PADDY CONEELY, THE GALWAY PIPER.
We need hardly have acquainted our Irish readers that in the prefixed sketch, which our admirable friend the Burton has made for us, they are presented with the genuine portrait of a piper, and an Irish piper too—for the face of the man, and the instrument on which he is playing, are equally national and characteristic—both genuine Irish: in that well-proportioned oval countenance, so expressive of good sense, gentleness, and kindly sentiments, we have a good example of a form of face very commonly found among the peasantry of the west and south of Ireland—a form of face which Spurzheim distinguished as the true Phœnician physiognomy, and which at all events marks with certainty a race of southern or Semitic origin, and quite distinct from the Scythic or northern Indo-European race so numerous in Ireland, and characterized by their lighter hair and rounder faces. And as to the bagpipes, they are of the most approved Irish kind, beautifully finished, and the very instrument made for Crump, the greatest of all the Munster pipers, or, we might say, Irish of modern times, and from which he drew his singularly delicious music. Musical reader! do not laugh at the epithet we have applied to the sounds of the bagpipe: the music of Crump, which we have often heard from himself on these very pipes, was truly delicious even to the most refined musical ears. These pipes after Crump’s death were saved as a national relic by our friend the worthy and patriotic historian of Galway—need we say, James Hardiman—who, in his characteristic spirit of generosity and kindness, presented them to their present possessor, as a person likely to take good care of them, and not incompetent to do justice to their powers; and the gift was nobly and well bestowed! Yet, truth to tell, Paddy Coneely is not to be compared with John Crump, who, according to the recollections of him which cling to our memory, was a Paganini in his way—a man never to be rivalled—and who produced effects on his instrument previously unthought of, and which could not be expected. Paddy is simply an excellent Irish piper—inimitable as a performer of Irish jigs and reels, with all their characteristic fire and buoyant gaiety of spirit—admirable indeed as a player of the music composed for and adapted to the instrument; but in his performance of the plaintive or sentimental melodies of his country, he is not able, as Crump was, to conquer its imperfections: he plays them not as they are sung, but—like a piper.
Yet we do not think this want of power attributable to any deficiency of feeling or genius in Paddy—far indeed from it:—he is a creature of genuine musical soul; but he has had no opportunities of hearing any great performer, like that one to whom we have alluded, or of otherwise improving, to any considerable extent, his musical education generally: the best of his predecessors whom he has heard he can imitate and rival successfully; but still Paddy is merely an Irish piper—the piper of Galway par excellence: for in every great town in the west and south of Ireland there is always one musician of this kind more eminent than the rest, with whose name is justly joined as a cognomen the name of his locality.
But we are not going to write an article on Irish pipers, or to sketch their general characteristics—we have no such presumption as to attempt any thing of the kind, which we feel would be altogether abortive, and which we are sure will be so perfectly done for us by our own Carleton. We only desire to present a few traits in the character of an individual of the species; and these after all are more relating to the man than the musician. We are anxious, moreover, to let our English, Continental, American, and Indian readers understand that all our pipers are not like “Tim Callaghan” with his three tunes, of whom a sketch has been given by a fair and ingenious contributor in our last number. Tim with his three party tunes may do very well for the comfortable farmers in the rich lands of the baronies of Forth and Bargie—Lord! what sort of ears have they?—but he would not be “the man,” nor the piper either, “for Galway!” Paddy can play not three tunes, but three thousand: in fact, we have often wished his skill more circumscribed, or his memory less retentive, particularly when, instead of firing away with some lively reel, or still more animated Irish jig, he has pestered us, in spite of our nationality, with a set of quadrilles or a galloppe, such as he is called on to play by the ladies and gentlemen at the balls in Galway. But what a monstrosity—to dance quadrilles in Galway! Dance indeed: no, but a drowsy walk, and a look as if they were going to their grandmothers’ funerals. Fair Galwegians, for assuredly you are fair, put aside this sickly affectation of refinement, which is equally inconsistent with your natural excitability, and with the healthy atmospheric influences by which you are surrounded. Be yourselves, and let your limbs play freely, and your spirits rise into joyousness to the animating strains of the Irish jig, the reel, and the country dance; so it was with your fathers, and so it should be with you.
