•..v.v.
THE GIFT OF
MAY TREAT MORRISON
IN MEMORY OF
ALEXANDER F MORRISON
tmsn
UC€RA01R€
_JU
TRINITY COLLEGE, DUBLIN
From a photograph
Founded by Queen Elizabeth. Its annual income
is about $350,000, and the average number of students is
about 1,400. With the University of Dublin it is repre-
sented in Parliament by two members. Here are some
of the most precious of the ancient illuminated Irish MSS.
of which we give some examples in Irish Literature.
wuai
nam o
IR1SR
Llt€RAUIRe
JUSTIN MCGARTHY MP.
EDITOR IN CHIEF
MAURICE F.EGAN.LL J). DOUGIAS HYDE.LLD.
LADY GREGORY JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.LLD.
ASSOCIATE EDITORS
CHARLES WELSH
MANAGING EDITOR
VOL.
II.
DeBOWER-ELLIOTT company
CHICAGO
... -
»
Copyright, 1004, by
John I>. Morris & Company
EDITORIAL BOARD
AND ADVISORY COMMITTEE
THE HON. JUSTIN McCARTHY, M. P., Editor-in-Chief
Maurice Francis Egan, LL.D., Douglas Hyde, LL.D.
of the Catholic University, James Jeffrey Roche, LL.D.,
Washington Editor The Pilot
Lady Gregory G. W. Russell ("A. E.")
Standish O'Grady Stephen Gwynn
D. J. O'Donoghue Prof. W. P. Trent, of Columbia
Prof. F. N. Robinson, of Har- University
vard University Prof. H. S. Pancoast
W. P. Ryan John E. Redmond, M.P.
Charles Welsh, Managing Editor
Author of ' The Life of John Newbery ' (Goldsmith's friend and publisher).
SPECIAL ARTICLES and THEIR WRITERS
Irish Literature Justin McCarthy
Modern Irish Poetry .... William Butler Yeats
Early Irish Literature . . . Douglas Hyde, LL.D.
Ireland's Influence on Euro-
pean Literature Dr. George Sigerson
Irish Novels Maurice Francis Egan, LL.D.
Irish Fairy and Folk Tales . . Charles Welsh
The Irish School of Oratory . J. F. Taylor, K.C.
The Sunniness of Irish Life . . Michael MacDonagh
Irish Wit and Humor . . . . D. J. O'Donoghue
The Irish Literary Theater . . Stephen Gwynn
A Glance at Ireland's History . Charles Welsh
Street Songs and Ballads and Anonymous Verse
BIOGRAPHIES and LITERARY APPRECIATIONS
BY
George W. Russell (" A. E.") W. B. Yeats
W. P. Ryan S. J. Richardson
Charles Welsh Standish O'Grady
Douglas Hyde, LL.D. D. J. O'Donoghue
T. W. Rolleston Austin Dobson
G. Barnett Smith Dr. G. Sigerson
H. C. Bunner N. P. Willis
G. A. Greene Lionel Johnson
428493
EARLY IRISH LITERATURE.
The editors of * Irish Literature ' have very wisely de-
cided to represent in their volumes, so far as literal trans-
lations will allow them, the real autochthonous literature
of Ireland as it existed both before any of the modern lan-
guages of Europe had made their appearance as literary
vehicles, and since that time. The great and revivifying
movement which is at present pulsing through Ireland, and
creating, wherever it is felt, new hopes and a new spirit,
lias indeed rendered it impossible to produce a work upon
Irish literature in which, as has happened too often before,
the real Irish element was calmly ignored, and the scope
of Irish literature narrowed to the productions of Eng-
lish-Irish writers, who after all were, for the most part, too
often only imitations of Englishmen.
For the literature of Ireland does not begin with Ware
or with Swift, with Molyneux or with Sheridan.
Hundreds of years before the English language had risen
out of a conglomeration of Anglo-Saxon and Norman-
French, hundreds of years before the langue d'oil and
the langue cVoc struggled for mastery upon the plains of
France, hundreds of years before the language of the Ni-
belungen Lied had risen upon the ruins of Gothic, Ireland
swarmed with bards, scholars, poets, saga-tellers, and
saga-writers; while " the countless hosts of the illuminated
books of the men of Erin " (as Angus the Culdee had culled
them more than two centuries before the birth of William
the Conqueror) filled the island from shore to shore; and
Erin, at that time civilizer and Christianizer of the western
world, was universally known as the " Island of Saints and
Scholars."
There are two points about the native literature of Ire-
land which entirely differentiate it from the rest of the
vernacular literatures of Europe, Greek excepted. The
first of these is the extraordinarily early period at which
it took its rise, and the enormous length of time during
which it flourished. The other is the absolute originality
of this literature, which was self-evolved, which was utterly
unaffected by classic models, and in the syntax of which
vii
viii EARLY IRISH LITERATURE.
scarcely a trace is to be found of those Latinisnis upon
which are really founded and built up so many other mod-
ern languages. It is only right, accordingly, that a word
of warning should at the outset be addressed to the reader
of these volumes, and that he be reminded, when reading, of
how necessary it is to place the occasional pieces culled
from this antique literature in their proper perspective.
In other words, he should be invited to approach them with
a certain historic sense of the early date at which they were
written, and of the strange and self-developed people that
produced them, so different from the rest of Europe in
their manners, thoughts, feelings, civilization, and, beyond
all, in their mode of expression. Ireland's wonderfully
copious and extraordinarily early literature is, without
doubt, her greatest glory; but its very wildness of flavor
and strange extravagance of manners are likely sometimes
to render it of only moderate interest to the ordinary reader
of English — more to him I imagine than to readers of other
languages — although it can never fail to be piquant and de-
lightful to the literary connoisseur, who is sure to be cap-
tivated by its unique originality. There are a sufficient
number of pieces included in these volumes for the reader
to sample their flavor for himself, but to do so to the full
he must, as I have said, remember that many of them
were composed and written before the English language,
through the medium of which he now reads them, had been
heard of. He must also remember that it is universally
acknowledged that the extracts from Ireland's heroic past
portray pictures of a far older and more primitive civiliza-
tion than any that either the Slavs, the Teutons, or the
Latin-speaking races have preserved, pictures of an age
more primitive in point of social development — though it
is later in point of time — than even those depicted in the
lays of Homer.
There has seldom been a literature pursued with greater
malignity and a prey to greater misfortune than that of
Ireland. The Norsemen, who first made their appearance
toward the close of the eighth century, made it a point to
" drown " the Irish books, since fire was a less certain agent
than water in the destruction of the parchment volumes.
When the worst storms of the Norse invasions, which had
lasted for over two hundred years, had come to an end, on
EARLY IRISH LITERATURE. ix
the 23d of April, 1014, by the crushing defeat of Clontarf,
" the countless hosts of the illuminated books of the men of
Erin " had almost disappeared, and the literati of Ireland,
under the great Brian, began laboriously to gather together
their fragments and to rewrite them. It is from this period
that the most important still existing Irish MSS. date, and
these contain largely a re-editing in the language of the
twelfth century of things originally composed in old Irish,
many of which were first written centuries and centuries
before.
But it may well be asked, how is it possible or how can
it be proved that the Irish had a written literature cen-
turies before the rest of western Europe, and preserved
an accurate history of their own past when the contem-
porary history of so much of the western world is sunk in
the blackest oblivion? A conclusive answer to this ques-
tion is furnished by the Irish Annals, which have been
proved by the discoveries of modern science to be exceed-
ingly reliable. There is only one class of entries by which
the credibility of the Irish Annals can be absolutely tested,
and that is by their accounts of natural phenomena. If,
for instance, we find, on calculating backward, as modern
science has luckily enabled us to do, that such events as, for
instance, occurrence of eclipses, are recorded to the day
and hour by the Annalists, we can then know with
something like certainty that these phenomena were re-
corded at flic time of their appearance by icriters tvho ob-
served them; whose writings must have been actually seen
and consulted by those later Annalists whose books we
possess. Nobody could think of saying of natural phenom-
ena thus accurately recorded, as they might of mere his-
torical narratives, that they were handed down by tradi-
tion only, and reduced to writing for the first time many
centuries later. Now the Annals of Ulster, to mention
one alone of many, treat of Irish history from about the
year 441 onward; and in the Annals we find between the
year 490 and the year 884 as many as eighteen records of
eclipses and comets which agree exactly, even to the day
and hour, with the calculation of modern astronomers.
IIow impossible it is to keep such records accurately, unless
written memoranda are made of them by eye-witnesses, is
shown by the fact that the great Bede, the glory of the
EARLY IRISH LITERATURE.
Anglo-Saxon church, in recording the striking solar eclipse
which took place only eleven years before his own birth,
is yet two days astray in his date. On the other hand,
Cathal Maguire, the compiler of the Annals of Ulster, gives
not only the exact day but the exact hour, thus showing
that he had access to the original account of an eye-witness,
or to a copy of it.
Indeed, it is almost certain that the Irish had written
books before the coming of Saint Patrick. Keating ex-
pressly mentions one such volume, the ' Book of Droms-
neachta,' which is often quoted as a source of information
in our oldest manuscripts; and O'Curry seems to have
proved that this book was compiled by a Pagan, son of a
man who died in the year 379.
Then, too, the Irish Celts invented for themselves — at
what period is doubtful — a very ingenious alphabet, and
one unknown to the rest of Europe. Inscriptions in this
alphabet are found, chiefly upon stone monuments, only in
Ireland and in those parts of Great Britain, Scotland, and
Wales where the Irish Celts had made settlements. This
curious script is known as Ogham. It consists of a num-
ber of lines, some short, some long, some straight and some
slanting, drawn either below, above, or through one long-
stem line. This stem line, in the stone monuments, is
usually the sharp angle or corner between two sides of the
upright rectanglar stone. Dots or nicks represent the
vowels. Thus :
I • I 1 1 1 1 / 1 /.mil 11/ /J 1 1 1 I -
MAQ 1LI AG MA Q I ER CA
The above is a simple inscription — MAQI LIAG MAQI
ERICA, i.e. " of Mac Liag the son of Ere."
Over two hundred monuments have been found inscribed
in Ogham, and the language appears to be that of the old
Gaulish inscriptions, infinitely older in its forms than the
very oldest language preserved in the oldest manuscripts.
So much for the age of the most ancient Irish records.
Xow let us glance at their extent.
The exact amount of Irish literature still remaining has
never been accurately determined. M. d'Arbois de Jubain-
EARLY IRISH LITERATURE. xi
ville has noted 133 existing MSS., all of them over three
hundred years old, and some over 1,000 years, and the whole
number which he found existing in public libraries on the
Continent and in the British Isles was 1,009. But hun-
dreds upon hundreds of other MSS. exist in private collec-
tions scattered throughout the country-, and hundreds upon
hundreds more have been destroyed since the so-called
" National " Schools were established by the English Gov-
ernment in Ireland, to train up the children of Irishmen as
though they were the children of people in Birmingham or
Liverpool. Jubainville quotes a German as estimating that
the literature produced by the Irish before the seventeenth
century, and still existing, would fill a thousand octavo
volumes. O'Curry, O'Longan, and O'Berne Crowe cata-
logued something more than half the manuscripts in the
I {oval Irish Academy, and the catalogue of the contents
tilled thirteen volumes containing 3,418 pages. From a
rough examination of these I should calculate the number
of different pieces catalogued at about eight or ten thou-
sand, and varying from single ranns or quatrains to long
epic poems and sagas. And the Academy is only one of
many libraries where Irish MSS. are deposited.
The contents of these volumes are not all pure literature.
Law, medicine, science, annals, and genealogies fill many
of them. But the Sagas, the Lives, and the Poems are what
chiefly interest us from a literary point of view.
There are three well-marked classes of sagas, dealing
with different periods and different materials, and out-
side of these are many isolated ones dealing with minor in-
cidents. The three chief cycles of saga-telling are the
mythological, the Red Branch, and the Fenian cycles. The
first of these is really concerned with the most ancient tales
of the early Irish pantheon, in which what are obviously
supernatural beings and races are more or less " euhemer-
ized," or presented as real men and heroes. Lugh the long-
handed, the Dagda, and Balor of the Evil Eye, who figure
in these stories, are evidently ancient gods of Good and
Evil, while the various colonizations of Ireland by Par-
tholan, the Nemedians, and the Tnatha De Danann, may
well be the Irish equivalent of the Greek legend of the three
successive ages of gold, silver, and brass. The next great
cycle of story-telling, the Heroic, Ultonian, or Red Branch
iii EARLY IRISH LITERATURE.
cycle, as it is variously called, is that in which Cuchulain
and Conor mac Nessa king of Ulster are the dominating
figures, and the third great cycle deals with Finn mac Cum-
hail, his son Oisin, or Ossian, the poet, his grandson Oscar,
and the High Kings of Ireland, who were their contempo-
raries. In addition to these there are a number of short
groups of tales or minor cycles, and many completely inde-
pendent sagas, most of them dealing, as these greater cy-
cles do, only with pre-Christian times, though a few belong-
to the very early medieval period.
All these Irish romances are compositions upon which
more or less care was evidently bestowed in ancient times,
as is evident by their being shot through and through with
verses. These verses often amount to a considerable por-
tion of the whole saga, and Irish versification is usually
very elaborate and not the work of any mere inventor or
story-teller, but of a highly trained technical poet. Very
few sagas, and these chiefly of the more modern ones, are
written in pure prose.
In the Book of Leinster, a manuscript made nearly eight
hundred years ago, we find a list in which the names of 187
of these sagas are given. An ollamh, as the holder of the
highest bardic degree was called, was obliged to know by
heart two hundred and fifty prime sagas, and one hundred
secondary ones. The prime stories — combinations of epic
and novel, of prose and poetry — are divided in the Book
of Leinster and other manuscripts unto the following
catalogue: Destructions of fortified places, Cow-spoils
(i.e. Cattle-raiding expeditions), Courtships or Wooings,
Battles, Cave stories, Navigations, Tragical deaths, Feasts,
Sieges, Adventures, Elopements, Slaughters, Water-erup-
tions, Expeditions, Progresses (migrations), and Visions.
" He is no poet," says the Book of Leinster, " who does
not synchronize and harmonize all the stories." Besides
the 187 stories whose names are given in the Book of
Leinster, we have a second list giving the names of a great
number of other sagas. This list is contained in the tenth
or eleventh century tale of Mac Coise. Now what is most
noticeable in these lists is that, while the known sagas con-
tained in them deal with subjects of Irish history from the
sixth century before Christ onward, not one of them treats
of matters later than the seventh century after Christ. The
EARLY IRISH LITERATURE. xiii
very essence of the national life of Ireland was embodied in
these compositions, but unfortunately few specimens of this
enormous mass of literature have survived to our day, and
many of these are mutilated or are mere digests. Some,
however, exist at full length, quite sufficient to show us
what our romances were like, and to cause us to regret the
irreparable loss inflicted upon the Irish race by the ravages
of Danes, Normans, and English. Even as it is, O'Curry
computes that the contents of the strictly historical tales
known to him would be sufficient to fill 4,000 quarto pages.
He computed that the stories about Finn, Ossian, and the
Fenians would fill another 3,000 pages, and the miscella-
neous imaginative stories that are neither historical nor
Fenian would fill 5,000 pages more. So much for the ex-
tent of the saga literature ; now let us glance at its style.
The romantic, as opposed to the realistic, dominates Irish
utterance from first to last. Allied to this we find an ex-
uberance of minute description and a love of adjectival
thunder, which last, by the way, is a trait that has not
wholly departed even to this day from among Irishmen
— even those who have lost their language. Its love of
rhetoric, its peculiar mode of hyperbole, and its copious-
ness of synonyms lend to early Irish literature a charm and
a flavor that are wanting to early German, Anglo-Saxon,
and Norman-French. On the other hand, Irish writers, de-
spite their weakness for a multitude of alliterative adjec-
tives, go fairly straight to the point. Their sentences are
not obscure or involved, and there is very little of mysticism
or cloudiness about them. " Ce qui n'est pas clair n'est pas
frangais," say the French, and the same with much truth
may be said about the Irish. They begin their sentences
with the verb instead of ending with it, as do the Germans.
Some witty linguist once remarked that had the Irish
through some philological catastrophe been forced to speak
in German half the race would have died through heart
disease within a couple of generations. This is perhaps
poking an undue fun at the rapidity and vigor of the out-
pourings of an Irishman's mouth, but it is not without an
element of truth in it, all the same. The ancient Gael did
not avoid similes, but he did not make an excessive use
of them. In this respect the Welsh books are more demon-
strative and less chastened than the Irish. Both olVer
xiv EARLY IRISH LITERATURE.
a curious contrast to the Anglo-Saxon. In the whole
seven thousand lines of Beowulf we meet with scarcely
one simile. Yet in spite of their exuberant number of ex-
pletives and other peculiarities, the early Irish were mas-
ters of story-telling, and pursue their sagas to the end, with-
out over-redundancy or chasing of side issues, so that each
presents a fairly perfect unity of its own. In this way their
best poetry often reminds us of the marvelous drawings in
their illuminated manuscripts, which, despite the thou-
sand-fold involutions and twistings of their lines and
knots and other ornaments, never fail, when looked at
from a distance, to present a perfect unity of figure. The
naivete of Irish similes is also striking, and they are
usually introduced in a natural manner of their own, com-
pletely different from the severe and self-possessed similes
of the Latin and Greek epics. There is more of quaintness,
more of originality, and, if I may say so, more of humanity
about them. Thus in describing the appearance of Cuchii-
lain, the romancist exclaims in admiration of his white
teeth, " it seemed as though it were a shower of pearls that
were flung into his head." When his steeds have the reins
flung loose upon their necks their career is " like a hawk's
swooping from a cliff on a day of hard wind." The watch-
man who beholds Froech and his suite flashing past him
in crimson and gold relates it to the listeners, and adds,
" from the perfumed breeze that floated over them it is the
same with me as if my head were over a vat of wine."
When Lughaidh (Lewy) is pursued by Conall Oearnach,
his servant looking behind him sees the pursuing chariot
and tells his master that a warrior is on his track : " you
would believe," said the servant, " that all the crows of Ire-
land were flying above him, and flakes of snow are whiten-
ing the plain before him." " Those birds you see," said
Lewy, " are the earthclods thrown up by the hooves of the
Dewy-Red, Conall's steed, and those flakes of snow are
the foam from his nostrils." 1
We also find in early Irish literature a disinclination to
indulge in anything like generalization or metaphysical ab-
stractions, even of the simplest kind, a disinclination which
perhaps accounts for the particularity of description
1 See the story of ' The Death of Cuchulain,' from ' Cuchulain of Muir-
themne,' by Lady Gregory, in Volume IV.
EARLY IRISH LITERATURE. xv
which is such a marked feature iu the sagas. Everything
there is described in detail, with a minute individual
analysis. Thus the board on which Queen Medb (Meve)
plays chess is " a beauteous chess table — a chess board of
fine metal on it, four ears and elbows on it," " a candle of
precious stone illuminating it for them"; "of gold and
silver are the chessman on that table." This faculty for
close description is nearly allied to the love of expletives
by which nearly all Irish writers, not the unknown writers
of the sagas alone, but biographers, historians, and theolo-
gians, are more or less affected. Thus in the almost con-
temporary account of the Danish wars, the blow which
Murrough deals the Earl of Orkney is " a fierce powerful
crushing blow," the right hand that deals it is " valiant,
death-dealing, active," the helmet on which it alights is
" the hateful foreign helmet," and so on.
Another trait which distinguishes even the earliest Irish
literature from that of the rest of Europe is the marvelous
way in which it is interpenetrated by the love of nature in
all its aspects. The songs of summer and winter, and the
dialogue of the King and the Hermit contained in these vol-
umes are instances of what I mean. When the Fenian
poet describes the delights and pastimes of the famous
Finn mac Cumhail, the commander of the Fenian bands
in the third century, he expresses himself thus :
" The desire of my hero who feared no foe,
Was to listen all day to Drumderrig's sound,
To sleep by the roar of the Assaroe,
And to follow the dun deer round and round.
" The warbling of blackbirds in Letter Lee,
The Strand where the billows of Rurcc fall,
The bellowing ox upon wild Moy-niee,
The lowing of calves upon Glen-da- vaul,
" The blast of the horns around Slieve Grot,
The bleat of the fawns upon Cua's plain,
The sea-bird's scream in a lonesome spot,
The croak of the raven above the slain,
" The wash of the waves on his bark afar,
The yelp of the pack as they turn Drimliss,
The baying of Bran upon Knock-in-ar,
The murmur of fountains below Slieve-mis,
xvi EARLY IRISH LITERATURE.
" The call of Oscar upon the chase,
The tongue of the hounds on the Fenians' plain,
Then a seat with the men of the bardic race,
Of these delights was my hero fain."
And the poet Oisin or Ossian is supposed to describe to
Saint Patrick the exquisite singing of the Blackbird of
Derrycarn, and the delight which his father Finn had
taken in listening to it. My friend Dr. Sigerson has thus
translated these verses:
" The tuneful tumult of that bird,
The belling deer on ferny steep,
This welcome in the dawn he heard,
This soothed at eve his sleep.
" Dear to him the wind-loved heath,
The whirr of wings, the rustling brake,
Dear the murmuring glens beneath,
And sob of Droma's lake.
" The cry of hounds at early morn,
The pattering deer, the pebbly creek,
The cuckoo's call, the sounding horn,
The swooping eagle's shriek."
In fact the glowing rendering of nature-scenes, which
appear to have perfectly intoxicated the early Irish, fre-
quently transcends mere descriptive and borders upon the
interpretative. This is no doubt what prompted Matthew
Arnold to write as follows : " The Celt's quick feeling for
that which is noble and distinguished gave his poetry style;
his indomitable personality gave it pride and passion;
his sensibility and nervous exaltation give it a better gift
still — the gift of rendering with wonderful felicity the
magical charm of nature. The forest solitude, the bub-
bling spring, the wild flowers, are everywhere in romance.
They have a mysterious life and grace there: they are na-
ture's own children and utter her secret in a way which
makes them quite different from the woods, waters, and
plants of Greek and Latin poetry. Now of this delicate
magic Celtic romance is so pre-eminent a mistress that it
seems impossible to believe the power did not come into
romance with the Celts; magic is just the word for it — the
magic of nature; not merely the beauty of nature — that the
Greeks and Latins had; not merely an honest smack of the
soil, a faithful realism— that the Germans had; but the in-
EARLY IRISH LITERATURE. xvii
timate life of nature, her weird power and fairy dream."
Even the animals in the Irish sagas have often an interest
attached to them for their own sake, which may have had
its origin in the Druids once teaching a doctrine of me-
tempsychosis. Bran, the hound of Finn mac Cumhail, was
no mere dog, and Oisin himself was descended from a
mother who had once been a deer. Cuchulain's great war-
horse, the " Grey of Macha," knows when its master is go-
ing to his fate, and unwillingly allows itself to be yoked to
his chariot. The magnificent white bull of Meve, Queen of
Connacht, had been once a man, reborn a bull, who, " think-
ing it dishonorable " to remain under a woman's control,
passed over to the herds of Meve's husband, thus giving
rise to the greatest of all Irish epics, the Cattle-Spoil of
Cuailgne. The very trees and plants have a life of their
own. The mountain ash in which Diarmuid conceals him-
self while the Fenians play at chess below sprung from an
enchanted berry; the branch which the little boy shakes
before King Cormac has power to dispel sorrow and sick-
ness. The hard rock is gifted with a voice and can both an-
swer and prophesy. Even the billows of Ocean are inspired
with a spirit, and when a catastrophe is impending the
Wave of Cliodhna rolls in upon the shore in thunder. The
very air is tenanted by supernatural beings. When " the
battle-fighting battle-winning hero Cuchulain ': springs
into his chariot, there shout around him " spirits and
goblins and spirits of the air and demons of the glens."
Venomous witches ride upon the wind, and the direction
from which the breeze blows at the time of birth influences
the rest of a man's existence. Even among the early
Christians this sympathy with the animal creation re-
mained. Saint Columcille when in exile at Iona is made
aware that a heron from Ireland with long-drawn weary
strokes of its wounded wings has a lit half frozen upon
the furthest point of his island, and he sends one of the
brothers to care for the bird and chafe its wings and feed
it, because it had come from Erin, from the land he should
not see with his eyes again forever. And when Columcille
himself is about to die, although seemingly in health, the
old white horse, the faithful servant of the monks of Iona,
is mysteriously aware of what the monks themselves did
not know, and approaching the saint thrusts its head into
xviii EARLY IRISH LITERATURE.
his bosom and weeps copious tears. And the story runs
that one of the early Irish saints, finding- that while im-
mersed in prayer and meditation a blackbird had made a
nest upon his hand, which was extended through the win-
dow, refused to chase the bird away or to withdraw his
hand until she had hatched her eggs!
This excessive love of nature among the early Irish is
all the more remarkable when we remember that it has
always been believed that the Aryan races owe their ap-
preciation of the beauties of nature to the introduction
among them of Christianity. Religion for the first time
taught them that the same God that created them created
also all their surroundings, and thereby made these sur-
roundings an object of increased interest. Any esthetic
sensibility, where nature was concerned, seems to have
been practically unknown among the Pagans of Greece
and Rome. According to Humboldt, we discern the first
faint traces of it in Cicero and the younger Pliny. But
the Irish Pagan seems to have been penetrated with it to
his profoundest depths, for there can be little doubt that
such descriptions as I have quoted do not take their color
from Christianity, but are a real legacy from pre-Christian
times.
No account of Irish literature, however brief, can be
given without mentioning the elaborate system of bards,
poets, and meters, which seems to have assumed shape in
very early days. There was probably never any race of peo-
ple who so reverenced, admired, and, better still, rewarded
their poets, as did the Irish. The complexity of the bardic
system almost takes one's breath away. There were two
classes of poets, the files (fillas) and the bards, the latter
being quite inferior in rank to the former. The bards were
divided into Free and Un-Free, or Patrician and Plebeian,
There are eight grades of Patrician and eight of Plebeian
bards, each with his own restrictions and laws. These
shared between them, with the more powerful files, the
three hundred or more meters which had been invented in
pre-Danish times. The names, and specimens of the greater
part of these meters, have come down to us in the surviv-
ing fragments of the poets' books and they are of intense
interest.
It is a tremendous claim to make for the Celt that
EARLY IRISH LITERATURE. xix
he taught Europe to rhyme, yet this claim has beeu made
for him over and over again, not by himself, but by
some of the greatest European linguists. The illustrious
Zeuss, the founder of Celtic studies, is emphatic upon this
point. " The form of Celtic poetry," he writes, " to judge
both from the older and more recent examples, appears to
be more ornate than the form of any other nation, and
even more ornate in the older forms than in the modern
ones; from the fact of which greater ornateness it un-
doubtedly came to pass that at the very time when the
Roman empire was hastening to its ruin, the Celtic forms
— at first entire, afterward in part — passed over not only
into the songs of the Latins but also into those of other
nations and remained in them." He unhesitatingly
ascribes the advance toward rhyme, made by the Anglo-
Saxons in their Latin hymns, to Irish influence. " We
must believe," he said, " that this form of composition
was introduced amongst them by the Irish, as were
the arts of writing and of painting and of ornamenting
manuscripts, since they themselves in common with the
other Germanic nations made use in their poetry of
nothing but alliteration." " Final assonance or rhyme
can have been derived only from the laws of Celtic phonol-
ogy," says Constantine Nigra. One thing at least is cer-
tain, that already in the seventh century the Irish not only
rhymed but used intricate and beautiful meters of their
own, while for many centuries after this period the Ger-
manic nations could only rudely alliterate. After the
seventh century the Irish brought their rhyming system
to a pitch of perfection undreamed of by any other nation,
even to this day. The elaborateness of the system they
evolved, the prodigious complexity of the rules, the subtlety,
delicacy, and intricacy of llieir poetical code, are astound-
ing, and wholly unparalleled by anything that the rest of
the western world has produced.
After the coming of the Normans, Irish art and Irish
literature began to decline, and the next four centuries
produced little except the rather stereotyped poems of the
bardic houses, whose imaginative faculties were too much
overridden by the artificial difficulties of their art — diffi-
culties which they seem to have almost taken a delight in
creating for themselves. In the seventeenth century the
xx EARLY IRISH LITERATURE.
great Gaelic houses, overthrown by incessant wars with
English invaders, began to succumb to fire and sword and
banishment, and the fortunes of the hereditary bards fell
with the fortunes of their patrons. Then a new school
arose from among the people themselves, untrammeled by
technicalities, and produced an exquisite new growth of
poetry throughout the length and breadth of Ireland. The
motto of the new school might have been couched in the
words which Uhland addressed to the poets of Germany:
' ' Formel halt uns nicht gebunden,
Unsere Kunst heisst Poesie ! "
Scores and scores of new and brilliant meters, based upon
an accentual instead of the old syllabic system, made their
appearance, and the Irish deprived by law of their trade,
their education, their lands, and all the rights and possi-
bilities of free men, could do nothing else but sing, which
they did in almost every county in Ireland, with all the
sweetness of the dying swan.
Irish literature never quite ceased to be written, but the
nineteenth century produced little worth remembering.
It is only within the last few years that a new and able
school of Irish writers has sprung up, with a sympathetic
public to encourage it, and bids fair to do something once
again that may be worthy of the history of our island —
once one of the spots most desirous of learning and of lit-
erature to be found in the whole world. The tenth volume
of ' Irish Literature ' contains some specimens of this new
school with translations.
<**f£-? A^OA
/DOJA3H . IT TO KOITHOS A
T3HH3
>a arlJ lo JanDeunsfn bsiGnimuIli rfehl ,
fbirM .rrilduQ ,9§yIIo3 yJinhT ru won .'(lut
.bnbf 8(Hr
*
A PORTION OF THE GENEALOGY OF JESUS
CHRIST
From the book of Kelts
An Irish illuminated manuscript of the seventh cen-
tury, now in Trinity College, Dublin, which contains so
many great treasures of this kind.
l)r Douglas Hyde calls the book of K ells "the un
approachable glory of Irish illumination."
© ■pairc^jpf* "» maitioc<
9l ® puu; — W# losepl^is*
® pwi© — ## W«SS^
CONTENTS OF VOLUME II.
PAGE
Early Irish Literature. — Dr. Douglas Hyde .
. vii
Butler, Sir William Francis .
. 415
First Sight of the Rocky Mountains, fr.
'The
Great Lone Land ' ...
. 415
An African Queen, fr. ' Akim-Foo ' .
. 418
Butt, Isaac
. 421
. On Land Tenure ....
. 422
A Scene in the South of Ireland, fr. ' The
Irish
People and the Irish Land ' .
. 427
Caffyn, Mrs. Mannington ....
. 429
Little Britons, fr. * The Yellow Aster '
. 429
Callanan, James Joseph ....
. 438
Gougane Barra
. 439
The Girl I love
. 440
The Outlaw of Loch Lene .
. 441
0 say, my brown Drimin
. 442
The White Cockade ....
. 442
The Lament of O'Gnive .
. 443
And must we part? ....
. 445
Dirge of O'Sullivan Bear .
. 445
Campbell, Lady Colin
. 448
A Modern iEgeria, fr. ' Darell Blake '
. 448
Campion, John T
. 4G3
Emmet's Death
. 463
Canning, George
. 4G4
On the English Constitution .
. 465
Song, fr. ' The Rover '
. 466
The Friend of Humanity and the 1
£nife-
467
XXI
XXII
CONTENTS.
PAGE
Carbery, Ethna. See Macrnanus, Mrs. Seuinas.
Carleton, William 469
The Battle of the Factions . . . .472
Shane Fadh's Wedding 512
Condy Cullen and the Gauger .... 541
The Fate of Frank M'Kenna . . . .553
The Curse, fr. ' Party Fight and Funeral ' . 559
Paddy's Corcoran's Wife 562
Casey, Miss (E. Owens Blackburne) . . . 565
Biddy Brady's Banshee, fr. ' A Bunch of Sham-
rocks '........ 565
Casey, John Keegan 572
The Rising of the Moon 572
Gracie og Machree 573
Donal Kenny 574
Castle, Mrs. Egerton 576
An Affair of Honor 576
Cherry, Andrew 586
The Bay of Biscay 586
The Green Little Shamrock of Ireland . . 587
Tom Moody 588
Chesson, Mrs. W. H. (Nora Hopper) . . . 590
The King of Ireland's Son .... 590
The Gray Fog 591
The cuckoo sings in the heart of winter . . 591
The Fairy Fiddler 592
The Dark Man 592
The Faery Fool 593
Niam 594
Clarke, Joseph Ignatius Constantine . . . 596
Fore-Song to Malmorda 596
The Fighting Race . . . . . - 598
Clerke, Agnes Mary 601
The Planet Venus, Hesperus and Phosphor . 601
COXTEXTS.
xxni
Cobbe, Frances Power
The Contagion of Love, fr
Emotions '
Code, Henry Brereton
The Sprig of Shillelah
Coleman, Patrick James .
Seed-Time .
Bindin' the Oats
Colum, Padraic .
The Plower
A Drover .
Congreve, William
Amoret
The Mourning Bride
Connell, F. Norrys .
From Alma Mater to De
Fool and his Heart '
an
Pro
Essay on
undis, fr.
CONNELLAN, OvrEN
The Hospitality of Cuanna's House .
The Capture of Hugh Roe O'Donnell, fr.
nals of the Four Masters '
The Escape of Hugh Roe, fr. ' Annals <
Four Masters '
Dublin Life
Costello, Mary .
Jane: A Sketch from
Coyne, Joseph Stirling
Tim Hogan's Ghost
Crawford, Mrs. Julia
'Kathleen Mavourneen
Dermot Astore .
Croker, Mrs. B. M.
Old Lady Ann, fr. ' In the Kingdom of Kei
PAGE
G05
The
. 605
. 607
. GOT
. 009
. 609
. 610
. 612
. 612
. 613
. 614
. 614
. 615
The
616
616
. 629
. 629
' An-
. 632
f the
. 635
i'.v
. 640
. 640
. 644
. 645
. 658
. 658
. 658
. 660
660
XXIV
CONTENTS.
Croker, John Wilson
The Guillotine in France, fr. ' The History of
the Guillotine'
Croker, Thomas Crofton .
Confessions of Tom Bourke
The Soul Cages, fr. ' Fairy Legends and Tradi
tions '.....
The Haunted Cellar .
Teigue of the Lee
Fairies or No Fairies
Flory Cantillon's Funeral .
The Banshee of the MacCarthys
The Brewery of Egg-Shells
The Story of the Little Bird, fr. ' The Amulet
The Lord of Dunkerron, fr. ' Fairy Legends '
Croly, George
The Firing of Rome, fr. ' Salathiel the Im
mortal ' .
Catiline, Scene fr.
The Island of Atlantis
Crommelin, May ....
The Amazing Ending of a Charade, fr. ' The
Luck of a Lowland Laddie ' .
Crotty, Julia
A Blast, fr. ' Neighbors ' .
Curran, Henry Grattan .
Wearing of the Green
A Lament, fr. the Irish of John O'Neachtan
Curran, John Philpot
On Catholic Emancipation
The Liberty of the Press .
The Disarming of Ulster .
Farewell to the Irish Parliament.
Speech at Newry Election .
The Deserter's Meditation
The Monks of the Screw .
Some of Curran's Witticisms
PAGE
675
676
6S0
081
095
707
714
720
721
727
731
731
730
739
739
747
749
751
751
758
758
767
707
708
770
773
778
780
783
788
790
797
798
CONTENTS. xxv
PAGK
D'Alton, John 803
Claragh's Lament, fr. the Irish of John Mac-
donnell 803
Why, liquor of life? fr. the Irish of O'Carolan . 805
Darley, George 807
True Loveliness ....... 807
Ethelstan, Song fr 809
The Fairy Court, f r. ' Sylvia ' . . .809
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS IN VOLUME II.
PAGE
TRINITY COLLEGE, DUBLIN Frontispiece
From a photograph.
Founded by Queen Elizabeth. Its annual income is about
$350,000, and the average number of students is about 1,400.
With the University of Dublin, it is represented in Parliament
by two members. Here are some of the most precious of the
Ancient Illuminated Irish MSS. of which we give some ex-
amples in Irish Literature.
A PORTION OF THE GENEALOGY OF JESUS CHRIST . xx
From the Book of Kells.
An Irish Illuminated MS. of the Seventh Century, now in Trin-
ity College, Dublin, which contains so many great treasures
of this kind.
Dr. Douglas Hyde calls the Book of Kells " the unapproachable
glory of Irish Illumination."
CORK HARBOR (Queenstown) 427
From a photograph.
The most beaxitiful harbor in the United Kingdom, and the
finest, most capacious and secure haven in Europe.
GOUGANE BARRA 439
From a photograph.
A small lake formed by the streams which descend from the
mountains that divide the counties of Cork and Kerry.
"There is a green island in lone Gougano Barra,
Whence Allu of Songs rushes forth like an arrow ;
In deep-valleyed Desmond a thousand wild fountains
Come down to that lake, from their home in the mountains.
—James J. Callanan.
CROMWELL'S BRIDGE 445
Glengariffe, County Cork. From a photograph.
In ancient times the bridge formed part of the old Btuehaven
road, and there is a tradition that it was built at an hour's notice
from Cromwell when on a visit to the O'Sullivans.
WILLIAM CARLETON 469
From the drawing by C. Gray, R. H. I.
AN IRISH COTTAGE INTERIOR 512
From a photograph.
AGNES EGERTON CASTLE ....... 576
From a photograph by G. West of Godalming and Hasle-
mere, England.
x \ v 1 1
xxvm LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
J. I. C. CLARKE 596
From a photograph by McMichael, New York.
KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN 658
This picture, from a photograph of an Irish girl, showing the
ordinary peasant dress, makes us understand the sorrow
of parting described in the song with the above title :
"Mavourneen, Mavourneen, my sad tears are falling,
To think that from Erin and thee I must part ;
It may be for years, and it may be forever ;
Then why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart ?
Then why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen ? "
JOHN WILSON CROKER 675
From an engraving.
JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN 770
From an engraving by C. J. Wagstaff , from the painting by
Thomas Lawrence, F. R. A.
THE OLD HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT (now the Bank of
Ireland) 788
From a photograph.
The first meeting of the Irish House of Parliament on College
Green was in October, 1731 ; the last was in 1800, the members
being induced by bribery and corruption to vote their rights
away. The buildings stand upon five acres of ground and are
now used as the office of the Bank of Ireland. In the foreground
is seen the typical Irish jaunting car, and in the middle distance
J. H. Foley's statue of Burke, of which we also present a nearer
view.
SIR WILLIAM FRANCIS FttJTI^R.
a « • • %i •
(1838 )"'
> * '
Major-General Sir W. F. Butler, K.C.B., the well-known soldier-
author, was born in 1838. He was educated in a Jesuit college and
trained for his profession at Sandhurst. At twenty years of age he
was appointed to an ensigncy in the 69th Regiment, and rose rapidly,
becoming captain in 1872; major, 1874; and deputy ad jutant quarter-
master-general, headquarters staff, 1876.
He served with distinction on the Red River expedition, and acted
as special commissioner to the Saskatchewan Territories in 1870 and
1871. While in command of the West Akim native forces during
the Ashantee war, he was honorably mentioned in several dis-
patches of Sir Garnet Wolseley. In 1874 he received the order of
Companion of the Bath. In 1877 he married Miss Elizabeth Thomp-
son, the famous painter of ' The Roll Call,' etc. He also served in
the Zulu war, and the Egyptian campaigns of 1882, 1884-85.
He prepared the first portion of the Nile flotilla in 1884; he was in
the Soudanese war in 1886; in Egypt from 1890 to 1893; was ap-
pointed to the Cape command in '98-99 and was made Lieutenant-
General in 1900. Throughout his military career he has, with the
one exception recorded in his ' History of a Failure, an account of
the English attack on Coomassie,' been conspicuously successful.
He has received frequent commendations from superiors and many
■ other marks of distinction.
While in North America he collected materials for his two well-
known works, ' The Great Lone Land ' and 4 The Wild North Land.'
He has written also ' Akim-foo, the History of a Failure,' ' Far and
Out,' ' Red Cloud, the Solitary Sioux,' ' The Campaign of the Cata-
racts,' 'Charles George Gordon,' 'Sir Charles Napier,' and 'Sir
George Pomeroy Colley.' He is a born litterateur, and in his hands
the history of a military campaign becomes a romance.
FIRST SIGHT OF THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS.
From ' The Great Lone Land.'
It was near sunset when we rode by the lonely shores of
the Gull Lake, whose frozen surface stretched beyond the
horizon to the north. Before us, at a distance of some ten
miles, lay the abrupt line of the Three Medicine Hills,
from whose gorges the first view of the great range of the
Rocky Mountains was destined to burst upon my sight.
But not on this day was I to behold that long-looked-for
vision. Night came quickly down upon the silent wilder-
ness; and it was long after dark when we made our
415
410 IRISH LITERATURE.
camps by the bank of the Pas-co-pee, or Blindman's River,
and turned adrift the weary horses to graze in a well-
grassed meadow lying in one of the curves of the river.
^V had riddeh moi'e than sixty miles that day.
About midnight a heavy storm of snow burst upon us,
and daybreak revealed the whole camp buried deep in
snow. As I threw back the blankets from my head (one al-
ways lies covered up completely) , the wet, cold mass struck
chillily upon my face. The snow was wet and sticky, and
therefore things were much more wretched than if the tem-
perature had been lower; but the hot tea made matters
seem brighter, and about breakfast-time the snow ceased
to fall, and the clouds began to clear away. Packing our
wet blankets together, we set out for the Three Medicine
Hills, through whose defiles our course lay; the snow was
deep in the narrow valleys, making traveling slower and
more laborious than before. It was mid-day when, having
rounded the highest of the three hills, we entered a nar-
row gorge fringed with a fire-ravaged forest. This gorge
wound through the hills, preventing a far-reaching view
ahead ; but at length its western termination was reached,
and there lay before me a sight to be long remembered.
The great chain of the Eocky Mountains rose their snow-
clad sierras in endless succession. Climbing one of the
eminences, I gained a vantage-point on the summit from
which some bygone fire had swept the trees. Then, looking
west, I beheld the great range in unclouded glory. The
snow had cleared the atmosphere, the sky was coldly
bright. An immense plain stretched from my feet to the
mountain — a plain so vast that every object of hill and
wood and lake lay dwarfed into one continuous level, and
at the back of this level, beyond the pines and the lakes
and the river-courses, rose the giant range, solid, impassa-
ble, silent — a mighty barrier rising midst an immense land,
standing sentinel over the plains and prairies of America,
over the measureless solitudes of this Great Lone Land.
Here at last lay the Rocky Mountains.
Leaving behind the Medicine Hills, we descended into
the plain and held our way until sunset towards the west.
It was a calm and beautiful evening; far-away objects
stood out sharp and distinct in the pure atmosphere of
these elevated regions. For some hours we had lost sight
SIR WILLIAM FRANCIS BUTLER. 417
of the mountains, but shortly before sunset the summit of
a long ridge was gained, and they burst suddenly into view
in greater magnificence than at mid-day. Telling my men
to go on and make the camp at the Medicine River, I rode
through some fire-wasted forest to a lofty grass-covered
height which the declining sun was bathing in floods of
glory.
I cannot hope to put into the compass of words the
scene which lay rolled beneath from this sunset-lighted
eminence; for as I looked over the immense plain and
watched the slow descent of the evening sun upon the
frosted crest of these lone mountains, it seemed as if the
varied scenes of my long journey had woven themselves
into the landscape, filling with the music of memory the
earth, the sky, and the mighty panorama of mountains.
Here at length lay the barrier to my onward wanderings,
here lay the boundary to that 4,000 miles of unceasing
travel which had carried me by so many varied scenes so far
into the lone lands; and other thoughts were not wanting.
The peaks on which I gazed were no pigmies; they stood
the culminating monarchs of the mighty range of the
Rocky Mountains. From the estuary of the Mackenzie to
the Lake of Mexico no point of the American continent
reaches higher to the skies. That eternal crust of SHOW
seeks in summer widely severed oceans.
The Mackenzie, the Columbia, and the Saskatchewan
spring from the peaks whose teeth-like summits lie grouped
from this spot into the compass of a single glance. The
clouds that cast their moisture upon this long line of tip*
heaven rocks seek again the ocean which gave them birth
in its far-separated divisions of Atlantic, Pacific, and Arc-
tic. The sun sank slowly behind the range, and darkness
began to fall on the immense plain, but aloft on the top1
most edge the pure white of the jagged crest-line glowed
for an instant in many colored silver, and then the lonely
peaks grew dark and dim.
As thus T watched from the silent hill-top this great
mountain-chain, whose summits slept in the glory Of the
sunset, it seemed no Stretch of fancy which made the red
man place his paradise beyond their golden peaks. The
"Mountains of the Selling Sun;' the "Bridge of the
WOrld," thus he has named them, and beyond them
27
418 IRISH LITERATURE.
the soul first catches a glimpse of that mystical land
where the tents are pitched midst everlasting verdure and
countless herds and the music of ceaseless streams.
AN AFRICAN QUEEN.
From ' Akim-Foo.'
On the day following my arrival, Queen Amaquon came
to visit me. She brought with her a large bevy of the ug-
liest women I had ever seen. The dress of the queen and
the court at Swaidroo was peculiar. Queen Amaquon
wore a necklace of beads, a stick and a scant silk cloth;
her ladies were attired in a costume which for simplicity
and economy, I can safely recommend to the talented
authoress of that charming book, " How to Dress on Fif-
teen Pounds a Year," since it might almost be achieved
on as many pence. Nearly all the ladies had babies on
their backs; there were no men. Here and there in the
crowd one occasionally saw a woman with the peculiar eye
and eyelash of the better-looking Akims — an eye which I
have nowhere else noted on the coast or in the interior.
I was introduced in turn to the queen's daughters, to
her " fetish woman," a large wild-eyed lassie, and to sev-
eral other ladies of rank and quality. As the ceremony
was gone through, the lady presented stepped out into
the hut, and shook hands with me as I lay on my couch;
and it not unfrequently happened that the baby on the
bustle at her back, looking out under her elbow and be-
holding a white man in such close proximity, would howl
in terror at the sight.
At first but a limited number of women came into the in-
ner yard of my hut, and the queen alone entered the hut
itself; but as the interview went on the outsiders grew
bolder, and at last the yard and opposite hut were filled to
overflowing.
But the event of the day was the statement of the
queen's illness. I had tried to turn her mind to war. I
had spoken of the warlike deeds of a former queen of
Akim — of how, sword in hand, she had led her soldiers
SIR WILLIAM FRANCIS BUTLER. 419
against the Ashantis at Dodowa, saying, " Osay has driven
me from my kingdom because he thinks I am weak; but
though I am a woman he shall see I have the heart of a
man " ; but the effort was useless.
" That was all true," she said ; but the point which
grieved her most was this illness under which she suffered,
and on which she wanted my opinion.
Now I was sufficiently ill myself to make the diagnosis
of an old lady's ailment by no means an attractive pastime.
I doubt if at any time I should have entered into such a
question with the slightest interest. Nevertheless, the
situation was not without novelty, and African fever was
not so totally depressing as to shut out the ridiculous as-
pect of finding myself Physician Extraordinary to Her
Majesty Queen Amaquon of Akim. Seated on a low stool,
she began the statement of her case. There is no necessity
to enter now into the symptoms. They consisted of the
usual number of pains, in the usual number of places, at
the usual number of hours; but their cause and cure? — ah,
that was the question.
" Did I consider," asked the queen, " these symptoms
could have had their origin in poison? She had visited
Cape Coast Castle four years before this time, and ever
since her return had suffered from this ailment. Perhaps
she had been poisoned by the people of the Coast? "
I inquired " if she had consumed much rum during that
visit to the coast? Rum was a subtle poison." The soft
impeachment of having tippled freely was as freely ad-
mitted; but it was a mistake to suppose that rum could
harm anybody. " Surely, among the medicines which I
carried, I must have some drug which would restore her
to health."
Now my stock of drugs was not a large one. The specifics
in use against fever were precious, they could not be
spared.
Had I any more? Yes — a bottle of spirit of sal volatile.
Iler majesty bent her nose to the bottle, and the tent shook
with her oft-repeated sneezes.
The whole court was in a commotion. The fetish woman
demanded a smell; the royal daughters grew bolder; the
Indies pressed in from without, and the queen declared
when sneezing left her at liberty to articulate, that she
420 IRISH LITERATURE.
felt immensely relieved. It was some time before order
could be fully restored.
The heat meantime became stifling, and the press of wo-
men seemed to threaten suffocation. " Tell Queen Ama-
quon," I said to the interpreter, " that to-morrow I will see
her again. Meanwhile I have to cure myself." With dif-
ficulty I got rid of the lot.
ISAAC BUTT.
(1813—1879.)
The reader will look in vain through the speeches of Isaac Butt for
passages of sustained beauty. Butt's great merit was that he was
emphatically a man of ideas, not of words ; filled with his subject,
he forgot mere form ; many of his sentences were unfinished, all of
them rugged ; and yet since O'Connell there was perhaps no Irish
political orator who could so thoroughly convince and so deeply
thrill Irish audiences.
Isaac Butt was born in Stranorlar, County Donegal, in 1813. He
entered Trinity College in 1832, and his course, both in his studies and
in the College Historical Society, was brilliant. He held the chair of
political economy. In 1838 he was called to the bar, and six years
after he was made a Q. C. ; for many years subsequently be was en-
gaged in every important trial, political or otherwise, which took
place in Ireland.
He had the honor of meeting the redoubtable O'Connell himself in
a pitched battle on the question of Repeal of the Union, in the Dublin
Corporation, and the great agitator paid a high compliment to the
talents and the good feeling of his youthful opponent. In 1852 he
was elected in the Conservative interest for Harwich. Then he sat
for Youghal until 1865, when he was rejected by his old constituents,
owing to his changed political views. The nature of the change
may be gathered from the fact that he took a prominent part in
defending Fenian prisoners, and thus rose to high popularity in
the National party. Having now adopted Home Rule as a national
platform, he devoted to it all his energies of pen and tongue and
organization. He was returned without opposition for the city of
Limerick in September, 1871, and for several sessions he was the un-
disputed leader of the Home Rule party. As time went on, younger
and more ardent spirits proposed a policy more active than Mr.
Butt was willing to sanction, and his last days were probably embit-
tered by the sense of waning power. He died after a lingering ill-
ness in 1879. His death evoked a feeling of universal and deep
sorrow, for the splendor of his talents, the genuineness of his nature,
and, above all, his simplicity and modesty, made him one of the most
loveable of men.
Mr. Butt was a very prolific writer. He was among the founders
of and earliest contributors to the Dublin University Magazine. His
stories in that journal were republished under the title ' Chapters of
College Romance.' His other most ambitious work is a ' Histoiy of
Italy from the Abdication of Napoleon I.' A book of his on ' Tbe
Irish People and the Irish Land ' is a marvel of analytic power.
421
422 IRISH LITERATURE.
ON LAND TENURE.
From a Speech in the House of Commons, 1876.
I have now brought down to 1866 the testimonies as to
the state of feeling which exists between the landed pro-
prietors and the occupants of the soil. However much we
may regret that feeling, and desire to remove it, the legis-
lature must deal with circumstances and with feelings as
they exist. No such feeling exists in England, and there-
fore English gentlemen have difficulty in forming a correct
opinion upon it; but I do not hesitate to say that there is
a general desire on the part of the landed proprietors of
Ireland to keep their tenants in a state of subjection to
themselves. Remember this desire is not confined to those
landlords who may be described as being cruel and hard,
it is shared in by the landlords who would treat their ten-
ants kindly and even aid them in distress. How was the
object of the landlords accomplished? Simply by the
power of notice to quit. I am speaking, of course, before
the time the Land Bill became law.
In a trial in which I was engaged I examined a gentle-
man who was believed to have a large number of notices
to quit, but he denied it. I then asked him — " Did you not
serve some last year? "
" Yes," he replied, " but I do that every year — it is part
of the management of my estate. I never intend to act
upon a notice, but I want to be able to take any field or
holding in case I should wish to do so, and, therefore, I
give notice to quit each year."
Yet this was a landlord of a humane and kindly char-
acter, who would not treat a tenant harshly. It is his de-
sire to keep his tenants under his own power that so easily
reconciles to his conscience the practice I have just alluded
to. The Irish landlords think they can do much better for
the tenant than he can for himself. I believe that a coun-
try in which you allow the mass of the population to be re-
duced to a state of serfdom never can be prosperous, never
can be contented, and never can be peaceful. Bad land-
lords will abuse the power which a good landlord will only
use for a beneficial purpose. The landlords who could
serve notices to quit have two powers in their hands. They
ISAAC BUTT. 423
have the power of capricious eviction, and the power of ar-
bitrarily raising the rents. While there are landlords in
Ireland who would scorn to do either of these things, there
were others who did them with a reckless cruelty which
had not a parallel in history.
I do not wish to dwell on the fearful scenes enacted be-
tween 1847 and 1852, but in a book of high authority, Mr.
Kay's ' Social Condition of Europe,' I find it stated that
in one year, 1849, no fewer than 500,000 civil bill eject-
ments were served in Ireland; and I may add that I myself
have seen whole districts desolated. Sir Matthew Barring-
ton relates that immediately Parliament passed the Poor
Law, the landlords of Ireland began to clear their estates
by notices to quit and by tumbling down houses. On many
occasions the military were brought in to throw down
houses, and hundreds of people were, to use an expressive
phrase, thrown on the road, simply because the landlord
wished to get rid of the superabundant population.
Many measures, passed by statesmen with a most honest
intention of doing good to Ireland, have produced results
directly the reverse. This was because they were framed
by men who had not the knowledge which can only be ac-
quired by residence among the people, and by a long and in-
timate acquaintance with the circumstances. The case
of the Poor Law was an instance of this, for it ought to
have been foreseen that the giving of relief to the poor
would lead to the very evil which followed. I will give one
instance of what occurred. The matter came into a court
of justice because the landlord, fortunately for justice,
made some slight mistake in his proceedings.
It was the case of an estate in the county of Meath, and
there were on it twenty-seven families. It was admitted
that their labor made the property rich and profitable,
and that they never had been in arrear one half-year's
rent during the thirty years that the landlord had been in
possession of the estate. Tin1 landlord got embarrassed,
and he sold the estate to a gentleman, who purchased it on
condition that all the tenants should be evicted. The land-
lord concealed this circumstance from the tenants, and
when he served them with notice to quit told them lie did
not intend to act upon it. Well, a jury of landlords gave
to one of the evicted tenants the full value of the fee-simple
of the land.
424 IRISH LITERATURE.
Such tilings, it should be remembered, could not be done
in England, for Henry VIII. got his Parliament to pass an
act that every landlord who pulled down a house should
build it up again in six months, and in the reign of Queen
Elizabeth another act was passed that gave a legal right of
relief to every one who was born on the soil. If there had
been a law of settlement in Ireland, many of the landlords
who were now living on their estates would be in the work-
house to which they consigned their tenants.
But there was a still more grievous wrong — namely, the
power of the landlord to confiscate the improvements of
his tenants in Ireland. All the improvements of the soil —
certainly all the improvements made up to a very recent
period — were effected by the tenants. Yet there was noth-
ing to prevent an unscrupulous landlord from confiscating
these improvements, and, in point of fact, it was done over
and over again. Lord Clarendon, I think it was, who spoke
of it in the other House as a legalized robbery. It was to
that state of things that the Land Act was applied. I be-
lieve that any friend to the Irish tenant would act very
wrongly indeed if he spoke of the author of that act in
other terms than those of profound respect, knowing, as I
do, the difficulties he had to contend with and the pre-
judices he had to meet. I give him every credit for that
act.
At the same time, I regret to say, it has failed, from a
reason which I foresaw, — as you leave to the landlords the
power of eviction. In the circumstances of Ireland no de-
vice that the legislature can make can prevent them from
converting that tremendous power into an instrument
to render themselves absolute despots over their tenants.
Still the act established a principle. It first legalized the
Ulster tenant right. Now, what is the meaning of that?
As property which was only protected by custom, and to
which the tenant had no legal claim whatever, except in
justice and in honor, was converted into a legal property,
that is a very great principle as applied to Irish land. . . .
I will now detain the House a few minutes by referring
to some incidents which, I confess, have had effect on my
own mind in reference to the value of giving security to
tenants. One of the incidents is an old one, as old as the
days of Arthur Young, who certainly described in a strik-
ing way what was the benefit of giving security to tenants.
ISAAC BUTT. 425
He says that a man with a wife and six children met Sir
William Osborne in the county of Tipperary. The man
could get no land, and Sir William Osborne gave him
twelve acres of heathy land, and £4 to stock it with.
Twelve years afterwards, when Young revisited Ireland,
he went to see the man, and found him with twelve acres
under full cultivation. Three other persons he found set-
tled in the same way, and he says their industry had no
bounds, nor was the day long enough for their energy. He
says if you give tenants security, and let them be certain
of enjoying the rewards of their labor, and treat them as
Sir William Osborne did, there would be no better or more
industrious farmers in the world. I have often thought of
that, and have said that if there had been men like Sir Wil-
liam Osborne to give employment to those who have been
evicted, and who took part in the Irish insurrection, there
would not have been a better set of farmers in the kingdom.
Now let me refer to another case. A Roman Catholic
prelate, whom I can respect as much as a prelate of my
own church, was examined before a committee of this
House, and illustrated the advantages of giving security to
the tenants. He describes how he one day saw a man enter
into the occupation of some land. There was nothing but
a barren heath, and he saw the man carrying on his back
manure which he had brought from a road two miles dis-
tant. Two years after the prelate again passed that way,
and he found corn growing on what had been heath, and
a house built there. It had all been done by the man him-
self, and the simple cause, he had a lease, and was thus
secure of his tenancy. The prelate then wenl to another
man who had no lease, and who said : — " If I did the same
as my neighbor has done my landlord would not only ask
for an increase of rent upon my improvements, but also
upon what I now hold."
That is the sort of discouragemenl there is to industry
all over Ireland, and it proceeds from the desire of the
landlords not so much to extract money from the tenants — ■
that is but an incident, bnl from the desire to keep the
tenants in their power. Why, on some estates in Ireland
they cannot marry, except with the consent of the land-
lord's agent, and at the risk of being evicted. I assure you
that those rules still prevail on many estates in Ireland.
Another rule which used to exist was that the tenant
A' » *)<*"> ft ».'-v#~4
42G IRISH LITERATURE.
should not harbor a man at night. There is a story of one
poor boy whose mother had been evicted from a farm, and
who sought shelter with his uncle; the uncle would have
let him in ; but his neighbors said he must not, or the agent
would evict them all. Therefore the boy was shut out, and
the next morning was found lying at the door a lifeless
corpse. The men who had refused him admittance were
tried for murder, and were convicted of manslaughter,
their defense being that they did not dare by the rules of
their farms to give him shelter. Now no rights of property
can give a man such dominion as that over his tenants, any
more than property can give dominion over the thews and
sinews of your servants. Now these evils can only be
guarded against by taking away the arbitrary power of
eviction, and allowing the tenant to hold his farm at a
valued rent. The condition of every Irish estate was orig-
inally to give security of tenure. Your landlords have not
done it.
Your ancestors were placed there not to be lords over the
people, but to settle and plant the country, and you are
there still among the people whom you have neither con-
ciliated nor subdued. There is not a landlord in Ireland
who holds land except on trust for creating upon it a con-
tented tenantry. I go upon the great principles of juris-
prudence, which will allow no right of property to stand
in the way of a general good. I go upon the principles es-
tablished by the Irish Land Act, and I ask you, as you
value the peace of Ireland, to carry those principles into
full and beneficial effect. I will say nothing more about
the peace of Ireland, or I shall be charged with making a
stereotyped peroration. I have no official responsibility
for the peace of Ireland, but I have the responsibility at-
taching to every man, who takes ever so humble a part in
public affairs, to promote peace and tranquillity. I have
the anxiety which any man must feel who looks back on the
ruin, desolation, and misery brought to many parts of Ire-
land by that civil war — for it was a civil war — which has
raged between landlord and tenant since the days of the
Cromwellian confiscation, and who regards with trembling
the indications of a renewal of the war. I rejoice to say
that those indications have at present come only from the
landlords. I trust they will cease before they come from
(iworaiaaup) floaflAH >wco
.aqo
CORK HARBOR (QUEENSTOWN)
From a photograph
The most beautiful harbor in the United Kingdom,
and the finest, most capacious, and secure haven in Europe.
ISAAC BUTT. 427
the tenants; but it is only by giving protection to these
tenants that you can have security against a return to that
state of things which every man of right feeling deplored.
A SCENE IN THE SOUTH OF IRELAND.
From ' The Irish People and the Irish Land.'
Let me say once for all how I came to write. Two years
ago I had formed views of the land question, as, I suppose,
most persons in my position have. I was satisfied of that
which lies on the very surface — that insecurity of tenure
is a great evil. I was convinced that compensation for
tenants' improvements was just and right; but when
I saw the people flying in masses from their homes I felt
that really to understand the question we must go deeper
than all this — that there must be some mischief deeply
rooted in our social system, which in a country blessed
with advantages like ours produced results so strangely
contrary to everything which the laws which regulate the
history of nations or the conduct of classes or individuals
might lead us to expect.
An accident turned my thoughts more intensely in this
direction. Traveling on the Southern railway, I wit-
nessed one of those scenes too common in our country, but
which, I believe, no familiarity can make any person of
feeling witness without emotion. The station was crowded
with emigrants and their friends who came to see them off.
There was nothing unusual in the occurrence — nothing
that is not often to be seen. Old men walked slowly, and
almost hesitatingly, to the carriages that were to take them
away from the country to which they were never to return.
Railway porters placed in the train strange boxes and
chests of every shape and size, sometimes even small ar-
ticles of furniture, which told that the owners were taking
with them their little all. In the midst of them a brother
and a sister bade each other their last farewell — a mother
clasped passionately to her breast the son whom she must
never see again. Women carried or led to their places in
the carriages little children, who looked round as if they
428 IRISH LITERATURE.
knew not what all this meant, but wept because they saw
their mothers weeping. Strong men turned aside to dash
from their eye the not unmanly tear. As the train began
to move there was the uncontrollable rush, the desperate
clinging to the carriages of relatives crowding down to
give the last shake-hands. The railway servants pushed
them back — we moved on more rapidly — and then rose
from the group we left behind a strange mingled cry of
wild farewells, and prayers, and blessings, and that mel-
ancholy wail of Irish sorrow which no one who has heard
will ever forget — and we rushed on with our freight of sor-
rowing and reluctant exiles across a plain of fertility un-
surpassed, perhaps, in any European soil. It was a light
matter, but still there was something in that picture — close
to us rose the picturesque ruins which seemed to tell us
from the past that there were days when an Irish race had
lived, and not lived in poverty, upon that very plain.
These are scenes which surely no Irishman should see
without emotion. The transient feeling they may excite is
but of little use except as it may be suggestive of thought.
It was impossible not to ask why were these people thus
flying from their homes, deserting that rich soil. I could
not but feel that no satisfactory solution of the question
had yet been given. I asked myself if it were not a re-
proach to those among us whom God had raised a little
above that people by the advantages of intellect and educa-
tion if we gave no real earnest thought to such an inquiry;
and I formed a purpose — I almost made to myself a vow —
that I would employ, as far as I could, whatever little
power I had acquired in investigating facts in endeavor-
ing to trace the strange mystery to its origin.
MRS. MANNINGTON CAFFYN ("IOTA").
Kathleen Goring was born at Waterloo House, County Tip-
perary, the daughter of William Hunt and Louisa Goring. She was
educated at home by English and German governesses, and lived in
the country till she was twenty-one, when she trained for nursing
at St. Thomas's Hospital ; after a short nursing career, she married
Dr. Mannington Caffyn, an able surgeon, writer, and inventor.
His ill health obliged them to emigrate to Australia, where they
lived for several years, Mrs. Caffyn contributing occasionally to the
newspapers there. Soon after their return, in 1893, Mrs. Caffyn
made an immense success with ' The Yellow Aster.' She has since
written ' A Comedy in Spasms,' ' Children of Circumstances,' ' A
Quaker Grandmother,' 'Poor Max,' ' AnneMauleverer,' 'The Minx,'
' The Happiness of Jill,' and has contributed to many magazines.
LITTLE BRITONS.
From ' The Yellow Aster.' »
Not only the entire county of shire but even the
whole University of Cambridge had been thrown into quite
a whirl of emotion by the marriage of Henry Waring and
Grace Selwyn, the most unexpected ever concocted in
heaven or on earth.
A Senior Wrangler and a Fellow of his college, who at
twenty-six eats, drinks, and sleeps mathematics, besides
being possessed of other devouring passions for certain
minor sciences, does not seem a very fit subject for matri-
mony with its petty follies and cares.
If one is, besides, the son of a cynic and a bookworm,
who loathed and eschewed the sex with bitter reason,
and whose own practical knowledge had been gained
chiefly through the classics and the bedmakers, the one of
which appeals but little to one's sense of propriety, the
other still less to one's fleshly sense, the prospect of a do-
mestic and patriarchal career must seem as remote as it is
undesirable.
And yvt Henry Waring found himself, to his constant
and increasing bewilderment, embarked on one almost be-
fore he altogether knew where he was.
The year previous to his marriage he had suffered a good
1 In order to give 11h> proper continuity to this extract, we have taken
the liberty of transposing chapters I. and II. — [Ed.
429
430 IRISH LITERATURE.
deal from ennui. A favorite theory in geology over which
he had peered himself half blind was suddenly exploded
without hope of reconstruction. He felt rather lost and
distrait, and cast about for some tangible solid brain work.
But to pass the time until the fresh inspiration came on,
he took to propounding stray problems, and — through the
press — launching them broadcast over the land. Strange
to say, he got answers, and by the score. A good many
more " mute inglorious Solons " infest our villages than
we have any notion of.
Mr. Waring groaned in spirit and mourned over the de-
pravity of the race as he read their epistles, and drew far-
ther back than ever into his shell. If the average man and
woman without the academical walls resembled these pro-
ductions, the less one had to do with them the better, he
very reasonably reflected.
After this had been going on for the space of three
months, he came, one morning, down to breakfast. He felt
very sick at heart; his pupils seemed so amazingly full of
enthusiasm for minor concerns, and absolutely lacking in
it for the one thing needful, that he was cut to the quick
and moved to much gentle wrath. And then these letters !
They were fast becoming his Nemesis. He ate his break-
fast and watched with umvonted pleasure some dust motes
dancing in a sunbeam, and, raising his eyes to follow them,
they unconsciously strayed farther out into the college
quad, where the dew was still sparkling on every grass
blade, and shimmering on every flower.
Mr. Waring felt quite cheerful and revived as he pushed
away his plate and cup and began to open his letters. Let-
ter after letter was laid down, a spasm of pain passing
each time across his face, and more than once an audible
groan escaped him.
At last he picked up a letter gingerly, as he handled all
this variety of correspondence — the village mathematician
being an unclean beast — but this letter seemed somehow
different; he turned it over with growing interest, and
even took the pains to examine the postmark, then he
opened it and found a quite different production from any
he had yet received.
First on opening it a curious indefinite scent struck on
his nostrils. He sniffed it up perplexedly; some queer old
MRS. MANNINGTON CAFFYN. 431
memories began to stir in him, and he paused a moment to
try and classify them, but he could not, so he set himself
to examine the contents of the missive.
The answer given to his problem was accurate and the
accompanying remarks clear, strong, and to the point,
written in a woman's hand and signed with a woman's
name, " Grace Selwyn."
That letter was answered before the breakfast things
were cleared away, and certain fresh problems inclosed
which were not sent in any other direction.
Many letters went and came after that, containing prob-
lems and their answers, the answers always full of that
strange, vague, delicious scent, which seemed to waft itself
through the study and to remain there, caught with the
dust motes in the sunbeam.
A longing and a yearning for those little notes began to
take possession of Henry Waring and to disturb his mind.
Old memories of the time when he wore frocks and toddled
began to haunt him, and his work was no longer done by
reflex action.
He consulted a doctor, but as he only confided half his
symptoms to that scientific person, quite suppressing the
letters, the doctor felt rather out of it and prescribed qui-
nine, which had no effect whatsoever.
One morning the yearning for a letter grew suddenly
quite overmastering; and none came. This was the cli-
max. By a sudden impulse which he never succeeded
in explaining to himself on any satisfactory grounds,
Mr. Waring went to his bedroom, knelt down by his big
chest of drawers, and proceeded to pack a little valise
with every article he did not want, leaving out all those
he did. Then he stepped into a cab and made for the
station.
Towards the close of the day he presented himself at
the door of a queer old red-brick manor house in Ken I
owned by a Colonel Selwyn and his wife, and asked simply
for " Miss Grace Selwyn."
In three months from that day the two came down the
path hand in hand and stepped out together on life's jour-
ney, and six months later, through the death of a cousin,
Waring Park fell to them and made up for the loss of the
Fellowship. . . .
432 IRISH LITERATURE.
The stable-yard of Waring Park seemed to be slightly
off its head on a certain fine afternoon in June. Such an
afternoon as it was, so sweet and so soft, so full of fragrant
sleepy haze, that any sound louder than the sing-song of a
cricket must have distracted any ordinary nerve-possess-
ing mortal.
On this particular afternoon, however, the sole occu-
pants of the yard were the stable-boys, the groom's urchin,
and the under-gardener's lad, and as none of these had yet
reached the level of nerves, whilst the blood of all of them
throbbed with the greed for illegal sport in every shape,
their state of lazy content was in no way upset by a medley
of blood-curdling shrieks, squeals and gobbles that issued
from the throats of a little boy and a big turkey which the
boy was swinging round and round by the tail, from the
vantage ground of a large smooth round stone, with an
amount of strength that was preternatural, if one had
judged by the mere length of him and had not taken into
consideration the enormous development of the imp's legs
and arms.
The stable-boys grinned, and smoked like furnaces as
the show proceeded, and the other two cheered like Tro-
jans, at the cruelty of the natural boy, and it might have
gone badly for the turkey, if there had not swooped down
upon him and his tormentor, just in the nick of time, a
little lean, wiry woman, armed with an authority which
even the imp, after one spasmodic struggle, saw best not to
gainsay.
" Master Dacre, whatever do you do it for? Do you
think the bird has no feelings? There is no sense in such
goings-on."
" There is sense," spluttered the boy at full speed ; " I
like bein' swung, and I like swingin' the turkey, and I '11
learn him to like it too, and if he don't learn that any-
way he '11 learn something else, which is life's discerpline,
which father says I 'in learnin', when you whip me. Ift I
want it, so does the turkey and wuss. I b'longs to higher
orders nor beasts and birds."
Here the grins of the stable-boys broke into hoarse guf-
faws, and Mary's ire culminated in a sharp rebuke all
around.
" Go to your work, you idle fellows. I told your father
MRS. MANNINGTON CAFFYN. 433
long ago, Jim, what 'ud be the latter end of you. As for
you, Robert, I could cry when I think of your blessed
mother !
"And what business have you in the yard?" she cried,
turning on the two younger sinners. " Be off with you
this instant. 'T is easy to see none of the men are about.
You two, Jim and Robert, you 'd be surprised yourselves
if you could see what soft idiots you look with them stumps
of pipes between your jaws.
" Look, Master Dacre, look at the bird's tail. LTaven't
you any heart at all? The creature might have been
through the furze covert — "
" There 's not a feather broke," said the boy, after a
critical survey, " not one ; I believe that tail were made for
swingin' as much as my arms was."
For an instant words failed Mary and she employed
herself hushing the bird into his pen. When she came
back, Dacre had disappeared, and the yard scorned to be
quite clear of human life, not to be traced even by the smell
of shag tobacco.
Pursuit was useless, as Mary very well knew, so she re-
turned to her nursery, a good deal down at heart, mutter-
ing and murmuring as she went.
" O Lord, whatever is to be the end of it all? Learning
is the ruin of the whole place, and yet them children is as
ignorant as bears, excepting for their queer words and
ways. Set them to read a Royal Reader or to tot up a
sum, bless you, they couldn't for the life of them. And
the tempers of the two," she went on, putting the cross
stitches on a darn, " their parents had no hand in them
anyway. Where they got 'em from the Lord only knows.
Tempers, indeed ! And from them two blessed babies as
bore 'em." She lifted her head and glanced out of the
window.
"Look at 'em," she whispered, "hand in hand up and
down the drive, talking mathymatics, i '11 be bound," and
Mary's eyes returned to her basket a trifle moist. She
had nursed Mrs. Waring and Mrs. Waring's children, and
she was a good soul with a deal of sentiment about her.
As it happened, Mr. and Mrs. Waring were not discuss-
ing mathematics. They were just then deeply and sol-
emnly exercised in their minds as to the exact date of a
28
434 IRISH LITERATURE.
skeleton recently unearthed from some red sandstone in the
neighborhood. They had dismissed the carriage at the hall
gates, and were now hot in argument concerning the bones,
each holding diametrically opposed views on the subject,
and struggling hard to prove his or her side.
Now and again the husband's voice rose to a pretty
high pitch, and his fine mouth was touched with a sneer,
and the wife's eyes flashed and flamed and shot out indig-
nant wrath. Her hat had fallen off far down the drive,
and her rings of yellow fluffy hair fell wildly over her fore-
head ; one small hand was clenched in eager protest, but the
other was clasped tight in her husband's.
They always went like this, these two; they had got into
the foolish way very early in their acquaintance and had
never been able to get out of it. Suddenly some common
hypothesis struck them both at once, and Mrs. Waring
cried out with a gasp :
"If we can prove it, I am right."
" Yes, if you can prove it, darling, that 's the point, and
I hope that you never will. Have you any idea, dear love,
what the proving of this will undo, what it must upset? "
" I think I have," she said slowly, her blue eyes gleaming
eagerly, " but it seems to me whenever a great hubbub is
made about the upsetting of some theory, that it generally
ends in being much ado about nothing, and that the new
thing that springs from the ashes of the old dead is infi-
nitely more beautiful than ever its predecessor was, for it
is one step nearer the truth."
" Dearest, we must end our talk," groaned Mr. Waring,
peering with terrified looks through his eye-glasses.
" Here is Gwen, most slightly clad and of a bright blue
tint, pursued by Mary. I fear very much that story of
Boadicea you told her has instigated her to this action. I
think, dearest, I will go to the study and work out this
question of date."
Mr. Waring turned nervously and made a gentle effort
to disengage his hand from his wife's, but she clutched
him firmly. " Henry," she cried, " you would not desert
me?"
" Oh, my dear," he gasped, " what can I do? The child
must be cleansed and, I presume, punished. I can be of
no use," and he still showed signs of flight, but the horror-'
MRS. MANXIXGTON CAFFYN. 435
stricken eyes of his wife, fixed pleadingly on him, made
him waver and wait.
By a superhuman effort Mary got up first.
" Oh, ma'am," she shrieked in tones that went through
Mrs. Waring's head, " oh, ma'am, look at her ! I found her
with nothing on but this rag and some leaves, painted blue,
and varnished — varnished, sir, eating acorns outside of the
orchard fence. It 's common indecency, ma'am, and if
it 's to continue I can't — "
By this time Gwen had arrived, desperately blown, but
overflowing with words; rather an advantage under the
circumstances, for her parents had not one between them.
" Mother, I were a woaded Briton and blue all over.
Mag Dow did me behind and I done the front, and it aren't
common naked if queens done it like you said. She did,
Mary, say it Thursday when she begun the history course.
Dacre was to be a woaded king too, but he were a beast and
wouldn't do nothing but swing turkeys for discerpline."
" Mary, I think perhaps you should give Miss Gwen a
bath, and then we will consider what further course to
take."
Mrs. Waring caught her skirts nervously and drew a
step nearer to her husband.
" A bath, ma'am ! Don't you see she 's painted and var-
nished? No water '11 touch that, ma'am; turpentine it
must be and cart grease, not to say paraffin, — and, ma'am,
the indecencv! "
" Please, Mary," implored the tortured woman, " oh,
please take her away and put the cart grease on — and —
the other things, and we can then talk over the rest."
Here the light of a sudden inspiration leapt into her
face, and she turned to her husband. " Henry," she said
solemnly, " do you not think that Gwen should go to bed?
She seems to me," she continued, taking a critical survey
of the blue-daubed figure, " she seems to me a little old for
such very peculiar adaptations of history."
" To bed," remarked the husband, infinitely relieved. It
seemed quite a happy solution to the whole question, and
must fulfill every purpose, — be Gwen's Nemesis, a salve to
Mary's hurt morality, and a merciful deliverance to :ill
others concerned. "Yes, a very sensible suggestion of
430 IRISH LITERATURE.
vours, dearest. I consider that it would be a most salu-
tary measure to send Gwen to bed."
" Indeed, sir," remarked Mary, without a particle of the
satisfaction that might have been expected from her, " Miss
Gwen will be fit for no other place by the time I 've done
with her, what with the paraffin and the scrubbing and
her skin that tender. Oh come, Miss, come away," she
cried grimly, laying hold of Gwen.
" Grace, my darling," said Mr. Waring, passing his free
hand wearily over his brow, " such scenes as these are in-
deed upsetting. I am quite unable to take up the thread
of our discourse."
" I feel as you do, Henry," said his wife sadly, " we seem
to have so very little time to ourselves."
" Do you think, Grace, we should procure a tutor for
those children? Let me see, how old are they? "
" I have their ages down somewhere in my tablets," said
Mrs. Waring, run imaging in her pocket and producing a
little book of ivory tablets. She consulted it anxiously.
" Just fancy," she exclaimed with astonished eyes,
" Dacre will be seven in April — I had no idea he was so
old — and I see Gwen is just twelve months younger."
" I think their physical powers are now fairly developed
— indeed, I am of the opinion that the boy's development
will continue to be mainly physical ; he will, I fear, run
much to cricket and other brutal sports. But no doubt he
has some small amount of brain power that should be made
the most of. We must now get some one who will under-
take this business for us, dear love."
" Ah," said his wife plaintively, " the feeding and physi-
cal care of children seems a terrible responsibility; it
weighs upon my life. But the development of their intel-
lectual powers! — I wish the time for it had kept off just
a little longer, until we were farther on in our last, our
best work. And if," she said wearily, ''you think the brain
power of Dacre, at least, is so insignificant, the task becomes
Herculean. "
"We must consult the rector, dear."
"I feel in some way we must have failed in our duty.
The grammar that child spoke was appalling, as was also
the intonation of her words. I wonder how this has come
BIBS. 31ANN1NGT0N CAFFYN. 437
to pass? I should have thought her mere heredity would
have saved us this."
Mrs. Waring sighed heavily, fate seemed against her,
even heredity was playing her false.
" It is shocking, dear, but unaccountable," said her hus-
band soothingly; "you are disturbed, and forget how
widely modified heredity becomes by conditions. If I
recollect aright Gwen mentioned one — Mag — h'm, Dow.
Children are imitative creatures. And now with regard to
another matter. I think, dear love, it were wiser if you
discontinued that proposed course of history. The imagi-
nation of our daughter Gwen must not be fostered until
it has a sounder intellectual basis to work up from."
"Very well, dear," and Mrs. Waring sighed a sigh of
relief. No one but herself knew the horrible embarrass-
ment of having those two children sitting opposite to her
glaring all over her, while she discoursed to them on the
customs of the early Britons, and it was only a consuming
sense of duty that had seized on her, and forced her to the
task.
JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN.
(1795—1829.)
James Joseph Callanan, the poet, was born in Cork in 1795.
Owing to the fact that Jeremiah resembles slightly in sound the
English form into which the Irish peasantry transpose the Gaelic
name Diarmiud, he was often called Jeremiah. Very little is known
of his boyhood, save that he loved and learned the legends and his-
tory of his country. He was intended for the priesthood, but in 1816
he left Maynooth for Dublin, where he was an outpensioner at
Trinity College. While there he wrote two poems, one on the
' Restoration of the Spoils of Athens by Alexander the Great,' and
the other on the 'Accession of George the Fourth.' For these he
was awarded the prizes in the gift of tbe Vice-Chancellor.
After spending two years in the university he turned his steps
toward his birthplace. Here he found his parents dead, his friends
and acquaintances scattered, and all his old haunts in the hands of
strangers. This so affected him that in utter despair he turned
away and enlisted in the 18th Eoyal Irish ; some of his friends,
however, bought him off. Then for two years he was tutor in the
family of Mr. M'Carthy, who resided near Mill Street, County Cork.
Here the poet enjoyed the romantic scenery of the Killarney and
Muskerry Mountains ; but his restless spirit longed for change, and
in 1822 we find him in his native city, Cork, leading an aimless
life. In 1823 he became a tutor in the school of the celebrated Dr.
William Maginn of Cork. The doctor soon found out and encour-
aged his talent, and introduced him to several literary friends.
The result of this was the appearance of six popular songs, translated
from the Irish by Callanan, in the pages of BlacJcivood's Magazine.
He soon gave up teaching and spent his time in wandering about
the country, collecting from the Irish-speaking inhabitants the wild
poems and legends in their native tongue, which had been handed
down from father to son for generations. These he clothed in all
the grace, beauty, and sentiment of the English language, of which
he was master. He chose the romantic and lovely island of Inchi-
dony for a temporary residence ; and in this retreat, surrounded
by the wild nature he loved, he wrote some of his best known and
most popular verse, including 'The Recluse of Inchidony,' pub-
lished in 1830. His poem ' The Virgin Mary's Bank ' was inspired
by a tradition connected with this island. ' Gougane Barra ' is tbe
most popular of his poems in the south of Ireland.
In 1829 he was advised to try a change of climate ; and he be-
came tutor in the family of an Irish gentleman residing in Lisbon.
Here in a few months he learned enough of the language to read
Portuguese poetry ; and here also he prepared his scattered writ-
ings for publication in a collected form. His health grew rapidly
worse ; and he longed intensely to return and die in his beloved
native land. Although utterly prostrate, he went on board a vessel
bound for Cork, but his symptoms became so alarming that he was
438
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GOUGANE BARRA
From a photograph
A small lake formed by the streams which descend
from the mountains that divide the counties of Cork and
Kerry.
" There is a green lsiana in lone Gougane Barra,
Whence Allu of Songs rushes forth like an arrow ;
In deep-valleyed Desmond a thousand wild fountains
Come down to that lake from their home in the mountains."
— J a mes J. Ca 11 a han.
JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN. 439
forced to return on shore, where he died a few days later, Sept.
19, 1829.
" His vigorous, stirring, and thoroughly original poem on ' Gou-
gane Barra,' with its resonant double-rimes, so characteristic of
the Gael," has a freedom all its own, says Mr. George Sigerson, who
continues : ' l His pride was to have awakened the ancient harp and
mingled with the voice of southern waters the songs that even Echo
had forgotten, he says, invoking the ' Least Bard of the Hills.' The
claim was justified. Moore unquestionably revived the spirit of
Irish melody and first infused into poetry the legends of the land.
It is Callanan's distinction — a great one, though ignored till now —
that he was the first to give adequate versions of Irish Gaelic poems.
Compared with preceding and many subsequent attempts, they are
marvelously close and true to their originals. . . . Callanan was
among the first (after the popular balladists) to introduce a Gaelic
refrain into English poetry."
A third edition of Callanan's poems appeared in 1847, with a bio-
graphical introduction and notes by Mr. M. F. M'Carthy. Another
volume of his collected poems was published in 1861.
GOUGANE BARRA.1
There is a green island in lone Gougane Barra,
Whence Allu of songs rushes forth like an arrow;
In deep-valleyed Desmond a thousand wild fountains
Come down to that lake, from their home in the mountains.
There grows the wild ash; and a time-stricken willow
Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow,
As, like some gay child that sad monitor scorning.
It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning.
And its zone of dark hills — oh! to see them all bright'ning,
When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning,
And the waters come down, 'mid the thunder's deep rattle,
Like clans from their hills at the voice of the battle;
And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming,
And wildly from Malloc2 the eagles are screaming:
Oh. where is the dwelling, in valley or highland,
So meet for a bard as this lone little island?
How oft, when the summer sun rested on Clara,3
And lit the blue headland of sullen Ivara,
Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the ocean,
And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion,
1 Gougane Barra is a small lake about two miles in circumference,
formed by the numerous streams which descend from the mountains that
divide the counties of Cork and Kerry.
2 A mountain over the lake. 8 Cape Clear.
440 IRISH LITERATURE.
And thought on the bards who, oft gathering together,
In the cleft of thy rocks, and the depth of thy heather,
Dwelt far from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter,
As they raised their last song by the rush of thy water !
High sons of the lyre ! oh, how proud was the feeling
To dream while alone through that solitude stealing;
Though loftier minstrels green Erin can number,
I alone waked the strain of her harp from its slumber,
And gleaned the gray legend that long had been sleeping,
Where oblivion's dull mist o'er its beauty was creeping,
From the love which I felt for my country's sad story,
When to love her was shame, to revile her was glory !
Least bard of the free ! were it mine to inherit
The fire of thy harp and the wing of thy spirit,
With the wrongs which, like thee, to my own land have bound
me,
Did your mantle of song throw its radiance around me;
Yet, yet on those bold cliffs might Liberty rally,
And abroad send her cry o'er the sleep of each valley.
But rouse thee, vain dreamer! no fond fancy cherish,
Thy vision of Freedom in bloodshed must perish.
I soon shall be gone — though my name may be spoken
When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken —
Some minstrel will come in the summer eve's gleaming,
When Freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming,
To bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion.
Where calm Avonbuee seeks the kisses of ocean,
And a wild wreath to plant from the banks of that river
O'er the heart and the harp that are silent for ever.
THE GIRL I LOVE.
The girl I love is comely, straight, and tall,
Down her white neck her auburn tresses fall.
Her dress is neat, her carriage light and free —
Here 's a health to that charming maid, whoe'er she be !
The rose's blush but fades beside her cheek;
Her eyes are blue, her forehead pale and meek;
Her lips like cherries on a summer tree —
Here 's a health to that charming maid, whoe'er she be !
JAMES JOSEPH C ALLAN AN. 441
When I go to the field no youth can lighter bound,
And I freely pay when the cheerful jug goes round;
The barrel is full, but its heart we soon shall see, —
Here 's a health to that charming maid, whoe'er she be !
Had I the wealth that props the Saxon's reign,
Or the diamond crown that decks the King of Spain,
I 'd yield them all if she kindly smiled on me, —
Here 's a health to the maid I love, whoe'er she be !
Five pounds of gold for each lock of her hair I 'd pay,
And five times five for my love one hour each day;
Her voice is more sweet than the thrush on its own green tree;
Then, my dear, may I drink a fond deep health to thee !
THE OUTLAW OF LOCH LENE.
From the Irish.
Oh many a day have I made good ale in the glen,
That came not of stream or malt, like the brewing of men ;
My bed was the ground ; my roof the green wood above,
And the wealth that I sought, one far kind glance from my love.
Alas on that night when the horses I drove from the field,
That I was not near my angel from terror to shield !
She stretched forth her arms, her mantle she flung to the wind,
And she swam o'er Loch Lene her outlawed lover to find.
Oh would that the freezing sleet-winged tempest did sweep,
And I and my love were alone far off on the deep;
I 'd ask not a ship, nor a bark, nor pinnace to save,
With her arm round my neck I 'd fear not the wind nor wave !
'T is down by the lake where the wild tree fringes its sides,
The maid of my heart, my fair one of Heaven, resides;
I think as at eve she wanders its mazes along,
The birds go asleep by the wild, sweet twist of her song.
442 IRISH LITERATURE.
O SAY, MY BROWN DRIMIN.1
Translated from the Irish.
O say, my brown Drimin, thou silk of the kine,2
Where, where are thy strong ones, last hope of thy line?
Too deep and too long is the slumber they take,
At the loud call of freedom why don't they awake?
My strong ones have fallen — from the bright eye of day
All darkly they sleep in their dwelling of clay;
The cold turf is o'er them; — they hear not my cries,
And since Louis no aid gives I cannot arise.
O! where art thou, Louis, our eyes are on thee?
Are thy lofty ships walking in strength o'er the sea?
In freedom's last strife if you linger or quail,
No morn e'er shall break on the night of the Gael.
But should the king's son, now bereft of his right,
Come, proud in his strength, for his country to fight;
Like leaves on the trees will new people arise,
And deep from their mountains shout back to my cries.
When the prince, now an exile, shall come for his own,
The isles of his father, his rights and his throne,
My people in battle the Saxons will meet,
And kick them before, like old shoes from their feet.
O'er mountains and valleys they '11 press on their rout,
The five ends of Erin shall ring to their shout;
My sons all united shall bless the glad day
When the flint-hearted Saxons they 've chased far away.
THE WHITE COCKADE.
Translated from the Irish.
King Charles he is King James's son,
And from a royal line is sprung;
Then up with shout, and out with blade,
And we '11 raise once more the white cockade.
1 Drimin is the "favorite name of a cow, by which Ireland is here alle-
gorically denoted. The five ends of Erin are the five kingdoms — Munster,
Leinster, Ulster, Connaught, and Meath — into which the island was
divided under the Milesian dynasty. — Callanan.
* Silk of the cows, an idiomatic expression for the most beautiful of
cattle.
JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN. 443
O! my dear, my fair-haired youth,
Thou yet hast hearts of fire and truth ;
Then up with shout, and out with blade,
We '11 raise once more the white cockade.
My young men's hearts are dark with woe;
On my virgins' cheeks the grief -drops flow;
The sun scarce lights the sorrowing day,
Since our rightful prince went far away ;
He 's gone, the stranger holds his throne ;
The royal bird far off is flown :
But up with shout, and out with blade,
We '11 stand or fall with the white cockade.
No more the cuckoo hails the spring,
The woods no more with the staunch hounds ring;
The song from the glen, so sweet before,
Is hushed since Charles has left our shore.
The prince is gone: but he soon will come,
With trumpet sound, and with beat of drum ;
Then up with shout, and out with blade,
Huzza for the right and the white cockade!
THE LAMENT OF O'GNIVE.1
Translated from the Irish.
How dimmed is the glory that circled the Gael
And fall'n the high people of green Innisfail;2
The sword of the Saxon is red with their gore;
And the mighty of nations is mighty no more!
Like a bark on the ocean, long shattered and tost,
On the land of your fathers at length you are lost ;
The hand of the spoiler is stretched on your plains,
And you 're doomed from your cradles to bondage and chains.
O where is the beauty that beamed on thy brow?
Strong hand in the battle, how weak art thou now!
1 Fearflatha O'Gniamh was family olavih or bard to the O'Neil of Clano-
boy about the year 1556. Tbe poem of which these lines are the trans-
lation commences with "Ma thruagh mar ataid' Goadhil." — M. F.
McCarthy.
a Innisfail, the island of destiny, one of the names of Ireland.
444 IRISH LITERATURE.
That heart is now broken that never would quail,
And thy high songs are turned into weeping and wail.
Bright shades of our sires ! from your home in the skies
O blast not your sons with the scorn of your eyes !
Proud spirit of Gollam,1 how red is thy cheek,
For thy freemen are slaves, and thy mighty are weak !
O'Neil of the Hostages ; 2 Con,3 whose high name
On a hundred red battles has floated to fame,
Let the long grass still sigh undisturbed o'er thy sleep;
Arise not to shame us, awake not to weep.
In thy broad wing of darkness enfold us, O night !
Withhold, O bright sun, the reproach of thy light !
For freedom or valor no more canst thou see
In the home of the brave, in the isle of the free.
Affliction's dark waters your spirits have bowed,
And oppression hath wrapped all your land in its shroud,
Since first from the Brehon's 4 pure justice you strayed
And bent to those laws the proud Saxon has made.
We know not our country, so strange is her face;
Her sons, once her glory, are now her disgrace;
Gone, gone is the beauty of fair Innisfail,
For the stranger now rules in the land of the Gael.
Where, where are the woods that oft rung to your cheer,
Where you waked the wild chase of the wolf and the deer?
Can those dark heights, with ramparts all frowning and riven,
Be the hills where your forests waved brightly in heaven?
O bondsmen of Egypt, no Moses appears
To light your dark steps thro' this desert of tears !
Degraded and lost ones, no Hector is nigh
To lead you to freedom, or teach you to die!
1 Gollam, a name of Milesius, the Spanish progenitor of the Irish O's
and Macs.
2 Nial of the Nine Hostages, the heroic monarch of Ireland in the fourth
century, and ancestor of the O'Neil family.
8 Con Cead Catha, Con of the Hundred Fights, monarch of the island
in the second century. Although the fighter of a hundred battles, he was
not the victor of a hundred fields; his valorous rival Owen, King of
Munster, compelled him to a division of the kingdom.
* Brehons, the hereditary judges of the Irish septs.
aOQWa 8UJ3WMOHD
bio aril lo Jifiq DJiinoi 9^h iM'i on£ nl
Jliud 8£W Ji JfirtJ noiti) ' nyvjiri
CROMWELL'S BRIDGE
Glengariffe Co., Cork, from a photograph
In ancient times the bridge formed part of the old
Berehaven road, and there is a tradition that it was built
at an hour's notice from Cromwell when on a visit to the
O'Sullivans.
'JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN. 445
AND MUST WE PART?
