The Wild Goose/Number 2
A Collection of Ocean Waifs.
Queen Cliodhna and the Flower of Erin.
A Tale of our Pagan Ancestors.
By Mushra.
Cap 2.—The Dance.
The bold, manly and lighthearted youth of Ireland are, from time immemorial, celebrated for their love of athletic sports. Probably no game has taken such roots in the heart of our people, or has been so intimately connected with their habits and customs, as that of hurling, or "goaling," as the peasantry call it. The game is eminently calculated to develop the physical and enduring handihood of those engaged in it. Its conceded by all impartial men—natives as well as foreigners—that there is no other national sport known which so fully calls forth the powers of speed, strength, and agility as this truly Irish exercise. Through centuries of oppression the people have clung to their darling pastime, and, though penal enactments of various kinds and other restraints have been from time to time levelled against it, it is still the national sport of peasantry, particularly the south. Talk of the English game of cricket! Why, it is so tame and insipid when compared with the exciting exercise of goaling. At the time of which we write, it was the favorite amusement of peer and peasant; and to excel in goaling was nearly as honourable as to excel in war.
None of the young men of Ireland at that time was so celebrated for his prowess in hurling as Cormac Art, son to the chieftan of Iveragh, in Kerry. Young and ardent, and perfectly developed, he invited in his person the speed of the red deer of his native hills with the strength and boldness of a lion. Often, at the head of his Kerry hurlers, he challenged and overpowered, in many a well-contested goal, the hurlers of the neighbouring districts and lordships, until his name was as well known through the length and breadth of Ireland, as in his own Kingdom of Iveragh. When he was still in his early manhood, he, one holiday, after a goal in his neighborhood, went to see the village boys and girls amusing themselves at the dance. Perhaps it is necessary to state that the goal field is generally also the place where the Sunday patron is held; and hither all the rustic beaux and belles congregate; not on to join in the dance, and to carry on their innocent flirtation, and other amusements. As before stated, Cormac Art moved among the dancers, where, we may be sure, he was heartily welcome. Many a beautiful maiden that day would count it the greatest honor to be led out buy him to dance, and great was the excitement amongst the beauties as to who should be his partner. A little apart from the crown, but seemingly watching the movements of the dancers, stood a young girl of very fascinating appearance. No one knew who she was, or whence she came; nor did she seem to be anxious to make the acquaintance of any person present. Her dress, though not much superior to that of the village maidens, was yet worn with a sort of studied influence,—just so as to attract attention, without violating any of the rules of decorum. Altogether this was an aid to an air of mystery about her, which could not fail to be perceived by the most casual observer. Several of the young men had asked her to dance; but she gracefully refused, although she seemed not to be in any hurry to leave the place. Young Cormac Art also noticed her; and after exchanging a few passing words with some of his acquaintances, male and female, among the dancers, advanced towards her. It was remarked by those who stood near, that her eyes gleamed with unusual brilliancy as he drew near. Accosting her with dignified politeness, which was natural to him, he asked her to be his partner in the dance. She modestly assented, and immediately accompanied him to where the dancers were engaged in their graceful revolutions, to the soul inspiring strains of the harp. At the approach of Cormac Art and his fair partner, the others,—out of deference to him, and also to be then better enabled to witness the dancing of the stranger lady—gave over their own performance and left the stage clear to the youthful couple. The evening was unusually warm and bright, and the sky beautifully serene and cloudless, with the slight exception of a small black cloud that was seen gradually approaching from the east. The lady, when ready for the dance, went over gracefully to the harper, whispered a few words in his ear, and immediately joined her partner. The harper looked surprised and seemed as if trying to recollect some unusual and seldom performed tune. At length he struck up one of the weird and enchanting air which enhanced the soul, and which, are seldom heard, as Irish musicians are unwilling to play them, it being remarked that those who do so seldom live much longer. The lady fixed her fascinating eyes on her partner, and, until its close, never for one single instant withdrew her gaze from him. That dance was long remembered by those who witnessed it. Cormac Art seemed to be spell bound, and moved along mechanically, without paying any attention to tune or music. He looked like a bird electrified by the gaze of a serpent, and seemed to be quite passive in her toils. The small black cloud rapidly drew near, and, as they two crossed hands, a thick whirlwind of dust enveloped dancers, harper and spectators in its stifling fold; and, when it cleared away, Cormac Art and his strange partner were no more to be seen.