But we are wandering, perhaps, from our subject, forgetful of our friend Paddy, of whose character, not as a piper but as a man we have yet to speak; and a more interesting character in his way we have rarely met with—a man deprived by fate of eyesight, yet by the light of his mind tracking his journey through life in one continued stream of sunshine, beloved by many, and respected by all whose respect is worth possessing. We had heard enough of his possession of the qualities which had procured him this respect, independently of his musical renown, before we had met with him, to make us desire his acquaintance; and on a visit with some friends to Galway last year, we made an endeavour for two or three days to get him to our hotel for an evening, but in vain. He was from home on his professional avocations, and could not be found, till, on taking our way towards Connemara, we encountered a blind man coming along the road, who we at once concluded must be the Galway piper; and we were right. It was Paddy Coneely himself, who had returned home for a change of clothes, and was on his way back to Galway to spend the evening with a party of gentlemen by whom he was engaged to play during the Regatta. We could not, however, conveniently return with him, and so we determined very wisely to carry him off with us; and this we were easily able to do by first making a seizure of his pipes, after which we soon had him, a quiet though for a while a repining captive. “Oh! murdher, what will Mr K—— and the gentlemen think of me at all at all?” exclaimed Paddy. “Never mind, Paddy,” we replied, “they can hear you often, but we may never have another opportunity of doing so; so come along, and depend upon it you will be as happy with us as with the gentlemen at the Regatta;” and so we trust he was. In a few minutes after, we had Paddy crooning old Irish songs for us, and pointing out all the objects of any interest or beauty on either side of the road, and this with a correctness and accuracy which perfectly astounded us. “Is not that a beautiful view of Lough Corrib there now, Sir? That’s St Oran’s Well, Sir, at the other side of the road we are now passing. Is not that a very purty place of Mr Burke’s?” and so on with every feature on either side to the end of our day’s journey at Oughterard.
We kept Paddy with us for a fortnight, when we brought him safely back to Galway; and during that time, as well as since, we had frequent opportunities of observing his accurate knowledge of topographical objects, and his modes of acquiring it. Ask any questions respecting an old church or castle in his hearing, and ten to one he will give a more correct description of its locality, and a more accurate account of its size, height, and general features, than any one else. Speak of a mountain, and he will break out with some such remark as this—“I discovered a beautiful spring well on the top of that mountain, Sir, that no one before ever heard of.” His knowledge of atmospheric appearances and influences is equally if not still more remarkable. He can always tell with the nicest accuracy the point from which the wind blows, and predict with a degree of certainty we never saw excelled, the probable steadiness of the weather, or any approaching change likely to take place in it. He is a perfect barometer in this way, for his conclusions are chiefly drawn from a delicate perception of the state of the atmospheric air imperceptible to others, and are rarely erroneous. On a fine sunny morning when the lakes are smooth, the mountains clear, and the sky without a cloud, we remark to him that it is a fine morning. “It is, Sir, a beautiful morning.” “And we are sure of having a fine day, Paddy,” we continue. “Indeed I fear not, Sir; the wind is coming round to the south-east, and the air is thickening. We’ll have heavy rain in some hours,” or “before long.” Again, on a rainy morning, when everything around looks hopelessly dreary, and we feel ourselves booked for a day in our inn, we observe to him, “There’s no chance of this day taking up, Paddy.” But Paddy knows better, and he cheers us up with the answer, “Oh, this will be a fine day, Sir, by and bye. The wind is getting a point to the north, the clouds are rising, and the air is getting drier. We’ll have a fine day soon.”
The power thus exhibited of acquiring such accurate knowledge of localities, and of atmospheric appearances and influences, without the aid of sight, affords a striking example of the capabilities beneficently vested in us, of supplying the want created by the accidental loss of one organ, by an increase of activity and acuteness in some other, or others. These capabilities are equally observable in the lower animals as in man; but their degree is very various in individuals of both species, being dependent on the delicacy of organization and amount of intellectuality which the individual may happen to possess. Thus the power to supply the want of vision by the exercise of other organs, is not given to every blind man in any thing like the degree enjoyed by the Galway piper, who is a creature of the most delicate nervous organization, and a man of a high degree of intellectuality. Paddy is a genuine inductive philosopher, never indolent or idle, always in quest of knowledge either by inquiry or experimental observation, and drawing his own conclusions accordingly. To observe his processes in this way is not only amusing but instructive, and has often afforded us a high enjoyment. When Paddy comes to a place with which he has no previous acquaintance, he commences his topographical researches with as little delay as possible, first about the exterior of the house, which he examines all round, measuring with his stick its length and breadth, and calculates its height; ascertains the situation of its doors and the number of its windows, and makes himself acquainted with the peculiarities of their form and material: he next proceeds to the out-offices, which he surveys in a similar manner, feeling even any stray cart, car, or wheel-barrow, which may be lying in the courtyard or barn, and determining whether they are well made or not. If a cow or horse come in his way, he will subject them to a similar examination, and, if asked, pronounce accurately on their points, condition, and value. Having satisfied himself with an examination of all these nearer objects, if time permit he then extends his researches to those more distant—as the roads, ascertaining their breadth, &c.; the neighbouring bridges, streams, rivers, and even mountains; the nature of the soil too, and state of the crops, are attended to. While we were sojourning at the hotel at Maam last year, we found him one sunny morning standing on the very brink of a deep river, about a quarter of a mile distant, and examining the construction of the arch of a bridge which crossed it. How he had got there we could not possibly imagine, for there was no other mode of reaching it than by a descent from the road of a bank nearly perpendicular, and eighteen or twenty feet in height. But our friend Paddy made light of it, and remarked that there was not the slightest danger of him in such explorings.
