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                        THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

       NUMBER 30.      SATURDAY, JANUARY 23, 1841.      VOLUME I.

[Illustration: THE CASTLE OF MONEA, COUNTY OF FERMANAGH.]

The Castle of Monea or Castletown-Monea--properly _Magh an fhiaidh_, i.e.
the plain of the deer--is situated in the parish of Devinish, county
of Fermanagh, and about five miles north-west of Enniskillen. Like the
Castle of Tully, in the same county, of which we gave a view in a recent
number, this castle affords a good example of the class of castellated
residences erected on the great plantation of Ulster by the British and
Scottish undertakers, in obedience to the fourth article concerning the
English and Scottish undertakers, who “are to plant their portions with
English and inland-Scottish tenants,” which was imposed upon them by
“the orders and conditions to be observed by the undertakers upon the
distribution and plantation of the escheated lands in Ulster,” in 1608.
By this article it was provided that “every undertaker of the _greatest
proportion_ of two thousand acres shall, within two years after the date
of his letters patent, build thereupon a castle, with a strong court or
bawn about it; and every undertaker of the second or _middle proportion_
of fifteen hundred acres shall within the same time build a stone or
brick house thereupon, with a strong court or bawn about it. And every
undertaker of the _least proportion_ of one thousand acres shall within
the same time make thereupon a strong court or bawn at least; and all the
said undertakers shall cause their tenants to build houses for themselves
and their families, near the principal castle, house, or bawn, for their
mutual defence or strength,” &c.

Such was the origin of most of the castles and villages now existing in
the six escheated counties of Ulster--historical memorials of a vast
political movement--and among the rest this of Monea, which was the
castle of the _middle proportion_ of Dirrinefogher, of which Sir Robert
Hamilton was the first patentee.

From Pynnar’s Survey of Ulster, made in 1618-19, it appears that this
proportion had at that time passed into the possession of Malcolm
Hamilton (who was afterwards archbishop of Cashel), by whom the castle
was erected, though the bawn, as prescribed by the conditions, was not
added till some years later. He says,

    “Upon this proportion there is a strong castle of lime and
    stone, being fifty-four feet long and twenty feet broad, but
    hath no bawn unto it, nor any other defence for the succouring
    or relieving of his tenants.”

From an inquisition taken at Monea in 1630, we find, however, that this
want was soon after supplied, and that the castle, which was fifty feet
in height, was surrounded by a wall nine feet in height and three hundred
in circuit.

The Malcolm Hamilton noticed by Pynnar as possessor of “the middle
proportion of Dirrinefogher,” subsequently held the rectory of Devenish,
which he retained _in commendam_ with his archbishopric till his death
in 1629. The proportion of Dirrinefogher, however, with its castle,
was escheated to the crown in 1630; and shortly after, the old chapel
of Monea was converted into a parish church, the original church being
inconveniently situated on an island of Lough Erne.

Monea Castle served as a chief place of refuge to the English and
Scottish settlers of the vicinity during the rebellion of 1641, and,
like the Castle of Tully, it has its tales of horror recorded in story;
but we shall not uselessly drag them to light. The village of Monea is
an inconsiderable one, but there are several gentlemen’s seats in its
neighbourhood, and the scenery around it is of great richness and beauty.

                                                                       P.




ON THE SUBJUGATION OF ANIMALS BY MEANS OF CHARMS, INCANTATIONS, OR DRUGS.

FIRST ARTICLE.

ON SERPENT-CHARMING, AS PRACTISED BY THE JUGGLERS OF ASIA.


Many of my readers will doubtless recollect that in a paper on “Animal
Taming,” which appeared some weeks back in the pages of this Journal, I
alluded slightly to the _charming_ of animals, or _taming_ them by spells
or drugs. It is now my purpose to enter more fully upon this subject,
and present my readers with a brief notice of what I have been able to
glean respecting it, as well from the published accounts of remarkable
travellers, as from oral descriptions received from personal friends
of my own, who had opportunities of being eye witnesses to many of the
practices to which I refer.