And must we part? then fare thee well!
But he that wails it — he can tell
How dear thou wert, how dear thou art,
And ever must be, to this heart :
But now 'tis vain — it cannot be;
Farewell ! and think no more on me.
Oh! yes — this heart would sooner break
Than one unholy thought awake ;
I 'd sooner slumber into clay
Than cloud thy spirit's beauteous ray;
Go, free as air — as angel free,
And, lady, think no more on me.
Oh ! did we meet when brighter star
Sent its fair promise from afar,
I then might hope to call thee mine-
The minstrel's heart and harp were thine;
But now 't is past — it cannot be ;
Farewell ! and think no more on me.
Or do! — but let it be the hour
When mercy's all-atoning power
From His high throne of glory hears,
Of souls like thine, the prayers, the tears;
Then, whilst you bend the suppliant knee,
Then — then, O lady! think on me.
DIRGE OF O'SULLIVAN BEAR.
From the Irish.
One of the Sullivans of Bearhaven, who went by the name of
Morty Oge, fell under the vengeance of the law. He was betrayed
by a confidential servant, named Scully, and was shot by his pur-
suers. They tied his body to a boat, and dragged it through tbe
sea from Bearhaven to Cork, where his head was cut off and fixed
on the county jail, where it remained for several years. Such is
the story current among the people of Bearhaven. The dirge is
supposed to have been the composition of O'Sullivan's aged nurse. —
From the author's note.
The sun on Ivera
No longer shines brightly,
The voice of her music
No longer is sprightly,
446 IRISH LITERATURE.
No more to her maidens
The light dance is dear,
Since the death of our darling
O'Sullivan Bear.
Scully! thou false one,
You basely betrayed him,
In his strong hour of need,
When thy right hand should aid him;
He fed thee — he clad thee —
You had all could delight thee:
You left him — you sold him —
May Heaven requite thee!
Scully! may all kinds
Of evil attend thee!
On thy dark road of life
May no kind one befriend thee!
May fevers long burn thee,
And agues long freeze thee!
May the strong hand of God
In His red anger seize thee!
Had he died calmly
I would not deplore him,
Or if the wild strife
Of the sea-war closed o'er him;
But with ropes round his white limbs
Through ocean to trail him,
Like a fish after slaughter —
'T is therefore I wail him.
Long may the curse
Of his people pursue them:
Scully that sold him,
And soldier that slew him!
One glimpse of heaven's light
May they see never!
May the hearthstone of hell
Be their best bed for ever!
In the hole which the vile hands
Of soldiers had made thee,
Unhonored, unshrouded,
And headless they laid thee;
JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN. 447
No sigh to regret thee,
No eye to rain o'er thee,
No dirge to lament thee,
No friend to deplore thee!
Dear head of my darling,
How gory and pale
These aged eyes see thee,
High spiked on their gaol !
That cheek in the summer sun
Ne'er shall grow warm;
Nor that eye e'er catch light,
But the flash of the storm.
A curse, blessed ocean,
Is on thy green water,
From the haven of Cork
To Ivera of slaughter:
Since thy billows were dyed
With the red wounds of fear,
Of Muiertach Oge,
Our O'Sullivan Bear!
^ y
LADY COLIN CAMPBELL.
Lady Colin Campbell is the youngest daughter of Edmond
Maghlin Blood, Brickhill, County Clare, Ireland. She was educated
in Italy and France. She married Lord Colin Campbell, the youngest
son of the eighth Duke of Argyll. She obtained a separation from
Lord Colin Campbell for cruelty, and became a widow in 1895. She
was the art critic of The World ; and was also the author of ' A
Woman's Walks,' in the same paper.
Her publications are « Darell Blake,' ' A Book of the Running
Brook,' ' A Miracle in Rabbits,' etc.
A MODERN ^EGERIA.
From ' Darell Blake.'
He had never loved anything or anybody until he met
Lady Alma; hence he had no standard of comparison in
his mind whereby he could gauge the extent of his present
absorption. His affection for his wife was a pleasant
equable feeling; she was a dear, good, unselfish creature;
but, if such an expression were permissible, his feeling for
her, without his knowing it, had always been more that of
a brother than of a husband.
Unfortunately for Victoria, she was not a woman gifted
with the particular power to captivate and arrest the in-
terest of a mind so energetic as Darell's. The small do-
mestic trivialities of every-day life, which she would daily
weary and irritate him by discussing, seemed to her to be
the most natural subjects of interest between them during
their conjugal tete-d-tetes, when Darell arrived home tired
and worn out at the end of his day's work. At the same
time the crushing sense of inability to grasp the interests
that she dimly felt were ever occupying her husband's
mind, acted as a perpetual discouragement to her. Thus
it was only too natural that the effect of the contrast be-
tween the minds of these two women, the only two that
Darell Blake had ever been thrown in contact with — the
one prosaic, timid, and sluggish, yet capable of the most
exalted unselfishness; the other quick, tortuous, unsparing,
and devoid of all guiding principle — should heighten the
448
LADY COLIN CAMPBELL. 449
illusion which Lady Alma's personality had produced on
DarelFs inexperience.
The man's sentimental nature had lain dormant all his
life. From his earliest youth he had lived through his brain
alone ; he had been too eager, too restless, too impatient to
make his way, ever to think of asking himself whether he
had a heart or not. Loving or not loving is far more a
habit than most people know or will acknowledge. With
Darell it was a habit he had entirely neglected to cultivate,
and the result of such neglect was that having at last
fallen into the clutches of Love, that enemy of human peace
of mind, he found himself struggling with a passion that
threatened to shipwreck his whole existence unless he got
the upper hand.
Darell was no weak child, and he struggled bravely, but
in such acute cases discretion is the better part of valor,
and presence of mind should promptly dictate absence of
body. The idea of going away, of leaving London, did in-
deed occur to him for one brief moment, but he swept it
aside. It was impossible he should give up his work, his
whole career, at the very moment it was trembling in the
balance ! Besides, in that work, in that career, lay his best
hope of salvation; and he threw himself into the political
campaign ( which had been opened before him even sooner
than he had expected, owing to the premature resignation
through ill-health of the Member for South Peckham) with
an impetuosity which at least had the merit of acting as a
relief to his intense mental strain. Only in this way could
he let Lady Alma see that the man to whom she had been
so graciously kind was worthy of her interest and her ap-
probation. He felt as if he were entering the lists with his
liege lady's colors pinned to his helmet, and he resolved in
his heart that she should have reason to be proud of the
champion she had sent into the fray. Only in this way
could he ever prove his adoration, both to her and to him-
self; and it was, therefore, with the unflagging enthusiasm
born of this idea, as well as with the unrest caused by the
effort to stifle the passion which strove within him and
called aloud for utterance in words, that Darell toiled early
and late. Working at the Tribune office, speaking at meet-
ings at South Peckham, where his fervent eloquence had
stirred up all the elements of political storm, canvassing,
450 IRISH LITERATURE.
interviewing important people, he gave himself rest neither
night nor day, until even Sedley began to look almost
grave as he tried to put a drag on his turbulent protege.
" It 's all nonsense your working like this, my lad," he
said one night in the Tribune office, " no constitution can
possibly stand it, especially after the work you have done,
without a single interruption, ever since you came here
more than a year and a half ago. You do ten times, fifty
times as much as you need, especially while you have this
election business on your shoulders. Why don't you leave
more to your sub? He is a clever young fellow enough in
his way, and if you only knew all that your predecessor
left in his hands, you would be surprised."
" Hardly a recommendation to me to do likewise, when
I remember where the Tribune had drifted to when you put
me at the helm," answered Darell, with a weary smile.
He was in that acute state of over-work when one feels as
if something must snap in one's brain, and that if it did do
so, it would be a relief. He had seen Lady Alma for a few
moments that day, and the questions that he read, or
thought he read, in her eyes were almost more than he
could stand. Not work so hard? Why, his work was the
only thing that kept him from going to pieces, the only
means whereby he could compel his thoughts in some
measure away from Lady Alma; though no matter how
much he strained his attention to other things on the sur-
face, through it all, like the sense of the dominant key in a
phrase of music, ran the memory of her beauty, of her
charm, which seemed to hold every fiber of his being.
" You need not worry about me," he added, " the Tribune
is not going to lose its editor yet awhile. I '11 take a holi-
day in August, and that will set me up again. And as to
this extra work just now, the worst of it will soon be over,
you know, for the polling is the day after to-morrow. You
will be down there with me, won't you? "
" Till the evening, certainly," answered Sedley, " but I
have to dine at the Speaker's that evening, so I must get
back to town early, and shall not be able to wait to hear
the result. Not that I have much fear about it," he added,
with a laugh, " and I have the courage of my opinions, for
I have backed you for fifty pounds ! I have been around to-
day to a number of people and they have all promised you
LADY COLIN CAMPBELL. 451
their carriages. Lady Alma and Mrs. Walpole have done
the same, and they mean to bring down a bevy of workers
to whip up the recalcitrant voters. You '11 see, everything
and everybody will go upon wheels — the pun was uninten-
tional, but we will take it as a good omen ! So cheer up,
my lad, and prepare to accept with becoming dignity the
honors that the South Peckhamites are going to shower
upon you ! "
To say that South Peckham woke up in a state of fer-
ment on the morning of the eventful day is but a poor
and inadequate expression. In fact, it can hardly be said
to have waked up, insomuch that a considerable number of
its inhabitants never went to bed at all, and as these per-
sisted in perambulating the streets singing party songs,
and cheering at intervals for the rival candidates, it may
fairly be said that but few South Peckhamites slept peace-
fully that night. Never had there been such excitement
over an election in that placid constituency before. Both
sides had strained every nerve in the campaign, but as yet
neither had any idea with whom would lie the ultimate
victory.
The Radical party had felt all along that the fight at
South Peckham would be a serious one. It was true that
the registration of the Radical electors had been very care-
fully kept up, but on the other hand Darell Blake was an
unknown man to the constituency, while the Conservative
party had for once had the intelligence to put forward as
candidate a local dry goods dealer, an owner of one of
those immense establishments of modern growth which,
like Aaron's rod, had swallowed up all the other little re-
tail rods around it. The head of this huge system of local
patronage and employment, one Prodgers, was as the
straw is to the drowning man to the Conservative Asso-
ciation. There had been distinct heartburnings among
the titled members of the Tory organization at the Carlton
that such a move as this should have to be resorted to.
There had been many pourparlers as to the choice between
the two evils which had to be faced — /'. c, the loss of a Lon-
don constituency, or the sacrifice on the altar of Baal by
admitting the undeniably parvenu Prodgers to thai home
of the country gentleman and Tory purist, the Carlton
Club. Darell was better known in Pall Mall than in Peck-
452 IRISH LITERATURE.
ham, and the announcement that he had been chosen as
Radical candidate had filled the breasts of the wirepullers
at the Carlton with blank dismay. There was no time to
be lost in finding a sufficiently strong local influence where-
with to oppose this firebrand. It was quite clear that at
such a juncture, and with such an opponent, it would be
absolutely useless to put forward some colorless youth
who happened to be the younger son of a Tory peer, so the
Prodgers pill was swallowed, though not without many
wry faces and murmurings amongst the rank and file of
the Conservatives.
" Vote for Prodgers, your local Friend and Neighbor,"
" Prodgers and the Integrity of the Empire," " Prodgers
the Public Benefactor," these and many similar placards,
all calculated to appeal to the self-interest of the popula-
tion to whom the great Prodgers afforded so much employ-
ment, adorned the hoardings and blank walls on every side
as you approached the scene of the contest. The battle of
the billposters had been carried on with ardor, for Darell
Blake's supporters had not been behindhand. There was,
perhaps, less froth on the surface, but none the less were
there determination and energy. The whole of the Tri-
bune office had turned out en bloc on every occasion that
the employes could get an hour's leave from the printing
presses. Many of the most acute battles of the bills had
been carried on by the printer's devils from Fleet Street, to
whom the guerrilla warfare of tearing down the opposition
posters had been absolutely delightful.
The Radical organization spent, in comparison to their
opponents, but little money. They had not the resources
of Prodgers behind them. The magnificent fourgons, with
their sleek teams of splendid horses in richly caparisoned
harness, bearing the proud device of "Prodgers, Provider,"
were not procurable on the Radical side to impress and
overawe the electorate. Each little baker, haberdasher,
and bootmaker, however, who had become abnormally
Radical under the predominating influence of the absorb-
ing Prodgers was up in arms on this occasion to deal one
bold blow against the hated rival, salving their consciences
meanwhile with the belief that they were actuated by
a spirit of the purest patriotism. Needless to state, the
orthodox clergy were on the side of the big fourgons, the
LADY COLIX CAMPBELL. 453
fat horses, the wealth, and the eminently Conservative re-
spectability of Prodgers. The dissenting element went
therefore " solid " for the Radical candidate — Wesleyans,
Baptists, Nonconformists, Salvationists, all toiled man-
fully for the man who promised to bring about the Dises-
tablishment of the Church of England at the earliest possi-
ble date, and the prospect of such a distribution of loaves
and fishes impelled them to canvass every corner of the dis-
trict. South Peckham was in a ferment of what it was
pleased to consider national emotion. It felt that not
only the eyes of all the civilized world were upon this par-
ticular election, but that the Ministry itself was trembling
in its shoes at what might be the verdict of South Peck-
ham. Had not the Tribune placed this issue clearly be-
fore the electorate? Thus it came to pass that while the
worthy Peckhamites were working themselves up into a
pefect furore of political passion under the stirring
speeches of Darell, which revealed to many of them, no
doubt for the first time, undreamt-of political issues, they
were also enjoying the delicious sensation of being individ-
uals of public prominence, and at the same time gratifying
the petty jealousies and local hatreds that are so pecu-
liarly characteristic of the genus of Little Pedlingtons.
No wonder, therefore, if South Peckham enjoyed itself
when the great and eventful day at last arrived. All day
long the streets and thoroughfares were crowded. Ordi-
nary business was practically at a standstill, for every
tradesman in the place, with few exceptions, was an ardent
partisan, and every one who possessed any vehicle other
than a wheelbarrow was both pleased and proud to lend it
for the service of the candidate he supported. Outside
help, too, was not wanting, and much amusement might
have been derived from studving the faces of the smart
coachmen from the West-end obliged to drive voters to the
poll in what they evidently looked upon with contempt as
an uncivilized and unseemly part of London, which no
coachman who respected himself could be expected to
know. Most active of all, darting hither and thither
through the crowd, was a miniature dog-cart, brown in
color throughout, and driven by Mrs. Chester, a small but
most enthusiastic worker on the Radical Women's Associa-
tion, to whom Sedley had given the appropriate sobriquet
454 IRISH LITERATURE.
of " Mother Carey's Chicken of Politics," for, like her pro-
totype, she was always the harbinger of storms. The energy
of this little lady knew no bounds ; and in pursuit of voters
she would whip up her little rat of a pony, and reckless of
life or limb, or of the safety of the small tiger who occupied
a slippery and precarious seat at the back of the tilted-up
cart, she would dash through the crowd, and, having se-
cured her prey, land him in triumph at the poll, and then
swoop off after another. There was no withstanding her
eloquence or her energy; and it may safely be said that
Mrs. Chester, in the course of that long day, did greater
service to Darell than any other individual who worked to
secure his election.
Lady Alma and Mrs. Walpole were also amongst the
workers, but while Mrs. Walpole did her best to emulate
Mrs. Chester's feats of activity, Lady Alma remained the
greater part of the day at one or other of the committee
rooms, going over the list of voters, seeing that no one was
forgotten, hearing reports, sending out messengers, and
generally superintending the progress of the battle. Darell
was but'little with her, but this she did not seem to mind.
Even her steady pulses were quickened under the influence
of the fight that was going on. She felt confident of Dar-
ell's victory, and at the bottom of her heart she felt equally
confident that her victory over Darell would not linger long
behind. She had read him with her usual quickness, and
the fight he had been waging with himself ever since Sed-
ley's interruption on the terrace— Lady Alma even now
could not think of that interruption without a frown-
was not altogether unknown to her ; and with her habit of
analyzing her sensations, she owned to herself that though
Darell's elusiveness irritated her, at the same time it had
invested him with an attraction which she had never felt in
her life before. She had never known a man who struggled
against any feeling with which she might have inspired
him ; and as she watched Darell, and saw not only how he
fought with himself, but how that fight was beginning to
tell on him, she told herself, with keen delight of anticipa-
tion, how exquisite the moment of victory over such a
nature would be when it came.
But Lady Alma was one of those rare women who,
though they never lose sight of their quarry, understand
LADY COLIN CAMPBELL. 455
the science of stalking ; and to mix sentiment with the tur-
moil of an election would be, she felt, a fatal error. When-
ever she and Darell met during that long day, she was
charmingly amiable, sympathetic, full of interest in the
battle, and of encouragement as to the result; but not in
looks, gestures, nor words did she in any way seek to dis-
turb his mind or suggest more personal or tender thoughts.
In her cool white embroideries and straw hat, with a bunch
of dark blue cornflowers and dark blue ribbon — Darell's
colors — at her breast, the sight of her rested him " like the
shadow of a great rock in a weary land." All the sense of
struggling seemed to have slipped from him like a cloak
from his shoulders, in the closeness of interest which
seemed to bind them together that day; he even forgot or
only dimly remembered that he had ever struggled at all.
He had not time to analyze his feelings, or to ask himself
what this new peace which had succeeded the turmoil of
the last weeks might mean. There would be time enough
to explain and understand later on; for the moment he
could think only of the battle which was raging around
him, and in which he felt that his whole life was at stake.
Lady Alma had no intention of deserting the battlefield
without knowing who had carried off the victory, and had
accordingly, with Mrs. Walpole and Mrs. Chester, accepted
the invitation of one of the local dames, the wife of a rising
rival of the redoubtable Prodgers, to dine and rest at her
house while awaiting the result of counting of the ballot
boxes. Not that she really needed rest. She was as untir-
ing, when she was interested, as a wolf or a Red Indian;
and she had never before been so interested as she had
been that day. Far otherwise was it with Mrs. Walpole.
That good lady, by the time the evening came on, felt that
to spend a whole day away from a looking-glass was a sac-
rifice on the altar of friendship and popularity which was
too severe for her weak nature. It was true she had a
powder-puff in her pocket, but what was a miserable puff,
after a hot summer's day of work, and talk, and excite-
ment, to a lady so carefully built up and artistically made
youthful as Mrs. Walpole? She felt that her toupte,
though warranted to have been made of " naturally curl-
ing " hair, was growing limp and disheveled, and she felt
456 IRISH LITERATURE.
distinctly put out when she looked across the table at Alma
Vereker and saw what " naturally curling " hair really
meant. What a fool she had been not to have gone straight
home, instead of saying she would wait to hear the result,
and drive back with Alma and Darell! Poor Mrs. Wal-
pole's usually good temper had given way under the com-
bined influences of fatigue, heat, and above all of mortified
vanity, when she compared her own disheveled, worn-out
appearance and flushed, haggard cheeks with the cool
serenity of the younger woman opposite. She mentally
determined not to court such a comparison any longer than
she could help, and when the hour for the declaration of
the poll drew nigh, and Lady Alma announced her inten-
tion of going to the Town Hall, Mrs. Walpole excused her-
self on the ground of fatigue, and she said she preferred
to wait where she was till Alma returned to fetch her.
The poll closed at eight P. M. and Darell had adjourned
to the Town Hall, whither the ballot boxes had been car-
ried. Each side was in the highest state of excitement,
and fully believed it had secured the victory. Prodgers
was passing the anxious hours in one of the committee
rooms downstairs, surrounded by a bevy of his supporters,
while his representative was watching over his interests
upstairs in the room where the counting of the votes was
going on under the eye of the sheriff. Darell, in another
room, was, with his usual impetuosity, busily employed
with his various agents in the occupation known as
" counting his chickens before they were hatched." But
the hatching was accomplished now, for, as Lady Alma ar-
rived at the door of the room where Darell and his sup-
porters were waiting, an excited partisan came tumbling
down the broad stairs at the imminent risk of his neck,
gasping out that Darell Blake had won the day.
The news ran like wildfire, and as the members of both
committees accompanied the rival candidates upstairs,
their ears were almost deafened by the uproar that burst
from the crowd outside as the result of the election was
passed from lip to lip. Cheers, groans, huzzas, and hisses
were freely mfngled, and the huge seething mass of hu-
manity surged hither and thither in a tempest of excite-
ment as the sheriff came out on the great balcony above
the entrance to make the official declaration : —
LADY COLIN CAMPBELL. 457
Darell Blake (Radical) 3332
Gustavus Adolphus Prodgers (Conservative) . . 3129
Majority for Darell Blake 203
The hush that had fallen upon the crowd when the
sheriff appeared was but of brief duration, and was fol-
lowed by a tumultuous storm of applause from every little
eosterinonger and tradesman who had gathered en masse to
assist at the dethronement of the almighty Prodgers on
this memorable occasion. The Rights of Labor, Free Edu-
cation, the Disestablishment of the Church, and the most
cherished principles of the Liberal creed had vanished
from the imaginations of the enthusiastic Peckhamite Rad-
icals in the realization of the personal success which had
attended their struggle in this trade feud with the omniv-
orous Prodgers. The faces of the local magnates, the
representatives of prosperous villadom, whose social posi-
tion in the district had given them the right to be present
in the Town Hall on such an occasion, grew longer and
longer as they slowly realized that what they believed to
be an era of social revolution was at last going to sweep
over them. Prodgers, however, with the deep instinct of
a tradesman to make the best of a bad bargain, put as smil-
ing a face as he could upon his defeat; and with the same
self-complacent, semi-obsequious air with which he would
have offered " the last sweet thing in mantles," he came
forward and congratulated Darell on his victory. Darell,
ready to believe in everything and everybody in the en-
thusiasm of that moment of triumph, seized the out-
stretched hand of Prodgers, as though the latter had been
a long-lost friend and brother. As this affecting srene
took place on the balcony in full view of the crowd, the
whole audience howled approval of so admirable and ex-
emplary a termination to the fight. The only exception
to this remarkably peaceful electoral picture was the row
of vinegar faces of the local magnates standing as a back-
ground to the two candidates. As soon as the gush of ap-
proving sentiment had somewhat spent itself, another rvy
went up of " Speech ! speech ! " and Darell, advancing to
the balustrade, looked out over the sea of upturned faces
below, all curiously white and distincl in the strong glare
of the gaslight. As he realized that these people were his
458 IRISH LITERATURE.
constituents, that he was their Member, that at this mo-
ment he was at last touching the height of his boyish
ambition, a knot seemed to rise in his throat, and for an
instant almost choked him. But not for long, and, recov-
ering himself, his voice rang out clear and strong —
" In offering to you, my friends, my thanks and congrat-
ulations on the result of our great victory, I feel that there
is one portion of my task which is beyond my powers, and
that is to make a fitting acknowledgment to those who have
fought the fight for me, and to whom, far more than to my
own poor efforts, is due the glorious result of to-day's con-
test. I am indeed both glad and proud that the principles
Ave have fought so hard for should have been crowned with
victory; and I am the more glad and the more proud that
you should have honored me by selecting me as the cham-
pion of our great cause of Liberty and Progress. It is
indeed a great and glorious reward, after many years of
conflict on behalf of the People, to find that they place con-
fidence not only in my judgment, but in my ability to serve
them. The day has now come when Labor can claim its
rights. These are the occasions we look for to hear the
voice of the People, and so long as they come forward in
their thousands, show themselves actuated by an interest
in great political questions, and are prepared to express
their opinions with the overwhelming power which they
alone possess, no political intrigues of an embarrassed
Ministry, no wire-pulling by aristocratic organizations,
will be able to prevail against them. I have not only to
congratulate you, my friends and supporters, on the re-
sult of this election, but it behooves me also to offer a
tribute of praise to the honorable and straightforward way
in which our opponents have conducted their side of the
campaign ! "
A perfect tempest of applause broke out when Darell
ceased speaking, so that it was some time before the esti-
mable Prodgers could obtain a hearing for a few trite re-
marks of sympathy to his defeated supporters, ending up
with the usual promise to reverse the result of the poll on
the next occasion.
When Darell retired to the back of the balcony after
making his speech, and turned round to enter the room,
he found himself face to face with Lady Alma. She seemed
LADY COLIN CAMPBELL. 450
completely absorbed in the scene that was taking place.
Coquetry, thirst for admiration, love of homage, all had,
for one brief moment, died out of even her nature. For
once in her life Alma Vereker had forgotten her own per-
sonality in her admiration for that of another; and as she
had stood there behind Darell while he was speaking, look-
ing at his square, close-cropped black head and lithe,
sinewy form outlined against the gas-lit crowd below and
beyond, listening to his clear, mellow voice that rang out
with a triumphal defiance in its tones that thrilled her
even as it thrilled the surging mass of people, she felt not
only proud of Darell, but was conscious of a secret wish
that it had been her lot to have had such a man, with his
indomitable spirit, energy, and enthusiasm, by her side as
her partner in life's battles.
She startled slightly when Darell paused in front of her,
and just then her footman appeared in the entrance to the
balcony. " If you please, my lady," he said, touching his
hat, " I went for Mrs. Walpole, but she had left word for
your ladyship that the was so tired that she had gone home
with Mrs. Chester, as she did not feel well enough to wait
for your ladyship. And Jones has brought the carriage
round to the side-door here, so that your ladyship may
avoid the crowd."
Lady Alma had listened with a frown while the man was
speaking. So Mrs. Walpole had thrown her over? Well,
she was not one to change her plans on that account.
" Very well, Frederick," she said. " Fetch my cloak out
of No. 1 Committee Room downstairs, and take it to the
carriage. I shall leave directly. You see, Mr. Blake," she
said, turning to him, and raising her eyes to his, when the
man departed on his errand, " you will have to be satis-
fied with my poor companionship on the road home, as Mrs.
Walpole has deserted us, and I think, as it is getting late,
the sooner we start the better."
Prodgers had just finished speaking, and suddenly there
arose another cry for Darell. He stepped forward, bowing
his acknowledgments, and Lady Alma, out of a movement
of curiosity to see the crowd, moved with him. Instantly
some one raised a shout, "Three cheers for Mr. and .Mrs.
Blake!" Again and again the cry was taken up, until
460 IRISH LITERATURE.
the crowd fairly shouted itself hoarse in admiration of the
couple before them.
Lady Alma, on hearing the shout, had grown first crim-
son, then dead white. Darell was thunderstruck, aghast,
bewildered; and he was just trying to find some words
wherewith to correct the mistake, when he felt the touch
of Lady Alma's fingers on his arm. " Don't say anything,"
she whispered hurriedly, " explanations will only make
matters worse! Let us get away as soon as Ave can," and
recalling her presence of mind, she bowed to the crowd and
left the balcony. Fortunately the majority of the local
magnates had already preceded them into the room beyond,
and those who were left had been too much occupied dis-
cussing their defeat, to notice anything more than that
the crowd were cheering their new member.
For the greater part of the way home Lady Alma lay
back silently, with closed eyes, in the corner of the landau.
At first Darell was glad of this silence. His brain was on
fire with the excitement of the day's fight, the glorious vic-
tory, and the last shout of the crowd had fairty put him
beside himself. He sat back in his corner of the great
open carriage, looking at Lady Alma. Ah ! if this woman
were really his wife, as the crowd had just acclaimed her
to be! His companion in heart and soul, his crowning
triumph in joy, his crowning consolation in sorrow! with
such a woman to help him with her keen intellect, her re-
sistless charm, her strength of will and power of compre-
hension, to what triumphs might he not ultimately climb !
How good she had been to him, how good ! It was to her
he owed everything that made life most dear; it was from
her hand that he had this day received the crowning ambi-
tion of his existence. How she had worked for him! and
to think that at the end of it all she should have been of-
fended bv the mistake of the crowd ! Darell could not bear
this idea, and, overcome by the turmoil of his feelings, he
bent forward and laid his hand on hers, from which she
had withdrawn the glove when she entered the carriage.
Lady Alma opened her eyes. She felt as if in a dream, but
through the dream came a vague, exquisite consciousness
that the hour of her victory had at last arrived.
" TeH me you are not offended with me for what hap-
pened," said Darell, in a low husky voice. The sensation
LADY COLIN CAMPBELL. 461
of her cool hand, which Lady Alma did not remove, under
his palm, put the finishing touch to his emotion. " You
know it was not my fault — that T would lay down my life
sooner than that you should have a second's annoyance ! ':
" No, I am not annoyed," she answered, in slow, linger-
ing tones; " why should I be? It can be no offense to be
taken for the wife of such a man as you."
"Would to God that you were! " interrupted Darell in
a hoarse whisper, while his hand closed upon and clenched
Lady Alma's unconsciously in so tight a grip that she
winced. "No! do not withdraw your hand. You know
you told me that night on the terrace that I was not to
thank you till I had'won the victory. It is you, and you
only who have won it for me, you who have crowned my
life" with a joy and an intensity of feeling I have never
known before. You have created me anew. I am no longer
the same man in any respect that I was before I knew you,
and I love you for this as surely never was woman loved
before! My whole life, my whole future is yours, to do
as you will with ; and, indeed, it is but a poor return for all
the gladness which you have revealed to me. I never
thought it possible that any one should feel what I feel for
you! I have struggled so hard to put your image aside,
but it is beyond my strength. The sound of your voice
thrills me; even to hear your name mentioned makes my
heart throb! I ask nothing but to live within sight of
vour beauty, within touch of your hand. I know that you
are as far above me as those stars are above our heads,
and I only ask to look up at you, to live in the light of your
presence, to lay down my heart at your feet! "
Darell's voice died away in a sol) as he bent his head
over the hand that lay passive in his clasp. Lady Alma
shivered slightly. Her strong imagination, notwithstand-
ing the coldness of her nature, could not help catching-
some of the fire of Darell's headlong torrent of words. The
moment of her triumph had come at last, and was even
more complete and satisfying than she had expected it to
be. She felt that, from this evening, this man she admired
for his indomitable strength and energy was in her hands
like clay in those of the potter, to be moulded as she chose,
and the sense of power was like incense to her nostrils.
"Foolish boy!" she said quietly, "you must nol talk
402 IRISH LITERATURE.
like this; you are excited and unstrung to-night, after all
the excitement of the past fight and to-day's victory; and
perhaps I am, too, now that it is all over. I am so proud
to hear you say that you think I helped you — "
" I did not say that," interposed Darell, raising his head
from the hand he was still holding. " I said that it is to
you I owe the victory ; and that is the truth, for I should
never have won it without you, without feeling your en-
couragement."
" Well, perhaps I did help you in that way," admitted
Lady Alma, with a tender smile; " I am glad I did, and if
my sympathy and encouragement are really a help, you
can count upon them never failing you. A nature such as
yours wants sympathy and comprehension, as a flower
needs dew ; and I do not think," she added in a tone that
in its quiet impressiveness and suggestion shook Darell as
if he had received an electric shock, " that in all the world
you will find any one who will sympathize with you, under-
stand you, or be as proud of your successes as your friend,
Alma Vereker."
It may safely be asserted that when Darell found him-
self alone in the great landau, on his way to Onslow Cres-
cent, after dropping Lady Alma at Grosvenor Square,
there was not in the length and breadth of London town a
more insanely happy mortal than he. Long years after,
that night's drive came back to him as one of those rarest
of moments experienced by mortals, when everything has
been granted to them, every heart-wish gratified. Darell
felt on the very apex of all sensation, and if his head reeled
or swam as he drove home through the warm perfumed
night it was not to be wondered at. He was mad, drunk
with the intoxication of success, and with the realization
of all that this woman's personality had become to him;
and his ears were closed to the voice of the experience of
many ages, saying in solemn tones, "Quern Deus vult per-
dere, prius dementat! "
JOHN T. CAMPION.
(1814 )
John T. Campion, like so many Irishmen, has been made famous
by one poem. He wrote the verses on Robert Emmet, beginning
" ' He dies to-day,' said the heartless judge." The poem first ap-
peared in The Nation in 1844, but owing to a misprint it has not
until lately been attributed to him. He was born in Kilkenny in
1814, and lived to a great age. He wrote several historical tales for
The Irishman and Shamrock — some of which have been published in
book form. He has also contributed a number of poems to Irish
periodicals over the signatures of " Carolan," " The Kilkenny Man,"
)« J. T. C.," " Spes," and " Urbs Marmons." The date of his death
is unknown.
EMMET'S DEATH.
" He dies to-day," said the heartless judge,
Whilst he sate him down to the feast,
And a smile was upon his ashy lip
As he uttered a ribald jest ;
For a demon dwelt where his heart should be,
That lived upon blood and sin,
And oft as that vile judge gave him food
The demon throbbed within.
" He dies to-day," said the jailer grim,
Whilst a tear was in his eve:
«. 7
" But why should I feel so grieved for Mm?
Sure, I 've seen many die !
Last night I went to his stony cell,
With the scanty prison fare —
He was sitting at a table rude,
Plaiting a lock of hair!
And he look'd so mild, with his pale, pale face,
And he spoke in so kind a way,
That my old breast heaved with a smothering feel,
And I knew not what to say ! "
"He dies to-day," thought a fair, sweet girl —
She lacked the life to speak.
For sorrow had almost frozen her blood,
And white were her lip and check —
Despair had drank up her last wild tear,
And her brow wax damp and chill,
And they often felt at her heart with fear,
For its ebb was all bu1 si Ml.
463
GEORGE CANNING.
(1770—1827.)
This famous orator, wit, poet, and statesman — whom Byron calls
il a genius — almost a universal one," was the son of an Irish barris-
ter, himself a man of talent and no mean poet — and was born April
11, 1770. He was educated at Eton, where he was the most bril-
liant of that brilliant group of boys who conducted The Microcosm
from November, 1786, to July, 1787 ; a weekly consisting of papers
written in imitation of Tlie Spectator, The Toiler, The Guardian,
and similar publications of the period. It contains many unique
examples of juvenile essay writing and some of them have high
literary merit. Canning's essay on The Books for Children, pub-
lished by Newbery, Goldsmith's friend and publisher, is a remark-
able piece of clever fooling.
A Liberal in early life, he very soon became a Tory, and with
some other members of the same group founded TJie Anti-Jacobin,
which lived through thirty weekly numbers in 1796. Its mission
was to oppose revolutionary sentiment and to cast ridicule on those
who sympathized with it, but there was much non-political writing
in it also, and it was here that the famous and oft-cited ' Needy
Knife-Grinder' appeared. The poetry of The Anti-Jacobin was
collected and published in 1894, but it is chiefly interesting to the
student of that stormy political period when the fear of the spread
of those revolutionary principles which were expressed with so much
attendant horror in France in 1792 brought forth torrents of abuse
and ridicule upon those who sympathized with them.
Canning also was associated with the work of founding The Quar-
terly Review, in which some of his humorous articles appeared,
notably that upon the bullion question. He was an Oxford man
and studied for the law, but on Sheridan's advice he decided to
enter Parliament ; this he did in 1794 and here he early distin-
guished himself as a Parliamentary manager as well as a wit and
an orator. One of his contemporaries, Lord Dalling, speaks of " the
singularly mellifluous and sonorous voice, the classical language, —
now pointed with epigram, now elevated into poetry, now burning
with passion, now rich with humor, — which cui'bed into still atten-
tion a willing and long-broken audience. "
We have only space to recapitulate briefly the chief events of his
Parliamentary career. He became Under-Secretary of State in 1796 ;
was Treasurer of the Navy, 1804-06 ; Minister of Foreign Affairs,
1807-09 ; Ambassador to Lisbon, 1814-16 ; and Premier in 1827, in
which year he died.
He assisted the South American Eepublics to obtain independence,
and a letter he addressed to the American representative in Eng-
land proved to be the initial step which led President Monroe to
formulate the famous Monroe doctrine.
464
GEORGE CANNING. 465
ON THE ENGLISH CONSTITUTION.
From the 'Speech on Parliamentary Reform.'
Other nations, excited by the example of the liberty
which this country has long possessed, have attempted to
copy our Constitution ; and some of them have shot be-
yond it in the fierceness of their pursuit. I grudge not to
other nations that share of liberty which they may acquire:
in the name of God, let them enjoy it! But let us warn
them that they lose not the object of their desire by the
very eagerness with which they attempt to grasp it. In-
heritors and conservators of rational freedom, let us, while
others are seeking it in restlessness and trouble, be a
steady and shining light to guide their course; not a wan-
dering meteor to bewilder and mislead them.
Let it not be thought that this is an unfriendly or dis-
heartened counsel to those who are either struggling under
the pressure of harsh government, or exulting in the nov-
elty of sudden emancipation. It is addressed much rather
to those who, though cradled and educated amidst the
sober blessings of the British Constitution, pant for other
schemes of liberty than those which that Constitution
sanctions — other than are compatible with a just equality
of civil rights, or with the necessary restraints of social
obligation; of some of whom it may be said, in the lan-
guage which Dryden puts into the mouth of one of the
most extravagant of his heroes, that
" They would be free as Nature first made man,
Ere the base laws of servitude began,
When wild in the woods the noble savage ran."
Noble and swelling sentiments!— but such as cannot be
reduced into practice. Grand ideas! — but which must be
qualified and adjusted by a compromise between the as-
pirings of individuals and a due concern for the general
tranquillity; — must be subdued and chastened by reason
and experience, before they can be directed to any useful
end! A search after abstracl perfection in government
may produce in generous minds an enterprise and enthu-
siasm to be recorded by the historian and to be celebrated
by the poet: but such perfection is not an object of reason-
able pursuit, because it is not one of possible attainment;
30
466 IRISH LITERATURE.
and never yet did a passionate struggle after an absolutely
unattainable object fail to be productive of misery to an
individual, of madness and confusion to a people. As the
inhabitants of those burning climates which lie beneath
a tropical sun sigh for the coolness of the mountain and
the grove; so (all history instructs us) do nations which
have basked for a time in the torrid blaze of an unmiti-
gated liberty, too often call upon the shades of despotism,
even of military despotism, to cover them, —
' ' — O quis me gelidis in vallibus Hsemi
Sistat, et ingenti ramorum protegat umbra ! "
a protection which blights while it shelters; which dwarfs
the intellect and stunts the energies of man, but to which a
wearied nation willingly resorts from intolerable heats and
from perpetual danger of convulsion.
Our lot is happily cast in the temperate zone of free-
dom, the clime best suited to the development of the moral
qualities of the human race, to the cultivation of their fac-
ulties, and to the security as well as the improvement of
their virtues; — a clime not exempt, indeed, from varia-
tions of the elements, but variations which purify while
they agitate the atmosphere that we breathe. Let us be
sensible of the advantages which it is our happiness to en-
joy. Let us guard with pious gratitude the flame of genu-
ine liberty, that fire from heaven, of which our Constitu-
tion is the holy depository; and let us not, for the chance of
rendering it more intense and more radiant, impair its
purity or hazard its extinction !
SONG.
From ' The Eover ; or the Double Arrangement."
Whene'er with haggard eyes I view
This dungeon that I 'm rotting in,
I think of those companions true
Who studied with me at the U —
— niversity of Gottingen,
- — niversity of Gottingen.
GEORGE CANNING. 467
Sweet kerchief, checked with heavenly blue,
Which once ray love sat knotting in ! —
Alas! Matilda then was true!
At least I thought so at the U —
— niversity of Gottingen,
— niversity of Gottingen.
Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift vou flew,
Her neat post-wagon trotting in !
Ye bore Matilda from ray view;
Forlorn I languished at the U —
— niversity of Gottingen,
— niversity of Gottingen.
This faded form! this pallid hue!
This blood my veins is clotting in!
My years are many — they were few
When first I entered at the U —
— niversity of Gottingen,
— niversity of Gottingen.
There first for thee my passion grew,
Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingcn !
Thou wast the daughter of my tu-
tor, law professor at the U —
— niversity of Gottingen,
— niversity of Gottingen.
JSun, moon, and thou, vain world, adieu!
That kings and priests are plotting in:
Here doomed to starve on water gru —
el, never shall I see the U —
— niversity of Gottingen,
— niversity of Gottingen.
THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE
KNIFE-GRINDER.
FRIEND OF III .MANITY.
Needy Knife-grinder! whither arc you going?
Rough is the road; your wheel is out of order —
Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in 't.
So have your breeches!
1 This verse is said to have been added by the younger Pitt.
468 IRISH LITERATURE.
Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike
Road, what hard work 't is crying all day, " Knives and
Scissors to grind O!"
Tell me, Knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives?
Did some rich man tyrannically use you?
Was it some squire? or parson of the parish?
Or the attorney ?
Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or
Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining?
Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little
All in a lawsuit?
Have you not read the ' Rights of Man,' by Tom Paine?
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your
Pitiful story.
KNIFE-GRINDER.
Story? God bless you! I have none to tell, sir:
Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers,
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were
Torn in a scuffle.
Constables came up for to take me into
Custody; they took me before the justice;
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish
Stocks for a vagrant.
I should be glad to drink your honor's health in
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;
But for my part, I never love to meddle
With politics, sir.
FRIEND OF HUMANITY.
I give thee sixpence ! I will see thee damned first —
Wretch ! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance !
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,
Spiritless outcast !
[Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns Ms wheel, and exit in
a transport of republican enthusiasm and universal philan-
thropij.]
WILLIAM CARLETON
From the drawing by i'. Gray, R.H.I.
m
■*
WILLIAM CARLETON.
(179#-1869.)
"William Carleton was born on Shrove Tuesday, in the year
1798, when the pike was trying to answer the pitch-cap. He was
the youngest of fourteen children. His father, a farmer of the
town land of Prillisk, in the parish of Ciogher, County Tyrone, was
famous among the neighbors for his great knowledge of all the
Gaelic charms, ranns, poems, prophecies, miracle-tales, and tales
of ghost and fairy. His mother had the sweetest voice within the
range of many baronies. When she sang at a wedding or lifted the
keen at a wake, the neighbors would crowd in to hear her, as to
some famous prima donna. Often, too, when she keened, the other
keeners would stand round, silent, to listen. It was her especial
care to know all old Gaelic songs, and many a once noted tune has
died with her.
" A fit father and mother for a great peasant writer — for one who
would be called ' the prose Burns of Ireland.'
" As the young Carleton grew up his mind filled itself brimful of
his father's stories and his mother's songs. He has recorded how,
many times, when his mother sat by her spinning-wheel, singing
'The Trougha,' or ' Shule Agra,' or some other mournful air, he
would go over to her and whisper : ' Mother, don't sing that song ;
it makes me sorrowful.' Fifty years later he could still hum tunes
and sing verses dead on all other lips.
"His education, such as it was, was beaten into him by hedge
schoolmasters. Like other peasants of his time, he learned to read
out of the Chap-books — ' Freney the Robber,' ' Rogues and Rap-
parees ' ; or else, maybe, from the undesirable pages of ' Laugh and
Be Fat.' He sat under three schoolmasters in succession — Pat
Fryne, called Mat Kavanagh in ' Traits and Stories ' ; O'Beirne of
Findramore ; and another whose name Carleton has not recorded,
there being naught but evil to say of him. They Avere a queer race,
bred by Government in its endeavor to put down Catholic education.
The thing being forbidden, the peasantry had sent their children to
learn reading and writing, and a little Latin even, under the ' hips
and haws ' of the hedges. The sons of plowmen were hard at work
construing Virgil and Horace, so great a joy is there in illegality.
" When Carleton was about fourteen he set out as ' a poor scholar,'
meaning to travel into Minister in search of more perfect education.
'The poor scholar' was then common enough in Ireland. Many
still living remember him and his little bottle of ink. When a boy
had shown great attention to his books he would be singled out to
be a priest, and a subscription raised to start him on his way to
Maynooth. Every peasant's house, as he trudged upon his road,
would open its door to him, such honor had learning and piety
among the poor. Carleton, however, plainly was intended for
nothing of the kind. He did not get farther than Granard, v here
he dreamed that he was chased by a mad bull, and, taking this for
an evil omen, went home.
4G9
470 IRISH LITERATURE.
" He felt very happy when he came to his own village again, the
uncomfortable priestly ambition well done with. He spent his time
now in attending dances, wakes, and weddings, and grew noted as
the best dancer and leaper in his district ; nor had he many rivals
with a spear and shillelah. When he was about nineteen a second
pious fit sent him off on a pilgrimage to St. Patrick's Purgatory, in
Lough Derg. This ' Purgatory,' celebrated by Calderon, is an island
where the saint once killed a great serpent, turned him into stone,
and left his rocky semblance visible forever. Upon his return, his
opinions, he states, changed considerably, and began slowly drifting
into Protestantism.
" One day he came on a translation of ' Gil Bias,' and was set all
agog to see the world and try its chances. Accordingly he again
left his native village, this time not to return. For a while he lin-
gered, teaching in Louth, and then, starting away again, reached
Dublin with the proverbial half-crown in his pocket."
Thus far the story of his life is told by Mr. W. B. Yeats, in his
' Representative Irish Tales.' Carleton was now in that darkest night
which comes before the dawn. One anecdote of many may illus-
trate this period of his career. A bird-stuffer being in want of an
assistant, young Carleton offered himself for the vacant post. He
was asked what he proposed to stuff birds with, and his reply was
"potatoes and meal." At last he resolved to enlist; previously,
however, after the manner of the English poet, Coleridge, address-
ing a letter in tolerably good Latin to the colonel of the regiment
he purposed to join. From that gentleman he received a kind reply
and a remittance ; and soon after he managed to obtain some tutor-
ships : while thus employed he met the lady who afterward be-
came his wife.
After a hard struggle with poverty he met the Rev. Caesar Otway,
then joint-editor of The Christian Examiner. Mr. Otway had re-
cently written a work in which there was a description of Lough
Derg. Carleton told him of his own pilgrimage to this same historic
spot ; and as he was detailing his adventures Mr. Otway suggested
that he should commit them to paper. Carleton modestly pi-omised
to " try." The sketch was written, approved, printed in The Chris-
tian Examiner, and at the end of two years he had contributed about
thirty sketches to the same periodical; they were collected in a
volume, and published under the title ' Traits and Stories of the Irish
Peasantry.' This was in 1830; in the course of three years the book
had run through several editions. A second series appeared in 1833,
and the next year came yet another volume entitled ' Tales of
Ireland.' Many of the tales contain glimpses of Carleton's own
feelings and personal experience. In ' The Hedge-school ' he draws
the schools and the teachers of his own boyhood ; in ' Denis
O'Shaughnessy going to Maynooth ' he describes himself, when he
was still filled with the desire of becoming a priest; and in 'The
Poor Scholar ' we have a description, partly of the adventures he
had, partly of those he might have encountered, when his parents
resolved to send him from home to be taught in the educated prov-
ince. Many of the incidents in the story are conceived in the spirit
of the truest pathos ; and the happy ending to the sorrows of the.
WILLIAM CARLE TON. 471
• Poor Scholar,' and of his much-tried parents, can be read by few
without their feelings being stirred to their deepest depths. A pic-
ture of the domestic and more tranquil feelings is given in ' The
Poor Scholar,' but the ' Traits ' are, besides, full of pictures of the
darkest national passions. ' Donagh, or the Horse-stealers,' presents
a thrilling portrait of the effect of superstition on a criminal nature;
' The Party Fight ' portrays the fierce animosities which religious
and political differences can excite among the ignorant; and in ' The
Lianhan-shee ' there is a fine description of the struggle of a tortured
and fanatic conscience.
Finally, there are stories in those first volumes of Carleton, in
which he turns to lighter and more joyous scenes ; and some of the
tales are as fine specimens of the broadest farce as others are of the
deepest pathos. ' The Hedge-school' and ' Denis O'Shaughnessy,'
cannot be read without aching sides; and the story of ' Phelim
O'Toole's Courtship ' is told with exhaustless humor. So far for the
' Traits.' The chief story in the ' Tales ' is ' The Dream of a Broken
Heart ' ; which has been well described as ' ' one of the purest and
noblest stories in our literature."
'Fardorougha the Miser,' in 1839, met the demand for a regular
tale; but this was the least of its merits. It is one of the most
powerful and moving books ever written; indeed, its fault is that it
harrows the feelings overmuch by its realistic pictures of scenes of
tragic sorrow. There are two exquisite female portraits: Honor
O'Donovan, the wife of the miser, and Una O'Brien, the betrothed
of his son. Of the former character Carleton's own mother was the
original. The story was dramatized by Miss Anne Jane Magrath,
produced at Calvert's Theater, Abbey Street, Dublin, and ran for
some time. Carleton, after this, returned to the shorter stories. In
1841 he published a series of tales, some humorous, some pathetic.
The chief of the former was the sketch of ' The Misfortunes of Barm y
Branagan,' and of the latter ' The Dead Boxer.' In 1845 he again
ventured on an extended work of fiction, ' Valentine M'Clutchy, the
Irish Agent, or Chronicles of the Castle Cumber Property ' ; there
are several fine scenes of tragic interest, but the book has not the
intensity or the uniform somberness of ' The Miser.'
In 'Valentine M'Clutchy,' too, unlike its predecessor, the more
serious passages frequently alternate with scenes of laughter and
moving comedy. In the following year his works received an addi-
tion of 'The Pious Aspirations of Solomon M'Slime,' an attorney
whose religion is that of Tartu ffe. To this period also belongs
' Rody the Rover, or the Ribbonman,' a description of the opera-
tions of the secret societies, which up to a recent period were so
prominent a feature in the rural life of Ireland. In the year 1845,
Duffy, the well-known Dublin publisher, was bringing out a series
under the title of ' The Library of Ireland.' The issue for a particu-
lar month was announced from the pen of Thomas Davis, and al-
ready sixteen pages of the story were in print. But before the tale
could be completed the hand of the poet was forever still. There
remained but six days to find another author and the story. Carle-
ton came forward, and in less than the appointed time had pro-
duced ' Paddy-Go-Easy,' a temperance tale said by Father Mathew
to be the best in existence.
472 IRISH LITERATURE.
The period chosen for the story ' The Black Prophet ' is that of
the great famine, and the scenes in that appalling national calamity
have never been more powerfully told. About this time also
appeared ' The Emigrants of Ahadarra' and ' Art Maguire,' the last
the story of the gradual degradation by drink of a man of good in-
clinations and of originally pure nature. In 1849 was published
'The Tithe Proctor.' In 'The Black Baronet,' which first appeared
in 1852 under the title 'The Red Hall, or the Baronet's Daughter,'
Carleton made the interest of his story depend more than in any of
his previous works on intricacy of plot. The famine is again de-
scribed, and there is a most touching picture of an evicted tenant,
who, leaving the hut in which his wife lies dead and his children
are down with the fever, goes out to seek subsistence by a life
of crime. In 1852 Carleton published ' The Squanders of Castle
Squander,' a not very happy production; and in the same year
1 Jane Sinclair,' ' Neal Malone,' and some other of his shorter tales
were republished from the periodicals in which they had originally
appeared. ' Willy Reilly and his Dear Colleen Bawn ' (1855) is in
parts weak and rather sentimental ; but there are several bright bits
descriptive of Irish domestic life. In 1860 was published ' The Evil
Eye, or the Black Specter,' and in 1862 ' Redmond Count O'Hanlon,
the Irish Rapparee.' These were the last works of any considerable
length which issued from his pen except his autobiography, which
is one of the most remarkable human documents ever penned ; it
is included in Mr. D. J. O'Donoghue's life of William Carleton, pub-
lished in 1896. He was not free from the embarrassments which
attend the precarious profession of authorship, and on the represen-
tation of his numerous friends a pension of £200 ($1,000) a year was
secured for him from the Government. His last illness was of some
duration, and he passed away Jan. 30, 1869.
From the foregoing brief characterization of his books we can
understand why, as Mr. George Barnett Smith very truly says :
" Carleton has been regarded as the truest and most powerful, and
the tenderest delineator of Irish life. Indignant at the constant
misrepresentation of the character of his countrymen, he resolved
to give a faithful picture of the Irish people, and although he did
not spare their vices, he championed their virtues, which were too
often neglected or disputed."
THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS.
Composed into Narrative by a Hedge Schoolmaster.
" My grandfather, Connor O'Callaghan, though a tall,
erect man, with white flowing hair, like snow, that falls
profusely about his broad shoulders, is now in his eighty-
third year ; an amazing age, considhering his former habits.
His countenance is still marked with honesty and traces of
hard fighting, and his cheeks ruddy and cudgel-worn; his
WILLIAM CARLETON. 473
eyes, though not as black as they used to be, have lost very
little of that nate fire which characterizes the eyes of the
O'Callaghans, and for which I myself have been — but im-
modesty won't allow me to allude to that : let it be sufficient
for the present to say that there never was remembered so
handsome a man in his native parish, and that I am as like
him as one Cork-red phatie is to another; indeed, it has
been often said that it would be hard to meet an O'Calla-
ghan without a black eye in his head. He has lost his fore-
teeth, however, a point in which, unfortunately, I, though
his grandson, have a strong resemblance to him. The
truth is, they were knocked out of him in rows, before he
had reached his thirty-fifth year — a circumstance which
the kind reader will be pleased to receive in extenuation
for the same defect in myself. That, however, is but a
trifle, which never gave either of us much trouble.
" It pleased Providence to bring us through many hair-
breadth escapes with our craniums uncracked; and when
we consider that he, on taking a retrogradation of his pas!
life, can indulge in the plasing recollection of having
broken two skulls in his fighting days, and myself one, I
think we have both rason to be thankful. He was a power-
ful bulliah batthagh1 in his day, and never met a man
able to fight him, except big Mucklemurray, who stood be-
fore him the greater part of an hour and a half , in the fair
of Knockimdowney, on the day that the first great figlil
took place — twenty years afther the hard frost— between
the O'Callaghans and the O'Hallaghans. The two men
fought single hands — for both factions were willing to
let them try the engagement out, that they might see what
side could boast of having the best man. They began where
you enter the north side of Knockimdowney, and fought
successfully up to the other end, then back again to the
spot where they commenced, and afterwards up to the mid-
dle of the town, right opposite to the market-place, where
my grandfather, by the same a-token, lost a grinder; bnl
he soon took satisfaction for that, by giving Mucklemurray
a tip above the eye with the end of an oak stick, dacently
loaded with lead, which made the poor man feel very quare
entirely, for the few days that he survived it.
" Faith, if an Irishman happened to be born in Scotland,
he would find it mighty inconvahient — afther losing two or
1 Bulliah hattliagh, hard striker.
474 IRISH LITERATURE.
three grinders in a row — to-rnanage the hard oaten bread
that they use there; for which rason, God be good to his
sowl that first invented the phaties, anyhow, because a man
can masticate them without a tooth at all at all. I '11 en-
gage, if larned books were consulted, it would be found
out that he was an Irishman. I wonder that neither Pas-
torini nor Columbkill mentions anj^thing about him in
their prophecies consarning the church; for my own part,
I 'm strongly inclinated to believe that it must have been
Saint Patrick himself; and I think that his driving all
kinds of venomous reptiles out of the kingdom is, accord-
ing to the Socrastic method of argument, an undeniable
proof of it. The subject, to a dead certainty, is not touched
upon in the Brehone Code, nor by any of the three Psalters,
which is extremely odd, seeing that the earth never pro-
duced a root equal to it in the multiplying force of pro-
lification. It is, indeed, the root of prosperity to a fighting
people : and many times my grandfather boasts, to this
day, that the first bit of bread he ever ett was a phatie.
" In mentioning my grandfather's fight with Muckle-
murray, I happened to name them blackguards, the O'Hal-
laghans; hard fortune to the same set, for they have no
more discretion in their quarrels than so many Egyptian
mummies, African buffoons, or any other uncivilized ani-
mals. It was one of them, he that 's married to my own
fourth cousin, Biddy O'Callaghan, that knocked two of my
grinders out, for which piece of civility I have just had
the satisfaction of breaking a splinter or two in his car-
cass, being always honestly disposed to pay my debts.
" With respect to the O'Hallaghans, they and our family
have been next neighbors since before the flood — and that 's
as good as two hundred years ; for I believe it 's one hun-
dred and ninety-eight, anyhow, since my great-grand-
father's grand-uncle's ould mare was swept out of the
' Island,' in the dead of the night, about half an hour after
the whole country had been ris out of their beds by the
thunder and lightning. Many a field of oats, and many
a life, both of beast and Christian, was lost in it, especially
of those that lived on the holmes about the edge of the
river; and it was true for them that said it came before
something; for the next year was one of the hottest sum-
mers ever remembered in Ireland.
WILLIAM CARLETON. 475
" These O'Hallaghans couldn't be at peace with a saint.
Before they and our faction began to quarrel, it 's said
that the O'Connells, or Connells, and they had been at it —
and a blackguard set the same O'Connells were, at all times
— in fair and market, dance, wake, and berrin, setting the
country on fire. Whenever they met, it was heads cracked
and bones broken ; till by degrees the O'Connells fell away,
one after another, from fighting, accidents, and hanging;
so that at last there was hardly the name of one of them in
the neighborhood. The O'Hallaghans, after this, had the
country under themselves — were the cocks of the walk en-
tirely— who but they? A man dar'n't look crooked at
them, or he was certain of getting his head in his fist.
And when they 'd get drunk in a fair, it was nothing but
' Whoo ! for the O'llallaghans ! ' and leaping yards high off
the pavement, brandishing their cudgels over their heads,
striking their heels against their hams, tossing up their
hats; and when all would fail, they 'd strip off their coats,
and trail them up and down the streets, shouting, ' Who
dare touch the coat of an O'Hallaghan? Where's the
blackguard Connells now? ' — and so on, till flesh and blood
couldn't stand it.
" In the course of time, the whole country was turned
against them; for no crowd could get together in which
they didn't kick up a row, nor a bit of stray fighting
couldn't be, but they'd pick it up first — and if a man
would venture to give them a contrary answer, he was sure
to get the crame of a good welting for his pains. The very
landlord was timorous of them; for when they'd get be-
hind in their tint, hard fortune to the bailiff, or proctor,
or steward, he could find, that would have anything to say
to them. And the more wise they; for, maybe, a month
would hardly pass till all belonging to them in the world
would be in a heap of ashes : and who could say who did it?
for they were as cunning as foxes.
" If one of them wanted a wife, it was nothing but to
find out the purtiest and richest farmer's daughter in the
neighborhood, and next march into her father's house, at
the dead hour of night, tie and gag every mortal in it, and
off with her to some friend's place in another part of the
country. Then what could be done? If the girl's parents
didn't like to give in, their daughter's name was sure to be
476 IRISH LITERATURE.
ruined; at all events, no other man would think of marry-
ing her, and the only plan was to make the worst of a bad
bargain; and God he knows, it was making a bad bargain
for a girl to have any matrimonial concatenation with the
same O'Hallaghans; for they always had the bad drop in
them, from first to last, from big to little — the black-
guards ! But wait, it 's not over with them yet.
" The bone of contintion that got between them and our
faction was this circumstance: their lands and ours were
divided by a river that ran down from the high mountains
of Sliew Boglish, and after a coorse of eight or ten miles,
disembogued itself — first into George Duffy's mill-dam,
and afterwards into that superb stream, the Blackwater,
that might be well and appropriately appellated the Irish
Niger. This river, which, though small at first, occasion-
ally inflated itself to such a gigantic altitude that it swept
away cows, corn, and cottages, or whatevar else happened
to be in the way — was the march-ditch, or merin between
our farms. Perhaps it is worth while remarking, as a solu-
tion for natural philosophers, that these inundations were
much more frequent in winter than in summer — though,
when they did occur in summer, they were truly terrific.
" God be with the days, when I and half a dozen gorsoons
used to go out, of a warm Sunday in summer — the bed
of the river nothing but a line of white meandering stones,
so hot that you could hardly stand upon them, with a small
obscure thread of water creeping invisibly among them,
hiding itself, as it were, from the scorching sun — except
here and there that you might find a small crystal pool
where the streams had accumulated. Our plan was to
bring a pocketful of rochelime with us, and put it into the
pool, when all the fish used to rise on the instant to the
surface, gasping with open mouth for fresh air, and we had
only to lift them out of the water; a nate plan, which, per-
haps, might be adopted successfully on a more extensive
scale by the Irish fisheries. Indeed, I almost regret that I
did not remain in that station of life, for I was much hap-
pier than ever I was since I began to study and practice
laming. But this is vagating from the subject.
" Well, then, I have said that them O'Hallaghans lived
beside us, and that this stream divided our lands. About
half a quarter — i.e., to accommodate myself to the vulgar
WILLIAM CARLETON. 477
phraseology — or, to speak more scientifically, one eighth
of a mile from our house, was as purty a hazel glen as
you 'd wish to see, near half a mile long — its developments
and proportions were truly classical. In the bottom of this
glen was a small green island, about twelve yards, dia-
metrically, of Irish admeasurement, that is to say, be the
same more or less — at all events, it lay in the way of the
river, which, however, ran towards the O'Hallaghan side,
and, consequently, the island was our property.
" Now, you '11 observe, that this river had been for ages,
the mcriii between the two farms, for they both belonged
to separate landlords, and so long as it kept the O'Halla-
ghan side of the little peninsula in question, there could be
no dispute about it, for all was clear. Que wet winter,
however, it seemed to change its mind upou the subject ; for
it wrought and wore away a passage for itself on our side of
the island, and by that means took part, as it were, with
the O'Hallaghans, leaving the territory which had been
our property for centimes, in their possession. This was a
vexatious change to us, and, indeed, eventually produced
very feudal consequences. No sooner had the stream
changed sides, than the O'FIallaghans claimed the island
as theirs, according to their tenement; and we, having had
it for such length of time in our possession, could not break
ourselves of the habitude of occupying it. They incarcer-
ated our cattle, and we incarcerated theirs. They sum-
moned us to their landlord, who was a magistrate; and we
summoned them to ours, who was another. The verdicts
were north and south. Their landlord gave it in favor of
them, and ours in favor of us. The one said he had law on
his side ; the other, that he had proscription and possession,
length of time and usage.
" The two Squires then fought a challenge upon the head
of it, and what was more singular, upon the disputed spot
itself; the one standing on their side — the other on ours;
for it was just twelve paces ^xevy way. Their friend was
a small, light man, with legs like drumsticks; the other
was a large, able-bodied gentleman, with a red face and a
hooked nose. They exchanged two shots, one onty of which
— the second — took effect. It pastured upon their land-
lord's spindle leg, on which he held it out, exclaiming, that
while he lived he would never fight another challenge with
478 IRISH LITERATURE.
his antagonist, ' because ' said he, looking at his own
spindle shank, i the man who could hit that could hit any-
thing.'
" We then were advised by an attorney to go to law with
them ; and they were advised by another attorney to go to
law with us; accordingly, we did so, and in the course of
eight or nine years it might have been decided ; but just as
the legal term approximated in which the decision was to
be announced, the river divided itself with mathematical
exactitude on each side of the island. This altered the
state and law of the question in toto; but, in the mean-
time, both we and the O'Hallaghans were nearly fractured
by the expenses. Now during the lawsuit we usually
houghed and mutilated each other's cattle, according as
they trespassed the premises. This brought on the usual
concomitants of various battles, fought and won by both
sides, and occasioned the lawsuit to be dropped; for we
found it a mighty inconvanient matter to fight it out both
ways — by the same a-token that I think it a great proof
of stultify to go to law at all at all, as long as a person is
able to take it into his own management. For the only in-
congruity in the matter is this: that, in the one case, a set
of lawyers have the law in their hands, and, in the other,
that you have it in your own — that 's the only difference,
and 't is easy knowing where the advantage lies.
" We, however, paid the most of the expenses, and would
have pcd them all with the greatest integrity, were it not
that our attornev, when about to issue an execution
against our property, happened somehow to be shot, one
evening, as he returned home from a dinner which was
given by him that was attorney for the O'Hallaghans.
Many a boast the O'Hallaghans made, before the quarrel-
ing between us and them commenced, that they'd sweep the
streets with the fighting O'Callaghans, which was an epi-
thet that was occasionally applied to our family. We dif-
fered, however, materially from them ; for we were honor-
able, never starting out in dozens on a single man or two,
and beating him into insignificance. A couple or inaybe,
when irritated, three were the most we ever set at a single
enemy; and, if we left him lying in a state of imperception,
it was the most we ever did, except in a regular confliction,
when a man is justified in saving his own skull by breaking
WILLIAM CARLETON. 479
one of an opposite faction. For the truth of the business
is, that he who breaks the skull of him who endeavors to
break his own, is safest; and, surely, when a man is driven
to such an alternative, the choice is unhesitating.
" O'Hallaghans' attorney, however, had better luck ;
they were, it is true, rather in the retrograde with him
touching the law charges, and, of coorse, it was only candid
in him to look for his own. One morning he found that
two of his horses had been executed by some incendiary un-
known, in the course of the night; and on going to look
at them he found a taste of a notice posted on the inside
of the stable door, giving him intelligence that if he did
not find a horpus corpus whereby to transfer his body out
of the country, he would experience a fate parallel to that
of his brother law3^er or the horses. And, undoubtedly, if
honest people never perpetrated worse than banishing such
varmin, along with proctors, and drivers of all kinds, out
of a civilized country, they would not be so very culpable
or atrocious.
"After this the lawyer went to reside in Dublin; and
the only bodily injury he received was the death of a land-
agent and a bailiff, who lost their lives faithfully in driving
for rent. They died, however, successfully; the bailiff hav-
ing been provided for nearly a year before the agent was
sent to give an account of his stewardship — as the author-
ized version has it.
" The occasion on which the first rencounter between us
and the O'Hallaghans took place was a peaceable one.
Several of our respective friends undertook to produce a
friendly and oblivious potation between us — it was at a
berrin belonging to a corpse who was related to us both;
and, certainly in the beginning, we were all as thick as
whigged milk. But there is no use now in dwelling too long
upon that circumstance: let it be sufficient to assert that
the accommodation was' effectuated by fists and cudgels,
on both sides — the first man that struck a blow being one
of the friends Hint wished to bring about the tranquillity.
From that out, the play commenced, and God he knows
when it may end; for no dacent faction could give in to
another faction, without losing their character, and being
kicked, and cuffed, and kilt, every week in the year.
" It is the great battle, however, which I am after going
480 IRISH LITERATURE.
to describe; that in which we and the O'Hallaghans had
contrived one way or other, to have the parish divided —
one half for them, and the other for us; and, upon my
credibility, it is no exaggeration to declare that the whole
parish, though ten miles by six, assembled itself in the
town of Knockimdowney upon this interesting occasion.
In thruth, Ireland ought to be a land of mathemathitians ;
for I 'm sure her population is well trained, at all events,
in the two sciences of multiplication and division. Before
I adventure, however, upon the narration, I must wax pa-
thetic a little, and then proceed with the main body of the
story.
"Poor Rose O'Hallaghan! — or, as she was designated,
Rose Galh, or Fair Rose, and sometimes simply Rose
Hallaghan, because the detention of the big O would pro-
duce an afflatus in the pronunciation that would be mighty
inconvanient to such as did not understand oratory — be-
sides that, the Irish are rather fond of sending the liquids
in a guttheral direction — Poor Rose ! that faction fight
was a black day to her, the sweet innocent! when it was
well known that there wasn't a man, woman, or child, on
either side, that wouldn't lay their hands under her feet.
However, in order to insense the reader better into her
character, I will commence a small sub-narration, which
will afterwards emerge into the parent stream of the story.
" The chapel of Knockimdowney is a slated house, with-
out any ornament, except a set of wooden cuts, painted red
and blue, that are placed seriatim around the square of
the building in the internal side. Fourteen of these sus-
pend at equal distances on the walls, each set in a painted
frame; these constitute a certain species of country de-
votion. It is usual on Sundays for such of the congrega-
tions as are most inclined to piety, to genuflect at the first
of these pictures, and commence a certain number of
prayers to it; after the repetition of which, they travel on
their knees along the bare earth to the second, where they
repate another prayer peculiar to that, and so on, till they
finish the grand tower of the interior. Such, however,
as are not especially dictated to this kind of locomotive
prayer, collect together in various knots, through the
chapel, and amuse themselves by auditing or narrating
anecdotes, discussing policy or detraction; and in case It
WILLIAM CARLETON. 481
be summer, and a day of a fine texture, they scatter them-
selves into little crowds on the chapel-green, or lie at their
length upon the grass in listless groups, giving way to chat
and laughter.
" In this mode, laired on the sunny side of the ditches
and hedges, or collected in rings round that respectable
character, the Academician of the village, or some other
well-known shannahas, or story-teller, they amuse them-
selves till the priest's arrival. Perhaps, too, some walk-
ing geographer of a pilgrim may happen to be present;
and if there be, he is sure to draw a crowd about him, in
spite of all the efforts of the learned Academician to the
reverse. It is no unusual thing to see such a vagrant, in
all the vanity of conscious sanctimony, standing in the
middle of the attentive peasants, like the knave and fel-
lows of a cartwheel — if I may be permitted the loan of an
apt similitude — repeating some piece of unfathomable and
labyrinthine devotion, or perhaps warbling, from sten-
tliorian lungs, some melodia sacra, in an untranslatable
tongue; or, it may be, exhibiting the mysterious power of
an amber bade, fastened as a decade to his paudareens, l
lifting a chaff or light bit of straw by the force of its at-
traction. This is an exploit which causes many an eye to
turn from the bades to his own bearded face, with a hope,
as it were, of being able to catch a glimpse of the lurking
sanctimony by which the knave hoaxes them in the mirac-
ulous.
" The amusements of the females are also nearly such as
I have drafted out. Nosegays of the darlings might be
seen sated on green banks, or sauntering about with a sly
intention of coming in contact with their sweethearts, or
like bachelor's buttons in smiling rows, criticising the
young men as they pass. Others of them might be seen
screened behind a hedge, with their backs to the spectators,
taking the papers off their curls before a small bit of look-
ing-glass placed against the ditch; or perhaps putting on
their shoes and stockings — which phrase can be used only
by authority of the figure, heusteron proteron — inasmuch
:is if they put on the shoes first, you persave, it would be a
scientific job to get on the stockings after; but it ?s an idio-
matical expression, and therefore justifiable. However,
31 1 Paudareens, rosary.
482 IRISH LITERATURE.
it 's a general custom in the country, which I dare to say
has not yet spread into large cities, for the young women
to walk barefooted to the chapel, or within a short dis-
tance of it, that they may exhibit their bleached thread
stockings and well-greased slippers to the best advantage,
not pretermitting a well-turned ankle and neat leg, which,
I may fearlessly assert, my fair countrywomen can show
against any other nation living or dead.
"One sunny Sabbath the congregation of Knockim-
downey were thus assimilated, amusing themselves in the
manner I have just outlined : a series of country girls sat
on a little green mount, called the Rabbit Bank, from the
circumstance of its having been formerly an open burrow,
though of late years it has been closed. It was near
twelve o'clock, the hour at which Father Luke O'Shau-
ghran was generally seen topping the rise of the hill at
Larry Mulligan's public-house, jogging on his bay hack at
something between a walk and a trot — that is to say, his
horse moved his fore and hind legs on the off side at one
motion, and the fore and hind legs of the near side in an-
other, going at a kind of dog's trot, like the pace of an idiot
with sore feet in a shower — a pace, indeed, to which the
animal had been set for the last sixteen years, but beyond
which, no force, or entreaty, or science, or power either
divine or human, of his reverence, could drive him. As yet,
however, he had not become apparent; and the girls al-
ready mentioned were discussing the pretensions which
several of their acquaintances had to dress or beauty.
" ' Peggy,' said Katty Carroll to her companion, Peggy
Donohue, ' were you out last Sunday? '
" ' No, in troth, Katty, I was disappointed in getting my
shoes from Paddy Malone, though I left him the measure
of my foot three weeks agone, and gave him a thousand
warnings to make them duck-nebs; but instead of that,'
said she, holding out a very purty foot, ' he has made them
as sharp in the toe as a pick-axe, and a full mile too short
for me; but why do ye ax was I out, Katty? '
" ' Oh, nothing,' responded Katty, ' only that you missed
a sight, anyway.'
" < What was it, Katty, a-hagurf ' 1 asked her companion
with mighty great curiosity.
1 A-hagur, my dear friend.
WILLIAM CARLETON. 483
« < Why, nothing less, indeed, nor Eose Cuillenan,
decked out in a white muslin gown, and a black sprush bon-
net, tied under her chin wid a silk ribbon, no less; but what
killed us, out and out, was — you wouldn't guess? '
" ' Arrah, how could I guess, woman alive? A silk hand-
kerchy, maybe; for I wouldn't doubt the same Rose, but
she would be setting herself up for the likes of sich a thing.'
" ' It 's herself that had, as red as scarlet, about her
neck ; but that 's not it.'
"' Arrah, Katty, tell it to us at wanst; out with it,
a-hagur; sure there 's no treason in it, anyhow.'
" ' Why, thin, nothing less nor a crass-bar red and white
pocket-handkerchy, to wipe her pretty complexion wid! '
" To this Peggy replied by a loud laugh, in which it was
difficult to say whether there was more of satire than as-
tonishment.
" ' A pocket-hankerchy ! ' she exclaimed ; ' muslia, are
we alive afther that, at all at all! Why, that bates Molly
M'Cullagh, and her red mantle entirely; I 'm sure, but it 's
well conle up for the likes of her, a poor, imperint crathur,
that sprung from nothing, to give herself sich airs.'
"'Molly M'Cullagh, indeed,' said Katty; 'why, they
oughtn't to be mintioned in the one day, woman ; Molly 's
come of a dacent ould stock, and kind mother for her to
keep herself in genteel ordher at all times; she seen noth-
ing else, and can afford it, not all as one as the other
flipe, that would go to the world's end for a bit of dress.'
" l Sure she thinks she 's a beauty too, if you plase,' said
Peggy, tossing her head with an air of disdain ; ' but tell us,
Katty, how did the muslin sit upon her at all, the upsetting
crathur? '
" ' Why, for all the world like a shift on a May-powl, or a
stocking on a body's nose; only nothing killed us outright
but the pocket-handkerchy ! '
" ' But,' said the other, ' what could we expect from a
proud piece like her, that brings a Manwill * to mass every
Sunday, purtending she can read in it, and Jem Pinigan
saw the wrong side of the book toards her, the Sunday of
the Purcession! '
"At this hit they both formed another risible junction,
quite as sarcastic as the former, — in the midst of which
1 Manual, a Catholic prayer-book.
484 IRISH LITERATURE.
the innocent object of their censure, dressed in all her
obnoxious finery, came up and joined them; She was
scarcely sated — I blush to the very point of my pen during
the manuscription — when the confabulation assumed a
character directly antipodial to that which marked the
precedent dialogue.
" ' My gracious, Hose, but that 's a purty thing you have
got in your gown ! where did you buy it? '
" ' Och, thin, not a one of myself likes it over much. I 'm
sorry I didn't buy a gingham; I could have got a beau-
tiful patthern, all out, for two shillings less; but they don't
wash so well as this. I bought it in Paddy Gartland's,
Peggy.'
" ' Troth, it 's nothing else but a great beauty; I didn't
see anything on you this long time becomes you so well,
and I 've remarked that you always look best in white.'
" ' Who made it, Rose,' inquired Katty, ' for it sits ille-
gant? '
" ' Indeed,' replied Rose, ' for the differ of the price, I
thought it better to bring it to Peggy Boyle, and be sartin
of not having it spoiled. Nelly Keenan made the last, and
although there was a full breadth more in it nor this, bad
cess to the one of her but spoiled it on me; it was ever
so much too short in the body, and too tight in the sleeves,
and then I had no step at all at all.'
" l The sprush bonnet is exactly the fit for the gown,'
observed Katty; 'the black and the white's jist the cut —
how many yards had you, Rose? '
"'Jist ten and a half; but the half-yard was for the
tucks.'
" ' Ay, faix ! and brave full tucks she left in it ; ten would
do me, Rose ? '
it ' Ten ! no nor ten and a half; you 're a size bigger nor
me at the laste, Peggy ; but you 'd be asy fitted, you 're so
well made.'
" ' Rose, darling,' said Peggy, ' that 's a great beauty,
and shows off your complexion all to pieces; you have no
notion how well you look in it and the sprush.'
" In a few minutes after this, her namesake, Rose Galh
O'Hallaghan, came towards the chapel, in society with her
father, mother, and her two sisters. The eldest, Mary, was
about twenty-one; Rose, who was the second, about nine-
WILLIAM CARLETON. 485
teen, or scarcely that; and Nancy, the junior of the three,
about twice seven.
" ' There 's the O'Hallaghans,' says Rose.
" ' Ay,' replied Katty; ' you may talk of beauty, now; did
you ever lay your two eyes on the likes of Rose for down-
right— musha if myself knows what to call it — but, any-
how, she 's the lovely crathur to look at.'
" Kind reader, without a single disrespectful insinua-
tion against any portion of the fair sex, you may judge
what Rose O'Hallaghan must have been, when even these
three were necessitated to praise her in her absence.
" ' I '11 warrant,' observed Katty, ' we '11 soon be after
seeing John O'Callaghan' (he was my own cousin)
' sthrolling afther them, at his ase.'
" ' Why,' asked Rose, ' what makes you say that? '
" ' Bekase,' replied the other, ' I have a rason for it.'
" ' Sure, John O'Callaghan wouldn't be thinking of
her,' observed Rose, ' and their families would see each
other shot; their factions would never have a crass mar-
riage, anyhow.'
" ' Well,' said Peggy, ' it 's the thousand pities that the
same two couldn't go together: for, fair and handsome as
Rose is, you'll not deny but John comes up to her: but
faix, sure enough it 's they that 's the proud people on both
sides, and dangerous to make or meddle with, not saying
that ever there was the likes of the same two for dacency
and peaceableness among either of the factions.'
"'Didn't I tell yees? ' cried Katty; 'look at him now,
staling afther her, and it '11 be the same tiling going home
agin ; and if Rose is not much belied, it 's not a bit dis-
posing to her, they say.'
" ' Between ourselves,' observed Peggy, ' it would be no
wondher the darling young crathur would fall in love with
him, for you might thravel the counthry afore you 'd meet
with his fellow for face and figure.'
"'There's Father Ned,' remarked Katty; 'we had bet-
flier get into the chapel before the scroodgen comes an, or
your bonnet and gown, Rose, won't be the betther for it.'
" They now proceeded to the chapel, and those who had
been amusing themselves after the same mode followed
their exemplar. In a short time the hedges and ditches
adjoining the chapel were quite in solitude, with the ex-
486 IRISH LITERATURE.
ception of a few persons from the extreme parts of the
parish, who might be seen running with all possible veloc-
ity ' to overtake mass,' as the phrase on that point ex-
presses itself.
" The chapel of Knockimdowney was situated at the
foot of a range of lofty mountains ; a by-road went past the
very door, which had under subjection a beautiful extent
of cultivated country, diversiflcated by hill and dale, or
rather by hill and hollow; for as far as my own geographi-
cal knowledge went, I have uniformly found them insepar-
able. It was also ornamented with the waving verdure of
rich cornfields and meadows, not pretermitting phatie-
fields in full blossom — a part of rural landscape which, to
my utter astonishment, has escaped the pen of poet and
the brush of painter; although I will risque my reputa-
tion as a man of pure and categorical taste, if a finer in-
gredient in the composition of a landscape could be found
than a field of Cork-red phaties, or Moroky blacks in full
bloom, allowing a man to judge by the pleasure they con-
fer upon the eye, and therefore to the heart. About a mile
up from the chapel, towards the south, a mountain-stream
— not the one already intimated — over which there was no
bridge, crossed the road. But in lieu of a bridge, there was
a long double plank laid over it, from bank to bank ; and
as the river was broad, and not sufficiently incarcerated
within its channel, the neighbors were necessitated to
throw these planks across the narrowest part they could
find in the contiguity of the road. This part was conse-
quently the deepest, and, in floods, the most dangerous;
for the banks were elevated as far as they went, and quite
tortuositous.
" Shortly after the priest had entered the chapel, it was
observed that the hemisphere became, of a sudden, un-
usually obscured, though the preceding part of the day had
not only been uncloudously bright, but hot in a most es-
pecial manner. The obscurity, however, increased rapidly,
accompanied by that gloomy stillness which always takes
precedence of a storm, and fills the mind with vague and
interminable terror. But this ominous silence was not
long unfractured ; for soon after the first appearance of the
gloom, a flash of lightning quivered through the chapel,
followed by an extravagantly loud clap of thunder, which
WILLIAM CARLETON. 487
shook the very glass in the windows, and filled the congre-
gation to the brim with terror. Their dismay, however,
would have been infinitely greater, only for the presence
of his reverence, and the confidence which might be traced
to the solemn occasion on which they were assimilated.
" From this moment the storm became progressive in
dreadful magnitude, and the thunder, in concomitance with
the most vivid flashes of lightning, pealed through the sky
with an awful grandeur and magnificence that were ex-
alted, and even rendered more sublime, by the still solem-
nity of religious worship. Every heart now prayed fer-
vently— every spirit shrunk into a deep sense of its own
guilt and helplessness — and every conscience was terror-
stricken, as the voice of an angry God thundered out of
his temple of storms through the heavens; for truly, as
the authorized version has it, ' darkness was under his
feet, and his pavilion round about was dark waters, and
thick clouds of the skies, because he was wroth.'
" The rain now condescended in even down torrents, and
thunder succeeded thunder in deep and terrific peals,
whilst the roar of the gigantic echoes that deepened and
reverberated among the glens and hollows — ' laughing in
their mountain mirth ' — hard fortune to me, but they
made the flesh creep on my bones !
" This lasted for an hour, when the thunder slackened ;
but the rain still continued. As soon as mass was over,
and the storm had elapsed, except an odd peal which
might be heard rolling at a distance behind the hills, the
people began gradually to recover their spirits, and
enter into confabulation; but to venture out was still
impracticable. For about another hour it rained inces-
santly, after which it ceased; the hemisphere became
lighter, and the sun shone out once more upon the
countenance of nature with his former brightness. The
congregation then decanted itself out of the chapel —
the spirits of the people dancing with that remarkable
buoyancy or juvenility which is felt after a thunder-
storm, when the air is calm, soople, and balmy, and all
nature garmented with glittering verdure and light. The
crowd next began to commingle on their way homo, and
to make the usual observations upon the extraordinary
storm which had just passed, and the probable effect it
488 IRISH LITERATURE.
would produce on the fruit and agriculture of the neigh-
borhood.
" When the three young women, whom we have already
introduced to our respectable readers, had evacuated the
chapel, they determined to substantiate a certitude, as far
as their observation could reach, as to the truth of what
Katty Carroll had hinted at, in reference to John O'Calla-
ghan's attachment to Rose Galh O'Hallaghan, and her
taciturn approval of it. For this purpose they kept their
eye upon John, who certainly seemed in no especial hurry
home, but lingered upon the chapel green in a very care-
less method. Rose Galh, however, soon made her appear-
ance, and, after going up the chapel-road a short space,
John slyly walked at some distance behind, without seem-
ing to pay her any particular notice, whilst a person up
to the secret might observe Rose's bright eye sometimes
peeping back, to see if he was after her. In this man-
ner they proceeded until they came to the river, which, to
their great alarm, was almost fluctuating over its highest
banks.
" A crowd was now assembled, consulting as to the
safest method of crossing the planks, under which the red
boiling current ran, with less violence, it is true, but much
deeper than in any other part of the stream. The final
decision was that the very young and the old, and such as
were feeble, should proceed by a circuit of some miles to
a bridge that crossed it, and that the young men should
place themselves on their knees along the planks, their
hands locked in each other, thus forming a support on one
side, upon which such as had courage to venture across
might lean, in case of accident or megrim. Indeed, any-
body that had able nerves might have crossed the planks
without this precaution, had they been dry; but, in con-
sequence of the rain, and the frequent attrition of feet,
they were quite slippery; and, besides, the flood rolled
terrifically two or three yards below them, which might be
apt to beget a megrim that would not be felt if there was
no flood.
" When this expedient had been hit upon, several young
men volunteered themselves to put it in practice; and in
a short time a considerable number of both sexuals crossed
over, without the occurrence of any unpleasant accident.
WILLIAM CARLETOX. 489
Paddy O'Hallaghan and his family had been stationed
for some time on the bank, watching the success of the
plan ; and as it appeared not to be attended with any par-
ticular danger, they also determined to make the attempt.
About a perch below the planks stood John O'Callaghan,
watching the progress of those who were crossing them,
but taking no part in what was going forward. The river
under the planks, and for some perches above and below
them, might be about ten feet deep; but to those who could
swim it was less perilous, should any accident befall them,
than those parts where the current was more rapid, but
shallower. The water here boiled, and bubbled, and whirled
about ; but it was slow, and its yellow surface unbroken by
rocks or fords.
. " The first of the O'Hallaghans that ventured over it
was the youngest, who, being captured by the hand, was
encouraged by many cheerful expressions from the young
men who were clinging to the planks. She got safe over,
however ; and when she came to the end, one who was sta-
tioned on the bank gave her a joyous pull, that translated
her several yards upon terra firma.
" ' Well, Nancy,' he observed, ' you We safe, anyhow; and
if I don't dance at your wedding for this, I '11 never say
you 're dacent.'
" To this Nancy gave a jocular promise, and he resumed
his station, that he might be ready to render similar as-
sistance to her next sister. Rose Galh then went to the
edge of the plank several times, but her courage as often
refused to be forthcoming. During her hesitation, John
O'Callaghan stooped down, and privately untied his shoes,
then unbuttoned his waistcoat, and very gently, being
unwilling to excite notice, slipped the knot of his cravat.
At long last, by the encouragement of those who were
on the plank, Rose attempted the passage, and had ad-
vanced as far as the middle of it, when a fit of dizziness
and alarm seized her with such violence that she lost all
consciousness — a circumstance of which those who handed
her along were ignorant. The consequence, as might be
expected, was dreadful; for as one of the young men was
receiving her hand, that he might pass her to the next,
she lost her momentum, and was instantaneously precipi-
tated into the boiling current.
490 IRISH LITERATURE.
" The wild and fearful cry of horror that succeeded this
cannot be laid on paper. The eldest sister fell into strong-
convulsions, and several of the other females fainted on
the spot. The mother did not faint; but, like Lot's wife,
she seemed to have been translated into stone: her hands
became clinched convulsively, her teeth locked, her nostrils
dilated, and her eyes shot half way out of her head. There
she stood, looking upon her daughter struggling in the
Hood, with a fixed gaze of wild and impotent frenzy, that,
for tearfulness, beat the thunder-storm all to nothing. The
father rushed to the edge of the river, oblivious of his in-
capability to swim, determined to save her or lose his own
life, which latter would have been a dead certainty had
he ventured; but he was prevented by the crowd, who
pointed out to him the madness of such a project.
" ' For God's sake, Paddy, don't attimpt it,' they ex-
claimed, ' except you wish to lose your own life, widout
being able to save hers; no man could swim in that flood,
and it upwards of ten feet deep.'
" Their arguments, however, were lost upon him ; for,
in fact, he was insensible to everything but his child's
preservation. He therefore only answered their remon-
strances by attempting to make another plunge into the
river.
" ' Let me alone, will yees? ' said he — ' let me alone ! I '11
either save my child, Eose, or die along with her! How
could I live after her? Merciful God, any of them but her!
Oh ! Rose, darling,' he exclaimed, * the favorite of my heart
— will no one save you? ' All this passed in less than a
minute.
" Just as these words were uttered a plunge was heard
a few yards above the bridge, and a man appeared in the
flood, making his way with rapid strokes to the drowning
girl. Another cry now arose from the spectators. ' It 's
John O'Callaghan,' they shouted — ' it 's John O'Calla-
ghan, and they '11 be both lost.' * No,' exclaimed others ;
'if it 's in the power of man to save her, 7ic will ! ' ' Oh,
blessed Father, she's lost!' now burst from all present;
for, after having struggled and been kept floating for some
time by her garments, she at length sunk, apparently ex-
hausted and senseless, and the thief of a flood flowed over
her, as if she had been under its surface.
WILLIAM CARLETON. 491
" When O'Callaghan saw that she went down he raised
himself up in the water, and cast his eye towards that part
of the bank opposite which she disappeared, evidently, as
it proved, that he might have a mark to guide him in fixing
on the proper spot where to plunge after her. When he
came to the place he raised himself again in the stream,
and, calculating that she must by this time have been borne
some distance from the spot where she sank, he gave a
stroke or two down the river and disappeared after her.
This was followed by another cry of horror and despair;
for, somehow, the idea of desolation which marks, at all
times, a deep over-swollen torrent, heightened by the bleak
mountain scenery around them, and the dark, angry vo-
racity of the river where they had sunk, might have im-
pressed the spectators with utter hopelessness as to the
fate of those now engulfed in its vortex. This, however, I
leave to those who are deeper read in philosophy than I
am.
" An awful silence succeeded the last exclamation,
broken only by the hoarse rushing of the waters, whose
wild, continuous roar, booming hollowly and dismally in
the ear, might be heard at a great distance over all the
country. But a new sensation soon invaded the multi-
tude; for, after the lapse of about a minute, John O'Calla-
ghan emerged from the flood, bearing, in his sinister hand,
the body of his own Rose Galh — for it "s he that loved her
tenderly. A peal of joy congratulated them from a thou-
sand voices; hundreds of directions were given to him how
to act to the best advantage. Two young men in especial,
who were both dying about the lovely creature that he
held, were quite anxious to give advice.
" ' Bring her to the other side, John ma bouchal; it 's
the safest,' said Larry Carty.
" ' Will you let him alone, Carty? ' said Simon Tracy,
who was the other. l You '11 onty put him in a perplexity.7
"But Carty should order in spite of everything. He
kept bawling out, however, so loud that John raised his
eye to see what he meant, and was near losing hold of
Rose. This was too much for Tracy, who ups with his fist
and downs him — so they both at it; for no one there could
take themselves off those that were in danger, to interfere
between them. But, at all events, no earthly thing can
happen among Irishmen without a light.
492 IRISH LITERATURE.
" The father, during this, stood breathless, his hands
clasped, and his eyes turned to heaven, praying in an-
guish for the delivery of his darling. The mother's look
was still wild and fixed, her eyes glazed, and her muscles
hard and stiff; evidently she was insensible to all that was
going forward; while large drops of paralytic agony hung
upon her cold brow. Neither of the sisters had yet re-
covered, nor could those who supported them turn their
eyes from the more imminent danger, to pay them any
particular attention. Many, also, of the other females,
whose feelings were too much wound up when the accident
occurred, now fainted, when they saw she was likely to
be rescued; but most of them were weeping with delight
and gratitude.
" When John brought her to the surface, he paused a
moment to recover breath and collectedness ; he then
caught her by the left arm, near the shoulder, and cut, in
a slanting direction, down the stream, to a watering-place,
where a slope had been formed in the bank. But he was
already too far down to be able to work across the stream
to this point — for it was here much stronger and more
rapid than under the planks. Instead, therefore, of reach-
ing the slope, he found himself, in spite of every effort to
the contrary, about a perch below it; and except he could
gain this point, against the strong rush of the flood, there
was very little hope of being able to save either her or him-
self— for he was now much exhausted.
" Hitherto, therefore, all was still doubtful, whilst
strength was fast failing him. In this trying and almost
helpless situation, with an admirable presence of mind,
he adopted the only expedient which could possibly enable
him to reach the bank. On finding himself receding down,
instead of advancing up, the current, he approached the
bank, which was here very deep and perpendicular; he
then sank his fingers into the firm blue clay with which it
was stratified, and by this means advanced, bit by bit, up
the stream, having no other force by which to propel him-
self against it. After this mode did he breast the current
with all his strength — which must have been prodigious,
or he never could have borne it out — until he reached tli*1
slope, and got from the influence of the tide into dead
water. On arriving here, his hand was caught by one of
WILLIAM CARLETON. 493
the young men present, who stood up to the neck, waiting
his approach. A second man stood behind him, holding
his other hand, a link being thus formed, that reached out
to the firm bank ; and a good pull now brought them both
to the edge of the liquid. On finding bottom, John took
his Colleen Galh in his own arms, carried her out, and,
pressing his lips to hers, laid her in the bosom of her
father; then after taking another kiss of the young
drowned flower, he burst into tears, and fell powerless be-
side her. The truth is, the spirit that kept him firm was
now exhausted; both his legs and arms having become
nerveless by the exertion.
" Hitherto her father took no notice of John, for how
could he? seeing that he was entirely wrapped up in his
daughter; and the question was, though rescued from the
flood, if life was in her. The sisters were by this time re-
covered, and weeping over her along with the father — and,
indeed, with all present; but the mother could not be made
to comprehend what they were all about, at all at all. The
country people used every means with which they were in-
timate to recover Rose; she was brought instantly to a
farmer's house beside the spot, put into a warm bed, cov-
ered over with hot salt, wrapped in half-scorched blank-
ets, and made subject to vx^vy other mode of treatment
that could possibly revoke the functions of life. John
had now got a dacent draught of whisky, which revived
him. He stood over her, when he could lie admitted, watch-
ing for the symptomatics of her revival ; all, however, was
vain. He now determined to try another course: by-and-
by he stooped, put his mouth to her mouth, and, drawing
in his breath, respired with all his force from the bottom
of his very heart into hers; this he did several times rap-
idly— faith, a tender and agreeable operation, anyhow.
