The Folk of Furry Farm

The Romance of an Irish Village

By K. F. Purdon

With an Introduction by George A. Birmingham

G. P. Putnam’s Sons New York and London The Knickerbocker Press 1914

Copyright, 1914 BY G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS The Knickerbocker Press, New York

INTRODUCTION WITH A NOTE ON THE PEOPLE OF THE PLAIN By George A. Birmingham

It is the duty of the writer of an introduction, as I understand his position, to provide what Mr. Bernard Shaw calls “First Aid to Critics.” That is to say, it is my business to explain the position which Miss Purdon holds in modern Irish literature and to say why her work is interesting and in what respects it is good. I do not feel in the least inclined to point out the weaknesses of her writing. For one thing, there are plenty of reviewers in the world who will do that, and apparently take pleasure in doing it. For another, although like all human works this book is imperfect, I have enjoyed reading it and have been too much interested in what I read to be impressed by the faults which must, no doubt, exist. I shall, therefore, provide aid only to the kinder sort of critic, to him who is[vi] sufficiently wise to appreciate Miss Purdon’s work. I shall save him a lot of trouble, for, if he reads this introduction, he will be able to allow himself to enjoy Miss Purdon’s writing without bothering himself about what he is to say in his review. I shall tell him that.

The first point about The Folk of Furry Farm to which I wish to draw attention is that it is written in prose. This may seem to be a commonplace and obvious kind of fact, but in reality it has a certain importance which might very well be overlooked. Miss Purdon belongs to the Irish Literary Movement, and it has, as yet, produced very little prose and less prose fiction. At the beginning the movement was inspired by the hero tales of ancient Ireland and the mysticism in which they are enveloped. These tales came down from the days of paganism, and paganism, as everybody who appreciates the Irish Literary Movement knows, was a wonderful and romantic thing, far superior to the dowdy materialism of Christianity. Also, our literary movement fed a good deal upon fairies. Who could write in ordinary prose about subjects so fascinating as folk-lore and fairies? Mr. Yeats and his followers could not. They wrote mystic and, as time went[vii] on, rather incomprehensible verse. With them were a number of what we may call politically patriotic poets like “Ethna Carbery” and Miss

Milligan. They were easier to understand, but were still a long way from the commonplace things of ordinary life. Then came another band of writers, headed by Mr. Padraic Colm, who gave us splendid poems about ploughers and drovers, but still felt it necessary to drag in Dana and Wotan occasionally. Mr. James Stephens, in his verse, went a step beyond them, for his is the genius which can make the back street beautiful. Poetry can get no nearer to realism than James Stephens and Joseph Campbell.

Meanwhile the Abbey Theatre had been founded and the energies of many young Irish writers were absorbed in composing plays for it. It developed in much the same way as the poetry did. At first the drama was almost as mystic and far-away as the early lyrics. Then came Synge, the greatest of all the Abbey Theatre writers, who put a gorgeous language into the mouths of rather squalid but intensely human peasants. The tendency of his followers had been to emphasise the squalidness but to leave out the poetry and a good deal of the human nature. The lines written by Max Beerbohm about[viii] Mr. Masefield might very well be applied to some of them:

In verse and drama alike the mystic has given way to the materialist, high poetry to realism. But as yet the Irish Literary Revival has produced very little ordinary prose literature and hardly any fiction. Apart from Lady Gregory’s poetic “Kiltartan” prose, the best that has been produced has generally been of a journalistic kind. I do not mean that it has been journalese, but that it has appeared in newspapers and periodicals, and has been concerned primarily with questions of the day. To mention only two examples, no modern work of its kind has been more brilliant than the articles in The Homestead written by “AE.,” while Mr. Arthur Griffith’s editorials for The United Irishman and Sinn Féin are often worthy of comparison with the best that came from the pen of Mitchel. Of a more permanent kind were the critical articles of “John Eglinton,” many of them published originally in the now defunct Dana.

