Talbot and Gaynor: The Irish Pipers

Thanks to Rory O. of Chicago for sending this in!

"Talbot and Gaynor: The Irish Pipers"

by William Carleton

 

Those who minister to amusement are every where popular characters, and fully as much so in Ireland as in other countries. Here, amongst the people at large, no sort of person is more kindly regarded than the wandering fiddler or piper, two classes of artists who may be said to have the whole business of keeping Paddy in good humour upon their shoulders. The piper is especially a favourite in the primitive provinces of Munster and Connaught. In Leinster they are not so common, and in the North may be described as rare, though I am not sure but that, for this very reason, they are as welcome in Ulster as in the other provinces, their notes producing an impression which is agreeable in proportion to its novelty.

Of course it is but natural that there should exist a striking resemblance between the respective habits and modes of life that characterize the fiddler and the piper; and of the latter, as well as the former, it may be observed, that, although most of his associations are drawn from the habits of the people, in contradistinction to those of the higher classes, yet it is unquestionably true that he is strongly imbued with the lingering remains of that old feudal spirit which has now nearly departed from the country. Even although generally neglected by the gentry, and almost utterly overlooked by the nobility, yet it is a melancholy but beautiful trait of "the old feeling" which prompts him always to speak of them with respect and deference.. He will admit, indeed, that there is a degeneration; that ''the good ould stock is gone" and that "the big house is not what it used to be, whin the square's father would bring him into the parlour before all the quality, an' make him play his two favourite tunes of the Fox-Hunther's Jig and the Hair in the Corn. Instead of that, the sorra ha'porth now will sarve them but a kind of musical coffin, that they call a piana thirty, or forty, or something that way, that to hear it 'ud make a dog sthrike his father, if he didn't behave himself."

This is the utmost length to which he carries his censure, and even this is uttered "more in sorrow than in anger" On the contrary, nothing can be more amusing than the simple and complacent pride with which he informs his hearers that "as he passed the big house, the young square brought him in—an' it's himself that knows what the good ould smack of the pipes is, an' more betoken, So he ought—an' kind father for him to do so—it's the ould square himself that had the true Irish relish for them. I played him all his father's favourites, both in the light way and in the sorrowful. Whin I was done, he slipped five shillings into my hand. 'Take this,' sis he, 'for the sake o' thim that's gone, an' of the ould times.' He spoke low an' in a hurry, as if his heart was in what he said; an' somehow I felt a tear on my cheek at the time; for it is a sorrowful thing to think how the blessed ould airs of our counthry—the only ones that go to the heart—are now so little known and thought of, that a fashionable lady of the present day would feel ashamed to acknowledge them, or play them in company. Farcer gair! it's a bad sign of the times, any how—may God mend them!"

The Irish piper, from the necessary monotony of his life, is generally a man of much simplicity of character—not, however, without a cast of humour, which is at once single-minded and shrewd. His little jealousies and heart-burnings—and he has his share—form the serious evil of his life; but it is remarkable that scarcely in a single instance are these indulged in at the expense of the agreeable fiddler, who is by no means looked upon as a rival. Not so his brother piper; for, in truth, the nigh and doughty spirit of competition by which they are animated, never passes out of their own class, but burns with heroic rage amongst themselves. The lengths to which this spirit has been frequently carried, are ludicrous almost beyond belief. The moment a piper's reputation is established on his beat, that moment commences his misery. Those from the neighbouring beats assail him by challenges, that contain any thing but principles of harmony. Sometimes, it is true, they are cunning enough to come disguised to hear him; and if they imagine that a trial of skill is not likely to redound to their credit, they slink off without allowing any one, unless some particular confidant, to become cognisant of their secret.

These comical contests were, about forty or fifty years ago, much more frequent than they have been of late. In the good old times, however, when the farmers of Ireland brewed their own beer, and had whiskey for a shilling a quart, the challenges, defeats, escapes, and pursuits, which took place between persons of this class, were rich in dramatic effect, and afforded great amusement to both the gentry and the people. I remember hearing the history of a chase, in which a piper named Sullivan pursued a rival for eighteen months through the whole province of Munster before he caught him, and all in order to ascertain, by a trial of skill, whether his antagonist was more entitled to have the epithet "great" prefixed to his name than he himself. It appears that the friends and admirers of the former were in the habit of calling him "the Great Piper Reillaghan," a circumstance which so completely roused the aspiring soul of his opponent, that he declared he would never rest, night or day, until he stripped him of the epithet "great" and transferred it to his own name. He was beaten however and that by a manoeuvre of an extraordinary kind. Reillaghan offered to play against him while drunk—Sullivan to remain sober.

Sullivan, thrown off his guard, and anxious under any circumstance to be able to boast of a victory over such an antagonist, agreed, and was consequently overcome; the truth being, that his opponent, like Carolan, when composing on the harp, was never able properly to distinguish himself as a performer unless when under the inspiration of whiskey.

