Hudy IV

Chapter IV - Pull divil pull

Was it a Frenchman or who, said - "Give me leave to direct the spirit of the lyrics and the ballads of a nation, and I will permit those who please to seize the reins of government." 'Twas an original and bold thought, but fallacious - and our own country is a melancholy proof. Oft has our brave and patient people sung with the ever-elastic spirit of nationality:

Ireland, Ireland, foolish vain Ireland,
Under proud England how long will you stand,

with other equally patriotic and soul-stirring catches; yet notwithstanding the thousand-and-one songs, all directed to the attainment of our independence, are we not till this day the unfortunate, degraded and subjugated

Land of misrule, and half-hanging, and crime,

that is, crime and injustice committed on, not by, the people. Every improvement monopolised, every source of emolument dried up, every subject of praise or gratulation transferred to other hands - all credit, all fame, withheld from Irishmen, unless base enough to repudiate their country! What singular ideas of fair play - but to the proof: the Gymnosophists of India are lauded to the skies; the Gymnasium of the Greeks held up as an object of our veneration - and why? - because they were neither Irishmen nor Irish institutions. The Gymnosophist lived naked for thirty seven years. Bah! Hudy McGuigan has nearly doubled that period of similar probation, and ungrateful ill-judging England has never noticed him, or ranked him among their pet philosophers. The athletæ have been honored with surpassing honor - and for what? - for possessing those qualities, physical and moral, that existed in the Quarterclift in a supereminent degree - and devil an athletæ that ever led or crossed a horse could guide one, leap over or on one, or tame a wild one, with Hudy McGuigan - and what has been his reward? - cold neglect! And why? - purely because he was Irish - no other conceivable reason.

The athletæ were famed for their running, leaping, throwing the quoit, wrestling and boxing; and in which of these events did not our hero excel, and far excel anything recorded of the ancients - and let it be remembered that his extraordinary powers were drawn forth and cherished under appalling disadvantages - he had no stimulant save his own towering ambition and indomitable energies to urge him on to deeds of glory. An enlightened nation had rendered excelling in the games of the Gynasium a mark of the highest honor. Hudy exercised alone - had no expectation of reward - he could never dream of civic crown encircling his brow. The athletæ had all Greece for their spectators, and knew that proud distinction waited on the steps of merit. Hudy never drank in the luxury of well-earned praise, save at a cock-fight, or a horse-race, or any other occasional stramash, when his superhuman powers elicited wild cheers of approbation from the astonished multitude. Yet notwithstanding these depressing circumstances he not only excelled all The Grecian Clifts, but (such was the power of his genius) happened to strike upon their very manner and habits - both they and he exhibited in "flesh-coloured tights", or in his own simple phraseology "the dress that nature sent into the world wid them". But, murmuring apart ...

As his powers of both body and mind continued to develop themselves, his anxiously fond parents were sedulous and unremitting in their attention to his general improvement. In the evening amusements of the peasantry - in that joyous and delightful hour

When all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree,

his father would have fearlessly matched him in the athletic exercises against any boy even years his senior, and he always enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing his son come off victorious. In running, his agility exceeded all belief - in wrestling, the suppleness of his joints, his elasticity, strength and firmness of muscle proved what little chance an ordinary competitor could have with one so admirably formed to excel. In leaping, casting the stone, or hurling the bar, he was equally superior; and in boxing! - naboclish! - had many a poor fellow's ribs and skull been endued with the power of speech, they would have told that they would as lief have encountered a salute from the ancient Cestus as a smack from the gloved fist of Hudy McGuigan.