[ix]There have been, of course, a number of Irish novelists and essayists who have made great names for themselves, but they have not drawn their inspiration from the movement which produced the poets. Mr. George Moore has viewed the Irish Literary Revival as a spectator. His original inspiration was not from Ireland. Miss Somerville and Miss Ross are the successors of Lever. No corner of the mantle of Mr. Standish O’Grady has fallen upon them. They would have written just the same if there had been no Gaelic League, no fairies, and no ancient Irish heroes. For Oscar Wilde and Bernard Shaw Ireland can claim just the same sort of credit, and no more, as she can claim for Sheridan and Goldsmith. Standish O’Grady, the father of the whole movement, wove historical romances out of incidents in Irish history. He has had few or no followers.

There are signs now that the literary movement, having worked from the highest to the most materialistic in prose and drama, is going to follow the natural course of development and express itself in prose fiction. Mr. James Stephens, one of the most brilliant of our poets, has deserted verse and taken, quite suddenly, to novel-writing. Already he has earned fame and an assured position.[x] I am inclined to think that he is typical of a wide change of which Miss Purdon is another example. If she had published a book ten or fifteen years ago it would probably have been verse. Happily this is to-day, and she has found a scope for her abilities more suitable to them than poetry.

I hope that Miss Purdon will not resent being called part of a movement. When she has written a few more books and read reviews of them she will become quite accustomed to this particular kind of insult. In reality she holds a position a little apart from other Irish authors. Her distinction is that she has chosen a new part of the country to write about. I do not know exactly where the Furry Farm is, but I am inclined to place it somewhere in the western part of Leinster, in Meath or Kildare, on the great plain which fattens cattle for the market. Other Irish writers, whether they wanted humour, romance, or mysticism, have gone to the maritime counties for their material. Galway, Cork, and Wicklow provide scenes for most of the plays which are acted in the Abbey Theatre. Some poets write about Donegal, others prefer North-East Ulster, and a few brave spirits have ventured into the streets and suburbs of Dublin. But I cannot remember that any plays or poems of[xi] importance have been written about the people of the central plain. They are regarded, for some

reason obscure to me, as unworthy of a place in literature. They have, so one would gather, lost the virtues of Gaeldom without acquiring the sentimental regard for them which rescues Dublin from the reproach of “seoninism.” The accepted view of literary Ireland is that the people of Meath are as uninteresting as the bullocks which they herd.

Miss Purdon comes to us to prove the contrary. A great merit of her work is the fidelity with which she reproduces the dialect of the peasants about whom she writes. I do not know the western Leinster speech myself, but I am certain that Miss Purdon deals with it faithfully. She could not—no single person could—have invented all the phrases and expressions which she has put into the mouths of the characters of her stories. We have in her book the living tongue spoken by a neglected class of Irishmen. I do not say that the people of Meath and Kildare have the magic glamour of Celtic mysticism. I am no judge of such things. I have seldom succeeded in recognising it even in places where I know that it must be. But Miss Purdon’s people have imagination.[xii] How else would they say of a lonely place, “There wasn’t a neighbour within the bawl of an ass of it”? If they had not humour, they would not think of saying, “His pockets would be like sideboards, the way he’d have them stuck out with meat and eggs and so on.” The men who use expressions

like these cannot possibly be stupid, and Miss Purdon makes them very real. They are, as their speech shows, of a type different from that of the peasantry of the Atlantic coast. Perhaps they have no appeal to make to poets; but they must certainly be capable of providing material for many plays and novels. Miss Purdon has discovered a new country, found a fresh subject for the pens of Irish writers.

G. A. B.

The Folk of Furry Farm

The Folk of Furry Farm

CHAPTER I THE FURRY FARM

There isn’t one now at Ardenoo that could tell you rightly about the Heffernans, or when the first of the name had come in upon the Furry Farm. People would remark that they were “the oldest standards about the place, and had been there during secula.” And some said that in the real old ancient times, it was Heffernans that had owned the whole countryside, and had been great high Quality then, until they were turned out of their home, through their being Catholics. Of course such things did occur, but not often. There would not be many willing to be mixed up in such dirty work. And, moreover, those that came in on land in that way, mostly always did it to keep their place warm for whoever had had to quit out.[2] There’s a lot of nature in people, more than they get credit for. That’s how things don’t turn out as bad as you might expect very often. And of course along with all, there’s a great satisfaction in getting the better of the law.

