Hudy V

Chapter V - Clodding wet turf

Thus wisely, yea with the most sedulous and praiseworthy care, did these prudent parents turn the very amusements of their children into the channel of mental and corporeal improvement; and never did the Spartan stripling, we repeat, better second the views of his governors or, with more ready obedience, a more tractable spirit, a more complete adaptation of mind and body, submit to every exercise, every labour, every species of fatigue, than did our hero. We will not affirm that the black broth, so pleasant to those Greeks, would have been palatable to him whose chief if not sole food was good oat cake, and rich sweet milk; but we will say that in the power of enduring want of meat, drink and raiment amid toilsome exercises, and long heavy hunts over mountains and moor after every species of game, divil a Greek or Roman that ever breathed might stand comparison with him.

Is it upon record whether any of these worthies ever learned to cut turf? Certainly, it may be averred, never in an Irish bog; and that was the ground where Hudy McGuigan's powers were to be seen on a magnificent scale. Who will presume that any peasantry in the world can equal Irishmen at that very laborious branch of husbandry? No person in his senses - "Becase why," as our hero once sagely remarked, "the rail stuff's in them, and they're used to it, poor fellows, and practice makes perfect, and gives the thrue knack - do you mind?" But skilled as they all admittedly are, not one in the island had the tact of the Quarterclift; for, a turf spade in his hand, and it was only an amusement for him to throw off three ordinary men's work, whether his "bink" [bank] was underfoot or abreast.

And to what circumstances did he owe this skill and power? To his father's energy, firmness, and foresight. For in that delightful season (shall we call it?) the old gentleman insisted upon his sons' having the ordinary day's work performed in one-half the time devoted by others to the same amount of labour. Not that he wished to exact double duty - no, no, he was too wise, too generous, to be so meanly provident. His enlightened views led to nobler conclusions. His object was that the remainder of the day should be spent in running, leaping, wrestling, fencing, and such other manly exercises as tend to brace the frame and strengthen the constitution.

But the chief amusement of the season was (what is still practised in all bogs) "clodding wet turf", which, in kindness to the ignorant, we will endeavour to explain. When the stated work is over, all who, like the Munster tailor,

Are blue-moulded for want of a bating,

arrange themselves in two parties, select a piece of ground as a fit subject of debate, and then with bullets of soft moss attack each other with all the determination and spirited energy which mark the conduct of our brave soldiers in the field of mortal conflict; and may it not be said that their superior gallantry, skill, and strategy in war are fairly traceable to their early practice in the peat-bog, and on other equally exciting occasions which so easily present themselves to a nation warlike in their very natures - a nation (as the Duke of Sussex declared in one of his speeches) which can have no possible motive for fighting save fun - fun, the bright offspring of good nature and a hale constitution.

Well, our hero was always the general of one of these parties, while his more experienced father frequently commanded the other. On one occasion the fortune of war threw the two worthies into personal conflict; and their respective supporters, as if by previous convention, suspended hostilities and became anxious spectators of the fray. Jack Roe knew that his son was no match for him at close quarters; and Hudy, vacillating between filial respect and love of glory, was unwilling either to soil his father's person or relinquish his hopes of victory. What was to be done? He paused, fairly puzzled. The father read his heart - the critical moment had arrived: his son's fame as a leader was at stake, and at all hazards he resloved to preserve that; he therefore called out -

"Come on - bad luck to you for a bouchan! - pelt away, and bate me if you can - and by my sowl that's what no man ivir did!"

Inspirited by the paternal invitation, our hero collected all his powers, and with a bound and a wild cheer he sung out -

"Whew - by the powers then here goes!" and slap went a soft lump of moss at his father's face; but the cool practised veteran caught the shot in his left hand, and smack! from his right came a salute in return that covered the one side of Hudy's face, and fairly made him reel three paces back.

"Well by my sowl father agrah, that was a tig in airnest; but naboclish, may be you won't get as good as you give."

And whew! dash went another messenger, with redoubled energy, at the old man's countenance, but with the same bad success. Jack Roe was as quick in returning as he was cool in receiving the compliment, and Hudy acknowledged the skill and the strength of his parent's arm by measuring his length and breadth in a moss-hole containing some three feet depth of water. The cheer and the laugh were against him; and one of the opposite party shouted triumphantly - "That'll cool your courage, ma bouchal" but the Clift, calmly shaking his luxuriant ringlets now clotted with mud, philosophically replied -

"Bad luck to you for an omadhon, sure my clothes is not spoiled, and my mother's calf-skin takes no wet!"