Is it any wonder that such a son was the object of a mother's tenderest affections - the pride of a father's manly heart? Yes, that father, in his sad musings on the past and his bright visions of the future, deemed that his son was destined to redeem the glory, if not the fortunes, of his fallen house; and yet (how strange is the fickleness and perversity of the human heart) that very father could have wished that his son Atty, his own pet, had been the favoured one, the Joseph of his family - but fate had evidently decreed otherwise, and his humbled affection was forced through a sense of justice to admit that the mother's early predilection was well founded. Jack Roe Phaidrig McGuigan was generous as well as just; therefore with a strong Christian feeling he nobly discarded every unworthy bias, and kindly and energetically continued to cultivate those surprising powers so lavishly bestowed on our hero. With the labours of the field, therefore, did he make him early acquainted - and so docile and tractable was he that at the age of thirteen there wasn't a man in the country "barrin'" his father, his great instructor, could plough, shear, thrash, or handle a spade with him.

In his character, however, there was one defect - but 'twas an aberration of genius: his movements seemed to justify the opinion of "Sir Boyle Balderdash" with regard to his bird, he possessed (almost) the power of ubiquity, for he was scarcely missed out of one spot till he was found doing the marvellous, as well as the agreeable, in another. Happy was it for the age that his mind was not given to vice, but that

Even his failings leaned to virtue's side.

Had it been otherwise, his ingenuity, his agility, his courage, his dare-devil disposition, had out-shepparded Jack Sheppard; and the fabled monstrosities of the Bravo of Venice had been surpassed by the sad realities which the vast capabilities of Hudy McGuigan could have enabled him to perpetrate.

Happily, we repeat, his mind was properly constituted, and his father lost no opportunity of improving it, while his mother nobly seconded her husband's views. - "Women polish and improve society." Who shall deny it? To the mothers of Sparta are owing the proud deeds of her warriors, as well as the sublime virtues that adorn the character of her sons. This will be admitted. Nor is it a solitary case of female influence over the destinies of man. Thousands might be adduced, but three will suffice: the mother of George Washington, the mother of Napoleon, and the matchless mother of Hudy McGuigan!! To these admirable women (we say it without entering into a detail of their respective and peculiar virtues) is owing the unparalleled fame of their sons.

"Bad luck to me, Jack Roe McGuigan," said his amiable wife at the close of a tender colloquy with her husband, "but I would rather see Hudy going to the Ould Screen Church wid his feet foremost some morning widout his breakfast, nor to think there was wan man in the county he couldn't bate at any exercise."

"Divil a many could touch him as it is, Jenny acushla, and when he grows up there'll be no standing afore him, ye see becase why, he's almost too many for his brother Atty that's three years oulder nor him, the more he's not near so strong."

"Bad scran to me Jack, but it's a shame for ye - you have still the laning for Atty, but Naboclish, by my sowl I'll make Hudy try him to the bottom before he sleeps this blissed night," said Mrs McGuigan, a little raised.

And as she was one that religiously observed her word, she took especial care when the family circle assembled that evening to have the kitchen (which also conveniently served for hall, parlour, drawing-room, &c. &c.) properly cleared, for a contest that was to decide the long-disputed point of superiority between the two brothers. But scorning to take the advantage of her favourite's admitted excellence in agility and address, she decided that all the strength as well as the skill of the parties should be brought into play; therefore the game was to be "Pull divil pull", or, as known to many, "Sweer ****" - though the latter word has never found its way into "Bell's Life", being untranslatable without the aid of the Ballinascreen Lexicon.

However, a stout stick was provided, the combatants placed upon the floor upon their posteriors, close to and facing each other: their feet, in firm contact, served as a fulcrum or prop, while the stick, vigorously grasped by both, was the lever by which each struggling party endeavoured to raise his antagonist from the ground, and thereby gain the victory.

The challenge had become public, many were the spectators. The anxious and excited parents, each standing at the chosen champion's back, were the judges as well as the seconds (it is not recorded who were bottle-holders) upon the occasion.

