by Jim Tully
There is in the human intellect a power of expansion—I might almost call it a power of creation—which is brought into play by the simple brooding upon facts.
Jim later recalled writing and rewriting the scene that opens Chapter VIII. He originally wrote the scene with Hughie and a “group of hospitable yokels” sitting around a roaring fire one rainy night. When Jim was unable to loosen his grandfather’s tongue, he tried a change of venue. Instead of a campfire, Jim placed Hughie in a saloon. His writer’s block was broken with the introduction of a one-legged stranger who walked through the swinging doors and pushed the scene in a new direction. The barroom stories that followed, Jim later wrote, came not from any particular memory but from “the simple brooding upon facts” and the imagination, one might add, of a gifted and unique writer.
As was his custom, Tully offered the chapters of Shanty Irish to his trusted friend and critic, H. L. Mencken, for possible inclusion in Mencken’s American Mercury. Mencken, who could be gentle but firm in declining work not up to his high standards, snapped them up. Late 1927 to early 1928 was a very productive period, with chapters of Shanty Irish and film pieces pouring from his pen. There was the filming of Beggars of Life and a considerable amount of time spent advising a couple of aspiring writers behind bars. He also was attempting to save a third prisoner from execution. Tully’s personal life, however, was starting to fray. Bouts of depression, “moods,” beset him and his three-year marriage to 24-year-old socialite, Marna Myers Tully, was beginning to unravel. Despite their troubles, he dedicated Shanty Irish to Marna.
In the foreword to a later book, Blood on the Moon (1931), Tully described Shanty Irish.
In “Shanty Irish” was depicted the background of a road-kid who became articulate. Down the avenue of years my grandfather, who dominates the book, has been very real to me. I can still hear, on quiet nights, the whisky rattling down his bony throat. That he talked a great deal was natural, of course, being Irish. He was a sad old man with a broken dream in his head and a fear of death in his heart.
Broken dreams fill Shanty Irish but Jim inherited neither his grandfather’s sadness nor his fear. In an early chapter of Shanty Irish, Jim wrote of his father. “A most amazing Irishman was my father—one devoid of sentimentality. A man without tears, he often seemed without pity.” Like his father, Jim too was a man without tears. What made him different from both his father and grandfather—and from lesser writers—was his great capacity for empathy.
Mencken was the first to recognize the book’s excellence and contributed a blurb which appeared opposite the title page.
If Tully were a Russian, read in translation, all the Professors would be hymning him. He has all of Gorky’s capacity for making vivid the miseries of poor and helpless men, and in addition he has a humor that no Russian could conceivably have. In “Shanty Irish,” it seems to me, he has gone far beyond any of his work of the past. The book is not only brilliantly realistic; it also has fine poetic quality.
Reviews of Shanty Irish were mixed. James M. Cain, writing in the World, praised Shanty Irish. Praise that Mencken believed, given Cain’s “bilious” nature, would boost the book immensely. The New York Post concluded that Shanty Irish was “… Jim Tully’s greatest contribution to literature. In our opinion it will become a definite part of our national belles lettres.” The New York World review was so enthusiastic that the book’s publisher, Albert & Charles Boni, included part of it on the book’s dust jacket: “A yarn that soars up into the vaulted blue. It is, we submit, literature. In it, for a moment, the national letters have a glorious reversion to the roaring vigor of yore.” The Chicago Daily Tribune was both amused and shocked, citing the book’s “blasphemy” and “words that aren’t pretty” but was forced to conclude that “there is something sturdy and lusty about it.” Perhaps not quite so lusty as Tully intended. In the one-legged stranger’s story, Tully originally had the old man saying, “ … gigantic copulations shook the sky.” Tully would later complain bitterly to Maxwell Perkins about Boni’s poor job of editing Shanty Irish. Whether out of timidity, as Tully suspected, or sloppiness, “copulations” became “osculations” in the printed book. A review that must have particularly pleased the author washed up from Dublin. The Irish Times concluded that Shanty Irish was “far in advance of anything he has previously done.” It praised the book’s “clear-cut economy of phrase and stark precision of characterisation, a book wherein tragedy is splashed with humour and comedy steeped in sadness …” Even Upton Sinclair, with whom Tully had been feuding, wrote that Shanty Irish is a “chunk of real life. It made me feel human and humble, which is good for anybody.”
