TRADITIONS AND ANECDOTES OF THE BAGPIPES
THERE is at Rome a sculpture, in basso relievo, representing a piper playing on an instrument resembling the Highland bagpipe. The Greeks, unwilling as they were to surrender to others the merit of useful inventions, acknowledged that to the Barbarians - i. e., the Celts - they owed much of their music, and many of its instruments. The Romans, who no doubt borrowed the bagpipe from the Greeks, used it as a martial instrument among their infantry. It is represented on several coins, marbles, etc.; but, from rudeness of execution, or decay of the materials, it is difficult to ascertain its exact form. On the reverse of a coin of the Emperor Nero, who thought himself an admirable performer on it, and who publicly displayed his abilities, the bagpipe is represented. An ancient figure, supposed to be playing on it, has been represented and particularly described by Signor Maeari, of Cortona, and it is engraved in Walker's History of the Irish Bards; but it does not, in my opinion, appear to be a piper. A small bronze figure, found at Richborough, in Kent, and conjectured to have been an ornament of house furniture, is not much more distinct. Mr. King, who has engraved three views of it, and others believe it to represent a bagpiper, to which it has certainly more resemblance than to a person drinking out of a leathern bottle, writes a correspondent in 1877 to Frank Leslie's Popular Monthly.
The bagpipe, of a rude and discordant construction, is in use throughout the East; and that it continues the popular instrument of the Italian peasant is well known. In Italy it is the medium through which the good Catholics show their devotion to the Virgin Mother, who received their adoration in the lengthened strains of the sonorous Piva. It is a singular but faithful tradition of the Church that the shepherds who first saw the infant Jesus in the barn expressed their gladness by playing on their bagpipes. That this is probable and natural will not be denied; but the illuminator of a Dutch missal, in the library of Kings College, Old Aberdeen, surely indulged his fancy when he represented one of the appearing angels likewise playing a salute on this curious instrument. The Italian shepherds religiously adhere to the laudable practice of their ancestors; and in visiting Rome and other places to celebrate the advent of our Saviour, they carry the pipes along with them, and their favorite tune is “The Sicilian Mariners,” often sung in Protestant churches.
It is the popular opinion that the Virgin Mary is very fond of and is an excellent judge of music. I received this information on Christmas morning, when I was looking at two Calabrian pipers, doing their utmost to please her and the infant in her arms. They played for a full hour to one of their images, which stands at the corner of a street. All the other statues of the Virgin which are placed in the streets are serenaded in the same manner every Christmas morning. On my inquiring into the meaning of that ceremony, I was told the above-mentioned circumstance of her character, which, though you have always thought highly probable, perhaps you never before knew for certain. My informer was a pilgrim, who stood listening with great devotion to the pipers. He told me, at the same time, that the Virgin’s taste was too refined to have much satisfaction in the performance of these poor Calabrians, which was chiefly intended for the infant; and he desired me to remark, that the tunes were plain, simple, and such as might naturally be supposed agreeable to the ear of a child of his time of life.
How many anecdotes might be given of the effects of this instrument on the hardy sons of Caledonia! In the war in India, a piper in Lord McLeod's regiment, seeing the British army giving Way before superior numbers, played, in his best style, the well-known “Cogadh Ma Sith” (War or Peace), which filled the Highlanders with such spirit that, immediately rallying, they went through their enemies. For this fortunate circumstance, Sir Eyre Coote, filled with admiration, and appreciating the value of such music, presented the regiment with fifty pounds to buy a stand of pipes. At the battle of Quebec, in 1760, the troops were retreating in disorder, and the general complained to a held-officer in Fraser's regiment of the bad conduct of his corps. “Sir,” said the officer, with a degree of warmth, “you did very wrong in forbidding the pipers to play; nothing inspirits the Highlanders so much; even now they would be of some use.” “Let them blow, in God’s name, then!” said the general; and the order was given, the pipers with alacrity sounded the Cruinneachadh (Gathering), on which the Gaels formed in the rear, and bravely returned to the charge.