On another occasion, being about to visit the island castle on Lough Corrib, called Caislean-na-Circe, Paddy expressed to us his desire to accompany us, as he said he never had an opportunity of seeing it. We took him with us accordingly; and there was not a spot on the rocky island that with the aid of his stick he did not examine, or a crumbling wall that he did not scale, even to places that we should have supposed only accessible to jackdaws. “Dear me, Sir,” he exclaimed on our return, “but that’s a mighty curious castle, and must be very ancient. I never saw walls in a castle so thick before, and how beautiful and smooth the arches were! I think they were a kind of grit-stone?” This was added inquiringly; and so they were—red sandstone chiselled.
But we are dwelling too long on these characteristics, forgetting that we have others to notice of greater interest; and of these perhaps the most eminent is his habitual, and, as we might say, constitutional benevolence. Of this trait in his character we heard many interesting instances, but our space will only allow us to notice one or two which we artfully extracted from himself. Having heard of his kindnesses to some of his neighbours who are poorer than himself, we had determined to make himself speak on the matter; and, accordingly, when passing through the village in which he resides, about two miles and a half from Galway, we remarked to him that some of those neighbours seemed very poor. “Indeed they are, Sir, very,” he replied; “they have been very badly off this year in consequence of the wet, the want of firing, and the dearness of potatoes.” “And how,” I rejoined, “have they contrived to keep body and soul together?” “Why, Sir, just by the assistance of those a little better off than themselves.” Paddy would not name himself as their benefactor, so we had to ask him if he had been able to give them any aid, and then his ingenuousness obliged him to confess that he had: he had lent thirty shillings to one family to buy seed for their bit of ground, ten shillings to another to buy meal, and so on. “And will they ever pay you, Paddy?” we inquired. “Och! the creatures, they will, to be sure, Sir,” Paddy replied in a tone expressive of surprise at the imputation on their honesty; but added in a lower voice, “if they can; and if they can’t, Sir, why, please God, I’ll get over it; sure one couldn’t see the creatures starve!” This was last year. In the present summer we had heard that Paddy’s turf was all stolen from him shortly after—perhaps by some of the very persons whom he had assisted—and we were curious to ascertain how he took his loss. So we inquired, “How were you off, Paddy, for firing last winter?” “Very badly, Sir. I had no turf of my own, and was obliged to buy turf in Galway at four shillings the kish. It would have been cheaper to buy coal, only I don’t like a grate, for the children burn themselves at it.” “And how did it happen that you had no turf of your own?” “Because, Sir, it was all stolen from me, after I had paid two pounds for cutting and drying it.” “Did you ever,” I inquired, “discover who were the robbers?” “Oh, yes, Sir,” he replied. “And could you prove the theft against them?” “I could, to be sure.” “Did you prosecute them?” “Tut, tut, Sir, what good would that do me?” and Paddy added, in a tone of pity, “the creatures! sure they were poor rogues, or they would not have taken every bit away.” “Well, then, Paddy,” I inquired, “did you ever speak to them about it?” “I did, Sir.” “And what answer or apology did they make?” “They said, Sir, that they wouldn’t have touched it if they knew it was mine.” “Did they ever return any of it?” Paddy replied with a laugh, “Oh, no!”
Reader, are you richer in a worldly sense than Paddy Coneely? And if, as it is probable, you are so, let us ask you, do you just now feel an unusual warmth in your cheeks? If so, you need not be greatly ashamed of it, for believe us, there are many nobles in our land who might well feel a similar sensation on reading these anecdotes of the benevolence of Paddy Coneely.
Paddy, like all or most genuine Irishmen, has a dash of quiet Irish humour and much excitability in his character, of which we must venture to give an instance or two.
On a certain day, while Paddy was stopping at Mr O’Flaherty’s of Knock-ban, the coachman, who was blind of one eye, was airing two horses, one of which was similarly wanting in a visual organ, and the other stone blind. A gentleman present remarking that here were four animals, two men and two horses, that had but two eyes among them, proposed a race, to which Paddy and the coachman assented. Paddy was placed upon the horse which could see a little, and the coachman got up on the blind one. Off they started with whip and spur, and to his great delight, Paddy won. This is one of the feats of which Paddy is most proud.