Not everyone approved. The leftist writer and founder of The New Masses, Michael Gold, who had praised Tully’s earlier work, panned Shanty Irish, blaming the pernicious influence of H. L. Mencken. And another Dublin paper, the Irish Independent, under the heading, “A Slobbering Idiot,” considered Hughie as just another drunken Irishman. And in Tully’s hometown of St. Marys, Ohio, his cousin Gertrude Lawler wrote that the book was widely read, but never openly discussed.
Shanty Irish sold well in both the United States and England, and as late as 1945, Tully wrote Mencken that the book was still selling. The book’s success certainly had much to do with the comic and roguish old Hughie, whom Jim tried making the main character in a stage version of the book, God Loves the Irish. It was never produced, but Hughie would make a return appearance as a principal character in Blood on the Moon. What made Hughie and Shanty Irish different was that Tully was the first to treat the Irish-American experience in something other than strictly comic tones.
In The Columbia History of the American Novel (1991), Emory Elliott concluded, “that by its focus on a poor Irish family [Shanty Irish] set the theme and by its title’s ugly epithet set the tone for the breakthrough of Irish-Americans into the fiction of cultural mediation.”
“I developed early a capacity for remembered sorrow,” Tully wrote in Shanty Irish. “It is possible that I remembered too much.” It is from this well of remembered sorrow—and empathy—that Jim Tully fills Shanty Irish.
CHAPTER I
THE GREAT FAMINE
MY grandfather was known as old Hughie Tully. Born with the gift of words, he was never without a tale to tell.
Drama was as natural to him as corn to an Ohio farmer. Arson, treason, and sudden death were as common in his Irish boyhood as gossip about the King of England.
He respected nothing among men. He was capable of turning death into an Irish wake and pouring liquor down the throat of the corpse.
Still a child, I was with him and my father in a saloon.
“You must have had a lot of fun in Ireland when you were a kid,” I said to him.
Grandfather looked at me. and then at his glass.
“There was niver any fun in Ireland, me lad— It was always a wailin’ and a weepin’ country. Hearts full of the great sadness and stomicks empty of food—fools prayin’ to God, and starvin’ on their knays.
“Ireland at its bist was a hard country—we lived wit’ the pigs an’ the geese—we petted thim an’ thin we ate thim—
“All who saw not alike were bayten—an’ stabbed an’ shot an’ strangled.”
The bartender wore a beer-spotted apron. He poured more whisky, and gave me a glass of beer. He started away with the whisky. I could hear the gunshot rattling in the bottle.
“Lave it here, Pat,” said my grandfather, “it is better so, me son—Jim will pay you for the whole bottle.” No sooner was it placed on the wet table than grandfather poured another drink.
He looked at my father.
“Did ye iver think, Jim, why me and you ain’t dead?” He gave a few heavy sardonic chuckles. My parent made no answer.
“I’ll tell ye why—we’re like me father—only a bolt o’ lightnin’ from God Almighty’s merciful rainbag can kill us.”
He pushed his empty glass away.
“Me and your mother lived t
hrough the Great Famine—a-suckin’ the wind and drinkin’ the rain on the bogs.
“There was niver nothin’ like the famine of ’46—an’ the boy here talks about a lot o’ fun.
“What a bunch of liars an’ brigands we Irish are. We’d cut the Pope’s throat for a nickel an’ burn ‘im in hell for a dime. There was only the one trouble with the Great Famine—it didn’t starve enough of thim. An’ thim that lived through it didn’t live. They died an’ come to life agin. An’ yere niver the same once ye rise from the dead—somethin’ has gone out ov the heart o’ ye. No one saw Jaysus after he rose. He hurried away in a cloud—the soul ov Him torn an’ bloody at the side ov his Blissed Father.
“The dear Irish niver see the truth—an’ the greatest fighters in the world—they git licked iv’ry time they start.
“Though I hate to say it—bein’ a devout Catholic meself—an’ believin’ in the Holy Womb of Mary—but they should aither kill all their praists or put ’em to work—it would be the same thing, be God.”