(To be continued)
Special Communion.—Forecastle.
13 Nov. 1867.
Samuel Wiggins was this day arraigned before "Judge Lynch" and a discriminating jury, under the following indictment:—"For that, being instigated by the devil, and a love of plunder, he did, on the 12th. Nov., 1867 feloniously and avariciously attempt to steal one stick of tobacco of great value, to wit, of inestimable value, the property of Obediah Taylor.—And that, being instigated and aforesaid, he did, on the 12th day of Nov., 1867 feloniously and voraciously, steal and eat rations of a fellow passenger, to wit, a small black pig; and further, that said pig having resisted, he, said Wiggins, did maliciously and voraciously assault and attack with his fists said small black pig; whereby said small black pig received and offered great bodily pain and injury; to wit, a black eye, and a swelled head, from the effects of which said small black pig yet suffers."
The prisoner's personal appearance would not lend to his acquittal of this or any other charge; and in this instance (especially with regard to "small black pig") he seems to have gone the whole hog.—Obediah Taylor and Ind. Jones graphically proved the attempt to "steal the bacon,"—His Lordship, having received a quid of the weed that Wiggins coveted, asked for evidence as to the prisoner's character.
James Bruiser said he knowed Wiggins for years, having "done a bit" with him in "The Steel," and a bigger ruffin never walked. (Hear, hear from the Judge.) He could prove as he were a sneakin varmint; sometime ago he (Wiggins) bought five allowances of biscuit for some tobacco; he got the biscuit "into him," and wouldn't give no baccer. (Exclamations of disgust from Judge and Jury. He got three days' wine stopped from his mess by this 'ere affair, and got 'em a bad name—he did. Last week he said the pigs a-gettin of some crushed biscuit for dinner; he chased them away from their tub, and devoured all their mess hisself. he tried on this 'ere dodge till at last the pigs couldn't stick it no longer; when he came again, one on 'em , a little black 'un, wouldn't budge; the ruffin never said a word, but drew out and hit the poor pig a smash in the hi, and ever since the hanimal 'as to wear a shade (Sensation in Court.)
The Judge said no further witness was needed. he addressed the jury as follows:—Look here, you jury, you've heard about this 'ere orful crime as this 'ere Samuel Wiggins 'as been a-committin of. If you can let him off, do; but you can't; for I say he's guilty of this 'ere charge; and if anyone 'ere says different, he'll be tried and pumped on. (Hear, hear.) Now, no gammon; hands up for "guilty." (Here was a unanimous show of hands. The Judge himself putting up two very unwashed specimens.) Of course, no one here wants to vote for "not guilty." (Cries of "no, no.")—His Lordship then proceeded to pass sentence. he said:—Samuel Wiggins, have you anythink to say for yourself, you ruffin?—Mr. W. only scowled.—He then said:—"The sentence of this 'ere court is this—that you, S. Wiggins, being convicted of a horrible and aggravated crime, the respectable witnesses 'aving clearly proved you to be a cowardous villain, wot steals baccer and vittals from yer poor mates, which they haint got near enough for theirselves, as is a unpardonable noosance on your part, being a feller of very hugly character: you must first be tarred all over by the gen'lmen of this 'ere court, after that, locked in the closet for three hours, and afterwards scrubbed with a birch or 'air broom." (Immense applause.)
The court forthwith carried the sentence into execution; and we trust that the "birch or 'air brooms" carried away his plundering profanities as well as his coat of tar.
Latest News.
General Telegraph Co. (Unlimited.)
Per Equatorial Line, Valentian 13th. Nov., '67.—A dreadful conflagration broke out amongst McGillicuddy's Reeks last night, supposed to be the work of an incendiary. We understand they are not insured. several tourists have been seen prowling about the locality lately.
Via Cape Cod, Nov. 15th—A raid has been made on the banks of Newfoundland, by the pirate, Davy Jones, whose locker now contains their accumulated wealth. Several special constables started in pursuit.
The Markets.
Salt beef scarce; the supply in market rather too salt and bony.—Mutton made its appearance ths week, but was bought in by agents from foreign markets (aft.)—Pork still high.—Tobacco—no alteration in last week's quotations.—Sugar.—scarce, and much (S)peculation in this article.—Flour.—demand increasing.—Eggs, none in market, except goose lays; we presume that all others are hatched; the supply of fowl air being very plentiful between decks.—Sherry, steady demand for the article, but sales are checked in accordance with the rise; if the vendors act fair to back us (Bacchus) we believe the supply will increase, and a steady demand be continued, which will tend to a considerable rise in spirits.
