THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.
| Number 14. | SATURDAY, OCTOBER 3, 1840. | Volume I. |
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.”