But mark the consequence: in less than a minute her white
bosom heaved — her breath returned — her pulse began to
play, she opened her eyes, and felt his tears of love raining
warmly on her pale cheek !
"For years before this, no (wo of these opposite fac-
tions had spoken; nor up to tin's minute had John and
they, even upon this occasion, exchanged a monosyllable.
The father now looked at him — the tears stood afresh in
his eyes; he came forward — stretched out his hand — it
494 IRISH LITERATURE.
was received; and the next moment he fell into John's
arms, and cried like an infant.
" When Rose recovered, she seemed as if striving to re-
cordate what had happened; and after two or three min-
utes inquired from her sister, in a weak but sweet voice,
' Who saved me? '
u t >rp was John O'Callaghan, Rose, darling,' replied the
sister in tears, ' that ventured his own life into the boil-
ing flood, to save yours — and did save it, jewel.'
" Rose's eye glanced at John ; — and I only wish, as I am
a bachelor not further than my forty-seventh, that I may
ever have the happiness to get such a glance from two blue
eyes as she gave him that moment; a faint smile played
about her mouth, and a slight blush lit up her fair cheek,
like the evening sunbeams on the virgin snow, as the poets
have said, for the five hundredth time, to my own personal
knowledge. She then extended her hand, which John,
you may be sure, was no way backward in receiving, and
the tears of love and gratitude ran silently down her
cheeks.
" It is not necessary to detail the circumstances of this
day further; let it be sufficient to say that a reconcilia-
tion took place between those two branches of the O'Hal-
laghan and O'Callaghan families, in consequence of John's
heroism and Rose's soft persuasion, and that there was
also every perspective of the two factions being penulti-
mately amalgamated. For nearly a century they had been
pell-mell at it, whenever and wherever they could meet.
Their forefathers, who had been engaged in the lawsuit
about the island which I have mentioned, were dead and
petrified in their graves; and the little peninsula in the
glen was gradationally worn away by the river, till nothing
remained but a desert, upon a small scale, of sand and
gravel. Even the ruddy, able-bodied squire, with the longi-
tudinal nose projecting out of his face like a broken arch,
and the small, fiery magistrate, both of whom had fought
the duel, for the purpose of setting forth a good example
and bringing the dispute to a peaceable conclusion, were
also dead. The very memory of the original contention
had been lost (except that it was preserved along with the
cranium of my grandfather), or became so indistinct that
the parties fastened themselves on some more modern prov-
WILLIAM CARLETON. 495
ocation, which they kept in view until another fresh mo-
tive would start up, and so on. I know not, however,
whether it was fair to expect them to give up at once the
agreeable recreation of fighting. It 's not easy to abolish
old customs, particularly diversions ; and every one knows
that this is the national amusement of the finest peasantry
on the face of the earth.
" There were, it is true, many among both factions who
saw the matter in this reasonable light, and who wished
rather, if it were to cease, that it should die away by de-
grees, from the battle of the whole parish, equally divided
between the factions, to the subordinate row between cer-
tain members of them — from that to the faint broil of cer-
tain families, and so on, to the single-handed play between
individuals. At all events, one half of them were for peace,
and two-thirds of them equally divided between peace and
war.
" For three months after the accident which befell Eose
Galh O'Hallaghan, both factions had been tolerably quiet :
that is to say, they had no general engagement. Some
slight skirmishes certainly did take place on market
nights, when the drop was in, and the spirits up; but in
those neither John nor Rose's immediate families took any
part. The fact was that John and Eose were on the even-
ing of matrimony; the match had been made, the day ap-
pointed, and every other necessary stipulation ratified.
Now, John was as fine a young man as you would meet in
a day's traveling; and as for Rose, her name went far and
near for beauty; and with justice, for the sun never shone
on a fairer, meeker, or modester virgin than Rose Galh
O'Hallaghan.
" It might be, indeed, that there were those on both sides
who thought that, if the marriage was obstructed, their
own sons and daughters would have a belter chance.
Rose had many admirers; they might have envied John his
happiness: many fathers, on the other side, might have
wished their sons to succeed with Rose. Whether I am
sinister in this conjecture is more than I can say. I grant,
indeed, that a great portion of it is speculation on my part.
The wedding-day, however, was arranged; but, unfortu-
nately, the fair day of Knoekimdowney occurred, in the
rotation of natural time, precisely one week before it. I
496 IRISH LITERATURE.
know not from what motive it proceeded, but the factions
on both sides were never known to make a more light-
hearted preparation for battle. Cudgels of all sorts and
sizes (and some of them, to my own knowledge, great
beauties) were provided.
" I believe, I may as well take this opportunity of saying,
that real Irish cudgels must be root-growing, either oak,
blackthorn, or crab-tree — although crab-tree, by the way,
is apt to fly. They should not be too long — three feet and
a few inches is an accommodating length. They must be
naturally top-heavy, and have around the end that is to
make acquaintance with the cranium, three or four natural
lumps, calculated to divide the flesh in the natest manner,
and to leave, if possible, the smallest taste in life of pit in
the skull. But if a good root-growing kippeen be light at
the fighting end, or possess not the proper number of
knobs, a hole a few inches deep is to be bored in the
end, which must be filled with melted lead. This gives
it a widow-and-orphan-making quality, a child-bereaving
touch, altogether very desirable. If, however, the top
splits in the boring, which, in awkward hands, is not un-
common, the defect may be remediated by putting on an
iron ferrule, and driving two or three strong nails into it,
simply to preserve it from flying off; not that an Irishman
is ever at a loss for weapons when in a fight; for so long
as a scythe, flail, spade, pitchfork, or stone is at hand, he
feels quite contented with the lot of war. No man, as they
say of great statesmen, is more fertile in expedients during
a row ; which, by the way, I take to be a good quality, at all
events.
" I remember the fair day of Knockimdowney well : it
has kept me from griddle-bread and tough nutriment ever
since. Hard fortune to Jack Roe O'Hallaghan ! No man
had better teeth than I had, till I met with him that day.
He fought stoutly on his own side; but he was pcd then for
the same basting that fell to me, though not by my hands:
if to get his jaw dacently divided into three halves could be
called a fair liquidation of an old debt — it was equal to
twenty shilling in the pound, anyhow.
« There had not been a larger fair in the town of Knock-
imdowney for years. The day was dark and sunless, but
sultry. On looking through the crowd, I could see no man
WILLIAM CARLETON. 497
without a cudgel ; yet, what was strange, there was no cer-
tainty of auy sport. Several desultory scrimmages had
locality; but they were altogether sequestered from the
great factions of the O's. Except that it was pleasant, and
stirred one's blood to look at them, or occasioned the cud-
gels to be grasped more firmly, there was no personal in-
terest felt by any of us in them; they therefore began and
ended, here and there, through the fair, like mere flashes
in the pan, dying in their own smoke.
" The blood of every prolific nation is naturally hot; but
when that hot blood is inflamed by ardent spirits, it is
not to be supposed that men should be cool; and, God he
knows, there is not on the level surface of this habitable
globe a nation that has been so thoroughly inflamed by
ardent spirits as Ireland.
" Up till four o'clock that day, the factions were quiet.
Several relations on both sides had been invited to drink
by John and Rose's families, for the purpose of establish-
ing a good feeling between them. But this was, after all,
hardly to be expected, for they hated one another with
an ardency much too good-humored and buoyant; and, be
tween ourselves, to bring Paddy over a bottle is a very
equivocal mode of giving him an anti-cudgeling disposi-
tion. After the hour of four, several of the factions were
getting very friendly, which I knew at the time to be a bad
sign. Many of them nodded to each other, which I knew
to be a worse one ; and some of them shook hands with the
greatest cordiality, which I no sooner saw than I slipped
the knot of my cravat, and held myself in preparation for
the sport.
" I have often had occasion to remark — and few men,
let me tell you, had finer opportunities of doing so — the
differential symptomatica between a Party Fight, that is,
a battle between Orangemen and Ribbonmen, and one be-
tween two Roman Catholic Factions. There is something
infinitely more anxious, silent, and deadly in the com-
pressed vengeance, and the hope of slaughter, which char-
acterize a party /i</ht, than is to be seen in a battle between
factious. The truth is, the enmity is not so deep and well-
grounded in the latter as in the former. The feeling is not
political nor religions between the factions; whereas, in
the other it is both, which is a mighty great advantage;
498 1RISB LITERATURE.
for when this is adjuncted to an intense personal hatred,
and a sense of wrong-, probably arising' from a too intimate
recollection of the leaded blackthorn, or the awkward
death of some relative by the musket or the bayonet, it
is apt to produce very purty fighting, and much respect-
able retribution.
" In a party fight, a prophetic sense of danger hangs, as
it were, over the crowd— the very air is loaded with appre-
hension; and the vengeance-burst is preceded by a close,
thick darkness, almost sulphury, that is more terrifical
than the conflict itself, though clearly less dangerous and
fatal. The scowl of the opposing parties, the blanched
cheeks, the knit brows, and the grinding teeth, not pre-
termitting the deadly gleams that shoot from their kindled
eyes, are ornaments which a plain battle between factions
cannot boast, but which, notwithstanding, are very suit-
able to the fierce and gloomy silence of that premeditated
vengeance, which burns with such intensity on the heart,
and scorches up the vitals into such a thirst for blood.
Not but they come by different means to the same con-
clusion; because it is the feeling, and not altogether the
manner of operation, that is different.
" Now a faction fight doesn't resemble this at all at all.
Paddy 's at home here ; all song, dance, good-humor, and
affection. His cheek is flushed with delight, which, indeed,
may derive assistance from the consciousness of having no
bayonets or loaded carabines to contend with; but, any-
how, he 's at home— his eye is lit with real glee— he tosses
his hat in the air, in the height of mirth— and leaps, like a
mountebank, two yards from the ground. Then with what
a gracious dexterity he brandishes his cudgel !— what a joy-
ous spirit is heard in his shout at the face of a friend from
another faction ! His very ' whoo ! ' is contagious, and
would make a man, that had settled on running away, re-
turn and join the sport with an appetite truly Irish. He
is, in fact, while under the influence of this heavenly
afflatus, in love with every one-man, woman, and child.
If he meet his sweetheart, he will give her a kiss and a hug,
and that with double kindness, because he is on his way to
thrash her father or brother. It is the acumen of his en-
joyment; and woe be to him who will adventure to go be-
tween him and his amusements. To be sure, skulls and
WILLIAM CARLETON. 499
bones are broken, and lives lost; but they are lost in pleas-
ant fighting — they are the consequences of the sport, the
beauty of which consists in breaking as many heads and
necks as you can; and certainly when a man enters into
the spirit of any exercise, there is nothing like elevating
himself to the point of excellence. Then a man ought never
to be disheartened. If you lose this game, or get your head
good-humoredly beaten to pieces, why, you may win an-
other, or your friends may mollify two or three skulls as a
set-off to yours — but that is nothing.
" When the evening became more advanced, maybe, con-
sidering the poor look up there was for anything like da-
cent sport — maybe, in the early part of the da}', wasn't it
the delightful sight to see the boys on each side of the two
great factions beginning to get frolicksome ! Maybe the
songs and the shouting, when they began, hadn't melody
and music in them, anyhow ! People may talk about har-
mony; but what harmony is equal to that in which five or
six hundred men sing and shout, and leap and caper at
each other, as a prelude to neighborly fighting, where they
beat time upon the drums of each other's ears and heads
with oak drumsticks? That's an Irishman's music; and
hard fortune to the garran that wouldn't have friendship
and kindness in him to join and play a stave along with
them ! ' Whoo ! your sowl ! Hurroo ! Success to our
side ! Hi for the O'Callaghans ! Where 's the blackguard
to — ' I beg pardon, dacent reader — I forgot myself for a
moment, or rather I got new life in me, for I am nothing
at all at all for the last five months — a kind of nonentity,
I may say, ever since that vagabond Burgess occasioned me
to pay a visit to my distant relations, till my friends get
the last matter of the collar-bone settled.
"The impulse which faction lighting gives trade and
business in Ireland is truly surprising; whereas parti/
fighting depreciates both. As soon as it is perceived that
;i party fight is to be expected, all buying and selling are
suspended for the day, and those who are not up,1 and
even many who are, take themselves and their property
home as quickly as may be convenient. But in a faction
fight, as soon as there is any perspective of a row, depend
upon it, there is quick work at all kinds of negotiation;
* Initiated into Whiteboyism.
500 IRISH LITERATURE.
and truly there is nothing like brevity and decision in buy-
ing and selling; for which reason faction fighting, at all
events, if only for the sake of national prosperity, should
be encouraged and kept up.
" Towards five o'clock, if a man was placed on an ex-
alted station, so that he could look at the crowd, and
wasn't able to fight, he could have seen much that a man
might envy him for. Here a hat went up, or maybe a dozen
of them ; then followed a general huzza. On the other side,
two dozen caubeens 1 sought the sky, like so many scaldy
crows attempting their own element for the first time,
only they were not so black. Then another shout, which
was answered by that of their friends on the opposite side ;
so that you would hardly know which side huzzaed loud-
est, the blending of both was so truly symphonious. Now
there was a shout for the face of an O'Callaghan; this was
prosecuted on the very heels by another for the face of an
O'Hallaghan. Immediately a man of the O'Hallaghan side
doffed his tattered frieze, and catching it by the very ex-
tremity of the sleeve, drew it, with a tact known only by
an initiation of half a dozen street days, up the pavement
after him. On the instant, a blade from the O'Callaghan
side peeled with equal alacrity, and stretching his home-
made at full length after him, proceeded triumphantly up
the street to meet the other.
" Thundher-an'-ages, what 's this for, at all at all ! I
wish I hadn't begun to manuscript an account of it, any-
how ; 't is like a hungry man dreaming of a good dinner at
a feast, and afterwards awaking and finding his front ribs
and backbone on the point of union. Reader, is that a
blackthorn you carry — tut, where is my imagination bound
for? — to meet the other, I say?
" ' Where 's the rascally O'Callaghan that will place his
toe or his shillely on this frieze? ' ' Is there no blackguard
O'Hallaghan jist to look crucked at the coat of an O'Calla-
ghan, or say black 's the white of his eye? '
" ' Throth and there is, Ned, avourneen, 2 that same on
the sod here.'
" < Is that Barney? '
" ' The same, Ned, ma bouchal — and how is your moth-
er's son, Ned? '
1 Caubeen, a hat. 3 Avourneen, my darling.
WILLIAM CARLETOtf. 501
a i
In good health at the present time, thank God; and
you, how is yourself, Barney? '
" ' Can't complain as time goes; only take this, anyhow,
to mend your health, ma bouchal ' — (whack).
" ' Success, Barney, and here 's at your sarvice, avick,
not making little of what I got — any way ' — (crack) .
"About five o'clock on a May evening, in the fair at
Knockimdowney, was the ice thus broken,' with all possible
civility, by Ned and Barney. The next moment a general
rush took place towards the scene of action, and ere you
could bless yourself, Barney and Ned were both down,
weltering in their own and each other's blood. I scarcely
know, indeed, though with a mighty respectable quota of
experimentality myself, how to describe what followed.
For the first twenty minutes the general harmony of this
fine row might be set to music, according to a scale some-
thing like this: — Whick whack — crick crack — whick
whack — crick crack — etc., etc., etc. 'Here yer sowl —
(crack)— there yer sowl — (whack). Whoo for the
O'Hallaghans! ' — (crack, crack, crack). ' Hurroo for the
O'Callaghans ! — (whack, whack, whack). The O'Calla-
ghans for ever!' — (whack). 'The O'Hallaghans for
ever ! ' — ( crack ) . < Murther ! murther ! — ( crick^ crack ) —
foul! foul!— (whick, whack). Blood and turf !— (whack,
whick ) — thundher-an'-ouns ! ' — ( crack, crick ) . ' Hurroo !
my darlings! handle your kippeens — (crack, crack) — the
O'Hallaghans are going!' — (whack, whack).
" You are to suppose them here to have been at it for
about half an hour.
" Whack, crack — ' Oh — oh — oh ! have mercy upon me,
boys — (crack — a shriek of murther! murther! — crack,
crack, whack)— my life — my life — (crack, crack— whack,
whack) — oh! for the sake of the living Father! — for the
sake of my wife and childher, Ned Hallaghan, spare my
life/
"'So we will, but take this, anyhow' — (whack, crack,
whack, crack).
" ' Oh ! for the love of God, don't kill—' (whack, crack,
whack ) . ' Oh ! ' — ( crack, crack, whack — dies ) .
"'Huzza! huzza! huzza!' from the O'Hallaghans,
1 Bravo, boys! there's one of them done for. Whoo! my
darlings — hurroo! the O'Hallaghans for ever! '
502 IRISH LITERATURE.
" The scene now changes to the O'Callaghan side.
" ' Jack — oh, Jack, avourneen — hell to their sowls for
murdherers — Paddy 's killed — his skull 's smashed. — Re-
vinge, boys, Paddy O'Callaghan 's killed ! On with you,
O'Callaghans — on with you — on with you, Paddy O'Calla-
ghan 's murdhered — take to the stones — that 's it — keep it
up — down with him ! Success ! — he 's the bloody villain
that didn't show him marcy — that 's it. Thundher-an'-
ouns, is it laving him that way you are afther? — let me at
him ! '
" ' Here 's a stone, Tom ! '
" ' No, no, this stick has the lead in it — it '11 do him,
never fear ! '
" ' Let him alone, Barney, he got enough.'
"'By the powdhers, it's myself that won't; didn't he
kill Paddy ? — (crack, crack). Take that, you murdhering
thief ! ' — ( whack, crack ) .
" ' Oh ! — (whack, crack) — my head — I 'm killed — I 'm '
— (crack — hicks the bucket).
"'Now, your sowl, that does you, any way — (crack,
whack) — hurroo! — huzza! — huzza! Man for man, boys —
an O'Hallaghan's done for — whoo; for our side — tol-de-
roll, lol-deroll, tow, row, row — huzza! — huzza! — tol-deroll
— lol-deroll, tow, row, row — huzza for the O'Calla-
ghans ! '
" From this moment the battle became delightful; it was
now pelt and welt on both sides, but many of the kippeens
were broken — many of the boys had their fighting arms
disabled by a dislocation or bit of fracture, and those
weren't equal to more than doing a little upon such as
were down.
" In the midst of the din, such a dialogue as this might
be heard :
" ' Larry, you 're after being done for, for this day ' —
(whack, crack).
" ' Only an eye gone — is that Mickey? ' — (whick, whack,
crick, crack).
" ' That 's it, my darlings ! — you may say that, Larry —
't is my mother's son that 's in it — (crack, crack, a general
huzza. Mickey and Larry) huzza! huzza! huzza for the
O'Hallaghans! — What have you got, Larry?' — (crack,
crack).
WILLIAM CARLETOX. 503
" ' Only the bone of iny arm, God be praised for it, very
purtily snapt across! ' — (whack, whack).
" ' Is that all? Well, some people have luck ! ' — (crack,
crack, crack).
" ' Why, I 've no reason to complain, thank God —
(whack, crack) — purty play that, any way — Paddy
O'Callaghan 's settled — did you hear it? — (whack, whack,
another shout) — That's it, boys — handle the shillelys! —
Success, O'Hallaghans — down with the bloody O'Calla-
ahans ! '
" ' I did hear it; so is Jem O'Hallaghan — (crack, whack,
whack, crack ) — you 're not able to get up, I see— tare-an'-
ounty, isn't it a pleasure to hear that play? — What ails
you?'
" ' Oh, Larry, I 'm in great pain, and getting very weak,
entirely ' — ( fain ts ) .
" ' Faix, and he 's settled too, I 'm thinking.'
"'Oh, murdher, my arm!' (One of the O'Callaghans
attacks him — crack, crack).
" * Take that, you bagabone! ' — (whack, whack).
" ' Murdher, murdher, is it striking a down man you 're
after? — foul, foul, and my arm broke! ' — (Crack, crack).
" ' Take that, with what you got before, and it '11 ase you,
maybe.'
" (A party of the O'Hallaghans attack the man who is
beating him.)
"'Murdher, murdher!' — (crack, whack, whack, crack,
crack, whack ) .
" ' Lay on him, your so wis to pirdition — lay on him, hot
and heavy — give it to him ! He sthruck me, and me down
wid my broken arm ! '
"'Foul, ye thieves of the world! — (from the O'Calla-
ghan)— foul! — five against one — give me fair play! —
(crack, crack, crack) — Oh! — (whack) — Oh, oh, oh!' —
(falls senseless, covered with blood).
" ' Ha, hell 's cure to you, you bloody thief; you didn't
spare me, with my arm broke! — (another general shout).
— Bad end to it, isn't it a poor case entirely, that I can't
even throw up my caubeen, let alone join in the divar-
sion? '
" Both parties now rallied, and ranged themselves along
the street, exhibiting a firm, compact phalanx, wedged
504 IRISH LITERATURE.
close against each other, almost foot to foot. The mass
was thick and dense, and the tug of conflict stiff, wild, and
savage. Much natural skill and dexterity were displayed
in their mutual efforts to preserve their respective ranks
unbroken, and as the sallies and charges were made on
both sides, the temporary rush, the indentation of the mul-
titudinous body, and the rebound into its original position
gave an undulating appearance to the compact mass —
reeking, groaning, dragging, and huzzaing — as it was, that
resembled the serpentine motion of a rushing waterspout
in the cloud.
" The women now began to take part with their brothers
and sweethearts. Those who had no bachelors among the
opposite factions fought along with their brothers; others
did not scruple even to assist in giving their enamored
swains the father of a good beating. Many, however, were
more faithful to love than to natural affection, and these
sallied out, like heroines, under the banners of their
sweethearts, fighting with amazing prowess against their
friends and relations; nor was it at all extraordinary to see
two sisters engaged on opposite sides — perhaps tearim<;
each other, as, with disheveled hair, they screamed with a
fury that was truly exemplary. Indeed, it is no untruth to
assert that the women do much valuable execution. Their
manner of fighting is this — as soon as the fair one decides
upon taking a part in the row, she instantly takes off her
apron or her stocking, stoops down, and lifting the first
four-pounder she can get, puts it in the corner of her
apron, or the foot of her stocking, if it has a foot, and,
marching to the scene of action, lays about her right and
left. Upon my credibility, they are extremely useful and
handy, and can give mighty nate knockdowns — inasmuch
as no guard that a man is acquainted with can ward off
their blows. Nay, what is more, it often happens, when
a son-in-law is in a faction against his father-in-law and
his wife's people generally, that if he and his wife's brother
meet, the wife will clink him with the pet in her apron,
downing her own husband with great skill, for it is not al-
ways that marriage extinguishes the hatred of factions;
and very often 't is the brother that is humiliated.
" Up to the death of these two men, John O'Callaghan
and Rose's father, together with a large party of their
WILLIAM GARLETON. 505
friends on both sides, were drinking- in a public-house, de-
termined to take no portion in the fight, at all at all. Poor
Rose, when she heard the shouting and terrible strokes,
got as pale as death, and sat close to John, whose hand she
captured in hers, beseeching him, and looking up in his
face with the most imploring sincerity as she spoke, not to
go out among them; the tears falling all the time from her
fine eyes, the mellow flashes of which, when John's pleas-
antry in soothing her would seduce a smile, went into his
very heart. But when, on looking out of the window
where they sat, two of the opposing factions heard that a
man on each side was killed; and when, on ascertaining the
names of the individuals, and of those who murdhered
them, it turned out that one of the murdhered men was
brother to a person in the room, and his murdherer uncle
to one of those in the window, it was not in the power of
man or woman to keep them asunder, particularly as they
were all rather advanced in liquor. In an instant the
friends of the murdered man made a rush to the window,
before any pacifiers had time to get between them, and
catching the nephew of him who had committed the mur-
der, hurled him headforemost upon the stone pavement,
where his skull was dashed to pieces, and his brains scat-
tered about the flags.
" A general attack instantly took place in the room be-
tween the two factions; but the apartment was too low and
crowded to permit of proper fighting, so they rushed on!
to the street, shouting and yelling, as they do when the bat-
tle comes to the real point of doing business. As soon as it
was seen that the heads of the O'Callaghans and O'Halla-
ghans were at work as well as the rest, the fight was recom-
menced with retrebled spirit; but when the mutilated body
of the man who had been flung from the window was ob-
served lying in a pool of his own proper brains and blood,
such a cry arose among his friends as would cake1 the
vital Quid in the veins of any one not a party in the quar-
rel. Xow was the work — the moment of interest — men
and women groaning, staggering, ami lying insensible;
others shouting, leaping, and huzzaing; some singing, and
not a few able-bodied spalpeens blurting, like overgrown
children, on seeing their own blood ; many raving and roar-
1 Cake, harden.
506 IRISH LITERATURE.
ing about like bulls; — all this formed such a group as a
faction fight, and nothing else, could represent.
" The battle now blazed out afresh; all kinds of instru-
ments were now pressed into the service. Some got flails,
some spades, some shovels, and one man got his hands upon
a scythe, with which, unquestionably, he would have taken
more lives than one ; but very fortunately, as he sallied out
to join the crowd, he was politely visited in the back of the
head by a brick-bat, which had a mighty convincing way
with it of giving him a peaceable disposition, for he in-
stantly lay down, and did not seem at all anxious as to the
result of the battle. The O'Hallaghans were now com-
pelled to give way, owing principally to the introvention of
John O'Callaghan, who, although he was as good as sworn
to take no part in the contest, was compelled to fight
merely to protect himself. But, blood-and-turf ! when he
did begin, he was dreadful. As soon as his party saw him
engaged, they took fresh courage, and in a short time made
the O'Hallaghans retreat up the churchyard. I never saw
anything equal to John ; he absolutely sent them down in
dozens : and when a man would give him any inconvenience
with the stick, he would down him with the fist, for right
and left were all alike to him. Poor Rose's brother and he
met, both roused like two lions; but when John saw who it
was, he held back his hand.
" ' No, Tom,' says he, * I '11 not strike you, for Rose's
sake. I 'in not fighting through ill-will to you or your
family; so take another direction, for I can't strike you.'
" The blood, however, was unfortunately up in Tom.
" ' We '11 decide it now,' said he ; ' I 'm as good a man as
you, O'Callaghan; and let me whisper this in your ear —
you '11 never warm the one bed with Rose, while God 's in
heaven — it's past that now — there can be nothing but
blood between us ! '
" At this juncture two of the O'Callaghans ran with
their shillelaghs up, to beat down Tom on the spot.
" ' Stop, boys ! ' said John, i you mustn't touch him ; he
had no hand in the quarrel. Go, boys, if you respect me;
lave him to myself.'
"The boys withdrew to another part of the fight; and
the next instant Tom struck the very man that interfered
WILLIAM CARLET02T. 507
to save him across the temple, and cut him severely. John
put his hand up, and staggered.
"'I'm sorry for this,' he observed; 'but it's now self-
defense with me,' and, at the same moment, with one
blow, he left Tom O'Hallaghan stretched insensible on the
street.
" On the O'Hallaghans being driven to the churchyard,
they were at a mighty great inconvenience for weapons.
Most of them had lost their sticks, it being a usage in fights
of this kind to twist the cudgels from the grasp of the
beaten men, to prevent them from rallying. They soon,
however, furnished themselves with the best they could
find, videlicet, the skull, log, thigh, and arm bones, which
they found lying about the graveyard. This was a new
species of weapon, for which the majority of the O'Calla-
ghans were scarcely prepared. Out they sallied in a body
— some with these, others with stones, and, making fierce
assault upon their enemies, absolutely druv them back —
not so much by the damage they were doing, as by the
alarm and terror which these unexpected species of mis-
siles excited.
" At this moment, notwithstanding the fatality that had
taken place, nothing could be more truly comical and face-
tious than the appearance of the field of battle. Skulls
were flying in every direction — so thick, indeed, that it
might with truth be asseverated that many who were petri-
fied in the dust had their skulls broken in this great battle
between the factions. — God help poor Ireland ! when its
inhabitants are so pugnacious that even the grave is no
security against getting their crowns cracked, and their
bones fractured ! Well, anyhow, skulls and bones flew in
every direction; stones and brickbats were also put in
motion; spades, shovels, loaded whips, pot-sticks, churn-
staffs, flails, and all kinds of available weapons were in hot
employment.
"But, perhaps, there was nothing more truly felicitous
or original in its way than the mode of warfare adopted
by little Neal M alone, who was tailor for the OVallaghan
side; for every tradesman is obliged to fight on behalf of
his own faction. Big Frank Farrell the miller, being on
the O'Hallaghan side, had been sent for, and came up from
his mill behind the town, quite fresh. He was never what
508 IRISH LITERATURE.
could be called a good man,1 though it was said that he
could lift teu hundredweight. He puffed forward with a
great cudgel, determined to commit slaughter out of the
face, and the first man he met was the weeshy 2 fraction of
a tailor, as nimble as a hare. He immediately attacked him
and would probably have taken his measure for life, had
not the tailor's activity protected him. Farrell was in a
rage; and Neal, taking advantage of his blind fury, slipt
round him, and with a short run sprang upon the miller's
back, and planted a foot upon the threshold of each coat
pocket, holding by the mealy collar of his waistcoat. In
this position he belabored the miller's face and eyes with
his little hard fist to such purpose that he had him in the
course of a few minutes nearly as blind as a mill-horse.
The miller roared for assistance, but the pell-mell was go-
ing on too warmly for his cries to be available. In fact, he
i -eserubled an elephant with a monkey on his back.
" ' How do you like that, Farrell?' Neal would say —
giving him a cuff; ' and that, and that — but that is best of
all. Take it again, gudgeon — (two cuffs more) — here's
grist for you — (half a dozen additional) hard fortune
to you — (crack, crack). What! Going to lie down!
by all that's terrible, if you do, I'll annigulatcz you.
Here's a dhuragh* (another half dozen) — long measure,
you savage — the baker's dozen, you baste; there's five-an'-
twenty to the score, Sampson, and one or two in ' (crack,
whack).
"'Oh! murther sheery ! ' shouted the miller — ' murther-
an'-age, I 'm kilt — foul play! foul play! '
" ' You lie, big Nebuchodonosor, it 's not — this is all fair
play, you big baste — fair play, Sampson: by the same
a-token, here 's to jog your memory that it 's the Fair day
of Knockimdowney ; Irish Fair play, you whale — but I '11
whale you! ' — (crack, crack, whack).
" ' Oh — oh ! ' shouted the miller.
1 A good man, a brave man. 2 Weeshy, small.
8 Anniqnlate. Many of the jaw-breakers— and this was certainly such
in a double sense— used by the hedge schoolmasters are scattered among
the people, by whom they are so twisted that it would be extremelv
difficult to recognize them.
4 Dhuragh, an additional portion of anything thrown in from a spirit
of generosity, after the measure agreed on is given. When the miller,
for instance, receives las toll, the country people usually throw in several
handfuls of meal as a dhuragh.
WILLIAM CARLETOX. 509
" ' Oh — oh ! is it? Oh, if I had my scissors here, till I 'd
clip your curs off, wouldn't I be the happy man, anyhow,
you swab, you?' — (whack, whack, crack).
" ' Murther — murther — murther ! ' shouted the miller —
* is there no help? '
"'Help, is it? you may say that — (crack, crack);
there's a trifle — a small taste in the milling style, you
know; and here goes to dislodge a grinder. Did ye ever
hear of the tailor on horseback, Sampson? eh? — (whack,
whack) : did you ever expect to see a tailor o' horseback of
yourself, you baste? — (crack). I tell you, if you offer to
lie down, I "11 annigulate you out o' the face.'
" Never, indeed, was a miller, before or since, so well
dusted; and I dare say Neal would have rode him long
enough, but for an O'llallaghan, who had gone into one
of the houses to procure a weapon. This man was nearly
as original in his choice of one as the tailor in the position
which he selected for beating the miller. On entering the
kitchen, he found that he had been anticipated ; there was
neither tongs, poker, or churn-staff; nor, in fact, anything
wherewith he could assault his enemies : all had been car-
ried off by others. There was, however, a goose in the
action of being roasted on a spit at the fire. This was
enough : honest O'Hallaghan saw nothing but the spit,
which he accordingly seized, goose and all, making the best
of his way, so armed, to the scene of battle. He just came
out as the miller was once more roaring for assist aire,
and, to a dead certainty, would have spitted the tailor like
a cock-sparrow against the miller's carcass, had not his
activity once more saved him. Unluckily, the unfortunate
miller got the thrust behind, which was intended for Xeal,
and roared like a bull. He was beginning to shout ' Foul
play,' when, on turning round, he perceived that the thrust
was not intended for him, but for the tailor.
" ' Give me that spit,' said he; ' by all the mills that ever
were turned, I '11 spit the tailor this blessed minute beside
the goose, and we'll roast them both together.5
" The other refused to part with the spit; but the miller,
seizing the goose, flung it with all his force after the tailor,
who stooped, however, and avoided the blow.
" ' No man has a better right to the goose than the
tailor,' said Neal, as he took it up, and, disappearing
510 IRISH LITERATURE.
neither he nor the goose could be seen for the remainder
of the day.
" The battle was now somewhat abated. Skulls, and
bones, and bricks, and stones were, however, still flying;
so that it might be truly said the bones of contention were
numerous. The streets presented a woful spectacle: men
were lying with their bones broken — others, though not so
seriously injured, lappered in their blood — some were
crawling up, but were instantly knocked down by their
enemies — some were leaning against the walls, or groping
their way silently along them, endeavoring to escape ob-
servation, lest they might be smashed down and altogether
murdered. Wives were sitting with the bloody heads of
their husbands in their laps, tearing their hair, weeping,
and cursing, in all the gall of wrath, those who left them
in such a state. Daughters performed the same offices to
their fathers, and sisters to their brothers; not pretermit-
ting those who did not neglect their broken-pated bach-
elors, to whom they paid equal attention. Yet was the
scene not without abundance of mirth. Many a hat was
thrown up by the O'Callaghan side, who certainly gained
the day. Many a song was raised by those who tottered
about with trickling sconces, half drunk with whisky and
half stupid with beating. Many a ' whoo,' and ' hurroo,'
and ' huzza,' was sent forth by the triumphanters; but
truth to tell, they were miserably feeble and faint, com-
pared to what they had been in the beginning of the amuse-
ments— sufficiently evincing that, although they might
boast of the name of victory, they had got a bellyful of beat-
ing— still there was hard fighting.
" I mentioned, some time ago, that a man had adopted
a scythe. I wish from my heart there had been no such
bloodv instrument there that dav; but truth must be told.
John O'Callaghan was now engaged against a set of the
other O's, who had rallied for the third time and attacked
hini and his party. Another brother of Rose Gain's was
in this engagement, and him did John O'Callaghan not
only knock down, but cut desperately across the temple.
A man, stripped and covered with blood and dust, at that
moment made his appearance, his hand bearing the blade
of the aforesaid scythe. His approach was at once furious
and rapid — and, I may as well add, fatal; for, before John
WILLIAM CARLETOX. 511
O'Callaghan had time to be forewarned of his danger, he
was cut down, the artery of his neck laid open, and he died
without a groan. It was truly dreadful, even to the oldest
tighter present, to see the strong rush of red blood that
curvated about his neck, until it gurgled — gurgled —
gurgled, and lappered, and bubbled out — ending in small
red spouts, blackening and blackening, as they became
fainter and more faint. At this critical it v every eye was
turned from the corpse to the murderer; but he had been
instantly struck down, and a female, with a large stone in
her apron, stood over him, her arms stretched out, her face
horribly distorted with agony, and her eyes turned back-
wards, as it were, into her head. In a few seconds she fell
into strong convulsions, and was immediately taken away.
Alas ! alas ! it was Rose Galh ; and when we looked at the
man she had struck down, he was found to be her brother!
flesh of her flesh, and blood of her blood! On examining
him more closely, we discovered that his under jaw hung
loose, that his limbs were supple; we tried to make him
speak, but in vain — he, too, was a corpse.
" The fact was that, in consequence of his being stripped,
and covered by so much blood and dust, she knew him
not; and impelled by her feelings to avenge herself on
the murderer of her lover, to whom she doubly owed her
life, she struck him a deadly blow, without knowing him to
be her brother. The shock produced by seeing her lover
murdered — and the horror of finding that she herself, in
avenging him, had taken her brother's life, was too much
.for a heart so tender as hers. On recovering from her con-
vulsions, her senses were found to be gone forever! Poor
girl! she is still living; but from that moment to this she
lias never opened her lips to mortal. She is, indeed, a fair
ruin, but silent, melancholy, and beautiful as the moon
in the summer heaven. Poor Rose Galh! you, ami many
a mother, and father, and wife, and orphan, have had rea-
son to maledict the bloody Hal lies of the Fart ions!
"With rgard to my grandfather, he says that he didn't
see purtier fighting within his own memory; nor since the
fight between himself and Big Mucklemurray took place
in the same town. But, to do him justice, he condemns the
scythe and every other weapon except the cudgels; because,
he says, that if they continue to be resorted to. nate fight-
ing will be altogether forgotten ;-i the country,"
512 IRISH LITERATURE.
SHANE FADH'S WEDDING.
" Well, Shane," said Andy Morrow, addressing Shane
Fadh, " will you give us an account of your wedding? I
am told it was the greatest let-out that ever was in this
country, before or since."
" And you may say that, Mr. Morrow," said Shane. " 1
was at many a wedding, myself, but never at the likes of
my own, barring Tim Lannigan's that married Father Cor-
rigan's niece."
" I believe," said Andy, " that, too, was a dashing one;
however, it 's your own we want. Come, Nancy, fill these
measures again, and let us be comfortable, at all events,
and give Shane a double one, for talking 's druthy work.
I '11 pay for thin round."
When the liquor was got in, Shane, after taking a
draught, laid down his pint, pulled out his steel tobacco-
box, and, after twisting off a chew between his teeth,
closed the box, and commenced the story of his wed-
ding.
" When I was a young fellow," said Shane, " I was as
wild as an unbroken cowlt, no divilment was too hard for
me; an' so signs on it, for there wasn't a piece of mischief
done in the parish, but was laid at my door, and the dear
knows I had enough of my own to answer for, let alone
to be set down for that of other people ; but anyway, there
was many a thing done in my name, when I knew neither
act nor part about it. One of them I '11 mintion. Dick Cuil-
lenan, father to Paddy, that lives at the crass-roads, beyant
Gunpowdher Lodge, was over head and ears in love
with Jemmy Finigan's eldest daughter, Mary, then, sure
enough, as purty a girl as you 'd meet in a fair — indeed, I
think I 'm looking at her, with her fair flaxen ringlets
hanging over her shoulders, as she used to pass our house
going to mass of a Sunday. God rest her sowl, she 's now
in glory — that was before she was my wife. Many a happy
day we passed together; and I could take it to my death,
that an ill word, let alone to rise our hands to one
another, never passed between us, only one day that a
word or two happened about the dinner, in the middle of
Lent, being a little too late, so that the horses were kept
nigh-hand half an hour out of the plow; and I wouldn't
AN IRISH COTTAGE INTERIOR
From a photograph
WILLIAM CARLETON. 513
have valued that so much, only that it was crooked-
mouthed Doherty that joined me in plowing that year,
and I was vexed not to take all I could out of him, for he
was a raal Turk himself.
" I disremimber now what passed between us as to
words, but I know I had a duck-egg in my hand, and when
she spoke, I raised my arm, and nailed — poor Larry Tracy,
our servant boy, between the two eyes with it, although the
craythur was ating his dinner quietly forenent me, not say-
ing a word.
" Well, as I tould you, Dick was ever after her, although
her father and mother would rather see her under boord
than joined to any of that connection; and as for herself,
she couldn't bear the sight of him, he was sich an upset-
ting, conceited puppy, that thought himself too good for
every girl. At any rate, he tried often and often, in fair
and market, to get striking up with her; and both coming
from and going to Mass 't was the same way, for ever after
and about her. till the state he was in spread over the
parish like wildfire. Still, all he could do was of no use;
except to bid him the time of day, she never entered into
discoorse with him, at all at all. But there was no putting
the likes of him off; so he got a quart of spirits in his
pocket one night, and without saying a word to mortal,
off he sets, full speed, to her father's, in order to brake the
thing to the family.
" Mary might be about seventeen at this time, and her
mother looked almost as young and fresh as if she hadn't
been married at all. When Dick came in you may be sure
they were all surprised at the sight of him; but they
were civil people, and the mother wiped a chair, and
put it over near the fire for him to sit down upon, waiting
to hear what he Yl say, or what he wanted, although they
could give a purty good guess as to that, but they only
wished to put him off with as little offinse as possible.
When Dick sot awhile, talking about what the price of hay
and oats would be in the following summer, and other sub-
jects that he thought would show his knowledge of farming
and cattle, he pulls out his bottle, encouraged to it by their
civil way of talking, and telling the ould couple that ;i>;
he came over to spend a friendly evening, he had brought
a drop in his pocket to sweeten the discoorse, axing Rusy
33
514 IRISH LITERATURE.
Finigan, the mother, for a glass to send it round with, at
the same time drawing over his chair close to Mary, who
was knitting her stocken up beside her little brother
Michael, and chatting to the gorsoon,1 for fraid that Cuil-
lenan might think she paid Wuti any attention. When
Dick got alongside of her, he began, of coorse, to pull out
her needles and spoil her knitting, as is customary before
the young people come to close spaking. Mary, howsoni-
ever, had no welcome for him ; so says she, i You ought to
know, Dick Cuillenan, who you spake to, before you make
the freedom you do.'
" ' But you don't know,' says Dick, ' that I am a great
hand at spoiling the girls' knitting; it 's a fashion I've got/
says he.
" ' It 's a fashion then,' says Mary, l that '11 be apt to get
you a broken mouth sometime.'
" ' Then,' says Dick, ' whoever does that must marry
me.'
" ' And them that gets you will have a prize to brag of,'
says she. ' Stop yourself, Cuillenan ; single your freedom
and double your distance, if you plase; I'll cut my coat
off no such cloth.'
" ' Well, Mary,' says he, ' maybe, if you don't, as good
will; but you won't be so cruel as all that comes to; the
worst side of you is out, I think.'
" He was now beginning to make greater freedom, but
Mary rises from her seat, and whisks away with herself,
her cheeks as red as a rose with vexation at the fellow's
imperance. ' Very well,' says Dick, ' off you go ; but
there 's as good fish in the say as ever was catched. I 'm
sorry to see, Susy,' says he to her mother, ' that Mary 's
no friend of mine, and I 'd be mighty glad to find it other-
wise ; for, to tell the truth, I 'd wish to become connected
with the family. In the manetime, hadn't you better get
us a glass, till we drink one bottle on the head of it, any-
way? '
« < Why, then, Dick Cuillenan,' says the mother, ' I
don't wish you anything else but good luck and happiness;
but, as to Mary, she 's not for you herself, nor would it be
a good match between the families at all. Mary is to have
her grandfather's sixty guineas, and the two cows that her
1 Gorsoon, a boy.
WILLIAM CARLE TON. 515
uncle Jack left her four years ago lias brought her a good
stock for any farm. Now, if she married you, Dick,
where 's the farm to bring her to? — surely, it 's not upon
them seven acres of stone and bent, upon the long Esker,
that I 'd let my daughter go to live. So, Dick, put up your
bottle, and in the name of God go home, boy, and mind
your business; but, above all, when you want a wife, go to
them that you may have a right to expect, and not to a girl
like Mary Finigan, that could lay down guineas where you
could hardly find shillings.'
" * Very well, Susy,' says Dick, nettled enough, as he
well might, * I say to you, just as I say to your daughter,
if you be proud there 's no force.' "
"But what has this to do with you, Shane?'- asked
Andy Morrow. " Sure we wanted to liar an account of
your wedding, but instead of that, it 's Dick Cuillenan's
history you 're giving us."
" That 's just it," said Shane ; "sure, only for this
same Dick, I 'd never get Mary Finigan for a wife. Dick
took Susy's advice, bekase, after all, the undacent drop
was in him, or he 'd never have brought the bottle out of
the house at all; but, faith, he riz up, put the whisky in
his pocket, and went home with a face on him as black as
my hat with venom. Well, things passed on till the Christ-
mas following, when one night, after the Finigans had all
gone to bed, there comes a crowd of fellows to the door,
thumping at it with great violence, and swearing that if
the people within wouldn't open it immediately, it would
be smashed into smithereens. The family, of course were
all alarmed; but somehow or other, Susy herself got sus-
picious that it might be something about Mary; so up she
gets, and sends the daughter to her own bed, and lies down
herself in the daughter's.
" In the manetime Finigan got up, and after lighting a
candle, opened the door at once. 'Come, Finigan,' says
a strange voice, 'put out the candle, except you wish
to make a candlestick of the thatch,' says he, ' or to give
you a prod of a bagnet under tin1 ribs,' says he.
" It was a folly for one man to go to bell-the-cat with a
whole crowd; so he blew the candle out, and next minute
they rushed in, and went as straight as a rule to Mary's
bed. The mother all the time lay close, and never said a
516 IRISH LITERATURE.
word. At any rate, what would be expected, only that, do
what she could, at the long run she must go? So, accord-
ingly, after a very hard battle on her side, being a powerful
woman, she was obliged to travel, but not until she had left
many of them marks to remimber her by. Still there was
very little spoke, for they didn't wish to betray themselves
on any side. The only thing that Finigan could hear was
my name repated several times, as if the whole thing was
going on under my direction : for Dick thought that if
there was any one in parish likely to be set down for it it
was me.
" When Susy found they were putting her behind one
of them on a horse she rebelled again, and it took
near a dozen of boys to hoist her up. Now, above all
nights in the year, who should be dead but my own full
cousin, Denis Fadh — God be good to him! — and I, and
Jack and Dan, his brothers, while bringing home whisky
for the wake and berrin', met them on the road. At first
we thought them distant relations coming to the wake,
but when I saw only one woman among the set, and she
mounted on a horse, I began to suspect that all wasn't
right. I accordingly turned back a bit, and walked near
enough without their seeing me to hear the discoorse, and
discover the whole business. In less than no time I was
back at the wake-house ; so I up and tould them what I saw,
and off we set, about forty of us, with good cudgels, scythe-
sneds, and hooks, fully bent to bring her back from them,
come or go what would. And throth, sure enough, we did
it; and I was the man myself that rode after the mother on
the same horse that carried her off.
" From this out, when and wherever I got an opportu-
nity, I whispered the soft nonsense, Nancy, into poor
Mary's ear, until I put my comedher1 on her, and she
couldn't live at all without me. But I was something for
a woman to look at then, anyhow, standing six feet two
in my stocking soles, which, you know, made them call me
Shane Fadh.2 At that time I had a dacent farm of four-
teen acres in Crocknagooran — the same that my son Ned
has at the present time; and though, as to wealth, by no
manner of manes fit to compare with the Finigans, yet upon
the whole, she might have made a worse match. The
1 Comedher, blarney talk. 2 Fadh, tall or long.
WILLIAM CARLETON. 517
father, however, wasn't for me; hut the mother was: so,
after drinking a bottle or two with the mother, Sarah
Traynor, her cousin, and Mary, along with Jack Donnellan
on my part, in their own barn, unknownst to the father, we
agreed to make a runaway match of it; appointing my
uncle, Bryan Slevin's, as the house we 'd go to. The next
Sunday was the day appointed; so I had my uncle's family
prepared, and sent two gallons of whisky, to be there be-
fore us, knowing that neither the Finigans nor 1113' own
friends liked stinginess.
" Well, well, after all, the world is a strange thing — if
myself hardly knows what to make of it. It 's I that did
dote night and day upon that girl ; and, indeed, there was
them that could have seen me in Jimmaiky for her sake,
for she was the beauty of the county, not to say of the
parish, for a girl in her station. For my part I could
neither ate nor sleep, for thinking that she was so soon to
be my own married wife, and to live under my roof. And
when I 'd think of it, how my heart would bounce to my
throat with downright joy and delight. The mother had
made us promise not to meet till Sunday, for fraid of the
father becoming suspicious; but, if I was to be shot, I
couldn't hinder myself from going every night to the great
flowering whitethorn that was behind their garden; and al-
though she knew I hadn't promised to come, yet there she
still was; something, she said, tould her I would come.
"The next Sunday we met at Althadhawan wood, and
I '11 never forget what I felt, when I was going to the green
at St. Patrick's Chair, where the boys and girls met on
Sunday; but there she was — the bright eyes dancing with
joy in her head to see me. We spent the evening in the
wood till it was dusk — I bating them all leaping, dancing,
and throwing the stone; for, by my song, T thought I had
the action of ten men in me; she looking on, and smil-
ing like an angel, when I 'd lave them miles behind me.
As it grew dusk they all went home, except herself and me,
and a few more, who, maybe, had something of the same
kind on hand.
"'Well, Mary,' says T, 'acushla niachree,1 it's dark
enough for us to go; and in the name of God let us be off.'
The crathur looked into my face, and got pale, for she was
1 Acunhla machree, vein of my heart.
518 IRISH LITERATURE.
very young then. ' Shane/ says she, and she thrimbled
like an aspen lafe, ' I 'in going to trust myself with you for
ever — for ever, Shane, avoumeen/ — and her sweet voice
broke into purty murmurs as she spoke; ' whether for hap-
piness or sorrow, God He only knows. I can bear poverty
and distress, sickness and want, with you, but I can't bear
to think that you should ever forget to love me as you do
now; or that your heart should ever cool to me; but I am
sure,' says she, 'you'll never forget this night, and the
solemn promises you made me, before God and the blessed
skies above us.'
" We were sitting at the time under the shade of a row-
an-tree, and I had only one answer to make. I pulled
her to my breast, where she laid her head and cried like a
child, with her cheek against mine. My own eyes weren't
dry although I felt no sorrow, but — but — I never forgot
that night — and I never will."
He now paused a few minutes, being too much affected
to proceed.
" Poor Shane," said Nancy, in a whisper to Andy Mor-
row, " night and day he 's thinking about that woman.
She 's now dead going on a year, and you would think by
him, although he bears up very well before company, that
she died only yestherday ; but indeed it 's he that was al-
ways the kind-hearted, affectionate man ; and a better hus-
band never broke bread."
" Well," said Shane, resuming the story, and clearing
his voice, " it 's a great consolation to me, now that she 's
gone, to think that I never broke the promise I made her
that night. When it was clear dark we set off, and after
crossing the country for two miles, reached my uncle's,
where a great many of my friends were expecting us. As
soon as we came to the door I struck it two or three times,
for that was the sign, and my aunt came out, and taking
Mary in her arms, kissed her, and, with a thousand wel-
comes, brought us both in.
" You all know that the best of aiting and dhrinking is
provided when a runaway couple is expected; and indeed
there was more than enough of both there. My uncle and
all that were within welcomed us again; and many a good
song and hearty jug of punch was sent round that night.
The next morning my uncle went to her father's and broke
WILLIAM CARLETON. 519
the business to him at once: indeed, it wasn't very hard
to do, for I believe it reached him before he saw my uncle
at all; so she was brought home that day, and, on the
Thursday night after, I, my father, uncle, and several
other friends, went there, and made the match.
" She had sixty guineas that her grandfather left her,
thirteen head of cattle, two feather and two chaff beds,
with sheeting, quilts, and blankets; three pieces of bleached
Jinen, and a flock of geese of her own rearing — upon the
whole, among ourselves, it wasn't aisy to get such a for-
tune.
" Well, the match was made, and the wedding-day ap-
pointed ; but there was one thing still to be managed, and
that was how to get over the standing at Mass on Sunday,
to make satisfaction for the scandal we gave the Church by
running away with one another; but that's all stuff, for
who cares a pin about standing, when three halves of the
parish are married in the same way? The only thing that
vexed me was that it would keep back the wedding-day.
However, her father and my uncle went to the priest, and
spoke to him, trying, of coorse, to get us off of it, but he
knew we were fat geese, and was in for giving us a pluck-
ing. Hut, tut! — he wouldn't hear of it at all, not he; for
although he would ride fifty miles to sarve either of us, he
couldn't brake the new orders that he had got only a few
days before that from the bishop. No; we must stand —
for it would be setting a bad example to the parish ; and if
he would let its pass, how could he punish the rest of his
flock, when they 'd be guilty of the same thing?
" ' Well, well, your reverence,' says my uncle, winking at
her father, ' if that 's the case it can't be helped, anyhow —
they must only stand, as many a dacent father and moth-
er's child has done before them, and will again, plase
God — your reverence is right in doing your duty.'
" ' True for you Brian,' says his reverence, ' and yet God
knows, there 's no man in the parish would be sorrier to see
such a dacent, comely young couple put upon a level with
all the scrubs of the parish; and I know, Jemmy Finigan,
it would go hard with your young, bashful daughter to get
through with it, having the eyes of the whole congregation
staring on her.'
" ' Why then, your reverence, as to that,' says my un-
520 IRISH LITERATURE.
cle, who was just as stiff as the other was stout, ' the
bashfullest of them will do more nor that to get a hus-
band.'
" ' But you tell me/ says the priest, ' that the wedding-
day is fixed upon; — how will you manage there? '
" ' Why, put it off for three Sundays longer, to be sure,'
says the uncle.
" ' But you forget this, Brian,' says the priest, ' that
good luck or prosperity never attends the putting off of a
wedding.'
" Now here you see is where the priest had them — for
they knew that as well as his reverence himself — so they
were in a puzzle again.
" * It is a disagreeable business,' says the priest, ' but
the truth is, I could get them off with the bishop only for
one thing — I owe him five guineas of altar-money, and I 'm
so far back in dues that I 'm not able to pay him. If I
could enclose this to him in a letter, I would get them off
at once, although it would be bringing myself into trouble
with the parish afterwards; but, at all events,' says he,
' to prove that I wish to sarve you, I '11 sell the best cow
in my byre, and pay him myself, rather than their wedding-
day should be put off, poor things, or themselves brought
to any bad luck — the Lord keep them from it ! '
" While he was speaking, he stamped his foot two or
three times on the flure, and the housekeeper came in.
' Katty,' says he, ' bring us in a bottle of whisky ; at all
events, I can't let you away,' says he, ' without tasting
something and drink luck to the young folks.'
" i In throth,' says Jemmy Finigan, ' and begging your
reverence's pardon, the sorra cow you '11 sell this bout,
anyhow, on account of me or my children, bekase I '11 lay
down on the nail what '11 clear you and the bishop ; and in
the name of goodness, as the day is fixed and all, let the
craythurs not be disappointed.'
" ' Jemmy,' says my uncle, ' if you go to that you '11 pay
but your share, for I insist upon laying down one-half, at
laste.'
" At anj rate, they came down with the cash, and af-
ther drinking a bottle between them, went home in choice
spirits entirely at their good luck in so aisily getting us
off. When they had left the house a bit, the priest sent af-
WILLIAM CARLETON. 521
ther them. ' Jemmy/ says he to Finigan, ' I forgot a cir-
cumstance, and that is to tell you that I will go and marry
them at your own house, and bring Father James, my cu-
rate with me.' ' Oh, wurrah ! no,' said both, i don't men-
tion that, your reverence, except you wish to break their
hearts, out and out ! Why, that would be a thousand times
worse nor making them stand to do penance. Doesn't
your reverence know that if they hadn't the pleasure of
running for the bottle, the whole wedding wouldn't be
worth three-halfpence? ' ' Indeed, I forgot that, Jemmy.'
' But sure,' says my uncle, ' your reverence and Father
James must be at it, whether or not; for that we intended
from the first.' ' Tell them I '11 run for the bottle, too,'
says the priest, laughing, ' and will make some of them
look sharp, never fear.' Well, by my song, so far all was
right ; and maybe it 's we that weren't glad — maning Mary
and myself — -that there was nothing more in the way to
put off the wedding-day. So, as the bridegroom's share of
the expense always is to provide the whisky, I 'in sure, for
the honor and glory of taking the blooming young crathur
from the great lot of bachelors that were all breaking their
hearts about her, I couldn't do less nor finish the thing
dacently — knowing, besides, the high doings that the Fini-
gans would have of it — for they were alwa}rs looked upon
as a family that never had their heart in a trifle when it
would come to the push. So, you see, I and my brother
Mickey, mj cousin Tom, and Dom'nick Nulty, went up
into the mountains to Tim Cassidy's still-house, where we
spent a glorious day, and bought fifteen gallons of stuff,
that one drop of it would bring the tear, if possible, to a
young widdy's eye that had berrid a bad husband. Indeed,
this was at my father's bidding, who wasn't a bit behind-
hand with any of them in cutting a dash. i Shane,' says
he to me, ' you know the Finigans of ould, that they won't
be contint with what would do another, and that except
they go beyant the thing entirely, they won't be satisfied.
They '11 have the whole countryside at the wedding, and we
must let them see that we have a spirit and a faction of our
own,' says he, 'that we needn't be ashamed of. They've
got all kinds of ateables in cartloads, and as we to to get
the drinkables, we must see and give as good as they'll
bring. I myself, and your mother, will go round and in-
522 IRISH LITERATURE.
vite all we can think of, and let you and Mickey go up the
hills to Tim Cassidy, and get fifteen gallons of whisky, for
I don't think less will do us.'
" This we accordingly complied with, as I said, and
surely better stuff never went down the red lane than the
same whisky, for the people knew nothing about watering
it then, at all at all. The next thing I did was to get a fine
shop cloth coat, a pair of top boots, and buckskin breeches
fit for a squire, along with a new Caroline hat that would
throw off the wet like a duck. Mat Kavanagh, the school-
master from Findramore bridge, lent me his watch for the
occasion, after my spending near two days learning from
him to know what o'clock it was. At last, somehow, I
masthered that point so well, that to a quarter of an hour,
at least, I could give a dacent guess at the time upon it.
" Well, at last the day came. The wedding morning, or
the bride's part of it, as they say, was beautiful. It was
then the month of July. The evening before, my father
and my brother went over to Jemmy Finigan's, to make the
regulations for the wedding. We, that is, my party, were
to be at the bride's house about ten o'clock, and we were
then to proceed, all on horseback, to the priest's, to be mar-
ried. We were then, after drinking something at Tom
Hance's public-house, to come back as far as the Dumbhill,
where we were to start and run for the bottle. That morn-
ing we were all up at the skriek of day. From six o'clock,
my own faction, friends and neighbors, began to come, all
mounted ; and about eight o'clock there was a whole regi-
ment of them, some on horses, some on mules, and others
on asses ; and, by my word, I believe little Dick Snudaghan,
the tailor's apprentice, that had a hand in making my wed-
ding clothes, was mounted upon a buck goat, with a bridle
of selvages tied to his horns. Anything at all to keep their
feet from the ground; for nobody would be allowed to go
with the wedding that hadn't some animal between him
and the earth.
" To make a long story short, so large a bridegroom's
party was never seen in that country before, save and ex-
cept Tim Lannigan's that I mentioned just now. It would
make you split your face laughing to see the figure they
cut; some of them had saddles and bridles, others had sad-
dles and halters; some had back sue/yawns 1 of straw, with
1 Suggaini, a rope of hay or straw.
WILLIAM CARLETON. 523
hay stirrups to them, but good bridles; others had sacks
filled up as like saddles as they could possibly make them,
girthed with hay ropes five or six times tied round the
horse's body. When one or two of the horses wouldn't
carry double, except the hind rider sat strideways, the wo-
men had to be put foremost and the men behind them.
Some had dacent pillions enough, but most of them had
none at all, and the women were obligated to sit where the
crupper ought to be — and a hard card they had to play to
keep their seats even when the horses walked asy, so what
must it be when they came to a gallop? but that same
was nothing at all to a trot.
" At eight o'clock we sat down to a rousing breakfast,
for we thought it best to eat a trifle at home, lest they
might think that what we were to get at the bride's break-
fast might be thought any novelty. As for my part, I
was in such a state that I couldn't let a morsel cross my
throat, nor did I know what end of me was uppermost.
After breakfast they all got their cattle, and I my hat and
whip, and was ready to mount, when my uncle whispered
to me that I must kneel down and ax my father and
mother's blessing, and forgiveness for all my disobedi-
ence and offinses towards them — and also to requist the
blessing of my brothers and sisters. Well, in a short time
I was down ; and, my goodness ! such a hullaballoo of cry-
ing as was there in a minute's time!
" Anyhow, it 's easy knowing that there wasn't sorrow
at the bottom of their grief: for they were all soon laugh-
ing at my uncle's jokes, even while their eyes were red with
the tears. My mother herself couldn't but be in good
humor, and join her smile with the rest.
" My uncle now drove us all out before him ; not, how-
ever, till my mother had sprinkled a drop of holy water on
each of us, and given me and my brother and sisters a
small taste of blessed candle to prevent us from sudden
death and accidents. My father and she didn't come
with us then, but they went over to the bride's while we
were all gone to the priest's house. At last we set off in
great style and spirits — I well mounted on a good horse of
my own, and my brother on one that he had borrowed from
Peter Danellon, fully bent on winning the bottle. I
524 IRISH LITERATURE.
would have borrowed him myself, but I thought it da-
center to ride my own horse manfully, even though he
never won a side of mutton or a saddle, like Danellon's.
But the man that was most likely to come in for the bot-
tle was little Billy Cormick, the tailor, who rode a blood-
racer that young John Little had wickedly lent him for
the special purpose; he was a tall bay animal, with long,
small legs, a switch tail, and didn't know how to trot.
Maybe we didn't cut a dash — and might have taken a
town before us. Out we set about nine o'clock, and went
acrass the country : but I '11 not stop to mintion what hap-
pened to some of them, even before we got to the bride's
house. It 's enough to say here, that sometimes one in
crassing a stile or ditch would drop into the dike, some-
times another would find himself head foremost on the
ground; a woman would be capsized here in crassing a
ridgy field, bringing her fore-rider to the ground along
with her; another would be hanging like a broken arch,
ready to come down, till some one would ride up and fix
her on the seat. But as all this happened in going over
the fields, we expected that when we 'd get out on the road
there would be less danger, as we would have no ditches or
drains to crass. When we came in sight of the house,
there was a general shout of welcome from the bride's
party, who were on the watch for us: we couldn't do less
nor give them back the chorus ; but we had better have let
that alone, for some of the young horses got restive and
capered about ; the asses — the sorra choke them — that were
along with us should begin to bray, and a mule of Jack Ir-
win's took it into his head to stand stock-still. This
brought another dozen of them to the ground ; so that, be-
tween one thing or another, we were near half an hour be-
fore we were got on the march again. When the blood-
horse that the tailor rode saw the crowd and heard the
shouting, he cocked his ears, and set off with himself full
speed; but before he got far he was without a rider, and
went galloping up to the bride's house, the bridle hanging
about his feet. Billy, however, having taken a glass or two,
wasn't to be cowed; so he came up in great blood, and
swore he would ride him to America, sooner than let the
bottle be won from the bridegroom's party.
" When we arrived, there was nothing but shaking hands
WILLIAM CARLETON. 525
and kissing, and all kinds of slcwsthering.1 Another
breakfast was ready for us; and here we all sat down, my-
self and my next relations in the bride's house, and the
others in the barn and garden; for one house wouldn't
hold the half of us. Eating, however, was all only talk :
of coorse we took some of the poteen again, and in the short
time afterwards set off along the paved road to the priest's
house to be tied as fast as he could make us, and that was
fast enough. Before we went out to mount our horses,
though, there was just such a hullaballoo with the bride
and her friends as there was with myself: but my uncle
soon put a stop to it, and in five minutes had them breaking
their hearts laughing.
" Bless my heart, what doings! — what roasting and boil-
ing!— and what tribes of beggars and shulers? and vaga-
bonds of all sorts and sizes, were sunning themselves about
the doors — wishing us a thousand times long life and hap-
piness. There was a fiddler and piper; the piper was to
stop in my father-in-law's while we were going to be mar-
ried, to keep the neighbors that were met there shaking
their toes while we were at the priest's, and the fiddler was
to come with ourselves, in order, you know, to have a dance
at the priest's house, and to play for us coming and going ;
for there 's nothing like a taste of music when one 's on for
sport.
"We were now all in motion once more — the bride rid-
ing behind my man, and the bridesmaid behind myself — a
fine, bouncing girl she was, but not to be mintioned in the
one year with my darlin' — in throth, it wouldn't be aisy
gelling such a couple as we were the same day, though
it's myself that says it. Mary, dressed in a black castor
hat, like a man's, a white muslin coat, with a scarlet silk
handkercher about her neck, with a silver buckle and a
bine ribbon, for luck, round her waist; her fine hair
wasn't turned up, at all at all, but hung down in beautiful
curls on her shoulders; her eyes yon would think were all
light ; her lips as plump and as ripe as cherries — and may-
be it 's myself that wasn't to that time of day without tast-
ing them anyhow: and her teeth, so even, and as white as
a burned bone. The day bate all for beauty; T don't know
whether h was from the lightness of my own spirit it came,
1 Slewsthering, flattering speech. 2 Sliulers, tramps.
526 IRISH LITERATURE.
but I think that such a day I never saw from that to this:
indeed, I thought everything was dancing and smiling
about me, and sartainly every one said that such a couple
hadn't been married, nor such a wedding seen in the parish,
for many a long year before.
" All the time, as we went along, we had the music ; but
then at first we were mightily puzzled what to do with the
fiddler; to put him as a hind rider it would prevent him
from playing, bekase how could he keep the fiddle before
him, and another so close to him? To put him foremost was
as bad, for he couldn't play and hould the bridle together ;
so at last my uncle proposed that he should get behind him-
self, turn his face to the horse's tail, and saw away like a
Trojan.
" It might be about four miles or so to the priest's house,
and, as the day was fine, we got on gloriously. One thing,
however, became troublesome; you see there was a cursed
set of ups and downs on the road, and as the riding coutrc-
ments were so bad with a great many of the weddiners,
those that had no saddles, going down steep places, would
work onward bit by bit, in spite of all they could do, till
they 'd be fairly on the horse's neck, and the women be-
hind them would be on the animal's shoulders; and it
required nice managing to balance themselves, for they
might as well sit on the edge of a dale boord. Many of
them got tosses this way, though it all passed in good hu-
mor. But no two among the whole set were more puzzled
by this than my uncle and the fiddler — I think I see my
uncle this minute with his knees sticking into the horse's
shoulders and his two hands upon his neck, keeping him-
self back, and the fiddler, with his heels away towards the
horse's tail, and he stretched back against my uncle, for
all the world like two bricks laid against one another, and
one of them falling. 'T was the same thing going up a hill ;
whoever was behind would be hanging over the horse's
tail, with one arm about the fore-rider's neck or body, and
the other houlding the baste by the mane, to keep them
both from sliding off backwards. Many a come-down
there was among them, but as I said, it was all in good
humor; and accordingly, as regularly as they fell they
were sure to get a cheer.
" When we got to the priest's house there was a hearty
WILLIAM CARLETON. 527
welcome for us all. The bride and I with our next kindred
and friends went into the parlor; along with these there
was a set of young fellows who had been bachelors of the
bride's, that got in with the intention of getting the first
kiss, and, in coorse, of bating myself out of it. I got a
whisper of this; so, by my song, I was determined to cut
them all out in that, so well as I did in getting herself;
but, you know, I couldn't be angry, even if they had got
the foreway of me in it, bekase it 's an old custom. While
the priest was going over the business, I kept my eye about
me, and, sure enough, there were seven or eight fellows all
waiting to snap at her. When the ceremony drew near a
close, I got up on one leg, so that I could bounce to my feet
like lightning, and when it was finished, I got her in my
arm before you could say Jack Robinson, and swinging
her behind the priest, gave her the husband's first kiss.
The next minute there was a rush after her; but, as I had
got the first, it was but fair that they should come in ac-
cording as they could, I thought, bekase, you know, it was
all in the coorse of practise; but, hould, there were two
words to be said to that, for what does Father Dollard do,
but shoves them off — and a fine stout shoulder he had —
shoves them off like children, and goin' up to Mary, gives
her a fine smack on the cheek — oh, consuming to it, but he
did — mine was only a cracker compared to it. The rest,
then, all kissed her, one after another, according as they
could come in to get one. We then went straight to his
reverence's barn, which had been cleared out for us the
day before by his own directions, where we danced for an
hour or two, and his reverence and his curate along with
us.
" When this was over we mounted again, the fiddler
taking his ould situation behind my uncle. You know it
is usual, after getting the knot tied, to go to a public-house
or shebeen, to (^t some refreshments after the journey;
so, accordingly, we went to little lame Larry Spooney \s, but
the tithe of us couldn't get into it; so we sot on the green
before the door, and, by my song, we drank dacontly with
him anyhow; and, only for my uncle, it's odds but we
would have been all fuddled.
"It was now that I began to notish a kind of coolness
between my party and the bride's, and for some time I
528 IRISH LITERATURE.
didn't know what to make of it. I wasn't long so, how-
ever ; for my uncle, who still had his eyes about him, comes
over to me and says, ' Shane, I doubt there will be bad work
amongst these people, particularly betwixt the Dorans and
the Flanagans — the truth is that the old business of the
lawshoot will break out, and except they 're kept from
drink, take my word for it, there will be blood spilled.
The running for the bottle will be a good excuse,' says he,
' so I think we had better move home before they go too far
in the drink.'
" Well, anyway, there was truth in this; so, accordingly,
the reckoning was peel, and as this was the thrate of the
weddiners to the bride and bridegroom, every one of the
men clubbed his share, but neither I nor the girls anything.
I never laughed so much in one day as I did in that, and
I can't help laughing at it yet. When we all got on the top
of our horses, and sich other iligant cattle as we had — the
crowning of a king was nothing to it. We were now purty
well, I thank you, as to liquor; and as the knot was tied,
and all safe, there was no end to our good spirits; so, when
we took the road, the men were in high blood, particularly
Billy Cormick, the tailor, who had a pair of long cavaldry
spurs upon him, that he was scarcely able to walk in — and
he not more nor four feet high.
" There was now a great jealousy among them that were
bint for winning the bottle; and when one horseman would
cross another, striving to have the whip hand of him when
they 'd set off, why, you see, his horse would get a cut of
the whip itself for his pains. My uncle and I, however, did
all we could to pacify them ; and their own bad horseman-
ship, and the screeching of the women, prevented any
strokes at that time. Some of them were ripping up ould
sores against one another as they went along; others, par-
ticularly the youngsters, with their sweethearts behind
them, coorting away for the life of them, and some might be
heard miles off, singing and laughing : and you may be sure
the fiddler behind my uncle wasn't idle no more nor
another. In this way we dashed on gloriously, till we
came in sight of the Dumbhill, where we were to start for
the bottle. And now you might see the men fixing them-
selves on their saddles, sacks, and suggawns; and the wo-
men tying kerchiefs and shawls about their caps and bon-
WILLIAM CARLETON. 529
nets, to keep them from flying off, and then gripping their
fore-riders hard and fast by the bosoms. When we got
to the Dumbhill, there were five or six fellows that didn't
come with us to the priest's, but met us with cudgels in
their hands, to prevent any of them from starting before
the others, and to show fair play.
" Well, when they were all in a lump — horses, mules,
and asses — some, as I said, with saddles, some with none;
and all just as I tould you before — the word was given, and
off they scoured, myself along with the rest; and devil be
off me, if ever I saw such another sight but itself before or
since. Off they skelped through thick and thin, in a cloud
of dust like a mist about us; but it was a mercy that the
life wasn't trampled out of some of us; for before we had
gone fifty perches, the one-third of them were sprawling
atop of one another on the road. As for the women, they
went down right and left — sometimes bringing the horse-
men with them; and many of the boys getting black eyes
and bloody noses on the stones. Some of them, being half-
blind with the motion and the whisky, turned off the
wrong way, and galloped on, thinking they had completely
distanced the crowd; and it wasn't till they cooled a bit
that they found out their mistake.
" But the best sport of all was when they came to the
Lazy Corner, just at Jack Gallagher's pond, where the
water came out a good way acrass the road; being in such
a flight, they either forgot or didn't know how to turn the
angle properly, and plash went above thirty of them, com-
ing down right on the top of one another, souse in 1 lie pool.
By tin's time there was about a dozen of the best horsemen
a good distance before the rest, cutting one another up for
the bottle: among these were the Dorans and Flanagans,
but they, you see, wisely enough, dropped their women at
the beginning, and only rode single. I myself didn't
mind the bottle, but kept close to Mary, for fraid that,
among sich a <1 i vil"s pack of half-mad fellows, anything
might happen her. At any rate, I was next the firs! batch ;
but where do yon think the tailor was all this time? Why,
away off like lightning, miles before them — flying like a
swallow: and how he kept his sate so long has puzzled me
from that day to this; but, anyhow, truth's best — there
he was topping the hill ever so far before them. After all,
34
530 IRISH LITERATURE.
the unlucky crathur nearly missed the bottle; for when he
turned to the bride's house, instead of pulling up as he
ought to do — why, to show his horsemanship to the crowd
that was looking at them, he should begin to cut up the
horse right and left, until he made him take the garden
ditch in full flight, landing him among the cabbages.
About four yards or five from the spot where the horse
lodged himself was a well, and a purty deep one too, by my
word; but not a sowl present could tell what become of
the tailor, until Owen Smith chanced to look into the well,
and saw his long spurs just above the water; so he was
pulled up in a purty pickle, not worth the washing; but
what did he care? — although he had a small body, the sorra
wan of him but had a sowl big enough for Golias or Samp-
son the Great.
" As soon as he got his eyes clear, right or wrong he in-
sisted on getting the bottle; but he was late, poor fellow,
for before he got out of the garden, two of them cuius up —
Paddy Doran and Peter Flanagan, cutting one another to
pieces, and not the length of your nail between them. Well,
well, that was a terrible day, sure enough. In the twin-
kling of an eye they were both off the horses, the blood
streaming from their bare heads, struggling to take the
bottle from my father, who didn't know which of them to
give it to. He knew if he 'd hand it to one, the other would
take offinse, and then he was in a great puzzle, striving to
rason with them ; but long Paddy Doran caught it while he
was spaking to Flanagan, and the next instant Flanagan
measured him with a heavy loaded whip, and left him
stretched upon the stones. And now the work began; for
by this time the friends of both parties came up and joined
them. Such knocking down, such roaring among the men,
and screeching and clapping of hands and wiping of
heads among the women, when a brother, or a son, or a
husband would get his gruel. Indeed, out of a fair, I never
saw anything to come up to it. But during all this work,
the busiest man among the whole set was the tailor, and
what was worse of all for the poor crathur, he should sin-
gle himself out against both parties, bekase, you see, he
thought they were cutting him out of his right to the bottle.
" They had now broken up the garden gate for weapons,
all except one of the posts, and fought into the garden;
WILLIAM CABLETON. 531
when nothing should sarve Billy but to take up the large
heavy post, as if he could destroy the whole faction on each
side. Accordingly he came up to big Matthew Flanagan,
and was rising it just as if he 'd fell him, when Matt, catch-
ing him by the nape of the neck and the waistband of the
breeches, went over very quietly, and dropped him a second
time, heels up, into the well, where he might have been yet,
only for my mother-in-law, who dragged him out with a
great deal to do: for the well was too narrow to give him
i-oom to turn.
" As for myself and all my friends, as it happened to be
my own wedding, and at our own place, we couldn't take
part with either of them; but we endeavored all in our
power to pacify them, and a tough task we had of it, until
we saw a pair of whips going hard and fast among them,
belonging to Father Corrigan and Father James, his cu-
rate. Well, it 's wonderful how soon a priest can clear
up a quarrel ! In five minutes there wasn't a hand up —
instead of that they were ready to run into mouse-holes.
" ' What, you ruffianly blackguards and murderers,' says
his reverence; ' are you bint to have each other's blood
upon your heads? — are you going to get yourselves hanged
like sheep-stalers? Down with your sticks this very min-
ute, I command you! Do you know — will ye give- your-
selves time to see who 's spaking to you — you bloodthirsty
set of vagabonds? I command you, in the name of the
Catholic Church and the Blessed Virgin Mary, to stop this
instant, if you don't want me,' says he, ' to make examples
of the whole of you. Doran, if you rise your hand more,
I '11 strike it dead on your body, and to your mouth you '11
never carry it while you have breath in your carcass.
Pretty respect you have for the decent couple in whose
house you have kicked up such a hubbub! Is this the way
people are to be deprived of their dinners on your accounts,
you fungaleering thieves! '
" ' Why, then, plase your reverence, by the — hem — I say.
Father Corrigan, it wasn't my fault, but that villain Flan-
agan's, for he knows I fairly won the bottle— and would
have distanced him, only that when I was far before him,
the vagabone, he galloped acrass me on the way, thinking
to thrip up the horse.'
" ' You lying scoundrel,' says the priest, l how dare you
532 IRISH LITERATURE.
tell me a falsity,' says he, ' to niy face? How could he gal-
lop acrass you if you were far before hiin? Not a word
more, or I '11 leave you without a mouth to your face, which
will be a double share of provision and bacon saved any-
way. And Flanagan, you were as much to blame as he,
and must be chastised for your raggamuffinly conduct,'
says he, ' and so must you both, and all your party, partic-
ularly you and he, as the ringleaders. Eight well I know
it 's the grudge upon the lawshoot you had, and not the
bottle, that occasioned it ; but, by St. Pether, to Loughderg
both of you must tramp for this.'
" l Ay, and by St. Pether, they both desarve it as well as
a thief does the gallows,' said a little blustering voice be-
longing to the tailor, who came forward in a terrible pas-
sion, looking for all the world like a drowned rat. ' Ho,
by St. Pether, they do, the vagabones; for it was myself
that won the bottle, your reverence; and by this and by
that,' says he, ' the bottle I '11 have, or some of their crowns
will crack for it.'
« * Why, Billy, are you here? ' says Father Corrigan,
smiling down upon the figure the fellow cut, with his long
spurs and his big whip — ' what in the world tempted you
to get on horseback, Billy? '
" * By the powers, I was miles before them,' says Billy ;
' and after this day, your reverence, let no man say that I
couldn't ride a steeplechase across Crocknagooran.'
" ' Why, Billy, how did you stick on, at all at all? ' says
his reverence.
" ' How do I know how I stuck on,' says Billy, ' nor
whether I stuck on at all or not? All I know is, that I
was on horseback before leaving the Dumbhill, and that I
found them pulling me by the heels out of the well in the
corner of the garden, and that, your reverence, when the
first was only topping the hill there below, as Lanty Ma-
gowran tells me, who was looking on.'
" ' Well, Billy,' says Father Corrigan, < you must get the
bottle ; and as for you, Dorans and Flanagans, I '11 make
examples of you for this day's work — that you may reckon
on. You are a disgrace to the parish, and what 's more, a
disgrace to your priest. How can luck or grace attind the
marriage of any young couple that there 's such work at?
Before you leave this, you must all shake hands, and
WILLIAM CARL ETON. 533
promise never to quarrel with each other while grass grows
or water runs; and if you don't, by the blessed St. Domi-
nick, I '11 exkimnicate ye both, and all belonging to you
into the bargain ; so that ye '11 be the pitiful examples and
shows to all that look upon you.'
" ' Well, well, your reverence,' says my father-in-law,
'let all by-gones be by-gones; and, please God, they will
before they go be better friends than ever they were. Go
now and clane yourselves, take the blood from about your
faces, for the dinner 's ready an hour agone; but if you all
respect the place you 're in, you '11 show it, in regard of the
young crathurs that 's going, in the name of God, to face
the world together, and of coorse wishes that this day at
laste should pass in pace and quietness: little did I think
there was any friend or neighbor here that would make
so little of the place or people, as was done for nothing at
all, in the face of the country.'
" ' God he sees,' says my mother-in-law, ' that there 's
them here this day we didn't desarve this from, to rise such
a nor rat ion, as if the house was a shebeen or a public-
house. It 's myself didn't think either me or my poor col-
leen here, not to mention the dacent people she 's joined
to, would be made so little of, as to have our place turned
into a play-acthur — for a play-acthur couldn't be worse.'
a i Well,' says my uncle, l there 's no help for spilt milk,
I tell you, nor for spilt blood either; tare-an'-ounty, sure
we 're all Irishmen, relations, and Catholics through other,
and we oughtn't to be this way. Come away to dinner —
by the powers, we '11 duck the first man that says a loud
word for the remainder of the day. Come, Father Corri-
gan, and carve the goose, or the geese, for us — for, by my
sannies, I b'leeve there 's a baker's dozen of them ; but
we've plenty of Latin for them, and your reverence and
Father James here understands that langidge, anyhow —
larned enough there, I think, gintlemen.'
" ' That 's right, Brian,' shouts the tailor — ' that 's right ;
there must be no fighting: by the powers, the first man at-
tempts it, I '11 brain him — fell him to the earth, like an ox,
if all belonging to him was in my way.'
"This threat from the tailor went farther, I think, in
putting them into good humor nor even what the priest
said. They then washed and claned themselves, and ac-
534 IRISH LITERATURE.
cordingly went to their dinners. Billy himself marched
with his terrible whip in his hand, and his long cavaldry
spurs sticking near ten inches behind him, draggled to the
tail like a bantling-cock after a shower."
" I suppose," said Andy Morrow, " you had a famous
dinner, Shane ? "
" 'T is you that may say that, Mr. Morrow," replied
Shane; " but the house, you see, wasn't able to hould one
half of us; so there was a dozen or two tables borrowed
from the neighbors, and laid one after another in two
rows, on the green, beside the river that ran along the
garden hedge, side by side. At one end Father Corrigan
sat, with Mary and myself, and Father James at the other.
There were three five-gallon kegs of whisky, and I ordered
my brother to take charge of them, and there he sat beside
them, and filled the bottles as they were wanted, bekase, if
he had left that job to strangers, many a spalpeen there
would make away with lots of it. Mavrone, such a sight
as the dinner was ! I didn't lay my eye on the fellow of it
since, sure enough, and I 'm now an ould man, though I
was then a young one. Why, there was a pudding boiled in
the end of a sack ; and, troth, it was a thumper, only for the
straws; for you see, when they were making it they had to
draw long straws acrass in order to keep it from falling
asunder: a fine plan it is, too. Jack M'Kenna, the car-
penther, carved it with a hand-saw, and if he didn't curse
the same straws, I 'm not here. i Draw them out, Jack,'
said Father Corrigan, ' draw them out. It 's asy known,
Jack, you never ate a polite dinner, you poor awkward
spalpeen, or you 'd have pulled out the straws the first
thing you did, man alive.' Such lashins of corned beef,
and rounds of beef, and legs of mutton, and bacon —
turkeys, and geese, and barn-door fowls, young and fat.
They may talk as they will, but commend me to a piece of
good ould bacon, ate with crock butther, and phaties, and
cabbage. Sure enough they leathered away at everything,
but this and the pudding were the favorites. Father Cor-
rigan gave up the carving in less than no time, for it would
take him half a day to sarve them all, and he wanted to
provide for number one. After helping himself, he set my
uncle to it, and maybe he didn't slash away right and left.
There was half-a-dozen gorsoons carrying about the beer
WILLIAM CARLETON. 535
in cans, with froth upon it like barm — but that was beer
in arnest, Nancy — I '11 say no more.
" ' Well, Matthew Finigan,' says Father Corrigan, k I
can't say but I 'in happy that your colleen bawn 1 here has
lit upon a husband that 's no discredit to the family — and
it is herself didn't drive her pigs to a bad market,' says
he. ' Why, in throth, Father, avourneen,' says my mother-
in-law, ' they 'd be hard to plase that couldn't be satis-
fied with them she got ; not saying but she had her pick and
choice of many a good offer, and might have got richer
matches; but Shane Fadh M'Cawell, although you're sit-
ting there beside my daughter, I 'm prouder to see you on
my own flure, the husband of my child,, nor if she 'd got a
man with four times your substance.'
" l Never heed the girls for knowing where to choose/
says his reverence, slily enough ; ' but, upon my word, only
she gave us all the slip, to tell the truth, I had another
husband than Shane in my eye for her, and that was my
own nevvy, Father James's brother here/
" ' And I 'd be proud of the connection,' says my father-
in-law ; i but, you see, these girls won't look much to what
you or I '11 say, in choosing a husband for themselves,
ilow-and-iver, not making little of your nevvy, Father
Michael, I say he's not to be compared with that same
bouchal sitting beside Mary there.' ' No, nor by the
powdhers-o'-war, never will,' says Billy Cormick the tailor,
who had come over and slipped in on the other side, betune
Father Corrigan and the bride — ' by the powdhers-o'-war,
he'll never be fit to be compared with me, I tell you, till
yesterday comes back again.'
"'Why, Billy,' says the priest, 'you're in every place.'
'But where I ought to be!' says Billy; ' and that's hard
and fast tackled to Mary Bawn, the bride here, instead of
that steeple of a fellow she has got,' says the little cock.
" ' Billy, I thought you were married,' said Father Cor-
rigan.
"'Not I, your reverence,' says Billy; 'but I'll soon do
something, Father Michael; — I have been threatened this
long time, but I '11 do it at last.'
"'He's noi exactly married, sir,' says my uncle;
1 Colleen bawn, fair girl.
53G IRISH LITERATURE.
'there's a colleen present' (looking at the bridesmaid)
' that will soon have his name upon her.'
" ' Very good, Billy/ says the priest, 1 1 hope you will
give us a rousing wedding — equal, at least, to Shane
FadhV
" ' Why, then,your reverence, except I get such a darling
as Molly Bawn here — but, upon second thoughts, I don't
like marriage, anyway,' said Billy, winking against the
priest — ■* I '11 lade such a life as your reverence; and, by
the powdhers, it 's a thousand pities that I wasn't made
into a priest instead of a tailor ; for, you see, if I had,' says
he, giving a verse of an old song : —
" ' For, you see, if I had,
It 's I 'd be the lad
That would show all the people such laming ;
And when they 'd go wrong,
Why, instead of a song,
I 'd give them a lump of a sarmin.' "
u i
Billy,' says my father-in-law, ' why don't you make
a hearty dinner, man alive? Go back to your sate and
finish your male — you 're aiting nothing to signify.' ' Me ! '
says Billy; 'why, I'd scorn to ate a hearty dinner; and
I 'd have you to know, Matt Finigan, that it wasn't for the
sake of your dinner I came here, but in regard to your fam-
ily, and bekase I wished him well that 's sitting beside
your daughter; and it ill becomes your father's son to cast
up your dinner in my face, or any one of my family; but
a blessed minute longer I '11 not stay among you.'
" ' But, Billy,' says I, ' sure it was all out of kindness;
he didn't mane to offind you.'
" ' It 's no matter,' says Billy beginning to cry; ' he did
offind me ; and it 's low days with me to bear an affront
from him, or the likes of him ; but by the powdhers-o'-war,'
says he, getting into a great rage, ' I won't bear it — only as
you 're an old man yourself, I '11 not rise my hand to you;
but let any man now that has the heart to take up your
quarrel, come out and stand before me on the sod here.'
" Well, you 'd tie all that were present with three straws,
to see Billy stripping himself, and his two wrists not
thicker than drumsticks.
" By this time the company was hard and fast at the
punch, the songs, and the dancing. The dinner had been
WILLIAM CARLE TON. 537
cleared off, and the dacentest of us went into the house
for awhile, taking the fiddler with us, and the rest stayed
on the green to dance, where they were soon joined by
lots of the counthry people, so that in a short time there
was a large number entirely. After sitting for some time
within, Mary and I began, you may be sure, to get unasy,
sitting palavering among a parcel of ould sober folks; so,
at last, out we slipped, and a few other dacent young
people that were with us, to join the dance, and shake our
toe along with the rest of them. When we made our ap-
pearance, the flare was instantly cleared for us, and then
she and I danced the Humors of Glynn.
" Well, it 's no matter — it 's all past now, and she lies
low; but I may say that it wasn't very often danced in
better style since, I 'd wager. Lord bless us ! — what a
drame the world is ! The darling of my heart you war,
avourneen machree. I think I see her with the modest
smile upon her face, straight and fair and beautiful, and
when the dance was over, how she stood leaning upon me,
and my heart within melting to her and the look she 'd give
into my eyes, and my heart, too, as much as to say, this is
the happy day with me; and the blush still would fly acrass
her face, when I 'd press her, unknoAvnst to the bystanders,
against my beating heart. A suilish machree,1 she is now
gone from me — lies low, and it all appears like a drame to
me; but God's will be done ! — sure she 's happy now !
" In this way we passed the time till the evening came
on, except that Mary and the bridesmaids were sent for
to dance with the priests, who were within at the punch,
in all their glory. I and my man, on seeing this, were for
staying with the company; but my mother, who 't was that
came for them, says ' Never mind the boys, Shane ; come
in with the girls, I say. You are just wanted at the pres-
ent time, both of you; follow me for an hour or two, till
their reverences within have a bit of a dance with the girls
in the back-room — we don't want to gather a crowd about
them.' Well, we went in, sure enough, for a while; but,
I don't know how it was, I didn't at all feel comfortable
with the priests; for, you see, I Yl rather sport my day with
the boys and girls upon the green : so I gives Jack the wink,
and in we went, when, behold you, there was Father Cor-
1 A suilish machree, light of my heart.
538 IRISH LITERATURE.
rigan planted upon the side of a settle, Mary along with
him, both waiting till they 'd have a fling of a dance to-
gether, whilst the curate was capering on the flure before
the bridesmaid, who was a purty dark-haired girl, to the
tune of ' Kiss my Lady,' and the friar planted between my
mother and mother-in-law, one of his legs stretched out
on a chair, he singing some funny song or other that
brought the tears to their eyes with laughing.
" Whilst Father James was dancing with the brides-
maid, I gave Mary the wink to come away from Father
Corrigan, wishing, as I tould you, to get out amongst the
youngsters once more; and Mary herself, to tell the truth,
although he Avas the priest, was very willing to do so. I
went over to her, and says, ' Mary, asthore, there 's a friend
without that wishes to spake to you.'
" ' Well,' says Father Corrigan, ' tell that friend that
she 's better employed, and that they must wait, whoever
they are. I 'in giving your wife, Shane,' says he, ' a little
good advice that she won't be the worse for, and she can't
go now.'
" Mary, in the meantime, had got up, and was coining
away, when his reverence wanted her to stay till they 'd
finish their dance. i Father Corrigan,' says she, ' let me
go now, sir, if you plase, for they would think it bad
threatment of me not to go out to them.'
" ' Throth, and you '11 do no such thing, acushla,' says
he, spaking so sweet to her; ' let them come in if they want
you. Shane,' says his reverence, winking at me, and spak-
ing in a whisper, ' stay here, you and the girls, till we take
a hate at the dancing — don't you know that the ould wo-
men here and me will have to talk over some things about
the fortune? You '11 maybe get more nor you expect.
Here, Molshy,' says he to my mother-in-law, ' don't let the
youngsters out of this.'
" l Musha, Shane, ahagur,' says the ould woman, ' why
will yees go and lave the place? Sure you needn't be
dashed before them — they '11 dance themselves.'
" Accordingly we stayed in the room ; but just on the
word, Mary gives one spring away, laving his reverence by
himself on the settle. ' Come away,' says she, ' lave them
there and let 's go to where I can have a dance with
yourself, Shane.'
WILLIAM CARLETON. 539
"Well, I always loved Mary, but at that minute, if it
would save her, I think I could spill my heart's blood for
her. ' Mary,' says I, full to the throath, ' Mary, acushla
agus asthore machree,1 I could lose my life for you.'
" She looked in my face, and the tears came into her
eyes. ' Shane, achora,' says she, ' amn't I your happy girl
at last?' She was leaning over against my breast; and
what answer do you think I made? — I pressed her to my
heart; I did more — I took off my hat, and, looking up to
God, I thanked Him with tears in my eyes for giving me
such a treasure. ' Well, come now,' says she, ' to the
green ' ; so we went — and it 's she that was the girl, when
she did go among them, that threw them all into the dark
for beauty and figure: as fair as a lily itself did she look —
so tall and iligant that you wouldn't think she was a far-
mer's daughter at all.
" When we had danced an hour or so, them that the fam-
ily had the greatest regard for were brought in, un-
knownst to the rest, to drink tay. Mary planted herself
beside me, and would sit nowhere else. It was now that
the bride's cake was got. Ould Sonsy Mary marched over,
and putting the bride on her feet, got up on a chair, and
broke it over her head, giving round a big slice of it to every
person in the house. After tay the ould folk got full of
talk, and the youngsters danced round them. The tailor
had got drunk a little too early, and had to be put to bed,
but he was now as fresh as ever, and able to dance a horn-
pipe, which he did on a door. The Dorans and the Flan-
agans had got quite thick after drubbing one another —
Ned Doran began his coortship with Alley Flanagan on
that day, and they were married soon after, so that the two
factions joined, and never had another battle.
" The night was falling when my uncle, running in in a
great hurry, cries out: ' Keep yourselves quiet a little;
here 's the squire and Master Francis coming over to ful-
fil their promise; he would have come up airlier, he says,
but that lie was away all day at the 'sizes.'
" In a minute or two they came in, and we all rose up of
coorse to welcome them. The squire shuck hands with the
ould people, and afterwards with Mary and myself, wish-
ing us all happiness — then with the two clergymen, and
1 Acushla, . . . machree, pulse and treasure of my heart.
540 IRISH LITERATURE.
introduced Master Frank to them. He took a sate and
looked on, while they were dancing, with a smile of good-
humor on his face — while they, all the time, would give
new touches and trebles, to show off all their steps before
him. He was landlord both to my father and father-in-
law ; and it 's he that was the good man, and the gintle-
man, every inch of him.