Later Still.—Nov. 16th.—The Man in the Moon has just died, and the Emperor of the Celestial Empire claims his effects as next of kin.
Answers to Correspondents.
All contributions for insertion in the "Wild Goose" must be sent to our office not later than Wednesday night; and we wish earnestly to impress on our valued correspondents that "brevity is the soul of wit."
T.McF—The subject treated is too profound for a journal like "Wild Goose." We will be happy if you will kindly favour us with any lighter matter.
P.O'R.—held over till next week.
D.B.—You say you have lost your stockings, etc.; Well, you may try on the ship's hose if you like, but we don't advise it.
Amphitrite.—Do you wish to come a-tween-us.
Medicus.—The light of a rope is not considered dangerous. Apply a cabbage leaf to the wound.
Antonio.—St. Paul's is a beautiful rock, of coral formation, near the line. It was discovered by Sir Christopher Wren.
Sinbad.—Polarized light is that used during the long nights by persons who live at the poles. It is produced by the friction of the earth on its axis, and is occasionally visible in those latitudes, where it is called the Aurora Borealis.
Dickey Sam.—Yes, in calm weather, when the ship cannot make any knots, the captain compels the sailors to make some.
Bill Sykes.—The aborigines of Australia said their Convicts to Low island, in the Dangerous Archipelago.
Sea Dog.—The usual food of the "Wild goose" is plum duff, lime juice, soft tart, cigars, sherry, and other luxuries of that sort. Try us.
"They'll come again when south winds blow."
SATURDAY, NOV. 16. 1867.
Self-Reliance.
The public—our public—are just now afflicted with the usual accompaniments of such a voyage as ours—monotony and melancholy—two goblins we earnestly wish to vanquish; and, lest our weekly efforts to cater for the general amusement should prove insufficient to banish them, we suggest to our readers that they should not alone trust to be passively amused by the "Wild Goose," but that each should endeavour to contribute his quota to the public stock,—the surest way to overcome both one and the other. Let us then cheerfully draw on memory and imagination, and invoke that good genius, Self-Reliance, by whom, if once inspired, man never fails in his efforts to attain the Great, the Good, or the Beautiful.
Self-Reliance! What a host of strength is in the mere name! 'Tis but to say "I will," and already the battle is more than half won. Why not, then call it to our aid? and we shall find our imaginations and our souls strengthened and our gray goose quills, as if by magic, imbued with a power both to amuse and to instruct; and once invoked, let us never again lose such an all, so that, growing daily stronger in its strength, we may be enabled to fight life's battles bravely out.
Whether, then, it be for our mutual instruction and amusement on board the good ship "Hougoumont," or the more varied scenes of life in which, through capricious fate or fickle fortune, our lot may be hereafter cast; whether we toil together beneath the burning sun of Australia, or simply scatter, far through the wide, wide world, or back again at the old homes, still be our motto ever—"Self-Reliance—Away with melancholy,—and Never despair"!
"Did we deserve it"?