George Clark, now piper to the Highland Society of London, was piper to the Seventy-first regiment at the battle of Vimeira, where he was wounded in the leg by a musket ball as he boldly advanced. Finding himself disabled, he sat down on the ground, and putting his pipes in order, called out, “Weel, lads, I am sorry I can gae nae farther wi' yon, but deil hae my saul if ye shall want music,” and struck up a favorite warlike air, with the utmost unconcern for anything but the unspeakable delight of sending his comrades to battle with the animating sound of the pibroch.
It is a popular tradition that the enemy anxiously level at the pipers, aware of the power of their music; and a story is related of one who, at the battle of Waterloo, received a shot in the bag before he had time to make a fair beginning, which so roused his Highland blood that, dashing his pipes on the ground, he drew his broadsword, and wreaked his vengeance on his foes with the fury of a lion, until his career was stopped by death from numerous wounds. It is related of the pipe-major of the Ninety-second on the same occasion, that, placing himself on an eminence where the shot was flying like hail, regardless of his danger, he proudly sounded the battle-air to animate his noble companions. On one occasion during the Peninsular War, the same regiment came suddenly on the French army, and the intimation of their approach was as suddenly given by the pipers bursting out their “gathering.’, The effect was instantaneous; the enemy fled, and the Highlanders pursued.
ON THE PRESENT DAY CONDITION OF IRISH MUSIC BROUGHT ABOUT BY THE RECENT IRISH REVIVAL
By M. Flanagan, Dublin, June 1912
In any weighty undertaking, it behooves the promoters to compare their losses with their gains; to review what has been done and what left undone; also to ascertain whether anything that has been done had been better left undone -- in other words, the directors of the concern must, from time to time, “take stock,” pushing their inquiries into every department of the trade. Some twenty years ago there was a mighty ferment of Irish sentiment, bringing in its train a desire to promote or resuscitate everything distinctively Irish - language, music, amusements, customs, etc. The time seems opportune now to “take stock” of Irish music.
According to a distinguished authority, speaking at the Rotunda, Dublin, exactly two years ago, Irish harp playing is lost - utterly, irretrievably lost; therefore, the only distinctively Irish instrument remaining is the bagpipe.
In `the year 1897 a few patriotic spirits, including Dr. Annie Patterson, organized a Musical Festival (Feis Ceoil), and the first celebration took place at Ballsbridge. There, Irish bagpipe playing occupied an honorable place; the pipe competition became a feature at each succeeding annual function, but the palmy days of bagpipe playing at the Feis Ceoil are apparently past; there were only four competitors at the last Feis. Other considerations apart, it is entirely to the honor of the Feis Ceoil Association that they have hitherto kept out the “Irish War Pipe.” For the benefit of the uninitiated it may he well to state what is meant by the “Brian Boru” or “Irish War Pipe.”
About the year 1889, certain officers of the British army, having a predilection for Irish music, determined to make an effort to introduce the bagpipes as a “marching” instrument into their own corps. In this course, the gentlemen concerned had doubtless before their minds the example of the Scottish Highland regiments. At any rate, they interviewed the late Mr. John Hingston. T. C. D., at that time the leading authority on matters pertaining to the pipes. As a consequence, an inferior imitation of the great Highland pipe was introduced into the Leinster Regiment (Old Royal Canadian); also into the Old Eighty-ninth. The inferiority of this instrument consists in the fact that it has only one tenor drone, which is in a great measure overpowered by the bass drone, a distinctively Scottish adjunct to the old Irish war pipe. The advanced Gaels of the period perceived the suitability of the new instrument for marching purposes: it was in a way distinct from the Highland pipe; it was more easily blown, and it was cheaper; and thus the prototype of the “Brian Boru war pipe” is to he found in the “obnoxious British army.”
The distinction of popularizing this “Saxon’, instrument among Gaelic Leagues belongs to Mr. John S. Wayland, of Cork, who adopted it in the year 1898. That the “Brian Boru war pipe” is essentially the same as the Scotch pipe appears from the fact that a Scotchman, when available, determines the relative merits of competing bands of “Brian Born war pipers.” The situation altogether has its due proportion of humor.