The most remarkable, and also the most ancient description of
animal-charming with which we are acquainted, is that which consists in
calling the venomous serpents from their holes, quelling their fury, and
allaying their irritation, by means of certain charms, amongst which
music stands forth in the most prominent position, though, whether it
really is worthy of the first place as an actual agent, or is only thus
put forward to cover that on which the true secret depends, is by no
means perfectly clear.

Even in scripture we find the practice of serpent-charming noticed,
and by no means as a novelty; in the 58th Psalm we are told that the
wicked are like the “deaf adder that stoppeth her ear, which hearkeneth
not unto the voice of the charmer, charm he never so wisely!” And in
the book of Jeremiah, chap. viii, the disobedient people are thus
threatened--“Behold, I will send serpents, cockatrices, among you, which
will not be _charmed_.” These are two very remarkable passages, and I
think we may, without going too far, set down as snake-charmers the
Egyptian magi who contended against Moses and Aaron before the court of
the proud and vacillating Pharaoh, striving to imitate by their juggling
tricks the wondrous miracles which Moses wrought by the immediate aid
of God himself. The feat of changing their sticks into serpents, for
instance, is one of every-day performance in India, which a friend of
mine has assured me he many times saw himself, and which has not been
satisfactorily explained by any one.

The serpent has long been an object of extreme veneration to the natives
of Hindostan, and has indeed, from the very earliest ages, been selected
by many nations as an object of worship; why, I cannot explain, unless
it originated in a superstitious perversion of the elevation of the
brazen serpent in the wilderness by Moses. In India the serpent is not,
however, altogether regarded as a deity--merely as a _demon_ or genius:
and the office usually supposed to be peculiar to these creatures is that
of _guardians_. This is perhaps one of the most widely spread notions
respecting the serpent that we are acquainted with. Herodotus mentions
the sacred serpents which guarded the citadel of Athens, and which he
states to have been fed monthly with cakes of honey; and adds, that
these serpents being sacred, were harmless, and would not hurt men. A
dragon was said to have guarded the golden fleece (or, as some think, a
_scaly serpent_), and protected the gardens of the Hesperides--a singular
coincidence, as it is of _gardens_ principally that the Indians conceive
the serpent to be the guardian.

Medea _charmed_ the dragon by the melody of her voice. Herodotus
mentions snakes being soothed by harmony; and Virgil, in the Æneid, says
(translated by Dryden),

    “His wand and holy words the viper’s rage
    And venom’d wound of serpents could assuage.”

Even our own island, although serpents do not exist in it--a blessing
for which, if we are to put faith in legendary lore, we have to thank St
Patrick--has numberless legends and tales of crocks of treasure at the
bottom of deep, deep lakes, or in dark and gloomy caves, in inaccessible
and rocky mountains, guarded by a fierce and wakeful snake, a sleepless
serpent, whose eyes are never closed, and who never for a second abated
of his watchful care of the treasure-crock, of which he had originally
been appointed guardian;[1] and, further, we are told how the daring and
inventive genius of the son of Erin has often found out a mode of putting
a “_comether_” on the “big sarpint, the villain,” and haply closing his
eyes in slumber, while he succeeded in possessing himself of the hoard
which by his cunning and bravery he had so fairly won; in other words,
_charming_ the snake and possessing himself of the spoil.

Having thus glanced at the antiquity and wide spread of serpent-charming,
I shall proceed to lay before you a short description of the mode in
which the spell is cast over the animals by the modern jugglers of Arabia
and India.

