ALL SAINTS' EVE;

OR,

A RECOLLECTION OF THE IRISH PEASANTRY.

BY AN AMERICAN IN IRELAND.

Bright and generous as the hearts of those it warmed, was the flame that kindled on the hearth of Murthy Delany's cottage, glowing through a volume of smoke on the merry night of Allhallowmass.

Obstinate in superstitions that countenance their festivities, and afford free scope to their wild theories of fairy agency, the unsophisticated children of old Ireland devote this night, with many others, to the indulgence of revelry and song.

Unshackled by the restraint of "etiquette," their hearts devoted to the hilarity of the passing hour, and reckless of cares that disturb them not at the moment, the Irish peasantry enjoy those mirth-stirring festivals in the full flow of their lively temperament, with all the fervency of soul that native wit, native beauty, and native "potteen," can inspire.

Few, however, regarded the observance of All-hallowmass, or All Saints' Eve, as it is more generally ternied, with such pious attention to its enjoyments, as Murthy Delany himself. Never did he hail the return of that night, but the neighbors experienced the full tide of his hospitable influence, in the form of a plenteous entertainment. With a heart rich in its good nature, warm in its impulses, and blessed above the common lot in his circumstances, Murthy was enabled to indulge its generous promptings. Loved for the frankness of his disposition, the ingenuous warmth that knows not to appreciate the good it engenders, respected for his industry, and happy in the affections of his family, he felt but little intimacy with the many miseries of existence, and held as much influence over his neighbors, as the landlord himself. Murthy's antipathies were confined to the Brunswicker and the Exciseman; those he detested to the utmost of Irish hate : but Daniel O'Connell and "Ould Ireland" divided the throne of his affection with Kate herself. Such was Murthy Delany when our acquaintance first commenced..

*In Scotland and the northern parts of Ireland this festival is celebrated as Hallow Eve. See Burns.

It is some three years since, that a stranger was observed lying, on the road side, with a fractured leg; his horse quietly browsing at some distance from him, outside the village of Aranure, in the ancient "kingdom of Cunnemara."* It was my unfortunate self. My steed, perhaps to rid himself of his ignoble burden, began to curvette and prance and rear and plunge, in such an animated style, that I, not the most expert horseman in the world, was immediately laid prostrate in the above mentioned pitiable condition. Some twenty or thirty persons, who were returning from their day's labor, surrounded me, and with looks of the most charitable commisseration, bore me to the nearest cottage, the inmates of which received me with all the kindness that characterizes Irish hospitality. The Doctor was immediately sent for; he was fortunately at hand, and I soon had the pleasure of learning that my hurt was not of a very dangerous nature. My leg (unfortunate limb) was tortured into sanity; but I found myself unable to venture on my journey, for a few weeks at least. The time, however, passed more pleasantly than I could have imagined; and the individual night saw my invalidship in the midst of a merry group, who were, as usual, assembled at Murthy's (for such was my host) to enjoy the customary observance of All Saints' Eve.

I was in such a situation by the hearth side, that it afforded me a full opportunity of observing those about me.

Beside me was the village school master, who was placed there, as Murthy said, "bekase as how he was the most fitest person to convarse wid the jontleman." He was the Paddy Burnst of the village, and most of its inhabitants had been his "scholards." He was looked up to as an oracle. No wonder, then, if the pride of literature had transferred somewhat of its importance to his countenance. No man could puzzle him in "Vosther," or the "manin collyumns," from "Abel, a man's name," to "transubstantiation." But place him on the hillock's side, without the chapel, on a Sunday, with the last Connaught Journal from Galway in his hand, and the horn-cased spectacles on his nose, both equally venerable, a crowd of village politicians eagerly devouring his interpretations, then, indeed, was my learned neighbor in his element. Some fifty summers had numbered their existence, since he had first undertaken the office of instruction; and many a truant had he since lashed through the vistas of literature. For a long portion of this period had he acted as clerk to the Roman Catholic minister of the parish; and when, during the ceremony of mass, he delivered the latin responses, the astounded villagers recognised in him the

*The western part of Galway, so called.

Schoolmaster. See the popular song of that name.
Voster's Arithmetic.
Spelling Book.

second literary character in the world. His age and infirmities, however, obliged him to relinquish this exalted servitude, and one of his own most eminent pupils succeeded the measther."

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On the opposite side, despising the luxury of a stool, (I occupied the only chair in the house,) was seated on the hearth Murthy's mother, with some other antiquated dames, their knees in such happy communion with their chin, as evidently proved the familiarity of the position. They were inhaling the fragrance of their favorite leaf, through the medium of a "dudeen," or pipe, so short that its tepid head was being kissed by the reverend wrinkles on their aged cheeks. They were watching the feats of cunning and activity, which were being performed by the younger guests of mine host, at the further end of the apartment, which alternately answered the purpose of kitchen and drawing room. Their gossip was in Irish; but from the marked expression on their countenances and their many significant ejaculations, I could ascertain that age was, even on this scene, as on others, acting its peculiar part; scattering contempt on the march of modern degeneracy, and extolling the superior excellence of its own early days.

It were an endless task to relate the variety of tricks performed by both sexes. Some were collected around a tub of cold water. diving for an apple; others were endeavoring, in a variety of forms, by spells, and incantations, to learn who was the fated partner of their future fortunes.

The gossoons" were active in doing mischief. The skirt of one man's coat they nailed to a long form, and then set fire to a heap of straw under his feet. In the effort to escape he left the skirt behind him.

Retired from the vulgar gaze, I could observe the young lover pour the soft pleading of his passion into the ear of his mistress, rich in the glowing expression of his native tongue; while she, smiling modesty, seemed to check with a sweetness that provoked repetition.