In 1910, Mr. Edward Martyn, a patriotic, wealthy Irish gentleman, purchased a fifty-pound cup, to be competed for by bands of Irish war pipers. Mr. Martyn has very strong views as to Irishmen who enlist in the “British army”; he has even gone so far as to say that such men deserve to be flogged. His fellow members in the Kildare Street Club resented this pronouncement to the extent of voting him out of the club, and Mr. Martyn very pluckily fought a successful legal battle for the recovery of his rights. Very good. Mr. Martyn donates a cup for the encouragement of Irish music. Mr. Rose, of Pitlochrie. N. B.. is the judge of the contest. The winning pipers have five sets of Scotch pipes over their shoulders, and the drummer is a soldier discharged from the “hated Saxon army.,’ According to Mr. Wayland, of Cork, there are at this moment twenty-four bands of war pipes in this island, and five pipers on an average being allowed to each band; we have a total of six score sets of Scotch pipes introduced into Ireland since the year 1898. On the other side, it will be said that of late years there has developed a fine liberal, international spirit. “One in name and in fame are the sea-divided Gaels; what is Irish is Scotch and what is Scotch is Irish” Very true, but it would be nearer the mark to say that what is Irish is Scotch and what is Scotch is Scotch. Have six score sets of Irish pipes been introduced into Scotland since 1898? Have six sets? If Herculean efforts are not made to stern the Scottish invasion, within twenty years an orator may stand up at the Rotunda and assure his hearers that the Irish bagpipe is lost, ”utterly, irretrievably lost.” The Irish bagpipe, blown by means of bellows, and having a chanter which may be closed on the thigh, is an instrument unrivalled for playing the dance music of Ireland, and (in the hands of a capable performer) also unrivalled for playing old Irish airs. The few, very few, now living who heard the late Canon Goodman play a bagpipe obligato, to his own singing in Irish, will admit the force of this statement. But it takes years of hard practice to make a proficient a player; much easier is it to don the kilt, and, with a repertoire of half a dozen tunes, to march as one of a band at the head of an admiring crowd.
In the summer of 1887, it was the good fortune of the writer to spend two hours with a genuine Irish piper, Martin Kenneavy, and the venue was Gibneys public house, Knockmaroon Hill, Phoenix Park. Kenneavy traveled in company with a most excellent dancer named Lynch. Where today in Ireland could such a piper and such a dancer be found? Instead we shall have, D. V., at Jones Road on the 30th inst., a competition among twenty bands of pipers playing an inferior make of Scotch pipes, and, as usual, Mr. Rose of Pitlochrie is billed to adjudicate.
It may be well to insert here a few remarks made by Dr. Duncan Fraser, an enthusiastic admirer of the Scotch pipes. This gentleman says that the big or bass drone is no improvement for practising purposes; that he himself falls back in holiday time on the two-drone pipe, because it is easier to play and easier to dance to; that to modernize the instrument would mean its decay; that the great Highland pipe is the proper accompaniment on the battle held, and was never intended as an accompaniment to song. Further, that no one would dispute Murray’s assertion that the bagpipe is unfitted as an accompaniment to the human voice; and the doctor thus winds up: “It is only in the drawing room instrument like the bellows pipe of England and France that you can look for and expect to find in the bagpipe a fitting accompaniment to the human voice.” And the drawing room instrument we are at the present moment endeavoring to annihilate! If Ireland's normal condition were one of warfare, if our climate consisted of perpetual summer, and there were no long, dreary, winter evenings, one could understand the disposition to get rid of the in-door, in favor of the out-door instrument But here we are, as it is hoped, on the threshold of a peaceful adjustment of the difficulty between the two countries. Home Rule here, Home Rule there. The vicissitudes of the seasons will not be much changed, and the fine old Irish bagpipe, the outcome of years of study and elaboration, must go down before the kilt and a hybrid Scotch pipe first used in the British army!
A SATANIC PIPER
A curious tradition prevalent in a little village in Somersetshire, England, respecting the origin of four groups of stones which formed when complete two circles, serves to remind us that Ireland and the Scottish Highlands had no monopoly of legendary tales in which pipers were the leading characters.