It’s likely some friend of the Heffernans had stood to them in this way, when they had had to leave, and had just held the land for them, till they could slip back upon it again. But they had never said how it was. A queer, silent sort they were ever and always, that would never have much talk out of them about anything that would be going on, let alone about themselves.

But however it came to pass, at the time I am going to tell you about, there was nothing left of what had been once a very great fine kind of a place, only a bit of a ruined house, like, with the remains of a roof made of slabs of bog-oak over part of it, and it all reducing away under the weather.

Whatever it used to be, the Heffernans I knew would just fasten a calf in it, maybe, or put a goose to hatch there the way her mind wouldn’t be riz, it being a very quiet corner. And it was necessary to have every such little business as that going on at the Furry Farm, if you wanted to be able even[3] to pay the rent, let alone live yourself out of the land. For the Heffernans had to pay rent now, as well as another; and for land that was no great shakes, being very poor and thin. The best of it they never got back at all.

Betimes you’d hear it remarked in Ardenoo, how that they and their land were well matched. For if some of their bottom-land was sour, so was the Heffernan temper; and they could be as crabbed and contrary in their ways as the furze that was bristling over their own hills. And in another thing they were like their farm. Whatever treatment they got, that’s what they’d give. If you acted well by a Heffernan, they’d do the same by you; but they’d never pass over a bad turn; and, troth! there’s more than the Heffernans of the opinion that it’s only a fool that forgets! And so by their land. Hungry as it was, it would always return some sort of a crop, in proportion to the way it was tilled and manured. But it and its owners weren’t much to look at; you had to know them well, before you could find out the good there was in them.

In the course of time, there was a Heffernan in the Furry Farm, Michael by name, that was what you might call a chip of the old block. Quiet-going[4] in himself, he was; silent and fond of industering; and a bit near about money, on the top of all. You’ll often see people like that; as if them that worked hard had no time for enjoying what they make; whereas people that are poor and through-other will spend their last penny twice as free as what one like Heffernan would spend his first. And what’s more, they’ll get far better value out of it, too.

But that was just Michael’s way of going on; he’d sooner be putting up money in the old stocking than spending it on an odd spree. And he had every right to please himself. For he had no one else, barring a sister, older than himself, and twice as curious in her ways, and she with a tongue in her head as long as to-day and to-morrow. Many’s the time she let Mickey feel the length and breadth of it, but he had the fashion of never making her an answer, no matter what. It was the best of his play to say nothing. A man scarce ever can get the better of a woman that starts to give him a tongue-thrashing. Sure they do have great practice at it; and small blame to them! isn’t it the only thing they can do, to have their say out? Heffernan held his whisht in particular, because he knew well what would happen. The sister[5] would get that outrageous mad with him, when she couldn’t make him as angry as herself, that she’d have to quit out; go away for weeks at a time she would, to friends in Dublin. Then poor Mickey would have great ease.

As far as she was concerned, that is, for he’d have the place to himself. But he never slackened on the work, only would be at it, early and late; so much so, that the people would be wondering why he’d bother his head with it all.

“And he ’ithout one in it, only himself!” they’d cry; “and no signs of he to be looking out for a wife, either! A middling stale boy poor Mickey should be, at this present!”

That was true enough, and along with that, he was no great beauty, to look at. The sister was worse again; as ugly as if she was bespoke. Still in all, she never gave up all hopes of she getting married. But that’s the way with a-many a one, as well as Julia Heffernan.

Well, there came the day that she riz a shocking row all out with Mickey; and for what, neither man nor mortal could tell; no, nor Julia herself, let alone Mickey. Off with her, to some third or fourth cousin of theirs in England.

“Luck’s a king and Luck’s a beggar!” says she;[6] “and a body never knows whose flure it’s waiting on, for you!”