Of all the Indian serpents, next to the Cobra Minelle, the Cobra Capella,
or hooded snake (_Coluber Naja_), called in India the “Naig,” and also
“spectacle snake,” is the most venomous. It derives its names of _hooded_
and _spectacle_ snake from a fold of skin resembling a hood near the
head, which it possesses a power of enlarging or contracting at pleasure;
and in the centre of this hood are seen, when it is distended, black and
white markings, bearing no distant or fanciful likeness to a pair of
spectacles. The mode of charming, or, at all events, all that is to be
seen or understood by the spectators, consists in the juggler playing
upon a flute or fife near the hole which a snake has been seen to enter,
or which his employers have otherwise reason to suppose the reptile
inhabits. The serpent will presently put forth his head, a portion of his
body will shortly follow, and in a few minutes he will creep forth from
his retreat, and, approaching the musician, rear himself on his tail,
and by moving his head and neck up and down or from side to side, keep
tolerably accurate time to the tune with which his ears are ravished.

After having played for a short period, and apparently soothed the
reptile into a state of dreamy unconsciousness of all that is passing,
save only the harmony which delights him, the juggler will gradually
bring himself within grasp of the snake, and by a sudden snatch seize
him by the tail, and hold him out at arms’ length. On the cessation of
the music, and on finding himself thus roughly assailed, the reptile
becomes fearfully enraged, and exerts all his energies to turn upwards,
and bite the arm of his aggressor. His efforts are however fruitless;
while held in that position, he is utterly incapable of doing any injury;
and is, after having been held thus for a few minutes before the gaze
of the admiring crowd, dropped into a basket ready to receive him, and
laid aside until the juggler has leisure and privacy to complete the
subjugation which his wonder-working melody had begun.

When charmed serpents are exhibited dancing to the sound of music, the
spectators should not crowd too closely around the seat of the juggler,
for, no matter how well trained they may be, there is great danger
attending the cessation of the sweet sounds; and if from any cause the
flute or fife suddenly stops or is checked, it not unfrequently happens
that the snake will spring upon some one of the company, and bite him.
I think that it will not be amiss if I quote the description of Indian
snake-charming, furnished by a gentleman in the Honourable Company’s
civil service at Madras, to the writer, who vouches for its veracity:--

“One morning,” says he, “as I sat at breakfast, I heard a loud noise and
shouting among my palankeen bearers. On inquiry I learned that they had
seen a large hooded snake (or Cobra Capella), and were trying to kill
it. I immediately went out, and saw the snake climbing up a very high
green mound, whence it escaped into a hole in an old wall of an ancient
fortification. The men were armed with their sticks, which they always
carry in their hands, and had attempted in vain to kill the reptile,
which had eluded their pursuit, and in his hole he had coiled himself
up secure, while we could see his bright eyes shining. I had often
desired to ascertain the truth of the report as to the effect of music
upon snakes: I therefore inquired for a snake catcher. I was told there
was no person of the kind in the village, but, after a little inquiry I
heard there was one in a village distant three miles. I accordingly sent
for him, keeping a strict watch over the snake, which never attempted
to escape whilst we his enemies were in sight. About an hour elapsed,
when my messenger returned, bringing the snake catcher. This man wore no
covering on his head, nor any on his person, excepting a small piece of
cloth round his loins: he had in his hands two baskets, one containing
tame snakes, one empty: these and his musical pipe were the only things
he had with him. I made the snake catcher leave his two baskets on the
ground at some distance, while he ascended the mound with his pipe alone.
He began to play: at the sound of the music the snake came gradually and
slowly out of his hole. When he was entirely within reach, the snake
catcher seized him dexterously by the tail, and held him thus at arms’
length, whilst the enraged snake darted his head in all directions, but
in vain: thus suspended, he has not the power to round himself so as to
seize hold of his tormentor. He exhausted himself in vain exertions, when
the snake catcher descended the bank, dropped him into the empty basket,
and closed the lid: he then began to play, and after a short time raised
the lid of the basket, when the snake darted about wildly, and attempted
to escape; the lid was shut down again quickly, the music always playing.
This was repeated two or three times; and in a very short interval, the
lid being raised, the snake sat on his tail, opened his hood, and danced
quite as quietly as the tame snakes in the other basket, nor did he again
attempt to escape. This, having witnessed it with my own eyes, I can
assert as a fact.”