After lengthened and profound consideration, we have decided to write this article. We would not be worthy of the onerous position we lived were we to remain silent under the circumstances. It is a painful thing to be compelled to publicly correct the faults of even a single individual; and those who perform such a meritorious act are seldom regarded with very kindly feelings by the corrected one;—but how much more painful must it be to find fault—serious unpardonable fault—with everyone—with the public—with the world—but more particularly with our readers. We hope our friendly admonition will have the desired affect and that the change in their conduct may soon be evident. We have been induced—nay, not induce—but forced, compelled, driven,—to write this article by the unaccountable conduct of our readers—not by what they said—no, no, we could pardon that—but by what they did not say. It was a bitter thing, an unkind thing, and , coming unexpectedly as it did, it cut deeply. yes; we acknowledge it. When the truth dawned on the cultivated winds of our enlightened and well meaning staff, it fairly stunned them. Never can we forget the hopeless look of mingled misery and disgust that was painted on the mind-illuminated faces of our colleagues when the thrilling act became patent—that our literary labors were received by the public with cold and damning indifference! For three days did we sit in our office,—unhappy, unnerved, unshaven—each hand desperately clutching our hair, and staring on each other with the wildest glare of editorial frenzy. Innumerable quills we have chewed and thrown aside during those three days—and what is the results? Our office,—desk, floor, bed (for we sleep amidst out furniture) and in a word the whole "bunk,"—is littered with chaotic reams of paper, and on every sheet we pick up, glance at, and cast away again, we can see nothing but this one solitary sentence, written again and again,—"Did we deserve it"? "Oh! shades of departed editors come to our aid! Oh ye spirits of maligned members of the fourth estate, leave not to perish; but enter into our great griefs and guide our pen as we vindicate ourselves and annihilate the Public. Think of the countless pangs which that public inflicted on you when you devoted your varied talents to its instruction and amusement; think of its contempt for you elegant and pretty "leaders," think of its sneers at your learned essays; its wooden-headedness for your unsuitable jokes; and then, ye kindred spirits, when the recollection has roused you to fury, we conjoin you to inspire and direct us that we may prick the ungrateful monster in a sore place. Let us again look over the chaos of paper around us. Here is a heap evidently written on the first day of our despair; page after page we scan, and meet nothing but pathetic interrogative,—"Did we deserve it?" faint and tumultuous looking is the usually bold writing; cowed and dejected it appears, even in the first words of the touching appeal; but it dies away in a heart rending scrawl before it reaches the end. here again some sheets from our second day—the same sentence still, but varied in style; the writing appears something stronger, and the words have lost the cowardly hang-dog air of the previous day; but still they have a pained look as if they were badly treated; there is a mild reproach in every letter that would touch anything with feelings; but alas! alas! the public has none, But say! here’s pile of the third day’s productions. Hah! stronger writing this—decidedly stronger! here is a bold indictment—"Did we deserve it!" just such a one as a stern old schoolmaster would address to a trembling delinquent. here is another and another, stronger and more indignant still. We feel once more the manly glow of independence. We are ourselves again, Bah! We continue—we defy—we pity the public. It may be silent; Ay, or it may talk, if it will. Oh! that it only had talked, and we had heard it! If it had only given us a chance of catching one individual in the act, we would be satisfied; had we someone to annihilate, it would give us peace. But no matter, we can watch and wait. If the public cannot see the beauty of our style—the erudition of our article or the pithe of our jokes—Is that any argument against their intrinsic merit? Certainly not. We know their worth—we see their excellence—we can appreciate their depth and beauty; Therefore it is the public and not we should be in despair.—they are the losers; and altho' we say it, who perhaps should not say it—their loss is very great indeed. For the future we will not allow our dignified composure to be ruffled by their silence or their noise. They may criticise as they will—we cannot; but we swear by this chaotic mass of papers, and the memory of those three days, that if we hear them—we’ll scrunch them.
A Scotch Echo.
A few of the stars of a once celebrated Opera Company were engaged to sing at a concert in an Edinburgh theatre, the manager of which undertook to procure an efficient native chorus to sing the refrain of a well-known, beautiful song, the last line of each were of which was to be repeated by Echo—the chorus behind the scenes. The evening of the concert arrived; and on the assurance given by the manager, as to the efficiency of his choir, it was agreed to dispense with a rehearsal. The song commenced and was being sung to a spell bound audience. The last words "flies away" went thrilling thro' the house, and now came the part of Echo to repeat them softly, when, judge of the consternation of the professionals, and the ludicrous amazement of the audience, when Echo, very musically, and in perfect tune, replied (not repeated) "flees awa"!!!
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The Green.
To seek ye the fairest tint on earth
From nature’s beauteous train;
In the gorgeous east or the snow-clad north,
Or away o’er the southern main;
’Mid the isles that vie with the land of the belast
’Neath their cloudless skies of blue;
Or search ye the pride and the wealth of the west
For the fairest and loveliest hue.
Some boast of the red with its glaring flaunt
And its deep ensanguined dye;
And some of the kindly purple vaunt,
Or the blue of a Grecian sky.
But a tint there is that is far above
The purple or ruby's sheen;—
Of earth are they—but Almighty love
Is clothed in the beautiful green.
At natures birth, when her colors arose,
And her beauties were all arrayed;
The bright warm green was the tint she chose,
And of green was her mantle made.
When she comes with the spring to adorn our globe,
The bountiful Goddess is vain
Of the varying hues of her beauteous robe
As a maid of her silken train.
In summer, with flow’rets bright and wild
She decks out her mantle fair,
With playful grace, as a laughing child
Twines rosebuds through her hair.