But the tender father, all alive to his son's honor, dreading the plunge might be a damper on his spirit, again declared war by calling out to him - "Come on you gomeril! can't ye take your revenge? What would your mother say if she heard you would die saft?"

"Augh by the powers! father dear, if the world keeps to the thruth, them's words she'll nivir hear; so take care of your sconce, here goes for the bright revenge!"

And off flew another; but like its predecessors, a harmless and aimless missile.

"By my sowl then ma bouchal, you'll change your hand before you get that same," said his imperturbable opponent; yet Mentor-like never losing sight of his son's improvement in all becoming exercises, he continued, "But bad luck to you for a stupid omadhon, don't you see that I'm higher nor you, and mightn't you sometimes hinch one undher your arm at me, and thry if by hook or by crook you can bring me down!"

The brilliant mind of the Clift caught at a wink the full value of the instructions so generously vouchsafed. He read the lesson in all its bearings, and laughed internally at the idea of certain success, which now lay plain before him. His mind was fired: bright phantoms of glory floated in proud parade before his imagination. To conquer his father was to bear away the palm from every man in the barony; and with fixed determination to accomplish that great object he went steadily to work. But he must have recourse to stratagem; he must throw the old man off his guard, or never hope to succeed.

Apparently neglecting the valuable advice, he discharged some dozen of shots in the usual way, and with a rapidity equal to that of Perkins's steam-gun; the father however, exhibiting the solemn contempt of an ouran-outang turning aside coconuts flung by a mischievous monkey, with much ease diverted the course of the missiles, and laughed to scorn the energetic attack of his son. But the Clift perceived he was lulling the old gentleman into security, and he watched like a fox for the propitious moment: it came - he made a feint at his father's face - up flew the old man's hand - down came Hudy's with the rapidity of thought - crack! like thunder went his own bare arm off his own bare side, and he haunched into his antagonist's countenance a ball of wet moss that fairly closed up his eyes, and triumphantly terminated the contest.

In a moment the whole bog was in an uproar: the shouts and cheers were tremendous. For forty years Jack Roe McGuigan had been the acknowledged chief, and well had he earned the title, for he had invariably triumphed in many a well-fought field; but "tempora mutantur"! he was no longer cock of the walk; and with a grace that belongs only to lofty spirits he unhesitatingly resigned his honors, and transferred his rank to one who, his heart foretold, would wear them with distinguished dignity.

Our hero, flushed with victory, was carried on the shoulders of his vociferous companions to the fond embraces of his tender mother - his vanquished but exulting father forming the chief figure in the triumphal march. The heroic matron clasped her son to her beating bosom; and never had mother such unquestionable evidence of a son's gallantry - for she well knew the extraordinary powers and tough spirit of the vanquished, and the joy of her heart rose in proportion. With a swelling breast and brimful eye the father surveyed the interesting scene; and when he could first edge in a word he kindly said -

"There he's to you, Jenny avourneen! and upon my sowl he has bate me fairly, and to my heart's content!"

"Well cushla ma chree! that's what no man ivir could say before; and divil another in the seven counties need he fear afther this day's work anyhow!"

It is natural to believe that, amid the gratulation of his friends and his own consciousness of the importance of the victory, our hero should feel somewaht elated; but no triumph could obliterate from his bosom those generous sentiments - that high sense of justice, inherent and hereditary in his nature, and which in after life throughout all his extraordinary splores invariably governed his actions and gained him the unfeigned admiration and esteem of those who had the pleasure of his acquaintance. It was therefore with a lively burst of filial love and a rigid adherence to truth he exclaimed -

"Well by the powers, mother, I did bate him for once, divil a doubt! but bad luck to me if I would flatther him much to let me thry him again! becase, you see, it was himself that larned me - bad scran to my stupid head, I would nivir have found out the way if he hadn't tould me; and afther all, by my sowl it was only by chance I bunged up his eyes for him - I took him aff his guard, do you mind."

Happy were it for the world, did the example of this family of Clifts more generally prevail! Were this absence of all selfishness, this kind forbearance to those of the same blood, duly cultivated, unanimity would be secured, peace and happiness would reign where fierce contentions burn, and society in the mass, as well as in the detail, would chasten down into a state not unworthy of the meek and blessed maxims of Christianity.

This page was last updated 7 Nov 2018