Sullivan, not at all aware of the trick that the other had played upon him, of course took it for granted that, as he had stood no chance with Reillaghan when drunk, he must have a still less one in his sobriety; and the consequence was, that the next morning it was found he had taken leave in the course of the night.

There was, some years ago, playing in the taverns of Dublin, a blind piper named Talbot, whose performance was singularly powerful and beautiful. This man, though blind from his infancy, possessed mechanical genius of a higher order, and surprisingly delicate and exact manipulation, not merely as a musician but as a mechanic. He used to perform in Ladly's tavern in Capel-street, where he arrived every night about eight o'clock, and played till twelve, or, as the case might be one. He was very social, and, when drawn out, possessed much genuine Irish humour, and rich conversational powers. Sometimes, at a late period of the night, he was prevailed upon to attach himself to a particular party of pleasant fellows who remained after the house was closed, to enjoy themselves at full swing. Then it was that Talbot shone, not merely as a companion but as a performer. The change in his style and manner of playing was extraordinary: the spirit, the power, humour, and pathos which he infused into his execution, were observed by every one; and when asked to account for so remarkable a change, his reply was, "My Irish heart is warmed; I'm not now playing for money, but to please myself."

"But could you not play as well during the evening, Talbot, if you wished, as you do now?"

 "No, if you were to hang me. My heart must get warmed, and Irish—I must be as I am this minute"

This, indeed, was very significant, and strongly indicative of the same genius which distinguished Neil Gow, Carolan, and other eminent musicians.

Talbot, though blind, used to employ his leisure hours in tuning and stringing organs and pianos, and mending almost every description of musical instrument that could be named. His own pipes, which he called the "grand pipes," were at least eight feet long; and for beauty of appearance, richness and delicacy of workmanship, surpassed any thing of the kind that could be witnessed; and when considered as the production of his own hands, were indeed entitled to be ranked as an extraordinary natural curiosity. Talbot played before George IV., and appeared at most of the London theatres, where his performances were received with the most enthusiastic applause. In person, Talbot was a large portly-looking man, red faced, and good-looking, though strongly marked by traces of the small-pox. He always wore a blue coat, fully made, with gilt buttons, and had altogether the look of what we call in Ireland a well-dressed badagh, or half-sir, which means a kind of gentleman-farmer.

His pipes, indeed, were a very wonderful instrument, or rather combination of instruments, being so complicated that no one could play upon them but himself. The tones which he brought out of them might be imagined to proceed from almost every instrument in an orchestra—now resembling the sweetest and most attenuated notes of the finest Cremona viohn, and again the deep and solemn diapason of the organ. Like every Irish performer of talent that we have met with, he always preferred the rich old songs and airs of Ireland to every other description of music; and when lit up into the enthusiasm of his profession and his love of country, he has often deplored, with tears in his sightless eyee, the inroads which modern fashion had made, and was making, upon the good old spirit of the by-gone times. Nearly the last words I ever heard from his lips were highly touching, and characteristic of the man as well as the musician: "If we forget our own old music," said he, "what is there to remember in its place?"—words alas I which are equally fraught with melancholy and truth.

The man, however, who ought to sit as the true type and representative of the Irish piper, is he whose whole life is passed among the peasantry, with the exception of an occasional elevation to the lord's hall or the squire's parlour—who is equally conversant with the Irish and English languages—has neither wife nor child, house nor home, but circulates from one village or farm-house to another, carrying mirth, amusement, and a warm welcome with him, wherever he goes, and filling the hearts of the young with happiness and delight. The true Irish piper must wear a frieze coat, corduroy breeches, grey woollen stockings, smoke tobacco, drink whiskey, and take snuff; for it is absolutely necessary, from his peculiar position among the people, that he should be a walking encyclopaedia of Irish social usages. And so he generally is; for to the practice and cultivation of these the simple tenor of his inoffensive life is devoted.

The most .perfect specimen of this class we ever were acquainted with, was a blind man known by the name of "Piper Gaynor." His beat extended through the county of Louth, and occasionally through those of Meath and Monaghan. Gaynor was precisely such a man as I have just described, both as to dress, a knowledge of English and Irish, and a thorough feeling of all those mellow old tints, which an incipient change in the spirit of Irish society threatened even then to obliterate. I have said he was blind, but, unlike Talbot's, his face was smooth; and his pale placid features, while playing on his pipes, were absolutely radiant with enthusiasm and genius. He was a widower, and had won one of the fairest and most modest girls in the rich agricultural county of Louth, in spite of the competition and rivalry of many wealthy and independent suitors. But no wonder; for who could hear his magic performances without at once surrendering the whole heart and feelings to the almost preternatural influence of thia miraculous enchanter? Talbot?—no, no!—after hearing Gaynor, the very remembrance of the music which proceeded from the "grand pipes" was absolutely indifferent. And yet the pipes on which he played were the meanest in appearance you could imagine, and in point of size the smallest I ever saw. It is singular, however, but no less true, that we can scarcely name a celebrated Irish piper whose pipes were not known to be small, old-looking, greasy, and markeo by the stains and dinges which indicate an indulgence in the habits of convivial life.