" When he sat awhile, my mother-in-law came over with
a glass of nice punch, that she had mixed, and making a
low curtshy, begged pardon for using such freedom with
his honor, but hoped that he would just taste a little to
the happiness of the young couple. He then drank our
healths, and shuck hands with us both a second time, say-
ing— although I can't, at all at all, give it in anything like
his own words — ' I am glad,' says he, to Mary's parents,
1 that your daughter has made such a good choice ' — throth,
he did — the Lord be merciful to his sowl — ' such a prudent
choice; and I congr — con — grathulate you,' says he to my
father, ' on your connection with so industrious and re-
spectable a family. You are now beginning the world for
yourselves, ' says he to Mary and me, ' and I cannot pro-
pose a better example to you both than that of your
respective parents. From this forrid/ says he, ' I 'm to
considher you my tenants; and I wish to take this oppor-
tunity of informing you both that should you act up to the
opinion I entertain of you, by an attentive coorse of in-
dustry and good management, you will find in me an en-
couraging and indulgent landlord. I know, Shane,' says
he to me, smiling, a little knowingly enough too, ' that you
have been a little wild or so, but that 's past, I trust. You
have now serious duties to perform, which you cannot
neglect — but you will not neglect them; and be assured, I
say again, that I shall feel pleasure in rendhering you
every assistance in my power in the cultivation and im-
provement of your farm.' i Go over, both of you,' says my
father, l and thank his honor, and promise to do every-
thing he says.' Accordingly, we did so; I made my scrape
as well as I could, and Mary blushed to the eyes, and
dropped her curtshy.
" Father Corrigan now appeared to be getting sleepy.
While this was going on, I looked about me, but couldn't
see Mary. The tailor was just beginning to get a little
WILLIAM CARLETON. 541
hearty once more. Supper was talked of, but there was
no one that could ate anything. The clergy now got their
horses, and soon departed.
" After they went, Mary threw the stocking — all the un-
married folks coming in the dark to see who it would hit.
Bless my sowl, but she was the droll Mary — for what did
she do, only put a big brogue of her father's into it, that
was near two pounds weight; and who should it hit on the
bare sconce but Billy Cormick, the tailor — who thought he
was fairly shot, for it leveled the crathur at once; though
that wasn't hard to do, anyhow.
"This was the last ceremony: and Billy was well con-
tinted to get the knock, for you all know whoever the
stocking strikes upon is to be married first. After this, my
mother and mother-in-law set them to the dancing — an'
't was themselves that kept it up till long after daylight
the next morning; — but first they called me into the next
room, where Mary was: and — and so ends my wedding."
CONDY CULLEN AND THE GAUGER.
Young Condy Cullen was descended from a long line of
private distillers, and, of course, exhibited in his own per-
son all the practical wit, sagacity, cunning, and fertility
of invention, which the natural genius of the family,
sharpened by long experience, had created from genera-
tion to generation, as a standing capital to be handed
down from father to son. There was scarcely a trick,
evasion, plot, scheme, or maneuver that had ever been re-
sorted to by his ancestors, that Condy had not at his
finger ends; and though but a lad of sixteen at the time
Ave present him to the reader, vet be it observed that he
had his mind, even at that age, admirably trained, by four
or five years of keen, vigorous practice, in all the resources
necessary to meet the subtle vigilance and stealthy circum-
vent ion of that prowling animal — a ganger. In fact,
Condy's talents did not merely consist of an acquaintance
with the hereditary tricks of his family. These, of them-
selves, would prove but a miserable defense against the
ever-varying ingenuity with which the progressive skill of
542 IRISH LITERATURE.
the still-hunter masks his approaches and conducts his de-
signs. On the contrary, every new plan of the gauger must
be met and defeated by a counter-plan equally novel, but
with this difference in the character of both, that whereas
the exciseman's devices are the result of mature delibera-
tion, Paddy's, from the very nature of the circumstances,
must be necessarily extemporaneous and rapid. The hos-
tility between the parties, being, as it is, carried on
through such varied stratagem on both sides, and charac-
terized by such adroit and able duplicity, by so many quick
and unexpected turns of incident — it would be utter fa-
tuity in either to rely upon obsolete tricks and stale ma-
neuvers. Their relative position and occupation do not,
therefore, merely exhibit a contest between Law and that
mountain nymph, Liberty, or between the Excise Board
and the smuggler — it presents a more interesting point
for observation, namely, the struggle between mind and
mind, between wit and wit, between roguery and knavery.
It might be very amusing to detail, from time to time,
a few of those keen encounters of practical cunning which
take place between the poteen distiller and his lynx-eyed
foe, the gauger. They are curious, as throwing light upon
the national character of our people, and as evidence of
the surprising readiness of wit, fertility of invention, and
irresistible humor which they mix up with almost every
actual concern of life, no matter how difficult or critical
it may be. Nay, it mostly happens that the character of
the peasant in all its fullness rises in proportion to what
he is called upon to encounter, and that the laugh at, or
the hoax upon, the gauger keeps pace with the difficulty
that is overcome. But now to our short story.
Two men, in the garb of gentlemen, were riding along
a remote by-road, one morning in the month of October,
about the year 1827 or '28, I am not certain which. The
air was remarkably clear, keen, and bracing; a hoar frost
for the few preceding nights had set in, and then lay upen
the fields about them, melting gradually, however, as the
sun got strength, with the exception of the sides of such
hills and valleys as his beams could not reach, until even-
ing chilled their influence too much to absorb the feath-
ery whiteness which covered them. Our equestrians had
nearly reached a turn in the way, which, we should ob-
WILLIAM CARLETON. 543
serve in this place, skirted the brow of a small declivity
that lay on the right. In point of fact, it was a moderately
inclined plane or slope rather than a declivity ; but be this
as it may, the flat at its foot was studded over with furze
bushes, which grew so close and level that a person might
almost imagine it possible to walk upon their surface. On
coming within about two hundred and fifty yards of this
angle, the horsemen noticed a lad not more than sixteen
jogging on towards them with a keg upon his back. The
eye of one of them was immediately lit with that vivacious
sparkling of habitual sagacity which marks the practiced
gauger among ten thousand. For a single moment he drew
up his horse — an action which, however slight in itself, in-
timated more plainly than he could have wished the ob-
vious interest which had just been excited in him. Short
as was the pause, it betrayed him, for no sooner had the lad
noticed it than he crossed the ditch and disappeared round
the angle we have mentioned, and upon the side of the
declivity. To gallop to the spot, dismount, cross the ditch
also, and pursue him, was only the work of a few minutes.
" We have him," said the gauger, " we have him — one
thing is clear, that he cannot escape us."
"Speak for yourself, Stinton," replied his companion;
" as for me, not being an officer of his majesty 's excise, I
decline taking any part in the pursuit; it is a fair battle,
so fight it out between you — I am with you now only
through curiosity." He had scarcely concluded, when
they heard a voice singing the following lines, in a spirit
of that hearty hilarity which betokens a cheerful contempt
of care, and an utter absence of all apprehension :
" Oh ! Jemmy, she sez, you are my true lover,
You are all the riches that I do adore ;
I solemnly swear now, I '11 ne'er have anoder,
My heart it is fixed to never love more."
The music then changed to a joyous whistle, and im-
mediately they were confronted by a lad, dressed in an old
red coat, patched with gray frieze, who, on seeing them,
exhibited in his features a most ingenuous air of natural
surprise. lie immediately ceased to whistle, and with
every mark of respect, putting his hand to his hat, said
in a voice, the tones of which spoke of kindness and defer-
ence :
544 IRISH LITERATURE.
" God save ye, gintlemen."
" I say, my lad," said the gauger, " where is that cus-
tomer with the keg on his back? — he crossed over there
this moment."
" When? — where, sir? " said the lad, with a stare of sur-
prise.
" Where? — when? — why, this minute, and in this place."
" And was it a whisky keg, sir? "
" Sir, I am not here to be examined by you," replied
Stinton; "confound me, if the conniving young rascal is
not sticking me into a cross-examination already. I say,
redcoat, where is the boy with the keg? "
" As for a boy, I did see a boy, sir ; but the never a keg
he had — hadn't he a gray frieze coat, sir? "
" He had."
" And wasn't it a dauny 1 bit short about the skirts, plase
your honor? "
" Again he 's at me. Sirrah, unless you tell me where
he is in half a second, I shall lay my whip to your
shoulders ! "
"The sorra keg I seen, then, sir; the last keg I seen
was "
" Did you see a boy without a keg, answering to the de-
scription I gave you? "
" You gave no description of it, sir; but even if you did,
when I didn't see it, how can I tell your honor anything
about it? "
" Where is the fellow, you villain," exclaimed the
gauger, in a fury — " where is he gone to? You admit you
saw him; as for the keg, it cannot be far from us; but
where is he? "
" 'Dad, I saw a boy, with a short frieze coat upon him,
crassing the road there below, and runnin' down the other
side of that ditch."
This was too palpable a lie to stand the test even of a
glance at the ditch in question, which was nothing more
than a slight mound that ran down along a lea field, on
which there was not even the appearance of a shrub.
The gauger looked at his companion, then turning to
the boy — " Come, come, my lad," said he, " you know that
lie is rather cool. Don't you feel in your soul that a rat
i Dauny, small.
WILLIAM CARLETON. 545
could not have gone in that direction without our seeing
it?"
" Bedad, an' I saw him," returned the lad, " wid a gray
coat upon him, that was a little too short in the tail ; it 's
better than half an hour agone."
" The hoj I speak of you must have met," said Stinton ;
" it's not five minutes — no, not more than three — since he
came inside the field."
" That my feet may grow to the ground, then, if I seen a
tHyy, in or about this place, Avidin that time, barrin' myself."
The gauger eyed him closely for a short space, and pull-
ing out half-a-crown, said : " Uarkee, my lad, a word with
you in private."
The fact is, that during the latter part of this dialogue
the worthy exciseman observed the cautious distance at
which the boy kept himself from the grasp of him and his
companion. A suspicion consequently began to dawn
upon him that, in defiance of appearances, the lad himself
might be the actual smuggler. On reconsidering the mat-
ter, this suspicion almost amounted to certainty; the time
was too short to permit even the most ingenious cheat to
render himself and his keg invisible in a manner so utterly
unaccountable. On the other hand, when he reflected on
the open, artless character of the boy's song; the capricious
change to a light-hearted whistle; the surprise so natur-
ally, and the respect so deferentially expressed, joined to
I lie dissimilarity of dress, he was confounded again, and
scarcely knew on which side to determine. Even the lad's
reluctance to approach him might proceed from fear of the
whip. lie felt resolved, however, to ascertain this point,
and, with the view of getting the lad into his hands, he
showed him half-a-crown, and addressed him as already
stated.
The lad, on seeing the money, appeared to be instantly
caught by it, and approached him, as if it had been a bait
he could not resist — a circumstance which again staggered
(he gauger. In a moment, however, lie seized him.
"Come, now," said he, unbuttoning his coat, "you will
oblige me by stripping."
"And why so?" said the lad, with a face which might
have furnished a painter or sculptor with a perfect notion
of curiosity, perplexity, and wonder.
'■'>'>
54G IRISH LITERATURE.
"Why so?" replied Stinton; "we shall see — we shall
soon see."
" Surely you don't think I've hid the keg about me?"
said the other, his features now relaxing into an appear-
ance of such utter simplicity as would have made any other
man but a gauger give up the examination as hopeless, and
exonerate the boy from any participation whatsoever in
the transaction.
" No, no," replied the gauger ; " by no means, you young
rascal. See here, Cartwright," he continued, addressing
his companion — " the keg, my precious," again turning to
the lad. " Oh ! no, no, it would be cruel to suspect you of
anything but the purest simplicity."
" Look here, Cartwright," — having stripped the boy of
his coat and turned it inside out, " there 's a coat — there 's
thrift — there 's economy for you. Come, sir, tuck on, tuck
on instantly ; here, I shall assist you — up with your arms,
straighten your neck; it will be both straightened and
stretched yet, my cherub. What think you now, Cart-
wright? Did you ever see a metamorphosis in your life so
quick, complete, and unexpected?"
His companion was certainly astonished in no small de-
gree, on seeing the red coat, when turned, become a com-
fortable gray frieze; one precisely such as he who bore the
keg had on. Nay, after surveying his person and dress a
second time, he instantly recognized him as the same.
The only interest, we should observe, which this gentle-
man had in the transaction, arose from the mere gratifica-
tion which a keen observer of character, gifted with a
strong relish for humor, might be supposed to feel. The
gauger in sifting the matter, and scenting the trail of the
keg, was now in his glory, and certainly when met by so
able an opponent as our friend Condy (for it was, indeed,
himself) furnished a very rich treat to his friend.
" Now," he continued, addressing the boy again, " lose
not a moment in letting us know where you 've hid the
keg."
" The sorra bit of it I hid— it fell aff o' me, an' I lost it;
sure I 'm lookin' afther it myself, so I am ; " and he moved
over while speaking, as if pretending to search for it in a
thin hedge, which could by no means conceal it.
" Cartwright," said the gauger, " did you ever see any-
WILLIAM CARLETON. 547
thing so perfect as this, so ripe a rascal? — you don't under-
stand him now. Here, you simpleton: harkee, sirrah,
there must be no playing the lapwing with me; back here
to the same point. We may lay it down as a sure thing that
whatever direction he takes from this spot is the wrong
one; so back here, you, sir, till we survey the premises
about us for your traces."
The boy walked sheepishly back, and appeared to look
about him for the keg, with a kind of earnest stupidity
which was altogether inimitable.
" I say, my boy," asked Stinton, ironically, " don't you
look rather foolish now? Can you tell your right hand
from your left? "
" I can," replied Condy, holding up his left, " there 's
my right hand."
" And what do you call the other? " said Cartwright.
" My left, bedad, anyhow, an' that 's true enough."
Both gentlemen laughed heartily.
" But it 's carrying the thing a little too far," said the
ganger ; " in the meantime let us hear how you prove it."
" Aisy enough, sir," replied Condy, " bekase I am left-
handed ; this," holding up the left, " is the right hand to
me, whatever you may say to the conthrary."
Condy's countenance expanded, after he had spoken,
into a grin so broad and full of grotesque sarcasm, that
Stinton and his companion both found their faces, in spite
of them, get rather blank under its influences.
" What the deuce ! " exclaimed the gauger, " are we to be
here all day? Come, sir, bring us at once to the keg."
He was here interrupted by a laugh from Cartwright, so
vociferous, long, and hearty, that he looked at him with
amazement. " Hey, dey," lie exclaimed, " what 's the mat-
ter, what 's the matter; what new joke is this? "
For some minutes, however, he could not get a word
from the other, whose laughter appeared as if never to end;
lie walked to and fro in absolute convulsions, bending his
body and clapping his hands together with a vehemence
quite unintelligible.
" What is it, man? " said the other; "confound von,
what is it?"
" Oh ! ' replied Cartwright, " I am sick ; perfectly
feeble."
548 IRISH LITERATURE.
" You have it to yourself, at all events," observed Stin-
ton.
"And shall keep it to myself," said Cartwrigbt; "for,
if your sagacity is overreached, you must be contented to
sit down under defeat. I won't interfere."
Now, in this contest between the gauger and Condy, even
so slight a thing as one glance of an eye by the latter might
have given a proper cue to an opponent so sharp as Stinton.
Condy, during the whole dialogue, consequently preserved
the most vague and undefinable visage imaginable, except
in the matter of his distinction between right and left ; and
Stinton, who watched his eye with the shrewdest vigilance,
could make nothing of it. Not so was it between him
and Cartwrigbt; for during the closing paroxysms of his
mirth Stinton caught his eye fixed upon a certain mark,
barely visible, upon the hoar-frost, which mark extended
down to the furze bushes that grew at the foot of the slope
where they then stood.
As a stanch old hound lays his nose to the trail of a hare
or fox, so did the gauger pursue the trace of the keg down
the little hill ; for the fact was, that Condy, having no other
resource, trundled it off towards the furze, into which it
settled perfectly to his satisfaction ; and, with all the quick-
ness of youth and practice, instantly turned his coat, which
had been made purposely for such rencounters. This ac-
complished, he had barely time to advance a few yards
round the angle of the hedge, and changing his whole man-
ner, as well as his appearance, acquitted himself as the
reader has already seen. That he could have carried the
keg down to the cover, then conceal it, and return to the
spot where they met him, was utterly beyond the reach of
human exertion, so that in point of fact they never could
have suspected that the whisky lay in such a place.
The triumph of the gauger was now complete, and a com-
placent sense of his own sagacity sat visibly on his features.
Condy's face, on the other hand, became considerably
lengthened, and appeared quite as rueful and mortified as
the other's was joyous and confident.
" Who 's sharpest now, my knowing one? ' said he.
" Whom is the laugh against, as matters stand between
us?"
" The sorra give you good of it," said Condy, sulkily.
WILLIAM CARL ETON. 549
" What is your name? " inquired Stinton.
" Barney Keerigan 's my name," replied the other, in-
dignantly; " and I 'm not ashamed of it, nor afeard to tell
it to you or any man."
" What, of the Keerigans of Killoghan? "
" Ay, jist, of the Keerigans of Killoghan."
"I know the family," said Stinton; "they are decent
in their way; — but, come, my lad, don't lose your temper,
and answer me another question. Where were you bring-
ing this whisky? "
" To a betther man than ever stud in your shoes," replied
Condy, in a tone of absolute defiance — " to a gintleman,
anyway," with a peculiar emphasis on the word gintle-
man.
" But what 's his name? "
" Mr. Stinton 's his name — Gauger Stinton."
The shrewd exciseman stood and fixed his keen eye on
Condy for upwards of a minute, with a glance of such
piercing scrutiny as scarcely any consciousness of impos-
ture could withstand.
Condy, on the other hand, stood and eyed him with an
open, unshrinking, yet angry glance; never winced, but ap-
peared, by the detection of his keg, to have altogether
forgotten the line of cunning policy he had previously
adopted, in a mortification which had predominated over
duplicity and art.
He is now speaking truth, thought the gauger; he has
lost his temper, and is completely off his guard.
" Well, my lad," he continued, " that is very good so far;
but who sent the keg to Stinton? "
" Do you think," said Condy, with a look of strong con-
tempt at the gauger, for deeming him so utterly silly as to
tell him, "do you think you can make me turn informer?
There's none of that blood in me, thank goodness."
" Do you know Stinton? "
"How could I know the man I never seen?" replied
Condy, still out of temper; "but one thing I don't know,
gintlemen, and that is, whether you have any right (o lake
my whisky or not."
"As to that, my good lad, make vour mind easy; 1 'm
Stinton."
" You, sir ! " said Condy, with well-feigned surprise.
550 IRISH LITERATURE.
" Yes," replied the other, " I 'm the very man you were
bringing the keg to. And now I '11 tell you what you must
do for me; proceed to my house with as little delay as pos-
sible; ask to see my daughter — ask to see Miss Stinton;
take this key and desire her to have the keg put into the
cellar ; she '11 know the key, and let it also be as a token
that she is to give you your breakfast; say I desire that
keg to be placed to the right of the five gallon one I seized
on Thursday last, that stands on a little stillion under my
blunderbuss."
" Of coorse," said Condy, who appeared to have mis-
givings on the matter, " I suppose I must ; but some-
how— "
"Why, sirrah, what do you grumble now for?'
Condy still eyed him with suspicion. " And, sir," said
he, after having once more mounted the keg, " am I to get
nothing for such a weary trudge as I had wid it but my
breakfast? "
" Here," said Stinton, throwing him half-a-crown, " take
that along with it, and now be off — or stop, Cartwright,
will you dine with me to-day, and let us broach the keg?
I '11 guarantee its excellence, for this is not the first I have
got from the same quarter, that 's entre nous."
" With all Diy heart," replied Cartwright, " upon the
terms you say, that of the broach."
" Then, my lad," said Stinton, " say to my daughter that
a friend, perhaps a friend or two, will dine with me to-day
— that is enough."
They then mounted their horses, and were proceeding
as before, when Cartwright addressed the gauger as fol-
lows :
" Do you not put this lad, Stinton, in a capacity to over-
reach you yet? "
" No," replied the other ; " the young rascal spoke the
truth after the discovery of the keg ; for he lost his temper,
and was no longer cool."
" For my part, hang me if I 'd trust him."
" I should scruple to do so myself," replied the gauger,
" but, as I said, these Keerigans — notorious illicit fellows,
by the way — send me a keg or two every year, and almost
about this very time. Besides, I read him to the heart and
WILLIAM CARLETON. 551
he never winced. Yes, decidedly, the whisky was for me;
of that I have no doubt whatsoever."
" I most positively would not trust him."
" Not that perhaps I ought," said Stinton, " on second
thought, to place such confidence in a lad who acted so
adroitly in the beginning. Let us call him back and re-
examine him at all events."
Now Condy had, dining this conversation, been dis-
cussing the very same point with himself.
" Bad cess forever attend you, Stinton, agra," he ex-
claimed, " for there 's surely something over you — a lucky
shot from behind a hedge, or a break-neck fall down a
cliff, or something of that kind. If the ould boy hadn't his
croubs 1 hard and fast in you, you wouldn't let me walk
away wid the whisky, anyhow. Bedad, it 's well I thought
o' the Keerigans; for sure enough I did hear Barney say
that he was to send a keg in to him this week, some day, —
and he didn't think I knew him aither. Faix it 's many
a long day since I knew the sharp puss of him wid an eye
like a hawk. But what if they folly me and do up all?
And way, I '11 prevint them from having suspicion on me,
before I go a toe farther, the ugly rips."
He instantly wheeled about a moment or two before
Stinton and Cartwright had done the same, for the pur-
pose of sifting him still more thoroughly — so that they
found him meeting them.
" Gintlemen," said he, " how do I know that aither of
you is Mr. Stinton, or that the house you directed me to
is his? I know that if the whisky doesn't go to him I may
lave the counthry."
"You are either a deeper rogue or a more1 stupid fool
than I took you to be," observed Stinton; "but what se-
curity can you give us that you will leave the keg safely
at its destination? "
" If I thought you were Mr. Stinton I 'd be very glad to
lave you the whisky where it is, and even do without my
breakfast. Gintlemen, tell me the truth, bekase I \l only
be murdhered out of the face."
" Why, you idiot," said the ganger, losing his temper
and suspicion both together, " can't you go to the town and
inquire where Mr. Stinton lives? "
1 Croubs, clumsy fingers.
552 IRISH LITERATURE.
" Bedad, thin, thrue enough, I never thought of that at
all at all ; but I beg your pardon, gintlemen, an' I hope you
won't be angry wid me, in regard that it 's kilt and quar-
tered I 'd be if I let myself be made a fool of by anybody."
" Do what I desire you," said the exciseman ; " inquire
for Mr. Stinton's house, and you may be sure the whisky
will reach him."
" Thank you, sir. Bedad, I might have thought of that
myself."
This last clause, which was spoken in a soliloquy,
would have deceived a saint himself.
" Now," said Stinton, after they had recommenced their
journey, " are you satisfied? "
" I am at length," said Cartwright ; " if his intentions
had been dishonest, instead of returning to make himself
certain against being deceived, he would have made the
best of his way from us — a rogue never wantonly puts him-
self in the way of danger or detection."
That evening, about five o'clock, Stinton, Cartwright,
and two others arrived at the house of the worthy gauger,
to partake of his good cheer. A cold, frosty evening gave
a peculiar zest to the comfort of a warm room, a blazing-
fire, and a good dinner. No sooner were the viands dis-
cussed, the cloth removed, and the glasses ready, than the
generous host desired his daughter to assist the servant in
broaching the redoubtable keg.
" That keg, my dear," he proceeded, " which the country
lad, who brought the key of the cellar, left here to-day."
" A keg ! " repeated the daughter, with surprise.
" Yes, Maggy, my love, a keg; I said so, I think."
" But, papa, there came no keg here to-day ! "
The gauger and Cartwright both groaned in unison.
" No keg ! " said the gauger.
" No keg ! " echoed Cartwright.
" No keg ! indeed," re-echoed Miss Stinton ; — " but there
came a country boy with the key of the cellar, as a token
that he was to get the five-gallon "
" Oh ! " groaned the gauger, " I 'in knocked up, out-
witted,—oh ! "
" Bought and sold," added Cartwright.
" Go on," said the gauger, " I must hear it out."
" As a token," proceeded Miss Stinton, " that he was to
WILLIAM CARLETOX. 553
get the five-gallon keg on the little stillion, under the blun-
derbuss, for Captain Dalton."
"And he got it?"
"Yes, sir, he got it; for I took the key as a sufficient
token."
" But, Maggy — hell and fury, hear me, child, surely he
brought a keg here and left it; and of course it's in the
cellar? "
" No, indeed, papa, he brought no keg here ; but he did
bring the five-gallon one that ivas in the cellar away with
him."
" Stinton," said Cartwright, " send round the bottle."
" The rascal," ejaculated the gauger, " we shall drink
his health."
And on relating the circumstances, the company drank
the sheepish lad's health, that bought and sold the gauger.
THE FATE OF FRANK M'KENNA.
There lived a man named M'Kenna at the hip of one of
the mountainous hills which divide the county of Tyrone
from that of Monaghan. This M'Kenna had two sons, one
of whom was in the habit of tracing hares of a Sunday
whenever there happened to be a fall of snow. His father,
it seems, had frequently remonstrated with him upon what
he considered to be a violation of the Lord's day, as well
as for his general neglect of mass. The young man, how-
ever, though otherwise harmless and inoffensive, was in
this matter quite insensible to paternal reproof, and con-
tinued to trace whenever the avocations of labor would
allow him.
It so happened that upon a Christmas morning, I think
in the year 1814, there was a deep fall of snow, and young
M'Kenna, instead of going to mass, got down his cock-stick
— which is a staff much thicker and heavier at one end
than at the other — and prepared to set out on his favorite
amusement. His father, seeing this, reproved him seriously,
and insisted that he should attend prayers. II is enthu-
siasm for the sport, however, was stronger than his love of
religion, and he refused to be guided by his father's advice.
554 IRISH LITERATURE.
The old man during the altercation got warm; and on
finding that the son obstinately scorned his authority, he
knelt down and prayed that if the boy persisted in follow-
ing his own will, he might never return from the mountains
unless as a corpse.
The imprecation, which was certainly as harsh as it was
impious and senseless, might have startled many a mind
from a purpose that was, to say the least of it, at variance
with religion and the respect due to a father. It had
no effect, however, upon the son, who is said to have re-
plied, that whether he ever returned or not, he was de-
termined on going; and go accordingly he did. He was
not, however, alone, for it appears that three or four of the
neighboring young men accompanied him. Whether their
sport was good or otherwise, is not to the purpose, neither
am I able to say; but the story goes that towards the latter
part of the day they started a larger and darker hare than
any they had ever seen, and that she kept dodging on be-
fore them bit by bit, leading them to suppose that every
succeeding cast of the cock-stick would bring her down. It
was observed afterwards that she also led them into the
recesses of the mountains, and that although they tried to
turn her course homewards, they could not succeed in do-
ing so. As evening advanced, the companions of M'Kenna
began to feel the folly of pursuing her farther, and to
perceive the danger of losing their way in the mountains
should night or a snow-storm come upon them. They there-
fore proposed to give over the chase and return home; but
M'Kenna would not hear of it. " If you wish to go home,
you may," said he; "as for me, I'll never leave the hills
till I have her with me." They begged and entreated of
him to desist and return, but all to no purpose: he ap-
peared to be what the Scotch call fey — that is, to act as if
he were moved by some impulse that leads to death, ami
from the influence of which a man cannot withdraw him-
self. At length, on finding him invincibly obstinate, they
left him pursuing the hare directly into the heart of the
mountains, and returned to their respective homes.
In the meantime one of the most terrible snow-storms
ever remembered in that part of the country came on, and
the consequence was that the self-willed young man, who
had equally trampled on the sanctities of religion and pa-
WILLIAM CARLETON. 555
rental authority, was given over for lost. As soon as the
tempest became still, the neighbors assembled in a body
and proceeded to look for him. The snow, however, had
fallen so heavily that not a single mark of a footstep could
be seen. Nothing but one wide waste of white undulating
hills met the eye wherever it turned, and of M'Kenna no
trace whatever was visible or could be found. His father,
now remembering the unnatural character of his impreca-
tion, was nearly distracted ; for although the body had not
yet been found, still by every one who witnessed the sud-
den rage of the storm and who knew the mountains, escape
or survival was felt to be impossible.
Every day for about a week large parties were out among
the hill-ranges seeking him, but to no purpose. At length
there came a thaw, and his body was found on a snow-
wreath, lying in a supine posture within a circle which he
had drawn around him with his cock-stick. His prayer-
book lay opened upon his mouth, and his hat was pulled
down so as to cover it and his face. It is unnecessary to
say that the rumor of his death, and of the circumstances
under which he left home, created a most extraordinary
sensation in the country — a sensation that was the greater
in proportion to the uncertainty occasioned by his not hav-
ing been found either alive or dead. Some affirmed that
he had crossed the mountains, and was seen in Monaghan;
others, that he had been seen in Clones, in Emyvale, in
Pive-mile-town ; but despite of all these agreeable reports,
the melancholy truth was at length made clear by the ap-
pearance of the body as just stated.
Now, it so happened that the house nearest the spot
where he lay was inhabited by a man named Daly, I think
— but of the name I am not certain — who was a herd or
care-taker to Dr. Porter, then Bishop of Clogher. The
situation of this house was the most lonely and desolate-
looking that could be imagined. It was at least two miles
distant from any human habitation, being surrounded by
one wide and dreary waste of dark moor. By this house
lav the route of those who had found the corpse, and I
believe the door of it was borrowed for the purpose of
conveying it home. Be this as it may, the family witnessed
the melancholy procession as it passed slowly through the
mountains, and when the placeand circumstances are all
556 IRISH LITERATURE.
considered, we may admit that to ignorant and super-
stitious people, whose minds, even upon ordinary occa-
sions, were strongly affected by such matters, it was a
sight calculated to leave behind it a deep, if not a terrible
impression. Time soon proved that it did so.
An incident is said to have occurred at the funeral in
fine keeping with the wild spirit of the whole melancholy
event. When the procession had advanced to a place called
Mullaghtinny, a large dark-colored hare, which was in-
stantly recognized, by those who had been out with him on
the hills, as the identical one that led him to his fate, is
said to have crossed the roads about twenty yards or so
before the coffin. The story goes, that a man struck it on
the side with a stone, and that the blow, which would
have killed any ordinary hare, not only did it no injury, but
occasioned a sound to proceed from the body resembling
the hollow one emitted by an empty barrel when struck.
In the meantime the interment took place and the
sensation began, like every other, to die away in the nat
ural progress of time, when, behold, a report ran abroad
like wildfire that, to use the language of the people,
" Frank M'Kenna was appearing! "
One night, about a fortnight after his funeral, the
daughter of Daly the herd, a girl about fourteen, while
lying in bed saw what appeared to be the likeness of
M'Kenna, who had been lost. She screamed out, and cov-
ering her head with the bedclothes, told her father and
mother that Frank M'Kenna was in the house. This
alarming intelligence naturally produced great terror;
still, Daly, who, notwithstanding his belief in such mat-
ters, possessed a good deal of moral courage, was cool
enough to rise and examine the house, which consisted of
only one apartment. This gave the daughter some cour-
age, who, on finding that her father could not see him,
ventured to look out, and she then could see nothing of
him herself. She very soon fell asleep, and her father at-
tributed what she saw to fear, or some accidental com-
bination of shadows proceeding from the furniture, for it
was a clear moonlight night. The light of the following
day dispelled a great deal of their apprehensions, and com-
paratively little was thought of it until evening again ad-
vanced, when the fears of the daughter began to return.
WILLIAM CARLETON. 557
They appeared to be prophetic, for she said when night
came that she knew he would appear again; and accord-
ingly at the same hour he did so. This was repeated for
several successive nights, until the girl, from the very har-
dihood of terror, began to become so far familiarized to the
specter as to venture to address it.
" In the name of God ! " she asked, " what is troubling
you, or why ao you appear to me instead of to some of your
own family or relations? "
The ghost's answer alone might settle the question in-
volved in the authenticity of its appearance, being, as it
was, an account of one of the most ludicrous missions that
ever a spirit was dispatched upon.
" I 'm not allowed," said he, " to spake to any of my
friends, for I parted wid them in anger; but I 'm come to
tell you that they are quarrelin' about my breeches — a new
pair that I got made for Christmas day; an' as I was
comin' up to thrace in the mountains, I thought the ould
one 'ud do betther, an' of coorse I didn't put the new pair
an me. My raison for appearin'," he added, " is, that you
may tell my friends that none of them is to wear them —
they must be given in charity."
This serious and solemn intimation from the ghost was
duly communicated to the family, and it was found that
the circumstances were exactly as it had represented them.
This, of course was considered as sufficient proof of the
truth of its mission. Their conversations now became not
only frequent, but quite friendly and familiar. The girl
became a favorite with the specter, and the specter, on
the other hand, soon lost all his terrors in her eyes. I!e
told her that whilst his friends were bearing home his
body, the handspikes or poles on which they carried him
had cut his back, and occasioned him grt <tf pain! The cut-
ting of the back also was known to be true, and strength-
ened, of course, the truth and authenticity of their dia-
logues. The whole neighborhood was now in a commotioD
with this story of the apparition, and persons incited by
curiosity began to visit the girl in order to satisfy them-
selves of the truth of what they had heard. Everything,
however, was corroborated, and the child herself, without
any symptoms of anxiety or terror, artlessly related her
conversations with the spirit. Hitherto their interviews
558 IRISH LITERATURE.
had been all nocturnal, but now that the ghost found his
footing made good, he put a hardy face on, and ventured
to appear by daylight. The girl also fell into states of
syncope, and while the fits lasted, long conversations with
him upon the subject of God, the Blessed Virgin, and
Heaven, took place between them. He was certainly an
excellent moralist, and gave the best advice. Swearing,
drunkenness, theft, and every evil propensity of our na-
ture, were declaimed against with a degree of spectral
eloquence quite surprising.
Common fame had now a topic dear to her heart, and
never was a ghost made more of by his best friends than
she made of him. The whole country was in a tumult, and
I well remember the crowds which flocked to the lonely
little cabin in the mountains, now the scene of matters so
interesting and important. Not a single day passed in
which I should think from ten to twenty, thirty, or fifty
persons, were not present at these singular interviews.
Nothing else was talked of, thought of, and, as I can well
testify, dreamt of. I would myself have gone to Daly's
were it not for a confounded misgiving I had, that perhaps
the ghost might take such a fancy of appearing to me, as
he had taken to cultivate an intimacy with the girl; and
it so happens, that when I see the face of an individual
nailed down in the coffin — chilling and gloomy operation!
— I experience no particular wish to look upon it again.
The spot where the body of M'Kenna was found is now
marked by a little heap of stones, which has been collected
since the melancholy event of his death. Every person
who passes it throws a stone upon the heap; but why this
old custom is practiced, or what it means, I do not know,
unless it be simply to mark the spot as a visible means of
preserving the memory of the occurrence.
Daly's house, the scene of the supposed apparition, is
now a shapeless ruin, which could scarcely be seen were it
not for the green spot that once was a garden, and which
now shines at a distance like an emerald, but with no
agreeable or pleasing associations. It is a spot which no
solitary schoolboy will ever visit, nor indeed would the
unflinching believer in the popular nonsense of ghosts wish
to pass it without a companion. It is, under any circum-
stances, a gloomy and barren place ; but when looked upon
WILLIAM CARLETON. 559
in connection with what we have just recited, it is lonely,
desolate, and awful.
THE CURSE.
From ' Party Fight and Funeral.'
When he had been keened in the street, there being no
hearse, the coffin was placed upon two handspikes which
were fixed across, but parallel to each other, under it.
These were borne by four men, one at the end of each, with
the point of it touching his body a little below his stom-
ach; in other parts of Ireland the coffin is borne on the
shoulders, but this is more convenient and less distress-
ing.
When we got out upon the road the funeral was of great
extent — for Kelly had been highly respected. On arriving
at the merin x which bounded the land he had owned, the
coffin was laid down, and a loud and wailing Tceena took
place over it. It was again raised, and the funeral pro-
ceeded in a direction which I was surprised to see it take,
and it was not until an acquaintance of my brother's had
explained the matter that I understood the cause of it. In
Ireland, when a murder is perpetrated, it is usual, as the
funeral proceeds to the graveyard, to bring the corpse to
the house of him who committed the crime, and lay it down
at his door, while the relations of the deceased kneel down,
and, with an appalling solemnity, utter the deepest impre-
cations, and invoke the justice of Heaven on the head
of the murderer. This, however, is usually omitted if the
residence of the criminal be completely out of the line of
the funeral, but if it be possible, by any circuit, to ap-
proach it, this dark ceremony is never omitted. In cases
where the crime is doubtful, or unjustly imputed, those
who are thus visited come out, and laying their right hand
upon the coffin, protest their innocence of the blood of the
deceased, calling God to witness the truth of their assever-
ations; but in cases where the crime is clearly proved
against the murderer, the door is either closed, the cere-
mony repelled by violence, or the house abandoned by the
inmates until the funeral passes.
1 Merin, mark.
560 IRISH LITERATURE.
The death of Kelly, however, could not be actually, or,
at least, directly, considered a murder, for it was probable
that Grimes did not inflict the stroke with an intention of
taking away his life, and besides, Kelly survived it four
months. Grimes' house was not more than fifteen perches
from the road ; and when the corpse was opposite the little
bridle-way that led up to it, they laid it down for a mo-
ment, and the relations of Kelly surrounded it, offering up
a short prayer, with uncovered heads. It was then borne
towards the house, whilst the keening commenced in a
loud wailing cry, accompanied with clapping of hands,
and every other symptom of external sorrow. But, inde-
pendent of their compliance with this ceremony as an old
usage, there is little doubt that the appearance of any-
thing connected with the man who certainly occasioned
Kelly's death awoke a keener and more intense sorrow for
his loss. The Availing was thus continued until the coffin
was laid opposite Grimes' door; nor did it cease then, but,
on the contrary, was renewed with louder and more bitter
lamentations.
As the multitude stood compassionating the affliction
of the widow and orphans, it was the most impressive and
solemn spectacle that could be witnessed. The very house
seemed to have a condemned look ; and, as a single wintry
breeze waved a tuft of long grass that grew on a seat of
turf at the side of the door, it brought the vanity of hu-
man enmity before my mind with melancholy force. When
the keening ceased, Kelly's wife, with her children, knelt,
their faces towards the house of their enemy, and invoked,
in the strong language of excited passion, the justice of
Heaven upon the head of the man who had left her a
widow, and her children fatherless. I was anxious to
know if Grimes would appear to disclaim the intention of
murder; but I understood that he was at market — for it
happened to be market day.
" Come out ! " said the widow — " come out and look at
the sight that's here before you! Come and view your
own work! Lay but your hand upon the coffin, and the
blood of him that your murdhered will spout, before God
and these Christhen people, in your guilty face! But, oh!
may the Almighty God bring this home to you! 1 — May
1 Does not this usage illustrate the proverb of the guilt being brought
home to a man when there is no doubt of his criminality ?
WILLIAM CARLETON. 561
you never lave this life, John Grimes, till worse nor has
overtaken me and mine falls upon you and yours! May
our curse light upon you this day; — the curse, I say, of
the widow and the orphans, and that your bloody hand
has made us, may it blast you ! May you and all belonging
to you wither off the 'arth ! Night and day, sleeping and
waking, — like snow off the ditch may you melt, until your
name and your place will be disremembered, except to be
cursed by them that will hear of you and your hand of
murdher! Amin, we pray God this day! — and the widow
and orphan's prayer will not fall to the ground while your
guilty head is above. Childher, did you all say it? "
At this moment a deep, terrific murmur, or rather
ejaculation, corroborative of assent to this dreadful im-
precation, pervaded the crowd in a fearful manner; their
countenances darkened, their eyes gleamed, and their
scowling visages stiffened into an expression of deter-
mined vengeance.
When these awful words were uttered, Grimes' wife and
daughters approached the widow in tears, sobbing, at
the same time, loudly and bitterly.
" You 're wrong," said the wife — " you 're wrong, Widow
Kelly, in saying that my husband murdhered him! he did
not murdher him ; for, when you and yours were far from
him, I heard John Grimes declare, before the God who 's
to judge him, that he had no thought or intention of taking
liis life; he struck him in anger, and the blow did him an
injury that was not intended. Don't curse him, Honor
Kelly," said she — " don't curse him so fearfully; but, above
all, don't curse me and my innocent childher, for we never
harmed you, nor wished you ill! But it was this parti/
work did il ! Oh! my God! " she exclaimed, wringing her
hands, in utter bitterness of spirit, " when will it be ended
between friends and neighbors, that ought to live in love
and kindness together, instead of fighting in this blood-
thirsty manner! "
She then wept more violently, as did her daughters.
"May God give me mercy in the last day, Mrs. Kelly.
as I pity from my heart and soul you and your orphans,"
she continued; " but don't curse us, for the love of (Jod —
for you know we should forgive our enemies, as we our-
selves, that are the enemies of God, hope to be forgiven."
36
562 IRISH LITERATURE.
" May God forgive me, then, if I have wronged you or
your husband," said the widow, softened by their distress;
" but you know that, whether he intended his life or not,
the stroke he gave him has left my childher without a
father, and myself dissolate. Oh, heavens above me! " she
exclaimed, in a scream of distraction and despair, " is it
possible — is it thrue — that my manly husband, the best
father that ever breathed the breath of life, my own Denis,
is lying dead — murdhered before my eyes! Put your
hands on my head, some of you — put your hands on my
head? or it will go to pieces. Where are you, Denis,
where are you, the strong of hand, and the tender of
heart? Come to me, darling, I want you in my distress. I
want comfort, Denis; and I '11 take it from none but your-
self,, for kind was your word to me in all my afflictions ! "
All present were affected ; and, indeed, it was difficult to
say whether Kelly's wife or Grimes' was more to be pitied
at the moment. The affliction of the latter and of her
daughters was really pitiable: their sobs were loud, and
the tears streamed down their cheeks like rain. When the
widow's exclamations had ceased, or rather were lost in
the loud cry of sorrow which was uttered by the keener s
and friends of the deceased, they, too, standing somewhat
apart from the rest, joined in it bitterly; and the solitary
wail of Mrs. Grimes, differing in character from that of
those who had been trained to modulate the most pro-
found grief into strains of a melancholy nature, was par-
ticularly wild and impressive. At all events, her Chris-
tian demeanor, joined to the sincerity of her grief, appeased
the enmity of many ; so true is it that a soft answer turn-
eth away wrath. I could perceive, however, that the re-
sentment of Kelly's male relations did not at all appear
to be in any degree moderated.
PADDY CORCORAN'S WIFE.
Paddy Corcoran's wife was for several years afflicted
with a kind of complaint which nobody could properly
understand. She was sick, and she was not sick; she
was well, and she was not well ; she was as ladies wish to
be who love their lords, and she was not as such ladies
WILLIAM CARLETON. 563
wish to be. In fact nobody could tell what the matter
with her was. She had a gnawing at the heart which came
heavily upon her husband; for, with the help of God,
a keener appetite than the same gnawing amounted to
could not be met with of a summer's day. The poor
woman was delicate beyond belief, and had no appetite at
all, so she hadn't, barring a little relish for a mutton-
chop, or a " staik," or a bit o' mait, anyway; for sure, God
help her! she hadn't the laist inclination for the dhry
pratie, or the dhrop o' sour buttermilk along wid it, es-
pecially as she was so poorly; and, indeed, for a woman in
her condition — for, sick as she was, poor Paddy always
was made to believe her in that condition — but God's will
be done ! she didn't care. A pratie an' a grain o' salt was
as welcome to her — glory be to his name ! — as the best roast
an' boiled that ever was dressed; and wiry not? There was
one comfort: she wouldn't be long wid him — long troub-
lin' him; it matthered little what she got; but sure she
knew herself, that from the gnawin' at her heart, she could
never do good widout the little bit o' mait now and then;
an', sure if her own husband begridged it to her, who else
had she a better right to expect it from?
Well, as we have said, she lay a bedridden invalid for
long enough, trying doctors and quacks of all sorts, sexes,
and sizes, and all without a farthing's benefit, until, at the
long run, poor Paddy was nearly brought to the last pass,
in striving to keep her in " the bit o' mait," The seventh
year was now on the point of closing, when, one harvest
day, as she lay bemoaning her hard condition, on her bed
beyond the kitchen fire, a little weeshy woman, dressed in
a neat red cloak, comes in, and, sitting down by the hearth,
says :
" Well, Kitty Corcoran, you Ye had a long lair of it
there on the broad o' yer back for seven years, an' you 're
jist as far from bein' cured as ever."
" Mavrone, ay," said the other; "in throth that's what
I was this niinnit thinkin' ov, and a sorrowful thought it 's
to me."
" It's yer own fau't, thin," says the little woman; " an1,
indeed, for that matter, it's yer fau't that ever you wor
there at all."
" Arm, how is that?" asked Kitty; "sure I wouldn't
564 IRISH LITERATURE.
be here if I could help it? Do you think it 's a comfort or
a pleasure to me to be sick and bedridden? "
" No," said the other, " I do not ; but I '11 tell you the
truth : for the last seven years you have been annoying us.
I am one o' the good people; an' as I have a regard for
you, I 'm come to let you know the raison why you 've been
sick so long as you are. For all the time you 've been ill,
if you '11 take the thrnbble to remimber, your childhre
threwn out yer dirty wather afther dusk an' before sun-
rise, at the very time we 're passin' yer door, which we
pass twice a-day. Now, if you avoid this, if you throw it
out in a different place, an' at a different time, the com-
plaint you have will lave you: so will the gnawin' at the
heart ; an' you '11 be as well as ever you wor. If you don't
follow this advice, why, remain as you are, an' all the art
o' man can't cure you." She then bade her good-bye, and
disappeared.
Kitty, who was glad to be cured on such easy terms,
immediately complied with the injunction of the fairy;
and the consequence was, that the next day she found her-
self in as good health as ever she enjoyed during her life.
MISS CASEY (E. OWENS BLACKBURNE).
(1848—1894.)
Elizabeth Owens Blackburne Casey, generally known as E.
Owens Blackburne, was born in 1848, in Slane, County Meath. She
lost her sight when eleven years old, and was blind for many years.
The late Sir William Wilde, however, happily succeeded in restoring
her sight.
In 1873 she went to London, and after a hard struggle succeeded
in obtaining for herself a recognized position. For twenty years
Miss Casey contributed various articles to newspapers and period-
icals, but she was best known as a novelist. Among other books
she wrote the following : ' The Love that Loves Alwav, ' ' Aunt
Delia's Heir,' 'The Glen of Silver Birches,' 'In the Vale of
Honey,' ' Shadows in the Sunlight,' ' A Modern Parrhasius,' ' A
Woman Scorned,' 'The Way Women Love,' 'A Chronicle of
Barham,' which appeared in Tlie Quiver far 1878; 'Molly Carew,'
and others. She was also author of ' Illustrious Irishwomen,' an
excellent work, and a collection of her fugitive stories, under the
title ' A Bunch of Shamrocks,' was published in 1879.
Her stories are mostly occupied with descriptions of Irish peasant
life, in which she was so thoroughly at home that she has been com-
pared to Carleton. They are for the most part dramatic and pic-
turesque ; and she understood well the art of weaving a plot which
should hold the reader's interest.
In her later days she became very poor and was almost destitute.
She received assistance from the Royal Bounty Fund and returned
to Dublin, where she was accidentally burned to death in April, 1894.
BIDDY BRADY'S BANSHEE.
From ' A Bunch of Shamrocks.'
"Arrah, thin! — an' did yen nivir hear tell av 'Biddy
Brady's Banshee'? Slmre, iyiry wan for three parishes
roun' was talkin' about it ! Bedad, it was th' grandest
piece av fun ivir happened in th' place, and only jist t'
inintion it t' ould Biddy Brady is like shakin' a red rag
at a bull! It's she that gets mad av yeh ask her av she
ivir seen a banshee!
"Yis! alannah machree, I'll tell yeh (lie story. Slmre
no wan knows it betther nor meself, for wasn't I there th'
day Father Connor found out all about it, so here it 's for
yeh!
" Well — four years ago whin ould Paddy Brady was
son
566 IRISH LITERATURE.
dyin' — he died av an indigestion av th' lung, ma'am — at
laist, that ?s what th' docthor sed, but ould Kosy Finnegan,
that 's a very knowledgable ould woman, sez that it wasn't
that at all, but a demur in his back,1 or aither that or a
fallin' av his breastbone,2 an' sure it 's as like as not that
Kosy was right, for sure she 's been raisin' breastbones for
th' last thirty years. An' th' sorra much docthors knows
afther all ! Throth, ma'am, it 's my belief, an' Biddy
Brady's too, that poor Paddy — God rest his sowl this
blessed day! — 'ud be here alive an' hearty now, av th' doc-
thor had only let ould Kosy Finnegan clap a plasther av
ivy laves an' goose-grase an th' small av his back ! But no !
bedad ! Docthor Joyce wouldn't, an' so among them poor
Paddy Brady was kilt all out !
" Ah ! Yis. Th' docthors, wid ther new-fangled ways,
don't like people t' be cured so aisy. That's about th'
thruth av it; but, faix ! it 's many and many 's th' fine cure
I seen done an a sore eye wid th' nine blessed dawks from
th' whitethorn be th' Holy Well there beyant pinted at it,
in the name av th' Blessed Thrinity ! Ay, faix ! many 's th'
wan ; an' many 's th' child bewitched be th' fairies, and
wastin' away, that I seen th' charm bruk be feedin' the
crathur wid milk from goats that fed an a fairy mountain.
But there 's no use in tellin' that t' th' docthors ; they 're
too consaited, an' consait 's a bad thing in any dacint Chris-
tian, lettin' alone docthors.
" Och ! Here I am now discoorsin' out av me — but,
shure ! it 's no wondher, for it 's not iviry day I get a lady
like yerself t' listen t' me — an' I 'm forgettin' all about
ould Biddy Brady's banshee! Well, I was tellin' yen,
ma'am, that ould Paddy Brady — the heavens be his bed
this blessed day, for th' sorra dacinter nabor ivir dhrew
th' breath av life, though I 'in his mother's third-cousin
that sez it! — yis, ould Paddy Brady died, lavin' Biddy wid
a fine big lump av a boy av nineteen. He was six fut high,
wid a fine healthy face as roun' an' as red as th' sun in a
1 " Demur in the back," i. e. lumbago.
2 " Falling of the breastbone." This imaginary complaint is cured in
the following manner : Some oil is burned in a cup, and the air ex-
hausted, and the upturned cup placed over the region of the heart, while
the operator mutters some prayers. Not long ago a man died in the north
of Ireland who had amassed a considerable sum of money by " raising the
breastbone."
MISS CASEY (E. OWENS BLACKBURNE). 5G7
fog an th' top av th' mountain over there, an' a fine thick
head av carroty hair an him. I dunno whether yen know it
or not, ma'am, but ould Biddy and Paddy uivir had but
th' wan child — boy nor girl, nor any soort — an' shure,
what d'ye think but Biddy always kep gommochin afther
him, an' thratin' him like a child, and lie nineteen years av
age!
" I was at poor ould Paddy's wake — his sowl to glory —
an' Biddy was sittin' in th' middle av the flure, wid her
cloak on, an' a little new shawl pinned over her cap, an' a
white pocket-handkercher in her hand, an' she rockin' her-
self backwards and forwards, an' she takin' up th' keen
now an' agin. Now I don't care much for ould Biddy
Brady, but I '11 say this much for her, ma'am, that a nicer-
behaved woman at a husband's wake I nivir seen. The
corpse, too, was laid out beautiful. It was waked in the
kitchen, and bekase th' bed was fixed in th' wall av the
room Tom Doolan, th' boccaty 1 carpenther, lint two nine-
feet planks, that wor covered wid sheets, an' did beautiful,
an' th' inds av them that stuck out Hied sates for some av
the nabors. Ay, indeed, an' it was on that very sate that
Christy Brady, ould Biddy's son, ma'am, was sittin' be-
side Judy Blake, not that he was givin' her much dis-
coorse; he was too well behaved t' talk much at his ould
father's wake ; that wouldn't be right behavior.
" ' Biddy, acushla,' sez I to her, ' it 's you that ought t' be
th' proud woman, t' have such a fine boy as Christy t' look
afther th' bit av land for yeh.'
" i Yis, Peggy darlint, so I am,' sez she, fouldin' up her
pocket-handerkercher jist like a lady, an' sittin' up very
straight, ' but I 'in thinkin' it 's not this dirty bit av land
that Christy '11 be mindin' ! '
" ' Arrah, no? ' sez I, an' we all looked at her.
" ' Bekase,' sez she, tuckin' her cloak roun' her, as grand
as yeh plaze, ' Christy 's goin t' be a gintleman, he 's goin'
t' be a priest ! I can tell yez all we 're not th' common soort
av people yez always thought we war.'
"'Och! poor ould Biddy,' sez Rosy Finnegan t' me in a
whisper, ' she was always quare, but she 's goin' all" av her
head intirely wid the loss av poor ould Paddy.'
" ' Throth, Biddy,' sez Tom Doolan, that lint th' planks,
1 Boccati/, lame.
568 IRISH LITERATURE.
i no wan in th' parish cud ivir even anythin' t' you or yours
]but th' hoighth av daeincy an' behavior.'
a t yye >ve more nor behavior, I can tell yeh, Tom
Doolan,' sez ould Biddy, wid a shake av her head, ' it 's
grandheur we have. It 's a banshee we have follyin' th'
family. Take that now ! '
" ' It 's as thrue as you 're sittin' there, Tom,' sez Christy,
all av a suddint from the corner, ' me and me mother and
me poor father — God rest his sowl — heard it three nights
runnin' afore me father died.'
" ' Bedad he did,' sez Biddy; ' the first night I heerd it I
thought I heerd somethin' scrapin' or tappin' at th' windy,
so I wint over an' opened it, an' there in th' light av the
moon I seen a little ould woman dhressed all in red. Well,
th' minit she seen me she gev a schreech an' run away down
by th' boreen. " Christy, alannah," sez I, " it 's a banshee."
" Thrue for you, mother," sez he, " so it is," an' wid that
he run out afther it, an' was a good two hours lookin' about,
but th' sorra bit av it he cud see.'
" ' An' did ye see it agin, Biddy? ' sez Tom Doolan.
" ' Yis, agrah, yis,' sez Biddy Brady, i twict it kem an'
gev th' same schreech. So I med Christy rub his fingers
wid a bit av the blessed candle, an' gev him the holy
wather to sprinkle her wid — but not a bit av her cud he
find.'
" ' Bedad I '11 ketch her yet,' sez Christy, ' av any wan
does. I 'in detarmined not t' have her comin' and dis-
turbin' me pace a'thout knowin' th' raison why.'
" ' Arrah, Christy,' sez ould Rosy Finnegan, ( shure it 's
aisy seein' what brought th' banshee — shure it kem for yer
poor father, God be good t' him. But bedad, Biddy, it 's a
great day for yeh t' have a banshee followin' th' family.'
" i It 's only people whose aunt's sisthers wor kings and
queens, that does have banshees in th' family,' sez Tom
Doolan; and mind yeh, ma'am, Tom has a power av larnin',
and can say Latin again' Father Connor, for Tom wanst
used to sarve Mass; i but I don't rimimber,' sez he, 'any
king av the name av Brady, nor a queen nayther. There
was a King O'Tool, that was made into a church be raison
iv a charm St. Kevin put an him; an' there was the Queen
av Sheeby — but I 'in not right shure that she was pure
Irish.'
MISS CASEY (E. OWENS BLACKBURNE). 509
" ' Not she,' sez Tat Gaffney, ' she cudn't be more than
half Irish. Sure " sheeby " is only th' half av " shebeen." '
u ' Throth, yer right there, Pat,' sez Tom Doolan ; ' but
let me think — there was King Solomon.'
" ' No, asthore machree, no,' sez Biddy Brady. ' It
wasn't King Solomon, for I wanst heerd Father O'Connor
tell that he wanted t' cut a baby in two halves, an' th'
nerra a dacint Brady id ivir think av doin' such an onchris-
tian thing. No, agrah, it wasn't King Solomon that was
th' first av th' Bradys.'
" ' I know who it was,' sez Pat Gaffney; * it was Brian
Boru. Shure, Brian Boru and Brady is as like as two
pays.'
" ' Holy Saint Dennis! look at th' corpse!' schreeches
out Rosy Finnegan ; k it 's risin' up from th' dead t' say that
it 's thrue about Brian Boru ! '
" Faix, ma'am, we all sChfeedhed an' no wToudher, for
th' corpse stood up nearly sthraight, an' med a dash out
at poor ould Biddy that was sitting as I tould yeh, ma'am,
right in the middle av th' tlure.
"But, shure, it didn't come t' life at all; it was only
Christy Brady an' little Judy Blake that laned too heavy
on the ind av th' plank th' wor sill in' on, an' thin th'
other ind wint up an' threwn out th' corpse.
"Well, ma'am, poor ould Paddy Brady — God rest his
sowl — was berried th' next Sunday — that was th' next day
— an' poor ould Biddy was neat half dead from not gettin'
over th' fright av the corpse llyin' at her.
" ' Troth^ I 'm afeard,' sez she, ' that it 's wantin' th'
rites I '11 be meself afore long; an' maybe it 's a saucer av
snuff an me buzzom an' two mould candles at me head
ye '11 see afore th* year is out. It was a mortial bad sign
for th' corpse t' make a grab at me.'
"'Well,' sez I, 'there is some tliruth in that. An' are
ye in airnest, Biddy, about makiti' Christy a priest? '
" ' Och, bedad I am, he's a gint Ienian born; I know that
from the banshee, the Lord bet Hume uz an' all harm. So
he must be eddlcated like wan.'
"About a fortnight al'tlier ould Paddy was berried, I
was doiH' a bit av washin' wan day, whin who conies in but
ould Biddy Brady.
" ' God save yeh, kindly,' sez she, coniin' in.
570 IRISH LITERATURE.
" ' Ainin ; th' same t' you, Biddy,' sez I ; ' yer welcome,
acushla! sit down.'
« < Peggy,' sez she, an' she sittin' an the settle-bed be th'
side av th' harth, ' I 'in in desp'rate throuble intirely.'
" ' Arrah, what about?' sez I. ' Shure it's not about
poor Paddy — God be good t' him — for he always minded
his duty an' confession, an' ye have that little red heifer t'
give Father Connor for masses for his sowl.'
" ' No, Peggy, it 's not about Paddy — God rest him — I ?m
aisy in me mind about him, for a red heifer is as much
as cud be expected from a poor widda woman, an' I 'm
thinkin' maybe they '11 throw in th' good blood av th'
Bradys. But it 's about the banshee/
" ' Saints above ! ' sez I, * an' did it come agin? '
" ' Come ! ' she sez, ' och ! bedad it did ! Nine times it
kem, and nine times Christy follied it wid the holy wather,
but th' sorra bit cud he ketch it.'
" ' Bedad ! it 's quare all out/ sez I.
" ' Begorra, it is! ' sez she; i so I jist wint up an' towld
Father Connor about it — it 's he that 's the dacint priest !
— an' t' night, Peggy, he 's goin' t' watch an' see if he
can't say a charm agin th' banshee. An' I 'in not t' tell
Christy,' he sez ; ' an' I want yeh t' come up an' be there,
Peggy, acushla, av it comes.'
" < Troth, I will,' sez I.
" ' An' what d 'ye think,' sez she, ' but Christy, that I
hardly ivir let out av me sight an' was rarin' up t' be a
credit t' th' blood av th' Bradys, he sez now that he won't
be a priest, but that he '11 git married ! Troth ! me hart's
near bruk between him an' th' banshee, only it 's such a
dacint thing t' have in th' family.'
" Well, ma'am, I wint up t' ould Biddy Brady's that
evenin', and it was a Christmas Eve. Christy was there,
an' he not knowin' a word about Father Connor. We had
some punch, and th' sorra word we sed about the banshee.
Meself was thinkin' it wasn't comin' at all ; or that, maybe,
th' nine times was th' charm ; an' that somewan was t' die
afther that — whin, all av a suddint, me blood run cowld
wid hearin' a schreech roun' be th' boreen ! Ould Biddy
got all av a thrimble, an' began sayin' her bades as fast as
she cud, for there was schreech after schreech until th' kem
t' th' very doore.
MISS CASEY (E. OWEXS BLACKBURNE). 571
" ' Gi' me the holy wather, mother! ' sez Christy, takin'
it an' makin' a run at the doore. But jist as he opened it,
who walks in but Father Connor wi' little Judy Blake.
" Och ! bedad, it 's thrue as yer there, ma'am. It nivir
was a banshee at all ; only little Judy Blake, wid her
mother's ould red cloak roun' her, an' her arms all bare an'
white. An' th' whole raison av it was that Biddy Brady
kep' such a sharp eye after her big lump av a son that he
had no other way av coortin' Judy Blake. So he tould
Father Connor afore us all, an' Father Connor gave thim
a sermon about frightenin' people.
" ' Och ! yer rivirence ! an' isn't it too bad,' sez Biddy,
' an' he cut out for a priest ! He looks that ginteel av a
Sunda' whin he 's shaved an' has his clane shirt an, that he
looks th' very moral av yerself, yer rivirence ! '
" i No, Biddy,' sez his rivirence ; ' I don't think that
Christy's cut out for a priest. Shure a priest 'ud nivir
think av runnin' afther th' girls.'
" ' Thrue, for yer rivirence,' sez Biddy.
" ' Now, Biddy,' sez Father Connor, ' yeh must make it
up wid th' two young people, for at this blessed Christmas
time yeh must forgive and forgit.'
" So, ma'am, there was a great laugh at them all in th'
chapel-yard, afther mass on Christinas Day. An' at last
Biddy used t' get mad whin anythin' was sed, for shure
she didn't like t' be chated out av her grandheur. But no
wan in th' parish can help laughin' whin anywan talks
about ' Biddy Brady's Banshee.' "
JOHN KEEGAN CASEY.
(184(5—1870.)
John Keegan Casey, the son of a peasant farmer, was born near
Mullingar, Westmeath, Aug. 22, 1846. His first poem appeared in
The Nation, under his afterward well-known nom-de-plume of
"Leo," when he was sixteen years old. He began life as a mer-
chant's clerk ; but later gave up business for literature. In 1866 a
first collection of his poems was issued, entitled ' A Wreath of
Shamrocks,' and was received with great favor in Ireland and
America ; some London critics even overlooking its political bias
because of its literary qualities.
He was imprisoned as a Fenian in 1867 and died in consequence
of his sufferings in 1870. While he was in prison in 1869, a second
collection of his poems was published under the title ' The Rising of
the Moon.'
His sad fate, as well as the interest in his poetry, which is full of
fire and sweetness, attracted to his funeral an enormous concourse
of mourners — 50,000 it is said. He was one of the few poets pro-
duced by the Fenian movement.
THE RISING OF THE MOON.
A.D. 1798.
" Oh, then, tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall,
Tell me why you hurry so? "
"Hush! ma boitchal, hush, and listen;"
And his cheeks were all aglow :
" I bear ordhers from the Captain —
Get you ready quick and soon;
For the pikes must be together
At the risin' of the moon."
" Oh, then, tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall,
Where the gath'rin' is to be? "
" In the ould spot by the river,
Right well known to you and me;
One word more — for signal token
Whistle up the marchin' tune,
With your pike upon your shoulder,
By the risin' of the moon."
Out from many a mud-wall cabin
Eyes were watching thro' that night;
Many a manly chest was throbbing
For the blessed warning light.
572
JOHN EEEGAN CASEY. 573
Murmurs passed along the valleys,
Like the banshee's lonely croon,
And a thousand blades were flashing
At the risin' of the moon.
There, beside the singing river,
That dark mass of men were seen —
Far above the shining weapons
Hung their own beloved " Green ; "
"Death to ev'ry foe and traitor!
Forward! strike the tnSlrchin' tune,
And hurrah, my boys, for freedom !
'T is the risin' of the moon."
Well they fought for poor Old Ireland,
And full bitter was their fate;
(Oh! what glorious pride and sorrow
Fill the name of 'Ninety-Eight!)
Yet, thank God, e'en still are beating
Hearts in manhood's burning noon,
Who would follow in their footsteps
At the risin' of the moon!
GRACIE OG MACHREE.1
SONG OF THE " WILD GEESE."
I placed the silver in her palm,
By Inny's smiling tide,
And vowed, ere summer time came on,
To claim her as a bride.
But when the summer time came on,
I dwelt beyond the sea ;
Yet still my heart is ever true
To Gracie Og Machree.
O bonnie an1 the woods of* Targ,
And green thy hills, Kaihmore,
And soft the sunlight ever falls
On Dane's sloping shore;
And there the eyes I love — in tears
Shine ever mournfully.
While 1 am fat, and far away
From Gracie Og Machree.
1 Grade og mo-chroidhe, young Gracie of my heart.
574 IRISH LITERATURE.
When battle-steeds were neighing loud,
With bright blades in the air,
Next to my inmost heart I wore
A bright tress of her hair.
When stirrup-cups were lifted up
To lips, with soldier glee,
One toast I always fondly pledged,
'T was Grade Of/ Machree.
O I may never, never clasp
Again, her lily hand,
And I may find a soldier's grave
Upon a foreign strand;
But when the heart pulse beats the last,
And death takes hold of me,
One word shall part my dying lips,
Thy name, Astor Machree.1
DONAL KENNY.
" Come, piper, play the ' Shaskan Reel/
Or else the * Lasses on the heather/
And, Mary, lay aside your wheel
Until we dance once more together.
At fair and pattern 2 oft before
Of reels and jigs we 've tripped full many;
But ne'er again this loved old floor
Will feel the foot of Donal Kenny."
Softly she rose and took his hand,
And softly glided through the measure,
While, clustering round, the village band
Looked half in sorrow, half in pleasure.
Warm blessings flowed from every lip
As ceased the dancers' airy motion :
O Blessed Virgin ! guide the ship
Which bears bold Donal o'er the ocean!
" Now God be with you all ! " he sighed,
Adown his face the bright tears flowing —
" God guard you well, avic," they cried,
" Upon the strange path you are going."
1 A-stoir mo-chroidhe, O treasure of my heart.
2 Pattern, patron saint, a saint's day.
JOHN KEEGAN CASEY. 575
So full his breast, be scarce could speak.
Witb burning grasp the stretched hands taking,
He pressed a kiss on every cheek,
And sobbed as if his heart was breaking.
" Boys, don't forget me when I 'in gone,
For sake of all the days passed over —
The days you spent on heath and bawn
With Donal Ruadli, the rattlin' rover.
Mary, agra, your soft brown eye
Has willed my fate" (he whispered lowly) ;
" Another holds thy heart : good bye !
Heaven grant you both its blessings holy ! "
A kiss upon her brow of snow,
A rush across the moonlit meadow,
Whose broom-clad hazels, trembling slow,
The mossy boreen wrapped in shadow;
Away o'er Tully's bounding rill.
And far beyond the Inny river;
One cheer on Carrick's rocky hill,
And Donal Kenny's gone for ever.
The breezes whistled through the sails,
O'er Galway Bay the ship was heaving,
And smothered groans and bursting wails
Told all the grief and pain of leaving.
One form among that exiled band
Of parting sorrow gave no token.
Still was his breath, and cold his hand :
For Donal Kenny's heart was broken.
MRS. EGERTON CASTLE.
Agnes Egerton Castle is a sister of Mrs. Blundell (M. E. Francis)
and of Elinor Sweetman. Like her sisters, she was educated at home
and in Brussels. She married Anthony Egerton Castle in 1883 and
has collaborated with him in much of his work. Her independent
work is ' My Little Lady Anne,' several plays for children, and
magazine stories in Temple Bar, Cornhill, and Macmillari's.
In collaboration with her husband, she wrote ' The Pride of Jen-
nico,' 1897, of which over 100,000 copies have been sold in England
and America; 'The Bath Comedy,' 1898, a dramatized version of
which has been secured by Mr. David Belasco ; ' The House of
Romance' (collected short stories), 1900; and 'The Secret Orchard,'
1901, a dramatized version of which was produced by Mr. and Mrs.
Kendal.
AN AFFAIR OF HONOR,
From ' Temple Bar.'
As he stood turning the seething brew of his dark
thoughts, there came a pair of knowing raps upon the
street door, and in upon him strode, with cheery step and
cry, the friends he was expecting.
" Ah, Jasper, lad," cried Tom Stafford, and struck him
upon the shoulder, " lying in wait for us? Gad, you are a
bloodthirsty fellow ! "
" And quite right," said Colonel Villiers, clinking
spurred legs, and flinging off a military cloak. " Zounds,
man, would you have him sit down in his dishonor? "
Sir Jasper stretched a hand to each, and, holding him
by the elbows, they entered his private apartment, and
closed the door with such carefulness that the tall footmen
had no choice but to take it in turns to listen and peep
through the keyhole.
" Tom," said Sir Jasper, " Colonel Villiers, when I
begged you to favor me with this interview, I was anxious
for your services because, as I told you, of a strong sus-
picion of Lady Standish's infidelity to me. Now, gentle-
men, doubt is no longer possible; I have the proofs! "
" Come, come, Jasper, never be downhearted," cried
jovial Tom Stafford. " Come, sir, you have been too fond
of the little dears in your day not to know what tender,
yielding creatures they are. 'T is their nature, man; and
576
3JT2AD WOTH3D3 83HDA
^•ft
AGNES EGERTON CASTLE
From a photograph by G. West, of Goldalming and Has/emere,
England
^U^ k*b*c
MRS. EGERTON CASTLE. 577
then, must they not follow the mode? Do you want to be
the only husband in Bath whose wife is not in the fashion?
Tut, tut, so long as you can measure a sword for it and let
a little blood, why, 't is all in the day's fun ! "
" Swords? " gurgled Colonel Villiers. " No, no, pistols
are the thing, boy. You are never sure with your sword;
'tis but a dig in the ribs, a slash in the arm, and your
pretty fellow looks all the prettier for his pallor, and is all
the more likely to pet prompt consolation in the proper
quarter. Ha ! "
" Consolation! " cried Sir Jasper, as if the word were a
blow. " Ay, consolation ! damnation ! "
" Whereas your bullet," said the Colonel, " in the lungs,
or the brain — at your choice — the job is done as neat as
can be. Are you a good hand at the barkers, Jasper? "
" Oh, I can hit a haystack ! " said Sir Jasper. But he
spoke vaguely.
" I am for swords, whenever you can," cried comely
Stafford, crossing a pair of neat legs as he spoke, and
caressing one rounded calf with a loving hand. " 'T is a
far more genteel weapon. Oh, for the feel of the blades, the
pretty talk, as it were, of one with the other ! ' Ha, have I
got you now, my friend?' — ' Ha, would you step between
me and my wife, or my mistress, or my pleasure? ' — as the
case may be. 'Would you? I will teach you, sa — sa!'
Now — now one in the ribs, one under that presuming
heart ! Let the red blood flow, see it drop from the steel :
that is something like! Pistols, what of them? Pooh!
Snap ! you blow a pill into the air, and 't is like enough
you have to swallow it yourself ! 'T is for apothecaries, I
say, and such as have not been brought up to the noble and
gentlemanly art of self-defense."
" Silence, Tom! " growled the Colonel; " here is no mat-
ter for jesting. This friend of ours has had a mortal af-
front, has he not? 'T is established. Shall he not mortally
avenge himself upon him who has robbed him of his honor?
That is the case, is it not? And, blast me! is not the
pistol the deadlier weapon, and therefore the most suited?
Hey?"
Sir Jasper made an inarticulate sound that might have
passed for assent or dissent, or merely as an expression
of excessive discomfort or feeling.
37
578 IRISH LITERATURE.
" To business, then," cried Colonel Villiers. " Shall I
wait upon Lord Verney, and suggest pistols at seven o'clock
to-morrow morning in Hammer's Fields? That is where
I generally like to place such affairs: snug enough to be
out of disturbers' way, and far enough to warm the blood
with a brisk walk. Gad, 't was but ten days ago that I saw
poor Ned Waring laid as neatly on his back by Lord Tip-
staffe (him they call Tipsy Tip, you know) as ever was
done. As pretty a fight! Six paces, egad, and Ned, as de-
termined a dog as a fellow could want to second. ' Villiers,'
said he, as I handed him his saw-handle, ' if I do not do for
him, may he do for me ! One of us must kill the other,' said
he. 'T was all about Mistress Waring, you know — dashed
pretty woman ! Poor Ned, he made a discovery something
like yours, eh? Faith ! ha, ha! And, devil take it, sir, Tip
had him in the throat at the first shot, and Ned's bullet
took off Tipstaffe's right curl ! Jove, it was a shave ! Ned
never spoke again. Ah, leave it to me; see if I do not turn
you out as rare a meeting."
" But stay," cried Stafford, as Sir Jasper writhed in his
arm-chair, clenched and unclenched furious hands, and felt
the curl of red hair burn him where he had thrust it into
his bosom. " Stay," cried Stafford, " we are going too
fast, I think. Do I not understand from our friend here,
that he called Lord Verney a rat? Sir Jasper is therefore
the insulting party, and must wait for Lord Verney's ac-
tion in the matter."
" I protest ! " cried the Colonel. " The first insult was
Lord Verney's, in compromising our friend's wife."
" Pooh, pooh ! " exclaimed Stafford, recrossing his legs
to bring the left one into shapely prominence this time,
" that is but the insult incidental. But to call a man a rat,
that is the insult direct. Jasper is therefore the true chal-
lenger— the other has the choice of arms. It is for Lord
Verney to send to our friend."
" Sir ! '■ exclaimed the Colonel, growing redder about
the gills than nature and port wine had already made him,
" sir, would you know better than I? "
" Gentlemen," said Sir Jasper, sitting up suddenly, " as
I have just told you, since I craved of your kindness that
you would help me in this matter, I have made discoveries
that alter the complexion of the affair very materially. I
MRS. EGERTON CASTLE. 579
have reason to believe that, if Lord Verney be guilty in this
matter, it is in a very minor way. You know what they
call in France un chandelier. Indeed, it is my conviction
— such is female artfulness — that he has merely been made
a puppet of to shield another person. It is this person I
must find first, and upon him that my vengeance must fall
before I can attend to any other business. Lord Verney,
indeed, has already sent to me, but his friend, Captain
Spicer, a poor fool (somewhat weak in the head, I believe),
left suddenly, without our coming to any conclusion. In-
deed, I do not regret it — I do not seek to fight with Lord
Verney now. Gentlemen," said Sir Jasper, rising and
drawing the letter from his breast, " gentlemen, I shall
neither eat nor sleep till I have found out the owner of this
curl ! "
He shook out the letter as he spoke, and fiercely thrust
the tell-tale love-token under the noses of his amazed
friends. " It is a red-haired man, you see ! There lives no
red-haired man in Bath but him I must forthwith spit and
plug, lest the villain escape me!"
Colonel Villiers started to his feet with a growl like that
of a tiger aroused from slumber.
" Zounds ! " he exclaimed, " an insult ! "
" How ! " cried Jasper, turning upon him and suddenly
noticing the sandy hue of his friend's bushy eyebrows.
" You, good God? You? Pooh, pooh, impossible, and yet.
. . . Colonel Villiers, sir," cried Sir Jasper in awful
tones, " did you write this letter? Speak — yes or no, man !
Speak, or must I drag the words from your throat? '
Purple and apoplectic passion well-nigh stifled Colonel
Villiers.
" Stafford, Stafford," he spluttered, " you are witness.
These are gross affronts — affronts which shall be wiped
out."
"Did you write that letter? Yes or no!" screamed
Sir Jasper, shaking the offending document in the Colonel's
convulsed countenance.
"I?" cried the Colonel, and struck away Sir Jasper's
hand with a furious blow, "I? I write such brimstone
nonsense? No, sir! Now, Sir Jasper, how dare you ask
me such a question? "
" No," said Sir Jasper, " of course not. Ah, I am a fool,
580 I MSB LITERATURE.
Villiers ! Forgive me. There 's no quarrel between us.
No, of course it could not be you. With that nose, your
waistcoat, your sixty years ! Gad, I am going mad ! ':
" Why, man," said Stafford, as soon as he could speak
for laughing, " Villiers has not so much hair on his head as
you hold in your hand there. Off with your wig, Villiers,
off with your wig, and let your bald pate proclaim its
shining innocence."
The gallant gentleman thus addressed was by this time
black in the face. Panting as to breath, disjointed as to
speech, his fury had nevertheless its well-defined purpose.
" I have been insulted, I have been insulted," he gasped ;
" the matter cannot end here. Sir Jasper, you have in-
sulted me. I am a red-haired man, sir. I shall send a
friend to call upon you."
" Nay, then," said Sir Jasper, " since 't is so between us
I will even assure myself that Tom has spoken the truth,
and give you something to fight for ! " He stretched out
his hand as he spoke, and plucked the wig from Colonel
Villiers' head.
Before him indeed spread so complete an expanse of
hairless candor that further evidence was not necessary;
yet the few limp hairs that lingered behind the Colonel's
ears, if they had once been ruddy, shone now meekly silver
in the candlelight.
"I thank you," said Sir Jasper; "that is sufficient.
When you send your friend to call upon me, I shall re-
ceive him with pleasure." He handed back the Colonel's
wig with a bow.
The Colonel stood trembling; his knotted hand instinc-
tively fumbled for his sword. But, remembering perhaps
that this was eminently a case for pistols, he bethought
himself, seized his wig, clapped it on defiantly, settled it
with minute care, glared, wheeled round and left the room,
muttering as he went remarks of so sulphurous a nature
as to defy recording.
Sir Jasper did not seem to give him another thought.
He fell into his chair again and spread out upon his knee
the sorely crumpled letter.
" Confusion ! " said he. " Who can it be? Tom, you
scamp, I know your hair is brown. Thou art not the man,
MRS. EGERTON CASTLE. 581
Tom. Oh, Tom, oh, Tom, if I do not kill him I shall go
mad ! "
Stafford was weak with laughter, and tears rolled from
his eyes as he gasped :
" Let us see, who can the Judas be? (Gad, this is the
best joke I have known for years. Oh, Lord, the bald head
of him! Oh, Jasper, 't is cruel funny! Stap me, sir, if I
have known a better laugh these ten years ! ) Nay, nay, I
will help thee. Come, there 's His Lordship the Bishop of
Bath and Wells, he is red, I know, for I have seen him in
the water. Gad, he was like a boiled lobster, hair and all.
Could it be he, think you? They have a way, these divines,
and Lady Standish has a delicate conscience. She would
like the approval of the Church upon her deeds. Nay,
never glare like that, for I will not fight you ! Have you
not got your rosary of red polls to tell first? Ha! there is
O'Hara, he is Irish enough and rake enough and red
enough. Oh, he is red enough ! "
" O'Hara ! " cried Sir Jasper, struck.
There came a fine rat-tat-tat at the door, a parley in the
hall, and the servant announced Mr. Denis O'Hara.
" Talk of the devil," said Stafford.
Sir Jasper rose from his arm-chair with the air of one
whose enemy is delivered into his hands.
The Honorable Denis O'Hara, son and heir of Viscount
Kilcroney in the peerage of Ireland, entered with a swift
and easy step, and saluted airily. lie had a merry green
eye, and the red of his crisp hair shone out through the
powder like the winter sunset through a mist.
" Sir Jasper," said he, " your servant, sir. Faith, Tom,
me boy, is that you? The top of the evening to ye."
Uninvited he took a chair and filing his careless figure
upon it. His joints were loose, his nose aspired, his rich
lace ruffles were torn, his handsome coat was buttoned
awry; Irishman was stamped upon every line of him, from
his hot red head to his slim alert foot; Irishman lurked in
every rich accent of his ready tongue.
Sir Jasper made no doubt that now the Lothario who
had poached on his preserves, had destroyed his peace, had
devastated his home, was before him. lie turned to Staf-
ford, and caught him by the wrist.
582 IRISH LITERATURE.
" Torn," whispered he, " you will stand by me, for by my
immortal soul, I will fight it out to-night ! "
" For God's sake, be quiet," whispered the other, who
began to think that the jealous husband was getting be-
yond a joke. " Let us hear what the fellow has got to say
first. The devil ! I will not stand by to see you pink every
auburn buck in the town. 'T is stark lunacy."
" But 't is you yourself," returned Sir Jasper, in his
fierce undertone — " you yourself who told me it was he.
See, but look at this curl and at that head."
" Oh, flummery ! " cried Stafford. " Let him speak, I
say."
" When you have done your little conversation, gentle-
men," said Mr. O'Hara good-naturedly, " perhaps you will
let me put in a word edgeways? "
Sir Jasper, under his friend's compelling hand, sank
into a chair; his sinews well-nigh creaked with the con-
straint he was putting upon himself.
" I have come," said Denis O'Hara, " from me friend
Captain Spoicer. I met him a whoile ago, fluttering down
Gay Street, leaping like a hare with the hounds after him,
by St. Patrick ! l You 're running away from some one,
Spoicer,' says I. And says he, ' I 'in running away from
that blithering madman, Sir Jasper Standish.' Excuse me,
Sir Jasper, those were his words, ye see."
" And what, sir," interrupted Sir Jasper in an ominous
voice — " what, sir, may I ask, was your purpose in walking
this way to-night? "
" Eh," cried the Irishman, " what is that ye say? "
" Oh, go on, O'Hara ! " cried Stafford impatiently, and
under his breath to Standish, " Faith, Jasper," said he,
" keep your manners or I '11 wash my hands of the whole
matter."
" Oh, is that the way with him?" said O'Hara, behind
his hand to Stafford, and winking jovially. " Well, I was
saying, gentlemen, that to see a man run, unless it be a
Frenchman, is a thing that goes against me. ' Why, what
did he do to you? ' said I (meaning you, Sir Jasper) . ' Oh,'
says me gallant captain, ' I went to him with a gentlemanly
message from a friend, and the fellow insulted me so
grossly with remarks about my hair, that sure,' says he,
i 't is only fit for Bedlam he is.' * Insulted you/ says I, ' and
MRS. EGERTON CASTLE. 583
where are ye running to? To look for a friend, I hope,'
says I. ' Insults are stinking things.' ' Sure,' says he, ' he
is mad,' says he. ' Well, what matter of that? ' says I.
' Sure, isn't it all mad we are, more or less? Come,' says
I, i Spoicer, this will look bad for you with the ladies, not
to speak of the men. Give me the message, me boy, and I
will take it; and sure we will let Sir Jasper bring his keep-
ers with him to the field, and no one can say fairer than
that.' "
Sir Jasper sprang to his feet.
" Now, curse your Irish insolence," he roared, " this
is more than I would stand from any man! And, if I mis-
take not, Mr. O'Hara, we have other scores to settle be-
sides."
" Is it we? " cried O'Hara, jumping up likewise. " 'T is
the first I 've heard of them — but, be jabers, you will never
find me behindhand in putting me foot to the front ! I will
settle as many scores as you like, Sir Jasper — so long as
it is me sword and not me purse that pays them."
" Draw then, man, draw ! " snarled Sir Jasper, dancing
in fury. He bared his silver-hilted sword and threw the
scabbard in a corner.
" Heaven defend us ! " cried Stafford, in vain endeavor-
ing to come between the two.
" Sure, you must not contradict him," cried O'Hara, un-
buckling his belt rapidly, and drawing likewise, with a
pretty flourish of shining blade. " 'T is the worst way in
the wrorld to deal with a cracked man. Sure ye must
soothe him and give in to him. Don't I know? Is not me
own first cousin a real raw lunatic in Kinsale Asylum this
blessed day? Come on, Sir Jasper, I 'm yer man. Just
pull the chairs out of the way, Tom, me dear boy."
" Now, sir, now, sir ! " said Sir Jasper, and felt restored
to himself again as steel clinked against steel. And he
gripped the ground wilh his feet, and knew the joy of
action.
" Well, what must be, must be," said Stafford philosoph-
ically, and sat across a chair; "and a good fight is a good
fight all the world over. Ha, that was a lunge! O'Hara
wields a pretty blade, but there is danger in Jasper's eye.
I vow I won't have the Irish boy killed. Ha! ': Lie sprang
to his feet again and brandished the chair, ready to inter-
pose between the two at the critical moment.
584 IRISH LITERATURE.
O'Hara was buoyant as a cork; he skipped backward
and forward, from one side to another, in sheer enjoyment
of the contest. But Sir Jasper hardly moved from his
first position except for one or two vicious lunges. Staf-
ford had deemed to see danger in his eye; there was more
than danger — there was murder! The injured husband
was determined to slay, and bided his time for the fatal
thrust. The while, O'Hara attacked out of sheer lightness
of heart. Now his blade grazed Sir Jasper's thigh ; once he
gave him a flicking prick on the wrist so that the blood
ran down his fingers.
" Stop, stop ! " cried Stafford, running in with his chair.
" Sir Jasper's hit ! "
" No, dash you ! " cried Sir Jasper. And click, clank,
click, it went again, with the pant of the shortening
breath, and the thud of the leaping feet. Sir Jasper lunged
a third time, O'Hara waved his sword aimlessly, fell on one
knee, and rolled over.
" Halt ! " yelled Stafford. It was too late. Sir Jasper
stood staring at his red blade.
" You have killed him ! ': cried Stafford, turning fu-
riously on his friend, and was down on his knees and had
caught the wounded man in his arms the next second.
" Devil a bit," said O'Hara, and wriggling in the other's
grasp, too vigorously indeed for a moribund, found his feet
in a jiffy and stood laughing, with a white face, and look-
ing down at his dripping shirt. " 'T is but the sudden cold
feel of the steel, man ! Sure I 'm all right, and ready to
begin again ! 'T is but a rip in the ribs, for I can breathe
as right as ever." He puffed noisily as he spoke, to prove
his words, slapped his chest, then turned giddily and fell
into a chair. Stafford tore open the shirt. It was as
O'Hara had said, the wound was an ugly surface rip, more
unpleasant than dangerous.
" Let us have another bout," said O'Hara.
" No, no," said Stafford.
" No, no," said Sir Jasper, advancing and standing be-
fore his adversary. " No, Mr. O'Hara, you may have done
me the greatest injury that one man can do another, but
Gad, sir, you have fought like a gentleman ! "
" Ah ! " whispered O'Hara to Stafford, who still ex-
MRS. EGERTOy CASTLE. 585
amined the wound with a knowing manner, " 't is crazed
entoirely lie is, the poor fellow."
" Not crazed," said Stafford rising, " or if so, only
through jealousy. — Jasper, let us have some wine for Mr.
O'Hara, and one of your women with water and bandages.
A little sticking-plaister will set this business to rights.
Thank God that I have not seen murder to-night ! '
" One moment, Stafford," said Jasper, " one moment,
sir. Let us clear this matter. Am I not right, Mr. O'Hara,
in believing you to have written a letter to my wife? "
" Is it me? " cried O'Hara in the most guileless aston-
ishment.
" He thinks you are her lover,'' whispered Stafford in
his ear. " Zooks, I can laugh again now! He knows she
has got a red-haired lover, and says he will kill every red-
haired man in Bath ! "
" Sure I have never laid eyes on Lady Standish," said
O'Hara to Sir Jasper, "if that is all you want. Sure,
I 'd have been proud to be her lover if I 'd only had the
honor of her acquaintance ! "
" Mr. O'Hara," said Sir Jasper, " will you shake hands
with me? "
" With all the pleasure in loife! " cried the genial Irish-
man. "■ Faith, 't is great friends we will be, but perhaps
ye had better not introjuce me to yer lady, for I 'in not
to be trusted where the dear creatures are concerned, and
so 't is best to tell you at the outset."
The opponents now shook hands on either side. The
wound was attended to, and several bottles of wine were
thereafter cracked in great good-fellowship.
"There is nothing like Canary," vowed O'Hara, "for
the power of healing."
ANDREW CHERRY.
(1762—1812.)
Andrew Cherry, was born in Limerick, Jan. 11, 1762. His
father wished to make a clergyman of him and began to educate
him for that purpose, but the expense was more than he could afford,
and the boy was apprenticed to a printer and bookseller in Dublin.
He early developed a taste for the stage, and at seventeen abandoned
printing and joined a company of strolling players. On his first
appearance with them he received as his share of the profits the
encouraging sum of tenpence halfpenny (21 cents). His acting of
the not very easy character of Feignwell in Mrs. Centlivre's ' Bold
Stroke for a Wife ' was, however, very successful. But the lack of
pence continued ; at one time he was without food for four days,
and at last he returned to his trade.
At the end of three years he joined the company of a Mr. Knipe,
who is said to have been a scholar and a gentleman as well as a
player. After many vicissitudes he became a popular favorite, and
for six years remained in Dublin and Belfast at the head of his pro-
fession in his own particular comic line. During this time he mar-
ried Miss Knipe, the daughter of his former manager. He and his
wife went to England, where they spent some years, and he played
at Bath, at Manchester, and in London with much success, reaching
the zenith of his fame at Drury Lane Theater. He afterward be-
came the manager of provincial theaters, and died at Monmouth,
Feb. 7, 1812.
He also had some success as a dramatic writer. Most of his works
were ephemeral in character, but they were all good acting plays—
' The Soldier's Daughter ' alone keeps the stage. He had a notable
reputation as a wit; and Croker, in his ' Popular Songs of Ireland,'
quotes a note written by him to one of his former managers after
his success at Drury Lane. It runs as follows :
" Sir: — I am not so great a fool as you take me for! I have been
bitten once by you, and I will never give you an opportunity of
making two bites of A. Cherry."
But, after all, the name of Andrew Cherry will last far longer as a
song-writer than as an actor, dramatist, or wit. Who is not familiar
with ' The Bay of Biscay' and ' Tom Moody' ? The first is one of the
most stirring sea songs ever written ; and the second is perhaps one
of the finest sporting songs in existence.
THE BAY OF BISCAY.
Loud roared the dreadful thunder,
The rain a deluge showers,
The clouds were rent asunder
By lightning's vivid powers:
586
ANDREW CHERRY. 587
The night both drear and dark,
Our poor devoted bark,
Till next day there she lay
In the Bay of Biscay, O !
Now dashed upon the billow,
Our opening timbers creak;
Each fears a wat'ry pillow,
None stops the dreadful leak;
To cling to slipp'ry shrouds
Each breathless seaman crowds,
As she lay till next day
In the Bay of Biscay, O!
At length the wished-for morrow
Broke thro' the hazy skv ;
Absorbed in silent sorrow,
Each heaved a bitter sigh;
The dismal wreck to view
Struck horror to the crew,
As she lay on that day
In the Bay of Biscay, O !
Her yielding timbers sever,
Her pitchy seams are rent,
When Heaven, all-bounteous ever,
Its boundless mercy sent;
A sail in sight appears,
We hail her with three cheers:
Now we sail with the gale
From the Bay of Biscay, O!
THE GREEN LITTLE SHAMROCK OF IRELAND.
There 's a dear little plant that grows in our isle,
'T was Saint Patrick himself, sure, that set it;
And the sun on his labor with pleasure did smile,
And with dew from his eye often wet it.
It thrives through the bog, through the brake, through the
mireland;
And he called it the dear little shamrock of Ireland,
The sweet little shamrock, llio dear little shamrock,
The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland.
588 IRISH LITERATURE.
This dear little plant still grows in our land,
Fresh and fair as the daughters of Erin,
Whose smiles can bewitch, whose eyes can command,
In each climate that they may appear in;
And shine through the bog, through the brake, through the
mireland ;
Just like their own dear little shamrock of Ireland,
The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock,
The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland.
This dear little plant that springs from our soil,
When its three little leaves are extended,
Denotes from one stalk we together should toil,
And ourselves by ourselves be befriended;
And still through the bog, through the brake, through the
mireland,
From one root should branch, like the shamrock of Ireland,
The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock,
The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland.
TOM MOODY.
You all knew Tom Moody, the whipper-in, well ;
The bell just done tolling was honest Tom's knell ;
A more able sportsman ne'er followed a hound,
Through a country well known to him fifty miles round.
No hound ever opened with Tom near the wood
But he'd challenge the tone, and could tell if 'twere good;
And all with attention would eagerly mark,
When he cheered up the pack. "Hark! to Rookwood, hark!
hark !
High ! — wind him ! and cross him ;
Now, Rattler, boy ! — Hark ! "
Six crafty earth-stoppers, in hunter's green drest,
Supported poor Tom to an " earth " made for rest ;
His horse, which he styled his Old Soul, next appeared,
On whose forehead the brush of the last fox was reared ;
Whip, cap, boots, and spurs in a trophy were bound,
And here and there followed an old straggling hound.
Ah ! no more at his voice yonder vales will they trace,
Nor the welkin resound to the burst in the chase !
With " High over ! — now press him !
Tally-ho !— Tally-ho ! "
ANDREW CHERRY. 589
Thus Tom spoke his friends ere he gave up his breath,
" Since I see you 're resolved to be in at the death,
One favor bestow — 't is the last I shall crave, —
Give a rattling view-hollow thrice over my grave;
And unless at that warning I lift up my head.
