At one time you might see him engaged in leading a Rosary for the repose of the soul of the departed, or singing the Hermit of Killarney, a religious song, to edify the company; and this duty being over, he would commence a series of comic tales and humorous anecdotes, which he narrated with an ease and spirit that the best of us all might envy. The Irish heart passes rapidly from the depths of pathos to the extremes of humour; and as a proof of this, we can assure our readers that we have seen the nearest and most afflicted relatives of the deceased carried away by uncontrollable laughter at the broad, grotesque, and ludicrous force of his narratives. It was here also that he shone in a character of which he was very proud, and for the possession of which he was looked up to with great respect by the people; we mean that of a polemic, or, as it is termed, “an arguer of Scripture,” for when a man in the country parts of Ireland wins local fame as a controversialist, he is seldom mentioned in any other way than as a great arguer of Scripture. To argue scripture well, therefore, means the power of subduing one’s antagonist in a religious contest. Many challenges of this kind passed between Tom and his polemical opponents, in most or all of which he was successful. His memory was infallible, his wit prompt and dexterous, and his humour either broad or sarcastic, as he found it convenient to apply it. In these dialectic displays he spared neither logic nor learning: where an English quotation failed, he threw in one of Irish; and where that was understood, he posed them with a Latin one, closing the quotation by desiring them to give a translation of it; if this too were accomplished, he rattled out the five or six first verses of John in Greek, which some one had taught him; and as this was generally beyond their reading, it usually closed the discussion in his favour. Without doubt he possessed a mind of great natural versatility and power; and as these polemical exercitations were principally conducted in wake-houses, it is almost needless to say that the wake at which they expected him was uniformly a crowded one.
Tom was very punctual in attending fairs and markets, which he did for the purpose of bringing to the neighbouring farmers a correct account of the state of cattle and produce; for such was the honour in which his knowledge and talents were held, that it was expected he should know thoroughly every topic that might happen to be discussed. During the peninsular war he was a perfect oracle, but always maintained that Bonaparte never would prosper, in consequence of his having imprisoned the Pope. He said emphatically, that he could not be shot unless by a consecrated bullet, and that the said bullet would be consecrated by an Irish friar. It was not Bonaparte, he insisted, who was destined to liberate Ireland: that could never be effected until the Mill of Louth should be turned three times with human blood, and that could not happen until a miller with two thumbs on each hand came to be owner of the mill. So it was prophesied by Beal Dearg, or the man with the red mouth, that Ireland would never be free until we first had the Black Militia in our own country, and that no rebellion ever was or could be of any use that did not commence in the Valley of the Black Pig, and move upwards from the tail to the head. These were axioms which he laid down with great and grave authority; but on none of his authentic speculations into futurity did he rely with more implicit confidence than the prophecy he generously ascribed to St Bridget, that George the Fourth would never fill the throne of England.
Tom had a good flexible voice, and used to sing the old Irish songs of our country with singular pathos and effect. He sang Peggy Slevin, the Red-haired Man’s Wife, and Shula Na Guira, with a feeling that early impressed itself upon my heart. Indeed we think that his sweet but artless voice still rings in our ears; and whilst we remember the tears which the enthusiasm of sorrow brought down his cheeks, and the quivering pause in the fine old melody which marked what he felt, we cannot help acknowledging that the memory of these things is mournful, and that the hearts of many, in spite of new systems of education and incarcerating poor-houses, will yearn after the homely but touching traits which marked the harmless Shanahus, and the times in which he lived. Many a tear has he beguiled us of in our youth when we knew not why we shed them. One of these sacred old airs, especially, we could never resist, “the Trougha,” or “the Green Woods of Trough;” and to this day we remember with a true and melancholy recollection that whenever Tom happened to be asked for it, we used to slink over to his side and whisper, “Tom, don’t sing that; it makes me sorrowful;” and Tom, who had great goodness of heart, had consideration for the feelings of the boy, and sang some other. But now all these innocent fireside enjoyments are gone, and we will never more have our hearts made glad by the sprightly mirth and rich good humour of the Shanahus, nor ever again pay the artless tribute of our tears to his old pathetic songs of sorrow, nor feel our hearts softened at the ideal miseries of tale or legend as they proceeded in mournful recitative from his lips. Alas! alas! knowledge may be power, but it is not happiness.
Such is, we fear, an imperfect outline of Tom’s life. It was one of ease and comfort, without a care to disturb him, or a passion that was not calmed by the simple but virtuous integrity of his life. His wishes were few, and innocently and easily gratified. The great delight of his soul was not that he should experience kindness at the hands of others, but that he should communicate to them, in the simple vanity of his heart, that degree of amusement and instruction and knowledge which made them look upon him as a wonderful man, gifted with rare endowments; for in what light was not that man to be looked upon who could trace the old names up to times when they were great, who could climb a genealogical tree to the top branch, who could repeat the Seven Penitential Psalms in Latin, tell all the old Irish tales and legends of the country, and beat Paddy Crudden the methodist horse-jockey, who had the whole Bible by heart, at arguing Scripture? Harmless ambition! humble as it was, and limited in compass, to thee it was all in all; and yet thou wert happy in feeling that it was gratified. This little boon was all thou didst ask of life, and it was kindly granted thee. The last night we ever had the pleasure of being amused by Tom was at a wake in the neighbourhood, for it somehow happened that there was seldom either a wake or a dance within two or three miles of us that we did not attend; and God forgive us, when old Poll Doolin was on her death-bed, the only care that troubled us was an apprehension that she might recover, and thus defraud us of a right merry wake! Upon the occasion we allude to, it being known that Tom Grassiey would be present, of course the house was crowded. And when he did come, and his loud good-humoured voice was heard at the door, heavens! how every young heart bounded with glee and delight!
The first thing he did on entering was to go where the corpse was laid out, and in a loud rapid voice repeat the Deprofundis for the repose of her soul, after which he sat down and smoked a pipe. Oh, well do I remember how the whole house was hushed, for all was expectation and interest as to what he would do or say. At length he spoke—“Is Frank Magaveen there?”
“All’s that left o’ me’s here, Tom.”
“An’ if the sweep-chimly-general had his due, Frank, that wouldn’t be much; and so the longer you can keep him out of that same, the betther for yourself.”
“Folly on Tom! you know there’s none of us all able to spake up to you, say what you will.”
“It’s not so when you’re beside a purty girl, Frank. But sure that’s not surprisin’; you were born wid butther in your mouth, an’ that’s what makes your orations to the fair sect be so soft an’ meltin’, ha, ha, ha! Well, Frank, never mind; there’s worse where you’ll go to: keep your own counsel fast: let’s salt your gums, an’ you’ll do yet. Whisht, boys; I’m goin’ to sing a rann, an’ afther that Frank an’ I will pick a couple o’ dozen out o’ yez ‘to box the Connaughtman.’” Boxing the Connaughtman is a play or diversion peculiar to wakes; it is grotesquely athletic in its character, but full, besides, of comic sentiment and farcical humour.
He then commenced an Irish rann or song, the substance of which was as follows, according to his own translation:—