxication. Whisky was to him the universal panacea; did his sweetheart, and he had plenty of them, frown upon his tender suit, whisky banished the mortification; was his rent in arrear, and no sign of anything turning up, whisky wiped off the account, instanter; did all the ill-omened birds that flock around the head of poverty, assail him, he fired a stiff tumbler of whisky punch at them, and they dispersed.