“Tell me about the Great Famine,” I asked eagerly.
“Be quiet, me lad, and don’t talk out ov your turn—’tis a bad habit.”
He shook his head violently.
“I think I swallowed some gunshot—I’ll explode in a minute—
“An’ wasn’t it in ’46 that a Catholic Baishop said how the pizzants bravely paid their rint—the good craytures, he called thim—the lazy holy bum.” His face wrinkled. “And didn’t old Danny O’Connell tell ’em they were the finest pizzants on earth—the poor fools an’ they belaved it—min who talk without thinkin’ are the bane ov Ireland—their tongues mane no more than broken church bells callin’ ’em to prayer.
“An’ Danny O’Connell’s son said he thanked his just God that he lived among payple who would rather die ov the hunger than cheat the landlords of their rint—” He muttered with contempt—“The damn fool.”
“An’ Mike Davitt—the son ov pizzants from the County Mayo—who knew my payple—it was him that rose in his wrath and asked why in the hell he wasn’t kicked into the River ov Liffey.
“Ireland couldn’t even fight thim—the eyes ov the pizzants were glazed over with the great hunger. Death coughed on all the roads.
“I was a young man in ’46 when the potatie crop failed. You see, Ireland is aisy to grow grass in—and the cattle git fat—an’ they bring more money than pizzants, as they should—they eat and don’t pray—and they don’t bother their wise heads about what they don’t understand.
“It was the year ov the Great Stupor—and the fife played to the tunes of death in ivery house.
“Whole families would sit on the fence and look at the ground where no potaties grew—
“An’ England made min to build roads with the starvin’ death above thim. They felt they’d pauperize Ireland, so they said if they give ’em somethin’ without labor—
“An’ the pizzants left on ivery ship. Two hundred in the steerage from Sligo to Liverpool—and half ov thim tramped to death—hundreds and hundreds of thousands were put out of their huts because they could not pay the rint. The poor divils, wit’ cracks in their brains an’ water for blood.
“An’ durin’ all this time a lot o’ the dear blissid Irish earned the money to pay their way to America in the coffin ships, by pullin’ down the homes o’ their brither pizzants after they’d been excited in the road because they couldn’t pay the rint.”
The old man sighed—
“Windy wit’ brither love are the Irish—as are all people who belave in lies, but in their hearts they’re traitors—one with another—they’d sill the soul of Charlie Parnell himself—which they did—for an early potatie. Him that talks about brither love is a fool— He don’t know the Irish.”
A kindlier look came into his eyes.
“An’ maybe I’m wrong an’ too severe—some o’ thim were sad when Parnell died—he was the first an’ the last an’ the whitest gintleman Ireland iver had—he was too good fur thim. The pizzants were not his payple—he was an aigle fightin’ for sparrows. An’ whin they had the great aigle down an’ his wings were tied an’ the manure of the barnyard was in his eyes—thin what did a dumb sparrow of a pizzant do but call Kitty O’Shea a whore—an’ what did Parnell iver do but break a law to git a woman he loved—and Gawd—I’d love a woman like Kitty O’Shea meself—I would, I would—but that is no matter now.”
He drummed the table with his labor-twisted fingers.
“It is of the famine I’m talkin’ whin the dumb Irish wint starvin’ to glory, wit’ the praists showin’ thim how to die like Christians gnawin’ at the wood of the cross.”
He rubbed the left side of his breast—
“It’s the damned rheumatiz eatin’ at the sad heart o’ me— It’ll be me own bad luck to die before John Crasby—an’ thin he’ll brag about dhrinkin’ Old Hughie Tully into his grave—but that’s no matter ayther.”
He took his hand from his heart—
“But this ye kin remimber, me lad—niver to forgit— There niver was a plot in Ireland that didn’t have its traitor. Two Irish—an’ one tells on the other.
“Blind min lookin’ at truth are the Irish—wit’ shamrocks an’ lies where their brains ought to be.”
He pulled his glass toward him and poured another drink. My father sat, silent as an owl on a limb at mid-day.
I watched my grandfather eagerly.