I particularly request the attention of my readers to the foregoing
account, as, from the circumstance of its having been furnished by an
eye-witness, and a man whose public station and known character were
sufficient to command belief in his veracity, it will prove serviceable
to me by and bye, when I shall endeavour to disprove the ridiculous
assertions of Abbé Dubois[2] and others, who hold that serpent-charming
is a mere imposition, and assert, certainly without a shade of warranty
for so doing, that the serpents are in these cases always previously
tamed, and deprived of their poison bags and fangs, when they are let
loose in certain situations for the purpose of being artfully caught
again, and represented as _wild_ snakes, subdued by the charms of their
pipe. I shall, however, say no more at present of Dubois, Denon, or
others who are sceptical on this subject, but shall leave the refutation
of their fanciful opinions to another opportunity--my present purpose
being the establishment of _facts_, ere I venture to advance a theory.

I shall therefore conclude my present paper, and in my next, besides
adducing many other important facts relative to serpent-charming, shall
endeavour to throw some light upon the real mode by which it is effected.

                                                                 H. D. R.

[1] See numerous legends of the “Peiste.”

[2] Description of the People of India, p. 469.




GRUMBLING.


If it be no part of the English constitution, it is certainly part of
the constitution of Englishmen to grumble. They cannot help it, even if
they tried; not that they ever do try, quite the reverse, but they could
not help grumbling if they tried ever so much. A true-born Englishman is
born grumbling. He grumbles at the light, because it dazzles his eyes,
and he grumbles at the darkness, because it takes away the light. He
grumbles when he is hungry, because he wants to eat; he grumbles when he
is full, because he can eat no more. He grumbles at the winter, because
it is cold; he grumbles at the summer, because it is hot; and he grumbles
at spring and autumn, because they are neither hot nor cold. He grumbles
at the past, because it is gone; he grumbles at the future, because it
is not come; and he grumbles at the present, because it is neither the
past nor the future. He grumbles at law, because it restrains him; and
he grumbles at liberty, because it does not restrain others. He grumbles
at all the elements--fire, water, earth, and air. He grumbles at fire,
because it is so dear; at water, because it is so foul; at the earth, in
all its combinations of mud, dust, bricks, and sand; and at the air, in
all its conditions of hot or cold, wet or dry. All the world seems as if
it were made for nothing else than to plague Englishmen, and set them
a-grumbling. The Englishman must grumble at nature for its rudeness, and
at art for its innovation; at what is old, because he is tired of it; and
at what is new, because he is not used to it. He grumbles at everything
that is to be grumbled at; and when there is nothing to grumble at, he
grumbles at that. Grumbling cleaves to him in all the departments of
life; when he is well, he grumbles at the cook; and when he is ill, he
grumbles at the doctor and nurse. He grumbles in his amusements, and he
grumbles in his devotion; at the theatres he grumbles at the players,
and at church he grumbles at the parson. He cannot for the life of him
enjoy a day’s pleasure without grumbling. He grumbles at his enemies, and
he grumbles at his friends. He grumbles at all the animal creation, at
horses when he rides on them, at dogs when he shoots with them, at birds
when he misses them, at pigs when they squeak, at asses when they bray,
at geese when they cackle, and at peacocks when they scream. He is always
on the look-out for something to grumble at; he reads the newspapers,
that he may grumble at public affairs; his eyes are always open to look
for abominations; he is always pricking up his ears to detect discords,
and snuffing up the air to find stinks. Can you insult an Englishman
more than by telling him he has nothing to grumble at? Can you by any
possibility inflict a greater injury upon him than by convincing him he
has no occasion to grumble? Break his head, and he will forget it; pick
his pocket, and he will forgive it, but deprive him of his privilege of
grumbling, you more than kill him--you expatriate him. But the beauty of
it is, you cannot inflict this injury on him; you cannot by all the logic
ever invented, or by all the arguments that ever were uttered, convince
an Englishman that he has nothing to grumble at; for if you were to do
so, he would grumble at you so long as he lived for disturbing his old
associations. Grumbling is a pleasure which we all enjoy more or less,
but none, or but few, enjoy it in all the perfection and completeness of
which it is capable. If we were to take a little more pains, we should
find, that having no occasion to grumble, we should have cause to grumble
at everything. But we grow insensible to a great many annoyances, and
accustomed to a great many evils, and think nothing of them. What a
tremendous noise there is in the city, of carts, coaches, drays, waggons,
barrel-organs, fish-women, and all manner of abominations, of which
they in the city take scarcely any notice at all! How badly are all
matters in government and administration conducted! What very bad bread
do the bakers make! What very bad meat do the butchers kill! In a word,
what is there in the whole compass of existence that is good? What is
there in human character that is as it should be? Are we not justified
in grumbling at everything that is in heaven above, or in the earth
beneath, or in the waters under the earth? In fact, gentle reader, is the
world formed or governed half so well as you or I could form or govern
it?--_From a newspaper._