“Sure it’s leaving it behind you, maybe, you are! going off that-a-away in such a hurry!” says Mickey.

Not but what he was praying for she to be gone. But he knew if he let on to her how anxious he was to get shut of her, the sorra toe she’d stir. The same as if you were driving a pig. You must pull it back, if you want it to go on.

“Leaving it behind me, indeed!” says she; “no, but it’s hardship and a dog’s life I’m leaving! I’ve stopped here long enough, slaving the skin off me bones for ye!” says she.

So Mickey said no more, only drove her off himself on the side-car to the train, with her box; and when she was gone, “A good riddance of bad rubbish!” said Mickey to himself; and was getting up on the car again, when he perceived on the platform, as if he was after getting off the train, a young boy, a sort of a cousin of his own, by the name of Art Heffernan.

They passed the time of day, of course, and then had some further discourse, and it appeared that Art was out of a job. He had no means, no, nor a home; not one belonging to him any nearer[7] nor Mickey. All his people were either gone to America, or to the old churchyard of Clough-na-Rinka, he said.

So Mickey then preffered him the chance of coming back with him to the Furry Farm for a bit, till he’d have time to look about him.

“I don’t mind if I do,” says Art; “but if I stop awhile and work about the place, what will you do for me in the way of payment?”

“Duck’s wages; the run of your bill,” says Mickey.

“Throw in a shuit of clothes and a pair of brogues, twice a year; and the grass of the little heifer I have,” says Art, “and I don’t mind trying how we’ll get on for a bit.”

Mickey agreed to that. He was at a short at that time, with Julia gone off, and no one likely at hand to do the work about the house, let alone the farm. And Art was well worthy of what he got. He was a smart, willing boy; able and ready to put his hand to whatever was required to be done about the whole place. And Mickey was contented with him. By this plan, he hadn’t to pay out money in wages; a thing he never had any wish for was, to part money.

It all went on very well. Art worked early and[8] late, and was always agreeable and civil-spoken; so that the two of them, Heffernans both, appeared always to be the best of friends. And the people began saying among themselves, that Art was as apt as not to be coming in on the Furry Farm, when the present man would be done with it. That would be natural enough. But the thing turned out very different, in the heel of the hunt, from what any one was laying out then about the Heffernans.

There chanced to be a poor widow woman living in a little bit of a house that was edged in upon the Furry Farm. She paid some small trifle of rent to Mickey for it and a garden there was to it. She had no one in this living world in it only herself and a young slip of a girl, a daughter of hers.

In a case of the kind, you’ll mostly always find there will be some one or other ready to do the lone woman a good turn, such as the lend of a hand in the getting of the turf, and the planting of the potatoes, and so and so on. And Heffernan that was always counted to be a good enough neighbour, in his own way, would say to Art of an evening, “When you have this, that, and th’other done ... the pigs fed, and the horses made up for the night, and water and turf left into the kitchen,[9] you may’s well take and mosey off down to the Widdah Rafferty’s, and see does she want a hand with anything there.”

“All right!” Art would cry, he being, as I said, a very willing, handy boy, ready for any job as soon as he’d have the one in hand completed. So off he’d go; and Mickey would sit down in the chimney-corner, and light his pipe, and swell himself out with the satisfaction of thinking how that the poor widdah’s work was getting done, and still he to be at no loss in life about it.

This went on for some time, till Heffernan began to take notice how that Art appeared to be getting more and more anxious for his evening job.

He thought this over for a while, and then says he to Art: “You’re in a tearing hurry to-night to get all done,” he says; “and to be off from about the place,” says he; “I doubt did you take time to more than half milk them cows!” he says.

“The cows is right enough!” says Art, and he scrubbing away at himself with a lump of yellow soap, and pumping water over himself till you’d think he wanted to flood the yard.

“And where’s the sense in going to all that nicety?” says Mickey, “and you about planting[10] praties! washing your hands and face, no less, as if it was a Sundah morning!”

Art got very red, but he made Mickey no answer, nor never did. He just put the spade on his shoulder, and h-away with him to the Widdah Rafferty’s.