My boys, you may fairly conclude I am dead!"
Honest Tom was obeyed, and the shout rent the sky,
For every voice joined in the tally-ho cry,
Tally-ho! Hark forward!
Tally-ho! Tally-ho!
MRS. W. H. CHESSON (NORA HOPPER).
(1871—1906.)
Miss Hopper was born in 1871 and was educated in London. She
began to write very early. Her first verses were published when
she was sixteen years old. She married Mr. W. H. Chesson in 1901.
She has contributed prose and verse to most of the English magazines
and newspapers and has published ' Ballads in Prose,' a book of
poetical prose and poetry, besides three volumes of verse. Though
she is a most prolific writer, her work maintains its high standard.
She saturates herself with Irish studies of all kinds, and few poets
are more thoroughly Irish.
Mr. W. B. Yeats says in ' A Treasury of Irish Poetry ' of ' Ballads
in Prose ': "It haunted me as few new books have ever haunted me,
for it spoke in strange wayward stories and birdlike little verses of
things and persons I remembered or had dreamed of." . . . "They
delight us by their mystery, as ornament full of lines, too deeply
interwoven to weary us with discoverable secret, delights us with
its mystery ; and as ornament is full of strange beasts and trees and
flowers, that were once the symbols of great religions, and are now
mixing one with another, and changing into new shapes, this book
is full of old beliefs and stories, mixing and changing in an en-
chanted dream."
Died at London, April 17th, 1908.
THE KING OF IRELAND'S SON.
Now all away to Tir na n'Og are many roads that run,
But he has ta'en the longest lane, the King of Ireland's son.
There 's roads of hate, and roads of love, and many a middle
way,
And castles keep the valleys deep where happy lovers stray —
Where Aongus goes there 's many a rose burns red mid shad-
ows dun,
No rose there is will draw his kiss, the King of Ireland's son.
And yonder, where the sun is high, Love laughs amid the hay,
But smile and sigh have passed him by, and never make delay.
And here (and O! the sun is low!) they're glad for harvest
won,
But naught he cares for wheat or tares, the King of Ireland's
son!
590
MRS. W. H. CHESSON (NORA HOPPER). 591
And you have flung love's apple by, and I 'in to pluck it yet:
But what are fruits of graniarye with druid dews beset?
Oh what are magic fruits to hiin who meets the Lianan-sidhe
Or hears athwart the distance dim Fionn's horn blow drow-
sily!
He follows on for ever when all your chase is done
He follows after shadows, the King of Ireland's son.
THE GRAY FOG.
There 's a gray fog over Dublin of the curses,
It blinds my eyes, mavrone; and stops my breath,
And I travel slow that once could run the swiftest,
And I fear ere I meet Mauryeen I '11 meet Death.
There 's a gray fog over Dublin of the curses,
And a gray fog dogs my footsteps as they go.
And it 's long and sore to tread, the road to Connaught.
Is it fault of brogues or feet I fare so slow?
There 's a gray fog over Dublin of the curses,
But the Connaught wind will blow it from my way,
And a Connaught girl will kiss it from my memory
If the Death that walks beside me will delay.
(There 's a gray fog over Dublin of the curses,
And no wind comes to break its stillness deep :
And a Connaughtman lies on the road to Connaught
And Mauryeen will not kiss him from his sleep — Ululu!)
THE CUCKOO SINGS IN THE HEART OF WINTER.
The cuckoo sings in the heart of winter,
And all for Mauryeen he tunes his song;
How Mauryeen's hair is the honey's color.
(He sings of her all the winter long!)
ner long loose hair "s of the honey's color,
The wild sweet honey that wild bees make.
The sun herself is ashamed before her,
The moon is pale for her gold cool's sake.
592 IRISH LITERATURE.
She bound her hair, of the honey's color,
With iiowers of yarrow and quicken green :
And now one binds it with leaves of willow,
And cypress lies where my head has been.
Now robins sing beside Pastheen's doorway,
And wrens for bounty that Grania gave :
The cuckoo sings in the heart of winter;
He sings all day beside Maury een's grave.
THE FAIRY FIDDLER.
'T is I go fiddling, fiddling,
By weedy ways forlorn:
I make the blackbird's music
Ere in his breast 't is born ;
The sleeping larks I waken
'Twixt the midnight and the morn.
No man alive has seen me,
But women hear me play
Sometimes at door or window,
Fiddling the souls away —
The child's soul and the colleen's —
Out of the covering clay.
None of my fairy kinsmen
Make music with me now:
Alone the raths I wander,
Or ride the whitethorn bough ;
But the wild swans they know me,
And the horse that draws the plow.
THE DARK MAN.
Rose o' the World, she came to my bed
And changed the dreams of my heart and head;
For joy of mine she left grief of hers,
And garlanded me with a crown of furze.
Rose o' the World, they go out and in,
And watch me dream and my mother spin :
And they pit}' the tears on my sleeping face
While my soul 's away in a fairy place.
MRS. W. H. CHfiSSON (NORA HOPPER). 593
Rose o' the World, they have words galore,
And wide 's the swing of my mother's door :
And soft they speak of my darkened eyes —
But what do they know, who are all so wise?
Rose o' the World, the pain you give
Is worth all days that a man may live —
Worth all shy prayers that the colleens say
On the night that darkens the wedding-day.
Rose o' the World, what man would wed
When he might dream of your face instead? —
Might go to his grave with the blessed pain
Of hungering after your face again?
Rose o' the World, they may talk their fill.
For dreams are good, and my life stands still
While their lives' red ashes the gossips stir;
But my fiddle knows — and I talk to her.
THE FAERY FOOL.
If I 'm the Faery fool, Dalua —
Ay nae, the Faery fool!
How do I know what the rushes say,
Sighing and shuddering all the day
Over their shadowy pool?
How do I know what the North Wind cries
Herding his Hocks of snow?
The menace that lies in the Hunter's eyes
How do I know?
If I 'm the Faery fool, Dalua —
Ay me, the Faery fool !
I cry to them thai sent me here
To laugh and jest, to geek and fleer,
To scorn al law and rule: —
" Why did ye also give to me
Bea u( if and peace to know,
The cars to hear and I lie eyes to see
And the hands that let all <jo?"
1 cry to them that bade me jest:
" Why made ye me so slight,
38
594 IRISH LITERATURE.
And put a heart within my breast,
An evil gift, an evil guest,
To spoil me for delight?
Made for mere laughter, answer why
Must I have eyes for doolf
Take from me tears, or let me die,
For I am sick of wisdom, I,
Dalua, the Faery fool."
NIAM.
Mouth of the rose and hair like a cloud —
After my feet the wind grows loud :
The red East Wind whose rumor has gone
From Tir-nan-Og 1 to Tir-na-Tonn.2
Under my feet the windflower grows,
After my feet the shadows run,
Over my feet the long grass blows.
All things hail me and call me on
Out of the darkness into the sun,
Love and Beauty and Youth in one.
Under my feet the windflower grows.
Men called me Mam when first arose
My splendid star : but what now ye call
Me, do I heed if I hear at all?
Look in my eyes — are they gray or blue?
They are the eyes that the Fenians knew,
When out of the sunshine, into the shade,
I called to Oisin, and he obeyed.
Across Fionn's banner my dark hair flew,
And safe in its leash my love I drew.
I called to Oisin and he obeyed —
Out of the sunshine into the shade,
Though the words were out and the warhorns blew
And wisdom and pride my voice gainsaid.
But a hundred years, or a thousand years,
I kept my lover from hopes and fears —
In Druid dark on my arm he slept.
Shall I not keep men even as I kept?
'T wixt a man and his wisdom let blow my hair,
The man is beside me, and wisdom 's — where?
1 Tir-nan-og, the Country of Youth.
2 Tir-na-tonn, the Land under the Sea.
MRS. W. H. CEESSON (NORA HOPPER). 595
The Fenians died and the high Gods die,
But spring 's immortal, and so am I.
I am young, T am swift, I am fair to see,
My blood is the sap running new in the tree.
Shall I not keep men even as I kept
Oisin free from his falling sept?
Who shall deny me, or who gainsay,
For the world is beginning anew to-day?
Youth is glad, for the world is wide;
Tarry, O Youth ! Love is here at thy side.
The world is beginning anew to-day;
Fire is awake in each clod of clay;
The ragweeds know what has never been told
By the old to the young, or the young to the old.
The hawthorns tell it in broad daylight;
The evening primrose awaits the night,
Her beautiful secret she shuts in close
Till the last late bee goes home from the rose.
And I am the secret, the flower, and the tree;
I am Beauty ; O Youth, I have blossomed for thee.
JOSEPH IGNATIUS CONSTANTINE CLARKE.
(1846 )
Joseph Ignatius Constantine Clarke, editor and playwright,
was born at Kingstown, Ireland, July 31, 1846. At the age of
twelve years he went to London with his family and in 1863 became
a clerk in the Board of Trade. In 1868 from patriotic motives he
resigned his position and went to Paris. Thence he came to Amer-
ica, where he has since resided. In 1873 he married Mary Agnes
Cahill, and has two sons. He served from 1868 to 1870 as assistant
editor of the Irish Republic. In the latter year he joined the edi-
torial staff of the New York Herald, and continued in its service
until 1883, when he became managing editor of the New York Morn-
ing Journal, which position he held until 1895. He is now (1904)
editor of the Sunday edition of the New York Herald.
From 1898 to 1900 Mr. Clarke was editor of The Criterion. He is
the author of ' Robert Emmet,' a tragedy, 1888 ; ' Malmorda, a
Metrical Romance,' 1893, and of various plays. His first poem in
print appeared in John O'Leary's Irish People. 'The Fighting
Race ' is said to be one of the best poems of the Spanish- American
war.
FORE-SONG TO 'MALMORDA.'1
To me by early morn
Came mem'ries of Old Ireland by the sea,
The tenderest and sweetest that there be,
Wherein the songs of water and of wind
And joy of loving human kind
Mingled in an ecstasy of harmony.
All was so low-toned and so sweet,
Near voices seeming ever to repeat
Soft syllables of blessing on my head;
And the faces — ah, the faces of the dead
Companions of my youth were there,
And one face fairer than all faces fair,
And one face — oh, my mother — from whose eyes
The well-springs of all tendernesses rise;
And all were shaping
Love and love and love!
ii.
But at night again
Came the old, old pain,
And I saw the storm-gods whirling through the air
With Desolation's armies everywhere,
1 ' Malmorda : A Metrical Romance.' New York, 1893. Copyright. By
permission.
596
3yfHA .1 I
J. F. C. CLARKE
From a photograph by McMichael. New York
JOSEPH IGNATIUS CONSTANTINE CLARKE. 597
The long and lean lines, ragged, reaching back,
Torch-flared and wild-eyed in the wrack,
And the roll, roll, roll of the long thunder,
As the forked flash of the lightning leaped thereunder,
And nowhere any peace or rest —
For the children of the land they called the Blest.
But the surges and the tempest loud were singing,
And the heavens through their wrath were with it ringing.
All shaping
Love and love and love !
in.
Oh my soul ! how can it be
That by still or stormy sea,
By the calm that swoons below, or the fury loose above,
The voice of Erin calls on love and love?
Passionate our hearts be, well I know,
Whether our tears or laughter flow,
Whether our faces gloom or glow.
Yea, through our Irish souls Love's flame
Shoots its red blaze and shakes the frame;
Beats on the heart with wings of fire,
As the wind's sleepless fingers shake a lyre,
Making wild eerie music never stilled.
And be our lives with toil or torment filled,
Ever a crisping, whisp'ring undertone,
Or hot-caught fiery breath makes known
The dominant, deep impulse that the hoar
Old ages stirred with, and that o'er and o'er
Re-born with travail in the hearts of men,
Is shaping on our lips, yea, now as then —
Love and love and love!
IV.
Then spake a voice to me:
" Beyond the fair days of the Flame-god's time
A fair god looked upon the young land's prime,
And on the mountains and the streams and sens
Set seals of loving. Then in mystic threes
Came many gods to curse or bless,
Each with his portent of the soul's distress
Or rapture — Bravery, Envy, Jealousy,
Reverence, Pity, Faith — Jill joy thai bides,
Or pain that lasts between the ocean's tides,
598 IRISH LITERATURE.
Or through the heaven-circling of a star.
All these have there endured to make or mar;
But under the sea's breast ever stir the dreams
First waked by love, and in the babbling streams
Love murmurs all day long,
And down in the hearts of the mountains strong,
Love makes its melody of notes so deep
That the dead gods stir in their stony sleep,
Their cold lips shaping
Love and love and love ! "
Then full voiced came my song,
'T wixt day and dark the dead Past called to me.
A long wave rolled along the Irish sea,
Its white foam fronted with tossing spears,
Red with the rust of a thousand vears.
It brake on the sands and the waters ran
With a blood-red stain, and the song began.
They were there, the steel-capped Ostman hordes;
In the dusk they flashed their two-edged swords.
Their warships tossed on the purpling waves;
At the rowers' benches toiled the slaves.
Then the Irish king in his youth and might,
With sweep of battle and roar of fight
About him, and circling his Norseland prize,
The blue of the sea in her wild, sweet eyes,
The life of a man in each strand of her hair,
And the glow of a flame on her bosom bare.
'Mid storm and battle, by moon and mist,
I saw through their very souls, I wist !
And the shields that rang, and the sobs that died,
And the echoing hills and the somber tide
Ever were shaping
Love and love and love!
THE FIGHTING RACE.1
" Read out the names ! " and Burke sat back,
And Kelly drooped his head.
While Shea — they call him Scholar Jack —
Went down the list of the dead.
1 Copyright by J. I. C. Clarke. By permission.
JOSEPH IGNATIUS CONSTANTINE CLARKE. 599
Officers, seamen, gunners, marines,
The crews of the gig and yawl,
The bearded man and the lad in his teens,
Carpenters, coal passers — all.
Then, knocking the ashes from out his pipe,
Said Burke in an offhand way :
" We 're all in that dead man's list, by Cripe !
Kelly and Burke and Shea."
" Well, here 's to the Maine, and I 'm sorry for Spain,"
Said Kelly and Burke and Shea.
" Wherever there 's Kelly s there 's trouble," said Burke.
" Wherever fighting 's the game,
Or a spice of danger in grown man's work,"
Said Kelly, "you'll find my name."
" And do we fall short," said Burke, getting mad,
"When it's touch and go for life?"
Said Shea, " It 's thirty-odd years, bedad,
Since I charged to drum and fife
Up Marye's Heights, and my old canteen
Stopped a rebel ball on its way.
There were blossoms of blood on our sprigs of green —
Kelly and Burke and Shea —
And the dead didn't brag." " Well, here 's to the flag! "
Said Kelly and Burke and Shea.
" I wish 't was in Ireland, for there 's the place,"
Said Burke, " that we 'd die by right,
In the cradle of our soldier race,
After one good stand-up fight.
My grandfather fell on Vinegar Hill,
And fighting was not his trade;
But his rusty pike's in the cabin still,
With Hessian blood on the blade."
" Aye, aye," said Kelly, " the pikes were great
When the word was ' clear the way ! '
We were thick on the roll in ninety-eight —
Kelly and Burke and Shea."
" Well, here 's to the pike and the sword and the like! "
Said Kelly and Burke and Shea.
And Shea, the scholar, with rising joy,
Said, "We were at Ramillies;
We left our bones at Fontenoy
And up in the Pyrenees;
600 IRISH LITERATURE.
Before Dunkirk, on Landen's plain,
Cremona, Lille, and Ghent,
We 're all over Austria, France, and Spain,
Wherever they pitched a tent.
We 've died for England from Waterloo
To Egypt and Dargai ;
And still there 's enough for a corps or crew,
Kelly and Burke and Shea."
"Well, here is to good honest fighting blood!"
Said Kelly and Burke and Shea.
" Oh, the fighting races don't die out,
If they seldom die in bed,
For love is first in their hearts, no doubt,"
Said Burke; then Kelly said:
"When Michael, the Irish Archangel, stands,
The angel with the sword,
And the battle-dead from a hundred lands
Are ranged in one big horde,
Our line, that for Gabriel's trumpet waits,
Will stretch three deep that day,
From Jehoshaphat to the Golden Gates-
Kelly and Burke and Shea."
" Well, here 's thank God for the race and the sod ! "
Said Kelly and Burke and Shea.
AGNES MARY CLERKE.
(1842 )
Agnes Mary Clerke, the famous woman astronomer, was born
in Ireland in 1842 ; she is the daughter of the late John William
Clerke. From 1870 to 1877 she lived in Italy and at the end of that
time she began to write for The Edinburgh Review. She has made
astronomical observations at the Royal Observatory and the Cape
of Good Hope.
She traveled to Copenhagen, Stockholm, and St. Petersburg in
the yacht Palatine in 1890. Among her books are ' A Popular
History of Astronomy during the Nineteenth Century,' l The Sys-
tem of the Stars,' ' Familiar Studies in Homer,' ' The Herschels
and Modern Astronomy ' (Century Science Series), ' Astronomy,' in
Concise Knowledge Series (joint author) ; ; Problems in Astrophysics.'
She has also contributed articles to The Edinburgh Review, ' The
Encyclopaedia Britannica,' and 'The Dictionary of National Bio-
graphy.' She was awarded, in 1901, the Actonian Prize of one
hundred guineas for her works on astronomy. As a close observer
and a profound thinker, Agnes M. Clerke takes high rank, while as
a clear, careful, and accurate exponent of the abstruser side of
science in a popular and attractive style she has few equals.
THE PLANET VENUS, HESPERUS AND
PHOSPHOR,
The radiant planet that hangs on the skirts of dusk and
dawn,
" like a jewel in an Ethiop's ear,"
has been known and sung by poets in all ages. Its su-
premacy over the remainder of the starry host is recog-
nized in the name given it by the Arabs, those nomad
watchers of the skies, for while they term the moon " El
Azhar," " the Brighter One," and the sun and moon to-
gether "El Ezharan," "the Brighter Pair," they call
Venus " El Zahra," the bright or shining one par excel-
lence, in which sense the same word is used to describe a
flower. This " Flower of Night " is supposed to be no
other than the white rose into which Adonis was changed
by Venus in the fable which is the basis of all early Asiatic
mythology. Tin1 morning and evening star is thus the
celestial symbol of that union between earth and heaven
in the vivifying processes of nature, typified in the love of
the goddess for a mortal.
601
602 IRISH LITERATURE.
The ancient Greeks, on the other hand, not unnaturally
took the star, which they saw alternately emerging from
the effulgence of the rising and setting sun, in the east
and in the west, for two distinct bodies, and named it dif-
ferently according to the time of its appearance. The
evening star they called Hesperus, and from its place on
the western horizon, fabled an earthly hero of that name,
the son of Atlas, who. from the slopes of that mountain on
the verge of the known world used to observe the stars
until eventually carried off by a mighty wind, and so
translated to the skies. These divine honors were earned
by his piety, wisdom, and justice as a ruler of men, and
his name long shed a shimmering glory over those Hesper-
idean regions of the earth, where the real and unreal
touched hands in the mystical twilight of the unknown.
But the morning star shone with a different significance
as the herald of the day, the torchbearer who lights the
way for radiant Aurora on her triumphal progress through
the skies. Hence he was called Eosphorus, or Phosphorus,
the bearer of the dawn, translated into Latin as Lucifer,
the Light-bearer. The son of Eos, or Aurora, and the Titan
Astrseus, he was of the same parentage as the other mul-
titude of the starry host, to whom a similar origin was
ascribed, and from whom in Greek mythology he was evi-
dently believed to differ only in the superior order of his
brightness. Homer, who mentions the planet in the fol-
lowing passage:
" But when the star of Lucifer appeared,
The harbinger of light, whom following close,
Spreads o'er the sea the saffron-robed morn " —
(Lord Derby's ' Iliad.')
recognizes no distinction between those celestial nomads,
the planets, " wandering stars," as the Arabs call them,
which visibly change their position relatively to the other
stars, and the latter, whose places on the sphere are ap-
parently fixed and immutable. In this he and his com-
patriots were far behind the ancient Egyptians, who prob-
ably derived their knowledge from still earlier specu-
lators in Asia, for they not only observed the movements
of some at least of the planets, but believed that Mercury
and Venus revolved as satellites round the sun, which in
turn circled round our lesser world. Pythagoras is said to
AGNES MARY CLERKE. G03
have been the first to identify Hesperus with Phosphor,
as the
" Silver planet both of eve and morn,"
and by Plato the same fact is recognized. The other
planets, all of which had, according to him, been originally
named in Egypt and Syria, have each its descriptive title
in his nomenclature. Thus the innermost, " the Star of
Mercury," is called Stilbon, " the Sparkler," Mars, Pyroeis,
" the Fiery One," while Jupiter, the planet of the slowest
course but one, is designated as Phaeton, and Saturn, the
tardiest of all, Phaenon. These names were in later times
abandoned in favor of those of the divinities to whom
they were respectively dedicated, unalterably associated
now with the days of the week, over which they have been
selected to preside.
The Copernican theory, which once and forever
" brushed the cobwebs out of the sky," by clearing away
the mists of pre-existing error, first completely explained
the varying positions of the Shepherd's star, irradiating
the first or last watch of night, according to her alter-
nate function as the follower or precursor of the sun. As
she travels on a path nearer to him by more than twenty-
five and a half million miles than that of the earth, she
is seen by us on each side of him in turn after passing be-
hind or in front of him.
The points at which her orbit expands most widely to
our eyes — an effect of course entirely due to perspective,
as her distance from the sun is not then actually increased
— are called her eastern and western elongations; that at
which she passes by the sun on the hither side her inferior,
and on the farther side her superior conjunction. At both
conjunctions she is lost to our view, since she accompanies
the sun so closely as to be lost in his beams, rising and
setting at the same time, and traveling with him in his
path through the heavens during the day. When at in-
ferior conjunction, or between us and the sun, she turns
her dark hemisphere to us like the new moon, and would
consequently be invisible in any case, but when in the op-
posite position, shows us her illuminated face, and is lit-
erally a day star, invisible only because effaced by the
solar splendor.
It is as she gradually separates from him, after leaving
604 IRISH LITERATURE.
this latter position, circling over that half of her orbit
which lies to the east of him, that she begins to come into
view as an evening star, following him at a greater and
greater distance, and consequently setting later, until she
attains her greatest eastern elongation, divided from the
sun about forty-five degrees of his visible circuit through
the heavens, and consequently remaining above the horizon
for some four hours after him. From this point she again
appears to draw nearer to him until she passes on his
hither side in inferior conjunction, from which she emerges
on the opposite side to the westward, and begins to shine
as a morning star, preceding him on his track, at a grad-
ually increasing distance, until attaining her greatest
westward elongation, and finally completing her cycle by
returning to superior conjunction once more in a period
of about five hundred and eighty-four days.
Venus is thus Hesperus or Vesper, the evening star,
when following the sun as she passes from beyond him in
superior conjunction to inferior conjunction, where she is
nearest to the earth. As she again leaves him behind in
her course from this point to the opposite one of superior
conjunction, she appears in her second aspect as Phos-
phorus or Lucifer, " the sun of morning," and herald of the
day, shining as
' ' The fair star
That gems the glittering coronet of morn."
FRANCES POWER COBBE.
(1822—1904.)
Frances Power Cobbe, one of the leaders in the fight for the re-
moval of the disabilities of English women, was the daughter of Mr.
Charles Cobbe of Newbridge House, County Dublin, and was born
in that city, Dec. 4, 1822. She received her education at Brighton.
For many years she was a frequent contributor to the periodi-
cal literature of the day, and her essays, republished in volume
form, make up a goodly list. She published among other things
'Essays on the Pursuits of Women,' 1863; 'Broken Lives,' 1864;
' Cities of the Past,' reprinted from Fraser's Magazine, 1864 ;
' Brief Notes on Politics, People, and Places in Italy ' ; ' Darwinism
in Morals, and other Essays,' 1872; ' The Hopes of the Human Race
Hereafter and Here, ' 1874. ' Re-echoes ' appeared in 1876. It is a
republication of essays contributed by her to the Echo, which
formed for many years one of the most attractive features in that
journal.
One of the favorite subjects of Miss Cobbe's pen was that which is
called "woman's rights." She maintained in many an essay the
claims of her sex to have a place in the professions and a share
hi the political activity of her time. In her own self she was, per-
haps, one of the strongest arguments in favor of her view, for she
showed in literature an activity that is paralleled by few men,
and a grace of style and f reshness of thought for which more than
one masculine writer might vainly wish.
She also wrote an autobiography — 'Woman's Duty to Woman';
'The Relation of Man to the Lower Animals,' etc. She was the
foundress of an Anti- Vivisection Society in London, and of the
British Union Anti- Vivisection Society, and published hundreds of
articles and pamphlets on this subject and on that of the poor laws
in England. She died April 5, 1004.
THE CONTAGION OF LOVE.
From an Essay on ' The Emotions.'
It is impossible to form the faintest estimate of the good
— the highest kind of good, which a single devout soul may
accomplish in a lifetime by spreading the holy contagion
of the love of God in widening circles around it. But just
as far as the influence of such men is a cause for thank-
fulness, so great would be the calamity of a time, if such
should ever arrive, when there should he a dearth of saints
*n the world, and the fire on the altar should die down. A
605
606 IRISH LITERATURE.
glacial period of religion would kill many of the sweetest
flowers in human nature; and woe to the land where (as
it would seem is almost the case in France at this moment)
the priceless tradition of prayer is being lost, or only main-
tained in fatal connection with outworn superstitions.
To resume the subject of this paper. We have seen that
the emotions, which are the chief springs of human con-
duct, many either be produced b}^ their natural stimuli, or
conveyed by contagion from other minds, but that they
can neither be commanded nor taught. If we desire to con-
vey good and noble emotions to our fellow-creatures, the
only means whereby we can effect that end is by filling
our own hearts with them till they overflow into the hearts
of others. Here lies the great truth which the preachers of
Altruism persistently overlook. It is better to be good
than to do good. We can benefit our kind in no way so
much as by being ourselves pure and upright and noble
minded. We can never teach religion to such purpose as
we can live it.
It was my privilege to know a woman who for more than
twenty years was chained by a cruel malady to what Heine
called a " mattress grave." Little or nothing was it pos-
sible for her to do for any one in the way of ordinary
service. Her many schemes of usefulness and beneficence
were all stopped. Yet merely by attaining to the lofty
heights of spiritual life and knowledge, that suffering
woman helped and lifted up the hearts of all who came
around her, and did more real good, and of the highest
kind, than half the preachers and philanthropists in the
land. Even now, when her beautiful soul has been re-
leased at last from its earthly cage, it still moves many
who knew her to the love of God and duty to remember
what she was; and to the faith in immortality to think
what now she must be — within the golden gates.
HENRY BRERETON CODE.
( 1830.)
"Great confusion has arisen about Code, and it is rather dif-
ficult to get exact data about him," says Mr. O'Donoghue in his
' Poets of Ireland.' " Some things are beyond doubt, however, such
as that he was the author of 'The Sprig of Shillelah,' and not
Lysaght; that it occurs in bis 'Russian Sacrifice,' and was written
by him some years before the production of that piece on the stage ;
that he was editor of The Warder, a prominent Toi'y journal in
Dublin between 1820-30, and was sometimes referred to in its col-
umns as author of the song mentioned ; that he wrote agricultural
matter for his paper, and songs also ; that he never wrote ' Donny-
brook Fair,' as some writers have surmised; and that he died about
1830.
" He was a government spy during the '98 period, and several pay-
ments of money were made to him for information in 1802-3. He
afterward got a place in the Revenue, it is said. He reported
Robert Emmet's famous speech, and mutilated it for base purposes,
according to The United Irishman. Sir John A. Stevenson set his
dramas to music, and also one or two separate songs which he wrote,
as 'The Fisherman's Glee,' Dublin, 1825. The words of a very
popular glee by Stevenson, ' See our oars with feathered spray,1
bMong to one of Code's dramas. Code's real name was Cody."
THE SPRIG OF SHILLELAH.
Oh ! love is the soul of a neat Irishman,
He loves all that is lovely, loves all that he can,
With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green!
1 1 is heart is good-humored, 't is honest and sound,
No envy or malice is there to be found;
He courts and he marries, he drinks and he fights,
For love, all for love, for in that he delights,
With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green!
Who lias e'er had the luck to see Donnybrook Fair?
An Irishman, all in his glory, is there,
With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green!
His clothes spick and span new, without e'er a speck,
A neat Barcelona tied round his white neck;
He goes to a tent, and he spends half-a-crown,
He meets with a friend, and for love knocks him down,
With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green!
607
608 IRISH LITERATURE.
At evening returning, as homeward he goes,
His heart soft with whisky, his head soft with blows,
From a sprig of sliillelah and shamrock so green !
He meets with his Skeelah/who, frowning a smile,
Cries, " Get ye gone, Pat," yet consents all the while.
To the priest soon they go, and a year after that
A baby cries out, " How d'ye do, father Pat,
With your sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green! "
Bless the country, say I, that gave Patrick his birth,
Bless the land of the oak, and its neighboring earth,
Where grow the shillelah and shamrock so green !
May the sons of the Thames, the Tweed, and the Shannon,
Drub the foes who dare plant on our confines a cannon;
United and happy, at Loyalty's shrine,
May the rose and the thistle long flourish and twine
Round the sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green !
1 Sheelah, sweetheart.
PATRICK JAMES COLEMAN.
(1867 )
Patrick James Coleman was born at Ballaghadereen, County
Mayo, in 18G7. He matriculated at London University. Later on
he came to America and went into journalism. He is a contrib-
utor to The Irish Monthly, The Nation, and other Irish-American
papers. His vei'ses are racy of the soil, and accurately and forcibly
present certain phases of Irish sentiment.
SEED-TIME.
i.
The top o' the mornin5 to yon, Mick,
Isn't it fine an' dhry an' still?
Just an elegant day, avic,
To stick the toleys on Tullagh hill.
The field is turned, an' every clod
In ridge an' furrow is fresh an' brown;
So let 's away, with the help o' God,
By the heel o' the evenin' we '11 have them down.
As long as there 's plenty o' milk to churn,
An' plenty o' pyaties in ridge an' furrow,
By the winter fire we '11 laugh to scorn
The frown o' famine an' scowl o' sorrow.
n.
There ?s a time to work, an' a time to talk 5
So, Patsy, my boy, your pratin' shtopl
By Midsummer Day, blossom an' stalk,
We '11 feast our eyes on a right good crop,,
Oh, the purple blossoms, so full o' joy,
Burstin' up from our Irish loam,
They're betther than gold to the peasant boy;
They crown him king in his Irish home!
As long as the cows have milk to churn,
With plenty 0' pyaties in ridge an' furrow,
By the winter hearth we 'II laugh to scorn
The frown o' famine an' scowl o' sorrow.
39 <;oo
G10 IRISH LITERATURE.
in.
A year ago we wor full o' hope,
For the stalks wor green by the First o' May,
But the brown blight fell over field an' slope,
An' the poreens 1 rotted by Lady Day.
You 'd dig a ridge for a creel in vain;
But He left us still our daeint friends;
If it comes again we won't complain — ■
His will be done ! — it 's the besht He sends !
As long as we 've plenty o' milk to churn,
An' plenty o' pyaties in ridge an' furrow,
By the winter fire we '11 laugh to scorn
The frown o' famine an' scowl o' sorrow.
IV.
An' whin the turf 's in the haggard piled,
We '11 come, plase God! with our spades and loys;
It "s busy ye '11 be, then, Brigid, my child,
Fillin' the baskets behind the boys.
So shtick thim deep in Ould Ireland's clay —
It 's nearly dusk, an' there 's work galore;
It 's time enough in the winter to play,
When the crop is safe on our cabin floor.
As long as the cows have milk to churn.
With plenty o' pyaties in ridge an' furrow,
Bv the winter hearth we '11 laugh to scorn
The frown o' famine an' scowl o' sorrow.
BINDIN' THE OATS.
Bindin' the oats in sweet September,
Don't you remember
That evening, dear?
Ah ! but you bound my heart complately,
Fair and nately,
Snug in the snood of your silken hair!
Swung the sickles, you followed after
With musical laughter
And witchin' eye.
I tried to reap, but each swathe I took, love,
1 Poreens, small potatoes.
PATRICK JAMES COLEMAN. 611
Spoiled the stook, love,
For your smile had bothered my head awry!
Such an elegant, graceful binder,
Where could I find her
All Ireland through?
Worn't the stout, young, strappin' fellows
Fairly jealous,
Dyin', astlwrc machrcc, for you?
Talk o' Persephone pluckin' the posies,
Or the red roses,
In Henna's plain !
You wor sweeter, with cheeks so red, love,
And beautiful head, love,
Gatherin' up the golden grain.
Bindin' the oats in sweet September,
Don't you remember
The stolen pogue? 1
How could I help but there deliver
My heart for ever
To such a beautiful little rogue?
Bindin' the oats, 't was there you found me,
There you bound me
That harvest day!
Ah ! that I in your blessed bond, love.
Fair and fond, love,
Happy, for ever and ever, stay !
1 Pogue, kiss.
PADRAIC COLUM.
Padraic Colum is one of the latest of young Irishmen who have
made a name for themselves in the literary world. His work has
been published in The United Irishman and he figures in an inter-
esting anthology entitled 'New Songs, a Lyric Selection,' made by
A. George Russell.
THE PLOWER.
Sunset and silence; a man; around him earth savage, earth
broken :
Beside him two horses, a plow !
Earth savage, earth broken, the brutes, the dawn-man there in
the sunset !
And the plow that is twin to the sword, that is founder of
cities !
"Brute-tamer, plow-maker, earth-breaker! Canst hear? There
are ages between us!
" Is it praying you are as you stand there, alone in the sun-
set?
" Surely our sky-born gods can be nought to you, Earth-child
and Earth-master !
" Surely your thoughts are of Pan, or of Wotan or Dana!
" Yet why give thought to the gods? Has Pan led your brutes
where they stumble?
" Has Wotan put hands to your plow or Dana numbed pain
of the child-bed?
" What matter your foolish reply, O man standing lone and
bowed earthward.
" Your task is a day near its close. Give thanks to the night-
giving God."
Slowly the darkness falls, the broken lands blend with the
savage,
The brute-tamer stands by the brutes, by a head's breadth only
above them !
A head's breadth, ay, but therein is Hell's depth and the height
up to Heaven,
And the thrones of the gods, and their halls and their chariots,
purples and splendors.
612
PADRAIC COLUM. 613
A DROVER.
To Meath of the Pastures,
From wet hills by the sea,
Through Leitrim and Longford
Go my cattle and me.
I hear in the darkness
Their slipping and breathing,
I name them the by-ways
They 're to pass without heeding.
Then the wet, winding roads,
Brown bogs with black water,
And my thoughts on white ships
And the King o' Spain's daughter!
O farmer, strong farmer,
You can spend at the fair,
But your face you must turn
To your crops and your care !
And soldiers, red soldiers,
You 've seen many lands,
But you march two by two,
And by captain's commands.
0 the smell of the beasts,
The wet wind in the morn,
And the proud and hard earth
Never broken for corn !
And the crowds at the fair,
The herds loosened and blind;
Loud words and dark faces.
And the wild blood behind.
(O strong men, with your best
1 would strive breast to breast;
I could quiet your herds
With my words, with my words.)
I will bring you, uiv kine,
Where there 's grass to the knee,
But you '11 think of scani croppings,
Harsh with salt of the sea.
WILLIAM CONGREVE.
(1670—1729.)
William Congreve was born in 1670. His first comedy, ' The Old
Bachelor,' was acted in 1693. In 1694 and 1695 respectively appeared
two others, ' The Double Dealer ' and ' Love for Love.' These were fol-
lowed in 1697 by the tragedy of ' The Mourning Bi^ide.' His last and
best comedy, 'The Way of the World,' conspicuous for its all-con-
quering character of ' Millamant, ' so admirably interpreted by the
beautiful Mrs. Bracegirdle, was produced in 1700. After this he
practically retired from literature. His works, which include a
volume of miscellaneous poems, were published in 1710. He died
in 1729.
"The poetical remains of Congreve," says Mr. Austin Dobson,
"especially when considered in connection with those remarkable
dramatic works which achieved for him so swift and splendid a rep-
utation, have but a slender claim to vitality. His brilliant and au-
dacious Muse seems to have required the glitter of the footlights and
the artificial atmosphere of the stage as conditions of success ; in
the study he is, as a rule, either trivial or frigidly conventional.
Two lines of his —
" ' For I would hear her voice, and try
If it be possible to die ' —
ire a strange, and we think hitherto unnoticed, anticipation of the
last lines of Keats' famous ' last sonnet ' in the concluding couplet
[>f the whole : —
" ' Wishing forever in that state to lie,
Forever to be dying so, yet never die.'
" In his songs and minor pieces Congreve is more successful,
though he never reaches the level of his contemporary, Prior.
' Amoret ' sets a tune which has often since been heard in familiar
verse ; and the little song ' False though she be to me and love ' has
almost a note of genuine regret."
AMORET.
Fair Arnoret is gone astray;
Pursue and seek her, ev'ry lover;
I '11 tell the signs by which yon may
The wandering shepherdess discover.
Coquet and coy at once her air,
Both studied, though both seem neglected;
Careless she is with artful care,
Affecting to seem unaffected.
614
WILLIAM CONGREVE. 615
With skill her eyes dart every glance,
Yet change so soon you 'd ne'er suspect them ;
For she 'd persuade they wound by chance,
Though certain aim and art direct them.
She likes herself, yet others hates
For that which in herself she prizes;
And, while she laughs at them, forgets
She is the thing that she despises.
EXTRACTS FROM THE 'MOURNING BRIDE.'
Music has charms to sooth a savage breast,
To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.
I 've read, that things inanimate have moved,
And, as with living souls, have been informed
By magic numbers and persuasive sound.
Vile and ingrate! too late thou shalt repent
The base injustice thou hast done my love:
Yes, thou shalt know, spite of thy past distress,
And all those ills which thou so long hast mourned;
Heav'n has no rage like love to hatred turned,
Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.
Seest thou how just the hand of Heav'n has been?
Let us, who through our innocence survive,
Still in the paths of honor persevere,
And not from past or present ills despair;
For blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds;
And though a late, a sure reward succeeds.
F. NORRYS CONNELL.
F. Norrys Connell is one of the many clever Irish writers of
fiction who came to the front toward the close of the nineteenth
century. He wrote ' The House of the Strange Woman,' ' In the
Green Park,' and 'The Fool and His Heart,' the latter being the
plainly told story of Basil Thimm. It is a tale of the "land of Bo-
hemia, where bleach the bones of lost souls," and of at least one
happy escape therefrom.
FROM ALMA MATER TO DE PROFUNDIS.
From ' The Fool and His Heart/
Gray was the predominating color at Bournegate, so
Basil thought. He arrived there on a gray, winter morn-
ing, and ever after the atmosphere seemed to him to have
tinted the place with a palpable pigment; the road was
gray, the houses, the trees were gray, the very horse which
had drawn the college brougham to meet him was gray
too. England was sad indeed; he had come to it through
an icy channel fog, which darkened the blackness of the
night, and now when day broke it was not light — only
gray, gray, gray. He heard the horse's hoofs splashing
through the mire as they sped along the somber road to the
school; he saw the monotonous fall of mud upon the win-
dow pane. Essex is not a pretty county, and that day she
wore her ugliest frock; leafless trees dripping with last
night's rain, sodden fields, and mud, mud everywhere.
Basil's heart was in his boots. The vehicle turned a gate-
post and seemed to be rolling on less sloppy ground; he
opened the window, and braving the cold rain and the spat-
tering dirt leaned out. They were ascending an avenue
bordered by bare but noble elms, and in front of him, still
far off, but plainly visible, was a feudal castle. It was
Charterborough schoolhouse, the college of the famous
monks of St. Michael and St. George. Down that avenue,
along which Basil was bowling now, during the last fifty
years many a soldier terrible in war, many an embryo
bishop, many a wily politician, many a hardy sailor, many
a man of law, many an honest country squire, many a mer-
chant prince, and perhaps one or two real live suppositi-
616
F. NORRYS CONNELL. 617
tious kings had come to take their places in the world.
Has not Charterborough its honored dead alike in the
Abbey, in the African sand, and in the sea? Does she not
nurse the two unrecalcitrant descendants of the men of
Agincourt and Sluys?
The brougham drew up to the door, which was opened
instantly. Basil stepped out, and going up the steps was
met by a gray-haired priest of noble mien.
" Welcome to Charterborough, Basil Thimm," said the
ecclesiastic, stretching out his hand.
" Thank you, sir," said the boy, returning the grasp
warmly.
A porter came down the steps, and taking Basil's slight
belongings lightly between his arms, disappeared with
them down a long passage which led from the top of the
hall staircase to the boys' part of the building.
" You will eat some luncheon? " suggested the priest,
and accepting Basil's silence as an affirmative, he added,
" Come to my room."
Basil followed his mentor up the cold, handsome stair-
case and down the long passage, richly but chastely dec-
orated. Halfway down the corridor was a window, and at
the other side of the window two curtains crossed the way.
" YVe are now in the schoolhouse," said the monk. And
glancing around him, Basil noticed that the decorations
had ceased; the walls were — he shivered — gray, the ceiling
a plain white, the heavy carpeting had given place to a
sullen drugget, which only sufficed to deaden the sound
of footsteps without fulfilling other purpose. xVt the far
end of the passage the priest opened a door in the wall, he
stepped courteously back and motioned the boy to enter
before him. Basil found himself in a small apartment
crowded with account books, packets of letters, and writ-
ing materials of every possible kind; a large mail bag,
bulging and double locked, lay on the desk. Basil recog-
nized it as having been handed up to his driver at the
station.
The old priest smiled at the interested inquiring glance
which Basil shot round him. " I don't know whether you
are acquainted with military technicalities," he said, " but
you are now in the bureau of the general staff of Charter-
borough College."
618 IRISH LITERATURE.
" My oldest brother is in the army, sir," said Basil.
"Ah, yes Frank Thimin; I remember him, of course.
You 're not at all like him," he added with a relieved air,
after a somewhat anxious scrutiny.
Basil deemed it unnecessary to reply.
"Well, you must be hungry; make yourself at home by
the fire, while I see what we can get you to eat. We have
not a recherche larder, but can promise you an excellent
chop if you would care for it. By the way, I am what is
called the ( minister ' here; that is to say, I am responsible
for everything to the rector — a sort of adjutant, you know.
So whenever you have any trouble or cannot get what
you want, you have simply to come upstairs and tell me.
You may not get it even then," he said, with a smile, " but
at least you will have the satisfaction of knowing the
reason why. Now, would you like a chop, or not? A very
excellent one, as I have said, is waiting for you."
" Yes, thank you, sir, I should very much," replied Basil,
and his host left him, closing the door behind him.
Basil warmed his hands at the cheerful fire while he
awaited the promised repast; he felt very lonely, for Ire-
land seemed very far away, and Fitzwilliam Square, par-
ticularly, was in the clouds. A funny little room this of
the minister's ; dissimilar articles abounded in such profu-
sion that one was inclined to call it untidy, and yet it
would have been difficult, considering the limited space,
to suggest a better arrangement.
Presently the minister reappeared with a neatly ar-
ranged tray, which, notwithstanding his venerable appear-
ance, he carried with apparent ease in one hand. With
the other he lifted the heavy mail bag from the desk and
laid it softly on the floor, putting the tray in its place.
Basil, sitting in his host's revolving writing chair, enjoyed
himself silently for the next quarter of an hour, while the
priest watched with a pleased smile his obvious apprecia-
tion of the chop.
" So you find our meat all right?" he said, at last.
" Very excellent indeed, sir," answered Basil readily.
" I am glad of that, for I may tell you I buy all our cattle
myself, and am as responsible for the doings in our farm-
yard as I am for what is done here."
" You understand cattle, sir? " Basil said.
F. NORRYS CONNELL. G19
" I was brought up in the country," continued the priest,
" in Ireland, County Tipperary."
Basil noticed for the first time a Milesian softness in
his voice. " You are Irish then, sir? "
The priest shook his head. " No, I am sorry to say
I have no true Irish blood in my veins, but I was born in
Ireland, where my father was stationed at the time. All
my early days were spent in Ireland, and I learned to be
very fond of your country."
" Your father was in the armv, sir? "
ft/ 7
" Yes, in the 4th Dragoon Guards."
"The Royal Irish ! " exclaimed Basil. "But you did
not care for the army, yourself? ' he added, interroga-
ted v.
" I rode with Scarlett at Balaklava."
" What ! " cried Basil excitedly, " when the Heavies
charged the Russian cavalry? How magnificent that must
have been."
The priest put his hand up imperiously. " Silence,
Basil," he said vehemently, "it was not magnificent, it
was terrible, onlv terrible. I was with the 4th. I saw my
7 ft/ •/
father struck by a fragment of a shell and we left him
dead upon the field. Next morning, when we recovered
the body, it was a horror and offense against God."
" When did you leave the army? " asked Basil, after a
short pause, and still a little abashed by the sharply admin-
istered rebuke of the priest.
" At the conclusion of the war. I was attacked by
typhoid fever in the trenches before Sevastopol, and when
I recovered my hair was as gray as it is now."
An involuntary exclamation of pity escaped the boy, but
he silenced himself as the priest added, " I thank God for
that illness."
Basil half expected an explanation of this last speech,
but the priest changed the subject abruptly. "As I have
told you, I am the minister here; my name is Greenwood.
Father Clifford, our rector, is away, and only returns to-
night in time to welcome our new boys and those come
back after the holidays. A few like vourself have arrived
•' i/
somewhat early, but our school term does not actually
commence till to-morrow. Most of the bovs will arrive to-
night and to-morrow morning. Classes commence the day
620 IRISH LITERATURE.
after to-morrow, but with them I have nothing to do; I
simply hand you over to the prefect of studies, Father
Eyre, as far as your education is concerned. Come now
and I will show you your place in the dormitory and the
refectory; you will sleep in the former to-night and break-
fast in the latter to-morrow morning."
Basil accordingly was conducted through the great
buildings and initiated into the various customs of school
life. He could not appear altogether pleased with the
somewhat faulty arrangements for his comfort. Amongst
our schoolmasters there seems to be a tradition, now, per-
haps, at last on the wane, that boys should be herded like
the beasts of the field, and even the comparatively refined
monks of St. Michael and St. George seemed to be slightly
bitten by this theory. To a boy of Basil's fastidious tem-
perament such things took perhaps an exaggerated impor-
tance, and the priest was forced to see that his charge was
already inclined to feel uncomfortable. He noticed the
disappointed look on Basil's face grow more and more
grave as they moved from room to room, and he felt he
could not blame the boy. He himself had exercised all his
power in effecting little changes in what he was not per-
mitted to alter to his satisfaction. He saw clearly the dis-
crepancies in the interior economy of the school, but custom
had sanctified these faults, and it was useless for him to
seek to alter them materially.
When Basil lay down to sleep in his partition of the
dormitory that night he felt profoundly depressed, he al-
most had it in his heart to write home and beg to be al-
lowed to return ; and even yet he only partly realized the
discomforts which awaited him. He saw the light turned
down, leaving only a little glimmer which played upon the
ceiling, and he heard the door of the prefect's room close.
Many of the partitions of the dormitory were occupied, and
a sort of clandestine intercourse was carried on in stifled
whispers. Basil's neighbor on the right had lighted a pri-
vate candle, inadequately concealed by a suspended boot ;
his neighbor on the left was winding up a watch with an
unconscionably long spring, so long indeed that Basil fell
asleep and dreamt about it before the operation was fin-
ished. He did not sleep very long though, but awoke in
some hours' time shivering with cold. He crawled out of
F. NORRYS CONNELL. 621
bed and sought in the dark to find his overcoat and rug.
By the time he laid his hands on them his teeth were chat-
tering, and the hard horse-hair mattress, flattened by many
generations of schoolboys, scarcely conduced to repose.
He lay in the bed shivering in spite of the extra covering,
and a prey to the horrors of night. But at last exhaustion
claimed him, and he slept a deep unliving slumber, until,
all too soon, the ringing of an electric bell buzzed in his
ears. It was morning, and Basil's school life had begun in
earnest.
No, ( Miarterborough School was the last place in the
world for Basil to come to if he sought rest for his spirit;
it was undoubtedly the best school he could have gone to,
but a boarding-school was a place which, if Basil had
known what it was like, he would have avoided. He
imagined that it would have been an improvement on the
Dublin day school of the monks of the same order, and so
in many ways it was ; but Basil had forgotten that the day
school had at least the advantage of only claiming a few
hours of his time, whereas here he was under constant sur-
veillance, and could not call a moment his own. True, the
surveillance was often kind, and always well intentioned;
still to Basil that made it only less unbearable. At home,
he rose about eight or half-past, surrendered himself to his
torturers at hall-past nine, was set free at three, and be-
tween then and bedtime at eleven he had, with the excep-
tion of two hours' work, all his time to himself. Here he
rose at six, attended Mass in the cold starved chapel at
half-past, sat in the equally miserable study room from
seven to eight, ate what to him was a revolting breakfast
at half-past, and so on until half-past nine at night, when
he escaped to his comfortless bed.
Basil ground his teeth in anguish, but. after the first
horror of the thing had worn off he wrote home fairly
cheerfully and set himself to live down his troubles. It was
a lively si niggle, for all that was timid in Basil's nature
was awakened by the unpleasantness of his existence; lie
felt, too, absurdly out of place. He took little interest in
the sports of the playground; cricket appeared, to him a
dull game, and he was too light to be a success at football,
yet he was compelled to take his share in both by the rules
of the school. His schoolmates thought him a muff, and
622 IRISH LITERATURE.
he did not trouble to undeceive theni until it was necessary
to thrash two offenders in one hour. After that they were
more respectful, but he was too insouciant to court popu-
larity. Apart from the question of freedom, however, his
most serious annoyance was the dearth of literature. He
had had the presence of mind to slip a shilling Shake-
speare and a pocket edition of Keats into his trunk when
leaving home, and from these two volumes he was driven
to imbibe almost his entire flow of literary wealth ; for
even in the higher line library, English letters were repre-
sented for the most part by Dickens and W. H. G. King-
ston, while the Continental fiction was exclusively con-
tributed by Erkmann-Chatrain, Jules Verne, and Canon
Schmidt.
Basil seized the opportunity to read i Pickwick ' and
1 Copperfield ' again, works of which he had kindly recol-
lections, but his heart yearned for something more solid
than the pleasant fantasies of Dickens. He confided his
troubles to Father Greenwood, who always had the air of
regarding such confidences as a personal compliment, and
who treated Basil's complaint that he had not enough to
read as seriously as if he had complained of hunger. He
lent him a complete set of Punch from the very commence-
ment, and from its pages, studiously scanned, Basil learned
almost unconsciously the history of over forty years' pol-
itics and manners, which he remembered in after life, and
which inspired him with an undying affection for a certain
window in Fleet Street.
Punch kept Basil's mind busy for a long time, but at last
he was compelled to fall back upon Shakespeare and Keats,
the latter very narrowly escaping confiscation at the hands
of the prefect of studies.
At last the winter brightened into spring, and the spring
lengthened into summer. The holidays came round about
the middle of July, and Basil found his way home to
Dublin.
How strange everything looked as he drove up from
Westland Kow early in the morning ; Baggot Street seemed
narrower than it used to be, and the houses not so high.
The car turned into Fitzwilliam Square, and Basil's eye,
falling on a certain house, saw that the windows were
papered up and that the hall door brasses were tarnished;
F. NORRYIS CONNELL. 623
the Hunters in fact had left town for the summer. If
Basil had reflected beforehand he would have expected to
find it so; as it was he was grievously disappointed.
He jumped off at his own door; that, at any rate, was
the same as ever. A maid-servant, whom he recognized,
opened it. As if seized by spontaneous affection, he flung
himself into her arms and kissed her, while the jarvey
grinned from ear to ear.
" Indeed, and it 's glad I am to see you, Master Basil,"
said the girl, panting for breath; " sure the house has not
been the same without you."
"Where's father, where 's mother?" asked Basil ex-
citedly, as he paid the car driver for his preposterously
valued services.
" My lady 's away at Clonkillock with Lady Rowan, but
the master 's waiting for you. He 's been ailing these last
few days, so he didn't get up to meet you, but he left orders
you was to see him the minute you came." Before she
could finish her speech Basil had flown upstairs and burst
into his father's bedroom. Man and boy hugged each
other in an almost passionate embrace.
" There, there," said the knight, " I 've been looking for-
ward to this for a long time, Basil." His voice trembled
slightly as he spoke. " Your mother 's away with Alice at
Clonkillock. The fact is, by this time you are probably
an uncle, and I, Basil, faith, I suppose I must be a grand-
father, though it didn't occur to me before." There was the
old jovial ring in his voice, but Basil could see, even by the
heavy light of the bedroom, that he had aged during the
last few months.
" Are you ill, father? " he asked tenderly.
The physician passed his hand across his forehead.
"No, not ill;': he replied. "I'm not what I was; I'm
growing old, in fact, that's all. Why, I tell you I 'm a
grandfather, and you can't expect men in my position to
go and tneel schoolboys at seven in the morning."
A tap came at the door, and the maid, opening it suffi-
ciently to make herself heard, said, " It 's some tea you '11
be drinking, Master Basil?"
" Yes, and toast," called Sir Francis. " Tell Denis to
bring Master Basil's breakfast up here to my room. I
want a good chat," continued the knight. " 1 've had no
624 IRISH LITERATURE.
one to talk to since you 've been away. Tell me, anything
fresh about the Aryan Heresy? Or are polemics taboo at
Charterborough ? "
" Not precisely taboo, sir," answered Basil, seriously,
" but one is onty supplied with the documentary evidence
pertaining to one side of the question."
"Answered like a true cynical philosopher," exclaimed
Sir Francis, delightedly. " Oh, Basil, I wish I were you,
and not a grandfather — loth to leave his bed even on such
a fine morning as this. You had a fine night crossing, I
should think? "
" Very fair, sir, but too quiet to be interesting."
" You were not sea-sick? "
" No, sir."
" You ought to have been. It \s very good for the in-
side, as old Granville observes in his ' Travels to St. Peters-
burg.' Still, at your age one doesn't want such violent
emetics. The place has been very quiet without you. How
did you get on at school? "
Basil shrugged his shoulders. " I got the prize for
English and a certificate for French."
" Otherwise you tailed the hunt, I suppose? "
Basil nodded.
" You ought to take a little more pains. Still, I 'm not
dissatisfied. It 's a great thing to know one thing well.
For myself, I 'm Jack-of -all-trades, and master of theol-
ogy, perhaps, which isn't much use to a struggling doctor.
You '11 be glad to hear William is doing very well in Lon-
don ; we '11 have to find him a practice soon. By the way,
what do you want to do when you've finished school?
Turn churchman, eh?"
Basil said " No," emphatically. The proposition seemed
almost to upset his equanimity.
" So the priesthood doesn't appeal to you? "
" No," said Basil again.
" naven't they been kind to you at Charterborough? "
Basil hesitated a moment.
" Yes, sir, most kind, almost without exception. The
minister, Father Greenwood, is one of the nicest men I ever
met."
"Greenwood, Greenwood?" said the knight. "I seem
F. NORRYS CONNELL. 625
to know the name. But in spite of their kindness you
wont be in a hurry to go back? "
" Not in a hurry, certainly," admitted Basil, " for I 'm
awfully delighted to be here with you again, but I 'in quite
prepared for another year at Charterborough. It 's very
uncomfortable after home, and some things about it are
hateful ; but it seems to be the right thing to go back. To
put everything else aside, I do more work there than I
did here; their method of teaching seems to me more rea-
sonable."
" That I well believe," said the physician. " The Irish,
no matter how clever they are, or how well they know a
thing, seem to be incapable of explaining it to any-
body else. But what do you want to do when you leave
school? Two things, mark ye, are out of the question. I
can't afford the Army, and one is enough in the medical.
You say you won't be a priest; well, then, there 's the Bar."
Basil did not look enthusiastic.
" You 're too old for the Navy. I haven't the money or
the influence for the Foreign Office or the Diplomatic Ser-
vice; the Civil Service is objectionable for many reasons.
We come back to the Law — AVould you like to be a soli-
citor?"
" No," said Basil.
" No more would I," continued the knight. " Then
there's not much left. You might be an engineer if you
knew your multiplication table better, but — no, that's no
use. Then what is there? You 'd never know anything
about agriculture if you lived till a hundred. What on
earth are you to do, Basil, boy? "
Basil waited a long time before replying; at last, in
answer to his father's inquiring look, he blurted out, "I
think I may be able to write a little, sir."
The knight drew a long breath. kk Thank God you don't
want to go on the si age,'' he said, with the affectation of
great relief. " But seriously, Basil, while I don't, in the
least wish to influence your choice, don't you think litera-
ture is a very doubtful pursuit?"
" All pursuits seem to me equally doubtful," answered
Basil.
" Yes, I 'm sure you 're right there. But you know what
— I forget his name, but he 's quite well known — says about
40
G2G IRISH LITERATURE.
literature being an excellent cane but a bad crutch, or
words to that effect. Hadn't you at least better take up
some regular profession — the Bar for preference — and then
you can devote your spare time to literature? '
" Entirely as you please, sir," rejoined Basil.
" No, it isn't as I please," retorted the knight. " You
shall follow entirely your own devices. I refuse to accept
the responsibility of thrusting you into an unsuitable
course of life. But I will ask you to oblige me by giving
my opinion the most serious consideration. You are quite
at liberty to follow your own plans, but it is my duty to
give you the advice of a man who is — is a grandfather, in
fact, and feels it, worse luck."
Eight months later a great sorrow came into Basil's life,
and it came in the form of a telegram handed to him on a
sullen February afternoon as he stood in the minister's
room at Charterborough. He had been standing at the
window, watching the snowflakes circling through the
branches of the elm trees on the great avenue, when he saw
the post-boy from Bournegate galloping up the way. Such
an arrival is always an exciting episode of school life, and
Basil turned to Father Greenwood, who was writing, and
said, " A telegram for some one, sir."
The priest looked up. " Yes, I expect one," he replied,
and went on writing.
Five minutes passed, then with a rap at the door, the
janitor brought in the yellow paper. Basil heard the noise
behind but did not turn round, he was interested in the
effect of the failing light on the snowflakes. The minister
spoke his name twice before he heeded.
" The telegram is not for me," said Father Greenwood,
handing it to him, " but for you. Open it, and tell me what
it is."
Basil took the paper, cut it open methodically with the
minister's paper-knife and looked at it. " Father dying.
Come at once. William." That was all. It had been
handed in at Westland Row at half -past three, it was now
a quarter-past four. " It has been three-quarters of an
hour coming," said Basil, solemnly.
" What has? " said the priest, inattentively. " Oh, your
telegram. Nothing important, I suppose? "
F. NOBRYS CONN ELL. 627
Basil's answer was unintelligible; it was something be-
tween a sob and a groan.
In an instant the priest took in the situation, and,
springing to his feet, caught the boy in his arms. " Cour-
age, Basil; courage, dear fellow, but cry — don't be afraid
of crying, it 's the best thing in the world."
They woke Basil from a ghastly dream at four o'clock
l he next morning. The minister came himself with a glim-
mering candle, and in his sleep Basil thought he felt his
forehead kissed by rough lips.
" I 've ordered some hot tea for you in my room," said
Father Greenwood. " Dress quickly and you '11 have time
to eat and drink a little before you go."
" Thank you, sir," Basil meant to say, but he could do
so only by a hand grip. He dressed without feeling the
bitter cold of morning, and throwing his toilet things into
the bag which he had packed over night, he crept on tip-
toe from the dormitory. As he passed a window he saw the
glimmer of moonlight on the snow. In the minister's room
the tea was simmering by the fire, and some toast with
butter which never came out of the college larder. It was
with the greatest difficulty that Father Greenwood could
persuade the boy to eat, but once he had tasted the food he
realized that he was starving, and Nature made him finish
the plate.
He gulped down a second cup of tea as the noise of
wheels approached from the stable. Father Greenwood
helped him on with his coat, then consulted his watch.
" Three minutes past the half-hour. You will be at the
station in forty minutes, nearly ten minutes before the
train starts, which is not due until 5:21. You will be at
King's ('ross by 0:40, which leaves you over half-an-hour
to get up to Euston, take your ticket, and catch the Irish
.Mail. Have you got your money all right? "
" Yes, sir, thanks, everything."
" Well, push these sandwiches into your overcoat pocket.
Thcv'ic not very nice, but they're fresher than you get
them at the railway buffets. Are you ready? Come."
The priest took up Basil's rug and bag in his hand, and,
followed by the proprietor, walked along the corridor
and descended the slairs. There was uo light on the way
save a little twinkling lamp, but when the great door was
628 IRISH LITERATURE.
opened a flood of moonlight bathed the hall. The col-
lege brougham stood in front of the door. Basil stepped in.
" Good-bye," said Father Greenwood. " Should you
not return, try to think well of us." His voice broke on
the last syllable ; as the vehicle turned a corner Basil saw
him still standing in the moonlight on the steps. The
figure of this fine old man Avas the last impression that
he brought away from Charterborough. He sank back on
the cushions and listened to the soft rush of the wheels
through the snow.
The day came and the day went, and it was dark again
by the time the packet-boat steamed into Kingstown har-
bor: darker still when the car stopped outside the house
in Fitzwilliam Square.
They led him upstairs, and softly into the room where
his father lay. The nurse granted admittance, and Basil
approached the bed. A man almost unrecognizable lay on
it; his cheeks were sunken in his head and on his lips was
a bristling beard, the hair was white as snow, the eyelids
almost fallen.
" Father," said Basil, incontinently.
" Hush," interposed the nurse, hastily. But the invalid
had heard, and opening his eyes he looked round with an
expectant glance. Then he put out his hand just a little
inch towards his son, and saying, " Basil, boy, Basil," in a
sing-song voice, relapsed into a state of stupor.
Basil tried to hold back his tears, but they burst from
him and he turned away. A few minutes later he found
himself kneeling on the floor by the bedside, burning taper
in hand, and repeating in a sacred voice the responses of
the prayer for the dying. The murmur of the voices sud-
denly stopped ; looking up, he saw the priest leaning over
the bed.
Terrified, he started up, but the priest laid his hand on
his arm. " May your death, and mine, be as happy," he
said.
OWEN CONNELLAN.
(1800— 1809.)
Owen Conkellan, whose father claimed to be a descendant of
Laoghaire Mac Neill, King of Ireland, was bom in County Sligo, in
1800. He made a study of Irish literature, and as a scribe in the
Royal Irish Academy he copied much of the Irish writings known
as the ' Books of Lecan and Bally mote.' He was Irish historiogra-
pher in the reigns of George IV. and William IV., and afterward
became professor of Irish at Queen's College, Cork. This position
he held until the time of his death in 18C9.
He published works on Irish grammar, and a translation of ' The
Annals of Ireland from the Irish of the Four Masters,' with full Irish
text. His most important work was a text edition, with translation
and notes, of ' The Imtheachtna Tromdhaimhe,' a tale which relates
how the ' Tain bo Cuailogue,' the most famous story of the Irish
bards, was recovered in the time of St. Ciaran.
THE HOSPITALITY OF CUANNA'S HOUSE.
Translated from the Irish.
This is a story of the Finn or Ossianic Cycle. Finn, according
to the chroniclers, died in the middle of the third century, A. D. —
(D. H.)
"Tell me now the meaning of the by-word, 'the Hos-
pitality of Fionn in the house of Cuanna.' "
" I will tell you the truth concerning that, OVonan,"
said Fionn. " Oisin, Caoilte, Mae Lugbaidb, Diarmuid
o'l Miiblme, and 1 myself happened one day, above all other
days, to be on the summit of Oairn Feargall : we were ac-
companied by our live hounds, namely, Bran, Seeoluing,
Scar Dubh, Luath Luachar, and Anuaill. We had not been
long there w hen we perceived a rough, tall, huge giant ap-
proaching us. He carried an iron fork upon his back, and
a grunting hog was placed between the prongs of the fork;
a young girl of mature age followed and forced the giant
on his way before her. Lei some one go forward and accost
these (people) said I. Diarmuid ( ),I)uibhne followed, but
did not overtake them. The other three and I started up
and followed Diarmuid and the giant. Wo overtook Diar-
muid, but did not come up with the giant or the girl; for
a dark, gloomy, druidical mist showered down between us
and them, so that we could not discern what road they took.
629
630 IRISH LITERATURE.
" When the mist cleared away, we looked around us, and
discovered a light-roofed, comfortable-looking house, at
the edge of the ford, near at hand. We crossed to the
house, before which spread a lawn upon which were two
fountains; at the brink of one fountain lay a rude iron
vessel, and a vessel of bronze at the brink of the other.
Those we met in the house were, an aged hoary-headed
man standing by the door jamb to the right hand, and a
beautiful maid sitting before him; a rough, rude, huge
giant before the fire, busily cooking a hog; and an old man
at the other side of the fire, having an iron-gray head of
hair, and twelve eyes in his head, while the twelve sons
(germs) of discord beamed in each eye: there was also in
the house a ram with a white belly, a jet-black head, dark
green horns, and green feet; and there was in the end of
the house a hag covered with a dark ash-colored garment :
there were no persons in the house except these. The man
at the door-post welcomed us ; and we five, having our five
hounds with us, sat on the floor of the bruighean.1
" i Let submissive homage be done to Fionn Mac Cum-
hail, and his people,' said the man at the door-post. 'My
case is that of a man begging a request, but obtaining
neither the smaller or the greater part of it,' said the
giant; nevertheless he rose up and did respectful homage
to us. After a while, I became suddenly thirsty, and no
person present perceived it but Caoilte, who began to com-
plain bitterly on that account. ' You have no cause to com-
plain, Caoilte,' said the man of the door-post, ' but only
to step outside and fetch a drink for Fionn, from which-
ever of the fountains you please.' Caoilte did so, and
fetched the bronze vessel brimful to me, and gave me to
drink; I took a drink from it, and the water tasted like
honey while I was drinking, but bitter as gall when I put
the vessel from my lips; so that darting pains and symp-
toms of death seized me, and agonizing pangs from the
poisonous draught. I could be but with difficulty recog-
nized; and the lamentation of Caoilte, on account of my
being in that condition, was greater than that he had be-
fore given vent to on account of my thirst. The man
of the door-post desired Caoilte to go out and bring me
a drink from the other fountain. Caoilte obeyed, and
1 Bruighean, pavilion.
OWEN COXXELLAX. 031
brought me the iron vessel brimful. I never underwent
so much hardship in battle or conflict as I then suffered,
while drinking, in consequence of the bitterness of the
draught; but as soon as I put the vessel from my lips, I
recovered my own color and appearance, and that gave
joy and happiness to my people.
" The man of the house then asked if the hog which
was in the boiler was yet cooked. ' It is cooked,' replied
the giant, ' and allow me to divide it.' ' How will you
divide it?' said the man of the house. <I will give one
hind quarter to Fionn and his hounds; the other hind
quarter to Fionn's four men; the fore part to myself; the
chine and rump to the old man, who sits at the opposite
side of the fire, and to the hag in yonder corner; and the
giblets to 3rou, and the young woman who is opposite to
you.' ' I pledge my word/ said the man of the house, ' you
have divided it very fairly.' i I pledge my word,' exclaimed
the ram, ' that the division is very unfair, so far as I am
concerned, for I have been altogether forgotten.' And so
saying, he immediately snatched the quarter that lay be-
fore my four men, and carried it away into a corner, where
he began to devour it. The four men instantly attacked
the ram all at once with their swords, but, though they laid
on violently, they did not affect him in the least, and the
blows fell away as from a stone or rock, so that they were
forced to resume their seats. ' Upon my veracity, he is
doomed for evil who owns as companions such four fellows
as you are, who tamely suffer one single sheep to carry
away their food, and devour it before their faces,' ex-
claimed the man with the twelve eyes; and at the same
time going up to the ram, he caught him by the feet, and
gave him a violent pitch out of the door, so that he fell
on his back to the ground; and from that time we saw him
no more.
" Soon after this the hag started up, and having thrown
her ashy-gray coverlet over my four men, metamorphosed
them into four withered drooping-headed old men! When
I saw that I was seized with great fear and alarm ; and
when the man at the door-post perceived this, he desired
me to come over to him, place my head on his bosom, and
sleep. I did so; and the hag got up and took her coverlet
off my four men, and, when I awoke, I found then restored
632 IRISH LITERATURE.
to their own shape, and that was great happiness to me.
' O Fionn,' asked the man of the door-post, ' do you feel
surprised at the appearance and arrangement of this
house? ' I assured him that I never saw anything which
surprised me more. ' Well then I will explain the meaning
of all these things to you/ said the man. ' The giant carry-
ing the grunting hog between the prongs of the iron fork,
whom you first saw, is he who is yonder, and his name is
Sloth; she who is close to me is the young woman who
had been forcing him along, that is Energy; and Energy
compels Sloth forward with her; for Energy moves in the
twinkling of the eye a greater distance than the foot can
travel in a year. The old man of the bright eyes yonder
signifies the World; and he is more powerful than any one,
which has been proved by his rendering the ram powerless.
That ram, which you saw, signifies the Crimes of the men.
That hag there beyond is withering Old Age, and her cloth-
ing has withered your four men ; the two wells, from which
you drank the two draughts, mean Falsehood and Truth;
for while telling a lie one finds it sweet, but it becomes
bitter at the last.
" Cuanna from Innistuil is my own name; I do not reside
here, but having conceived a wonderful love for you, O
Fionn, on account of your superiority in wisdom and gen-
eral celebrity, I therefore put these things into the way
before you, in order that I might see you. And this story
shall be called, to the end of the world, the Hospitality of
Cuanna's House to Fionn."
THE CAPTURE OF HUGH ROE O'DONNELL.
From Connellan's translation of ' The Annals of the Four Masters.'
The capture of Hugh Roe O'Donnell, or Red Hugh O'Donnell,
was effected in A.D. 1587, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. It was
the custom at that time, we are told, to imprison any chieftain, or
son of a chieftain, who might in any way contribute to the disturb-
ance of a country already troublesome enough to England. For
this purpose all possible stratagems were resorted to, one of which
in the following extract is demonstrated.
The fame and renown of Hugh Roe or Red Hugh, the
son of Hugh, spread throughout the five provinces of Ire-
OWEN CONN ELL AN. 633
land even before he had arrived at the age of manhood, as
being distinguished for wisdom, intellect, personal figure,
and noble deeds, and all persons in general said that he was
truly a prodigy, and that, should he be allowed to arrive
at the age of maturity, the disturbance of the whole island
of Ireland would arise through him, and through the Earl
of Tyrone, should they be engaged on the one side, and that
they would carry the sway, being in alliance with each
other, as wc have before stated; so that it was for these
reasons the Lord Justice and the English of Dublin deter-
mined in their council what kind of plot they should adopt
respecting that circumstance which they dreaded, and the
resolution they came to was to fit out in Dublin a ship,
willi its crew, and a cargd of wine and spirituous liquors,
and send it by the left-hand side of Ireland northeastward
as if it Were they went on traffic, and to take port in some
harbor on the coasts of Tirconnell.
The ship afterwards came with a fair wind from the
west, without delay or impediment, until it arrived in the
old harbor of Suilidh (Lough Swilly, in Donegal), exactly
opposite Rath Maolain (Rathmullen), a town which had
been formerly founded on the sea-shore by Mac Sweeney
of Fauat, the hereditary marshal to the Lord of Tirconnell.
7 v
This ship having been moored there by her anchors, a party
of the crew came to bind in a small boat, under the appear-
ance of traffic and a semblance of peace and amity, and
they began to spy and observe, and to sell and bargain with
the people who were sent to them, and they stated thai
they had wine and strong drink with them in their ship;
and when Mac Sweeney and his people received intelli-
gence of this, thev commenced buying and drinking the
wine until they were intoxicated. When the people of the
adjoining district heard of that ship, they flocked from all
quarters to it.
The forement ioned Hugh Roe, who was then in his career
of CftrelesS simplicity, and on ins youthful visit and amuse-
ment, happened then to he in the neighborhood, and the
unthinking playfellows who were along with him prevailed
on him to go to that place; his imprudence indeed was ex-
cusable at that time, for he had not then completed his
fifteenth year, and there was none of his experienced coun-
selors, of his tutors, or of his professors along with him,
G3* IRISH LITERATURE.
to direct him in his proceedings or offer him advice. When
the spies heard that he had come to the town they imme-
diately returned back to their ship; this was perceived by
Mac Sweeney and the chiefs in general, and they sent ser-
vants and attendants for some wine to the ship for the
guest who had arrived ; the merchants said that they had
no more wine with them than what was necessary for the
crew, and that they would let no more from them to land
for any person; but, however, that if a few chiefs would
come to them to their ship, they should get as much wine
and strong drink as they required.
When this information was communicated to Mac
Sweeney he was ashamed of himself, so that the resolution
he came to was to bring Hugh along with him to the ship ;
and having decided on that resolution, they went into a
small boat which was at the verge of the strand, and they
rowed it over to the ship ; having been welcomed, they were
conveyed down to a cabin in the middle of the ship without
delay or ceremony, and they were served and administered
to until they were cheerful and merry. While they were
regaled there, the hatch door was closed behind them, and
their arms having been stolen from them, the young son,
Hugh Koe, was made a prisoner on that occasion.
The report of that capture having spread throughout
the country in general, they flocked from all parts of the
harbor to see if they could devise any stratagem against
those who had committed that treachery, but that was im-
possible, for they were in the depth of the harbor, after
having weighed their anchor, and they had neither ships
nor boats at their command to be revenged of them. Mac
Sweeney of the Districts, in common with all others, came
to the shore; he was foster-father to that Hugh, and he
proffered other hostages and sureties in lieu of him, but
it was of no avail to him, for there was not a hostage in
the province of Ulster they would take in his stead. With
respect to the ship and the crew which were in it, when
they had procured the most desirable to them of the in-
habitants of the country, they sailed with a full tide until
they arrived at the sea, and continued the course of pas-
sage by which they had come and landed in the harbor
of Dublin.
His arrival after that manner was immediately known
OWEX C OX X ELL AX. G35
all over the city, and the Lord Justice and the council were
delighted at his having' come, although indeed it was not
for love of him, and they commanded to have him brought
before them: having been accordingly brought thev dis-
coursed and conversed with him, scrutinizing and elicit-
ing all the knowledge of him they could for a long time;
they at length, however, ordered him to be put in a strong-
stone castle which was in the city, where a great number
of the noble sons of the Milesians were in chains and cap-
tivity, as well as some of the Fionn Ghaill (Normans or
English), whose chief subject of conversation both by day
and night was complaining to each other of their in-
juries and troubles, and treating of persecutions carried on
against the noble and high-born sons of Ireland in general.
THE ESCAPE OF HUGH ROE.
From Connellan's translation of ' The Annals of the Four Masters.'
Red Hugh, the son of Hugh, son of Manns O'Donnell, re-
mained in imprisonment and in chains in Dublin, after
his former escape, till the winter of this year (1592). He
and his fellow-prisoners, Henry and Art, the sons of
O'Neill, i. e. of John, having been together in the early part
of the night, got an opportunity of the guards before they
had been brought to the dining room, and having taken
off their fetters they afterwards went to the privy, having
with them a very long rope, by which the fugitives de-
scended through the privy, until they reached the deep
trench which surrounded the castle; they afterwards
gained the opposite side, and mounted the side of the
trench. There was a trusty servant who was in the habit
of visiting them, to whom they disclosed their intention,
and he met them at that time to direct them; they then
proceeded through the streets of the city indiscriminately
with others, and no one took notice of them more than of
any other person, for the people of the town did not stop
to make their acquaintance that time, and the gates of the
city were open.
They afterwards passed through every intricate and
difficult place until they arrived on the open plain of
636 IRISH LITERATURE.
Slieve Piol (the Red Mountain, on the borders of Dublin
and Wicklow), by which Hugh in his first escape had
passed. The darkness of the night and the swiftness of
their flight, through dread of being pursued, separated the
oldest of them from the others, namely, Henry O'Neill.
Hugh was the youngest of them in age, although he was not
so in noble deeds. They were much grieved at Henry's
separation from them; but, however, they continued their
progress, led on by their own man. The night was drop-
ping snow, so that it was not easy for them to walk, for
they were without clothes or outside coats, having left
their upper garments in the privy through which they had
come. Art (O'Neill) became more exhausted by the hasty
journey than Hugh, for it was a long time since he had
been incarcerated, and he became very corpulent from the
length of his residence in the prison; it was not so with
Hugh ; he did not exceed the age of boyhood, neither did he
cease in growth or become corpulent, and his pace and prog-
ress were quick and active. When he perceived that Art
became exhausted, and that his pace was slow and tardy,
he requested him to put his hand on his own shoulder, and
the other hand on the shoulder of the servant, and they
proceeded in that manner until they crossed the Red Moun-
tain ; after which they were fatigued and wearied, and they
could not bring Art farther with them; and since they
could not convey him with them they stopped there, and
stayed under the shelter of a high projecting rock which
stood before them.
Having remained there they sent the servant with word
to Glenmalure (in Wicklow), where dwelt Fiacha Mac
Hugh (O'Byrne), who was then at war with the English;
that glen was an impregnable stronghold, and a great
number of the prisoners of Dublin, when they made their
escape, were in the habit of proceeding to that glen, for
they considered themselves secure there until they re-
turned to their countries. When the servant arrived at the
place of Fiacha he related to him his message, and the con-
dition he left the persons in who had fled from the city, and
they would not be overtaken alive unless they came to re-
lieve them at once. Fiacha immediately commanded a
number of his friends whom he could rely on to go to them,
one man bearing food, another ale and mead.
OWEN CONN ELL AN. 637
They accordingly proceeded, and arrived at the place
where the men were; but, alas! unhappy and uncomfort-
able were they on their arrival, for the manner in which
they were was that their bodies were covered as it were in
beds of white hailstone, like blankets, which were frozen
about them, and congealed their thin light dresses, and
their thin shirts of fine linen to their skins, and their mois-
tened shoes and leathern coverings to their legs and feet, so
that they appeared to the people who came as if they were
not actually human beings, having been completely covered
with the snow, for they found no life in their members, but
they were as if dead; they took them up from where they
lay, and requested them to take some of the food and ale,
but they were not able to do so, for every drink they took
they east it up immediately, so that Art at length died
and was buried in that place.
As to Hugh, he afterwards took some of the mead, and
his faculties were restored after drinking it, except the
use of his feet alone, for they became dead members, with-
out feeling, having been swelled and blistered by the frost
and snow. The men then carried him to the glen which we
have mentioned, and he remained in a private house, in
the hidden recesses of a wood, under cure, until a mes-
senger came privately to inquire after him from his brother-
in-law the Earl O'Neill. After the messenger had come to
him he prepared to depart, and it was difficult for him to
go on thai journey, for his feet could not be cured, so that
another person should raise him on his horse, and take him
lid ween his two hands again when alighting. Fiaeha sent
a large troop of horse with him by night, until he should
cross the river Liffey, to defend him against the guards
who were looking out for him; for the English of Dublin
received intelligence that Hugh was in Glenmalure, so
that it was therefore they placed sentinels at the shallow
fords of the river, to prevent Hugh and the prisoners who
had fled along with him from crossing thence into the
province of Ulster.
The men who were along with Hugh were obliged to
cross a difficult deep ford on the river Liffey, near the
city of Dublin, which they passed unnoticed by the English,
until they arrived on the plain of the fortress. He was ac-
companied by the persons who had on a former occasion
G38 IRISH LITERATURE.
forsaken him after bis first escape, namely, Felim O'Toole
and his brother, in conjunction with the troops who were
escorting him to that place, and they ratified their good
faith and friendship with each other; after bidding him
farewell, and giving him their blessing, they then parted
with him there. As to Hugh O'Donnell, he had none along
with him but the one young man of the people of Hugh
O'Neill who went for him to the celebrated glen, and who
spoke the language of the foreigners (the English), and
who was also in the habit of accompanying the earl, i. e.
Hugh O'Neill, whenever he went among the English, so
that he knew and was familiar with every place through
which they passed.
They proceeded on their two very swift steeds along the
direct course of the roads of Meath, until they arrived on
the banks of the Boyne before morning, a short distance to
the west of Drogheda; but they were in dread to go to that
city, so that what they did was to go along the bank of the
river to a place where a poor fisherman usually waited,
and who had a small ferrying curach (cot or small boat).
Hugh having gone into the curach, the ferryman left him
on the opposite side after he had given him his full pay-
ment; Hugh's servant having returned took the horses
with him through the city, and brought them to Hugh on
the other side of the river. They then mounted their
horses, and proceeded until they were two miles from the
river, where they saw a thick bushy grove before them on
the way in which they went, surrounded by a very great
fosse, as if it were a strongly fenced garden; there was
a fine residence belonging to an excellent gentleman of
the English near the wood, and he was a trusty friend of
Hugh O'Neill.
When they had arrived at the ramparts they left their
horses and went into the wood within the fosse, for Hugh's
faithful guide was well acquainted with that place; having
left Hugh there he went into the fortress and was well-
received; having obtained a private apartment for Hugh
O'Donnell he brought him with him, and he was served and
entertained to his satisfaction. They remained there un-
til the night of the following day, and their horses having
been got ready for them in the beginning of the night, they
proceeded across Sliabh Breagh and through Machaire
OWEN CONN ELL AN. 639
Conaill (both in the county of Louth) until they arrived
at Traigh-Baile Mic-Buain (Dundalk) before the morning;
as the gates of the town were opened in the morning early
they resolved to pass through it, and they proceeded
through it on their horses until they arrived on the other
side, and they were cheerful and rejoiced for having got
over all the dangers which lay before them till then.
They then proceeded to the Fiodh (the wood) where
lived Torlogh, the son of Henry, son of Felini Piol O'Neill,
to rest themselves, and there they were secure, for Torlogh
was a friend and connection of his, and he and the Earl
O'Neill were born of the same mother; they remained there
till the following day and then proceeded across Slieve
Fuaid (the Fews Mountains in Armagh), and arrived at
Armagh, where they arrived privately that night; they
went on the following day to Dungannon, where the earl,
Hugh O'Neill, lived, and he was rejoiced at their arrival,
and they were led to a retired apartment, without the
knowledge of any excepting a few of his trusty people who
were attending them, and Hugh remained there for the
space of four nights, recovering himself from the fatigue
of his journey and troubles, after which he prepared to
depart, and took leave of the earl, who sent a troop of horse
with him until he arrived at the eastern side of Lough
Erne.
The lord of the country was a friend of his and a kins-
man by the mother's side, namely, Hugh Maguire, for Nua-
ladh, the daughter of Manus O'Donnell, was his mother.
Maguire was rejoiced at his coming, and a boat having
been brought to them, into which they went, they then
rowed from thence until they arrived at a narrow creek of
the lake, where they landed. A number of his faithful
people having gone to meet him, they conveyed him to the
castle Ath-Seanaigh (Ballyshaunon), in which were the
guards of O'Donnell his father; he remained there until
all those in their neighborhood in the country came thither
to pay their respects to him. Hi* faithful people were re-
joiced at the arrival of the heir to the chieftaincy, and al-
though they owed him sincere a Heel ion on account of his
family, they had motives which made him no less welcome
to them, for the country up to that time had been plun-
dered a hundred times over between the English and the
Irish.
MARY COSTELLO.
" The author of ' Addie's Husband,' "as Miss Costello prefers to be
known, was born at Kilkenny. She has written several novels, the
best known of which is the one we have cited. She has contributed
to many magazines, including The Cornhill and TJie Gentleman's,
and she is also a well-known dramatic winter ; two of her plays, ' Tbe
Plebeian' and ' A Bad Quarter of an Hour,' have attained great
popularity. She has collaborated in a dramatization of ' Esmond '
with Dr. R. Y. Tyrrell.
The ' Sketch from Dublin Life ' is a marvelously true and vivid
picture. The " penny numbers" belong to a class of literature for
girls which answers to our "dime novel" and " gutter literature "
for boys. They are sold by hundreds of thousands in Great Britain,
and the type of girl who reads them, and the mental and moral ef-
fects of such reading, are here described with rare insight and under-
standing. Another type of girls who read such literature is admir-
ably portrayed in the never-to-be forgotten " Pomona " of Frank R
Stockton's ' Rudder Grange.'
JANE: A SKETCH FROM DUBLIN LIFE.
Jane Corcoran is her name.
She wishes it was Gladys Carruthers, Evelyn Boscawen,
or Doreen Featberstonhaugh.
Now and then among her hit lines she makes a wistful
effort to glide into " Janet," which, as every one knows, is
a perennial bloom among romance-mongers; but she is
chronically ineffective, so the homely monosyllable by
which she was individualized in Westland Row Chapel
twenty-Six years ago remains hers to the end.
After working-hours Jane is a familiar figure of the city.
She is to be met strolling through the streets in a large,
loosely stitched hat, generally supported by two or three
members of her sex, on whose dress, gait, and general man-
nerisms she models her own.
The initiative is not her line, but she is a daring follower
of fashion and has a generous eye for color. She favors
cheap sequin trimmings, large chiffon bows, blouses cut
low in the neck, glittering waistbands, and cotton-velvet
corselets. She wears a terrible peaked fringe, popular in
Whitechapel as the " Princess M'y," and though her arms
rattle with bangles, and she lias suede gloves that reach to
640
MARY COSTELLO. G41
the elbow, there are generally slits in the sides of her boots,
and her stockings. . . .
She is not made in proportion. Her feet are large and
flat; yet she takes small sixes in gloves, and is very proud
of her pale lady-like hands, damp and boneless to the
touch. She walks with a mincing slouch and a little toss of
the head.
But what is there characteristic in such a sketch? may
be asked. Surely that picture of slovenly fashion and
swagger is one now as common as the lamp-posts in every
street of the British Empire. Dublin has no monopoly of
such baggage ; she is the daughter of our democratic day.
The answer is that Dublin has a monopoly of Jane, that
her outward view is no index to the character of her mind.
It is but the clothes and the street-strolling habits which
she has in common with Lizer 'Unt and the coster's 'Arriet.
The eyes that meet yours from under the Whitechapel
head-dress are those of a gentle, modest, and timid woman ;
the face when free of its terrible fringe is refined, delicate,
prettyish and incapable.
Jane's intellect is bounded by the novelette, and the key-
note of her being is one of enervating expectancy.
She is always waiting for something to happen; with
empty heart and straining ears, waiting for the prince who
does not come.
Every morning she awakes with the misty hope that be-
fore the close of the day she is at last to sample one of those
thrilling, romantic, delightful, or even awful experiences,
which punctuate the life of the average heroine of cheap
fiction.
Yet once or twice, when the breath of adventure had
stirred her stagnant air, poor Jane had found herself un-
equipped for the emergency; for instance, had fled in
terror when her accquaintance was insidiously claimed
in the streets by a mysterious being with fiery eyes, who in
every way answered to the fascinating stock villain of
romance, the brilliant Italian count or wicked Colonel
of the Guards in pursuit of daisy and lily innocence.
Her conduct on a promising occasion of this kind is so
abject as to awake a lifelong contempt in the breast of her
cousin, Kate Pagan, a sturdy little dressmaker's apprentice
of sixteen.
41
642 IRISH LITERATURE.
Kate is short, squat, common-looking, without literary
tastes or genteel aspirations; but she has "a way with
her," a touch of 'Arriet's robust gamincrie, and so gets
value out of youth.
She does not belong to Jane's set, and is generally to be
seen in the society of low-sized youths, a little above the
corner-boy class.
Kate's set start company-keeping at fourteen; they re-
main attired as growing girls, that is, with short skirts and
flowing tresses, until they marry or reach the threshold
of middle age.
Jane never walks out with a young man at all.
" Isn't it time you were thinking of getting settled, my
dear? " Mrs. Fagan remarks periodically to her niece.
" The years is gettin' on, you know ; and faith, after thirty
women can't pick up husbands on every bush. Why, girl
alive, what's the matter with ye, that you haven't a young
man? — You that nice-lookin', and with nearly every penny
you earns goin' on yer back? "
Jane is an orphan. Her mother died in giving her birth,
and during various stages of her early girlhood her father,
two sisters, and a brother had been carried off in " cold
sweats."
She lives with her aunt, Mrs. Fagan, and works as a skirt
hand in a cheap drapery establishment off George's Street.
Her business hours are from nine to seven in the evening
and to half-past eight on Saturday; and her wages are 7s
Gd. (say .$2.00) a week, which does not include board of
any kind, not even a cup of tea to relieve the long, dreary
day.
The custom of the establishment is that each young lady
brings her lunch or dinner, as she may term the repast, and
consumes it as neatly and as unobtrusively as she can.
Jane, who is gentility personified, nibbles a pulpy slice of
bread-and-butter, while her eyes devour the close pages of
the novelette, which is always to be seen bulging out of
her pocket or peeping from the folds of her work.
She is, no doubt, sloppy minded ; how could it be other-
wise? Slops are the staple diet of her body and brain.
She lives on tea, and what her aunt calls " cheap snacks."
Seven-and-sixpence a week allows no margin for
butchers' meat when a girl has to keep herself fit to be
£>?
MARY C08TELL0. 643
seen in the streets, and has, moreover, an appetite for
weekly numbers which must be appeased.
Jane's day is one of long, monotonous toil. She lives in
a hideous tenement house in Werburgh Street, sharing a
bed with two, sometimes three, of her aunt's children. Mrs.
Fagan is a young and healthy woman, and there is a new
baby in the cradle every year. The wail of sickly or peevish
childhood is never out of the girl's ears; discomfort, dirt,
evil smells, harsh sounds, and squalor hem her round;
and, knowing there is one road away from them all, she
can no more pass the news-shop of a Saturday night than
a drunkard with a full pocket can pass a public-house.
The poor little penny dram is potent always. It makes
a sweet, pulpy muddle of everything. Drowns the dis-
cord in the heroic clash of armor, the music of lovers' vows ;
brings the breath of hot-house flowers, of orange groves, of
brine-washed cliffs into the greasy night. Jane cannot
give up her " numbers," or be laughed out of her senti-
mental gentility.
She is held cheaply in the family circle, and is looked
upon generally as a failure, which no doubt she is. For her
nature is made up of those fine things which lead to no
worldly prosperity.
She is tender-hearted, gentle, patient, unselfish, gen-
erous, and her gratitude is always absurdly out of propor-
tion to the benefits received.
JOSEPH STIRLING COYNE.
(1803—1868.)
Joseph Stirling Coyne, the noted wit and popular dramatist,
was born at Birr, King's County. He was originally intended for
the legal profession, but he abandoned it for the literature of the
stage. His first production was ' The Phrenologist,' which was so
successful as to ensure an enthusiastic reception for his next plays,
' The Honest Cheats ' and ' The Four Lovers.' After devoting some
time to journalism he went to London in 1837 with a letter of intro-
duction from W. Carleton to Crofton Croker, and wai introduced
by him to the editors of Bentleys Miscellany and other leading
periodicals. In the same year his farce of ' The Queer Subject '
was played with success at the Adelphi.
Mr. Coyne now quickly gained botb fame and remuneration.
Piece after piece came rapidly from his ready pen; ' Presented at
Court,' 'A Duel in the Dark,' 'Wanted, One Thousand Milliners,'
' Villikins and his Dinah,' 'Maria Laffarge,' 'The Humors of an
Election,' ' Urgent Private Affairs,' 'Married and Settled,' 'Box
and Cox,' 'The Pas de Fascination,' 'The Caudle Lectures,' and
' Railway Bubbles ' being among the most popular. He also wrote :
'All for Love, or The "Lost Pleiad,' 'The Man of Many Friends,'
'The Old Chateau," The Secret Agent,' 'The Hope of the Family,'
'The Signal Valsha,"The Vicar of Wakefield,' 'The Queen of the
Abruzzi,' 'The Merchant and his Clerks.' 'The Tipperary Legacy,'
and ' Helen Oakleigh.' In 1843 his ' World of Dreams,' a spectacular
drama, had a run of over eighty nights at the Haymarket, and
in the following year it was put upon the stage in Dublin, by Mr.
Webster and Madame Celeste.
He occasionally adapted French authors, one of whom returned
the compliment by translating his farce ' How to Settle Accounts
with your Laundress ' into French, and by producing it at the
Vaudeville, Paris, under the title of ' Une Femme dans ma Fontaine.'
This piece was played also upon the German stage with success.
In his one serious work, ' The Scenery and Antiquities of Ireland,'
which appeared in 1840, he proved that the land, of his birth was
not forgotten. He never ceased to be a frequent contributor to
the periodicals, and he also wrote some acceptable stories. He was
one of the projectors and early proprietors of Punch, whose pages
often bristled with his wit. In 1856 he was appointed secretary of
the Dramatic Authors' Society. He died in London, July 18, 1868.
Those who knew Mr. Coyne in private life bear testimony to the
sterling worth of his character. He was never spoiled by success,
always remaining " a modest, retiring, estimable man," seen to best
advantage in his own hospitable domestic circle.
His plays number nearly a hundred, and they are for the most
part in serio-comic vein, exhibiting much pathos, humor, and dra-
matic power.