But to work they went; and for some minutes each held his seat as if glued to the floor - the struggle was desperate - Hudy was known to be the weaker, but what he wanted in strength was supplied by energy and skill. At every contortion of his body or swell of his lusty muscles, his mother's heart beat as only a mother's can; Jack Roe was more composed, but at last Atty's shoulders made an upward move, and down, as if instinctively, went his father's hand with a heavy pressure, and his favourite kept his seat.

"Foul! Foul!!" roared Mrs McGuigan, "if you do that again, Jack Roe, bad luck to me but I'll brain you wid..." (it wasn't her fan, good reader, but an instrument quite as effective) "the tongs, you ill-nathured Fear ar mire géarintleachtach". [subtle sly cunning madman]

And her eyes flashed that brilliant supernatural fire which so often afterwards illumined the orbs of her heroic son. Jack Roe, conscious of guilt, quailed beneath the indignant rebuke of his wife, promised fair play, soothed the lady's rising mood; and the game proceeded amid the cheers of the spectators.

"Now Hudy, your sowl! twist the big bouchan!!" exclaimed the mother, with a smart slap upon her pet's back.

"Sit steady, Atty, and pull low, d'ye mind, for Hudy's as teugh as a gad," [as tough as a bundle of twisted rods] cried the anxious father.

And, thus excited, the combatants in dead silence redoubled their energies. Every nerve was strained, every stratagem brought into play, without apparent advantage on either side: at last, a desperate tug from Atty, and Hudy's balance was lost. The father clapped his hands - the mother screamed in dismay - but just in the critical moment a scientific touch of our hero's toe "turned the scale of the deadly game", and both came down on their sides, without victory declaring for either.

Has the reader ever felt the overwhelming joy of seeing his best prospects unexpectedly rescued from the very jaws of ruin? Has a darling child been snatched from a deadly distemper? - if so, he may form an opinion of the intensely pleasurable sensations of Mrs McGuigan when she saw that the honour of her son remained unstained throughout the desperate struggle - she could not restrain her feelings, so in all the frenzy of delight she exclaimed with a brandished arm and a loud snap of her fingers, "Capityal, ma bouchal bawn - augh by my sowl Jack Roe, there's the blood of the Lalors and O'Mores for you!".

Jack Roe, throughout, was not so desperate a partisan as his wife, - though his heart's affection clung around Atty, yet was he proud of Hudy's powers, particularly as his favourite was not dishonoured in the contest - but an unusual gloom clouded his manly brow - his pride was stung, he felt that the glory given by his wife to the blood of her forefathers was, to say the least, an implied slur upon that of the McGuigans - he was a grave peaceful man, but he could be roused, and when roused

The lion in his den, the Douglas in his hall

was not more terrible in his wrath, and that the whole country knew. On this occasion however the only sign of passion he exhibited was a rather tight compressure of the lip, accompanied by a rush of blood to the face; but he calmly replied to his wife's biting allusion:

"Faix then Jenny, myself thinks that the blood of the McGuigans isn't the worst dhrap that runs in the chap's veins."

"Baugh, Jack Roe! Merry come up! Bad luck to me, but my father could have whapped as many of you as would stand between this and the Cross of Ballinascreen - divil a man ivir set foot on the Curragh of Kildare would venthur to wag a stick at him."

"Well by my soul Jenny, since I must say it, it's well seen I nivir was there, for divil a man ivir stood in shoe leather that I wouldn't venthur to wag one at."

"Aye, if your blood was up, Jack Roe; but it's not aisy rising it."

"By my sowl mother, and it's as hard to lay," generously interposed the Clift, "so hould your wheesht now, will ye, and let Atty and me join the work again."

So, all parties agreeing to the proposition, the struggle recommenced. With the short breathing time, the gallant opponents had recovered their exhausted vigour, and a stern determination that met every eye rendered the renewed contest intensely interesting. Every sinew in the brawny young frames of the combatants was stretched to its utmost tension. The rapid and varied contortions of the body - the set teeth - the stretched nostrils - the glaring eyeballs - the thick, low, husky, broken breathings, like the snortings of an oppressed but generous steed - noted the fury of the conflict; and so exciting and absorbing was the scene that the beholders, not less than the high-spirited seconds, fairly lost their own identity, and found themselves, in fancy, rather actors than spectators.