Many a distinguished piper have we heard, but never at all any whom we could thmk for a moment of comparing with Gaynor. Unlike Talbot, it mattered not when or where he played; his ravishing notes were still the same, for he possessed the power of utterly abstracting his whole spirit into his music, and any body who looked upon his pale and intellectual countenance, could perceive the shadows and lights of the Irish heart flit over it, with a change and rapidity which nothing but the soul of genius could command.

Gaynor, though comparatively unknown to any kind of fame but a local one, was yet not unknown to himself. In truth, though modest, humble, and unassuming in his manners, he possessed the true pride of genius. For instance, though willing to play in a respectable farmer's house for the amusement of the family, he never could be prevailed on to play nt a common dance ; and his reasons, which I have often heard him urge, were such as exhibit the spirit and intellect of the man. "My music," said he, "isn't for the feet or the floor, but for the ear an' the heart; you'll get plinty of foot pipers but I'm none of thim"

I will now give a brief sketch of the last evening I ever spent in his society; and as some of his observations bore slightly upon Scotch music, they may probably be perused with the more interest by Caledonian readers.

He was seated when I entered at the spacious hearth of a wealthy farmer in the neighbourhood, surrounded by large chests, clean settles, and an ample dresser, whose well-scoured pewter reflected the dancing blaze of a huge turf fire. The ruddy farmer and his comely wife were placed opposite him, their family of sons and daughters in a wide circle at a due distance, whilst behind, on the settles, were the servant men and maids, with several of the neighbours, young and old, some sitting on chairs, and others leaning against the dresser, the tables, and the meal-chests. Within the chimney-brace depended large sides and flitches of fat bacon, and dark smoke dried junks of hung beef, presenting altogether that agreeable manifestation of abundance which gives such a cheerful sense of solid comfort to the interior of a substantial farmer's house.

When I made my appearance in the kitchen, he was putting a tobacco-pipe into his mouth, but held it back for a moment, and exclaimed, "I ought to know that foot!'' after which he extended his hand, and asked me by name how I did. He then eat a while in silence—for such was his habit—and having "sucked his dooden" as they say, he began to blow his bellows, and played Scots wha hae. When he had finished it, "Well," I observed, "what a fine piece of martial music that is!"

"No, no,''he replied, shaking his head, "there's more tears than blood in it. It's too sorrowful for war: play it as you will, it's not the thing to rise the heart but to sink it.''

"But what do you think, Gaynor, of the Scotch music ic general?"

"Would you have me to spake ill of my own?" he replied with a smile; "sure they had it fromuz."

"Well, even so; they've not made a bad use of it."

"God knows they haven't," he replied; "the Scotch airs —many o' them—is the very breath of the heart itself.'' 

Even then I was much struck with the force of this expression; but I was too young fully to perceive either its truth or beauty. The conversation then became general, and he addressed himself with great naivete to the youngsters, who began to banter him on the subject of a second wife.

"How can dark men choose a wife, Mr. Gaynor?"

"God, avourneen, makes up in one sense what they want in another. 'Tis the ear, 'tis the ear," continued he with apparent emotion; "that's what will never desave you. It did not desave me, an' it never will desave any body—no, indeed!"

"Why, how do you prove that, Ned?'

"It isn't the song," continued Ned; "no, nor the laugh; for I knewn them that could sing like angels, and, to all appearance, were merry enough too, an' God forgive them, there was little but bittherness in them after all; but it's the every-day voice, aisy and natural; if there's sweetness in that, you may depind there's music in the heart it comes from; so that, as I said, childre, it's the ear that judges."

This coming from a man who had not his sight, was, indeed, very characteristic; and we certainly believe that the observation contains a great deal of moral truth—at least Shakspeare was certainly of the same opinion.

"Now, childre," said he, "hadn't we betther have a dance, and afther that I'll play all your favourites. So now, trim your heels for a dance. What's the world good for, if we don't take it aisy?"

After playing the old bard's exquisite air, the youngsters, myself among the rest, joined in the dance. The punch being then introduced, a happy night was spent in chat, music, ricli old legends and traditions, principally furnished by Gaynor himself; who, in addition to his many social and amusing qualities, possessed in a high degree the free and fluent powers peculiar to the old Irish senachie.

Such is a very feeble and imperfect sketch of the Irish piper, a character whom his countrymen love and respect, and in every instance treat with the kindness and cordiality due to a relation. Indeed, the musicians of Ireland are as harmless and inoffensive a class of persons as ever existed, and there can be no greater proof of this than the very striking fact, that, in the criminal statistics of the country, the name of an Irish piper or fiddler, &c., has scarcely, if ever, been known to appear.