644
JOSEPH STIRLING COYNE. 645
TIM HOGAN'S GHOST.
" What in the world can keep Derinott away from me
so long? 'T is four clays since I laid eyes on the scape-
grace. I wondher what mischief he's afther now. Fight-
ing or courting somewhere, I '11 be bound. Afther all,
though he's a quare devil, rollicking and tearing through
the country like a wild coult, he has a true and loyal heart
to me. Isn't there Peggy Moonev Mould give her new yal-
low gown for one kind look from his two black eyes; but
though she has a couple of pigs, and twenty guineas for-
tune, she can't coax him from his own poor Norah, that
dotes down on the very ground he walks."
Thus soliloquized Norah Connolly, the prettiest colleen
in the village of Ardrossan. Her spinning-wheel had for
several minutes ceased (o perform its revolutions, so deeply
was she engrossed by her meditations. The object of her
solicitude was a young fellow, who, by the proper use of a
well-shaped leg, a pair of merry black eyes, and a tongue
mellifluous with brogue and blarney, had "played the
puck " with half the girls' hearts in the barony.
Dermott O'Rourke, or, to give him his more pox>ular
name, " Dermott the Rattler," was the handiest boy at a
double-jig or a faction-light within twenty miles of where
he stood. So notorious had he become for his wild pranks,
that every act of mischief or frolic that occurred in the
parish was laid at his door. Yet, with all this, Dermott's
love for Norah Connolly sprang up green and beautiful
amidst the errors of an ardent and reckless disposition.
" There 's no use fretting," continued Norah, after a
long silence. "The Blessed Mother will, I know, watch
over and restore my dear Dermott to me."
"To be sure she will, ma colleen bawn ; and here I am
safe and sound, come back to you like a pet pigeon," cried
a well-known voice, and at the same time a smacking kiss
announced the return of the truant.
" Why, then, Dermott," cried the blushing Norah, " have
done now, will you. Sit down and tell me where you have
been philandering this week past."
Dermott twirled his stick, looked puzzled and irresolute,
and made no reply.
GIG IRISH LITERATURE.
" Ah ! " cried Norah, " you have been about some mis-
chief, I know. Tell me, Dermott, what has happened?"
" Why, then, a mighty quare accident has happened to
me, sure enough. I 'listed for a sojer at the fair," replied
the Rattler.
" 'Listed for a soldier, Dermott? " cried Norah, growing
deadly pale.
" The divil a doubt of it, Noreen," answered Dermott,
" A civil-spoken gentleman, one Sergeant Flint by name,
slipt a shillin' into my hand, stuck a cockade in my hat,
an tould me that he 'd make me a brigadier or a grenadier,
I don't well remember which."
" Oh ! Dermott dear, is it going to leave me you are,
when you know 't will break my heart? '' And the poor girl
burst into tears, and threw herself into her lover's arms.
" Whisth, whisth, Noreen astJiorc! I '11 never lave you —
I have resigned. I threw up my grenadier's commission,
and quitted the army, for your sake; I 'm detarmined never
to go to heaven with a red coat on my back."
" But if you 'listed, Dermott — if you took the shilling — "
" Pooh ! never mind — that 's nothing," he replied,
quickly. " I 'in above such considherations. Make your
mind aisy on that subject. But in the mane time, I 'd as
lieve keep out o' the way of that civil-spoken sergeant, by
rason of the shilling, which I forgot to return him, in my
hurry coming away."
The fact was, that a recruiting sergeant had fallen in
with Dermott at the fair, and, taking a fancy to his light
active figure, had endeavored to persuade him that four-
pence a day, with the privilege of being shot at in a red
coat, was the summit of human glory. Our hero, whose
heart was softened by the spirit of the mountain dew, lis-
tened to the sergeant's romances of woman, war, and wine
with a greedy ear ; and when the old crimp, like the ghost of
Hamlet's father, whispered to him, "List, list! oh, list!"
Dermott's palm closed on the shilling that purchased his
liberty for life, and, throwing his caubecn into the air, he
fancied himself already a victorious general, with a grove
of laurel encompassing his brows. The party then re-
paired to the inn, where a gallon of hot punch was instan-
taneously ordered to celebrate the introduction of the new
recruit to the — th regiment of foot. Several loyal toasts
JOSEPH STIRLING COYNE. G47
were proposed by the sergeant, to which Dermott did such
ample honor that he soon became oblivious of everything
around him.
Consigned by his comrades to bed, our new hero dreamed
a troubled dream " of guns, and drums, and wounds," until
the first beams of a summer sun, shining through a curtain-
less window, full upon his face, recalled him to a state of
consciousness. Starting up, he rubbed his eyes, and looked
around him in indescribable amazement. One of the
soldiers, who as well as himself had taken a share of the
drink, was reposing in full uniform upon a pallet beside
him, with his mouth expanded in a peculiarly favorable
manner for catching llies. The gaudy cockade which was
fastened in his hat, together with some faint recollection
of the events of the preceding night, produced in the Rat-
tler some very uncomfortable sensations; and finding that
his military enthusiasm had considerably abated, he re-
solved to make a hasty retreat, without any unnecessary
ceremony. For this purpose he arose softly, and tried to
open the door, but discovered, to his mortification, that it
was fastened on the outside. He next examined the win-
dow, and finding that it was only a single story from the
ground, quietly opened it, and dropped from it on the
roof of a friendly pig-sty beneath, leaving his friend the
sergeant to catch him again when he could.
Norah, being assured by Dermott that there was no
chance of his being pursued to Ardrossan by the soldiers,
brightened up, and laughed heartily at her lover's adven-
ture.
"Well," said she, "that's the funniest story I ever
heard. What a pucker the sojers must have been in when
they found yon had given them the slip. Ah! Dermott,
Dermott, I 'in afeard you '11 be always the same wild — "
" Bathershm! " 1 exclaimed the Kattler, interrupting her,
"never mind that. Do you know that this is the evening
the cake is to be danced for up at Moll Doran's of the Hill,
between the boys and girls of Ardrossan and Kilduff? "
" I heard them say so," answered Norah.
" Well," replied Dermott, " I mean to have a fling there,
and you shall be my partner. There will be lash ins of
company there, and the grandest divarsion ever was seen.
1 Bathersliin, it may be so — never mind.
648 IRISH LITERATURE.
So come along — put on your bonnet and things — come
along."
Norah, who was easily persuaded to appear at the rustic
festival, was not long in completing her simple toilette;
and with a light-gray cloak hung over her graceful figure,
and a smart straw bonnet tied under her chin with a pale-
blue ribbon, which contrasted charmingly with her fair
neck and fresh complexion, set out, under the protection
of her lover, for the village dance.
At the intersection of two remote and rarely frequented
roads stood the principal hostelry of the village of Ardros-
san, kept by the Widow Doran, who announced to all
travelers, by means of a signboard painted black, in large
white letters, that she supplied " Entertainment for Man
and Hors," with " Good Dry Lodgings," to boot.
Adjoining to Mrs. Doran's hotel, a natural enclosure,
presenting a favorable level of about two acres in extent,
was the chosen spot where the candidates for dancing fame
assembled annually to contend for the cake, which, like
the golden apple of old, was often the cause of feuds and
heartburnings amongst the rival fair ones of Kilduff and
Ardrossan.
At the further end of this plain, a primitive-looking tent
was erected, where a plentiful supply of potteen was pro-
vided for the spiritually disposed. In front of the tent a
churn-dash was fixed, with the handle thrust into the
earth, and on the head or flat end the prize cake was placed
full in sight of the competitors. A tall, gaunt-looking man,
in a rusty wig, and a coat which might once have been
termed black, was standing in the midst of a group of at-
tentive auditors, whom he was addressing in a solemn ha-
rangue, but with a countenance so full of dry humor, that
the effect was irresistibly comic. This was Matt Fogarty,
the village schoolmaster, not only venerated as the oracle
of wisdom and learning, but also regarded as the unerring
arbiter in all matters of etiquette and ceremony by the
entire parish.
" And now, boys and girls," said he, elevating his voice,
" as surveyor and directhor of this fantastic and jocular
meeting, I direct the demonstrations to begin. You all
know the rules. The best couple of dancers win the cake.
JOSEPH STIRLING COYNE. 649
So take to jour partners, and commence your flagitious
recrayations."
A loud hurrah followed this pithy address; the fiddles
began to squeak, and the bagpipes to scream in the agonies
of being tuned ; and Barney Driscoll, a young, good-looking
fellow, who divided the attention of the girls with Dermott
the Rattler, stepped with a confident air into the circle,
leading by the hand Peggy Flynn, the belle of the rival
parish of Kilduff. A loud cheer from Barney's friends
greeted his appearance; but before it had subsided, Der-
mott O'Rourke and Norah Connolly stood beside their com-
petitors, and were hailed by a still more deafening cheer.
The schoolmaster, seeing that both parties were prepared,
thus addressed the musicians, who were elevated on a tem-
porary dais of turf :
" Now, ye vagabone sons of Orpheus, begin. Mike, your
sowl, rosin your bow; — Terence, you divil, inflate your
musical appendages, and strike up something lively."
Accordingly, the musical pair struck up with an energy
that, in the opinion of the hearers, more than counterbal-
anced any little discord observable in the harmony. The
two couples of dancers, fired by a spirit of emulation, ex-
erted themselves to the utmost; and as the mirth and music
waxed louder and louder, the spectators, carried away by
the enthusiasm of the moment, encouraged their respective
friends by applauding shouts and vociferous support, until
at length, after a severe contest, Peggy Flynn was com-
pelled by exhaustion to give in, leaving Dermott and Norah
undisputed victors of the field. A lofty caper, and a hearty
smack on his partner's lips, testified the delight of the
Rattler, who, knocking the cake from the churn-dash, car-
ried it in triumph to Norah.
Matt Fogarty now advanced, and waving his hand to
procure a hearing, again addressed the assembly: " Neigh-
bors all, I announce and promulgate that the cake has been
fairly won and achieved by Norah Connolly, vi et armis —
that means by force of legs and arms. So now, boys, give
one cheer for our purty little Noreen, and then hands
round for a fling of a dance altogether."
The words were hardly spoken when a hearty hurrah
rent the air, a circle was formed, and every person who
650 IRISH LITERATURE.
could shake a leg joined in a merry dance round the suc-
cessful pair.
In the full tide of their mirth, a small military party
was observed on the brow of the hill, approaching the vil-
lage at a smart pace.
" The sojers are com in'," cried an old woman, the first
who had perceived them.
In an instant the hands that were grasped together in
friendly union became unlocked, the joyous circle was
broken, and the shouts of laughter which had rung so
cheerily among the hills died into solemn silence. Looks
of suspicion and alarm were exchanged between the men,
who conversed in whispers together; while the unmarried
girls by their sparkling eyes showed the pleasure they felt
at the sight of the soldiers.
Norah, who participated in this feminine predilection
for a bit of scarlet, clapped her hands in ecstasy.
" Come, Dermott," cried she, half dragging her reluctant
partner towards the road, " come and see the sojers. There
—look at them marching down the hill, their swords and
bayonets sparkling in the sun. Make haste, or you '11 lose
the sight."
A single glance was sufficient to convince the Rattler
that the party belonged to the regiment which he had so
unceremoniously quitted, and, worse still, that his quon-
dam friend, Sergeant Flint, was amongst them. Having no
desire to renew his acquaintance with that facetious gentle-
man, he plucked Norah hastily back, and, whispering in her
ear, said :
" By the piper o' war, I 'in sowld, Norah ! There 's that
thief of a sergeant that 'listed me amongst the sojers. As
sure as the Pope's a gintleman, 't is hunting afther me they
are ! What in the world am I to do now? "
" Oh ! Dermott, dear, run for your life afore he sees
you. What a misfortinit girl I was to bring you into this
trouble ! " replied the now terrified girl.
" Never mind, Norah darling ; I '11 get out of the way as
fast as I can," cried Dermott.
" But if you go home, they '11 be sure to find you," said
she.
" Divil a doubt of that," replied the Rattler. " I 'm too
JOSEPH STIRLING COYNE. 651
'cute a fox to be caught that way. Is there not a wake
down at Ned Haggerty's? "
" Sure, there is," answered Norah. " Tim Hogan, the
ould piper, died last night, and they 're waking him in
Ned Haggerty's barn."
" Divil a betther," cried Dermott, snapping his fingers.
" I '11 go down to poor Tim's wake ; they '11 never think of
searching for me there to-night; and I'll be off to my
cousin Tom's in the mountain at cockshout in the morning."
This plan appearing the most feasible he could hit on for
avoiding his military friends, Dermott, accompanied by
his sweetheart, slipped quietly out of the crowd, and hur-
ried down a by-path through the fields to the barn, where
the remains of the defunct piper were laid out.
Meanwhile, the officer in command of the little party,
having seen his men disposed as comfortably as the limited
accommodation of the village would allow, took up his
own quarters in the Widow Doran's hotel, where, being
ushered into a small, earthen-floored, white-washed room,
he threw himself info a chair, and inwardly cursed the irk-
some duty that had devolved upon him, — which was, in
fact, the very unromantic and harassing one of affording
assistance to the excise officers in an extensive " still-hunt "
through the mountains in the neighborhood. His medita-
tions were, however, shortly interrupted by the entrance of
the landladv.
" Mrs. What 's-your-name," said the young soldier, " I
— a — suppose there 's no kind of amusement to be found in
this infernally stupid place? "
" Amusement ! " cried the widow, bridling up. " Ardros-
san beats the whole world for it, 'T is a thousand pities
your honor was not here yesterday; we had a bit of the
finest divarsion you ever seen."
" Indeed ! Pray, what was it? "
" Why, the boys cotch a bailiff, and gave him a steeple-
chase, sir," replied Mrs. Dorau.
" Gave him a steeple-chase! I don't understand you."
" I '11 insense your honor, then, You see, sir, a parcel of
the boys cotch one <»' them vagabone bailiffs trying to serve
a writ on the master of the house below. They said it was
about some old account he owed a tailor in Dublin, and
that they wanted to make him pay it, which your honor
652 IRISH LITERATURE.
knows is contrary to all sinse and rayson, anyway. Some
of the truants was for tarrin' and featherin' him — more of
them was for ducking him in the mill-pond ; but others were
for giving him a steeple-chase across the country first.
Well, they all agreed to that, and they started him from
the gable-end of Shawn Euagh's turf-rick, with his coat
turned inside out; the boys giving him a good bit of odds,
to make the more fun for themselves; for it was settled that
if the bailiff could beat them as far as the ould church of
Kilduff, he was to be let go free. Well, as I was saying,
away they all started like greyhounds afther the bailiff,
and maybe he didn't run like mad, jumping over hedges
and drains almost as smart as the best of them. Hows'-
ever, there was a little fellow among the boys — one Phil
Donnelly, a weaver; and though the crathur had legs like
a spider, he ran better than any of the others. 'T would
have made your honor laugh to see him splashing through
the ditches like a fairy, till, bedad, at last he came up with
the bailiff, near Tom Delany's haggart, where an ould
ancient goose and gandher, with a dozen young ones, wor
divartin' themselves in the sun. Well, the weaver grips
the bailiff by the neck as bold as brass; but though Phil
had a powerful sperrit, he wasn't a match in strength for
the bailiff, who cotch him, saving your honor's presence,
by the wisband of the breeches, and pitched him like a kit-
ten over the haggart wall into the middle of the goslings.
The ould gandher, of course, wasn't too well plased
at Phil dropping in amongst them in such a promiscuous
manner, and flew at him in a desperate rage. The poor
weaver had no way of escaping but by jumping into a
barrel of hogwash that happened to be near him. And
there he stood, up to his neck, roaring for the bare life,
while the ould thief of a gandher kept walkin' round the
barrel, stretching out his long neck, and hissing, as much
as to say, ' Come out of that, if you dare, and see what
you '11 get.' At last, the rest of the boys came up ; but when
they saw the weaver in the washtub, and the gandher keep-
ing guard upon him, they were ready to drop with the dint
of laughing. When they got tired they pulled the weaver
out, all dripping with wash, and almost frightened out
of his seven sinses. But the delay gave the bailiff time
to escape, and so they gave up the chase and returned
JOSEPH STIRLING COYNE. 653
home. Wasn't it a murdher, sir, you warn't here to see
the fun?"
The officer could not exactly perceive the fun of it, and
was beginning to express his distaste for such amusements,
when a single tap was heard at the door.
" Come in," cried the lieutenant.
The door opened, and Sergeant Flint advanced into the
room. As soon as the landlady had quitted it, the lieuten-
ant turned to the sergeant to hear his news.
" We have found him, your honor," said Flint, touching
his hat.
" Found whom? "
" The deserter, sir — Dermott O'Rourke — the fellow that
gave me the slip last week at the fair of Ballintubber,"
replied the sergeant.
" Well, you have arrested him? " said the lieutenant.
" No, your honor," replied Flint. " I only caught a
glimpse of him amongst the crowd a while ago; and then
the fellow disappeared as if he had sank into the earth.
However, I determined not to lose him so easily, and by a
few careless inquiries amongst the villagers, I have dis-
covered that he sneaked off to the wake of an old piper,
a short distance from here."
" Well — aw — sergeant," said the officer, yawning, " you
had better order out a corporal's guard and take the rascal
prisoner. We must make an example of him."
The sergeant brought his hand to his cap with a military
sweep, and marched out of the room.
Meantime, Dermott had reached the barn where they
were waking the dead piper. It was a low, thatched
house, crowded with persons of both sexes, who were seated
on low benches and blocks of wood, ranged on either side
along the walls. Thick clouds of tobacco smoke curled up
to the dark roof, and partially dimmed the light of the
Candles, which by means of tin sockets were stuck into the
mud walls at respectful distances. The potteen circu-
lated freely, tales were told, and songs were sung; the old
crones gossiped, tippled, and smoked, apart from the
others; the steady married folks talked of the crops, the
markets, and the Repale; while the boys and girls carried
on several prosperous courting-niatches in remote corners.
In the general enjoyment poor Tim Hogan, who lay
664 IRISH LITERATURE.
stretched as stiff as old Brian Boru, in a small room, only
separated from that in which the company were assembled
by a thin partition and a slight door, was left " all alone by
himself," forgotten by all his friends, except a knot of
elderly ladies, who discussed the merits of the deceased
and the quality of the whisky by turns.
"Have you seen the corp yet, Biddy Mulcahy?" in-
quired one of the hags of a visitor who had just joined their
group and was in the act of conveying the whisky bottle
to her face.
" Troth I have, Nelly, and straight and purty it looks.
It 's poor Tim would be proud, and well he might, if he
could see himself lying there in his dacent white shirt, snug
and comfortable, with the blessed candles lighted about
him. But is it thrue that, when he was dying, he charged
them to bury his pipes along with him? " inquired Biddy.
" The sorra word of lie in it," replied Nelly ; " and more
betoken, he has his pipes laid on one side of him, and a full
bottle of whisky on the other, within there, this very min-
nit."
" Blessed Saver ! what '11 he want with whisky and
music where he 's going? "
" Lord knows ! maybe the poor crathur was afeard of
being lonesome on the road, and there 's no better com-
pany than — "
The old woman's harangue was here interrupted by the
sudden opening of the barn door, outside which the scarlet
uniforms and glittering arms of Sergeant Flint and his
party were distinctly visible. The sergeant advanced, and,
addressing the people, bade them to be under no apprehen-
sion, as he was only in search of a deserter, named Dermott
O'Kourke.
" Dermott O'Kourke ! " repeated twenty voices, and
every eye was turned to the place where Dermott had been
sitting beside Norah Connolly at the moment when the
soldiers' appearance had thrown the assemblage into con-
fusion. Norah was still in the same place, pale as a wind-
ing-sheet, but the Rattler had vanished, no one knew
whither.
" I 'm positive he was here," said the sergeant.
Every one present knew that the sergeant was right,
but all remained silent, and anxiousljT awaited the result
JOSEPH STIRLING COYNE. 655
of a rigorous search, which the soldiers were making.
Chairs, tables, and benches were overturned; still the run-
away was nowhere to be found.
" What have we in here? " said Flint, approaching the
door of the inner room.
" Only the corp of the piper, your honor," replied one of
the old women.
The sergeant pushed the door open, and peeped in cu-
riously. The room, which was small, had no windows, but
narrow loop-holes, like the outer apartment. It was per-
fectly empty, excepting the ghastly corpse of the piper
(rendered still more ghastly by the light of three small
candles falling on his rigid features), which lay stretched
upon a door, supported by a chair at the head and foot,
and decently covered by a large winnowing-sheet, that
reached the floor in ample drapery on either side.
Sergeant Flint, though a brave man where a living an-
tagonist was opposed to him, had, like many other brave
men, a n^sterious horror of the dead; he therefore closed
the door hastily, convinced that the defunct Tim was the
sole occupant of the room. Dermott's friends, who were
even more surprised than the sergeant at his sudden dis-
appearance, now imagined that he had slipped off without
being observed by the soldiers, and in order to afford him
full time to escape, eagerly pressed Flint and his party not
to go away until they had warmed their hearts with a drop,
just to show that there was no ill-will between them. The
sergeant, who never declined a liberal offer, consented ; and
the privates, following the example of their officer, sat
down with little ceremony, and began to make the punch
disappear very rapidly. Jug after jug of the steaming bev-
erage was mixed and emptied; and, at every fresh brewing,
the sergeant found himself more loth to quit his present
quarters. He was in high spirits, and in the fulness of his
heart volunteered to sing a favorite song; but hardly had
he begun to clear his throat and pitch his voice, when he
was interrupted by a discordant tuning of bagpipes. A
general scream from the women followed, and I he men
started up in undisguised alarm. Sergeant Flint, the nat-
ural purple of whose nose had faded to a slaty-blue, en-
deavored lo look unconcerned, and inquired, in a faltering
voice, what had occurred.
656 IRISH LITERATURE.
u
Don't you hear," cried an old woman, who had grap-
pled him firmly round the waist, " Sargint, avoumeen, 't is
Tim Hogan's ghost tuning his pipes."
" Nonsense ! — let me go ; — there 's no such thing. Who
ever heard of a ghost playing the bagpipes? Zounds ! I say,
loose me, woman," cried the sergeant, struggling hard to
liberate himself. But while he spoke, a figure, enveloped
from head to foot in a white sheet, and producing a variety
of unmusical sounds from a set of pipes, appeared at the
door of the inner room.
" The ghost ! the ghost ! Tim Hogan's ghost ! " shouted
the terrified people, who, without waiting to see more,
rushed, pell-mell, screaming, swearing, praying, and tum-
bling over stools and tables to make their escape.
In the melee the sergeant contrived to be one of the first
out of the barn, and without stopping to muster his men,
took to his heels, and never cried " halt " till he reached
his quarters, leaving his party to follow him at their own
discretion.
The wake-house being now summarily cleared, no one
would venture to return to it during the night. The fol-
lowing morning, however, a few of the boldest villagers
summoned courage to revisit the scene of the preceding
night's adventure; but great was their surprise on dis-
covering the unruly piper lying quietly with his pipes be-
side him, precisely as he had been disposed by the persons
who had laid him out. Nothing appeared to have been
touched except the bottle of whisky, and that had been
drained to the bottom, upon hearing which, Biddy Mulcahy
was heard to exclaim —
" Ah ! then, I wouldn't doubt poor Tim ; dead or alive,
he 's not the boy to leave his liquor behind him."
Notwithstanding the frightful stories that circulated
through the parish of the appearance of the piper's ghost,
and the disappearance of the whisky at the wake, poor
Tim was put quietly under the sod in the little churchyard
of Ardrossan, with his favorite instrument at his feet, and
a full bottle of choice potteen at his head.
Some days after these occurrences, the military party,
with Sergeant Flint, quitted Ardrossan, and then Dermott
O'Eourke, who had privately withdrawn from the neigh-
borhood, returned to the village, and explained the mys-
JOSEPH STIRLING COYNE. 657
tery of the ghost. He said that, in the confusion which
took place on the unexpected entrance of the soldiers, he
had, unperceived by any one except Norah Connolly (now
gay Mrs. O'Kourke), slipped into the room where the piper
was laid; but finding there was no means of escape, and
being hard pressed, he crept cautiously under the boards
which supported the body; after awhile, he ventured to
crawl out, and discovered the bottle of whisky, which he
tasted so frequently that he became ready for any devilry.
In this humor a droll thought struck him of masquerading
in the character of the dead piper. With the help of the
winnowing-sheet and the bagpipes, he succeeded, as wo
have seen, in raising a beautiful ruction amongst the vil-
lagers, and in effectually frightening away his now unwel-
come friend the sergeant
The truth of Dermott's story was, however, stoutly de-
nied by the majority of those who had been at the wake.
Ashamed of being alarmed so ridiculously, they maintained
that they could not be mistaken, and that the appearance
they had seen on that memorable night was no other than
the genuine ghost of Tim Hogan the piper.
42
MRS. JULIA CRAWFORD.
(1800?— 1885?)
The biographical details respecting the author of ' Kathleen
Mavourneen ' and ' Dermot Astore ' are scanty. She is said to have
been a native of the county of Cavan, and she was educated in Wilt-
shire. She wrote over a hundred songs, and published in 1840 a vol-
ume entitled ' Irish Songs,' set to music by F. Nicholls Crouch, a well-
known composer, with whom she collaborated in the issue of several
books of song. She was one of the most active contributors to
Chapman and Hall's Metropolitan Magazine, in which appeared, be-
ginning in 1835, a series of autobiographical sketches, which are,
however, singularly barren of definite facts about herself.
KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN.
Kathleen Mavourneen ! the gray dawn is breaking,
The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill ;
The lark from her light wing the bright dew is shaking, —
Kathleen Mavourneen! what, slumbering still?
Oh, hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever?
Oh ! hast thou forgotten this day we must part?
It may be for years, and it may be forever !
Oh, why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart?
Oh! why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen?
Kathleen Mavourneen, awake from thy slumbers !
The blue mountains glow in the sun's golden light;
Ah, where is the spell that once hung on my numbers?
Arise in thy beauty, thou star of my night!
Mavourneen, Mavourneen, my sad tears are falling,
To think that from Erin and thee I must part !
It may be for years, and it may be forever!
Then why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart?
Then why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen?
DERMOT ASTORE.
Oh ! Dermot Astore ! between waking and sleeping
I heard thy dear voice, and I wept to its lay;
Every pulse of my heart the sweet measure was keeping
Till Killarney's wild echoes had borne it away.
658
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lfllGvi ,lnbi'
KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN
This picture from a photograph of an Irish girl, show-
ing the ordinary peasant dress, makes one understand the
sorrow of parting described in the song with the above
title.
" Mavourneen, Mavourneen, my sad tears are tailing,
To think that from Erin and thee I must part !
It may be for years, and it may be forever !
Then why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart ?
Then why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen ? "
^K fct/V
li 4. Ti'lr
M
k^ r ifj&lJEM ^V /
99^8 9SS?
pt
1 &
AIRS. JULIA CRAWFORD. 659
Oh} reft me, my own love, is this our last meeting?
Shall we wander no more in Killarney's green bow'rs,
To watch the bright sun o'er the dim hills retreating,
And the wild stag at rest in his bed of spring flow'rs?
Oh ! Dermot Astore, etc.
Oh ! Dermot Astore ! how this fond heart would flutter,
When I met thee by night in the shady boreen,1
And heard thine own voice in a soft whisper utter
Those words of endearment, " Mavourneen colleen ! "
I know we must part, but oh ! say not for ever,
That it may be for years adds enough to my pain ;
But I '11 cling to the hope, that though now we must sever,
In some blessed hour I shall meet thee again.
Oh! Dermot Astore, etc.
1 Boreen, a lane.
MRS. B. M. CROKER.
Mrs. Croker (nee Sheppard) is the wife of Lieutenant-Colonel
Croker. She was born at Kilgefin, County Roscommon, and was
educated at Rockferry, Cheshire, and at Tours (France). She has
spent fourteen years in India and Burmah.
Her novels have attained a very great popularity ; they have all
been translated into French and German, and some of them into Nor-
wegian. She has published a score since ' Proper Pride ' appeared
in 1882. Among the most successful may be named ' Pretty Miss
Neville,' 'Diana Barrington,' 'A Bird of Passage,' ' Mrs. Jervis,'
4 Village Tales and Jungle Tragedies,' ' The Real Lady Hilda,' 'In
the Kingdom of Kerry,' ' Beyond the Pale,' ' Peggy of the Bartons,'
' Terence,' and ' A State Secret.'
OLD LADY ANN.
From ' In the Kingdom of Kerry.'
" So sleeps the pride of former days." — Moore.
There are some localities on the north side of Dublin
from which fashion has ebbed many years : rows of forlorn,
melancholy mansions, that were formerly the town houses
of the Irish aristocracy. Showy coaches-and-four once
waited at their now battered, blistered doors, crowds of
liveried servants trooped up and down their shallow stair-
cases; their paneled reception-rooms saw many jovial
dances, reckless card-parties, and ceremonious balls. These
were in the good old days, when the gentry lived at home
and spent their money in Ireland — now it is the last coun-
try in the world in which they would choose to reside.
Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the neighborhood, the
street, began to, what is called, " go down " ; one or two of
the festive, red-faced old lords died, and their heirs
promptly abandoned what they considered a gloomy bar-
rack in a back slum of Dublin, and advertised it " to be let
or sold." Professional people replaced the nobility and
landed gentry. After a long pause, these again found the
neighborhood too old-fashioned — too far behind the age;
the mansions too large to maintain with a small staff of
servants — for they were built in the times when the wages
and food of retainers were cheap. When those three terri-
ble golden balls appeared over the door of what had once
660
MRS. B. M. CROEER. 661
been the Earl of Mountpatrick's residence — a door accus-
tomed to hatchments — then, in spite of temptingly low
rents, the professional tenants became scared, and tied the
locality to a man. The next drop was to lodging-houses,
then to cheap tenements, lastly to empty rooms and for-
lorn hearthstones. The poor old houses were now merely
so many dilapidated monuments of fallen greatness, with
their shuttered windows and grimy, shattered panes, their
rusty railings and cavernous areas — choked with piles of
canisters, broken bottles, and all the loose paper that the
dusty wind had scattered through the street.
Rank grass sprouted underneath the hall doors, the
ragged children of the neighborhood held shops and wed-
dings on their sunken steps. In the interior, the painted
ceilings — some from the fair hand of Angelica Kauffmann,
— the sculptured mantelpieces of Italian marble, the solid
mahogany doors and richly carved balustrades, were ruth-
lessly stripped years ago, and now adorn various upstart
modern residences in Saxon England. One end of Dennis
Street was almost submerged; the houses stood gloomy,
blind, abandoned; their doors, as it were, closed forever by
the hand of pitiless decay. There were still a few tene-
ments, notable for crowds of noisy, dirty children, and
strings of ill-washed, ragged garments fluttering from their
windows; then came a dozen empty houses, flanked by a
once palatial residence which concluded that side of the
thoroughfare.
I lodge at the opposite corner. I am a young woman, a
journalist — poor, single, self-supporting. I occupy what
was once a magnificent drawing-room, with fine, stuccoed
walls, carved cornices, and two superb white marble chim-
ney-pieces. For this and attendance I pay the modest sum
of six shillings a week. I have portioned my residence
into a complete suite of apartments; in the middle is my
sitting-room, which displays a square of carpet, a round
table, and a couple of chairs; my bedroom stands behind
a screen. In one of the windows is my office; here I have
placed a big writing-table, a chair, a mat, the inevitable
waste-paper basket, and here I work undisturbed. My
outlook is on the big corner house, and as I pause and
meditate, and search for an elusive idea, I often stare in-
terrogatively at the great blank windows opposite, and
602 IRISH LITERATURE.
occasionally find myself wondering what has been the his-
tory of that splendid mansion — a nobleman's, without
doubt.
One afternoon in December, as it was beginning to grow
dusk, and I sat pondering with the end of my penholder in
my mouth, my gaze abstractedly fixed on the opposite hall
door, I suddenly sat up and rubbed my eyes briskly. Was
I dreaming, or did I behold that door opening? Yes; very
gently, very gradually, and a little, wizened old woman,
wearing a black poke bonnet and shawl, and carrying a
basket, emerged, and tottered hastily down the steps. She
appeared bent and infirm, but nevertheless hurried away
at a good pace. I actually lost half an hour watching for
her return; the street lamps were lit when she arrived
and let herself in, as it were by stealth, but no single glim-
mer of light subsequently illuminated one of those nine-
teen windows.
The next morning I cross-examined my landlady. I in-
quired if she " could tell me anything about the house op-
posite? " and she, only too pleased to gossip, replied as
she folded her arms :
" Oh, faix, then, it was a great house wance; the grand-
est for gayety and squandering in the whole street. It was
Lord Kilmorna as owned it ; he had miles of estates in the
west, and kep' royal style — outriders, no less; but he spent
all he had, and died wretchedly poor. The family has
dwindled out complately — not a soul, nor a sod, nor a stone
belonging to it, unless the old house there, and that is in
Chancery this forty year and more."
" But are there not people living in it? " I asked.
" I can't rightly tell you, miss. Some will have it that
it is haunted by a little old woman; others say a caretaker
lives somewhere in the back ; but I 'm here this ten year,
and I never saw no sign of her. No food nor coal ever goes
near the place, so how could she keep body and soul to-
gether at all? And forby that, the rats would ate her!
The door is never opened from year's end to year's end.
Look at the grass, ye could feed a horse on them steps!
Sure, there is stories about every old house in the street —
terrifying stories! "
"Are there, indeed! — what sort of stories?"
" Of murders, and marriages, and duels, and hangings,
MR8. B. M. CROKER. 663
and shootings, and gamblings, and runaway matches — "
she rattled off with extraordinary volubility. " They say
of number thirteen that a man gambled with the ould wan
himself — and for the price of his soul. Oh, you 'd lose
your life with fright at some of the tragedies they put out
regarding the street! I don't believe them myself. Any-
way, the houses is chape, and well built, and will stand a
thousand years yet."
About a fortnight after this interview I was returning
home from a weary and bootless expedition. It was a
wet, dark night as I got out of the nearest tram, and pass-
ing through a narrow street, I stopped at a baker's to buy
a cake for my frugal tea. An old woman stood at the
counter, and I instantly recognized the bonnet and shawl
from opposite. She was saying in a thin, tremulous voice :
" Oh, Mrs. Bergin, I came out without my purse — ! y'
" Faix, you are always doing that," was the brusque
reply.
" And if you would only trust me with a loaf until to-
morrow, I would be so much obliged," she pleaded faintly.
" Now, Miss Seager, I dare say you would indeed, and
I 'd be obliged if you 'd pay me the bill that is running on
here month in and month out. How do you think us poor
people is to live at all — tell me that — if they have to keep
supplying paupers for nothing? And look at the poor
rates ! "
" I am very sorry indeed," stammered a weak, quaver-
ing voice — a lady's, "but we have been disappointed in
some payments due to us; we have indeed, or you should
have had your money long ago; and the very day we re-
ceive our remittances you shall be paid."
"An' that will be Tibb's eve,"— scornfully ; " live, horse,
and you '11 get grass! Anyhow, you '11 get no more bread
here — sorra a crumb."
" Oh, Mrs. Bergin, just trust me — this once ! "
"Come, that's enough, and I can't be losing me whole
day talking (o beggars. Why don't you go into the house? "
Could this be civil Mrs. Bergin, who always had a
gay word for me? But, then, / was a cash customer! I
caught a glimpse of the little, miserable, white face at the
bottom of the black poke. Oh, what an expression of
want, despair, famine !
664 IRISH LITERATURE.
On the impulse of the moment I spoke, and said : " I
understand that you have left your purse at home. Will
you allow me to be your banker for the present. I think
we are neighbors; I live just opposite you — at number
seventeen, and you can repay me when you please," and I
offered her half a crown.
" I have no change," she faltered, almost in tears. " Oh,
it 's too much to borrow ! I may — " and she paused,
struggling with emotion.
" You '11 never see it again, miss, and so I tell you," vol-
unteered Mrs. Bergin, as she picked out a yesterday's two-
penny loaf.
" I will pay you ; indeed I will," resumed the old lady
in a firmer voice. " Mrs. Bergin, I will take a stale two-
penny, a pound of oatmeal, and three rusks."
As she turned to choose them, I nodded good-night, and
stepped out once more into the dark street. Two days
later Mrs. Grogan flung open the door of my suite, saying,
as she wiped the suds from her bare, red arms :
" A person to see you, miss," and the old lady from oppo-
site shuffled into the room. She was shrunken, small, frail,
and, oh, so shabby ! How her shawl was held together by
darns, her thin shoes patched, her gloves (odd ones) — I
refrain from describing these, for they represented the very
last gasp of expiring gentility.
" I brought you the money you kindly advanced me,"
she said, tendering the half-crown, which was neatly
wrapped in paper, " and I am vastly obliged to you."
" Won't you sit down? " I said, offering her my one spare
seat.
" I am much obliged to you," she reiterated in a formal
manner, " but I never pay calls now ; we don't visit ; I only
just stepped across — " She hesitated. I saw her wander-
ing eye fixed on my fat, brown teapot, and instantly —
guiltily — withdrawn. That timid glance had told a tale.
I was determined to take no denial — accept no excuse.
" You must stay and have a cup of tea with me," I urged.
" Indeed, I shall be quite hurt if you decline. I am so
lonely — it will be a great favor if you remain and keep
me company. See, my teapot is on the hob."
" Well — really — since you are so pressing," she mur-
mured, slowly seating herself, and proceeding to draw off
MRS. B. M. CROKER. 665
her gloves — a proceeding which demanded the most cau-
tious manipulation. I noticed her hands — they were beau-
tifully shaped, but emaciated and worn with hard, coarse
work, precisely like the hands of a charwoman.
" Let me see," she said, looking about her with a fa-
miliar air. " It is fifty years since I was in this drawing-
room — not since the old judge's time. He was a great wit
and a great card-player."
" There have been changes in the neighborhood since
then, have there not? " I remarked.
" Changes ! Indeed, you may well say so ! and I have
seen them. I recollect when six titled people lived in this
very street. I am close on ninety — too old, my dear! I
hope you may never live to such an inhuman age — and I
hope it in all kindness."
Ninety! Yes, her face was wrinkled beyond anything
imaginable — a wrinkle for a year; but the features were re-
fined, not to say aristocratic, and her eyes were bright and
animated. I made haste to pour her out a good cup of tea,
and handed her some buttered toast (my own especial
luxury). How she relished the tea, poor old soul! With
what tremulous avidity she put it to her lips and swal-
lowed every drop ! Surely it was months since she had
tasted the woman's comforter and friend. A second cup
had the effect of loosening her tongue and thawing her
heart completely.
" Aly childie, you are very good to me," she said with a
timid smile. " Have you no one belonging to you, and how
long have you lived here? "
" I have lived here more than a year. I have no rela-
tions in this country, but I have a brother in Australia,
who is married."
" And why do you live here, dearie, in God-forgotten
Dennis Street? "
" Because it suits my purse," I frankly replied. " I am
very poor."
"Poor?" — with a queer little laugh. "Darling child,
I don't suppose you know what poverty means! How do
you pnss your time? "
"I work for my living; I write for magazines and
papers."
"You write! Well, times are altered! In my young
666 IRISH LITERATURE.
days people would have been shocked to see a personable
young woman living alone and writing for the papers.
You have seen better days, dear? "
" No, not much better," I candidly replied. " My father
was a poor curate; he had a hundred and twenty pounds
a year, and no private means. There was my mother, my
brother, and myself. It was not much, when my brother
had to be educated and put out in the world."
" No. And where did you live? "
" At Carra, in the West."
" Ah, the West, with its seas and sunsets ! " — and her old
eyes glowed. " I was reared out there, before your father
was born. / have seen better days — carriages and out-
riders, liveried servants, a pack of hounds ; why, we burned
wax candles in the kitchen, and kept eleven gardeners.
But I 'm sure you think me a doddering old idiot to talk
like this ! Well, ice have come down in the world sadly —
Ann and I — Lady Ann — and I. — Yes," lowering her voice,
"she is my first cousin; we were always like sisters; we
live in the house opposite. Don't breathe it, dear, but we
have been there this five years. We keep as quiet as mice.
It is the old family town house, and we may as well be
there as anywhere ; no one wants it. Hush ! and I '11 whis-
per it. Lady Ann's father was the Earl of Kilmorna. My
father was his brother — I am his niece, Lucinda Seager.
Now," drawing herself up, " who would think it? We two
old bodies are the last of the line. The earl, my uncle,
kept great state, even when he was a ruined man. His son
gambled and drank — and — died abroad — imbecile. Ann
was never what you may call bright; she had a moderate
fortune, and she and I lived in a small way out West. We
had a neat little place too, and nice neighbors, and Ann
was made a good deal of. However, troubles came; our
small investments were swept away; and whilst we trav-
eled to Dublin, to see about them, our belongings were
seized and sold up, and we were ashamed to go back. We
had a few pounds left, and some old heirlooms, and we
stayed in town until we — we had no money at all, and then
we came and crept into the old house; we had the keys,
you see, and we pretend that we are dead. Oh, God Al-
mighty knows I wish we were — ! " And she broke down
and sobbed — hard, chill, tearless sobs.
MRS. B. M. CROKER. 667
It is the saddest thing in the world to see an old woman
cry ! " We have no income at all," she resumed, " only
eleven pounds a year — interest in the funds; it dies with
me : but with medicine and food, and firing, it does not go
far."
" Have you no friends? " I inquired somewhat timidly.
" No one — we have outlived them all : you see, dear, it
is not always a blessing to grow old."
" The clergyman," I suggested, almost in a whisper.
" Do you think we would let any one know that Lady
Ann, an earl's daughter, was brought so low? Ann is
proud — oh, terribly proud ! She has a few things that, if
she would only part with them, would fetch money, but she
says she will have them buried in her coffin."
" Can you not persuade her to dispose of them? '
" I 've tried and tried times and again, but it 's no use.
My things went long ago; but she has an old gold watch
and chain, and silver bowl, and spoons and forks, some lace
and pearls — but what is the good of thinking of them,
dear? She would give them to a friend, with a heart and
a half, but would never take money for them, never. She
would die sooner than sell them."
" And I suppose you have no books, or papers, or flowers,
or anything, and rarely go out? "
" Books ! papers ! My child, I haven't seen one for
months. The world is as dead to us as we are to the world ;
as to flowers, I almost forget the look of them, and, oh ! we
were so fond of them and had such a lovely little garden !
All our time is spent in trying to sleep, to keep ourselves
warm, and to obtain a little food; and we go over old days
in the dark, by the hour. I think the thought of what we
once were keeps life in us still."
" Have no letters ever come to you? "
" One or two, but we always sent them to the dead-letter
office. We could not, for shame's sake, let people dream
we had fallen so low — and two penniless old women are
soon forgotten. Now you know our secret. Your kind
face, and your warm hospitality, have opened my lips,
and" — rising as- she spoke — " I must go, witb a thousand
thanks."
"If you would like my paper any day," I said, "you
are mosl welcome lo it."
G68 IRISH LITERATURE.
" Oh yes, if you would slip it iu the letter-box, after
dark, what a pleasure it would give us ! "
" And here is a Graphic you can take and keep, and I
am sure I can send you over some books."
" Oh, you are far too good, too good ! I am ashamed to
be under such obligations to you. God bless you ! " And
she tottered downstairs and across the street.
About a week later I received a three-cornered note,
written on a half-sheet of yellow paper; it proved to be
an invitation — a rare occurrence for me — and ran as
follows : —
" Lady Ann and Miss Lucinda Seager request the pleas-
ure of Miss Smith's company at tea, at six o'clock, at 75
Dennis Street."
Could I believe my eyes? Of course, I would accept
with pleasure. At six o'clock to the second, I went over
and rang the bell; how rusty it was, and stiff! I heard it
clanging and echoing through the empty house, and then
feeble steps coming slowly along a passage.
Presently the door was opened by Miss Lucinda, with
a dip-candle in her hand. She beamed upon me as she
said :
" I coaxed her to dispose of one or two small things, and
we are better off now. She 's in the library."
Miss Lucinda ushered me across a hall (out of which
rose a ghostly stone staircase), along a corridor, and into
an immense back room, extremely lofty. There was a can-
dle, a tiny lire, a sofa, a little furniture, and, in a very im-
posing chair, an imposing old lady — thin, fragile, digni-
fied, and considerably younger than my acquaintance. She
wore a priceless yellow lace scarf over an exceedingly
shabby old gown. Tea was laid on a small table, with a
newspaper for cloth ; I noticed a sixpenny cake and some
dry toast.
" My cousin has mentioned you to me," said Lady Ann,
" and I thought I should like to make your acquaintance,
and thank you for the papers " — with an air of easy patron-
age. " You have given us great entertainment. We are
two lonely gentlewomen who live quite out of the world.
Lucinda " — peremptorily — " you can make the tea."
Lucinda was evidently her cousin's slave. She waited
on Lady Ann as if she were a queen, and attended to all her
3IRS. B. M. CROKEB. 669
observations with what seemed to me unreasonable defer-
ence. Lady Ann did the honors as if presiding at a royal
banquet, whilst we sipped our tea and nibbled at our stale
sponge-cake. She prattled incessantly, and I feasted my
eyes on the massive old snuffers and spoons, also on a
superbly embossed jug and sugar-bowl. Why, the silver
on the table was probably worth forty shillings an ounce,
and these proud people preferred to starve rather than
part with the family heirlooms. Then, as we drew round
the scanty fire, they began to ply me with eager questions.
The two shrill old voices often rose simultaneously on
either hand, demanding news of the outer world. What
had become of the Roxcrofts? Was her ladyship dead?
Had Marion Lascelles married? Who lived in Grandmore
Castle? Who won the great Lynch lawsuit, and who had
come in for old Sir Corrie's money? I could not answer
half of these interrogations. I was, however, able to im-
part many items of more general news. Royal weddings,
deaths, births, wars, new inventions, new literary lights,
ay, and new fashions. I discoursed for the best part of an
hour, and gradually unfolded the latest intelligence of the
present day, whilst they, on their part, recalled many
stories of the past. How I longed for a note-book or a
good memory! I heard all particulars of the grand ball
that had been given in the house on Lady Ann's sixteenth
birthday; of the routs and dinners among their own set;
of the runaway match from number twenty-two, and the
duel fought with small-swords at number five.
This was not my last visit by any means. I went over
to see my old ladies about once a week (not to tea). Gen-
erally there was a fire — always a dip-candle. I was per-
mitted to explore the house. I shudder now when I re-
call the ghostly double drawing-room, with an immense
mirror, casting weird reflections — a fixture in the wall. I
shiver when I think of the vast empty rooms, the dark pas-
sages and mysterious powder-closets, the awful under-
ground regions, the dripping damp kitchens, the crum-
bling stables, and the decaying pear-tree, that in a storm
sullenly lashed itself against the library windows, as much
as to say, " Let me come in."
Ultimately I became a favorite with Lady Ann. I
brought her news, books, and papers — she had marvelous
670 IRISH LITERATURE.
sight. I also ventured to present her with fruit, a down
cushion, knitted mittens, and a shawl. These she accepted
with an air of lofty condescension that had a humbling
effect on me ; however, that she did accept them was satis-
factory, even though I was sensible that every additional
unworthy offering was an additional liberty.
One afternoon I noticed an air of mysterious importance
in Miss Lucinda's manner as she admitted me.
" Ann wants to see you particularly," she said. " This
is her birthday — her eighty-fourth, — and she is giving her-
self a little treat."
This little treat, I was soon made aware, was to take
the form of a presentation to me.
" My dear Jessie," said Lady Ann, embracing me, " we
want to make you a trifling present in honor of the day
— it is the onty pleasure that it is now in our power to en-
joy. Here is my birthday gift," handing me a good-sized,
untidy paper parcel, containing some hard substance. " It
belonged to my grandfather — Louis XVI. gave it to him —
and I present it to you."
I opened the package carefully and discovered the silver
jug — richly worked, and embossed with lilies and the royal
arms of France. Miss Lucinda had evidently given it a
polish for the occasion.
My first impulse was to return it on the spot, but second
thoughts prevailed, and I kissed Lady Ann, and offered
her my warmest thanks. "It was ten thousand times too
good of her," I declared, " and I valued it more than I
could express."
But Miss Lucinda and I subsequently conferred together
on the subject in the cold outer hall. " Of course I don't
mean to keep it. I shall get a great price for it, and bring
you the money," I whispered eagerly.
" Of course you toill keep it," cried Miss Lucinda. " It 's
not as if we had any heirs. I was delighted when she
thought of it. She can't bear being under a compliment,
and, besides, she is so fond of you. Kilmorna always used
it for his punch — for the hot water. It 's a handsome
jug."
" It is. Nevertheless I intend to dispose of it as I have
said."
" And is that how you treat our present? Are we fallen
MRS. B. M. CROKER. 671
so low that you '11 sell our little gift and give us back the
money in charity? " And she burst out crying.
" Now, Miss Lucinda — ray dear Miss Lucinda," I
pleaded, putting my arm round her neck. " I look to you to
be sensible. Lady Ann is simply wickedly generous. You
both want, oh ! so many things, and you have suffered so
much — so much — "
" God Almighty only knows how much ! " she sobbed.
" And whilst you have no blankets, no fire, and scarcely
food, Lady Ann gives an heirloom to a stranger that is
worth fifty pounds. If I may not have my own way, I
shall take it back to her this instant. Now, dear Miss
Lucinda," I coaxed, "be reasonable; you shall give me
some little gift, but I would be a mean, dishonorable,
abominable wretch — if I accepted the Louis Seize jug."
It took a long time to convince Miss Lucinda. We stood
and argued face to face for twenty minutes in that vault-
like hall. In the end I conquered, and she relented; and
in the course of a week I brought her by stealth no less a
sum than thirty pounds. I had hoped for more, but to Miss
Lucinda it seemed a fortune.
" How am I to account for it?" she demanded. " Just
think of all the lies I must tell! What am I to say? She
knows I have only ninepence in the whole wide world."
" Say it 's restitution money ! " was my glib reply. "And
so it is. I am restoring you your own."
" Well, childie, 't is you that are clever ! I 'd never have
thought of that — and it 's no lie. Many and many a twenty
pound was clipped from us in the old days, and we never
missed it. Ann will easily credit that the priests, or
people's own consciences, have worked on them, and they
have sent us back our own."
Luckily for me, Lady Ann proved easily deceived, and
received the restitution money with sobs of delight. I now-
learnt that she was a true Kilmorna. If she had had her
will, that thirty pounds would have been squandered in
three days. She talked of black silk dresses, of papering
and painting the house, and a box at the theater!
I really began t<> fear that the money had turned her
poor brain, till Miss Lucinda assured me privately "that
Ann had xovy extravagant ideas, and as long as she was
672 IRISH LITERATURE.
mistress of one shilling, she was always ready to lay out
a thousand."
Miss Seager and I made a joint expedition to the shops
on the strength of that same restitution money. We in-
vested in a cheap screen, as a shelter from draughts from
the door. We honorably paid the baker. We laid in no less
than a whole ton of coals. We also purchased a square of
drugget, a lamp, a table-cover, blankets, tinned soups, tea,
candles, and various other luxuries. In the course of time
— that is to say, within the space of twelve months — I had
been affectionately endowed with a lace scarf, a gold re-
peater, six two-pronged forks, and a set of seals; and my
two old ladies — thanks to restitution money — were in com-
paratively affluent circumstances.
Mrs. Grogan, my landlady, " could not make out what
sort of a fancy," as she expressed it, " I had taken to the
old beggar of a caretaker, who, it appeared after all, did
live opposite," but I neither noticed her hints, nor grati-
fied her curiosity.
" Ann loves you," Miss Seager assured me, " but you
must never breathe our secret to a soul — the mere idea of
such a thing, the hint you gave her of writing to our law-
3<er, nearly brought on a paralytic stroke. We can do
finely now. I have what will carry me on for many months,
and in great style. We can afford a bit of meat sometimes
— I toast it at the fire on a fork — and eggs, and soups, and
port wine, and it 's all thanks to you, dear, and your
cunning restitutions. The old pearls, and her mother's
rings, and miniature, and a rose-diamond brooch, are al-
most all Ann has left, and she will never give them away,
not even to you, whilst the breath is in her; but they are
bequeathed to you in her will. There are still the spoons,
and we can live on them for a good while, if they fetch
the same fine prices, dear. Now that money is off my mind,
there is another load on my heart, and it frightens me. If
I was to die — and I 'm ninety-one, and a wonder for my
age — what will happen to Ann? Who is to cook for her,
and do for her? Keep her in spirits and company, and
care for her? It — will have to be — you." And she nodded
her head at me witli solemn emphasis. " Look now what
a burden you have brought on yourself, and all through
lending me half a crown ! Well, my heart, God in heaven
MRS. B. M. CROKER. 673
will have it all in store for you for what you have been —
and done, for two poor old women." . . .
A few days after this conversation I unexpectedly found
myself on board one of the Orient liners en route for Aus-
tralia. My brother's wife was dead, and he had tele-
graphed for me to come to him immediately. That star-
tling little slip of pink paper, how suddenly it had changed
my life and my plans !
I remained eighteen months in the Antipodes, nursing
my brother through a tedious illness. After his death, I
turned my face homewards, with his little orphan girl, to
whom I was guardian. I was no longer a poor journalist.
I need not work for my daily bread, nor live in such a
" low " quarter as " Dennis Street." I was an heiress
now.
I had written to my two old ladies, to a prearranged ad-
dress, but received no reply. This, however, caused me
no uneasiness. I knew that they feared discovery and the
postman, and had suffered their art of letter-writing to be
lost. The morning I arrived in Dublin my very first visit
was to them. I walked from the tram straight to number
seventy-five, and knocked and rang — no answer — saving
the echoes. Knock, knock, knock — dead silence — an op-
pressive, expressive silence. Then I repaired to my old
quarters and interviewed Mrs. Grogan. After a warm
and effusive reception —
"So you are looking for those old people, are you?
Oh ! " she said, " sure, they are both dead — the creatures! "
" Both dead ! " I repeated incredulously.
" Why, yes; the little old woman was run over by a car,
and taken to Jervis Street Hospital. She was terribly
anxious about a hand-bag she had with her — she said it
was full of valuables — pearls and rings; but the deuce a
hit of it was to be found — if she ever had it; and she was
in an awful stale about her cousin, Lady Ann, who lived
over here in this street. They thought the poor old body
was raving mad; but anyhow she died, calling with her
lasl breath for Lady Ann!
" Some people suspicioned there might be something in
what she said, and looked up the house after a couple
of days, and found there, sure enough, an aged woman,
starving and crazy. She declared she was Lady Ann — a
43
674 IRISH LITERATURE.
queer sort of Lady Ann ! There was nothing to eat, nor a
sign of a copper in the place, and as she had no one owning
her, they just took her off to the union. She was raging;
and went screaming through the streets that she was an
earl's daughter! but sure no one minded her, the poor,
unfortunate, cracked creature! They put her in the in-
firmary, she was so miserable and feeble, not fit to scrub
or to do a hand's turn. They were kind folks, and humored
the bothered old beggar, and called her ' your ladyship,' for
that was the only thing that seemed to ease her mind at
all. She died about six weeks ago, and was buried as a
pauper — old Lady Ann! "
na;
02JIW HHOT
rtW\A
JOHN WILSON CROKER
From an engraving
JOHN WILSON CROKER.
(1780—1857.)
John Wilson Croker, one of the founders and an editor of The
Quarterly Review, a son of the Surveyor-General of Ireland, was
born in Galway, educated at Trinity College, Dublin, and called to
the Irish bar in 1S02. While still a youth he produced a satirical
composition, entitled 'Familiar Epistles to F. E. Jones, Esq.,' and
in 1807 he became Member for Downpatrick. He represented in
Parliament several constituencies in succession — Dublin, Yarmouth,
Athlone, and Bodmin. Meantime his pen was incessantly active,
and among his works at that time may be mentioned : ' An Inter-
cepted Letter from Canton,' a vigorous satire on the city of Dublin ;
' Songs of Trafalgar,' ' A Sketch of Ireland Past and Present,' and
' Stories from the History of England.'
As Secretary to the Admiralty, during twenty years he kept the
affairs of the office in a state of efficiency not very common in olden
days. In Parliament he was a frequent and effective debater,
though the strong party spirit, the occasional bitterness, and a cer-
tain arrogance of tone in his speeches, procured him the strong en-
mity of his opponents. Croker and Lord Macaulay were constantly
at war, and throughout the lives of both passages at arms between
them were frequent and usually fierce.
When the Reform bill of 1832, which he bitterly opposed, was
passed, he retired from Parliamentary life and never l'eturned to
it. From the editorial chair of The Quarterly Review, which he
then occupied, he continued to exercise a powerful influence upon
political as well as upon literary affairs. His articles were like his
speeches, full of information, graphic, and powerful, but blemished
by exhibitions of blind party spirit, and weakened by violence of
epithets. The typical reviews of the two Quarterlies of this period,
— and Croker was responsible for many of them — were of the "cut
and slash " order, which, while it may have been productive of
good in some instances, has had a very malign influence in others.
'The Battle of Talavera,' 'Letters on the Naval War with
America,' ' The Suffolk Papers,' ' Harvey's Memoirs of the Court i >f
George the Second,' and ' Reply to the Letters of Malachi Malagrow-
ther,' were published during this period, as also his translation of
' Bassompiere's Embassy to England ' ; while several of his essays
in Tlie Quarterly Revieiv were reproduced in book form. The publi-
cation of his edition of ' Boswell's Life of Johnson,' on which he had
bestowed the greatest care, provoked the most bitter of many quar-
rels between him and Macaulay, who published in The Edinburgh
Review an essay on the book, which Avas one of the most powerful
and the severest that ever appeared from his pen.
Croker in his turn was the critic and Macaulay the author ; but
his attack on the famous ' History of England ' will perhaps be best
remembered by Sydney Smith's definition of it as an attempt at
murder which ended in suicide. The readiness of Croker to reoog-
675
670 IRISH LITERATURE.
nize the abilities of his opponent, however, contrasts not unfavor-
ably with the uniform and untiring bitterness of Macaulay toward
him. In addition to the works already mentioned, Croker published
editions of ' Walpole's Letters to Lord Hertford,' ' Lady Hervey's
Letters,' and ' The History of the Guillotine,' which is a piece of his
best literary work, as well as several poems. He was associated
with the Marquis of Hertford, the wealthy and profligate, heartless,
and tyrannical nobleman who stood for the " Marquis of Steyne" in
' Vanity Fair ' and " Lord Monmouth " in ' Coningsby .' Croker is
alluded to cursorily in ' Vanity Fair,' but he was the original of
" Rigby " in ' Coningsby,' one of Lord Beaconsfield's most finished
and most biting portraits. After the publication of Disraeli's novel
in 1844, the nickname never left Croker. He died at Hampton,
Aug. 10, 1857, after some years of seclusion and retirement.
THE GUILLOTINE IN FRANCE.
From ' The History of the Guillotine.'
The guillotine remained in the Place rie la Revolution
till the eighth of June, 1794, when the inhabitants of the
streets through which these batches (fournees), as they
were called, of sufferers used to pass, became at last tired
of that agreeable sight, and solicited its removal. This
would probably have been not much regarded; but there
was a more potent motive. Robespierre seems at this
time to have adopted a new policy, and to have formed
some design of founding a dictatorial authority in his
own person on the basis of religion and morals. On the
seventh of June he made his famous report acknowledging
" FEtre Supreme," and appointing the twentieth of June
for the great fete in the garden of the Tuileries, which was
to celebrate this recognition.
Of this fete Robespierre was to be the Pontifex Maximus,
and it can hardly be doubted that it was to remove the
odious machine from the immediate scene of his glorifica-
tion that it was — the day after the decree and ten days
before the fete — removed to the Place St. Antoine, in front
of the ruins of the Bastile; but that a day might not be
lost, it was removed on a Decadi, the republican Sabbath.
It stood, however, but five days in the Place St. Antoine,
for the shopkeepers even of that patriotic quarter did not
like their new neighbor; and so, after having in these five
days executed ninety-six persons, it was removed still
JOHN WILSON CROKER. G77
further to the Barriere du Trone, or, as it was called in
the absurd nomenclature of the day, Barriere Renversee.
There it stood from the ninth of June to the fall of
Robespierre, 9th Thermidor (July 27, 1794). So say all
the authorities; but an incident in the trial of Fouquier-
Tinville seems to prove that, in the early part of July at
least, the scaffold stood in the Place de la Revolution, and
that the instrument was dismounted every evening-. A
lady, the Marquise de Feuquieres, was to be tried on the
first of July; the whole evidence against her was a docu-
ment which had been placed under the seals of the law at
her country house near Versailles, and Fouquier sent off
the night before a special messenger to bring it up; the
messenger was delayed by the local authorities, and could
not get back to Paris till half-past four on the evening of
the first, when, " on arriving at the Place de la Revolution,
he found the executioner dismounting the engine, and was
informed that the Marquise de Feuquieres had been guil-
lotined an hour before," — having been tried and con-
demned without a tittle of any kind of evidence; and this
fact, attested by his own messenger, Fouquier could not
deny — though we cannot reconcile it with the other evi-
dence as to the localitj^ of the guillotine at that particular
period. In all the lists des Condamnes Madame de Feu-
quieres and twenty-three other persons are stated to have
suffered on the first of July at the Barriere du Trone.
In the forty-nine days in which it is said to have stood
at the Barriere du Trone it dispatched one thousand two
hundred and seventy persons of both sexes, and of all
ages and ranks, and it became necessary to build a kind
of sanguiduct to carry off the streams of blood; and on
the very last day, when the tyrant had already fallen, and
that the smallest interruption would have sufficed to have
stopped the fatal procession, forty-nine persons passed al-
most unguarded through the stupefied streets to the place
of execution. And here we have the last occasion to men-
tion Sanson; and it is to his credit, as indeed all the per-
sonal details related of him seem to be. On the 9th Ther-
midor there was, about half-past three in the afternoon,
just as the last batch of victims was about to leave the
< onciergerie, a considerable commot ion in the town, caused
by the revolt against Robespierre. At that moment Fou-
678 IRISH LITERATURE.
quier, on his way to dine with a neighbor, passed through
the courts where the prisoners were ascending the fatal
carts. Sanson, whose duty it was to conduct the prison-
ers to execution, ventured to stop the Accusateur Public
to represent to him that there were some rumors of a com-
motion, and to suggest whether it would not be prudent to
postpone the execution till at least the next morning.
Fouquier roughly replied that the law must take its course.
He went to dinner, and the forty-nine victims went to the
scaffold, whither in due time he followed them!
The next day the guillotine was removed back to the
scene of its longest triumphs — the Place de la Revolution
— where on the twenty-eighth of July it avenged human-
ity on Robespierre and twenty-one of his followers ; on the
next day sixty-nine, and on the day after thirteen more of
his associates fell, amongst whom were most of the judges,
juries, and officers of the Revolutionary Tribunal, and a
majority of the Commune of Paris — greater monsters, if
possible, than the members of the Tribunal. . . .
Of the operations of the guillotine in the departments
during the Parisian Reign of Terror we have very scanty
information. We only know that in most of the great
towns it was in permanent activity, and that in some re-
markable instances, as at Avignon, Nantes, and Lyons, its
operations were found too slow for " the vengeance of the
people," and were assisted by the wholesale massacres of
fusillades and noyades. At Nantes, and some other places,
the Conventional Proconsuls carried M. de Clermont Ton-
nere's principle to the extreme extent of ostentatiously in-
viting the Executioner to dinner.
For some months after the fall of Robespierre the Pari-
sian guillotine was, though not permanently, yet actively,
employed against his immediate followers; and, subse-
quently, against the tail (as it was called) of his faction,
who attempted to revive the Reign of Terror ; but we have
no distinct details of these proceedings; the numbers,
though great, were insignificant in comparison with the
former massacres, and no one, we believe, suffered who did
not amply deserve it — Fouquier-Tinville himself and the
remainder of his colleagues, the judges and jury of the
tribunal, included. His and their trial is the most extraor-
dinary document that the whole revolution has produced,
JOHN WILSON CROKER. 679
and develops a series of turpitudes and horrors such as
no imagination could conceive. But that does not belong-
to our present subject, and we must hasten to conclude.
Under the Directory, the Consulate, and the Empire, we
do not find that any immoderate use was made of the guil-
lotine;— the very name had become intolerably odious, and
the ruling powers were reluctant to use it even on legiti-
mate occasions. During the Restoration it was rarely em-
ployed, and never, as far as we recollect, for any politi-
cal crime. When occasion for its use occurred, it was
brought forth and erected in the Place de Greve, and re-
moved immediately after the execution; and we ourselves
can bear witness — though we could not bring ourselves to
see it — that one of these tragedies, which occurred while
we happened to be in Paris, appeared to throw a kind of
gloom and uneasiness over the whole city, that contrasted
very strongly and very favorably with our recollection of
the events of twenty years before.
After the accession of Louis Philippe, for whom the guil-
lotine must have been an object of the most painful con-
templation, sentences of death were also very rare, and
certainly never executed where there was any possible
room for mercy. The executions, too, when forced upon
him, took place at early hours and in remote and uncer-
tain places; and every humane art was used to cover the
operations of the fatal instrument with a modest veil, not
only from motives of general decency and humanity, but
also, no doubt, from national pride and personal sensibil-
ity. What Frenchman would not wish that the name and
memory of the guillotine could be blotted from the his-
tory of mankind? " The word Guillotine," says the author
of " Les Fastes de l'Anarchie," " should be effaced from the
Language." But the revolutionary horrors which France is
naturally so anxious to forget, it the more behooves us and
the rest of Europe to remember and meditate. Such mas-
sacres as we have been describing will probably never be
repeated; they will, no doubt, stand unparalleled in the
future, as they do in the former annals of the world; but
they should never be forgot I en as an example of the incal-
culable excesses of popular insanity.
THOMAS CROFTON CROKER.
(1798—1854.)
Thomas Crofton Croker, Ireland's pioneer folk-lorist, was born
in Cork, Jan. 15, 1798. Though intended for a business career, he
early strayed into the paths of literature and art, and his leisure hours
were spent in rambles in company with a Quaker gentleman of tastes
similar to his own, making sketches as they went. In these excur-
sions he gained that intimate knowledge of the people, their ideas,
traditions, and tales, which he afterward turned to such good
account. A poem translated from the Irish, which appeared in
The Morning Post, first brought him into notice, the poet Crabbe,
among others, being favorably impressed with it. To Tom Moore,
who at this time was collecting airs for his songs, Croker supplied
a great number, which service the poet gratefully acknowledged.
Croker exhibited in the Fine Art Exhibition of Cork in 1817. As
an artist he had a place in The Literary Examiner, a periodical
which had a short-lived existence in Cork. In this publication
it was Irish antiquities which worthily furnished subjects for his
pencil. For his sketch of Sunday's Well, Cork, Father Prout
wrote the verses :
" In yonder well there lurks a spell,
It is a fairy font ;
Croker himself, poetic elf,
Might fitly write upon 't.
" The summer day of childhood gay
Was spent beside it often ;
I loved its brink, so did, I think,
Maginn, Maclise, and Crofton.
" There is a trace time can't efface,
Nor years of absence dim ;
It is the thought of yon sweet spot,
Yon fountain's fairy brim."
In 1818 he went to London, and obtained a post in the Admiralty.
Three years afterward he visited Ireland, and the result was the
production, in 1824, of his ' Researches in the South of Ireland,'
a volume which contains a large quantity of valuable information
respecting the manners and superstitions of the Irish peasantry,
scenery, architectural remains, etc. ' Fairy Legends and Traditions
of the South of Ireland ' appeared in 1825. It was published in
German with the title of ' Irische Elf-Marchen.' In a few days
the first edition was disposed of, and Mr. Murray, the publisher,
advised the author to depart for Ireland forthwith, " to glean the
remainder of the fairy legends and traditions which he suspected
were still to be found lurking among its glens . . . making the most
680
THOMAS CROFTON CROKER. 681
of my time hunting up and bagging all the old ' gray superstitions ' I
could fall in with."
Mr. Croker was at this time a member of the Society of Anti-
quaries, and in 1828 he was elected President. ' Barney Mahoney/
'My Village versus Our Village,' both of which appeared in 1832,
though published in Croker's name, were, we are told by his son,
written by his wife ; she, with wifely affection, insisting that the
stories should be put to the credit of her husband.
Mr. Croker took active part in the formation of two literary as-
sociations, namely, the Camden Society, founded in 1839, and the
Percy Society, in 1840 ; and ' Historical Songs of Ireland, with an
Introduction and Notes by T. Crofton Croker ' formed part of the
third year's issue by the former of those two learned bodies.
' The Popular Songs of Ireland ' appeared in 1839. ' The Memoir
of Joseph Holt, General of the Irish Eebels in '98,' edited from the
original MS. in the possession of Sir William Bentham, next appeared.
In 1844 the ' Tour of M. Boullaye le Gouz through Ireland ' was pub-
lished. Mr. Croker also contributed sixteen drawings to the first
volume of Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall's ' Ireland.' An ' Autobiography
of Mary, Countess of Warwick,' from a manuscript in the possession
of Lord Brooke— published as the May issue for 1848 of the Percy
Society — and a lost play, supposed to be the production of Mas-
singer, also issued by the same society in 1849, were both edited by
Mr. Croker.
Mr. Croker retired in 1850 on a pension of £580 ($2,900) a year.
He died in 1854, and was buried in the Brompton Cemetery.
Croker's reputation rests upon the important pioneer work he did
in gathering up the fairy and traditional tales of Ireland. More
recent collectors have been more exact in their reproductions of the
folk stories and have not attempted, as Croker did, to invest " them
with artistic merit," but, as Mr. W. B. Yeats says, Croker has
" caught the very voice of the people, the very pulse of life — giving
what was most noticed in his day. Croker, full of the ideas of
harum-scarum Irish gentility, saw everything humorized. His
work is touched everywhere with beauty — a gentle Arcadian
beauty."
THE CONFESSIONS OF TOM BOURKE.
Tom Bourke lives in a low, long farmhouse, resembling
in outward appearance a large barn, placed at the bot-
tom of the bill, just where the new road strikes off from
the old one, leading from the town of Kilworth to that of
Lismore. He is of a class of persons who are a sort of
black swans in Ireland: be is a wealthy farmer. Tom's
father had, in the good old times, when a hundred pounds
were no inconsiderable treasure, either to lend or Spend,
accommodated his landlord with that sum, at interest ; and
obtained as a return for bis civility a long lease, about
GS2 IRISH LITERATURE.
half-a-dozen times more valuable than the loan which
procured it. The old man died worth several hundred
pounds, the greater part of which, with his farm, he be-
queathed to his son Tom. But besides all this, Tom re-
ceived from his father, upon his death-bed, another gift,
far more valuable than worldly riches, greatly as he prized
and is still known to prize them. He was invested with
the privilege, enjoyed by few of the sons of men, of com-
municating with those mysterious beings called " the good
people."
Tom Bourke is a little, stout, healthy, active man, about
fifty-five years of age. His hair is perfectly white, short
and bushy behind, but rising in front erect and thick above
his forehead, like a new clothes-brush. His eyes are of
that kind which I have often observed with persons of a
quick but limited intellect — they are small, gray, and
lively. The large and projecting eyebrows under, or rather
within, which they twinkle, give them an expression of
shrewdness and intelligence, if not of cunning. And this
is veiw much the character of the man. If you want to
make a bargain with Tom Bourke you must act as if you
were a general besieging a town, and make your advances
a long time before you can hope to obtain possession. If
you march up boldly, and tell him at once your object, you
are for the most part sure to have the gates closed in your
teeth. Tom does not wish to part with what you wish to
obtain; or another person has been speaking to him for
the whole of the last week. Or, it may be, your proposal
seems to meet the most favorable reception. " Very well,
sir ; ': " That 's true sir ; " "I 'in very thankful to your
honor," and other expressions of kindness and confidence
greet you in reply to every sentence; and you part from
him wondering how he can have obtained the character
which he universally bears, of being a man whom no one
can make anything of in a bargain. But when you next
meet him the illusion is dissolved ; you find you are a great
deal further from your object than you were when you
thought you had almost succeeded; his eye and his tongue
express a total forgetful ness of what the mind within never
lost sight of for an instant ; and you have to begin opera-
tions afresh, with the disadvantage of having put your ad-
versary completely upon his guard.
THOMAS CROFTON CROKER. GS3
Yet, although Tom Bourke, is, whether from supernat-
ural revealings, or (as many will think more probable)
from the tell-truth experience, so distrustful of mankind,
and so close in his dealings with them, he is no misan-
thrope. No man loves better the pleasures of the genial
board. The love of money, indeed, which is with him (and
who will blame him?) a very ruling propensity, and the
gratification which it has received from habits of industry,
sustained throughout a pretty long and successful life, have
taught him the value of sobriety, during those seasons, at
least, when a man's business requires him to keep posses-
sion of his senses. He has, therefore, a general rule, never
to get drunk but on Sundays. But in order that it should
be a general one to all intents and purposes, he takes a
method which, according to better logicians than he is,
always proves the rule. He has many exceptions ; among
these, of course, are the evenings of all the fair and market-
days that happen in his neighborhood; so also all the days
in which funerals, marriages, and christenings take place
among his friends within many miles of him. As to
this last class of exceptions, it may appear at first very
singular, that he is much more punctual in his attendance
at the funerals than at the baptisms or weddings of his
friends.
This may be construed as an instance of disinterested af-
fection for departed worth, very uncommon in this selfish
world. But I am afraid that the motives which lead Tom
Bourke to pay more court to the dead than the living are
precisely those which lead to the opposite conduct in the
generality of mankind — a hope of future benefit and a fear
of future evil. For the good people, who are a race as
powerful as they are capricious, have their favorites among
those who inhabit this world; often show their affection by
easing the objects of it from the load of this burdensome
life; and frequently reward or punish the living according
to the degree of reverence paid to the obsequies and the
memory of the elected dead.
Some may attribute to the same cause the apparently
humane and charitable actions which Tom, and indeed the
other members of his family, are known frequently to per-
form. A beggar has seldom left their farmyard with an
empty wallet, or without obtaining a night's lodging, if
G84 IRISH LITERATURE.
required, with a sufficiency of potatoes and milk to satisfy
even an Irish beggar's appetite; in appeasing which, ac-
count must usually be taken of the auxiliary jaws of a hun-
gry dog, and of two or three still more hungry children,
who line themselves well within, to atone for their naked-
ness without. If one of the neighboring poor be seized with
a fever, Tom will often supply the sick wretch with some
untenanted hut upon one of his two large farms (for he
has added one to his patrimony), or will send his laborers
to construct a shed at a hedge-side, and supply straw for a
bed while the disorder continues. His wife, remarkable
for the largeness of her dairy, and the goodness of every-
thing it contains, will furnish milk for whey; and their
good offices are frequently extended to the family of the
patient, who are, perhaps, reduced to the extremity of
wretchedness, by even the temporary suspension of a
father's or a husband's labor.
If much of this arises from the hopes and fears to
which I above alluded, I believe much of it flows from a
mingled sense of compassion and of duty, which is some-
times seen to break from an Irish peasant's heart, even
where it happens to be enveloped in a habitual covering of
avarice and fraud ; and which I once heard speak in terms
not to be misunderstood: " When we get a deal, 'tis only
fair we should give back a little of it."
It is not easy to prevail on Tom to speak on those good
people, with whom he is said to hold frequent and intimate
communications. To the faithful, who believe in their
power, and their occasional delegation of it to him, he
seldom refuses, if properly asked, to exercise his high pre-
rogative when any unfortunate being is struck in his neigh-
borhood. Still he will not be won unsued: he is at first
difficult of persuasion, and must be overcome by a little
gentle violence. On these occasions he is unusually solemn
and mysterious, and if one word of reward be mentioned
he at once abandons the unhappy patient, such a proposi-
tion being a direct insult to his supernatural superiors. It
is true that, as the laborer is worthy of his hire, most per-
sons gifted as he is do not scruple to receive a token of
gratitude from the patients or their friends after their re-
covery. It is recorded that a very handsome gratuity was
once given to a female practitioner in this occult science,
THOMAS CROFTON CROKER. 685
who deserves to be mentioned, not only because she was a
neighbor and a rival of Tom's, but from the singularity of
a mother deriving her name from her son. Her son's name
was Owen, and she was always called Owen sa ranker
(Owen's mother). This person was, on the occasion to
which I have alluded, persuaded to give her assistance to
a young girl who had lost the use of her right leg; Owen
sa ranker found the cure a difficult one. A journey of about
eighteen miles was essential for the purpose, probably to
visit one of the good people who resided at that distance;
and this journey could only be performed by Oircn sa
ranker traveling upon the back of a white hen. The visit,
however, was accomplished; and at a particular hour, ac-
cording to the prediction of this extraordinary woman,
when the hen and her rider were to reach their journey's
end, the patient was seized with an irresistible desire to
dance, which she gratified with the most perfect freedom
of the diseased leg, much to the joy of her anxious family.
The gratuity in this case was, as it surely ought to have
been, unusually large, from the difficulty of procuring a
hen willing to go so loag a journey with such a rider.
To do Tom Bourke justice, he is on these occasions, as
I have heard from many competent authorities, perfectly
disinterested. Not many months since he recovered a
young woman (the sister of a tradesman living near him),
who had been struck speechless after returning from a
funeral, and had continued so for several days. He stead-
fastly refused receiving any compensation, saying that
even if he had not as much as would buy him his supper,
he could take nothing in this case, because the girl had
offended at the funeral of one of the good people belonging
to his own family, and though he would do her a kindness,
he could take none from her.
About the time this last remarkable affair took place,
my friend Mr. Martin, who is a neighbor of Tom's, had
some business to transact with him, which it was exceed-
ingly difficult to bring to a conclusion. At last Mr. Martin,
having tried all quiet means, had recourse to a legal
process, which brought Tom to reason, and the matter was
arranged to their mutual satisfaction, and with perfect
good-humor between the parties. The accommodation took
place after dinner at Mr. Martin's house, and he invited
6SG IRISH LITERATURE.
Tom to walk into the parlor and take a glass of punch,
made of some excellent pottccn, which was on the table;
he had long wished to draw out his highly endowed neigh-
bor on the subject of his supernatural powers, and as Mrs.
Martin, who was in the room, was rather a favorite of
Tom's, this seemed a good opportunity.
" Well, Tom," said Mr. Martin, k% that was a curious
business of Molly Dwyer's who recovered her speech so
suddenly the other day."
" You may say that, sir," replied Tom Bourke ; " but I
had to travel far for it: no matter for that now. Your
health, ma'am," said he, turning to Mrs. Martin.
" Thank you, Tom. But I am told you had some trouble
once in that way in your own family," said Mrs. Martin.
" So I had, ma'am ; trouble enough : but you were only
a child at that time."
" Come, Tom," said the hospitable Mr. Martin, interrupt-
ing him, " take another tumbler " ; and he then added : " I
wish you would tell us something of the manner in which
so many of }^our children died. I am told they dropped off,
one after another, by the same disorder, and that your
eldest son was cured in a most extraordinary way, when
the physicians had given him over."
" 'T is true for you, sir," returned Tom ; " your father,
the doctor (God be good to him, I won't belie him in his
grave), told me, when my fourth boy was a week sick, that
himself and Dr. Barry did all that man could do for him ;
but they could not keep him from going after the rest. No
more they could, if the people that took away the rest
wished to take him too. But they left him; and sorry to
the heart I am I did not know before why they were taking
my boys from me; if I did, I would not be left trusting to
two of 'em now."
"And how did you find it out, Tom?" inquired Mr.
Martin.
" Why, then, I '11 tell you, sir," said Bourke. " When
your father said what I told you, I did not know very well
what to do. I walked down the little bohcreen you know,
sir, that goes to the riverside near Dick Heafy's ground;
for 't was a lonesome place, and I wanted to think of my-
self. I was heavy, sir, and my heart got weak in me, when
I thought I was to lose my little boy; and I did not well
THOMAS CROFTON CROKER. 687
know how to face his mother with the news, for she doted
down upon him. Besides, she never got the better of all
she cried at his brother's berrin 1 the week before. As I
was going down the bohereen I met an old bocough, that
used to come about the place once or twice a year, and used
always to sleep in our barn while he stayed in the neigh-
borhood. So he asked me how I was. ' Bad enough,
Shainous,' 2 says I. ' I 'm sorry for your trouble/ says he ;
' but you 're a foolish man, Mr. Bourke. Your son would
be well enough if you would only do what you ought with
him.' ' What more can I do with him, Shamous? ' says I;
' the doctors give him over.' ' The doctors know no more
what ails him than they do what ails a cow when she stops
her milk,' says Shamous; ' but go to such a one,' telling me
his name, ' and try what he '11 say to you.' "
"And who was that, Tom?" asked Mr. Martin.
" I could not tell you that, sir," said Bourke, with a mys-
terious look ; " howsoever, you often saw him, and he does
not live far from this. But I had a trial of him before ; and
if I went to him at first, maybe I 'd have now some of them
that 's gone, and so Shamous often told me. Well, sir, I
went to this man, and he came with me to the house. By
course, I did everything as he bid me. According to his
order, I took the little boy out of the dwelling-house im-
mediately, sick as he was, and made a bed for him and my-
self in the cow-house. Well, sir, I lay down by his side
in the bed, between two of the cows, and he fell asleep. He
got into a perspiration, saving your presence, as if he was
drawn through the river, and breathed hard, with a great
impression on his chest, and was very bad — very bad en-
tirely through the night. I thought about twelve o'clock
he was going at last, and I was just getting up to go call the
man I told you of; but there was no occasion. My friends
were getting the better of them that wanted to take him
away from me. There was nobody in the cow-house but the
child and myself. There was only one half-penny candle
lighting it, and that was stuck in the wall at the far end of
tlie house. I had just enough of light where we were lying to
see a person walking or standing near us: and there was
no more noise than if it was a churchyard, except the cows
chewing the fodder in the stalls.
1 Berrin, burying. 2 Shamous, James.
688 IRISH LITERATURE.
" Just as I was thinking of getting up, as I told you — I
won't belie my father, sir, he was a good father to me — I
saw him standing at the bedside, holding out his right
hand to me, and leaning his other on the stick he used to
carry when he was alive, and looking pleasant and smiling
at me, all as if he was telling me not to be afeared, for I
would not lose the child. ' Is that you, father? ' says I. He
said nothing. ' If that 's you,' says I again, ' for the love
of them that 's gone, let me catch your hand.' And so he
did, sir; and his hand was as soft as a child's. He stayed
about as long as you 'd be going from this to the gate below
at the end of the avenue, and then went away. In less than
a week the child was as well as if nothing ever ailed him;
and there isn't to-night a healthier boy of nineteen, from
this blessed house to the town of Ballyporeen, across the
Kihvorth mountains."
" But I think, Tom," said Mr. Martin, " it appears as if
you are more indebted to your father than to the man
recommended to you by Simmons ; or do you suppose it was
he who made favor with your enemies among the good
people, and that then your father — "
" I beg your pardon, sir," said Bourke, interrupting him ;
" but don't call them my enemies. 'T would not be wishing
to me for a good deal to sit by when they are called so. No
offense to you, sir. Here 's wishing you a good health and
long life."
" I assure you," returned Mr. Martin, " I meant no
offense, Tom; but was it not as 1 say? "
"I can't tell you that, sir," said Bourke; "I'm bound
down, sir. Howsoever, you may be sure the man I spoke of
and my father, and those they know, settled it between
them."
There was a pause, of which Mrs. Martin took advantage
to inquire of Tom whether something remarkable had not
happened about a goat and a pair of pigeons, at the time
of his son's illness — circumstances often mysteriously
hinted at by Tom.
" See that, now," said he, turning to Mr. Martin, " how
well she remembers it! True for you, ma'am. The goat I
gave the mistress, your mother, when the doctors ordered
her goats' whey? "
Mrs. Martin nodded assent, and Tom Bourke continued :
THOMAS CROFTON CROKER. G89
" Why, then, I '11 tell you how that was. The goat was as
well as e'er goat ever was, for a month after she was sent
to Killaan to your father's. The morning after the night
I just told you of, before the child woke, his mother was
standing at the gap leading out of the barnyard into the
road, and she saw two pigeons frying from the town of Kil-
worth off the church down towards her. Well, they never
stopped, you see, till they came to the house on the hill at
the other side of the river, facing our farm. They pitched
upon the' chimney of that house, and after looking about
them for a minute or two, they flew straight across the
river, and stopped on the ridge of the cow-house where
the child and I were lying. Do you think they came there
for nothing, sir? "
" Certainly not, Tom," returned Mr. Martin.
" Well, the woman came in to me, frightened, and told
me. She began to cry. ' Whist, you fool ! says 1^' 't is all
for the better.' 'T was true for me. What do you think,
ma'am? the goat that I gave your mother, that was seen
feeding at sunrise that morning by Jack Cronin, as merry
as a bee, dropped down dead without anybody knowing
why, before Jack's face; and at that very moment he saw
two pigeons fly from the top of the house out of the town,
towards the Lismore road. 'T was at the same time my
woman saw them, as I just told you."
" 'T was very strange, indeed, Tom," said Mr. Martin;
" I wish you could give us some explanation of it."
"I wish I could, sir," was Tom Bourke's answer; "but
I 'm bound down. I can't tell but what I 'm allowed to
tell, any more than a sentry is let walk more than his
rounds."
" I think you said something of having had some former
knowledge of the man that assisted in the cure of your
son," said Mr. Martin.
" So I had, sir," returned Bourke. " I had a trial of that
man. But that 's neither here nor there. I can't tell you
anything about that, sir. But would you like to know how
he got his skill?"
"Oh! very much indeed," said Mr. Martin.
"But you can tell us his Christian name, thai we may
know him better through the story," added Mrs. Martin.
44
G90 IRISH LITERATURE.
Torn Bourke paused for a minute to consider this prop-
osition.
" Well, I believe that I may tell you that, anyhow ; his
name is Patrick. He was always a smart, 'cute boy, and
would be a great clerk if he stuck to it. The first time I
knew him, sir, was at my mother's wake. I was in great
trouble, for I did not know where to bury her. Her people
and my father's people — I mean their friends, sir, among
the good people, had the greatest battle that was known for
many a year, at Dunmanwaycross, to see to whose church-
yard she 'd be taken. They fought for three nights, one
after another, without being able to settle it. The neigh-
bors wondered how long I was before I buried my mother ;
but I had my reasons, though I could not tell them at that
time. Well, sir, to make my story short, Patrick came on
the fourth morning and told me he settled the business,
and that day we buried her in Kilcrumper churchyard,
with my father's people."
" He was a valuable friend, Tom," said Mrs. Martin,
with difficulty suppressing a smile. " But you were about
to tell how he became so skillful."
" So I will and welcome," replied Bourke. " Your
health, ma'am. I 'in drinking too much of this punch, sir;
but, to tell the truth, I never tasted the like of it; it goes
down one's throat like sweet oil. But what was I going
to say? Yes — well — yes — Patrick, many a long year ago,
was coming home from a berrin late in the evening, and
walking by the side of a river, opposite the big inch,1
near Ballyhefaan ford. He had taken a drop, to be sure;
but he was only a little merry, as you may say, and knew
very well what he was doing. The moon was shining, for it
was in the month of August, and the river was as smooth
and as bright as a looking-glass. He heard nothing for a
long time but the fall of the water at the mill weir about
a mile down the river, and now and then the crying of the
lambs on the other side of the river. All at once there was
a noise of a great number of people laughing as if they 'd
break their hearts, and of a piper playing among them. It
came from the inch at the other side of the ford, and he
saw, through the mist that hung over the river, a whole
crowd of people dancing on the inch. Patrick was as fond
1 Inch, low meadow ground near a river.
THOMAS CROFTON CROKER. 601
of a dance as he was of a glass, and that 's saying enough
for him; so he whipped off his shoes and stockings, and
away with him across the ford. After putting on his shoes
and stockings at the other side of the river he walked over
to the crowd, and mixed with them for some time without
being minded. He thought, sir, that he 'd show them better
dancing than any of themselves, for he was proud of his
feet, sir, and a good right he had, for there was not a boy
in the same- parish could foot a double or treble with him.
But pwah ! his dancing was no more to theirs than mine
would be to the mistress' there. They did not seem as if
they had a bone in their bodies, and they kept it up as if
nothing could tire them.
" Patrick was 'shamed within himself, for he thought he
had not his fellow in all the country round; and was going
away, when a little old man, that was looking at the com-
pany bitterly, as if he did not like what was going on,
came up to him. ' Patrick,' says he. Patrick started, for
he did not think anybody there knew him. * Patrick,' says
he, ' you 're discouraged, and no wonder for you. But you
have a friend near you. I 'in your friend, and your father's
friend, and I think worse x of your little finger than I do
of all that are here, though they think no one is as good as
themselves. Go into the ring and call for a lilt. Don't be
afeared. I tell you the best of them did not do it as well
as you shall, if you will do as I bid you.' Patrick felt some-
thing within him as if he ought not to gainsay the old man.
He went into the ring, and called the piper to play up the
best double he had. And sure enough, all that the others
were able for was nothing to him! He bounded like an
eel, now here and now there, as light as a feather, al-
though the people could hear the music answered by his
steps, that beat time to every turn of it, like the left foot
of the piper. He first danced a hornpipe on the ground.
Then they got a table, and he danced a treble on it that
drew down shouts from the whole company.
"At last he called for a trencher; and when they saw
him, all as if he wTas spinning on it like a top, they did not
know what to make of him. Some praised him for the best
dancer that ever entered a ring; others hated him because
he was better than themselves; although they had good
1 Worse, more.
692 IRISH LITERATURE.
right to think themselves better than him or any other man
that ever went the Ions': journey."
" And what was the cause of his great success? " in-
quired Mr. Martin.
" He could not help it, sir," replied Tom Bourke. " They
that could make him do more than that made him do it.
Howsomever, when he had done, they wanted him to dance
again, but he was tired, and they could not persuade him.
At last he got angry, and swore a big oath, saving your
presences, that he would not dance a step more, and the
word was hardly out of his mouth when he found himself
all alone, with nothing but a white cow grazing by his
side."
" Did he ever discover why he was gifted with these ex-
traordinary powers in the dance, Tom? " said Mr. Martin.
" I '11 tell you that too, sir," answered Bourke, " when I
come to it. When he went home, sir, he was taken with a
shivering, and went to bed ; and the next day they found
he had got the fever, or something like it, for he raved like
as if he was mad. But they couldn't make out what it
was he was saying, though he talked constant. The doctors
gave him over. But it 's little they knew what ailed him.
When he was, as you m.aj say, about ten days sick, and
everybody thought he was going, one of the neighbors
came in to him with a man, a friend of his, from Ballin-
lacken, that was keeping with him some time before. I
can't tell you his name either, only it was Darby. The
minute Darby saw Patrick he took a little bottle, with the
juice of herbs in it, out of his pocket, and gave Patrick a
drink of it. He did the same every day for three weeks, and
then Patrick was able to walk about, as stout and as hearty
as ever he was in his life. But he was a long time before he
came to himself; and he used to walk the whole day some-
times by the ditchside, talking to himself, like as there was
some one along with him. And so there was, surely, or he
wouldn't be the man he is to-day."
" I suppose it was from some such companion he learned
his skill," said Mr. Martin.
" You have it all now, sir," replied Bourke. " Darby
told him his friends were satisfied with what he did the
night of the dance; and though they couldn't hinder the
fever, they 'd bring him over it, and teach him more than
THOMAS CROFTON CROKER. 693
many knew beside him. And so they did. For you see all
the people he met on the inch that night were friends of a
different faction; only the old man that spoke to him, he
was a friend of Patrick's family, and it went again his
heart, you see, that the others were so light and active,
and he was bitter in himself to hear 'em boasting how
they VI dance with any set in the whole country round. So
he gave Patrick the gift that night, and afterwards gave
him the skill that makes him the wonder of all that know
him. And to be sure it was only learning he was at that
time when he was wandering in his mind after the fever."
" I have heard many strange stories about that inch near
Ballyhefaan ford," said Mr. Martin. " 'T is a great place
for the good people, isn't it, Tom? "
" You may say that, sir," returned Bourke. " I could
tell you a great deal about it. Many a time I sat for as
good as two hours by moonlight, at th' other side of the
river, looking at 'em playing goal as if they 'd break their
hearts over it; with their coats and waistcoats off, and
white handkerchiefs on the heads of one party, and red
ones on th' other, just as you 'd see on a Sunday in Mr.
Simming's big field. I saw 'em one night play till the
moon set, without one party being able to take the ball
from th' other. I 'm sure they were going to fight, only
't was near morning. I 'm told your grandfather, ma'am,
used to see 'em there too," said Bourke, turning to Mrs.
Martin.
" So I have been told, Tom," replied Mrs. Martin. " But
don't they say that the churchyard of Kilcrumper is just
as favorite a place with the good people as Ballyhefaan
inch?"