Many hundred years ago on a Saturday evening (so the story runs) a newly married couple, with their relatives and friends, met on the spot now covered by those ruins to celebrate their nuptials. Here they feasted and danced right merrily until the bell in the church tower tolled the hour of midnight, when the piper – a pious man - refused to play any longer. This was much against the inclinations of the guests, and so exasperated the bride, who was fond of dancing that she swore an oath that she would not be balked of her enjoyment by a beggarly piper, but would find a substitute if she went to the lower regions to get one.
She had scarcely uttered the words when a venerable old man with a long beard made his appearance, and having listened to their request, proffered his services, which were gladly accepted. The suave old gentleman, who was no other than the arch-fiend himself, took the seat vacated by the godly piper, buckled on his burnished instrument, and commenced playing a slow and solemn air. This wasn’t the music his audience wanted - far from it - and they were by no means timid about telling him so. Accordingly he changed the tune into one more lively and rapid.
The company now began to dance, but soon found themselves whirling round the demon piper so fast and furiously that they were more than anxious to rest. But when they attempted to retire they found to their consternation that they were revolving with increased velocity round their diabolical musician, who had resumed his original shape. Their cries for mercy were unheeded until the first glimmering of day warned the fiend that he must depart.
With such rapidity had they moved that the gay and sportive assembly were now reduced to a ghastly troop of skeletons. “I leave you,” said the fiend, a monument of my power and your wickedness to the end of time.” He then promptly vanished. The villagers on rising in the morning found the meadows strewn with large pieces of stone and the pious piper lying under a hedge, half dead with fright, having been a witness to the whole transaction.
Similar legends are also in existence in various other parts of Britain, particularly in the west of Cornwall.
FAIRY TUNES
In days of old the fairies were ever busy with the musicians, even the most humble.
Mr. Patrick Whelan, of Scarawalsh, County Wexford, who is an Admirable Crichton in his way - tells of a jocular old wood ranger he knew in his school days who had a large stock of popular tunes which he used to jig and play upon a jewsharp he always carried with him. Among them was one he claimed to have received from some supernatural agency. It came about as follows:
In consideration of his services as estate bailiff he enjoyed free of rent a small farm, the dwelling being situated on the brow of a hill overlooking a lonely valley. As he was retiring one fine calm night about eleven o’clock, the mellow tones of a flute were wafted on the summer air through the open window upon his delighted ear. At first he thought his sense of hearing was at fault, but on coining closer to the opening to listen all doubt disappeared, for sure enough there was “music in the glen” and no mistake. What struck him most was, the tune - a line lively Irish jig played in dancing time - was a stranger to him, and he was quite certain he had not heard it anywhere before. The strains were well sustained as he listened in rapt attention intent on memorizing it. But who would be playing a flute so late at night in a lonesome glen so far from any human habitation except his own? Were the fairies holding revel and “dancing on the green,” a not unlikely contingency, for after all was it not in the vicinity of three raths and the giant’s grave, all upon Mrs. Walsh’s farm, just across the big river and opposite his own door? Determined to solve the mystery he stepped out into the open fields and proceeded quietly in the direction from whence the music proceeded. Like the rainbow, the mysterious musician eluded him. Gradually it seemed to the wood ranger the music pervaded the atmosphere indefinitely. Brave as he was, his nerves failed him in this instance, so he concluded there was “no place like home” after all. No sooner had he determined on retracing his steps, and before he had time to turn around, the spirit musician to his consternation had apparently taken up his position right behind him. As the perplexed bailiff advanced on his way homeward the fairy fluter preceded him with unflagging persistence, and playing with seemingly increased vigor, as if to embarrass his progress. The “turn of the night,’ fortunately, brought immediate relief, for on the first clarion crow of the crested cock on the roost, as he approached the house, the music ceased with startling abruptness, and he entered his home almost in a state of collapse.
To his dying day the woodranger vouched for the truth of this story in all its mystifying details, and in corroboration of his claims, pointed to the fact that none of the local musicians knew the tune, neither had “Jemmy” Sinnott, the famous fiddler, ever before heard it, so where else could it have come from if not from the faeries?