The spirit of "potteen" thawed every care from their hearts; and, as it circulated, so did the song. I did not understand the themes of their sweet wild melodies-but they told deeply to the heart.

During the commencement of the evening, my neighbour, the schoolmaster, laid such close siege to my attention, that I could scarcely observe any other, and I was almost worried to death by his political inquiries. At length, however, the spirit of story-telling began to prevail, and this relieved me from his importunity.

Fatigued by exercise, and longing to gratify their passion for the fictitious, all began to collect round the fire, and deep was the at

* Little boys.

tention given to the detail of their country's legends. Many a tale was told, till it at length came to the turn of a tall, gaunt, gray headed old woman to favor the audience with a story. She began, and, as my neighbour afterwards informed me, hers was a tale of horror. At first she spoke in a low, deep, emphatic tone, then in such a strain of pathos, that elicited tears from even the men; her energy, rising with her subject, a keen expression of awe was visible among all. I, myself, as if I understood, watched her with the utmost intensity. Conscious of nothing but the engrossing events of her legend, she rose up-there was very beauty in her actionher voice swelled as she spoke, so earnest in her recital, till it became high and shrill, as she arrived at the crisis of her story. She ended-a murmur of terror succeeded: some crossed themselves, some drew their stools closer to the rest. Their pipes hung idle on the nether lips of the old " crones," and an unbroken silence prevailed for some seconds-when, suddenly, the ponderous fist of mine host came thundering on the table. All leaped upon their feet as if the "Pookah"* himself had come in among them-but to their astonishment succeeded peals of laughter that rung through the roof. Such is the variability of Irish character.

66

Arragh, Kate, ma Cholleen," uttered Murthy, in all the richness of his native brogue, "Divil a dhrop of the crathur is here to dhrive away the fear, that Moll there is after puttin into us. Run a cushla't an bring us a wee wee dhrop more." Kate, Murthy's wife, and a fair sample of Cunnemara loveliness, hastened to obey the mandate of her lord. "I beg your honor's pardon for throwing you into sich a flustrification, (continued he, addressing himself to me, for being in rather a nervous mood, I felt somewhat alarmed,) but thin, your honor, take a small dhrop more o' the stuff, (bad luck saze the gaugers, for a theevin set, if they could I wouldn't have it,) it 'ill make you quite nate intirely, intirely-bether nor all the pois'n the Dochther could be afther givin you."

Mrs. Delany entered, as he spoke, bearing in either hand a jug amply replenished with the insidious beverage, which Murthy so eloquently styled the "crathur."

He filled a large cup which he presented to me. I would be excused, but it was in vain, and to persist in refusing would be to insult my host, for the Irish peasant is a very tyrant in hospitality, so I even took it without a murmur. He filled another for himself and the men followed his example. Then, turning to me, his eyes glistening as he spoke, "By the sowl o' Murthy Delany, but it is

*The "Pookah" is an imaginary monster, supposed to be all powerful on All Saints' Night. It is hardly possible to describe the dread which the Irish peasantry entertain for this, the most terrible being of their popular superstition. + Oh then, Kate, my girl.

A term of endearment. It signifies literally, pulse of my heart.

my own sel' that knows as how your honor is one o' the raal-your face is the thrue blue." "Is it?" said I turning to my neighbor in the utmost surprise, not immediately recognising the intent of Murthy's rather equivocal expression. A laugh at my simplicity followed, but the "measther" never deigned to relax the rigidity of his countenance, while he answered, with all the consequence of a man that understands two languages, "he manes that your visinogominy (the learned autocrat of the village loved to indulge in big words) is one o' the right sort." "Och, my sowl, if it ben't; so axin your pard'n," continued Murthy, "if it isn't offinsive -shoch on diaoul ug a Sassenach." My interpreter whispered, "that manes--the devil to the Brunswickers." In a second, every one raised a cup, brimming with "native," to his lips, and at a single pull the contents were drained. A wild "hurra" echoed through the house, while many and deep were the execrations that followed, heaped upon the heads of their oppressors. The girls sat modestly silent-but smiling their acclamations.

By this time, the multiplicity of their potations seemed to have considerably softened the hearts of the men. Their eyes glowed with love and affection, and uttered volumes to the girls. Hands were shaken with warmth, and professions of friendship expressed; even the "measther" looked less proudly-though I have been told his features never knew the luxury of a smile

It was at this juncture, that Murthy himself was loudly called on for a song." Athin, is it ya song yez id be axin from Murthy Delany, ye gossoons, whin I never didn't sing at all at all; but it is mysel that won't disappont yez, for if I can't sing, faix I can tal a shtory."

"Yerra, Kate, agra," proceeded Murthy, "don't be sham't intirely, kase I'm jist goin to tal them all about it. How I took'd you away from your father's, whin I frecken'd them all, wid that raw-mash of an Omadhaun,† that think'd to marry you; an how you took'd away the forthin wid you, an how we were married, an how-” but it would be impossible to relate the many preliminary "an hows" of Murthy, so we come to the pith and marrow of his story. "Your honor musht know," said he, addressing himself particularly to me, "whin I was a 'gossoon' the divil a wilder sowl was in the village than my own four bones." "Thrue for you," interrupted my neighbour, as perhaps the recollection of Murthy's excesses flashed across his memory. "Thrue for you," said his mother; and "thrue for you," echoed the ancient association around her. "Thrue for me," resumed Murthy, "and divil a one in the village was I afear'd of but the measther there and my mother. So I threwnt my book one fine mornin into the fire, and scamper'd away, I didn't know where wid mysel, to seek my forthin; so thin * Kate, my love. + Great fool.

Flung.