" Why, then, may be you never heard, ma'am, what
happened to Davy Roche in that same churchyard," said
Bourke; and turning to Mr. Martin, added: " 'T was a
long time before he went into your service, sir. He was
walking home, of an evening, from the fair of Kilcuinlier,
a little merry, to be sure, after the day, and he came up
with a berrin. So he walked along with it, and thought it
very queer that he did not know a mother's soul in the
crowd but one man, and he was sure that man was dead
many years afore. Howsomever, he went on with the ber-
rin till they came to Kilcrumper churchyard, and, faith, he
694 IRISH LITERATURE.
went in and stayed with the rest, to see the corpse buried.
As soon as the grave was covered, what should they do but
gather about the pier that come along with 'em and fall
to dancing as if it was a wedding. Davy longed to be
among 'em (for he hadn't a bad foot of his own, that time,
whatever he may now) ; but he was loth to begin, because
they all seemed strange to him, only the man I told you
that he thought was dead. Well, at last this man saw
what Davy wanted, and came up to him. i Davy,' says he,
' take out a partner, and show what you can do, but take
care and don't offer to kiss her.' ' That I won't,' says
Davy, ' although her lips were made of honey.' And with
that he made his bow to the purtiest girl in the ring, and he
and she began to dance. 'T was a jig they danced, and they
did it to the admiration, do you see, of all that were there.
'T was all very well till the jig was over; but just as they
had done, Davy, for he had a drop in, and was warm with
the dancing, forgot himself, and kissed his partner, ac-
cording to custom. The smack was no sooner off his lips,
you see, than he was left alone in the churchyard, without
a creature near him, and all he could see was the tall tomb-
stones. Davy said they seemed as if they were dancing
too, but I suppose that was only the wonder that happened
him, and he being a little in drink. Howsomever, he
found it wTas a great many hours later than he thought it;
't was near morning when he came home; but they couldn't
get a word out of him till the next day, when he awoke out
of a dead sleep about twelve o'clock."
When Tom had finished the account of Davy Roche and
the herrin, it became quite evident that spirits, of some
sort, were working too strong within him to admit of his
telling many more tales of " the good people." Tom seemed
conscious of this. He muttered for a few minutes broken
sentences concerning churchyards, riversides, leprechans,
and dina magli1 which were quite unintelligible, perhaps
to himself, certainly to Mr. Martin and his lady. At length
he made a slight motion of the head upwards, as if he
would say, " I can talk no more;" stretched his arm on
the table, upon which he placed the empty tumbler slowly,
and with the most knowing and cautious air; and rising
from his chair, walked, or rather rolled, to the parlor door.
1 Daine maithe, the good people.
THOMAS CROFTON CROKER. 695
Here he turned round to face his host and hostess; but
after various ineffectual attempts to bid them good-night,
the words, as they rose, being always choked by a violent
hiccup, while the door, which he held by the handle, swung
to and fro, carrying his unyielding body along with it, he
was obliged to depart in silence. The cow-boy, sent by
Tom's wife, who knew well what, sort of allurement de-
tained him, when he remained out after a certain hour,
was in attendance to conduct his master home. I have no
doubt that he returned without meeting any material in-
jury, as I know that within the last month he was, to use
his own words, " as stout and hearty a man as any of his
age in the County Cork."
THE SOUL CAGES.
From ' Fairy Legends and Traditions.'
Jack Dogherty lived on the coast of the County Clare.
Jack was a fisherman, as his father and grandfather before
him had been. Like them, too, he lived all alone (but for
the wife), and just in the same spot. People used to won-
der why the Dogherty family were so fond of that wild
situation, so far away from all human kind, and in the
midst of huge shattered rocks, with nothing but the wide
ocean to look upon. But they had their own good reasons
for it.
The place was just the only spot on that part of the
coast where anybody could well live; there was a neat
little creek, where a boat might lie as snug as a puffin in
her nest, and out from this creek a ledge of sunken rocks
ran into the sea. Now when the Atlantic, according to
custom, was raging with a storm, and a good westerly wind
was blowing strong on the coast, many a richly laden ship
went to pieces on these rocks; and then the fine bales of
cotton and tobacco, and such-like things, and the pipes of
wine, and the puncheons of rum, and the casks of brandy,
and the kegs of hollands that used to come ashore! Dun-
beg Bay was just like a little estate to the Doghertys.
Not but they were kind and humane to a distressed
sailor, if ever one had the good luck to get to land; and
GOG IRISH LITERATURE.
many a time indeed did Jack put out in his little corragh
(which, though not quite equal to honest Andrew Hen-
nessy's canvas life-boat, would breast the billows like any
gannet), to lend a hand towards bringing off the crew from
a wreck. But when the ship had gone to pieces, and the
crew were all lost, who would blame Jack for picking up
all he could find?
" And who is the worse of it? " said he. " For as to the
king, God bless him ! everybody knows he 's rich enough al-
ready without getting what 's floating in the sea."
Jack, though such a hermit, was a good-natured, jolly
fellow. No other, sure, could ever have coaxed Biddy
Mahony to quit her father's snug and warm house in the
middle of the town of Ennis, and to go so many miles off
to live among the rocks, with the seals and sea-gulls for
next-door neighbors. But Biddy knew that Jack was the
man for a woman who wished to be comfortable and happy ;
for, to say nothing of the fish, Jack had the supplying of
half the gentlemen's houses of the country, with the God-
sends that came into the bay. And she was right in her
choice; for no woman ate, drank, or slept better, or made
a prouder appearance at chapel on Sundays, than Mrs.
Dogherty.
Many a strange sight, it may well be supposed, did Jack
see, and many a strange sound did he hear, but nothing
daunted him. So far was he from being afraid of Mer-
rows, or such beings, that the very first wish of his heart
was to fairly meet with one. Jack had heard that they were
mighty like Christians, and that luck had always come out
of an acquaintance with them. Never, therefore, did he
dimly discern the Merrows moving along the face of the
waters in their robes of mist, but he made direct for them;
and many a scolding did Biddy in her own quiet way be-
stow upon Jack for spending his whole day out at sea, and
bringing home no fish. Little did poor Biddy know the
fish Jack was after !
It was rather annoying to Jack that, though living in a
place where the Merrows were as plenty as lobsters, he
never could get a right view of one. What vexed him more
was that both his father and grandfather had often and
often seen them; and he even remembered hearing, when a
child, how his grandfather, who was the first of the family
THOMAS CROFTON CROKER. 697
that had settled down at the creek, had been so intimate
with a Merrow that, only for fear of vexing the priest, he
would have had him stand for one of his children. This,
however, Jack did not well know how to believe.
Fortune at length began to think that it was only right
that Jack should know as much as his father and grand-
father did. Accordingly, one day when he had strolled a
little farther than usual along the coast to the northward,
just as he turned a point, he saw something, like to nothing-
lie had ever seen before, perched upon a rock at a little dis-
tance out to sea : it looked green in the body, as well as he
could discern at that distance, and he would have sworn,
only the thing was impossible, that it had a cocked hat in
its hand. Jack stood for a good half-hour straining his
eyes and wondering at it, and all the time the thing did
not stir hand or foot. At last Jack's patience was quite
worn out, and he gave a loud whistle and a hail, when the
Merrow (for such it was) started up, put the cocked hat
on its head, and dived down, head foremost, from the
rock.
Jack's curiosity was now excited, and he constantly
directed his steps towards the point; still he could never
get a glimpse of the sea-gentleman with the cocked hat;
and with thinking and thinking about the matter, he be-
gan at last to fancy he had only been dreaming. One very
rough day, however, when the sea was running mountains
high, Jack Dogherty determined to give a look at the
Merrow's rock (for he had always chosen a fine day be-
fore), and then he saw the strange thing cutting capers
upon the top of the rock, aud then diving down, and then
coming up, and then diving down again.
Jack had now only to choose his time (that is, a good
blowing day), and he might see the man of the sea as often
as he pleased. All this, however, did not satisfy him —
" much will have more " ; he wished now to get acquainted
with the Merrow, and even in this he succeeded. One tre-
mendous blustering day before he got to the point whence
he had a view of the Merrow's rock, the storm came on so
furiously that Jack was obliged to take shelter in one of
the caves which are so numerous along the coast; and
there, to his astonishment, he saw sitting before him a thing
with green hair, long green teeth, a red nose, and pig's
G98 IRISH LITERATURE.
eyes. It had a fish's tail, legs with scales on them, and
short arms like fins : it wore no clothes, but had the cocked
hat under its arm, and seemed engaged thinking very seri-
ously about somethiug.
Jack, with all his courage, was a little daunted; but
now or never, thought he: so up he went boldly to the
cogitating fishman, took off his hat, and made his best bow.
" Your servant, sir," said Jack.
" Your servant, kindly, Jack Dogherty," answered the
Merrow.
" To be sure, then, how well your honor knows my
name ! " said Jack.
" Is it I not know your name, Jack Dogherty? Why,
man, I knew your grandfather long before he was married
to Judy Regan your grandmother ! Ah, Jack, Jack, I was
fond of that grandfather of yours ; he was a mighty worthy
man in his time: I never met his match above or below,
before or since, for sucking in a shellful of brandy. I hope,
my boy," said the old fellow, with a merry twinkle in his
little eyes, " I hope you 're his own grandson ! "
" Never fear me for that," said Jack ; " if my mother
had only reared me on brandy, 't is myself that would be a
sucking infant to this hour ! "
" Well, I like to hear you talk so manly ; you and I must
be better acquainted, if it were only for your grandfather's
sake. But, Jack, that father of yours was not the thing !
he had no head at all."
" I 'm sure," said Jack, " since your honor lives down
under the water, you must be obliged to drink a power to
keep any heat in you in such a cruel, damp could place.
Well, I 've often heard of Christians drinking like fishes:
and might I be so bold as to ask where you get the spirits? '
" Where do you get them yourself, Jack? " said the Mer-
row, twitching his red nose between his forefinger and
thumb.
" Hubbubboo," cries Jack, " now I see how it is; but I
suppose, sir, your honor has got a fine dry cellar below to
keep them in."
" Let me alone for the cellar," said the Merrow, with a
knowing wink of his left eye.
" I 'm sure," continued Jack, " it must be mighty well
worth the looking at."
THOMAS CROFTON CROKER. 099
"You may say that, Jack," said the Merrow; "and if
you meet me here next Monday, just at this time of the day,
we will have a little more talk with one another about the
matter."
Jack and the Merrow parted the best friends in the
world. On Monday they met, and Jack was not a little
surprised to see that the Merrow had two cocked hats with
him, one under each arm.
" Might I take the liberty to ask, sir," said Jack, " why
your honor has brought the two hats with you to-day? You
would not, sure, be going to give me one of them, to keep
for the curosity of the thing? "
" No, no, Jack," said he, " I don't get my hats so easily,
to part with them that way; but I want you to come down
and dine with me, and I brought you the hat to dive with."
" Lord bless and preserve us ! " cried Jack in amaze-
ment, " would you want me to go down to the bottom of the
salt-sea ocean? Sure, I 'd be smothered and choked up
with the water, to say nothing of being drowned! And
what would poor Biddy do for me, and what would she
say?"
" And what matter what she says, you pinkccn? 1 Who
cares for Biddy's squalling? It 's long before your grand-
father would have talked in that way. Many 's the time he
stuck that same hat on his head, and dived down boldly
after me; and many 's the snug bit of dinner and good
shellful of brandy he and I have had together below, under
the water."
" Is it really, sir, and no joke? " said Jack; " why, then,
sorrow from me for ever and a day after, if I '11 be a bit
worse man nor my grandfather was ! Here goes — but play
me fair now. Here's neck or nothing! " cried Jack.
" That 's your grandfather all over," said the old fellow;
"so come along, then, and do as L do."
They both left the cave, walked into the sea, and then
swam a piece until they got to the rock. The Merrow
climbed to the top of it, and Jack followed him. On the
far side it was as straight as the wall of a house, and the
sea beneath looked so deep that Jack was almost cowed.
"Now, do you see, Jack," said the Merrow: "just put
this hat on your head, and mind to keep your eyes wide
1 Pinkeen, a small fish.
700 IRISH LITERATURE.
open. Take hold of my tail, and follow after me, and
you '11 see what you '11 see."
In he dashed, and in dashed Jack after him boldly. They
went and they went, and Jack thought they 'd never stop
going. Many a time did he wish himself sitting at home
by the fireside with Biddy. Yet, where was the use of
wishing now, when he was so many miles, as he thought,
below the waves of the Atlantic? Still he held hard by the
Merrow's tail, slippery as it was; and at last, to Jack's
great surprise, they got out of the water, and he actually
found himself on dry land at the bottom of the sea. They
landed just in front of a nice house that was slated very
neatly with oyster shells! and the Merrow, turning about
to Jack, welcomed him down.
Jack could hardly speak, what with wonder, and what
with being out of breath with traveling so fast through
the water. He looked about him and could see no living
things, barring crabs and lobsters, of which there were
plenty walking leisurely about on the sand. Overhead
was the sea like a sky, and the fishes like birds swimming
about in it.
"Why don't you speak, man?" said the Merrow: "I
dare say you had no notion that I had such a snug little
concern here as this? Are you smothered, or choked, or
drowned, or are you fretting after Biddy, eh? "
" Oh ! not myself, indeed," said Jack, showing his teeth
with a good-humored grin; "but who in the world would
ever have thought of seeing such a thing? "
" Well, come along and let 's see what they 've got for
us to eat? "
Jack really was hungry, and it gave him no small pleas-
ure to perceive a fine column of smoke rising from the
chimney, announcing what was going on within. Into the
house he followed the Merrow, and there he saw a good
kitchen, right well provided with everything. There was a
noble dresser, and plenty of pots and pans, with two young
Merrows cooking. His host then led him into the room,
which was furnished shabbily enough. Not a table or a
chair was there in it; nothing but planks and logs of wood
to sit on, and eat off. There was, howeve", a good fire
blazing on the hearth — a comfortable sight to Jack.
" Come now, and I '11 show you where I keep — you know
THOMAS CROFTON CROKER. 701
what," said the Merrow, with a sly look; and opening a
little door, he led Jack into a fine cellar, well filled with
pipes, and kegs, and hogsheads, and barrels.
" What do yon say to that, Jack Dogherty? Eh ! may be
a body can't live snug under the water? "
" Never the doubt of that," said Jack, with a convinc-
ing smack of his under lip, that he really thought what he
said.
They went back to the room, and found dinner laid.
There was no tablecloth, to be sure — but what matter? It
was not always Jack had one at home. The dinner would
have been no discredit to the first house of the country on
a fast-day. The choicest of fish, and no wonder, was there.
Turbots, and sturgeons, and soles, and lobsters, and
oysters, and twenty other kinds, were on the planks at
once, and plenty of the best of foreign spirits. The wines,
the old fellow said, were too cold for his stomach.
Jack ate and drank till he could eat no more: then, tak-
ing up a shell of brandy, " Here 's to your honor's good
health, sir," said he; "though, begging your pardon, it's
mighty odd that as long as we Ve been acquainted I don't
know your name yet."
"That's true, Jack," replied he; "I never thought of
it before, but better late than never. My name's Coo-
mara."
" And a mighty decent name it is," cried Jack, taking an-
other shellful: " here 's to your good health, Cooinara, and
may you live these fifty years to come ! "
"Fifty years!" repeated Coomara; "I'm obliged to
you, indeed! If you had said five hundred it would have
been something worth the wishing."
" By the laws, sir," cries Jack, " yous live to a powerful
age here under the water ! You knew my grand fal her, ami
he 's dead and gone better than these sixty years. I 'm
sure it must be a healthy place to live in."
"No doubt of it; but come, Jack, keep the liquor stir-
rm°-
Shell after shell did they empty, and to Jack's exceeding
surprise he found the drink never got into his head, owing,
I suppose, to the sea being over them, which kept their
noddles cool.
Old Coomara got exceed ingly comfortable, and sung
702 IRISH LITERATURE.
several songs; but Jack, if his life had depended on it,
never could remember more than
" Rumdum boodle boo,
Ripple dipple nitty dob ;
Dumdoo doodle coo,
Raffle taffle cbittibob! "
It was the chorus to one of them ; and to say the truth, no-
body that I know has ever been able to pick any particular
meaning out of it; but that, to be sure, is the case with
many a song nowadays.
At length said he to Jack, " Now, my dear boy, if you
follow me, I '11 show you my curosities! " He opened a
little door and led Jack into a large room, where Jack saw
a great many odds and ends that Coomara had picked up
at one time or another. What chiefly took his attention,
however, were things like lobster-pots ranged on the
ground along the wall.
" Well, Jack, how do you like my curosities? " said old
Coo.
" Upon my sowkins* sir," said Jack, " they 're mighty
well worth the looking at ; but might I make so bold as to
ask what these things like lobster-pots are? "
" Oh ! the Soul Cages, is it? "
" The what, sir? "
" These things here that I keep the souls in."
"Arrali! what souls, sir?" said Jack in amazement;
" sure, the fish have got no souls in them? "
" Oh ! no," replied Coo, quite coolly, " that they have
not; but these are the souls of drowned sailors."
" The Lord preserve us from all harm ! " muttered Jack,
" how in the world did you get them? "
" Easily enough. I 've only, when I see a good storm
coming on, to set a couple of dozen of these, and then,
when the sailors are drowned and the souls get out of them
under the water, the poor things are almost perished to
death, not being used to the cold; so they make into my
pots for shelter, and then I have them snug, and fetch them
home, and keep them here dry and warm ; and is it not well
for them, poor souls, to get into such good quarters? "
Jack was so thunderstruck he did not know what to say,
so he said nothing. They went back into the dining-room,
1 Soickins, by my soul.
THOMAS CROFTON CROKER. 703
and bad a little more brandy, which was excellent, and
then, as Jack knew that it must be getting late, and as
Biddy might be uneasy, he stood up, and said he thought it
was time for him to be on the road.
" Just as you like, Jack," said Coo, " but take a due an
durrus before you go ; you Ve a cold journey before you."
Jack knew better manners than to refuse the parting
glass. " I wonder," said he, " will I be able to make out
my way home? "
" What should ail you," said Coo, " when I '11 show you
the way? "
Out they went before the house, and Coomara took one
of the cocked hats, and put it upon Jack's head the wrong
way, and then lifted him up on his shoulder that he might
launch him up into the water.
" Now," says he, giving him a heave, " you '11 come up
just in the same spot you came down in; and, Jack, mind
and throw me back the hat."
He canted Jack off his shoulder, and up he shot like a
bubble — whirr, whirr, whiz — away he went up through
the water, till he came to the very rock he had jumped off,
where he found a landing-place, and then in he threw the
hat, which sunk like a stone.
The sun was just going down in the beautiful sky of
a calm summer's evening. Fcascor l was seen dimly twin-
kling in the cloudless heaven, a solitary star, and the
waves of the Atlantic flashed in a golden flood of light. So
Jack, perceiving it was late, set off home ; but when he got
there, not a word did he say to Biddy of where he had
spent his day.
The state of the poor souls cooped up in the lobster-pots
gave Jack a great deal of trouble, and how to release them
cost him a great deal of thought. He at first had a mind
to speak to the priest about the matter. But what could
the priest do, and what did Coo care for the priest? Be-
sides, Coo was a good sort of an old fellow, and did not
think he was doing any harm. Jack had a regard for him
too, and it also might not be much to his own credit if it
were known that he used io go dine witli Merrows. On
the whole he thought his best plan would be to ask Coo to
dinner, and to make him drunk, if he was able, and then
1 Feascor, the evening star.
704 IRISH LITERATURE.
to take the hat and go down and turn up the pots. It was
first of all necessary, however, to get Biddy out of the way ;
for Jack was prudent enough, as she was a woman, to wish
to keep the thing secret from her.
Accordingly, Jack grew mighty pious all of a sudden,
and said to Biddy that he thought it would be for the good
of both of their souls if she was to go and take her rounds
at Saint John's Well, near Ennis. Biddy thought so too,
and accordingly off she set one fine morning at day-dawn,
giving Jack a strict charge to have an eye to the place.
The coast being clear, away went Jack to the rock to give
the appointed signal to Coomara, which was throwing a
big stone into the water. Jack threw, and up sprang Coo !
" Good-morrow, Jack," said he; " what do you want with
me? "
" Just nothing at all to speak about, sir," returned Jack,
" only to come and take a bit of dinner with me, if I might
make so free as to ask you, and sure I 'in now after doing
so."
" It 's quite agreeable, Jack, I assure you ; what 's your
hour?"
" Any time that 's most convenient to you, sir — say one
o'clock, that you may go home, if you wish, with the day-
light."
" I '11 be with you," said Coo, " never fear me."
Jack went home, and dresed a noble fish dinner, and got
out plenty of his best foreign spirits, enough for that mat-
ter to make twenty men drunk. Just to the minute came
Coo, with his cocked hat under his arm. Dinner was ready,
they sat down, and ate and drank away manfully. Jack,
thinking of the poor souls below in the pots, plied old Coo
well with brandy, and encouraged him to sing, hoping to
put him under the table, but poor Jack forgot that he had
not- the sea over his own head to keep it cool. The brandy
got into it and did his business for him, and Coo reeled off
home, leaving his entertainer as dumb as a haddock on a
Good Friday.
Jack never woke till the next morning, and then he was
in a sad way. " 'T is to no use for me thinking to make
that old Rapparee drunk," said Jack, " and how in this
world can I help the poor souls out of the lobster-pots?"
After ruminating nearly the whole day, a thought struck
THOMAS CROFTON CROKER. 705
him. " I have it," says he, slapping his knee ; " I '11 be
sworn that Coo never saw a drop of poteen, as old as he is,
and that 's the thing to settle him ! Oh ! then, is not it well
that Biddy will not be home these two days yet? I can have
another twist at him."
Jack asked Coo again, and Coo laughed at him for hav-
ing no better head, telling him he 'd never come up to his
grandfather.
" Well, but try me again," said Jack, " and I '11 be bail to
drink you drunk and sober, and drunk again."
" Anything in my power," said Coo, " to oblige you."
At this dinner Jack took care to have his own liquor well
watered, and to give the strongest brandy he had to Coo.
At last says he, " Pray, sir, did you ever drink any poteen?
— any real mountain dew? "
" No," said Coo; " what 's that, and where does it come
from? "
" Oh, that 's a secret," said Jack, " but it 's the right
stuff — never believe me again, if 't is not fifty times as good
as brandy or rum either. Biddy's brother just sent me a
present of a little drop, in exchange for some brandy, and
as you 're an old friend of the family, I kept it to treat you
with."
" Well, let 's see what sort of thing it is," said Coomara.
The poteen was the right sort. It was first-rate, and had
the real smack upon it. Coo was delighted : he drank and
he sung Rum hum hoodie hoo over and over again ; and he
laughed and danced, till he fell on the floor fast asleep.
Then Jack, who had taken good care to keep himself sober,
snapt up the cocked hat — ran off to the rock — leaped in,
and soon arrived at Coo's habitation.
All was as still as a churchyard at midnight — not a Mer-
row old or young was there. In he went and turned up
the pots, but nothing did lie see, only he heard a sort of a
little whistle or chirp as he raised each of them. At this
he was surprised, till he recollected what the priests had
often said, that nobody living could see the soul, no more
than they could see the wind or air. Having now done all
that he could do for them he set the pots as (hey were be-
fore, and sent a Messing after the poor souls to speed them
on their journey wherever they were going. Jack now be-
gan to think of returning; he put the hat on, as was right,
45
70C IRISH LITERATURE.
the wrong way ; but when he got out he found the water so
high over his head that he had no hopes of ever getting up
into it, now that he had not old Coomara to give him a lift.
He walked about looking for a ladder, but not one could
he find, and not a rock was there in sight. At last he saw
a spot where the sea hung rather lower than anywhere
else, so he resolved to try there. Just as he came to it, a
big cod happened to put down his tail. Jack made a jump
and caught hold of it, and the cod, all in amazement, gave
a bounce and pulled Jack up. The minute the hat touched
the water away Jack was whisked, and up he shot like a
cork, dragging the poor cod, that he forgot to let go, up
with him, tail foremost. He got to the rock in no time,
and without a moment's delay hurried home, rejoicing in
the good deed he had done.
But, meanwhile, there was fine work at home; for our
friend Jack had hardly left the house on his soul-freeing
expedition, when back came Biddy from her soul-saving one
to the well. When she entered the house and saw the things
lying thrie-na-hclah * on the table before her, — " Here 's a
pretty job ! " said she ; " that blackguard of mine — what
ill-luck I had ever to marry him! He has picked up some
vagabond or other, while I was praying for the good of his
soul, and they 've been drinking all the poteen that my own
brother gave him, and all the spirits, to be sure, that he was
to have sold to his honor." Then hearing an outlandish
kind of a grunt, she looked down, and saw Coomara lying
under the table . " The blessed Virgin help me," shouted
she, " if he has not made a real beast of himself ! Well, well,
I 've often heard of a man making a beast of himself with
drink ! Oh hone, oh hone — Jack, honey, what will I do
with you, or what will I do without you? How can any
decent woman ever think of living with a beast? "
With such-like lamentations Biddy rushed out of the
house, and was going she knew not where, when she heard
the well-known voice of Jack singing a merry tune. Glad
enough was Biddy to find him safe and sound, and not
turned into a thing that was like neither fish nor flesh.
Jack was obliged to tell her all, and Biddy, though she had
half a mind to be angry with him for not telling her before,
owned that he had done a great service to the poor souls.
1 Thrie-na-helah, mixed up.
THOMAS CROFTON CROKEB. 707
Back they both went most lovingly to the house, and Jack
wakened up Coomara; and perceiving the old fellow to be
rather dull, he bid him not be cast down, for 't was many
a good man's case ; said it all came of his not being used to
the poteen, and recommended him, by way of cure, to swal-
low a hair of the dog that bit him. Coo, however, seemed
to think he had had quite enough : he got up, quite out of
sorts, and without having the manners to say one word in
the way of civility, he sneaked off to cool himself by a jaunt
through the salt water.
Coomara never missed the souls. He and Jack con-
tinued the best of friends in the world, and no one, perhaps,
ever equaled Jack at freeing souls from purgatory ; for he
contrived fifty excuses for getting into the house below
the sea, unknown to the old fellow, and then turning up
the pots and letting out the souls. It vexed him, to be sure,
that he could never see them ; but as he knew the thing to
be impossible, he was obliged to be satisfied.
Their intercourse continued for several years. However,
one morning, on Jack's throwing in a stone as usual, he got
no answer. He flung another, and another, still there was
no reply. He went away, and returned the following morn-
ing, but it was to no purpose. As he was without the hat,
he could not go down to see what had become of old Coo,
but his belief was, that the old man, or the old fish, or
whatever he was, had either died, or had removed away
from that part of the country.
THE HAUNTED CELLAR.
There are few people who have not heard of the Mac Car-
thies, one of the real old Irish families, with the true Mile-
sian blood running in their veins as thick as buttermilk.
Many were the clans of this family in the south; as the
Mac Carthy-more, and the Mac Carthy-reah, and the Mac
Carthy of Muskerrv; and all of them were noted for their
hospitality to si rangers, gentle and simple.
But not one of that name, or of any other, exceeded
Justin Mac Carthy, of Ballinacarthy, at putting plenty to
eat and drink upon his table; and there was a right hearty
708 IRISH LITERATURE.
welcome for every one who should share it with him. Many
a wine-cellar would be ashamed of the name if that at Bal-
linacarthy was the proper pattern for one. Large as that
cellar was, it was crowded with bins of wine, and long rows
of pipes, and hogsheads and casks, that it would take more
time to count than any sober man could spare in such a
place, with plenty to drink about him, and a hearty wel-
come to do so.
There are many, no doubt, who will think that the but-
ler would have little to complain of in such a house; and
the whole country round would have agreed with them, if
a man could be found to remain as Mr. Mac Carthy's butler
for any length of time worth speaking of; yet not one who
had been in his service gave him a bad word.
" We have no fault," they would say, " to find with the
master, and if he could but get any one to fetch his wine
from the cellar, we might every one of us have grown gray
in the house, and lived quiet and contented enough in his
service until the end of our days."
" 'T is a queer thing that, surely," thought young Jack
Leary, a lad who had been brought up from a mere child
in the stables of Ballinacarthy to assist in taking care
of the horses, and had occasionally lent a hand in the but-
ler's pantry. " 'T is a mighty queer thing, surely, that
one man after another cannot content himself with the
best place in the house of a good master, but that every
one of them must quit, all through the means, as they say,
of the wine-cellar. If the master, long life to him, would
but make me his butler, I warrant never the word more
would be heard of grumbling at his bidding to go to the
wine-cellar."
Young Leary accordingly watched for what he con-
ceived to be a favorable opportunity of presenting himself
to the notice of his master.
A few mornings after, Mr. Mac Carthy went into his
stableyard rather earlier than usual, and called loudly for
the groom to saddle his horse, as he intended going out with
the hounds. But there was no groom to answer, and young
Jack Leary led Rainbow out of the stable.
« Where is William? " inquired Mr. Mac Carthy.
"Sir?" said Jack; and Mr. Mac Carthy repeated the
question.
THOMAS CROFTON CROKER. 709
" Is it William, please your honor?" returned Jack;
" why, then, to tell the truth, he had just one drop too much
last night."
" Where did he get it? " said Mr. Mac Carthy ; " for since
Thomas went away the key of the wine-cellar has been in
my pocket, and I have been obliged to fetch what was
drunk myself."
" Sorry a know I know," said Leary, " unless the cook
might have given him the laste taste in life of whisky.
But," continued he, performing a low bow by seizing with
his right hand a lock of hair and pulling down his head by
it, whilst his left leg, which had been put forward, was
scraped back against the ground, " may I make so bold as
just to ask your honor one question? "
" Speak out, Jack," said Mr. Mac Carthy.
" Why, then, does your honor want a butler? "
" Can you recommend me one," returned his master,
with the smile of good-humor upon his countenance, " and
one who will not be afraid of going to my wine-cellar? '
" Is the wine-cellar all the matter?" said young Leary;
" devil a doubt I have of myself then for that."
" So you mean to offer me your services in the capacity
of butler? " said Mr. Mac Carthy, with some surprise.
" Exactly so," answered Leary, now for the first time
looking up from the ground.
" Well, I believe you to be a good lad, and have no ob-
jection to give you a trial."
" Long may your honor reign over us, and the Lord
spare you to us ! " ejaculated Leary, with another national
bow, as his master rode off ; and he continued for some time
to gaze after him with a vacant stare, which slowly and
gradually assumed a look of importance.
"Jack Leary," said he, at length, "Jack — is it Jack?"
in a tone of wonder; "faith, 'tis not Jack now, but Mr.
John, the butler " ; and with an air of becoming conse-
quence he strode out of the stablevard towards the kitchen.
It is of little purport to my story, although it may afford
an instructive lesson to the reader, to depict the sudden
transition of nobody into somebody. Jack's former stable
companion, a poor superannuated hound named Bran, who
had been accustomed to receive many an affectionate pat on
the head, was spurned from him with a kick and an " Out
710 IRISH LITERATURE.
of the way, sirrah." Indeed, poor Jack's memory seemed
sadly affected by this sudden change of situation. What
established the point beyond all doubt was his almost
forgetting the pretty face of Peggy, the kitchen wench,
whose heart he had assailed but the preceding week by the
offer of purchasing a gold ring for the fourth finger of her
right hand, and a lusty imprint of good-will upon her
lips.
When Mr. Mac Carthy returned from hunting, he sent
for Jack Leary — so he still continued to call his new butler.
" Jack," said he, " I believe you are a trustworthy lad, and
here are the keys of my cellar. I have asked the gen-
tlemen with whom I hunted to-day to dine with me, and
I hope they may be satisfied at the way in which you will
wait on them at table ; but, above all, let there be no want
of wine after dinner."
Mr. John, having a tolerably quick eye for such things,
and being naturally a handy lad, spread his cloth accord-
ingly, laid his plates and knives and forks in the same man-
ner he had seen his predecessors in office perform these
mysteries, and really, for the first time, got through at-
tendance on dinner very well.
It must not be forgotten, however, that it was at the
house of an Irish country squire, who was entertaining a
company of booted and spurred fox-hunters, not very par-
ticular about what are considered matters of infinite im-
portance under other circumstances and in other societies.
For instance, few of Mr. Mac Carthy's guests (though
all excellent and worthy men in their way) cared much
whether the punch produced after soup was made of
Jamaica or Antigua rum ; some even would not have been
inclined to question the correctness of good old Irish
whisky; and, with the exception of their liberal host him-
self, every one in company preferred the port which Mr.
Mac Carthy put on his table to the less ardent flavor of
claret, a choice rather at variance with modern sentiment.
It was waxing near midnight when Mr. Mac Carthy
rung the bell three times. This was a signal for more wine;
and Jack proceeded to the cellar to procure a fresh sup-
ply, but it must be confessed not without some little hesi-
tation.
The luxury of ice was then unknoAvn in the south of Ire-
THOMAS CROFTOX CROKEB. 711
land ; but the superiority of cool wine bad been acknowl-
edged by all men of sound judgment and true taste.
The grandfather of Mr. Mac Carthy, who had built the
mansion of Ballinacarthy upon the site of an old castle
which had belonged to his ancestors, was fully aware of
this important fact; and in the construction of his magnifi-
cent wine-cellar had availed himself of a deep vault, ex-
cavated out of the solid rock in former times as a place of
retreat and security. The descent to this vault was by a
flight of steep stone stairs, and here and there in the wall
were narrow passages — I ought rather to call them
crevices; and also certain projections, which cast deep
shadows, and looked very frightful when any one went
down the cellar-stairs with a single light; indeed, two
lights did not much improve the matter, for though the
breadth of the shadow became less, the narrow crevices
remained as dark and darker than ever.
Summoning up all his resolution, down went the new
butler, bearing in his right hand a lantern and the key of
the cellar, and in his left a basket, which he considered
sufficiently capacious to contain an adequate stock for the
remainder of the evening: he arrived at the door with-
out any interruption whatever ; but when he put the key,
which was of an ancient and clumsy kind, for it was before
the days of Bramah's patent, — and turned it in the lock,
he thought he heard a strange kind of laughing within the
cellar, to which some empty bottles that stood upon the
floor outside vibrated so violently that they struck against
each other: in this he could not be mistaken, although he
may have been deceived in the laugh, for the bottles were
just at his feet, and he saw them in motion.
Leary paused for a moment, and looked about him with
becoming caution. He then boldly seized the handle of
the key, and turned it with all his strength in the lock, as
if he doubted his own power of doing so; and the door flew
open with a most tremendous crash, that if the house had
not been built upon the solid rock would have shook it
from the foundation.
To recount what the poor fellow saw would be impos-
sible, for lie seems not to have known very clearly himself:
but what he told the cook next morning was, that he heard
a roaring and bellowing like a mad bull, and that all the
712 IRISH LITERATURE.
pipes and hogsheads and casks in the cellar went rock-
ing backwards and forwards with so much force that he
thought every one would have been staved in, and that he
should have been drowned or smothered in wine.
When Leary recovered he made his way back as well as
he could to the dining-room, where he found his master
and the company very impatient for his return.
"What kept you?" said Mr. Mac Carthy in an angry
voice; " and where is the wine? I rung for it half an hour
since."
" The wine is in the cellar, I hope, sir," said Jack, trem-
bling violently; " I hope 't is not all lost."
" What do you mean, fool ? " exclaimed Mr. Mac Carthy
in a still more angry tone : " why did you not fetch some
with you? "
Jack looked wildly about him, and only uttered a deep
groan.
" Gentlemen," said Mr. Mac Carthy to his guests, " this
is too much. When I next see you to dinner I hope it will
be in another house, for it is impossible I can remain longer
in this, where a man has no command over his own wine-
cellar, and cannot get a butler to do his duty. I have long
thought of moving from Ballinacarthy ; and I am now de-
termined, with the blessing of God, to leave it to-morrow.
But wine you shall have were I to go myself to the cellar
for it." So saying, he rose from table, took the key and
lantern from his half-stupefied servant, who regarded him
with a look of vacancy, and descended the narrow stairs,
already described, which led to his cellar.
When he arrived at the door, which he found open, he
thought he heard a noise, as if of rats or mice scrambling
over the casks, and on advancing perceived a little figure,
about six inches in height, seated astride upon a pipe of
the oldest port in the place, and bearing a spigot upon his
shoulder. Raising the lantern, Mr. Mac Carthy contem-
plated the little fellow with wonder: he wore a red night-
cap on his head; before him was a short leather apron,
which now, from his attitude, fell rather on one side; and
he had stockings of a light blue color, so long as nearly
to cover the entire of his leg; with shoes, having huge silver
buckles in them, and with high heels (perhaps out of
vanity to make him appear taller). His face was like a
THOMAS CROFTON CHOKER. 713
withered winter apple; and bis nose, which was of a bright
crimson color, about the tip wore a delicate purple bloom,
like that of a plum ; yet his eyes twinkled
" like those mites
Of candied dew in moony nights — "
and his mouth twitched up at one side with an arch grin.
" Ha, scoundrel ! " exclaimed Mr. Mac Carthy, " have I
found you at last? disturber of my cellar — what are you
doing there? "
" Sure, and master," returned the little fellow, looking
up at him with one eye, and with the other throwing a sly
glance towards the spigot on his shoulder, " ain't we going
to move to-morrow? and sure you would not leave your own
little Cluricaune 1 Naggeneen behind you? "
" Oh ! " thought Mr. Mac Carthy, " if you are to follow
me, Mister Naggeneen, I don't see much use in quitting
Ballmaearthy." So filling with wine the basket which
young Leary in his fright had left behind him, and locking
the cellar door, he rejoined his guests.
For some years after Mr. Mac Carthy had always to fetch
the wine for his table himself, as the little Cluricaune
Naggeneen seemed to feel a persoual respect towards him.
Notwithstanding the labor of these journeys, the worthy
lord of Ballinacarthy lived in his paternal mansion to a
good round age, and was famous to the last for the excel-
lence of his wine and the conviviality of his compam- ; but
:il the time of his death that same conviviality had nearly
emptied his wine-cellar; and as it was never so well filled
again, nor so often visited, the revels of Master Naggeneen
became less celebrated, and are now only spoken of
amongst the legendary lore of the country. It is even said
that the poor little fellow took the declension of the cellar
so to heart that he became negligent and careless of him-
self, and that he had been sometimes seen going about with
hardly a skreed (rag) to cover him.
1 Cluricaune. See the article on ' Fairy and Folk Tales.'
714 IRISH LITERATURE.
TEIGUE OF THE LEE.
" I can't stop in the bouse — I won't stop in it for all the
money that is buried in the old castle of Carrigrohan. If
ever there was such a thing in the world! — to be abused
to my face night and day, and nobody to the fore doing it !
and then, if I 'in angry, to be laughed at with a great roar-
ing ho, ho, ho ! I won't stay in the house after to-night, if
there was not another place in the country to put my head
under."
This angry soliloquy was pronounced in the hall of
the old manor-house of Carrigrohan by John Sheehan.
John was a new servant; he had been only three days in
the house, which had the character of being haunted, and
in that short space of time he had been abused and laughed
at by a voice which sounded as if a man spoke with his
head in a cask ; nor could he discover who was the speaker,
or from whence the voice came. " I '11 not stop here," said
John; " and that ends the matter."
" Ho, ho, ho ! be quiet, John Sheehan, or else worse will
happen to you."
John instantly ran to the hall window, as the words were
evidently spoken by a person immediately outside, but no
one was visible. He had scarcely placed his face at the
pane of glass when he heard another loud " Ho, ho, ho ! " as
if behind him in the hall; as quick as lightning he turned
his head, but no living thing was to be seen.
" Ho, ho, ho, John ! " shouted a voice that appeared to
come from the lawn before the house : " do you think you '11
see Teigue? — oh, never! as long as you live! so leave alone
looking after him, and mind your business; there's plenty
of company to dinner from Cork to be here to-day, and 't is
time you had the cloth laid."
" Lord bless us ! there 's more of it ! — I '11 never stay an-
other day here," repeated John.
" Hold your tongue, and stay where you are quietly, and
play no tricks on Mr. Pratt, as you did on Mr. Jervois
about the spoons."
John Sheehan was confounded by this address from his
invisible persecutor, but nevertheless he mustered courage
enough to say, " Who are you? come here and let me see
you, if you are a man ; " but he received in reply only a
TEOMAS CROFTON CROKER. 715
laugh of unearthly derision, which was followed by a
" Good-bye — I '11 watch you at dinner, John ! "
" Lord between us and harm ! this beats all ! I '11 watch
you at dinner ! maybe you will ! 't is the broad daylight, so
't is no ghost ; but this is a terrible place, and this is the
last day I '11 stay in it. How does he know about the
spoons? if he tells it I 'm a ruined man ! There was no liv-
ing soul could tell it to him but Tim Barrett, and he 's far
enough off in the wilds of Botany Bay now, so how could
he know it? I can't tell for the world ! But what 's that I
see there at the corner of the wall ! 't is not a man ! oh, what
a fool I am! 'T is only the old stump of a tree! But this
is a shocking place — I '11 never stop in it, for I '11 leave the
house to-morrow ; the very look of it is enough to frighten
any one."
The mansion had certainly an air of desolation; it was
situated in a lawn, which had nothing to break its uniform
level save a few tufts of narcissuses and a couple of old
trees coeval with the building. The house stood at a short
distance from the road, it was upwards of a century old,
and Time was doing his work upon it; its walls were
weather-stained in all colors, its roof showed various white
patches, it had no look of comfort; all was dim and dingy
without, and within there was an air of gloom, of departed
and departing greatness, which harmonized well with the
exterior. It required all the exuberance of youth and of
gayety to remove the impression, almost amounting to awe,
with which you trod the huge square hall, paced along the
gallery which surrounded the hall, or explored the long
rambling passages below stairs. The ballroom, as the large
drawing-room was called, and several other apartments,
were in a state of decay; the walls were stained with damp,
and I remember well the sensation of awe which I felt
creeping over me when, boy as I was, and full of boyish
life and wild and ardent spirits, I descended to the vaults;
all without and within me became chilled beneath their
dampness and gloom — their extent, too, terrified me; nor
could the merriment of my two schoolfellows, whose father,
a respectable clergy man, rented the dwelling for a time,
dispel tin1 feelings of a romantic imagination until I once
again ascended to the upper regions.
John had pretty well recovered himself as the dinner-
716 IRISH LITERATURE.
hour approached, and several guests arrived. They were
all seated at the table, and had begun to enjoy the excellent
repast, when a voice was heard in the lawn.
" Ho, ho, ho ! Mr. Pratt, won't you give poor Teigue some
dinner? ho, ho! a fine company you have there, and plenty
of everything that \s good ; sure you won't forget poor
Teigue? "
John dropped the glass he had in his hand.
"Who is that?" said Mr. Pratt's brother, an officer of
the artillery.
" That is Teigue," said Mr. Pratt, laughing, " whom you
must often have heard me mention."
" And pray, Mr. Pratt," inquired another gentleman,
" who is Teigue? "
" That," he replied, " is more than I can tell. No one has
ever been able to catch even a glimpse of him. I have been
on the watch for a whole evening with three of my sons,
yet, although his voice sometimes sounded almost in my
ear, I could not see him. I fancied, indeed, that I saw a
man in a white frieze jacket pass into the door from the
garden to the lawn, but it could be only fancy, for I found
the door locked, while the fellow, whoever he is, was laugh-
ing at our trouble. He visits us occasionally, and some-
times a long interval passes between his visits, as in the
present case; it is now nearly two years since we heard
that hollow voice outside the window. He has never done
any injury that we know of, and once when he broke a
plate, he brought one back exactly like it."
" It is very extraordinary," exclaimed several of the com-
pany.
" But," remarked a gentleman to young Mr. Pratt, " your
father said he broke a plate; how did he get it without your
seeing him? "
" When he asks for some dinner we put it outside the
window and go away; whilst we watch he will not take it,
but no sooner have we withdrawn than it is gone."
" How does he know that you are watching? "
" That 's more than I can tell, but he either knows or
suspects. One day my brothers Eobert and James with
myself were in our back parlor, which has a window into
the garden, when he came outside and said, ' Ho, ho, ho !
Master James and Robert and Henry, give poor Teigue a
THOMAS CROFTON CROKER. 717
glass of whisky.' James went out of the room, filled a
glass of whisky, vinegar, and salt, and brought it to him.
' Here, Teigue,' said he, ' come for it now.' — ' Well, put
it down, then, on the step outside the window.' This was
done and we stood looking at it. ' There, now, go away,'
he shouted. We retired, but still watched it . ' Ho, ho !
you are watching Teigue! go out of the room, now, or I
won't take it.' We went outside the door and returned,
the glass was gone, and a moment after we heard him roar-
ing and cursing frightfully. He took away the glass, but
the next day it was on the stone step under the window,
and there were crumbs of bread in the inside, as if he had
put it in his pocket; from that time he has not been heard
till to-day."
" Oh," said the colonel, " I '11 get a sight of him; you are
not used to these things ; an old soldier has the best chance,
and as I shall finish my dinner with this wing, I '11 be ready
for him when he speaks next — Mr. Bell, will you take a
glass of wine with me? "
"Ho, ho! Mr. Bell," shouted Teigue. "Ho, ho! Mr.
Bell, you were a Quaker long ago. Ho, ho; Mr. Bell,
you 're a pretty boy ! a pretty Quaker you were ; and now
you 're no Quaker, nor anything else : ho, ho ! Mr. Bell.
And there's Mr. Parkes: to be sure, Mr. Parkes looks
mighty fine to-day, with his powdered head, and his grand
silk stockings and his bran new rakish-red waistcoat. And
there 's Mr. Cole : did you ever see such a fellow? A pretty
company you've brought together, Mr. Pratt: kiln-dried
Quakers, butter-buying buckeens from Mallow Lane, and
a drinking exciseman from the Coal Quay, to meet (lie
great thundering artillery general that is come out of the
Indies, and is the biggest dust of theni all."
" You scoundrel ! " exclaimed the colonel, " I '11 make you
show yourself; " and snatching up his sword from a corner
of the room, he sprang out of the window upon the lawn. In
a moment a shout of laughter, so hollow, so unlike any
human sound, made him stop, as well as Mr. Bell, who
with a huge oak stick was close at (ho colonel's heels; others
of the party followed to the lawn, and the remainder rose
and went to the windows. k< Come on, colonel," said .Mr.
Bell; "let us catch this impudent rascal."
" Ho, ho ! Mr. Bell, here I am — here 's Teigue — why don't
718 IRISH LITERATURE.
you catch him? Ho, ho! Colonel Pratt, what a pretty sol-
dier you are to draw your sword upon poor Teigue, that
never did anybody harm."
" Let us see your face, you scoundrel," said the colonel.
" Ho, ho, ho ! — look at me — look at me : do you see the
wind, Colonel Pratt? you '11 see Teigue as soon; so go in
and finish your dinner."
" If you 're upon the earth, I '11 find you, you villain ! "
said the colonel, whilst the same unearthly shout of de-
rision seemed to come from behind an angle of the building.
" He 's round that corner," said Mr. Bell, " run, run."
They followed the sound, which was continued at inter-
vals along the garden wall, but could discover no human
being; at last both stopped to draw breath, and in an in-
stant, almost at their ears, sounded the shout —
" Ho, ho, ho! Colonel Pratt, do you see Teigue now? do
you hear him? Ho, ho, ho ! you 're a fine colonel to follow
the wind."
"Not that way, Mr. Bell — not that way; come here,"
said the colonel.
" Ho, ho, ho ! what a fool you are ; do you think Teigue is
going to show himself to you in the field, there? But
colonel, follow me if you can: you a soldier! ho, ho, ho!"
The colonel was enraged : he followed the voice over hedge
and ditch, alternately laughed at and taunted by the un-
seen object of his pursuit (Mr. Bell, who was heavy, was
soon thrown out) ; until at length, after being led a weary
chase, he found himself at the top of the cliff, over that
part of the river Lee wThich, from its great depth and the
blackness of its water, has received the name of Hell-hole.
Here, on the edge of the cliff, stood the colonel out of
breath, and mopping his forehead with his handkerchief,
while the voice, which seemed close at his feet, exclaimed,
" Now, Colonel Pratt, now, if you 're a soldier, here 's a
leap for you! Now look at Teigue — why don't you look
at him? Ho, ho, ho ! Come along; you 're warm, I 'in sure,
Colonel Pratt, so come in and cool yourself ; Teigue is going
to have a swim ! "
The voice seemed as if descending amongst the trailing
ivy and brushwood which clothes this picturesque cliff
nearly from top to bottom, yet it was impossible that any
human being could have found footing. " Now, colonel,
THOMAS CROFTON CROKER. 719
have you courage to take the leap? Ho, ho, ho! what a
pretty solider you are. Good-bye ; I '11 see you again in
ten minutes above, at the house — look at your watch, col-
onel : there 's a dive for you ; " and a heavy plunge into
the water was heard. The colonel stood still, but no sound
followed, and he walked slowly back to the house, not
quite half a mile from the Crag.
" Well, did you see Teigue? " said his brother, whilst
his nephews, scarcely able to smother their laughter, stood
by-
" Give me some wine," said the colonel. " I never was
led such a dance in my life; the fellow carried me all round
and round till he brought me to the edge of the cliff, and
then down he went into Hell-hole, telling me he 'd be here
in ten minutes; 'tis more than that now, but he's not
come."
" Ho, ho, ho! colonel, isn't he here? Teigue never told a
lie in his life : but, Mr. Pratt, give me a drink and my din-
ner, and then good-night to you all, for I 'm tired ; and
that 's the colonel's doing." A plate of food was ordered ;
it was placed by John, with fear and trembling, on the lawn
under the window. Every one kept on the watch, and the
] slate remained undisturbed for some time.
"Ah! Mr. Pratt, will you starve poor Teigue? Make
every one go away from the windows, and Master Henry
out of the tree, and Master Richard off the garden wall."
The eyes of the company were turned to the tree and the
garden wall; the two boys' attention was occupied in get-
ting down ; the visitors were looking at them ; and " Ho, ho,
ho ! — good luck to you, Mr. Pratt ! 't is a good dinner, and
there 's the plate, ladies and gentlemen. Good-bye to you,
colonel ! — good-bye, Mr. Bell ! good-bye to you all ! "
brought their attention back, when they saw t lie empty
plate lying on the grass; and Teigue's voice was heard no
more for (hat evening. Many visits were afterwards paid
by Teigue; but never was he seen, nor was any discovery
ever made of his person or character.
720 IRISH LITERATURE.
FAIRIES OR NO FAIRIES?
John Mulligan was as fine an old fellow as ever threw
a Oarlow spur into the sides of a horse. He was, besides,
as jolly a boon companion over a jug of punch as you
would meet from Carnsore Point to Bloody Farland. And
a good horse he used to ride; and a stiffer jug of punch
than his was not in nineteen baronies. Mavbe he stuck
more to it than he ought to have done; but that is nothing
whatever to the story I am going to tell.
John believed devoutly in fairies ; and an angry man was
he if you doubted them. He had more fairy stories than
would make, if properly printed in a rivulet of print run-
ning down a meadow of margin, two thick quartos for Mr.
John Murray, of Albemarle Street; all of which he used
to tell on all occasions that he could find listeners. Many
believed his stories, many more did not believe them; but
nobody, in process of time, used to contradict the old
gentleman, for it was a pity to vex him. But he had a
couple of young neighbors who were just come down from
their first vacation in Trinity College to spend the sum-
mer months with an uncle of theirs, Mr. Whaley, an old
Cromwellian, who lived at Ballybegmullinahone, and they
were too full of logic to let the old man have his own way
undisputed.
Every story he told they laughed at, and said that it was
impossible, that it was merely old woman's gabble, and
other such things. When he would insist that all his
stories were derived from the most credible sources, nay,
that some of them had been told by his own grandmother,
a very respectable old lady, but slightly affected in her
faculties, as things that came under her own knowledge —
they cut the matter short by declaring that she was in her
dotage, and at the best of times had a strong propensity
to pulling a long bow.
" But," said they, " Jack Mulligan, did you ever see a
fairy yourself? "
" Never," was the reply.
" Well, then," they answered, " until you do, do not be
bothering us with any more tales of my grandmother."
Jack was particularly nettled at this, and took up the
cudgels for his grandmother; but the younkers were too
THOMAS CROFTON CROKER. 721
sharp for him, and finally he got into a passion, as people
generally do who have the worst of an argument. This
evening — it was at their uncle's, an old crony of his with
whom he had dined — he had taken a large portion of his
usual beverage, and was quite riotous. He at last got up
in a passion, ordered his horse, and, in spite of his host's
entreaties, galloped off, although he had intended to have
slept there, declaring that he would not have anything
more to do with a pair of jackanape puppies, who, because
they had learned how to read good-for-nothing books in
cramp writing, and were taught by a parcel of wiggy, red-
snouted, prating prigs ("not," added he, "however, that
I say a man may not be a good man and have a red nose " ) ,
they imagined they knew more than a man who had held
buckle and tongue together facing the wind of the world
for live dozen years.
He rode off in a fret, and galloped as hard as his horse
Shaunbuie could powder away over the limestone. " Drat
it ! " hiccuped he, " Lord pardon me for swearing ! the brats
had me in one thing — I never did see a fairy! and I would
give up five as good acres as ever grew apple-potatoes to get
a glimpse of one — and, by the powers ! what is that? "
He looked and saw a gallant spectacle. His road lay
by a noble demesne, gracefully sprinkled with trees, not
thickly planted as in a dark forest, but disposed, now in
clumps of five or six, now standing singly, towering over
the plain of verdure around them, as a beautiful promon-
tory arising out of the sea. He had come right opposite the
glory of the wood. It was an oak, which in the oldest title-
deeds of the country, and they were at least five hundred
years old, was called the old oak of Ballinghassig. Age had
hollowed its center, but its massy boughs still waved with
their dark serrated foliage. The moon was shining on it
brightly. If I wrere a poet, like Mr. Wordsworth, I should
tell you how the beautiful light was broken into a thousand
different fragments, and how it filled the entire tree with
a glorious flood, bathing every particular leaf, and showing
forth every particular bough ; but as I am not a poet I shall
go on with my story. By this light Jack saw a brilliant
company of lovely little forms dancing under the oak with
an unsteady and rolling motion.
The company was large. Some spread out far beyond
46
722 IRISH LITERATURE.
the farthest boundary of the shadow of the oak's branches,
some were seen glancing through the flashes of light shin-
ing through its leaves, some were barely visible, nestling
under the trunk, some no doubt were entirely concealed
from his eyes. Never did man see anything more beautiful.
They were not three inches in height, but they were white
as the driven snow, and beyond number numberless. Jack
threw the bridle over his horse's neck, and drew up to
the low wall which bounded the demesne, and leaning over
it, surveyed with infinite delight their diversified gambols.
By looking long at them he soon saw objects which had not
struck him at first ; in particular that in the middle was a
chief of superior stature, round whom the group appeared
to move.
He gazed so long that he was quite overcome with joy,
and could not help shouting out, " Bravo ! little fellow,"
said he, " well kicked and strong." But the instant he ut-
tered the words the night was darkened, and the fairies
vanished with the speed of lightning.
" I wish," said Jack, " I had held my tongue ; but no
matter now. I shall just turn bridle about and go back
to Ballybegmullinahone Castle, and beat the young Master
Whaleys, fine reasoners as they think themselves, out of the
field clean."
No sooner said than done; and Jack was back again as if
upon the wings of the wind. He rapped fiercely at the
door, and called aloud for the two collegians.
" Halloo ! " said he, " young Flatcaps, come down now,
if you dare. Come down, if you dare, and I shall give you
oc-oc-ocular demonstration of the truth of what I was say-
Old Whaley put his head out of the window, and said,
" Jack Mulligan, what brings you back so soon? "
" The fairies," shouted Jack ; " the fairies ! ':
" I am afraid," muttered the Lord of Ballybegmullina-
hone, " the last glass you took was too little watered : but
no matter — come in and cool yourself over a tumbler of
punch."
He came in and sat down again at table. In great spirits
he told his story; how he had seen thousands and tens of
thousands of fairies dancing about the old oak of Balling-
hassig; he described their beautiful dresses of shining
ing
THOMAS CROFTON CROKER. 723
silver; their fiat-crowned hats, glittering in the moon-
beams ; and the princely stature and demeanor of the cen-
tral figure. He added, that he heard them singing and
playing the most enchanting music; but this was merely
imagination. The young men laughed, but Jack held his
ground. " Suppose," said one of the lads, " we join com-
pany with you on the road, and ride along to the place
where you saw that fine company of fairies? "
" Done! " cried Jack; " but I will not promise that you
will find them there; for I saw them scudding up in the
sky like a flight of bees, and heard their wings whizzing
through the air." This, you know, was a bounce, for Jack
had heard no such thing.
Off rode the three, and came to the demesne of Oakwood.
They arrived at the wall flanking the field where stood
the great oak; and the moon, by this time, having again
emerged from the clouds, shone bright as when Jack had
passed. " Look there," he cried, exultingly ; for the same
spectacle again caught his eyes, and he pointed to it with
his horsewhip; " look, and deny if you can."
" Why," said one of the lads, pausing, " true it is that
we do see a company of white creatures; but were they
fairies ten times over I shall go among them; " and he dis-
mounted to climb over the wall.
" Ah, Tom ! Tom ! " cried Jack, " stop, man, stop ! what
arc you doing? The fairies — the good people, I mean —
hate to be meddled with. You will be pinched or blinded;
or your horse will cast its shoe; or — look! a willful man
will have his way. Oh! oh! he is almost at the oak — God
help him ! for he is past the heJp of man."
By this time Tom was under the tree, and burst out
laughing. " Jack," said he, " keep your prayers to your-
self. Your fairies are not bad at all. I believe they will
make tolerably good catsup."
" Catsup," said Jack, who when he found that the two
lads (for the second had followed his brother) were both
laughing in the middle of the fairies, had dismounted and
advanced slowly, " what do you mean by catsup? "
"Nothing," replied Tom, "but that they are mush-
rooms" (as indeed they were); "and your Oberon is
merely this overgrown puff-ball."
Poor Mulligan gave a long whistle of amazement, stag-
724 IRISH LITERATURE.
gered back to his horse without saying a word and rode
home in a hard gallop, never looking behind him. Many
a long day was it before he ventured to face the laughers
at Ballybegmullinahone; and to the day of his death the
people of the parish, ay, and five parishes round, called
him nothing but Musharoon Jack, such being their pro-
nunciation of mushroom.
I should be sorry if all my fairy stories ended with so
little dignity ; but —
-" These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air — into thin air."
FLORY CANTILLON'S FUNERAL.
The ancient burial-place of the Cantillon family was on
an island in Ballyheigh Bay. This island was situated at
no great distance from the shore, and at a remote period
was overflowed in one of the encroachments which the At-
lantic has made on that part of the coast of Kerry. The
fishermen declare they have often seen the ruined walls of
an old chapel beneath them in the water, as they sailed over
the clear green sea of a sunny afternoon. However this
may be, it is well-known that the Cantillons were, like most
other Irish families, strongly attached to their ancient
burial-place; and this attachment led to the custom, when
any of the family died, of carrying the corpse to the sea-
side, where the coffin was left on the shore within reach of
the tide. In the morning it had disappeared, being, as was
traditionally believed, conveyed away by the ancestors of
the deceased to their family tomb.
Connor Crowe, a County Clare man, was related to the
Cantillons by marriage. " Connor Mac in Cruagh, of the
seven quarters of Breintragh," as he was commonly called,
and a proud man he was of the name. Connor, be it known,
would drink a quart of salt water, for its medicinal virtues,
before breakfast; and for the same reason, I suppose,
double that quantity of raw whisky between breakfast
and night, which last he did with as little inconvenience
to himself as any man in the barony of Moyferta ; and were
THOMAS CROFTON CROKER. 725
I to add Clanderalaw and Ibrickan, I don't think I should
say wrong.
On the death of Florence Cantillon, Connor Crowe was
determined to satisfy himself about the truth of this story
of the old church under the sea : so when he heard the news
of the old fellow's death, away with him to Ardfert, where
Flory was laid out in high style, and a beautiful corpse he
made.
Flory had been as jolly and as rollicking a boy in his day
as ever was stretched, and his wake was in every respect
worthy of him. There was all kind of entertainment, and
all sort of diversion at it, and no less than three girls got
husbands there — more luck to them. Everything was as it
should be; all that side of the country, from Dingle to
Tarbert, was at the funeral. The Keen was sung long and
bitterly; and, according to the family custom, the coffin
was carried to Ballyheigh strand, where it was laid upon
the shore, with a prayer for the repose of the dead.
The mourners departed, one group after another, and at
last Connor Crowe was left alone. He then pulled out his
whisky bottle, his drop of comfort, as he called it, which
he required, being in grief; and down he sat upon a big
stone that was sheltered by a projecting rock, and partly
concealed from view, to await with patience the appearance
of the ghostly undertakers.
The evening came on mild and beautiful. Lie whistled
an old air which he had heard in his childhood, hoping to
keep idle fears out of his head; but the wild strain of (hat
melody brought a thousand recollections with it, which
only made the twilight appear more pensive.
" If 't was near the gloomy tower of Dunmore, in my own
sweet country, I was," said Connor Crowe, with a sigh,
" one might well believe that the prisoners, who were mur-
dered long ago there in the vaults under the castle, would
be the hands to carry off the coffin out of envy, for never
a one of them was buried decently, nor had as much as a
Coffin amongst them all. 'T is often, sure enough, I have
heard lamentations and great mourning coming from the
vaults of Dunmore Castle; but," continued he, after fondly
pressing his lips to the mouth of his companion and silent
comforter, the whisky bottle, "didn't I know all the time
well enough, 't was the dismal sounding waves working
72G IRISH LITERATURE.
through the cliffs and hollows of the rocks, and fretting
themselves to foam? Oh, then, Dunmore Castle, it is you
that are the gloomy-looking tower on a gloomy day, with
the gloomy hills behind you ; when one has gloomy thoughts
on their heart, and sees you like a ghost rising out of the
smoke made by the kelp burners on the strand, there is,
the Lord save us! as fearful a look about you as about
the Blue Man's Lake at midnight. Well, then, anyhow,"
said Connor, after a pause, " is it not a blessed night,
though surely the moon looks mighty pale in the face?
St. Senan himself between us and all kinds of harm."
It was, in truth, a lovely moonlight night; nothing was
to be seen around but the dark rocks, and the white pebbly
beach, upon which the sea broke with a hoarse and melan-
choly murmur. Connor, notwithstanding his frequent
draughts, felt rather queerish, and almost began to repent
his curiosity. It was certainly a solemn sight to behold
the black coffin resting upon the white strand. His imagi-
nation gradually converted the deep moaning of old ocean
into a mournful wail for the dead, and from the shadowy
recesses of the rocks he imaged forth strange and visionary
forms.
As the night advanced, Connor became weary with
watching. He caught himself more than once in the act
of nodding, when suddenly giving his head a shake, he
would look towards the black coffin. But the narrow house
of death remained unmoved before him.
It was long past midnight, and the moon was sinking into
the sea, when he heard the sound of many voices, wThich
gradually became stronger, above the heavy and monoto-
nous roll of the sea. He listened, and presently could dis-
tinguish a Keen of exquisite sweetness, the notes of which
rose and fell with the heaving of the waves, whose deep
murmur mingled with and supported the strain !
The Keen grew louder and louder, and seemed to ap-
proach the beach, and then fell into a low, plaintive wail.
As it ended Connor beheld a number of strange and, in the
dim light, mysterious-looking figures emerge from the sea,
and surround the coffin, which they prepared to launch
into the water.
" This comes of marrying with the creatures of earth,"
said one of the figures, in a clear, yet hollow tone.
THOMAS CROFTON CROKEB. 121
" True," replied another, with a voice still more fearful,
" our king would never have commanded his gnawing
white-toothed waves to devour the rocky roots of the island
cemetery, had not his daughter, Durfulla, been buried there
by her mortal husband! "
" But the time will come," said a third, bending over the
coffin,
" When mortal eye — our work shall spy,
And mortal ear — our dirge shall hear."
" Then," said a fourth, " our burial of the Cantillons is at
an end for ever ! "
As this was spoken the coffin was borne from the beach
by a retiring wave, and the company of sea people prepared
to follow it; but at the moment one chanced to discover
Connor Crowe, as fixed with wonder and as motionless
with fear as the stone on which he sat.
" The time is come," cried the unearthly being, " the
time is come; a human eye looks on the forms of ocean,
a human ear has heard their voices. Farewell to the
Cantillons; the sons of the sea are no longer doomed to
bury the dust of the earth ! "
One after the other turned slowly round, and regarded
Connor Crowe, who still remained as if bound by a spell.
Again arose their funeral song; and on the next wave they
followed the coffin. The sound of the lamentation died
away, and at length nothing was heard but the rush of
waters. The coffin and the train of sea people sank over
the old churchyard, and never since the funeral of old
Flory Cantillon have any of the family been carried to the
strand of Ballyheigh, for conveyance to their rightful
burial-place, beneath the waves of the Atlantic.
THE BANSHEE OF THE MAC CARTIIYS.1
The day had nearly arrived on which the prophecy was
if at all, to be fulfilled. Charles Mac Carthy's whole ap-
1 The Banshee is an aristocratic specter that attaches itself to great
families. It appears, wailing, before the death of any member of the
family to which it is attached.
728 IRISH LITERATURE.
pearance gave such promise of a long and healthy life,
that he was persuaded by his friends to ask a large party
to an entertainment at Spring House, to celebrate his
birthday. But the occasion of this party, and the circum-
stances which attended it, will be best learned from a
perusal of the following letters, which have been carefully
preserved by some relations of his family. The first is
from Mrs. Mac Carthy, to a lady, a very near connection
and valued friend of hers, who lived in the county of Cork,
at about fifty miles' distance from Spring House.
" TO MRS. BARRY, CASTLE BARRY.
" Spring House, Tuesday morning,
October 15th, 1752.
" My dearest Mary,
" 1 am afraid I am going to put your affection for your
old friend and kinswoman to a severe trial. A two days'
journey at this season, over bad roads and through a
troubled country, it will indeed require friendship such as
yours to persuade a sober woman to encounter. But the
truth is, I have, or fancy I have, more than usual cause for
wishing you near me. You know my son's story. I can't
tell you how it is, but as next Sunday approaches, when
the prediction of his dream, or vision, will be proved false
or true, I feel a sickening of the heart, which I cannot
suppress, but which your presence, my dear Mary, will
soften, as it has done so many of my sorrows. My nephew,
James Ryan, is to be married to Jane Osborne (who, you
know, is my son's ward), and the bridal entertainment will
take place here on Sunday next, though Charles pleaded
hard to have it postponed for a day or two longer. Would
to God — but no more of this till we meet. Do prevail
upon yourself to leave your good man for one week, if his
farming concerns will not admit of his accompanying you;
and come to us, with the girls, as soon before Sunday as
you can.
" Ever my dear Mary's attached cousin and friend,
" Ann Mac Carthy."
Although this letter reached Castle Barry early on
Wednesday, the messenger having traveled on foot over
THOMAS CROFTON CROKER. 729
bog and moor, by paths impassable to hois > or carriage,
Mrs. Barry, who at once determined on going, had so many
arrangements to make for the regulation of her domestic
affairs (which, in Ireland, among the middle orders of the
gentry, fall soon into confusion when the mistress of the
family is away), that she and her two young daughters
were unable to leave until late on the morning of Friday.
The eldest daughter remained to keep her father company,
and superintend the concerns of the household. As the
travelers were to journey in an open one-horse vehicle,
called a jaunting-car (still used in Ireland), and as the
roads, bad at all times, were rendered still worse by the
heavy rains, it was their design to make two easy stages —
to stop about midway the first night, and reach Spring
House early on Saturdaj^ evening. This arrangement was
now altered, as they found that from the lateness of their
departure they could proceed, at the utmost, no farther
than twenty miles on the first day; and they, therefore,
purposed sleeping at the house of a Mr. Bourke, a friend
of theirs, who lived at somewhat less than that distance
from Castle Barry. They reached Mr. Bourke's in safety
after a rather disagreeable ride. What befell them on
their journey the next day to Spring House, and after their
arrival there, is fully recounted in a letter from the second
Miss Barry to her eldest sister.
"Spring House, Sunday evening,
' 20th October, 1752.
" Dear Ellen,
"As my mother's letter, which encloses this, will an-
nounce to you briefly the sad intelligence which I shall
here relate more fully, I think it better to go regularly
through the recital of the extraordinary events of the last
two days.
" The Bourkes kept us up so late on Friday night that
yesterday was pretty far advanced before we could begin
our journey, and the day closed when we were nearly
fifteen miles distant from this place. The roads were
excessively deep, from the heavy rains of the last week, and
we proceeded so slowly that, at last, my mother resolved on
passing the night at the house of Mr. Bourke's brother
(who lives about a quarter of a mile off the road), and
730 IRISH LITERATURE.
coming here to breakfast in the morning. The day had
been windy and showery, and the sky looked fitful, gloomy,
and uncertain. The moon was full, and at times shone
clear and bright; at others it was wholly concealed behind
the thick, black, and rugged masses of clouds that rolled
rapidly along, and were every moment becoming larger,
and collecting together as if gathering strength for a com-
ing storm. The wind, which blew in our faces, whistled
bleakly along the low hedges of the narrow road, on which
we proceeded with difficulty from the number of deep
sloughs, and which afforded not the least shelter, no plan-
tation being within some miles of us. My mother, there-
fore, asked Leary, who drove the jaunting-car, how far we
were from Mr. Bourke's? ' 'T is about ten spades from
this to the cross, and we have then only to turn to the left
into the avenue, ma'am.' i Very well, Leary ; turn up to
Mr. Bourke's as soon as you reach the cross roads.' My
mother had scarcely spoken these words, when a shriek,
that made us thrill as if our very hearts were pierced by it,
burst from the hedge to the right of our way. If it resem-
bled anything earthly it seemed the cry of a female, struck
by a sudden and mortal blow, and giving out her life in one
long deep pang of expiring agony. ' Heaven defend us ! '
exclaimed my mother. ' Go you over the hedge, Leary, and
save that woman, if she is not yet dead, while we run back
to the hut we have just passed, and alarm the village near
it.' ' Woman ! ' said Leary, beating the horse violently,
while his voice trembled, ' that 's no woman ; the sooner
we get on, ma'am, the better; ' and he continued his efforts
to quicken the horse's pace. We saw nothing. The moon
was hid. It was quite dark, and we had been for some
time expecting a heavy fall of rain. But just as Leary
had spoken, and had succeeded in making the horse trot
briskly forward, we distinctly heard a loud clapping of
hands, followed by a succession of screams, that seemed to
denote the last excess of despair and anguish, and to issue
from a person running forward inside the hedge, to keep
pace with our progress. Still we saw nothing; until, when
we were within about ten yards of the place where an
avenue branched off to Mr. Bourke's to the left, and the
road turned to Spring House on the right, the moon
started suddenly from behind a cloud, and enabled us to
THOMAS CROFTON GROKER. 731
see, as plainly as I now see this paper, the figure of a tall,
thin woman, with uncovered head, and long hair that
floated round her shoulders, attired in something which
seemed either a loose white cloak or a sheet thrown hastily
about her. She stood on the corner hedge, where the road
on which we were met that which leads to Spring House,
with her face towards us, her left hand pointing to this
place, and her right arm waving rapidly and violently as if
to draw us on in that direction. The horse had stopped,
apparently frightened at the sudden presence of the figure,
which stood in the manner I have described, still uttering
the same piercing cries, for about half a minute. It then
leaped upon the road, disappeared from our view for one
instant, and the next was seen standing upon a high wall a
little way up the avenue on which we purposed going, still
pointing towards the road to Spring House, but in an atti-
tude of defiance and command, as if prepared to oppose
our passage up the avenue. The figure was now quite si-
lent, and its garments, which had before flown loosely in
the wind, were closely wrapped around it. ' Go on, Leary,
to Spring House, in God's name! ' said my mother; l what-
ever world it belongs to, we will provoke it no longer.'
' 'T is the Banshee, ma'am,' said Leary; ' and I would not,
for what my life is worth, go anywhere this blessed night
but to Spring House. But I 'in afraid there 's something
bad going forward, or she would not send us there.' So
saying, he drove forward; and as we turned on the road to
the right, the moon suddenly withdrew its light, and we
saw the apparition no more; but we heard plainly a pro-
longed clapping of hands, gradually dying away, as if it
issued from a person rapidly retreating."
THE BREWERY OF EGG-SHELLS.
Mrs. Sullivan fancied that her youngest child had been
exchanged by " fairies' theft," and certainly appearances
warranted such a conclusion; for in one night her healthy,
blue-eyed boy had become shriveled up into almost
nothing, and never ceased squalling and crying. This
naturally made poor Mrs. Sullivan very unhappy; and all
732 IRISH LITERATURE.
the neighbors, by way of c -omforting her, said that her own
child was, beyond any kind of doubt, with the good people,
and that one of themselves was put in his place.
Mrs. Sullivan of course could not disbelieve what every
one told her, but she did not wish to hurt the thing; for
although its face was so withered, and its body wasted
away to a mere skeleton, it had still a strong resemblance
to her own boy. She, therefore, could not find it in her
heart to roast it alive on the griddle, or to burn its nose
off with the red-hot tongs, or to throw it out in the snow
on the roadside, notwithstanding these, and several like
proceedings, were strongly recommended to her for the
recovery of her child.
One day who should Mrs. Sullivan meet but a cunning
woman, well known about the country by the name of
Ellen Leah (or Gray Ellen). She had the gift, however
she got it, of telling where the dead were, and what was
good for the rest of their souls; and could charm away
warts and wens, and do a great many wonderful things
of the same nature.
" You 're in grief this morning, Mrs. Sullivan," were the
first words of Ellen Leah to her.
" You may say that, Ellen," said Mrs. Sullivan, " and
good cause I have to be in grief, for there was my own
fine child whipped off from me out of his cradle, without
as much as ' by your leave ■ or ' ask your pardon,' and an
ugly bony bit of a shrivel ed-up fairy put in his place; no
wonder, then, that you see me in grief, Ellen."
" Small blame to you, Mrs. Sullivan," said Ellen Leah,
" but are you sure 't is a fairy? "
" Sure ! " echoed Mrs. Sullivan, " sure enough I am to
my sorrow, and can I doubt my own two eyes? Every
mother's soul must feel for me ! "
" Will 3rou take an old woman's advice? " said Ellen
Leah, fixing her wild and mysterious gaze upon the un-
happy mother; and, after a pause, she added, " but maybe
you il call it foolish?"
" Can you get me back my child, my own child, Ellen? "
said Mrs. Sullivan with great energy.
" If you do as I bid you," returned Ellen Leah, " you '11
know." Mrs. Sullivan was silent in expectation, and
Ellen continued : " Put down the big pot, full of water, on
THOMAS CROFTON CROKER. 733
the fire, and make it boil like mad; then get a dozen new-
laid eggs, break them, and keep the shells, but throw
away the rest; when that is done, put the shells in the
pot of boiling water, and you will soon know whether it is
your own boy or a fairy. If you find that it is a fairy in
the cradle, take the red-hot poker and cram it down his
ugly throat, and you will not have much trouble with him
after that, I promise you."
Home went Mrs. Sullivan, and did as Ellen Leah de-
sired. She put the pot on the fire, and plenty of turf
under it, and set the water boiling at such a rate, that if
ever water was red-hot, it surely was.
The child was lying, for a wonder, quite easy and quiet
in the cradle, every now and then cocking his eye, that
would twinkle as keen as a star in a frosty night, over
at the great fire, and the big pot upon it ; and he looked on
with great attention at Mrs. Sullivan breaking the eggs
and putting down the egg-shells to boil. At last he asked,
with the voice of a very old man, " What are you doing,
mammy? "
Mrs. Sullivan's heart, as she said herself, was up in her
mouth ready to choke her, at hearing the child speak. But
she contrived to put the poker in the fire, and to answer,
without making any wonder at the words, " I 'm brewing,
a vick " ( my son ) .
" And what are you brewing, mammy? " said the little
imp, whose supernatural gift of speech now proved beyond
question that he was a fairy substitute.
" I wish the poker was red," thought Mrs. Sullivan; but
it was a large one, and took a long time heating; so she
determined to keep him in talk until the poker was in a
proper state to thrust down his throat, and therefore re-
peated the question.
" Is it what I 'm brewing, a vick/' said she, " you want
to know? "
"Yes, mammy: what are you brewing?" returned the
fairy.
" Egg-shells, a rick/' said Mrs. Sullivan.
"Oil!" shrieked the imp, starling up in the cradle, and
clapping his hands together, " I 'in fifteen hundred years in
the world, and I never saw a brewery of egg-shells before ! "
The poker was by this time quite red, and Mrs. Sullivan,
734 IRISH LITERATURE. •
seizing it, ran furiously towards the cradle; but somehow
or other her foot slipped, and she fell flat on the floor, and
the poker flew out of her hand to the other end of the
house. However, she got up without much loss of time and
went to the cradle, intending to pitch the wicked thing that
was in it into the pot of boiling water, when there she saw
her own child in a sweet sleep ; one of his soft round arms
rested upon the pillow — his features were as placid as if
their repose had never been disturbed, save the rosy mouth,
which moved with a gentle and regular breathing.
THE STORY OF THE LITTLE BIRD.1
From ' The Amulet ' (1827).
Many years ago there was a very religious and holy man,
one of the monks of a convent, and he was one day
kneeling at his prayers in the garden of his monastery,
when he heard a little bird singing in one of the rose-trees
of the garden, and there never was anything that he had
heard in the world so sweet as the song of that little bird.
And the holy man rose up from his knees where he was
kneeling at his prayers to listen to its song ; for he thought
he never in all his life heard anything so heavenly.
And the little bird, after singing for some time longer on
the rose-tree, flew away to a grove at some distance from
the monastery, and the holy man followed it to listen to its
singing, for he felt as if he would never be tired of listening
to the sweet song it was singing out of its throat.
And the little bird after that went away to another dis-
tant tree, and sung there for a while, and then to another
tree, and so on in the same manner, but ever further and
further away from the monastery, and the holy man still
following it farther, and farther, and farther, still listen-
ing delighted to its enchanting song.
But at last he was obliged to give up, as it was growing
late in the day, and he returned to the convent; and as he
approached it in the evening, the sun was setting in the
west with all the most heavenly colors that were ever seen
1 T. C. Croker wrote this, he says, word for word as he heard it from an
old woman at a holy well.
THOMAS CROFTON CHOKER. 735
in the world, and when he came into the convent, it was
nightfall.
And he was quite surprised at everything he saw, for
they were all strange faces about him in the monastery
that he had never seen before, and the very place itself, and
everything about it, seemed to be strangely altered; and,
altogether, it seemed entirely different from what it was
when he had left in the morning; and the garden was not
like the garden where he had been kneeling at his devotion
when he first heard the singing of the little bird.
And while he was wondering at all he saw, one of the
monks of the convent came up to him, and the holy man
questioned him, " Brother, what is the cause of all these
strange changes that have taken place here since the
morning? "
And the monk that he spoke to seemed to wonder
greatly at his question, and asked him what he meant by
the change since morning? for, sure, there was no change;
that all was just as before. And then he said, " Brother,
why do you ask these strange questions, and what is your
name? for you wear the habit of our order, though we
have never seen you before."
So upon this the holy man told his name, and said that
he had been at mass in the chapel in the morning before
he had wandered away from the garden listening to the
song of a little bird that was singing among the rose-trees,
near where he was kneeling at his prayers.
And the brother, while he was speaking, gazed at him
very earnestly, and then told him that there was in the
convent a tradition of a brother of his name, who had left
it two hundred years before, but that what was become of
him was never known.
And while he was speaking, the holy man said, " My
hour of death is come; blessed be the name of the Lord
for all His mercies to me, through the merits of His only-
begotten Son."
And he kneeled down that very moment, and said,
" Brother, take my confession, for my soul is departing."
And he made his confession, and received his absolution,
and was anointed, and before midnight he died.
The little bird, you see, was an angel, one of the cher-
ubims or seraphims; and licit was the way the Almighty
736 IRISH LITERATURE.
was pleased in His niercy to take to Himself the soul of
that holy man.
THE LORD OF DUNKERRON.
From ' Fairy Legends.'
The lord of Dunkerron — O'Sullivan More,
Why seeks he at midnight the sea-beaten shore?
His bark lies in haven, his hounds are asleep;
No foes are abroad on the land or the deep.
Yet nightly the lord of Dunkerron is known
On the wild shore to watch and to wander alone;
For a beautiful spirit of ocean, 't is said,
The lord of Dunkerron would win to his bed.
When, by moonlight, the waters were hushed to repose,
That beautiful spirit of ocean arose;
Her hair, full of luster, just floated and fell
O'er her bosom, that heaved with a billowy swell.
Long, long had he loved her — long vainly essayed
To lure from her dwelling the coy ocean maid ;
And long had he wandered and watched by the tide,
To claim the fair spirit O'Sullivan's bride!
The maiden she gazed on the creature of earth,
Whose voice in her breast to a feeling gave birth:
Then smiled; and abashed as a maiden might be,
Looking down, gently sank to her home in the sea.
Though gentle that smile, as the moonlight above,
O'Sullivan felt 't was the dawning of love,
xVnd hope came on hope, spreading over his mind,
As the eddy of circles her wake left behind.
The lord of Dunkerron he plunged in the waves,
And sought, through the fierce rush of waters, their caves;
The gloom of whose depths, studded over with spars,
Had the glitter of midnight when lit up by stars.
Who can tell or can fancy the treasures that sleep
Intombed in the wonderful womb of the deep?
The pearls and the gems, as if valueless thrown
To lie 'mid the sea-wreck concealed and unknown.
THOMAS CROFTON CROKER. 737
Down, down went the maid, — still the chieftain pursued;
Who flies must be followed ere she can be wooed.
Untempted by treasures, unawed by alarms,
The maiden at length he has clasped in his arms !
They rose from the deep by a smooth-spreading strand,
Whence beauty and verdure stretched over the land.
'T was an isle of enchantment! and lightly the breeze,
With a musical murmur, just crept through the trees.
The haze-woven shroud of that newly-born isle
Softly faded away from a magical pile,
A palace of crystal, whose bright-beaming sheen
Had the tints of the rainbow — red, yellow, and green.
And grottoes, fantastic in hue and in form,
Were there, as flung up — the wild sport of the storm;
Yet all was so cloudless, so lovely, and calm,
It seemed but a region of sunshine and balm.
" Here, here shall we dwell in a dream of delight,
Where the glories of earth and of ocean unite !
Yet, loved son of earth ! I must from thee away ;
There are laws which e'en spirits are bound to obey!
" Once more must I visit the chief of my race,
His sanction to gain ere I meet thy embrace.
In a moment I dive to the chambers beneath:
One cause can detain me — one only — 't is death! "
They parted in sorrow, with vows true and fond;
The language of promise had nothing beyond.
His soul all on fire, with anxiety burns:
The moment is gone — but no maiden returns.
What sounds from the deep meet his terrified ear —
What accents of rage and of grief does he hear?
What sees lie? what change has come over the flood —
What tinges its green with a jetty of blood?
Can he doubt what the gush of warm blood would explain?
That she sought the consent of her monarch in vain! —
For see all around, in white foam and froth,
The waves of the ocean boil up in their wrath!
47
738 IRISH LITERATURE.
The palace of crystal has melted in air,
And the dyes of the rainbow no longer are there;
And grottoes with vapor and clouds are o'ercast,
The sunshine is darkness — the vision has past !
Loud, loud was the call of his serfs for their chief;
They sought him with accents of wailing and grief:
He heard, and he struggled — a wave to the shore,
Exhausted and faint, bears O'Sullivan More!
GEORGE CROLY.
(1780— 18G0.)
George Croly was born in Dublin in 1780. He was trained for
and entered boly orders, but preferment came slowly and be turned
his attention to literature. His first story, ' Colonna the Painter,'
appeared in BlackivoocVs and attracted considerable attention. He
wrote rapidly a number of other tales, many of which are now i'< <v-
gotten. He also published a volume of verse, 'Paris in 181 5, and
other Poems,' which was received with favor, ' The Modern Orlan-
do,' ' Poetical Works,' and 'Beauties of English Poets'; then fol-
lowed a series of works on political subjects, of which ' The Politi-
cal Life of the Right Hon. Edmund Burke ' and ' Historical Sketches,
Speeches, and Characters ' are the most ambitious. Of a kindred
nature are ' The Character of Curran's Eloquence and Politics '
and 'Personal History of King George the Fourth.' With the
self-confidence and versatility of which he gave so many proofs,
Croly also tried his hand at play-writing, and produced the tragedy
of ' Catiline ' and the comedy of 'Pride Shall Have a Fall,' both of
which met with a fair reception.
In 1835 he was made rector of St. Stephen's, Walbrook, London.
His pen continued in active employment, though it now sought other
themes. In 1847 he was appointed afternoon preacher at the Found-
ling-Hospital, and he became one of the most popular pulpit orators
of London. In private life he was amiable and charitable ; and his
conversation, rich in information and pointed anecdote, made his
company much sought after. His death, Nov. 24, 18G0, was very
sudden. His story ' Salathiel ' was brought out in 1901 under the
title of 'Tarry Thou till I Come,' with a preface by Gen. Lew
Wallace, and was very successful in this country.
THE FIRING OF ROME.
From 'Salathiel the Immortal.'
Intelligence in a few days arrived from Brundusium of
the Emperor's landing, and of his intention to remain a(
Antinm on the road to Rome, until his triumphal entry
should be prepared. My fate now hung in the scale. I
was ordered to attend the imperial presence. At the ves-
tibule of the Antian palace my careful centurion deposited
me in the hands of a senator. As I followed him through
the halls, a young female richly attired, and of the most
beautiful face and form, crossed us, light and graceful as
a dancing nymph. The senator bowed profoundly. She
739
740 IRISH LITERATURE.
beckoned to him, and they exchanged a few words. I was
probably the subject; for her countenance, sparkling with
the animation of youth and loveliness, grew pale at once;
she clasped both her hands upon her eyes, and rushed into
an inner chamber. She knew Nero well; and dearly she
was yet to pay for her knowledge. The senator, to my in-
quiring glance, answered in a whisper, " The Empress
Poppaea."
A few steps onward, and I stood in the presence of the
most formidable being on earth. Yet whatever might
have been the natural agitation of the time, I could
scarcely restrain a smile at the first sight of Nero. I saw
a pale, undersized, light-haired young man sitting before
a table with a lyre on it, a few copies of verses and draw-
ings, and a parrot's cage, to whose inmate he was teach-
ing Greek with great assiduity. But for the regal furni-
ture of the cabinet, I should have supposed myself led by
mistake into an interview with some struggling poet. He
shot round one quick glance on the opening of the door,
and then proceeded to give lessons to his bird. I had leis-
ure to gaze on the tyrant and parricide.
Physiognomy is a true science. The man of profound
thought, the man of active ability, and above all the man
of genius, has his character stamped on his countenance
by nature; the man of violent passions and the voluptuary
have it stamped by habit. But the science has its limits:
it has no stamp for mere cruelty. The features of the
human monster before me were mild and almost hand-
some; a heavy eye and a figure tending to fullness gave
the impression of a quiet mind ; and but for an occasional
restlessness of brow, and a brief glance from under it, in
which the leaden eye darted suspicion, I should have pro-
nounced Nero one of the most indolently tranquil of man-
kind.
He remanded the parrot to his perch, took up his lyre,
and throwing a not unskillful hand over the strings, in
the intervals of the performance languidly addressed a
broken sentence to me. " You have come, I understand,
from Judea; — they tell me that you have been, or are to be,
a general of the insurrection ; — you must be put to death ;
— your countrymen give us a great deal of trouble, and I
always regret to be troubled with them. — But to send you
GEORGE CROLY. 741
back would only be encouragement to them, and to keep
you here among strangers would only be cruelty to you.
— I am charged with cruelty: you see the charge is not
true. — I am lampooned every day; I know the scribblers,
but they must lampoon or starve. I leave them to do both.
Have you brought any news from Judea? — They have not
had a true prince there since the first Herod; and he was
quite a Greek, a cut-throat, and a man of taste. lie un-
derstood the arts. — I sent for you to see what sort of ani-
mal a Jewish rebel was. Your dress is handsome, but too
light for our winters. — You cannot die before sunset, as
till then I am engaged with my music master. — We all
must die when our time comes. — Farewell — till sunset may
Jupiter protect you ! "
I retired to execution ! and before the door closed, heard
this accomplished disposer of life and death preluding
upon his lyre with increased energy. I was conducted to a
turret until the period in which the Emperor's engagement
with his music master should leave him at leisure to see
me die. Yet there was kindness even under the roof of
Nero, and a liberal hand had covered the table in my cell.
The hours passed heavily along, but they passed; and I
was watching the last rays of my last sun, when I per-
ceived a cloud rise in the direction of Rome. It grew
broader, deeper, darker, as I gazed; its center was sud-
denly tinged with red; the tinge spread; the whole mass of
cloud became crimson: the sun went down, and another
sun seemed to have risen in his stead. I heard the clatter-
ing of horses' feet in the courtyards below; trumpets
sounded; there was confusion in the palace; the troops
hurried under arms; and I saw a squadron of cavalry set
off at full speed.
As I was gazing on the spectacle before me, wliiclt per-
petually became more menacing, the door of my cell slowly
opened, and a masked figure stood upon the threshold. I
had made up my mind; and demanding if he was the exe-
cutioner, I told him "that I was ready." The figure
paused, listened to the sounds below, and after looking for
a while on the troops in the courtyard, signified by signs
that I had a chance of saving my life, The love of exist-
ence rushed back upon me. 1 eagerly inquired what was
to be done. He drew from under his cloak the dress of a
742 IRISH LITERATURE.
Roman slave, which I put on, and noiselessly followed his
steps through a long succession of small and strangely in-
tricate passages. We found no difficulty from guards or
domestics. The whole palace was in a state of extraor-
dinary confusion. Every human being was packing up
something or other: rich vases, myrrhine cups, table ser-
vices, were lying in heaps on the floors; books, costly
dresses, instruments of music, all the appendages of lux-
ury, were flung loose in every direction, from the sudden
breaking up of the court. I might have plundered the
value of a province with impunity. Still we wound our
hurried way. In passing along one of the corridors, the
voice of complaining struck the ear; the mysterious guide
hesitated; I glanced through the slab of crystal that
showed the chamber within. It was the one in which I had
seen the Emperor, but his place was now filled by the form
of youth and beauty that had crossed me on my arrival.
She was weeping bitterly, and reading with strong and sor-
rowful indignation a long list of names, probably one of
those rolls in which Nero registered his intended victims,
and which in the confusion of departure he had left open.
A second glance saw her tear the paper into a thousand
fragments, and scatter them in the fountain that gushed
upon the floor.
I left this lovely and unhappy creature, this dove in the
vulture's talons, with almost a pang. A few steps more
brought us into the open air, but among bowers that cov-
ered our path with darkness. At the extremity of the gar-
dens my guide struck with his dagger upon a door; it was
opened: we found horses outside; he sprang on one; I
sprang on its fellow; and palace, guards, and death, were
left far behind.
He galloped so furiously that I found it impossible to
speak; and it was not till we had reached an eminence a
few miles from Rome, where we breathed our horses, that
I could ask to whom I had been indebted for my escape.
But I could not extract a word from him. He made signs
of silence, and pointed with wild anxiety to the scene that
spread below. It was of a grandeur and terror indescrib-
able. Rome was an ocean of flame.
Height and depth were covered with red surges, that
rolled before the blast like an endless tide. The billows
GEORGE CROLY. 743
burst up the sides of the hills, which they turned into in-
stant volcanoes, exploding volumes of smoke and lire; then
plunged into the depths in a hundred glowing cataracts,
then climbed and consumed again. The distant sound of
the city in her convulsion went to the soul. The air was
filled with the steady roar of the advancing flame, the
crash of falling houses, and the hideous outcry of the
myriads flying through the streets, or surrounded and per-
ishing in the conflagration.
Hostile to Rome as I was, I could not restrain the ex-
clamation : — " There goes the fruit of conquest, the glory
of ages, the purchase of the blood of millions ! Was vanity
made for man? " My guide continued looking forward
with intense earnestness, as if he were perplexed by what
avenue to enter the burning city. I demanded who he was,
and whither he would lead me. He returned no answer.
A long spire of flame that shot up from a hitherto un-
touched quarter engrossed all his senses. He struck in the
spur, and making a wild gesture to me to follow, darted
down the hill. I pursued; we found the Appian choked
with wagons, baggage of every kind, and terrified crowds
hurrying into the open country. To force a way through
them was impossible. All was clamor, violent struggle,
and helpless death. Men and women of the highest rank
were on foot, trampled by the rabble, that had then lost
all respect of conditions. One dense mass of miserable
life, irresistible from its weight, crushed by the narrow
streets, and scorched by the flames over their heads, rolled
through the gates like an endless stream of black lava.
We turned back, and attempted an entrance through the
gardens of the same villas that skirted the city wall near
the Palatine. All were deserted, and after some dangerous
leaps over the burning ruins we found ourselves in the
streets. The fire had originally broken out upon the Pala-
tine, and hot smoke that wrapped and half blinded us
hung thick as night upon the wrecks of pavilions and pal-
aces: but the dexterity and knowledge of my inexplicable
guide carried us on. It was in vain that I insisted upon
knowing the purpose of this terrible traverse. He pressed
his hand on his heart in reassurance of his fidelity, and
still spurred on.