Oh! if the good old tastes would revive! - if the good old times would return, might we not still have strong hopes for our country? - were such scenes, such real animating contests, exhibited on our stages instead of the silly nonsensical mechanical attempts at scenic display which, unfortunately, now prevail, the legitimate drama would return, Shakespeare would resume his reign, and men's hearts and minds would improve in heroic virtue from the frequent contemplation of such noble spirit-stirring examples. A swell of patriotic feeling has caused this digression: we must repress these - what shall we call them? Reader, whatever name you please to bestow.

But we left our combatants in the very heat of action - their spectators in the acme of nervous expectation. Hudy was certainly the favorite: all hearts were with him. It matters not why, but the father still clung to Atty, actuated by a feeling of pity for the despised, a strong natural affection, and a lofy sense of justice. Atty however was evidently flagging, while the unexhausted breath and the wiry sinews of his brother seemed improving by exertion. Our hero saw, and pressed his advantage - one long, steady Herculean pull -

"Whew! Atty! by the powers of Moll Kelly up you go, if there wuz no more men in Ireland!"

And upwards did his shoulders slowly move - the father's heart was agonised: his strong hands unconsciously pressed his favorite on his seat again.

"Foul, father! foul!" exclaimed Hudy in a plaintive tone as, disheartened by the unfair interference, he lost his own balance.

Wild sparkling rage inflamed the mother's eyes -
She bursts the bands of fear and madly cries

"Thonomon dioul! Jack Roe McGuigan! Bad luck attend you, you unnathral brute!"

With a nervous jerk, she flung her cap in her husband's face; then with an active bound, in the nick of time, with fiery eye and streamimg hair, sprang upon Hudy's shoulders, by which additional weight he regained his position without loss of honour.

Jack Roe McGuigan, we repeat, loved justice: he blushed to think that his affection had twice on this eventful evening led him into the violation of that sacred principle; but with a proudly stern heart he instantly resolved, at whatever sacrifice of feeling, that fair play, and no favour, should reign throughout the remainder of the contest. He also felt that he owed an apology to his younger son, and with that magnanimity inseparable from great minds, determined on making the "amende honorable".

"Well upon my sowl, Hudy acushla, you did not get fair play, and I'm sorry for it, ma bouchal; but bad luck to me, and that's an oath sworn, but you'll get the heighth of justice now, and if you can bate him, bate him an' welcome, and you'll have my love and blissing, as well and as strong as Atty, and divil a bit the less, do you mind!"

Hudy was satisfied - the mother's feelings were soothed - she knew and respected her husband's good qualities; and, softened to compunction, was grieved for the epithets applied to him in the heat of passion. In her excitement of better feelings, she threw her arms around his neck, while the tears of affection rolled over her once rosy cheeks, and sobbed out

"There now Jack mavourneen, that's jist like yourself, and divil a man in the parish has as kind a heart, or as strong a hand afther all, and you'll forgive my bad tongue, acushla."

"In thrath and I will, Jenny, widout grumble or grudge; and I'm sure that if you did say the hot word, you were well provoked to it; though faith to tell the honest truth, I did not intend it."

"Well, avourneen, let the boys thry their strength again, and divil a pair in the barony of their years could hould a candle to them anyhow!"

So to it again they went, but it was all up with Atty - nature in him was worn out, and he wanted that buoyancy, that elasticity of spirit, which afterwards bore his brother through many a mad scene. So though Atty died game, Hudy was declared the victor, amidst the loud cheers of the spectators, and the tears of silent joy that best bespeak the feelings of a mother's heart on the proud success of the darling of her affections.

This page was last updated 7 Nov 2018