In Autumn she rules with her brightest glow,
When the rich, ripe fruits are seen
Where fairest their tempting beauties show—
’Mid their deep dark leaves of green.
But Oh! in the Winter she loves it most,
When her bright gay hues are flown;
When the pride and the beauty of summers are lost
And the fruits of Autumn are gone;
All fled are the joyous smiles of Spring,
Not a wild flower even is seen;
But still round the Goddess for ever doth cling
Her emerald robe of green.
Oh! fairest and best of the colors of earth,
How I love thy genial smile!
The bright warm hue in my heart gives birth
To dreams of my own Green Isle.
To my childhood’s home swift memory runs,
O’er every well-known scene;
Ah! deep in the hearts of her exiled sons
is the love of their beautiful green.
’Tis never extinguished—it never decays—
It came with their earliest breath;
’Tis a light that is holy and pure, whose rays
Are vanquished alone by death.
God grant that the dawn of the morning is nigh
Where o’er Liberty’s ranks will be seen
Their heart cherished sunburst rise gleaming on high
From its glorious filed of green.
Hallow E’en.
Tonight, my friends, with hollow mirth
We sing away our cares;
But ah! there is woeful dearth
Of music in the airs.
A smile t’is true, is on each lip,
A light is in each eye,
As onward speeds our crowded ship,
Beneath a brilliant sky;
A silvery ripple in her wake,
A soft breeze in her sail,
As southward still our course we take
From thee, lov’d Innisfail.
But in each voice there is a thrill,—
A soft, sad thrill of pain,
That tells of memories, that fill
The heart, as back again
On fancies wing, across the foam,
We fly to those who weep,
Breathing angel prayers at home,
For lov’d ones on the deep.
To loving wife, and lisping child—
To maiden idoliz’d—
To mother dear—to sister mild—
To all beloved and priz’d;—
And to our hearts, in mute despair,
Each best lov’d one is pressed,
And lips, and eyes, and brow, and hair,
Once kissed and Caressed.
’Tis Hallow E’en! a year ago.
Our lov’d ones softly smiled
Upon us, and with hearts aglow,
Enraptured, and beguiled,
We listened to their voices sweet,
And laughed, nor thought of care,
Tonight, dear friend, like seabird fleet,
With white sails thro’ the air,
Our vessel bears us far away,
And this her masts the wind,
Like murmuring of those who pray,
Breath love from friends behind.
But still, my friends, we’ll bravely sing,
With hearts that never quail,
As onward bounds our convict ship,
From thee, lov’d Innisfail.
On Thursday we were signalled by a Yankee ship, whose captain wanted to know "where the tarnation the line had got to?" as he couldn’t find it. The irascible Yank hinted that we must have cut it up to make clothes lines, we spread such a lot of bunting. Passengers exasperated at having our captain maligned is such a manner.
Our special correspondent, writes from Fremantle, 11th Nov,’—"A grand reception preparing for the "Wild Goose," by her feathered friend the Swan. Plenty of long pipes, the smaller relations to supply "bird’s eye."
We congratulate the public on the success of the popular evening concerts of the past week; most, if not all, of the songs were beautifully rendered. Amongst others "The Angel’s Whisper," by our "devil." We understand the African opera Troupe will appear next week. We trust these eminent concerts will not attempt a song without knowing the words perfectly, as pausing in the middle of a song to manipulate ones bump of memory rather mars the good effect that would be otherwise produced.
Unreserved Sale.
To be sold by Public Auction, Forecastle Deck, on 20th Nov., 1867.
A few second-hand Paper Collars, the property of a gentleman who has no shirt.
Lost, or Strayed.
A reward will be given by the Editor to any well-disposed person or persons who will give such information as may lead to the recovery of the "Staff" of the "Wild Goose."
If "J.E.K." returns to his home and friends, all will be forgiven.
Wanted, by the Editor, several reams of foolscap, together with a corresponding quantity of Black Ink and Steel Pens, for which goose quills will be given in exchange.
To be disposed of—several fine Heads of Hair, which misfit the present owners.—apply to the Man behind the Mast.
Problem.
Given—Any amount of fresh-water soap and the Atlantic ocean; to find what length of time is required to wash a "Convic" clean.
Notice.
Any person found trespassing on the Editor’s slates, or in his office, will be prosecuted.
Printed and published at the Office, No. 6 Mess, for the Editors Messrs. John Flood and J.B. O'Reilly.
Registered for transmission abroad