Again—We were standing in the kitchen at Maam one day, listening to Paddy telling his stories to a happy group of young people, when he was addressed by a middle-aged woman, who, from her imperfect knowledge of English, misunderstood him, and imagined that he was paying court to a blooming girl, and representing himself as an unmarried man. To his great surprise, therefore, Paddy heard himself attacked with terrific vituperation, in whole Irish and broken English, on the heinousness of his conduct. Before, however, she had got to the end of her oration, Paddy’s face had assumed an expression which announced that he was determined to lend himself to her mistake, and carry on the joke. Accordingly, when he was allowed to reply, he rated her in turn upon her silly stupidity in supposing that she knew him—denied having ever seen her before—declared that he was not Paddy Coneely at all, and never had heard of or seen such a person; and added, that “it was a shame for a woman with her two eyes to be so foolish.” The woman looked at him for a while in mute bewilderment, and actually seemed to doubt the evidences of her own senses. But she gradually became satisfied of his identity, and, excited into a virtuous rage, she rushed out of the house, declaring that she would never stop till she told his wife—poor woman—of his misconduct! And she kept her word, for we actually met her at Oughterard in a couple of days after, on her return from Paddy’s residence.
We would gladly record some other instances of Paddy’s humour, but our limits will not permit us; and we can only add a few words on one or two other traits in his character.
We have already stated that Paddy, despite of his humble condition, and that loss of sight which would be deemed by most persons as one of the greatest of human calamities, is a happy man—a happier one we never saw. He is always singing—in sunny weather, sprightly airs, and in gloomy weather, pathetic ones; but he never looks or is sad, except when a tale of sorrow excites his pity, or when he is about to separate from friends. The calamity of want of sight he thinks of little moment, and inferior to the loss of any other organ—that of hearing, in particular, which he considers as the greatest of all possible bodily afflictions. “I don’t remember,” said Paddy, “ever wishing for sight but once in my life; ’twas when I went to a horse race. I went with two friends, and somehow we got parted in the throng, and I could not make them out. There was a great deal of bustle and confusion, and I knew that the race would soon begin; and I was a long way from the starting-post, and had not any one to lead me to it. Dear, dear, said I, if I had my sight now, I might be able to hear the horses starting. Just then I heard some one calling Paddy, Paddy! It was one of my friends looking for me; and I think I never seen men so distressed when they found they had lost me. It was mighty pleasant; they never let me go all day after, and we were just in time to hear the horses start.”
We are, indeed, reluctantly constrained to confess that Paddy, notwithstanding his humanity, is, like many other benevolent men of higher grade, who are equally blind in this respect, an ardent lover of field sports, as an instance will show. We were seated at our breakfast in the hotel at Maam one morning, when our ears were assailed by a strange din, composed of the barking of dogs and the shouting of men. We started to the oriel window which commands a view of the road beyond the bridge for a mile or more, and the reader may judge of our astonishment when we saw Paddy Coneely hand in hand with Paddy Lee, one of our car-drivers from Clifden, racing at their utmost speed—Paddy throwing his heels twice as high in the air as the other—both shouting joyously, and attended by a number of greyhounds and terriers, who barked in chorus—and so they raced till they were out of sight. “What in the world,” we inquired of our host, Rourke, “is the meaning of that?” “It’s Paddy and Lee, Sir, who have borrowed my dogs, and are gone off to course!”
But we must pull up in our own course, and not run Paddy down. Let us however add, for he is a favourite with us, that Paddy is a temperate as he is a prudent man. We came to this conclusion, from the healthiness of his appearance and the equanimity of his manner, in five minutes after we first saw him. “You don’t drink hard, Paddy,” we remarked to him. “No, Sir,” he replied; “I did once, but I found it was destroying my health, and that if I continued to do so, I would soon leave my family after me to beg; so I left it off three years ago, and I have never tasted raw spirits since, or taken more than a tumbler, or, on an odd occasion, a tumbler and a half of punch, in an evening since.”
We only desire to add to this slight sketch, that Paddy appears to be in tolerably comfortable circumstances—he farms a bit of ground, and his cottage is neat and cleanly kept for one in his rank in Galway. He has a great love of approbation, a high opinion of his musical talents, and a strong feeling of decent pride. He will only play for the gentry or the comfortable farmers. He will not lower the dignity of his professional character by playing in a tap-room or for the commonalty—except on rare occasions, when he will do it gratuitously, and for the sole pleasure of making them happy. We have ourselves been spectators on some of these occasions, and may probably give a sketch of them in a future number.
P.