Well, the boy adopted this insinivation, an’ they went ambiguously along till they reached the chapel.
‘Do you see that house?’ said St Patrick.
‘I do,’ said the other; ‘it has no chimley on it.’
‘No,’ said the saint; ‘it has not; but in that house, Christ, he that saved you, will be present to-day.’ An’ the boy thin shed tears, when he thought of the goodness of Christ in saving one that was a stranger to him. So they entered the chapel, an’ the first thing the lad was struck with was the beams of the sun that came in through the windy shinin’ beside the altar. Now, he had never seen the like of it in a house before, an’ thinkin’ it was put there for some use or other in the intarior, he threw the wallet, which was like a saddle-bag, across the sunbeams, an’ lo an’ behould you the sunbeams supported them, an’ at the same time a loud sweet voice was heard, sayin’, ‘This is my servant St Kieran, an’ he’s welcome to the house o’ God!’ St Patrick then tuck him an’ instructed him in the various edifications of the larned languages until he became one of the greatest saints that ever Ireland saw, with the exception an’ liquidation of St Patrick himself.”
Such is a faint outline of the style and manner peculiar to the narratives of Tom Grassiey. Indeed, it has frequently surprised not only us, but all who knew him, to think how and where and when he got together such an incredible number of hard and difficult words. Be this as it may, one thing was perfectly clear, that they cost him little trouble and no study in their application. His pride was to speak as learnedly as possible, and of course he imagined that the most successful method of doing this was to use as many sesquipedalian expressions as he could crowd into his language, without any regard whatsoever as to their propriety.
Immediately after the relation of this legend, he passed at once into a different spirit. He and Frank Magaveen marshalled their forces, and in a few minutes two or three dozen young fellows were hotly engaged in the humorous game of “Boxing the Connaughtman.” Boxing the Connaughtman was followed by “the Standing Brogue” and “the Sitting Brogue,” two other sports practised only at wakes. And here we may observe generally, that the amusements resorted to on such occasions are never to be found elsewhere, but are exclusively peculiar to the house of mourning, where they are benevolently introduced for the purpose of alleviating sorrow. Having gone through a few more such sports, Tom took a seat and addressed a neighbouring farmer, named Gordon, as follows:—“Jack Gordon, do you know the history of your own name and its original fluency?”
“Indeed no, Tom, I cannot say I do.”
“Well, boys, if you derogate your noise a little, I’ll tell you the origin of the name of Gordon; it’s a story about ould Oliver Crummle, whose tongue is on the look-out for a drop of wather ever since he went to the lower story.” This legend, however, is too long and interesting to be related here: we are therefore forced to defer it until another opportunity.
SEALS OF IRISH CHIEFS.
By George Petrie, R.H.A., M.R.I.A.