VULGARITY.


The very essence of vulgarity, after all, consists merely in one
error--in taking manners, actions, words, opinions, on trust from
others, without examining one’s own feelings, or weighing the merits of
the case. It is coarseness or shallowness of taste, arising from want
of individual refinement, together with the confidence and presumption
inspired by example and numbers. It may be defined to be a prostitution
of the mind or body to ape the more or less obvious defects of others,
because by so doing we shall secure the suffrages of those we associate
with. To affect a gesture, an opinion, a phrase, because it is the rage
with a large number of persons, or to hold it in abhorrence because
another set of persons very little, if at all, better informed, cry
it down to distinguish themselves from the former, is in either case
equal vulgarity and absurdity. A thing is not vulgar merely because it
is common. It is common to breathe, to see, to feel, to live. Nothing
is vulgar that is natural, spontaneous, unavoidable. Grossness is not
vulgarity, ignorance is not vulgarity, awkwardness is not vulgarity;
but all these become vulgar when they are affected and shown off on the
authority of others, or to fall in with the fashion or the company we
keep. Caliban is coarse enough, but surely he is not vulgar. We might as
well spurn the clod under our feet, and call it vulgar. Cobbett is coarse
enough, but he is not vulgar. He does not belong to the herd. Nothing
real, nothing original, can be vulgar; but I should think an imitator of
Cobbett a vulgar man. Simplicity is not vulgarity; but the looking to
imitation or affectation of any sort for distinction is. A Cockney is a
vulgar character, whose imagination cannot wander beyond the suburbs of
the metropolis. An aristocrat, also, who is always thinking of the High
Street, Edinburgh, is vulgar. We want a name for this last character. An
opinion is often vulgar that is stewed in the rank breath of the rabble;
but it is not a bit purer or more refined for having passed through the
well-cleansed teeth of a whole court. The inherent vulgarity lies in the
having no other feeling on any subject than the crude, blind, headlong,
gregarious notion acquired by sympathy with the mixed multitude, or with
a fastidious minority, who are just as insensible to the real truth,
and as indifferent to every thing but their own frivolous pretensions.
The upper are not wiser than the lower orders, because they resolve to
differ from them. The fashionable have the advantage of the unfashionable
in nothing but the fashion. The true vulgar are the persons who have
a horrible dread of daring to differ from their clique--the herd of
pretenders to what they do not feel, and to do what is not natural to
them, whether in high or low life. To belong to any class, to move in
any rank or sphere of life, is not a very exclusive distinction or test
of refinement. Refinement will in all classes be the exception, not the
rule; and the