“An’ while the great famine wint on England took from Ireland two million pigs an’ sheep an’ cattle—
“There was no food to eat so the pizzants ate grass and seaweed and potaties that were rotted— A million ov the poor divils died with the achin’ pain in their guts—a prayin’ to Jaysus who loved the poor—
“They died like whipped curs a-whinin’ under the lash—whimperin’ from the ditches and the bogs.
“‘Holy Mary—Mither of God—pray for us starvin’ sinners now an’ at the hour of our horrible death—Amen,’ they prayed.
“Fifty million dollars worth of grub went out of Ireland—an’ the poor bedraggled bastards watched it go—an’ starved—
“But ye couldn’t make thim think—they belaved in God.” The whisky rattled down his heavy throat.
“Be careful, Dad,” said my father, “the boy here—”
“Shut up—he’s got a brain in his head—he’s his old granddad’s boy, an’ it’s best he hears the truth.
“They wandered along the roads lookin’ for grub. They pulled green turnips from the fields. They ate dead horses that died ov disease—an’ mules an’ dogs—aye—an’ a woman ate the dead limb of her only child. The dead were found with grass in their mouths—aven in me own county of Mayo—they ate nettles and wild mustard that stuck in their guts like glue.”
Old Hughie’s face went heavy with indignant pain.
“Irishmen left the God damned country like it was a mangy dog and not the purtiest land in a purty world.
“Thousands an’ thousands—maybe a million left in a year—an’ thank God I was among ’em.”
His voice lifted.
“We left on ships that were shaped like coffins—and so they were—for many—
“We were huddled in the dirt an’ the sickness—with no light an’ little air—women an’ men an’ childred all fightin’ away the black death togither.
“One can niver hate all the Irish afther seein’ ’em die—thim that are crossed wit’ the Danes die snarlin’ like the tigers they are.
“Many were so sick they couldn’t move—they sat or laid wit’ their mouths droolin’ green slobber an’ their faces twisted like apes wit’ nails in their ears.
“All over the ship were the moans— ‘Blissed God have mercy—have mercy, Blissed God—Take me away wit’ ye—take me away—oh—oh—oh—oh—Dare Savior of all poor sinners—take me to the grave away—’
“Their cheeks pushed their jaws in—an’ their skin turned green—an’ their eyes wint blind—an’ many died in the mad
ness—poundin’ their heads on the floor.”
The old man gulped twice.
“There wasn’t enough canvas to wrap them in whin they died—so it was aisier for the sharks who didn’t have to tear it off.”
The old man poured more liquor with a firm hand and looked at me. “An’ I aven thought yere own father would die—me boy,” he looked defiant for a second. “It’s damned bad cess he didn’t, I guess—but I was younger thin—an’ I wanted him to live.”
My father did not look up. He sat, hunched over, finger and thumb clenched to his glass. The ends of his long mustache nearly touched the table. Impassive as fate, he was more inarticulate than my grandfather. He was not so forceful a man. Old Hughie has ever remained the strongest oak in the blighted forest of the Tullys.
He hit the table—
“Ay—an’ I didn’t tell ye me lad—they buried so many payple they wasn’t coffins enough to go ’round—so they put a hinged bottom on the coffin—and they dropped it in the ground with the body as nice as you plaze—an’ the poor divil laid there with his hands folded like he was glad to be dead—an’ they lifted the coffin from about him an’ used it for a hundred more min that had starved—an’ soon they threw the dirt in his Irish face foriver.” A short silence followed. “Suffer did they all—but no good did it do. It only made ashes out ov their bones.”
The old man shook his head as if trying to rouse himself from a haunting dream. He rose. We followed him out of the saloon.
“Tell Him,” he said to his son, “ye’ll be goin’ away in the mornin’.”
“Yes,” replied my father, with unconcern, “Back to Van Wert County—to throw more mud with a crooked stick—”
“Aw well—’tis better than havin’ the rheumatiz near yere heart—an’ a man like John Crasby braggin’ that he put ye in yere grave.”
“Wait a minute,” suggested my father.
He went into the saloon again and returned with two quarts of whisky. He handed my grandfather a bottle, the old man placed it in a side pocket.