THE KING OF OUDE, AN ADMIRER OF IRISH MUSIC
Among the most liberal contributors to the fund raised in 1819 by the Marquis of Hastings and other distinguished Irishmen in India, for the maintenance of the Belfast Harp Society, was the King of Oude, who desired that an Irish harper and piper be sent for to he attached to his court.
At that time Arthur O’Neill was advanced in years, and no other harper who was sufficiently artistic to uphold the credit of the country could be found except O’Neill's pupil, V. Rainey, and he was much needed at home.
A capable piper whose name is not recorded was sent his majesty however. But his reception at Calcutta was so lavishly hospitable, and he took so kindly to arrack, the native liquor, that while playing “O’Carolan's Receipt” on the state barge the king had sent to convey him up the river Hoogly, he fell overboard and was drowned.
THE POOR OLD FIDDLER
One beautiful summer day there was a great festival in the large park at Vienna. This park is called by the people the Prater. It was almost covered by the crowds of people. Among the number was an old musician. He had once been a soldier, but his pension was not enough to live on. He had a good, faithful dog along with him which lay at his feet and held an old hat in his mouth, so that passers-by might cast coins in it for the poor old man.
On the day of the festival which has been mentioned, the dog sat before him, with the old hat. Many people went by and heard the old musician playing, but they didn’t throw much in. He looked sad enough as he saw the multitudes pass in their strength and youth and beauty, but whenever they laughed it was like a dagger to his soul, for he knew on that very evening he would have to go to bed supperless, hungry as he was, and lie on a straw couch in a little garret room. He placed his old violin by his side, and leaned against an old tree. Not far off stood a gentleman in fine clothes who had a kind heart. He listened to the old musician, and when he saw that no one gave him anything, his heart was touched with sympathy. He finally went to the dog, and looking into the hat saw only two little copper coins in it. He then said to the old musician: “My good friend, why don't you play longer ?”
“Oh,” replied the old man, “my dear sir, I cannot; my poor arm is so tired that I cannot hold the bow; beside, I have had no dinner, and have little prospect of supper.”
The kind gentleman gave him a piece of gold, and said:
“I’ll pay you it you will loan me your violin for one hour.”
“Very well; you can do what you will,” said the owner.
The gentleman took the fiddle and bow, and said to the old man:
“Now, my mate, you take the money and I will play. I am quite sure people will give us something.” The strange gentleman began to play, and every note was like a pearl. By and by the people began to drop money into the hat, and it soon became so heavy that he could not hold it any longer.
“Empty your hat, old man.” said the people, “and we will till it again for you.”
He pulled out an old handkerchief and wrapped the money in it, and put it in his violin bag.
The stranger kept on playing, first one tune and then another - even children seemed carried away with rapture. At last he played that splendid song, “God Bless the Emperor Francis!” All hats and caps flew off their heads, for the people loved their emperor. The song finally came to an end. The hour, was ended, and the musician handed back the violin to the old man.
“Thank you”, said he. “May God bless you!” and he disappeared in the crowd.
“Who is he? Who is he ?” said the people. “Where does he come from?”
A certain person sitting in one of the coaches said:
“I know him. It is Alexander Boucher, the distinguished violinist. It is just like him. He saw that old man needed help, and he determined to help him in the best way he could.”
The people then gave three cheers for Boucher, and put more money in the old man's hat. When he went home that evening he was richer than he had ever been before.
MARK TWAIN ON THE ACCORDEON
Mark was, as many other young men are at some period of their lives, anxious to learn music. He tried first one instrument, then another, till finally he settled down to the accordeon. On that soul-stirring article of music he learnt to play that melodious and popular air, “Auld Lang Syne.” For about a week he continued to torture his unwilling hearers, when, being of an ingenious turn of mind, he endeavored to improve upon the original melody by adding some variations of his own. But who has ever seen a real genius succeed yet? Just as Mark had finished his only tune, and wound up with an admirable flourish, the landlady rushed into his room. Said she:
“Do you know any other tune but that, Mr. Twain?” I told her meekly that I did not. “Well, then,” said she, “stick to it just as it is; don’t put any variations in it; because it is rough enough on the boarders the way it is now.”
The upshot was, that its “roughness” was soon made manifest, for half the boarders left, and the other half would have left had not the landlady discharged Mark. Then, like the wandering Jew, Mr. Twain went from house to house. None would undertake to keep him after one nights music; so, at last, in sheer desperation, he went to board at an Italian lady’s - Mrs. Murphy by name. He savs:
“The first time I struck up the variations, a haggard, care-worn, cadaverous old man walked into my room and stood beaming upon me a smile of ineffable happiness. Then he placed his hand upon my head, and looking devoutly aloft.
He said with feeling unction: `God bless you, young man! God bless you! For you have done that for me which is beyond all praise. For years I have suffered from an incurable disease, and knowing my doom was sealed, and that I must die, I have striven with all my power to resign myself to my fate, but in vain - the love of life was too strong within me. But heaven bless you, my benefactor! For since I heard you play that tune and those variations, I do not want to live any longer – I am entirely resigned - I am willing to die - in fact, I am anxious to die.’ And then the old man fell upon my neck and wept a flood of happy tears.
I was surprised at these things, but I could not help giving the old gentleman a parting blast, in the way of some peculiarly lacerating variations, as he went out of the door. They doubled him up like a jack-knife, and the next time he left his bed of pain and suffering, he was all right, in a metallic coffin.” At last Mark gave up his penchant for the accordeon, and from that day gave amateur musicians a wide berth.
PLAYING THE PIANO
The poet of the Breakfast Table gives this vivid description of the manner in which a girl of the period makes ready to play and plays her grand piano: “It was a young woman, with as many white muslin flounces round her as the planet Saturn has rings, that did it. She gave the music-stool a twirl or two and fluffed down on it like a whirl of soapsuds in a hand basin. Then she pushed up her culls as if she was going to light for the champion’s belt. Then she worked her wrists and her hands, to limber ‘em, I suppose, and spread out her fingers till they looked as though they would pretty much cover the key-board, from the growling end to the little squeaky one. Then those two hands of hers made a jump at the keys as if they were a couple of tigers coming down on a flock of black and white sheep, and the piano gave a great howl as though its tail had been trod on. Dead stop - so still you could hear your hair growing. Then another jump, and another howl. As if the piano had two tails and you had trod on both of 'em at once, and a grand clatter and scramble and strings of jumps, up and down, back and forward, one hand over the other, like a stampede of rats and mice more than like anything I call music.”
THE NEW WOMAN
She warbled the soprano with dramatic sensibility
And dallied with the organ when the organist was sick;
She got up for variety a brand-new church society
And spoke with great facility about the new church brick.
She shed great tears of sorrow for the heathen immorality,
And organized a system that would open up their eyes;
In culinary charity she won great popularity
And showed her personality in lecturing on pies.
For real unvarnished culture she betrayed a great propensity;
Her Tuesday talks were famous and her Friday glimmers great;
She grasped at electricity with mental elasticity
And lectured with intensity about the marriage state.
But with the calm assurance of her wonderful capacity,
She wouldn’t wash the dishes, but she’d talk all day on rocks;
And while she dwelt on density or space and its immensity
With such refined audacity, her mother darned the socks!
Spare Moments.
TO A PIANO
Oh, friend whom glad or grave we seek-
Heaven-holding shrine!
I ope thee, touch thee, hear thee speak,
And peace is mine.
No fairy casket full of bliss
Out values thee;
Love only wakened With a kiss
More sweet than thee.
To thee when our full hearts o’erflow
In griefs or joys,
Unspeakable emotions owe
A fitting voice.
Mirth flies to thee, and loveys unrest,
And memory dear,
And sorrow with his tightened breast,
Comes for a tear.
THE WHISTLER
Let fretful souls proclaim him “pest,”
His simple minstrelsy decry;
Yet in his note, though ill-expressed,
Sings some deep-toned melody.
Dreaming his dream, his thoughts afar,
Are not on spoils or treason bent;
His peace no threats of vengeance mar,
He chirps a lay of sweet content.
Hail, warbler! Pipe your wordless song!
Meager its lack of finished art;
His lips are mute who plots to wrong;
No evil passions vex your heart.