We now passed under the shade of an immense range
744 IRISH LITERATURE.
of lofty buildings, whose gloomy and solid strength seemed
to bid defiance to chance and time. A sudden yell appalled
me. A ring of lire swept round its summit; burning cor-
dage, sheets of canvas, and a shower of all things combus-
tible, flew into the air above our heads. An uproar fol-
lowed, unlike all that I had ever heard, — a hideous mixture
of howls, shrieks, and groans. The flames rolled down the
narrow street before us, and made the passage next to im-
possible. While we hesitated, a huge fragment of the build-
ing heaved as if in an earthquake, and fortunately for us
fell inwards. The whole scene of terror was then open.
The great amphitheater of Statilius Taurus had caught
fire; the stage with its inflammable furniture was in-
tensely blazing below. The flames were wheeling up, circle
above circle, through the seventy thousand seats that rose
from the ground to the roof. I stood in unspeakable awe
and wonder on the side of this colossal cavern, this mighty
temple of the city of fire. At length a descending blast
cleared away the smoke that covered the arena. The cause
of those horrid cries was now visible. The wild beasts
kept for the games had broken from their dens. Mad-
dened by affright and pain, lions, tigers, panthers, wolves,
whole herds of the monsters of India and Africa, were in-
closed in an impassable barrier of fire. They bounded,
they fought, they screamed, they tore; they ran howling
round and round the circle; they made desperate leaps
upwards through the blaze ; they were flung back, and fell
only to fasten their fangs in each other, and with their
parching jaws bathed in blood, died raging.
I looked anxiously to see whether any human being was
involved in this fearful catastrophe. To my great relief
I could see none. The keepers and attendants had ob-
viously escaped. As I expressed my gladness I was
startled by a loud cry from my guide, the first sound that
I had heard him utter. He pointed to the opposite side of
the amphitheater. There indeed sat an object of melan-
choly interest ; a man who had either been unable to escape,
or had determined to die. Escape wTas now impossible. He
sat in desperate calmness on his funeral pile. He was a
gigantic Ethiopian slave, entirely naked. He had chosen
his place, as if in mockery, on the imperial throne; the fire
was above him and around him ; and under this tremendous
GEORGE CROLY. 745
canopy he gazed, without the movement of a muscle, on the
combat of the wild beasts below : a solitary sovereign with
the whole tremendous game played for himself, and inac-
cessible to the power of man.
I was forced away from this absorbing spectacle, and
we once more threaded the long and intricate streets of
Rome. As we approached the end of one of these bewilder-
ing passages, scarcely wide enough for us to ride abreast, I
was startled by the sudden illumination of the sky imme-
diately above; and, rendered cautious by the experience
of our hazards, called to my companion to return. He
pointed behind me, and showed the fire bursting out in the
houses by which we had just galloped. I followed on. A
crowd that poured from the adjoining streets cut off our
retreat. Hundreds rapidly mounted on the houses in
front, in the hope by throwing them down to check the con-
flagration. The obstacle once removed, we saw the source
of the light — spectacle of horror! The great prison of
Rome was on fire. Never can I forget the sights and
sounds — the dismay — the hopeless agony — the fury and
frenzy that then overwhelmed the heart. The jailers had
been forced to fly before they could loose the fetters or
open the cells of the prisoners. We saw those gaunt and
woe-begone wretches crowding to their casements, and im-
ploring impossible help; clinging to the heated bars; toil-
ing with their impotent grasp to tear out the massive
stones; some wringing their hands; some calling on the
terrified spectators by every name of humanity to save
them; some venting their despair in execrations and blas-
phemies that made the blood run cold ; others, after many
a wild effort to break loose, dashing their heads against
the walls, or stabbing themselves. The people gave them
outcry for outcry; but the flame forbade approach. Before
I could extricate myself from the multitude a whirl of fiery
ashes shot upwards from the falling roof; the walls rent
into a thousand fragments; and the huge prison with all
its miserable inmates was a heap of red embers.
Exhausted as I was by this restless fatigue, and yet more
by the melancholy sigh is that surrounded every step, no
fatigue seemed to be felt by the singular being that gov-
erned my movements. He sprang through the burning
ruins, — he plunged into the sulphurous smoke, — he never
746 IRISH LITERATURE.
lost the direction that he had first taken; and though
baffled and forced to turn back a hundred times, he again
rushed on his track with the directness of an arrow. For
me to make my way back to the gates would be even more
difficult than to push forward. My ultimate safety might
be in following, and I followed. To stand still and to move
were equally perilous. The streets, even with the improve-
ments of Augustus, were still scarcely wider than the
breadth of the little Italian carts that crowded them.
They were crooked, long, and obstructed by every impedi-
ment of a city built in haste, after the burning by the
Gauls, and with no other plan than the caprice of its
hurried tenantry. The houses were of immense height,
chiefly wood, many roofed with thatch, and all covered or
cemented with pitch. The true surprise is that it had not
been burned once a year from the time of its building.
The memory of Nero, that hereditary concentration of
vice, of whose ancestor's yellow beard the Roman orator
said, " No wonder that his beard was brass, when his
mouth was iron and his heart lead," — the parricide and
the poisoner — may yet be fairly exonerated of an act which
might have been the deed of a drunken mendicant in any
of the fifty thousand hovels of this gigantic aggregate of
everything that could turn to flame.
We passed along through all the horrid varieties of
misery, guilt, and riot that could find their place in a great
public calamity: groups gazing in woe on the wreck of
their fortunes, rushing off to the winds in vapor and fire;
groups plundering in the midst of the flame; groups of
rioters, escaped felons, and murderers, exulting in the pub-
lic ruin, and dancing and drinking with Bacchanalian
uproar; gangs of robbers trampling down and stabbing
the fugitives to strip them of their last means; revenge,
avarice, despair, profligacy, let loose naked; undisguised
demons, to swell the wretchedness of this tremendous
infliction upon a guilty and blood-covered empire.
Still we spurred on, but our jaded horses at length saDk
under us ; and leaving them to find their way into the fields,
we struggled forward on foot.
GEORGE CROLY. 747
SCENE FROM 'CATILINE.'
(In the Senate.)
Cicero. Our long dispute must close. Take one proof more
Of this rebellion. — Lucius Catiline
Has been commanded to attend the senate.
He dares not come. I now demand your votes! —
Is he condemned to exile?
(Catiline comes in hast Hi/, and flings himself on the
bench; all the senators go over to the other side.)
Cicero (turning to Catiline). Here I repeat the charge,
to gods and men,
Of treasons manifold ; — that, but this day,
He has received dispatches from the rebels ;
That he has leagued with deputies from Gaul
To seize the province; nay, has levied troops,
And raised his rebel standard : — that but now
A meeting of conspirators was held
Under his roof, with mystic rites, and oaths,
Pledged round the body of a murdered slave.
To these he has no answer.
Catiline (rising calmly). Conscript fathers!
I do not rise to waste the night in words ;
Let that plebeian talk ; 't is not my trade ;
Rut here I stand for right — let him show proofs —
For Roman right ; though none, it seems, dare stand
To take their share with me. Ay, cluster there,
Cling to your masters; judges, Romans — slaves!
His charge is false ; I dare him to his proofs.
You have my answer. Let my actions speak!
Cicero (interrupting him). Deeds shall convince you!
Has the traitor done?
Catiline. Rut this I will avow, that I have scorned,
And still do scorn, to hide my sense of wrong:
Who brands me on the forehead, breaks my sword,
Or lays the bloody scourge upon my back,
Wrongs me not half so much ;is ho who shuts
The gates of honor on me, — turning out
The Roman from his birthright; and for what? (looking
round).
To fling your offices to every slave;
Vipers that creep where man disdains to climb;
And having wound their loathsome track to the top
Of this huge mouldering monument of Rome,
Hang hissing at the nobler man below.
Cicero. This is his answer! Must 1 bring more proofs?
748 IRISH LITERATURE.
Fathers, you know their lives not one of us,
But lives in peril of his midnight sword.
Lists of proscriptions have been handed round,
In which your general properties are made
Your murderer's hire.
(A cry is heard without — "More prisoners!" An of-
ficer enters with letters for Cicero; who, after glanc-
ing at them, sends them round the Senate. Catiline is
strongly perturbed.)
Cicero. Fathers of Rome ! If man can be convinced
By proof, as clear as daylight, here it is!
Look on these letters ! Here 's a deep-laid plot
To wreck the provinces: a solemn league,
Made with all form and circumstance. The time
Is desperate, — all the slaves are up; — Rome shakes!
The heavens alone can tell how near our graves
We stand even here! — The name of Catiline
Is foremost in the league. He was their king.
Tried and convicted traitor ! go from Rome !
Catiline (haughtily rising). Come, consecrated lictors,
from your thrones: (To the Senate.)
Fling down your scepters : — take the rod and axe,
And make the murder as you make the law.
Cicero (interrupting him). Give up the record of his ban-
ishment. (To an officer.)
(The officer gives it to the Consul.)
Catiline. Banished from Rome ! What 's banished, but set
free
From daily contact of the things I loathe?
" Tried and convicted traitor! " Who says this?
Who'll prove it, at his peril, on my head?
Banished — I thank you for 't. It breaks my chain !
I held some slack allegiance till this hour —
But now my sword 's my own. Smile on, my lords !
I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes,
Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs,
I have within my heart's hot cells shut up,
To leave you in your lazy dignities.
But here I stand and scoff you : here I fling
Hatred and full defiance in your face.
Your Consul 's merciful. For this, all thanks.
He dares not touch a hair of Catiline.
(The Consul reads): — "Lucius Sergius Catiline: by the
decree of the Senate, you are declared an enemy and
alien to the State, and banished from the territory of
the commonwealth."
GEORGE CROLY. 749
The Consul. Lictors, drive the traitor from the temple !
Catiline (furious). "Traitor!" I go— but I return.
This— trial !
Here I devote your Senate ! I 've had wrongs
To stir a fever in the blood of age,
Or make the infant's sinews strong as steel.
This day's the birth of sorrows! — this hour's work
Will breed proscriptions: — look to your hearths, my lords!
For there, henceforth, shall sit, for household gods,
Shapes hot from Tartarus! — all shames and crimes!
Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn ;
Suspicion, poisoning his brother's cup ;
Naked Rebellion, with the torch and axe.
Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones;
Till Anarchy comes down on you like Night,
And Massacre seals Rome's eternal grave!
( The Senators rise up in tumult and cry out,)
Go, enemy and parricide, from Rome!
Cicero. Expel him, lictors! Clear the Senate-house!
Catiline {struggling through them. I go, but not to leap
the gulf alone.
T go — but when I come, 't will be the burst
Of ocean in the earthquake — rolling back
In swift and mountainous ruin. Fare you well!
You build my funeral-pile, but your best blood
Shall quench its flame. Back, slaves! (To the lictors.) — I
will return! (He rushes out.)
THE ISLAND OF ATLANTIS.
"For at that time the Atlantic Sea was navigable, and had an
island before that mouth which is called by you Pillars of Her-
cules. But this island was greater than both Lybya and all Asia
together, and afforded an easy passage to other neighboring islands,
as it was easy to pass from those islands to all the continent which
borders on this Atlantic Sea. . . . But, in succeeding times, pro-
digious earthquakes and deluges taking place, and bringing with
them desolation in the space of one day and night, all that warlike
race of Athenians was at once merged under the earth ; and the
Atlantic island itself, being absorbed in the sea, entirely disap-
peared."— Plato's Timwus.
Oh! thou Atlantic, dark and deep,
Thou wilderness of waves.
Where all the tribes of earth might sleep
In their uncrowded graves!
750 IRISH LITERATURE.
The sunbeams on thy bosom wake,
Yet never light thy gloom ;
The tempests burst, yet never shake
Thy depths, thou mighty tomb !
Thou thing of mystery, stern and drear,
Thy secrets who hath told? —
The warrior and his sword are there,
The merchant and his gold.
There lie their myriads in thy pall,
Secure from steel and storm ;
And he, the feaster of them all,
The canker-worm.
Yet on this wave the mountain's brow
Once glowed in morning's beam ;
And, like an arrow from the bow,
Out sprang the stream :
And on its bank the olive grove,
And the peach's luxury,
And the damask rose — the night-bird's love —
Perfumed the sky.
Where art thou, proud Atlantis, now?
Where are thy bright and brave?
Priest, people, warriors' living flow?
Look on that wave.
Crime deepened on the recreant land,
Long guilty, long forgiven ;
There power upreared the bloody hand,
There scoffed at Heaven.
The word went forth — the word of woe — •
The judgment-thunders pealed;
The fiery earthquake blazed below ;
Its doom was sealed.
Now on his halls of ivory
Lie giant weed and ocean slime,
Burying from man's and angel's eye
The land of crime.
MAY CROMMELIN.
May Crommelin, whose full name is May de la Cherois Crom-
melin, is a descendant of Louis Crommelin, the Huguenot founder
of the linen trade in Ulster, and was born in Carrowdore Castle,
County Down. She was educated at home and spent her early
years in Ireland. Later she went to London and has since traveled
extensively in South America, the West Indies, Syria, Palestine,
etc. She made a hit with her first two novels, ' Queenie ' and ' My
Love She 's but a Lassie.' Since then she has written ' A Jewel of a
Girl,' ' Black Abbey,' ' Miss Daisy Dimity,' ' Orange Lily,' 'Joy,'
'In the West Countrie,' 'Brown Eyes,' 'Goblin Gold,' 'Violet
Vyvian, M. F. H.,' 'Midge,' 'Mr. and Mrs. Herries,' 'For the
Sake of the Family,' 'Love Knots,' 'Dead Men's Dollars,' 'Bay
Ronald,' ' Dust Before the Wind,' ' Half Round the World for a Hus-
band,' 'Divil-May-Care,' ' Kinsah, a Daughter of Tangier,' ' Bet-
tina,' 'The Luck of a Lowland Laddie,' 'A Woman-Derelict,' and
' Over the Andes,' a volume of travel.
THE AMAZING ENDING OF A CHARADE.
From ' The Luck of a Lowland Laddie.'
The hours flew by till the next evening came. Both
lovers pretended to avoid each other meantime, though
their eyes met furtively, then shone like stars. With the
memory of yesterday evening hot in their hearts, and sweet
as new wine on their lips, they could be happy without
much speech together. Also it was wiser.
Neither had reasoned their love-affair out. They only
felt. Elsie was rosy and utterly happy, seeming to tread
on air, to love all the world ; while Jock was very pale with
the exalted look of one who sees ahead trouble which he
means to face and win through to gain the golden paradise
beyond.
So the unexpected night darkened down. A crowd of
carriages made deep snow-ruts before the door; the foot-
lights were lit; and an assembled throng of all the neigh-
bors, magnates, lesser lairds, farmers, and domestics were
seated in the large saloon before the miniature stage. At
last the curtains drew up.
Elsie was revealed in the neatest of print gowns and
muslin kerchief, dusting merrily. She looked so smiling
751 '
752 IRISH LITERATURE.
and bonny over the work that a hearty burst of applause
greeted the most popular girl in the country, at which
she bridled and lilted two lines of a ballad with gleeful
daring. In stumbled Jock, carrying a tray for break-
fast. And his real nervousness on the stage seemed
excellent acting, as Mary Ann scoffed at Clumsy Thomas.
When she leant her pretty chin on the end of her long
brush-handle and archly eyed him, asking, " What 's the
matter with you?" Jock felt his soul drawn through his
eyes to her, and stammered in desperation so naturally :
" You ! — You are the matter with me ! " ending in so
audible a catch of his breath, that the room rang with
clapping.
" Capital, capital ! 'Pon my honor," said old Lady
Sneeshin, her head trembling with approbation.
" He, he," tittered MacGab, who was as always the great-
est busybody and tattler in the country, both detested and
civilly treated, for feeble folk all held, " it was better to
have him for a friend than an enemy."
" He, he," repeated the malicious creature, turning
round to grin at all the people near him, and wmispering
loudly behind his hand.
" Young Ramsay acts with all his heart, doesn't he?
Charming part for a young man. Shouldn't mind making-
love to the young lady ri^self."
" Who is that talking? O — MacGab, excuse me, I didn't
know it was you," growled Mr. Stirling. He knew per-
fectly well whence the interruption came, seeing that Mac-
Gab was next to Lady Sneeshin on his right hand.
The first scene over, the principal actors came on, en-
couraged by the success of Elsie and Jock ; yet the interest
of the audience cooled at once to politeness. Once or twice
Lord Gowan's absurd jokes and capers, young Hay's stren-
uous efforts to be heroic roused faint enthusiasm. And
certainly Moyna was clever — very clever. All agreed in
that, thinking in their hearts, " If only she had not such
sticks to act with."
Once or twice Moyna in flaming desperation hustled
Elsie on the stage.
" Go in, dear — do! Save the situation! You must keep
them in a good temper. O, say anything! That you have
lost something, a glove, or your temper, or a lover."
MAY CROMMELIN. 753
So Elsie tripped forward and Moyna literally pushed
shy Thomas after.
" Follow her, Mr. Ramsay, — Go ! "
So Jock stumbled on : stood still ; stared.
"And what are you doing, pray? " pertly asked Mary
Ann.
" Doing — ? I am following you/' stammered Thomas,
gazing at her so hopelessly, being stage-shy, that again the
audience roared with mirth and clapped vociferously.
When the climax of the piece came and the heroine ac-
cepted Hay after various misunderstandings, while Lord
Gowan consoled himself in the background by dancing a
breakdown between the hunting damsel and her of the
nimble feet and waving skirts, everybody applauded civilly.
Then the whole audience called as one voice :
" Mary Ann ! Mary Ann ! Thomas."
"What must I say? " asked Jock nervously from the
background. Then somebody whispered back — (After-
wards each and all denied uttering the words himself, or
herself) — Anyhow, some one prompted —
" Say it 's a good example. Ask her to follow it." The
leading ladies and gentlemen drew to one side, in mimic
converse, pretending not to notice the shy footman and
saucy chambermaid who advanced to the footlights.
" I say," quoth Thomas, sheepishly enough, it must be
owned, " your lady and my governor have set us a good
example. Shall we follow it? Like mistress, like maid,
eh?"
" What do you want me to do? " So Mary Ann coquet-
tishly dissembled. " Say it out first; then I '11 see."
"I '11 take you for my wife; that's it," cried Thomas,
suddenly catching her hands with the desperate boldness
of timidity. " Say you '11 have me."
An uneasy sensation thrilled through the hall, especially
among the farmers' benches. One could have heard a pin
drop.
" Well — I don't mind taking you for my man, Thomas,"
faltered Elsie, toying with her apron.
The actors all waited in a group for applause. Not a
sound was heard in the saloon but the isolated claps of
some four foolish, unenlightened folk, who ceased, un-
supported.
48
754 IRISH LITERATURE.
A dead silence lasted for a few surprised seconds.
Then every one seemed to draw a breath and murmurs
were audible among the servants and tenants. On the
front bench old Stirling sat still staring. He was always
slow of comprehension. MacGab saw his, or some one's
duty, clear.
" Stirling ! Hallo ! Stirling !— I say ! " he eagerly cried,
bending forward so close in front of Lady Sneeshin she
drew back her aquiline nose.
" Did you hear? Bless my soul ! Your daughter and
young Ramsay have taken each other for man and wife,
and before witnesses. They have ! " The meddler 's clean-
shaven wrinkled face was alive with uncharitable joy, his
eyes gleamed though he tried to pull down the corners of
his mouth.
" Eh, eh? Stop— all of you on the stage there ! " roared
old Stirling. " Stop this tomfoolery."
The actors stood as if turned to statues in amazement.
" O, man, it \s no use stopping them now. It 's done! —
It's a marriage!1 That's a fact," mourned MacGab
louder, the hypocrite, every one hearing him. Old Stirling
glared round an awed ring of faces and foamed. He rose
in his front place and shook his fist at Jock, who stood
close above him.
"How dare you ? You d— d impertinent young dog!
Out of my house, and never let me set eyes on you again."
"What have I done, sir?" asked Jock, clear and reso-
lute. He had dropped the Thomas and was himself again.
"Done? O Lord! You've played this mean trick to
try and marry my girl, to catch an heiress — before wit-
nesses. A beggar like you. That 's what you 've done."
" I have played no trick, none ! "
" I say you have. Don't — don't— don't dare to con-
tradict me, you fortune-hunting jackanapes."
The blood rushed to Jock's face, he folded his arms and
gazed defiantly down at his stammering, gesticulating en-
emy, and the hearts of the spectators went out to the lad.
" Stirling, be calm ; it 's not a real marriage. They only
took each other by their play-acting names. In any case it
can be undone by private act of Parliament," hastily in-
terposed old Lord Lovall as peacemaker.
1 This is so, according to Scottish law. — [Ed.
MAY C ROM ME LIN. 755
" Yes, yes, Francis. Do be calm," urged poor Mrs. Stir-
ling, in thin-voiced hysterical accents. " Elsie, like a good
child, tell your father that you do not mean to marry Jock,
and that you won't have him. Do you hear, dear? "
Elsie meanwhile stood still with amazed blue eyes that
widened each second. But now they gleamed.
" Jock! " she uttered. And at the one word all listened
with hushed attention, for there was a thrill in Elsie's
voice that is only heard when a woman feels her life or her
fate at stake. Every young heart there vibrated in re-
sponse with instinctive recognition. Aye! and some old
ones who remembered days long past.
"Jock!" she breathed again, in trembling but clear
tones. " I know you never meant this — you could not do
a dishonorable act even for my sake, although you do —
love me. So, before my father and mother, and all my
friends here, I declare that I am ready to abide by this and
to take you- — John Ramsay — to be my husband before any
other in the world."
" I forbid it ! Hush — Stop, girl, I command "
shouted Stirling.
" And I take you, Elsie Stirling, for my wife ; Heaven
being witness I love yourself, not your fortune," answered
Jock in a voice like a trumpet call.
A smothered burst of hand-clapping and stamping came
from the back benches filled with servants, retainers, and
tenants, who idolized Elsie as they disliked and dreaded
her father. Not a man or woman but was ready on the
spot to stand up for the brave lassie they had loved from
a toddling bairn. Incoherent with fury, Stirling turned to
shake his fist at them.
"Silence; I dismiss the lot of you! I turn you all
out — all ! " Then forcing his way through the crowded
chairs, stumbling over his guests' dresses and toes, while
every one made way for him as if a wild boar were charg-
ing through their midst, he prepared to storm the stage
by the steps at the side.
Meantime, to the general admiration, Mrs. Stirling in
a marvelous way, considering her feebleness, fluttered up
before him and withdrew Elsie into the actors' "green-
room," clasping her daughter's arm with both hands.
" Don't make a scene, darling. Not in public — it 's such
756 IRISH LITERATURE.
bad taste," the little mother falteringly entreated. " Jock,
dear, please go away quietly like a good boy. Do, for niy
sake ! you know how fond I always was of you."
Jock Ramsay obeyed. As Mr. Stirling mounted the plat-
form on one side of the stage, with old Hay and Lord
Lovall holding him back by either arm, young Ramsay
bowed to him and said :
" Good-bye, sir, for the present. I leave your house now,
but I shall return to claim my bride," and he leapt lightly
over the footlights, while Nigel Hay with chivalrous feel-
ing accompanied him as a true comrade.
Gowan hesitated a second or two; he had turned pale.
But he also followed Jock. . . .
" A pretty kettle of fish ! " sneered MacGab, as the
guests murmured like an excited hive of bees round the
supper table, to which Howlands, acting as deputy host,
authoritatively invited them. Meanwhile their carriages
were hastily ordered, while it was understood that Mr.
Stirling had been led off to his own room, almost foaming
with rage, by Lord Lovall ; who had more influence with
him than any other man living. Mrs. Stirling and Elsie
had disappeared.
" After all, voung Ramsav is in the direct male succes-
sion to the estate. The Stirling's only came in through
the female line," so Howlands expounded, being strong in
county-family history.
" And, 'pon my word, he 's a fine young fellow, and the
girl might do vastly worse," reiterated Lady Sneeshin tes-
tily. For she hated two neighbors, and these were her host
and the MacGab.
Jock, the hero of the hour, was meantime walking si-
lently down the snow-covered glen with his mother holding
tight by his arm, to the minister's manse. On Mr. Stir-
ling's descent from the stage his eye roving round for an
object of attack fixed on Jock's mother, midmost of an
agitated group.
" Madam," he thundered, " I '11 thank you to take your-
self and your son out this house, and I wish to God you
had never entered it."
" Believe me, Mr. Stirling, we have no wish to stay an
hour longer, while you are in your present frame of mind,"
MAY C ROM ME LIN. 757
replied Mrs. Ramsay with sweet dignity. " My son and I
will endeavor to leave to-night."
" The manse is near at hand. May I, as a minister of
the Gospel, offer the shelter of my roof? " interposed the
Kev. Dugald Dalgleish, who had grown white-haired in the
glen.
" Yes, that will be fitting, and cause no ill blood," ap-
proved Lord Lovall in a whisper, as he moved after Mr.
Stirling like a noble gray eollie herding a quarrelsome ram
bent on charging somebody.
Several ladies surrounded Mrs. Ramsay with kindly
offers. But Lady MacTaggart it was who accompanied
her upstairs, helped to pack her hand-bag and smothered
her in wraps. Enthusiastic, sentimental, and gushing over
with admiration for Jock, Elsie, and Jock's mother, she
yet remembered Mrs. Ramsay's slippers and overcame her
fear of Francis Stirling.
JULIA CROTTY.
Julia Crotty, whose remarkable books have attracted much at-
tention, was born in Lismore, County Waterford. She received her
education from the Presentation Nuns there, and from Miss Lizzie
Fitzsimon, now Mrs. Walsh, editress of the Providence Visitor, a
Rhode Island newspaper. Miss Crotty's girlhood was spent in the
lifeless atmosphere of an Irish country town, where she received
impressions which are rendered, sometimes with appalling faithful-
ness, in her books ' Neighbors ' and ' The Lost Land.' She has lived
for some time in this country.
Her output is small but noteworthy. She is no Irish idealist, and
is not afraid of making the black really black and not merely the
dimmed white of a dusty angel. She is one of the few writers since
Carleton who has shown fearless realism in her portrayal of Irish
character, and that does not mean that she does not love her people
and deal tenderly with them as well.
A BLAST.
From 'Neighbors.'
In the pleasant July morning it was cheerful to hear the
fishwoman's loud call, " Fresh — aloive ! Fresh — aloive ! "
coming down the street. For a month the Innisdoyle peo-
ple had been living on tea — tea-breakfasts, tea-dinners, tea-
suppers— until they felt dyspeptic and withered and ner-
vous. And now, " all of a sudden," the new potatoes had
come in, and, to crown the feeling of plenty, here were the
fresh herrings and mackerel. Rose Ellen, blowsy, and
fresh as a salt-water breeze, drew rein opposite the goose-
berry-woman's stand and jumped from the car.
" Yerrah, Peggy Dee, woman dear," she cried, " what in
the world ails your poor face? 'T is the size of half a
barrel — the Lord save us ! And that shiny redness upon it
— 't is terrible dangerous-looking someway — "
" Ah, you may well say 't is dangerous-looking, an' the
feeling of it is worse. 'T is a face, Rose Ellen, that will be
the finishing o' me I 'm thinking."
" But how did it come on you at all — sure, you never
had the like before— an' what is it? "
"Oh, what would it be, an unnatural thing like it,
but" — in a whisper and with a fearful glance around—
"a blast!"
758
JULIA CROTTY. 759
Rose Ellen blessed herself and looked at the stricken one
with awe.
" 'T is nothing else in life," went on Peggy, " an' I got
it of an evening three weeks ago. I was out gethering a
bit o' dandeline, for I was bothered a good while with a
kind of sickly all-overishness, an' the dandeline is great for
that, when just at the burying-ground gate I suddenly felt
a sting o' pain in the jaw that nearly lifted the head off o'
me. An hour's aise hasn't blessed me since."
" She 's a torminted cr'ature, that 's the Heaven's truth,"
put in Mick Dee.
His wife glared at him. " Lave the talking to me," she
said, " you that could sleep rings round you while your
poor misfortunate wife has to be tossing and turning in
her misery. Ah, if I couldn't give a sorrowful histhory of
myself since this struck me ! "
" But didn't you see the doctor about it at all, Peggy? "
asked Rose Ellen.
" The doctor ! Ah, the blaggard, sure 't was no use !
But I went to him through the fair depth o' misery, an' he
commenced feeling and examining the lump, till I thought
I 'd fall out o' my standing.
" ' How long is this growing, ma'am? ' says he.
" I told him. I said nothing about it being a blast,
though, mind you, for 't is to bu'st out laughing in my face
he would, maybe.
" ' And you did nothing for it — saw nobody about it all
the time? ' he says. ' You neglected it.'
" That maddened me." ["An' why wouldn't it? " said
Mick Dee. " She that saw a nation of people about it, an'
took every one o' their advice ! Bedad ! 't was nothing but
concoctions in saucepans "] " Will you let me go on
with my story, you common, ignorant vulgarian? ' Neg-
lected it?' says I. * I to neglect a jaw like that! I 'd be
long sorry. There isn't a blisther or a powltice or a stoup-
ing that I 'm not afther applying to it. Fly-blisthers, mus-
thard-Paves, horse-reddish, ky-in-pepper, ground cloves, hot
roasted onions, cowld b'iled turnips, stewed figs, mashed
potatoes, linsid-male, rice-an'-flour, soap-an'-sugar, march-
malices,1 ground ivy, caiiiiinile flowers, eldher, ellnm bark
— a hundred things — I 'm the remains of 'em all, an' still,
1 March-malices, niarsh-mullows.
760 IRISH LITERATURE.
doctor,' says I, ' look at the jaw I have ! Nothing of all
that I tried suited it at all ; it got worse an' worse.'
[" That 's what it did," said Mick. " You could compare
it to nothing but a house a-fire. An' her appetite is gone ;
a fly would ait a bigger brekwist."] " Can't you keep aisy,
you talkative disciple, an' Fave me explain to the wo-
man ?
" ' Doctor,' says I, ' can you tell me at all what 's the
nature o' the ailment? There's a b'ating in it like the
hammers-o'-death, an' you see yourself 't is more like a
pudden than a Christian f'ature.'
" ' What would be the use, ma'am, of telling you the
name and title of it? ' says the limb. "T is a bad jaw, an'
if you want relief you must submit to an operation ' "
" But I wouldn't stand that," interrupted Mick Dee.
" ' If ye want carving an' experiminting,' says I, ' tkry
it on them without well-wishers. I daar ye to touch
Peggy ! ' "
" Who wanted you to intherfere? " cried the patient
angrily. " Wasn't I able to do my own talking and take
my own part? "
" The allusion to the operation," she resumed, " gave me
a sort of a sinking in the inside "
" An' why not, you poor soul? " said Rose Ellen. " Sure,
every one knows that an operation is the last resource."
" ' Oh, dochtor,' says I, when I could ketch my breath,
'what would vou be for doing to me at all? Is it to
scarify and lance the gums you 'd be wanting, or to cut a
piece o' the jaw off o' me, an' l'ave me an object all the rest
o' my days? '
" 4 All I have to say, ma'am, for I 'm busy and can't
waste words, is to repeat that if you want relief — for a
time — you must place yourself in my hands.'
" Rose Ellen, I ma}' look like a fool, but I 'm not one."
[" Faith, you 're not, Peggy," said the fishwoman heartily.]
" An' I took good notice of what he said about relieving me
' for a time.' ' Well, then,' says I to him, ' if that 's all you
can do for me, let us part, in the name o' God ! I suppose
my days are numbered, an' if so, I '11 go to my Creator as
I came from His hands, without being hacked, or hewed,
or dismimbered.' "
" Bully for you, Peggy ! That was the way to talk to
JULIA CROTTY. 701
that rogue of a fellow with his knives an' saws for the
poor human frame."
" It was Christian talk, at any rate, Rose Ellen Doyle,"
said Peggy, who prided herself on her theological as well
as other knowledge. " ' I '11 take medical treatment for
the jaw, if you plaze,' says I, an' by that token he knew
that he had no slack customer to deal with.
" ' Very well,' says he, pretending to yawn, but p'aceable
enough, for 't is aisy to terrify the like o' em if they see
3'ou 're knowledgable, ' come in any day when the dispin-
sary is open and you '11 get some drugs.'
" Up with me next day, an' 't was that blaggard of an
assistant of his that was there. What did he do but give
me a bottle o' stuff as black as my shoe. I 'm no hand at
all at swallowing boluses, an' so I tould him. ' Give me a
few good strong pills,' says I, ' instead of all that hedjus
wash.' i 'T is the bottle was ordered for you by the doc-
tor,' says the impident jackeen, ' an' that 's all you '11 get.'
" Paddy Donnelly, my own second cousin, was there
with an impression on his chest, an' he was afther getting
a box o' pills.
" i Bad luck to 'em,' says he; ' sure I can't get the like
down at all only by chewing 'em, an' the divilish brat
wouldn't give me a draught of some kind that would be no
trouble at all to me.'
" That was my chance. ' Paddy,' says I, explaining it
to him, ' we 're both under constitutional thratement, an'
therefore our medicines are interchangeable. What 's
sauce for the goose, you know, is sauce for the gander,
(live me the pills an' take the bottle with you.'
" ' All right,' says he; ' sure, " exchange is no robbery."
We 're both suiting ourselves.'
" Well, would you believe it, I took the whole box of 'em,
and never a stir did they put in me, although, in addition
to 'em, I took the two dozen pills that poor Tom Brown,
the car-boy, left when he was took so sudden, God rest him !
I swallowed all that two dozen — " [" Except the three or
four you gave me the night I had a touch o' the colic," cor-
rected Mick Dee.] "An' notwithstanding, an' neverthe-
less, the jaw kept gethering an' gathering."
" You didn't take enough of 'em, I suppose, Peggy,"
762 IRISH LITERATURE.
said a neighbor ; " people have to take a regular coorse of
constitutional medicine."
" I knew that," said Peggy, " an' so I went to the dis-
pinsary to get Paddy's box renewed, but when I made my
request you never heard the like o' the language of that
onmannerly scamp of an assistant. He was black in the
face with timper. ' Bedad,' says he, ' for one farthing I 'd
hand you over to the peelers for a case of attempted delib-
erate self -slaughter ! '
" They 're vinimous cats, thim doctors, an' they had it in
for me for refusing the operation, so I said to myself I 'd
avoid 'em for a while. Look, Rose Ellen, at that for a
surge o' cowld perspiration all over me ! "
" You 're very wake entirely, Peggy. Come over with
me to O'DelPs, an' we '11 have a little drop in comfort."
" Oh, no, Rose Ellen, I thank you kindly, but whisky,
wine, or porter would be the complate ruination o' me."
" Yerrah, sure, my mother mentioned that when she was
here with the fish lately ye had three or four glasses of
punch apiece — "
" But that was when I was taking James Hagarty's ad-
vice to drink all the stimilants I could get to build me up
against the wasting o' the lump. But Johnny Ryan — an'
he 's an expariansed man, for 't was a boil between the
shoulders that killed his son — tould me that every drop o'
that kind was adding poison to the jaw. I left off the
drink on that account."
" Well, you 're a terrible sufferer, there 's no doubt
about that, Peggy, a terrible sufferer, poor sowl. I have
some grand fresh herrings there in the cart, an' you must
take a couple home for yer tay."
" I 'in obliged to you, Rose Ellen, an' I '11 take one with
thanks for Mick Dee, but as for myself I daarn't touch
'em. By Norry Lane's advice I was eating everything that
came my way, for she said 't was a great thing to feed a
swelling up to the point or seppuration, but Mrs. Gol-
drick, the pinsioner's wife, that knows a bit of everything,
for she 's a thraveled woman, declared to me I was fairly
' digging my grave with my teeth,' an' she said 't was low-
ness of living suited a lump of any kind. So I gave over
the ating too. I 'm living now on a cup of tay, an'," with
sad resignation, " Tavingeverything in the Lord's hands."
JULIA CROTTY. 763
The two women looked impressed and sympathetic.
" But there 's one comfort in it all," went on Peggy,
" there isn't one that passes the way without the kindest
inquiries."
" Oh, begor ! that 's the truth," said Mick Dee. " 'T is
nothing but axing her all about it. 'T is a great wonder
of a face to 'em."
" Well, listen to that ! Wouldn't any one think, to hear
that mass of ignorance that 't is out of mere curiosity the
people queshtion me about my affliction, when 't is through
the very height of respect an' goodwill? But that was his
way ever an' always, to lessen by his ignorance the dacent,
hard-working cr'ature that for thirty years is afther stand-
ing between him an' the Poorhouse — "
" But I did my share, Peggy," Mick Dee was beginning
with feeble remonstrance.
" Your share? How? " scornfully.
" With the donkey, sure, hauling an' carrying."
" At ninepence a day ! Yerrah, go to grass, man ! You
an' your once-a-week jobs, what a help they were to sup-
port you an' your son ! Go, you man o' misfortune, an'
tackle the donkey so that I can go home an' rest on my
bed, an' be out o' the sighth an' hearing of you for a
while ! "
Mick Dee shuffled off obediently.
" God help him ! " said Rose Ellen ; " he 's feeling purty
blue these times."
" Ah, but if you saw an' heard him Tuesday night when
I was making my will — "
" Making your will? Were you that bad, Peggy? "
" I was so bad in my head an' mind an' feelings in gen-
eral, that no one but the Lord an' myself knows it. I had
no other prospect before me but that the morning would
see me launched into Eternity. 'T is a solemn thought, an'
one that a person of a right conscience an' understanding
can't forget in a hurry. An' so with death staring me in
the face, I called out as well as my weakness would let me.
' Mick Dee ! ' says I. ' Yes, Peggy,' says he, coming over
from the dresser, where he had his Ik 'ad in among the
plates, groaning an' sobbing. 'What is it, Peggy?' says
he. ' I 'm going to make my last will an' testament,' says
I. With that you never heard such a cry as they all sot up,
764 IRISH LITERATURE.
for although I hadn't a blood-relation among that houseful
o' neighbors, still they all knew me an' respected me, an'
grieved for my sad case. i That double-shawl o' mine,'
says I, ' that Father Mulrenin gave me last Christmas
twelve years, give that to my cousin Mary at the Pill.
She 's the only one o' my father's people left in Ireland
now, an' although she 's rich an' I 'm poor — although she
can come here with her three pounds' worth of fish at a
time, while I have no better stock than a few gallons o'
gooseberries, or a bag o' apples, or a box o' sprats, an'
although she never once had the kind heart to say " Peggy,
are you in want of a male of vittles or a shilling? " still,
I wouldn't like Father Mulrenin's token o' respect to go
out o' the family. So give it to Mary Bree,' says I, ' an'
long may she wear it! Give my linsey gownd,' says I, ' to
the neighbor that '11 lay me out, an' if 't is too long or
too short I 'm willing to have her change it to suit her-
self. My hooded cloak that I brought from home with me
nine-and-twenty year ago when I married Mick Dee, I
give and bequathe to Rose Ellen Doyle — ' "
" To me, Peggy? " cried Rose Ellen with a kind of
choke.
" ' Give it to Rose Ellen,' says I to Mick, ' as soon as I 'm
sthretched in my long rest, for I love an' like her, and I 'd
wish her to remimber me. An', besides, she '11 give the
cloak the care an' respect that a cloak should have.' "
This triple-barreled compliment made Rose Ellen speech-
less for some moments, with a mixture of pleasurable and
sad surprise.
" I hope 't will be many a long day before I '11 be wearing
it, Peggy," she said softly then.
" Ah, no, Rose Ellen, as I tould the neighbors last night,
I 'm a doomed woman. Well, when Mick Dee heard me
giving these directions, he began to bawl for dear life.
' An' what '11 become o' me, Peggy? ' says he."
" No wonder," said Rose Ellen, " you were the good
partner for him."
" I was. I stood by him through thick and thin, kept
a roof over him, a whole coat to his back, an' he was never
without his warm male of vittles when he 'd face home of
a night. An' if I reminded him now and then of my seven
generations an' their dacency, I only did it for the good of
JULIA CROTTY. 765
his sowl and to keep down the sthrake of impident de-
fiance that's in Mick Dee by nature. He can't help his
natural lowness, an' I 'm not finding fault with him for it.
Where I 'in facing we must forgive an 'forget; an', besides,
poor Mick has his own good points. i What '11 become o'
me, Peggy? ' says he. ' I '11 tell you what you '11 do,' says
I. ' Make sale o' the donkey,' says I, ' an' of every thrap
in the place; put the money in Mrs. O'DelPs hands for
safe keeping for your berrym', an' go up to the Workhouse.
/ '11 look afther you there/ says I."
There was a pause after that, during which the woman
buying fish took a pinch of snuff and blew her nose vig-
orously, and Rose Ellen sniffed a little.
" God help the poor ! " said the woman.
The telegraph-boy, who had gone into O'Dell's a few
minutes before, came out now, and immediately the clerk
began to put up the shop-shutters.
" I wonder who 's dead belonging to the O'Dells? " said
Rose Ellen with concern. " I 'd be sorry to the heart for
that kind family's trouble."
The servant-girl running across the street was stopped
and questioned.
" Oh, don't be delayin' me," she cried. " I 'm sent for
some vinegar in a hurry for the missis. They 're burnin'
feathers under her poor nose, for she 's in a dead wakeness.
Her niece that was taken with a stitch in the side this
morning an' left seventeen little orphans after her."
"Seventeen? Murdher, she's a great loss! Thai's
frightful bad news for the kind woman over."
"Don't fret about it; she'll get over it aisy enough,
never fear," said Peggy grimly. " They took it mighty
calm when O'Dell's brother went so unexpected last June
twelvemonths — "
" But he was a wrack from the drink, an' 't was an actial
relief to have him at rest. They were half killed from
him—"
" Oh, that 's all very well, but human beings ought to
have some feeling, especially them (hat 's no great shakes
at the soberness themselves, an' I didn't hear a single
sigh or moan from one of 'em at his funeral."
" Mrs. O'Dell was crying under her veil, an' so were the
little girls, an' sure there couldn't be deeper black than
766 IRISH LITERATURE.
they all wore for a good twelvemonths," said the neigh-
bor.
" What matther is a few tears? Sure, a stranger would
shed 'em over a poor fellow taken before his time. An'
as for the crape an' bombazine, as my mother used to say,
there 's no great grief in mourning."
" Well, they have the shutters up an' the blinds all down
now. 'T is a sorrowful-looking house — "
" 'T is aisy to pull down blinds an' put up shutters, but
I '11 bet you a pinny that not more than four of 'em will
go down to Belfast to the funeral ! An' that 's the sign
that I go by. ' The proof of the pudden is in the aiting.'
I believe in the grief that proves itself in a big an' re-
spectable an' feelin' funeral. And the people who 'd be-
gredge to spend a few pounds on their relations' burying
are people to be misthrusted an' doubted — "
" Well," said Rose Ellen a little impatiently, " four out
of one family won't be a small share to travel so far into
the Black North — people with a business that can hardly
spare 'em. An', Peggy, they were always kind to you,
and in the day o' their trouble it would be dacent and
good-hearted to renumber that."
" Oh, ' kind ' ! Of course they were ; but didn't I ex-
plain their r'ason for it? It was because they couldn't
help having a respect an' a veneration for me, an' when
people wish to do a good turn they '11 do it for the best-
deserving person they know. Ah, there 's Mick Dee with
the donkey. Here, put in my chair an' the basket of
gooseberries while I 'in going over for the cowld vittles to
O'Dell's. Good-bye, Rose Ellen. Say a few prayers for
me, for as sure as I 'in talking, we won't have many another
shake-hands in this w'ary and sinful world. But we '11
meet in a better one, plaze God, for we 're a pair o' women
that sthriv always to do the very best we could ! "
HENRY GRATTAN CURRAN.
(1800— 187G.)
Henry G. Curran was a son of J. P. Curran, and was born about
1800. He was a barrister, and subsequently a resident magistrate
in King's County. He was an intimate friend of his half-brother,
W. H. Curran.
He is well known in literature as a translator from the Irish and
author of some original pieces. In Hardiman's collection of Irish
poetry there are many of his translations, as also in H. R. Mont-
gomery's collection of "native" poetry. To The Citizen, Dublin,
1842, he contributed a poem given in Duffy's ' Ballad Poetry.' It
was signed " C," and is entitled ' The Fate of the Forties.' He died
in 1876.
THE WEARING OF THE GREEN.
One blessing on rny native isle, one curse upon her foes !
While yet her skies above nie smile, her breeze around me
blows :
Now, never more my cheek be wet, nor sigh nor altered mien,
Tell the dark tyrant I regret the Wearing of the Green.
Sweet land, my parents loved you well, they sleep within your
breast ;
With theirs — for love no words can tell — my bones must
never rest;
And lonely must my true love stray, that was our village
queen,
When I am banished far away for the Wearing of the Green.
But, Mary, dry that bitter tear 't would break my heart to sec;
And sweetly sleep, my parents dear, that cannot weep for me.
I '11 think not of my distant tomb, nor seas rolled wide be-
tween,
But watch the hour that yet will come for the Wearing of
the Green.
O I care not for the thistle and I care not for the rose!
For when the cold winds whistle neither down nor crimson
shows ;
But like hope to him that 's friendless, where no gaudy
flower is seen,
By our graves, with love that 's endless, waves our own true-
hearted Green.
767
768 IRISH LITERATURE.
O sure God's world was wide enough and plentiful for all,
And ruined cabins were no stuff to build a lordly hall !
They might have let the poor man live, yet all as lordly been,
But Heaven its own good time will give for the Wearing of
the Green.
A LAMENT.1
From the Irish of John O'Neachtan.
Dark source of my anguish ! deep wound of a land
Whose young and defenseless the loss will deplore ;
The munificent spirit, the liberal hand,
Still stretched the full bounty it prompted to pour.
The stone is laid o'er thee ! the fair glossy braid,
The high brow, the light cheek with its roseate glow ;
The bright form, and the berry that dwelt and could fade
On these lips, thou sage giver, all, all are laid low.
Like a swan on the billows, she moved in her grace,
Snow-white were her limbs, and with beauty replete,
And time on that pure brow had left no more trace
That if he had sped with her own fairy feet.
Whatever of purity, glory, hath ever
Been linked with the name, lovely Mary, was thine;
Woe, woe, that the tomb, ruthless tyrant, should sever
The tie which our spirits half broken resign.
Than Caesar of hosts — the true darling of Rome,
Far prouder was James — where pure spirits are met,
The virgin, the saint — though heav'n's radiance illume
Their brows — Erin's wrongs can o'ershadow them yet.
And rank be the poison, the plagues that distil
Through the heart of the spoiler that laid them in dust,
The rapt bard with the glory the nations shall fill,
With the fame of his patrons, the generous, the just.
Wherever the beam of the morning is shed,
With its light the full fame of our loved ones hath shone,
1 This poem is a lament for Mary D'Este, Queen of James II. She died
at St. Germain, April 26, 1718. Her son, called James Francis Edward,
was the Chevalier De St. George, so much beloved by the Irish.
HENRY OR ATT AN CURRAN. 769
The deep curse of our sorrow shall burst on his head
That hath hurled them, the pride of our hearts, from their
throne.
The mid-day is dark with unnatural gloom —
And a spectral lament wildly shrieked in the air
Tells all hearts that our princess lies cold in the tomb,
Bids the old and the young bend in agony there !
Faint the lowing of kine o'er the seared yellow lawn !
And tuneless the warbler that droops on the spray !
The bright tenants that flashed through the current are gone,
For the princess we honored is laid in the clay.
Darkly brooding alone o'er his bondage and shame,
By the shore in mute agony wanders the Gael, —
And sad is my spirit, and clouded my dream.
For my king, for the star, my devotion would hail.
What woe beyond this hath dark fortune to wreak?
What wrath o'er the land yet remains to be hurled ?
They turn them to Rome! but despairing they shriek,
For Spain's flag in defeat and defection is furled.
Though our sorrows avail not, our hope is not lost —
For the Father is mightv! the highest remains!
The loosed waters rushed down upon Pharaoh's wide host,
But the billows crouch back from the foot He sustains.
Just Power ! that for Moses the wave did'st divide,
Look down on the land where thy followers pine;
Look down upon Erin, and crush the dark pride
Of the scourge of thy people, the foes of thy shrine.
49
JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN.
(1750—1817.)
John Philpot Curran is remembered as the greatest forensic
orator of a day when eloquent advocates were more plentiful than
ever since ; and as a great wit, among great wits. He was Master
of the Rolls in Ireland, a conspicuous member of the Irish Parlia-
ment, the most brilliant ornament in Irish society, the most popular
man at the Irish bar, a fearless advocate, and a true patriot.
His last years were overclouded with domestic sorrow ; his great
genius drooped into melancholy, and, hopeless and depressed, he
saw his beloved Ireland, " like a bastinadoed elephant, kneeling to
receive the paltry rider."
Before he was forty years of age he was offered a judgeship and a
peerage if he would take the Government side in the Regency
debate in the Irish Parliament, but he resolutely refused to sell
himself, his principles, and his honor. " There never was so honest
an Irishman," said the great O'Connell. Throughout his life he was
uncorruptible among the corrupt and dishonest; his last speech
in Parliament, in 1797, was devoted to an endeavor to effect some
reform in the administration, and to stay the flood of venality, in-
trigue, and jobbery that so soon debauched the Irish legislature.
His speeches at the bar are familiar to most readers; his jokes and
witticisms are daily recounted, as fresh at present as when they
were uttered.
Byron's opinion of Curran is superlative in its laudation : ' ' Cur-
ran 's the man who struck me most. Such imagination ! There
never was anything like it that ever I saw or heard of. His pub-
lished life, his published speeches, give you no idea of the man —
none at all. He was wonderful even to me, who had seen many
remarkable men of the time. The riches of his Irish imagination
were exhaustless. I heard him speak more poetry than I have ever
seen written. I saw him presented to Madame de Stael, and they
were both so ugly that I could not help wondering how the best
intellects of France and Ireland could have taken up respectively
such residences."
" His imagination was infinite, his fancy boundless, his wit inde-
fatigable," says one who had a long and close intimacy with him,
' ' and his person was mean and decrepit, very slight, very shape-
less— spindle limbs, a shambling gait, one hand imperfect, and a
face yellow and furrowed, rather flat, and thoroughly ordinary;
yet," continues the writer, Sir Jonah Barrington, " I never was so
happy in the company of any man as in Curran's for many
years."
Personal defects amounting to deformity were no depreciation of
the meteoric eloquence and marvelous wit. The flat yellow face
was redeemed by his wondrous dai'k lustrous eyes.
But he was not alone a master of eloquence and wit — a great bar-
rister and politician — he was a song- writer as well. His ' The
770
JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN
From an engraving by C. J. Wagstaff, from the painting by Thomas
Lawrence, F./t.A.
JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. Ill
Deserter's Meditation ' was founded on a chance encounter and con-
versation with a deserting soldier whom he met on a journey. It
has been described asa" cry like the wind in a ruined house." He
once asked Godwin what he thought of a certain jury-speech, not a
brilliant one, he had made at the Carlo w assizes, and Godwin said :
"I never did hear anything so bad as your prose, Curran, except
your poetry," a harsh misjudgment of both.
The Currans, we are told, were, in the semi-legendary history of
Ireland, " eminent as poets and men of learning. They filled the
positions of bards and historians in Leitrim, and poets in Breffni."
His father was " seneschal of the Manor Court " (a species of town-
bailiff) of Newmarket, a small village now, of 1,000 inhabitants, in
the county of Cork ; and here John Philpot Curran was born on
July 24, 1750. He was educated out of charity by the rector of
the town (who discerned in the lad mental capacity and power
beyond those of the ordinary youth), and was subsequently sent to
a school in Middleton, a town not far distant. He matriculated at
Trinity College, Dublin, in 1769, with the intention of entering the
Church. His college career was rather distinguished — he obtained
his scholarship in 1770— and in 1773, the intention to join the
Church having been relinquished, he was admitted at the Middle
Temple; and, while a student there, married his cousin, a Miss
Creagh.
"Stuttering Jack Curran," "Orator Mum," these were the nick-
names bestowed upon him, and they prove that he had many natural
difficulties to overcome before he could earn fame. He was called to
the Irish bar in 1775, and though in his earlier years at the profes-
sion his abilities were unacknowledged and unrecompensed, chiefly
because he had had no opportunity of displaying them, once hav-
ing been heard, he rapidly earned the reputation that grew with
each succeeding year of practice. His progress is exhibited by his
changes of residence : Redmond's Hill, Fade Street, St. Andrew
Street, Ely Place (now No. 4), and 80 Stephen's Green, were his
successive dwellings. He rapidly also became popular in society,
and a favorite among the members of his own profession. He was
one of the " Order of St. Patrick," or " The Monks of the Screw,"
whose charter-song he wrote. Curran was returned to the Irish
Parliament as Member for Kilbeggan in 1783, Flood being his col-
league in the representation of that village borough ; and he joined
the Opposition, his politics being the liberalism of Grattan. He
was also (1786-1797) M.P. for Rathcormac, another village borough.
He retired from Parliament in May, 1797.
His greatest fame was earned by his defense of those who were
charged with complicity in the rebellion of 1798. Of his speech on
behalf of Hamilton Rowan, Lord Brougham said it was " the greatest
speech of an advocate in ancient or modern times." Among other
noteworthy speeches may be mentioned those in defense of the
Rev. William Jackson, the brothers Sheares, Finnerty, Lord Edward
Fitzgerald, and Tone, and that against the Marquis of Headfort,
who had eloped with a clergyman's daughter. On the arrest of
Emmet, who had formed an attachment to his daughter, Curran
was himself under suspicion, but nothing could be found against
772 IRISH LITERATURE.
him. His undaunted advocacy of the rebels led, on one occasion,
to Lord Carleton, the Chief Justice, threatening to deprive him of
his silk gown. He was appointed Master of the Rolls in Ireland
and made a Privy Councilor by Pitt, in 1806, and from that time
he seems to have declined mentally and physically. He contested
Newry for a seat in the Imperial Parliament in 1812, and was de-
feated by two votes ; in the following year he resigned the
Mastership of the Rolls, and went into retirement on a pension.
Most of his time while he held the judicial office, and after his re-
tirement, was spent in traveling, in the endeavor to regain his old
vigor of mind and body, and to shake off the melancholy and
depression that were overwhelming him. He died in London,
Oct. 14, 1817 — from the effects of a paralytic stroke with which
he had been attacked at Moore's dinner-table — and was buried in
the vaults of Paddington Church, whence, in 1837, his remains were
removed to Glasnevin. There they repose under a magnificent tomb,
a facsimile of that of Scipio Barbatus opposite the Baths of Cara-
calla in Rome — a fitting and enduring monument. In St. Patrick's
Cathedral, Dublin, there is, surmounted by a life-like bust by C.
Moore, also a monument to his memory, which was erected in 1842
by a public subscription.
The kaleidoscopic view of Curran's life is varying and attractive.
A rough Irish-speaking poor country lad who rose to be the welcome
guest of princes ; a wit whose presence charged the atmosphere
with gaiety, and in whose train followed laughter loud and hearty,
he at last wore out a weary life in peevish, dismal melancholy.
He, it is narrated, left the severe paths of respectability on one
occasion, disguised as a tinker, and, throwing in his lot with a
band of tramps, abandoned himself to the careless freedom of tinker
life. Contrast this episode with that in which we see an enthusiastic
populace cheering him to the echo, carrying him in triumph to his
home, because he was the dauntless champion of freedom, the
eloquent advocate of the oppressed. His great intellect overcame
great obstacles. He was at the outset without influential friends,
and a poor man — the chief furniture of his rooms was his offspring;
he was endowed with a contemptible personal appearance, a stutter-
ing tongue, an enfeebling nervousness, yet he was the greatest and
most successful and most popular orator at the Irish bar, in the
early days of the century in which the Irish bar was renowned for
its eloquence.
A feeling of sadness at the decline of a great spirit, somewhat
similar to that evoked by a consideration of the final scene of
Sheridan's life, is present also in regard to the final days of Cur-
ran. How brilliant and celebrated he was in the senate and at the
bar, for his wit and eloquence, is well known. Courted and flat-
tered he was, like Sheridan in his heyday, while he could amuse ;
and yet he died in obscurity, broken down by domestic sorrows,
wretched from the depression of settled melancholy ; "he burst
into tears and hung down his head " upon an allusion to Irish poli-
tics a few days before his death ; the eloquence was turned to prosi-
ness, the wit to grossness, the ready repartee and flashing sarcasm
to the drowsy inanities of hopeless imbecility — forgotten — neg-
JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 773
lected ! Yet his talents and pure patriotism were alike creditable
to Ireland, and he is fully deserving of Byron's eulogistic sentence
— " the best intellect of Ireland " of his time.
ON CATHOLIC EMANCIPATION.
Speech delivered in the Irish House of Commons, February, 1792.
I would have yielded to the lateness of the hour, my
own indisposition, and the fatigue of the house, and have
let the motion pass without a word from me on the subject,
if I had not heard some principles advanced which could
not pass without animadversion. I know that a trivial
subject of the day would naturally engage you more deeply
than any more distant object of however greater impor-
tance; but I beg you will recollect that the petty interest
of party must expire with yourselves, and that your heirs
must be, not statesmen, nor placemen, nor pensioners, but
the future people of the country at large. I know of no so
awful call upon the justice and wisdom of an assembly as
the reflection that they are deliberating on the interests of
posterity. On this subject I cannot but lament that the
conduct of the administration is so unhappily calculated
to disturb and divide the public mind, to prevent the
nation from receiving so great a question with the cool-
ness it requires.
At Cork the present viceroy was pleased to reject a
most moderate and modest petition from the Catholics of
that city. The next step was to create a division among
the Catholics themselves; the next was to hold them up as
a body formidable to the English government and to their
Protestant fellow-subjects; for how else could any man
account for the scandalous publication which was hawked
about this city, in which his majesty was made to give
his royal thanks to an individual of this kingdom, for his
protection of the state? But I conjure the house to be
upon their guard against those despicable attempts to
traduce the people, to alarm their fears, or to Inflame their
resentment.
Gentlemen have talked as if the question was, whether
we may with safety to ourselves relax or repeal the laws
which have so long coerced our Catholic fellow-subjecis?
The real question is whether you can with safety to the
774 IRISH LITERATURE.
Irish constitution refuse such a measure. It is not a
question merely of their sufferings or their relief — it is
a question of your own preservation. There are some max-
ims which an honest Irishman will never abandon, and by
which every public measure may be fairly tried. These
are, the preservation of the constitution upon the prin-
ciples established at the Eevolution, in church and state;
and next the independency of Ireland, connected with
Britain as a confederated people, and united indissolubly
under a common and inseparable crown.
If you wish to know how these great objects may be
affected by a repeal of those laws, see how they were
affected by their enactment. Here you have the infallible
test of fact and experience; and wretched indeed must you
be if false shame, false pride, false fear, or false spirit can
prevent you from reading that lesson of wisdom which is
written in the blood and the calamities of your country.
[Here Mr. Curran went into a detail of the Popery laws,
as they affected the Catholics of Ireland.] These laws
were destructive of arts, of industry, of private morals
and public order. They were fitted to extirpate even the
Christian religion from amongst the people, and reduce
them to the condition of savages and rebels, disgraceful
to humanity and formidable to the state.
[He then traced the progress and effects of those laws
from the revolution in 1779.] Let me now ask you, How
have those laws affected the Protestant subject and the
Protestant constitution? In that interval were they free?
Did they possess that liberty which they denied to their
brethren? No, sir; where there are inhabitants, but no
people, there can be no freedom; unless there be a spirit,
and what may be called a pull, in the people, a free govern-
ment cannot be kept steady or fixed in its seat. You had
indeed a government, but it was planted in civil dissension
and watered in civil blood, and whilst the virtuous luxuri-
ance of its branches aspired to heaven, its infernal roots
shot downward to their congenial regions, and were in-
tertwined in hell. Your ancestors thought themselves the
oppressors of their fellow-subjects, but they were only
their jailers, and the justice of Providence would have
been frustrated if their own slavery had not been the pun-
ishment of their vice and their folly.
JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 775
But are these facts for which we must appeal to history?
You all remember the year one thousand seven hundred
and seventy-nine. What were you then? Your constitu-
tion, without resistance, in the hands of the British par-
liament; your trade in many parts extinguished, in every
part coerced. 80 low were you reduced to beggary and
servitude as to declare, that unless the mercy of England
was extended to your trade you could not subsist. Here
you have an infallible test of the ruinous influence of
those laws in the experience of a century : of a constitution
surrendered, and commerce utterly extinct. But can you
learn nothing on this subject from the events that followed?
In 1778 you somewhat relaxed the severity of those
laws, and improved, in some degree, the condition of the
Catholics. What was the consequence even of a partial
union with your countrymen? The united efforts of the
two bodies restored that constitution which had been lost
by their separation.
In 1782 you became free. Yrour Catholic brethren
shared the danger of the conflict, but you had not justice
or gratitude to let them share the fruits of the victory.
You suffered them to relapse into their former insig-
nificance and depression. And, let me ask you, has it
not fared with you according to your deserts? Let me ask
you if the parliament of Ireland can boast of being now
less at the feet of the British minister, than at that period
it was of the British parliament? [Here he observed on
the conduct of the administration for some years past,
in the accumulation of public burdens and parliamentary
influence.] But it is not the mere increase of debt; it is
not the creation of one hundred and ten placemen and
pensioners that forms the real cause of the public malady.
The real cause is the exclusion of your people from all
influence upon the representative. The question, there-
fore, is whether you will seek your own safety in the res-
toration of your fellow-subjects, or whether you will
choose rather to perish than to be just?
I now proceed to examine the objections to a general
incorporation of the Catholics. On general principles no
man can justify the deprivation of civil rights on any
ground but that of forfeiture for some offense. The
Papist of the last century might forfeit his property for
776 IRISH LITERATURE.
ever, for that was his own, but he could not forfeit the
rights and capacities of his unborn posterity. And let me
observe that even those laws against the offender himself
were enacted while injuries were recent, and while men
were, not unnaturally, alarmed by the consideration of a
French monarchy, a pretender, and a pope; things that we
now read of but can see no more. But are they disaf-
fected to liberty? On what ground can such an imputation
be supported? Do you see any instance of any man's re-
ligious theory governing his civil or political conduct?
Is Popery an enemy to freedom? Look to France, and be
answered. Is Protestantism necessarily its friend? You
are Protestants; look to yourselves, and be refuted. But
look further; do you find even the religious sentiments of
sectaries marked by the supposed characteristics of their
sects?
Do you not find that a Protestant Briton can be a bigot,
with only two sacraments, and a Catholic Frenchman a
Deist, admitting seven? But you affect to think your
property in danger by admitting them into the state.
That has been already refuted; but you have yourselves
refuted your own objection. Thirteen years ago you ex-
pressed the same fear, yet you made the experiment; you
opened the door to landed property, and the fact has shown
the fear to be without foundation.
But another curious topic has been stated again: the
Protestant ascendency is in danger. What do you mean
by that word? Do you mean the rights, and property,
and dignities of the Church? If you do, you must feel
they are safe. They are secured by the law, by the cor-
onation oath, by a Protestant parliament, a Protestant
king, a Protestant confederated nation. Do you mean the
free and protected exercise of the Protestant religion?
You know it has the same security to support it. Or do
you mean the just and honorable support of the nu-
merous and meritorious clergy of your own country, who
really discharge the labors and duties of the ministry?
As to that, let me say that if we felt on that subject as we
ought we should not have so many men of talent and
virtue struggling under the difficulties of their scanty
pittance, and feeling the melancholy conviction that no
virtues or talents can give them any hope of advancement.
JOHN PHILPOT CURRAX. Ill
If you really mean the preservation of every right and
every honor that can dignify a Christian priest and give
authority to his function, I will protect them as zeal-
ously as you. 1 will ever respect and revere the man who
employs himself in diffusing light, hope, and consolation.
But if you mean by ascendency the power of persecution,
I detest and abhor it. If you mean the ascendency of an
English school over an Irish university, I cannot look upon
it without aversion. An ascendency of that form raises
to my mind a little greasy emblem of stall-fed theology
imported from some foreign land, with the graces of a
lady's-maid, the dignity of a side-table, the temperance of
a larder, its sobriety the dregs of a patron's bottle, and its
wisdom the dregs of a patron's understanding, brought
hither to devour, to degrade, and to defame. Is it to
such a thing you would have it thought that you affixed
the idea of the Protestant ascendency? But it is said,
Admit them by degrees, and do not run the risk of too pre-
cipitate an incorporation. I conceive both the argument
and the fact unfounded. In a mixed government like
ours an increase of the democratic power can scarcely
ever be dangerous. None of the three powers of our con-
stitution acts singly in the line of its natural direction;
each is necessarily tempered and diverted by the action of
the other two; and hence it is, that though the power of
the crown has, perhaps, far transcended the degree to
which theory might confine it, the liberty of the British
constitution may not be in much danger.
An increase of power to any of the three acts finally
upon the state with a very diminished influence, and
therefore great indeed must be that increase in any one of
them which can endanger the practical balance of the con-
stitution. Still, however, I contend not against t lie cau-
tion of a general admission. Let me ask you, Can you
admit them any otherwise than gradually? The strik-
ing and melancholy symptom of the public disease is, that
if it recovers at all it can be only through a feeble and
lingering convalescence. Yet even this gradual admission
your Catholic brethren do not ask, save under every
pledge and every restriction which your justice and wis-
dom can recommend to your adoption.
I call on the house to consider the necessity of acting
778 IRISH LITERATURE.
with a social and conciliatory mind. Contrary conduct
may perhaps protract the unhappy depression of our
country, but a partial liberty cannot long subsist. A
disunited people cannot long subsist. With infinite re-
gret must any man look forward to the alienation of three
millions of our people, and to a degree of subserviency and
corruption in a fourth. I am sorry to think it is so
very easy to conceive, that in case of such an event
the inevitable consequence would be an union with Great
Britain.
And if any one desires to know what that would be, I
will tell him. It would be the emigration of every man of
consequence from Ireland; it would be the participation
of British taxes without British trade; it would be the
extinction of the Irish name as a people. We should be-
come a wretched colony, perhaps leased out to a company
of Jews, as was formerly in contemplation, and governed
by a few tax-gatherers and excisemen, unless possibly you
may add fifteen or twenty couple of Irish members, who
may be found every session sleeping in their collars under
the manger of the British minister.
THE LIBERTY OF THE PRESS.
From the Speech in Defense of A. H. Rowan in the Court of
King's Bench, January, 1794.
What then remains? The liberty of the press only —
that sacred palladium, which no influence, no power, no
minister, no government, which nothing, but the deprav-
ity, or folly, or corruption of a jury, can ever destroy.
And what calamities are the people saved from by having
public communication left open to them? I will tell you,
gentlemen, what they are saved from, and what the gov-
ernment is saved from ; I will tell you also to what both
are exposed by shutting up that communication. In one
case sedition speaks aloud and walks abroad; the dema-
gogue goes forth — the public eye is upon him — he frets
his busy hour upon the stage; but soon either weariness,
or bribe, or punishment, or disappointment bears him
JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 779
down or drives him off and he appears no more. In the
other case, how does the work of sedition go forward?
Night after night the muffled rebel steals forth in the dark,
and casts another and another brand upon the pile, to
which, when the hour of fatal maturity shall arrive, he will
apply the torch. If you doubt of the horrid consequence
of suppressing the effusion even of individual discontent,
look to those enslaved countries where the protection of
despotism is supposed to be secured by such restraints.
Even the person of the despot there is never in safety.
Neither the fears of the despot, nor the machinations of
the slave have any slumber — the one anticipating the
moment of peril, the other watching the opportunity of
aggression. The fatal crisis is equally a surprise upon
both ; the decisive instant is precipitated without warning
— by folly on the one side, or by frenzy on the other; and
there is no notice of the treason till the traitor acts. In
those unfortunate countries — one cannot read it without
horror — there are officers whose province it is to have the
water which is to be drunk by their rulers sealed up in
bottles, lest some wretched miscreant should throw poison
into the draught.
But, gentlemen, if you wish for a nearer and more in-
teresting example, you have it in the history of your own
revolution. You have it at that memorable period when
the monarch found a servile acquiescence in the ministers
of his folly — when the liberty of the press was trodden
under foot — when venal sheriffs returned packed juries,
to carry into effect those fatal conspiracies of the few
against the many — when the devoted benches of public
justice were filled by some of those foundlings of fortune,
who, overwhelmed in the torrent of corruption at an early
period, lay at the bottom, like drowned bodies, while sound-
ness or sanity remained in them; but at length, becoming
buoyant by putrefaction, they rose as they rotted and
floated to the surface of the polluted stream, where they
were drifted along, the objects of terror, contagion, and
abomination.
In that awful moment of a nation's travail, of the last
gasp of tyranny and the first breath of freedom, h<>w
pregnant is the example! The press extinguished, the
people enslaved, and the prince undone. As the advocate
780 IRISH LITERATURE.
of society, therefore — of peace — of domestic liberty — and
the lasting union of the two countries — I conjure you to
guard the liberty of the press, that great sentinel of the
state, that grand detector of public imposture; guard it,
because, when it sinks, there sinks with it, in one common
grave, the liberty of the subject and the security of the
crown.
THE DISARMING OF ULSTER.
Speech delivered in the Irish House of Commons, March, 1797.
[The Lord Lieutenant desired Parliament to assent to his order for
the attainder of Ulster, and to put the province under military ex-
ecution forthwith. Mr. Grattan moved an amendment, which Mr.
Curran supported.!
The weakness of my health has kept me silent in the
early stage of the debate. As it advanced I felt less inclina-
tion to rise, because I saw clearly, whatever a majority
might think, how it was resolved to vote. The speech, how-
ever, of the last speaker made it impossible for me to sit
silent, or to withhold my reprobation of the doctrines which
the right honorable gentleman (Mr. Pelham) has ad-
vanced. That gentleman has stated that the prerogative
was wisely left undefined and unlimited and warranted the
disarming the North if such an act was expedient. Before
the honorable member becomes a teacher in constitution
he would do well to begin by becoming a learner, and he
will easily learn that his idea is an utter mistake. A pre-
rogative without limit is a dispensing power; he will learn
that for having assumed such a power James II. lost his
crown. It is the great merit of the British constitution
that no such power exists. It is, on the contrary, the
limitation of the prerogative by law that distinguishes a
lawful magistrate from a tyrant, and a subject from a
slave. Every prerogative is defined in its nature and ex-
tent, though the exercise of it, so defined and limited, is
very properly left to the discretion of the crown. The
king, for example, has the prerogative of making peace
or war — or calling or dissolving a parliament. This pre-
rogative rests merely on the authority of law, but the
JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 781
time or manner of doing any of these tilings is wisely left
to the discretion of the crown ; nor is that discretion wild
and arbitrary, for the minister is responsible with his
head.
The honorable gentleman has made two assertions:
first, that the crown has the power of disarming the people
by its prerogative; and, next, that in the present instance
the act was just and necessary. In fact, the second posi-
tion of the honorable member is a complete abandon-
ment of his first; for if the people are disarmed by virtue
of the prerogative, why come to this house? The truth is,
the gentleman's conduct shows he does not know the con-
stitution on this subject. The right honorable attorney-
general has done right in declaring that the viceroy has
broken the law in the order to disarm the people. The
order, as to any man acting under it, was a perfect nullity,
and any man was answerable for what he might commit
under such an order, as a mere common offender. But
examine the second position itself, that at this time it is
just and necessary. Why? Because the North is in a
state of rebellion, and rebellion may be resisted by an
armed force. Are they in open arrayed rebellion? Not
so; but they are in secret and organized rebellion, and the
prevention is necessary. See the horrors that result
when governments are suffered to desert the known laws,
and to wander into their own stupid and fantastic an-
alogies. We find the same exactness of knowledge which
the minister has shown in the doctrine of prerogative
displayed in his curious distinction in the law of treason;
he thinks a secret system of treason, unattended by any
act, the same with treason arrayed in arms.
Having assumed so monstrous a position in defiance of
the known law, that calls nothing treason that is not
provable by overt act, sec whither his own reasoning must
lead him. If open rebellion and this mere treason in in-
tention be the same, then the same remedies must be law-
ful in both cases. You may assist and resist open rebellion
by armed force; you may mow it down in the field — you
may burn it in its camp. By the gentleman's own doc-
trine— having first assumed this intentional treason — he
would be justified in covering the North with massacre and
conflagration. [On this part of the subject Mr. Curran
7S2 IRISH LITERATURE.
went into a variety of observations. He next examined
the evidence on which we were to publish to the world, to
the enemy, that the most valuable and enlightened part
of the nation was in rebellion, without inquiry, without
even the assertion of any specific fact.] How can we
look the public in the face if we surrender ourselves so
meanly to a British agent, or surrender our country to
military law, without evidence or inquiry? I wrill put a
serious question : — If the government think fit to super-
sede all law, and to substitute the bayonet, what must be
the consequence? It freezes my blood to think of it;
I cannot bring myself to state it in a public assembly.
But the government are loud in their invectives on the
North.
Is it possible that the detection of their folly can drive
ministers, not into self-conviction or amendment, but into
fury? The North I am sure, is deeply discontented; but
owing to what cause? To your own laws; to your con-
vention act, to your gunpowder act, to your insurrection
act. The first denies the natural right of sufferers— the
right of petition or complaint; the second, the power of
self-defense by arms against brutal force; and the third,
the defense of a jury against the attempts of power. What
else could you expect? You were in vain warned that you
would at last bring the nation to the state in which it is
said to be. Such laws can only deprave and infect the
people. Put a spaniel in the chain and you corrupt the
gentleness of his nature, and make him fierce and fero-
cious; put a people in the chain and you do the same.
And what is the remedy? Only one. Set them both at
large, and liberty will infallibly effect a cure. Repeal
your cruel and foolish laws, restore the constitution to
its natural mildness, and you will soon find the natural
effects.
Gentlemen have condemned the idea of an appeal to the
sister nation for assistance, and condemned the inter-
ference of Lord Moira and Mr. Fox, as trenching on our
independence. I commend their conduct as that of the
most generous sympathy to our sinking situation, and the
most patriotic to their own country. It was not an in-
terference with the freedom of our legislation, but with
the ruinous corruption of our own government, in which,
JOHN PHILPOT ('URBAN. 783
as subjects of the empire, they have an interest, and
therefore a right of saying to their sovereign — " Sir, your
ministers are degrading the common constitution of Ire-
land— they are enslaving the people, debauching its par-
liament, and driving the country to madness."
To censure such a conduct strikes nry mind as the last
and lowest extreme of degeneracy and shame. To bark
at those who had virtue to make a struggle for our safety,
which we had not virtue to make for ourselves. — Rare
pride! Oh, rare and proud spirit of independence! Oh,
pure and jealous representatives of your country! Oh,
dignified assertion of a right of suicide! Oh, glorious
assertion of your sacred right of abandoning your country,
and selling its representation ! Oh, high-souled declara-
tion, worth}7 to be recorded, and worthy of those that
make it! We will be drowned, and nobody shall save us.
FAREWELL TO THE IRISH PARLIAMENT.
Delivered in the Irish House of Commons, 1797.
I consider this as a measure of justice with respect to
the Catholics and the people at large. The Catholics in
former times groaned under the malignant folly of
penal laws — wandered like herds upon the earth, or gath-
ered under some threadbare grandee who came to Dublin,
danced attendance at the Castle, was smiled on by the sec-
retary, and carried back to his miserable countrymen the
gracious promise of favor and protection. They are no
longer mean dependents, but owners of their country, and
claiming simply and boldly, as Irishmen, the natural privi-
leges of men and natives of their country. . . .
I now proceed to answer the objections to the measure.
I was extremely shocked to see the agenl of a foreign cab-
inet rise up in the assembly that ought to represent the
Irish nntion and oppose a motion that was made on the
acknowledged and deplored corruption which luis been im-
ported from his country. Such an opposition is a proof of
the charge, which I am astonished he could venture upon
at so awful a crisis. I doubt whether the charge, or this
784 IRISH LITERATURE.
proof of it, would appear most odious. However, I will
examine the objections. It is said — " It is not the time."
This argument has become a jest in Ireland, for it has been
used in all times : in war, in peace, in quiet, and in disturb-
ance. It is the miserable, dilatory plea of persevering and
stupid corruption, that wishes to postpone its fate by a
promise of amendment, which it is resolved never to per-
form. Reform has become an exception to the proverb
that says there is a time for all things; but for reform there
is no time, because at all times corruption is more profit-
able to its authors than public virtue and propriety, which
they know must be fatal to their views. As to the present
time, the objections to it are a compound of the most un-
blushing impudence and folly. Forsooth, it would seem as
if the house had yielded through fear. Personal bravery
or fear are inapplicable to a public assembly. I know no
cowardice so despicable as the fear of seeming to be afraid.
To be afraid of danger is not an unnatural sensation ; but
to be brave in absurdity and injustice, merely from fear of
having your sense of honesty imputed to your own appre-
hension, is a stretch of folly which I have never heard of
before. But the time is pregnant with arguments very
different indeed from those I have heard; I mean the
report of the Secret Committee and the dreadful state of
the country. The allegation is that the people are not to
have justice, because a rebellion exists within, and because
we have an enemy at our gate; because, forsooth, reform
is only a pretext, and separation is the object of the leaders.
If a rebellion exist, every good subject ought to be de-
tached from it. But if an enemy threaten to invade us, it
is only common sense to detach every subject from the
hostile standard and bring him back to his duty and his
country.
The present miserable state of Ireland — its distractions,
its distresses, its bankruptcy — are the effects of the war,
and it is the duty of the authors of that war to reconcile
the people by the most timely and liberal justice; the
utmost physical strength should be called forth, and that
can be done only by union. This is a subject so tremen-
dous I do not wish to dwell on it ; I will therefore leave it.
I will support a reform on its own merits, and as a measure
of internal peace, at this momentous juncture. Its merits
JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 785
are admitted by the objection to the time, because the ob-
jection admits that at any other time it would be proper.
For twenty years past there was no man of any note in
England or Ireland who did not consider the necessity of
it as a maxim ; they all saw and confessed that the people
are not represented, and that they have not the benefit of
a mixed monarchy. They have a monarchy which absorbs
the two other estates, and, therefore, they have the insup-
portable expense of a monarchy, an aristocracy, and a de-
mocracy, without the simplicity or energy of any one of
those forms of government. In Ireland this is peculiarly
fatal, because the honest representation of the people is
swallowed in the corruption and intrigue of a cabinet of
another country. From this may be deduced the low estate
of the Irish people; their honest labor is wasted in pamper-
ing their betrayers, instead of being employed, as it ought
to be, in accommodating themselves and their children.
On these miserable consequences of corruption, which are
all the fatal effects of inadequate representation, I do
not wish to dwell. To expatiate too much on them might
be unfair, but to suppress them might be treason to the
public. It is said that reform is only a pretense, and that
separation is the real object of leaders; if this be so, con-
found the leaders by destroying the pretext, and take the
followers to yourselves. You say there are one hundred
thousand; I firmly believe there are three times the num-
ber. So much the better for you; if these seducers can
attach so many followers to rebellion by the hope of reform
through blood, how much more readily will you engage
them, not by the promise, but the possession, and without
blood? You allude to the British fleet; learn from it to
avoid the fatal consequence that may follow even a few-
days' delay of justice.
It is said to be only a pretext ; I am convinced of the con-
trary. I am convinced the people are sincere, and would
be satisfied by it. I think so from the perseverance in
petitioning for it for a number of years; I think so, because
I think a monarchy, properly balanced by a fair repre-
sentation of the people, gives as perfect liberty as the most
celebrated republics of old. But of the real attraction of
this object of reform you have a proof almost miraculous;
the desire of reform has annihilated religious antipathy
786 IRISH LITERATURE.
and united the country. In the history of mankind it is
the only instance of so fatal a religious fanaticism being
discarded by the good sense of mankind, instead of dying
slowly by the development of its folly. And I am per-
suaded the hints thrown out this night to make the dif-
ferent sects jealous of each other will be a detected trick
and will only unite them still more closely. The Catholics
have given a pledge to their countrymen of their sincerity
and their zeal, which cannot fail of producing the most
firm reliance; they have solemnly disclaimed all idea of
what is called emancipation, except as a part of that re-
form without which their Presbyterian brethren could not
be free. Reform is a necessary change of mildness for
coercion. The latter has been tried; what is its success?
The convention bill was passed to punish the meetings at
Dungannon and those of the Catholics; the government
considered the Catholic concessions as defeats that called
for vengeance, and cruelly have they avenged them. But
did that act, or those which followed it, put down those
meetings? The contrary was the fact. It concealed them
most foolishly. When popular discontents are abroad, a
wise government should put them into a hive of glass.
You hid them. The association at first was small; the
earth seemed to drink it as a rivulet, but it only disap-
peared for a season. A thousand streams, through the
secret windings of the earth, found their way to one course,
and swelled its waters, until at last, too mighty to be con-
tained, it burst out a great river, fertilizing by its exuda-
tions or terrifying by its cataracts. This is the effect of
our penal code; it swells sedition into rebellion. What
else could be hoped from a system of terrorism? Fear is
the most transient of all the passions; it is the warning
that nature gives for self-preservation. But when safety is
unattainable the warning must be useless, and nature
does not, therefore, give it. Administration, therefore,
mistook the quality of penal laws; they were sent out to
abolish conventions, but they did not pass the threshold;
they stood sentinels at the gates. You think that penal
laws, like great dogs, will wag their tails to their masters
and bark only at their enemies. You are mistaken; they
turn and devour those they are meant to protect and are
harmless where they are intended to destroy.
JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 787
I see gentlemen laugh ; I see they are still very ignorant
of the nature of fear; it cannot last; neither while it does
can it be concealed. The feeble glimmering of a forced
smile is a light that makes the cheek look paler. Trust me,
the times are too humanized for such systems of govern-
ment. Humanity will not execute them, but humanity
will abhor them and those who wish to rule by such means.
This is not theory; the experiment has been tried and
proved. You hoped much, aud, I doubt not, meant well
by those laws; but they have miserably failed you; it is
time to try milder methods. You have tried to force the
people; the rage of your penal laws was a storm that only
drove them in groups to shelter. Your convention law
gave them that organization which is justly an object of
such alarm ; and the very proclamation seems to have given
them arms. Before it is too late, therefore, try the better
force of reason, and conciliate them by justice and human-
ity. The period of coercion in Ireland is gone, nor can it
ever return until the people shall return to the folly and to
the natural weakness of disunion. Neither let us talk of
innovation; the progress of nature is no innovation. The
increase of people, with the growth of the mind, is no
innovation; it is no way alarming unless the growth of
our minds lag behind. If we think otherwise, and think it
an innovation to depart from the folly of our infancy, we
should come here in our swaddling-clothes; we should not
innovate upon the dress, more than the understanding of
the cradle.
As to the system of peace now proposed, we must take
it on principles; they are simply two — the abolition of
religions disabilities and the representation of the people.
I am confident the effects would be everything to be wished.
The present alarming discontent will vanish, the good will
be separated from the evil-intentioned ; the friends of
mixed government in Ireland are many; every sensible
man must see that it gives all the enjoyment of rational
liberty if the people have their due place in the state.
This system would make us invincible against a foreign or
domestic enemy; it would make the empire strong at this
important crisis; it would restore us to liberty, industry,
and peace, which I am satisfied can never, by any other
means, be restored. Instead, therefore, of abusing the
788 IRISH LITERATURE.
people, let us remember that there is no physical strength
but theirs, and conciliate them by justice and reason.
I am censured heavily for having acted for them in the
late prosecutions. I feel no shame at such a charge, except
that, at such a time as this, to defend the people should
be held out as an imputation upon a king's counsel, when
the people are prosecuted by the state. I think every
counsel is the property of his fellow subjects. If, indeed,
because I wore his majesty's gown, I had declined my
duty or done it weakly or treacherously; if I had made that
gown a mantle of hypocrisy, and betrayed my client or
sacrificed him to any personal view, I might, perhaps,
have been thought wiser by those who have blamed me;
but I should have thought myself the basest villain upon
earth. The plan of peace, proposed by a reform, is the
only means that I and my friends can see left to save us.
It is certainly a time for decision, and not for half meas-
ures. I agree that unanimity is indispensable. The house
seems pretty nearly unanimous for force; I am sorry for it,
for I bode the worst from it. I will retire from a scene
where I can do no good — where I certainly would inter-
rupt that unanimity. I cannot, however, go without a
parting entreaty that gentlemen will reflect on the awful
responsibility in which they stand to their country and to
their conscience, before they set the example to the people
of abandoning the constitution and the law, and resort-
ing to the terrible expedient of force.
SPEECH AT NEWEY ELECTION.
[At the general election in 1812 Curran contested the borough of
Newiy against General Needham, but on the sixth day of the elec-
tion he saw that the borough was lost and withdrew from the con-
test. We give the principal part of the speech he then addressed to
the electors, which Mr. Phillips says is the only one extant which he
ever addressed to a purely popular assembly.]
. . . Let me rapidly sketch the first dawn of dissension
in Ireland, and the relations of the conqueror and the con-
quered. That conquest was obtained, like all the victories
over Ireland, by the triumph of guilt over innocence.
iMAUflAH 'OH OJ
\ i£^i . . idoJ
noqu bm;:te ag
• orfl 8>; fas-
;/J srl*
3TOl
jhu
THE OLD HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT
(Now The Bank of Ireland)
From a photograph
The first meeting of the Irish House of Parliament
on College Green was in October, 1731 ; the last was in
1800, the members being induced by bribery and corrup-
tion to vote their rights away. The buildings stand upon
five acres of ground and are now used as the office of the
Bank of Ireland. In the foreground is seen the typical
Irish jaunting car, and in the middle distance J.H. Foley's
statue of Burke, of which we also present a nearer view.
JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 789
This dissension was followed up by the natural hatred of
the spoiler and the despoiled; followed up further by the
absurd antipathies of religious sects; and still further
followed by the rivalries of trade, the cruel tyrants of
Ireland dreading that if Irish industry had not her hands
tied behind her back she might become impatient of ser-
vitude, and those hands might work her deliverance.
To this growing accumulation of Irish dissension the
miserable James II., his heart rotted by the depravity of
that France which had given him an interested shelter
from the just indignation of his betrayed subjects, put the
last hand; and an additional dissension, calling itself
political as wrell as religious, was superadded.
Under this sad coalition of confederating dissensions,
nursed and fomented by the policy of England, this de-
voted country has continued to languish with small fluc-
tuations of national destiny, from the invasion of the
Second Henry to the present time.
And here let me be just while I am indignant. Let me
candidly own that to the noble examples of British virtue
— to the splendid exertions of British courage — to their
splendid sacrifices am I probably indebted for my feelings
as an Irishman and my devotion to my country. They
thought it madness to trust themselves to the influence
of any foreign country; they thought the circulation of
the political blood could be carried on only by the
action of the heart within the body, and could not be
maintained from without. Events have shown you that
what they thought was just, and that what they did was
indispensable. They thought they ought to govern them-
selves— they thought that at every hazard they ought to
make the effort — they thought it more eligible to perish
than to fail — and to the God of heaven I pray that the
authority of so splendid an example may not be lost upon
Ireland.
At length, in 1782, a noble effort was made — and death-
less ought to be the name of him ' that made it, and death-
less ought to be the gratitude of the country for which it
was made — the independence of Ireland was acknowl-
edged.
Under this system of asserted independence our pro-
1 Henry (J rattan.
790 IRISH LITERATURE.
gress in prosperity was much more rapid than could have
beeu expected, when we remember the conduct of a very
leading noble person * upon that occasion. Never was a
more generous mind or a purer heart; but his mind had
more purity than strength. He had all that belonged to
taste, and courtesy, and refinement ; but the grand and the
sublime of national reform were composed of colors too
strong for his eye, and comprised a horizon too out-
stretched for his vision. The Catholics of Ireland were, in
fact, excluded from the asserted independence of their
country. Thus far the result comes to this — that wher-
ever perfect union is not found, complete redress must
be sought in vain.
The union was the last and mortal blow to the exist-
ence of Ireland as a nation — a consummation of our de-
struction achieved by that perpetual instrument of our
ruin, our own dissensions.
The whole history of mankind records no instance of
any hostile cabinet, perhaps of any even internal cabinet,
so destitute of all principles of honor or of shame. The
Irish Catholic was taught to believe that if he surrendered
his country he would cease to be a slave. The Irish Prot-
estant was cajoled into the belief that if he concurred in
the surrender he would be placed upon the neck of a
hostile faction. Wretched dupe*! You might as well
persuade the jailer that he is less a prisoner than the cap-
tives he locks up, merely because he carries the key of the
prison in his pocket.
By that reciprocal animosity, however, Ireland was sur-
rendered; the guilt of the surrender was most atrocious — ■
the consequences of the crime most tremendous and exem-
plary. We put ourselves into a condition of the most
unqualified servitude; we sold our country, and we levied
upon ourselves the price of the purchase; we gave up the
right of disposing of our properties; we yielded to a for-
eign legislature to decide whether the funds necessary to
their projects or their profligacy should be extracted from
us or be furnished by themselves. The consequence has
been, our scanty means have been squandered in her in-
ternal corruption as profusely as our best blood has been
wasted in the madness of her aggressions, or the feeble
1 Lord Charlemont.
JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 791
folly of her resistance — our debt has accordingly been in-
creased more than tenfold — the common comforts of life
have been vanishing — we are sinking into beggary — our
poor people have been worried by cruel and unprincipled
prosecutions — and the instruments of our government have
been almost simplified into the tax-gatherer and the hang-
man.
At length, after this long night of suffering, the morn-
ing-star of our redemption cast its light upon us — the mist
was dissolved — and all men perceived that those whom
they had been blindly attacking in the dark were in reality
their fellow-sufferers and their friends. We have made a
discovery of the grand principle in politics, that the ty-
rant is in every instance the creature of the slave — that
he is a cowardly and a computing animal — and that, in
every instance, he calculates between the expenditure to
be made and the advantage to be acquired.
I, therefore, do not hesitate to say that if the wretched
Island of Man, that refugium peccatorum (refuge of sin-
ners) had sense and spirit to see the force of this truth she
could not be enslaved by the whole power of England.
The oppressor would see that the necessary expend i tine in
whips, and chains, and gibbets would infinitely counter-
vail the ultimate value of the acquisition; and it is owing
to the ignorance of this unquestionable truth that so
much of this agitated globe has, in all ages, been crawled
over by a Manx population. This discovery, at last,
Ireland has made; the Catholic claimed his rights; the
Protestant generously and nobly felt as he ought, and
seconded the claim. A silly government was driven to
the despicable courage of cowardice, and resorted to the
odious artillery of prosecutions; the expedient failed; the
question made its way to the discussion of the senate. I
will not tire you with a detail. A House of Commons,
who, at least, represented themselves — perhaps afraid,
perhaps ashamed, of their employers — became unman-
ageable tools in the hands of such awkward artists, and
were dissolved; just as a beaten gamester throws the cards
into the fire, in hopes in a new pack to find better fortune.
Gentlemen, I was well aware at my rising that you ex-
pected nothing like amusement from what I had to say;
that my duty was to tell you plain and important truths;
792 IRISH LITERATURE.
to lay before you, without exaggeration or reserve, a fair
statement of the causes that have acted upon the national
fortune — of the causes that have put you down, and that
may raise you up ; to possess you with a fair idea of your
present position — of what you have to fear, of what you
have to hope, and how you ought to act. When I speak
of your present position I would not have you suppose
that I mean the actual situation of the borough of
Newry, or that I think it much worth while to dwell upon
the foolish insolence with which a besotted cabinet has
thought fit to insult you by sending a stranger to your
country and your interests, to obtain a momentary vic-
tory over your integrity by means of which none of you
are ignorant. [Here Mr. Curran was interrupted, and
then resumed.]
I do not wonder at having provoked interruption when
I spoke of your borough. I told you that from this
moment it is free. Never in my life have I so felt the
spirit of the people as among you ; never have I so felt the
throbs of returning life. I almost forgot my own ha-
bitual estimate of my own small importance; I almost
thought it was owing to some energy within myself when
I was lifted and borne on upon the buoyant surge of popu-
lar sympathy and enthusiasm. I, therefore, again repeat
it, it is the moment of your new birth unto righteous-
ness. Your proved friends are high among you — your
developed enemies are expunged for ever — your liberty
has been taken from the grave, and if she is put back into
the tomb, it can be only by your own parricide, and she
must be buried alive.
I have to add, for your satisfaction, a statement has
been laid before me of the grossest bribery, which will be
proved beyond all doubt, and make the return a nullity.
I have also received a statement of evidence to show that
more than one-third of those who voted against us had
been trained by bribe and terror into perjury when they
swore to the value of their qualifications. Some of those
houses had actually no existence whatsoever. They might
as well have voted from their pasture to give their suf-
frage; and Nebuchadnezzar, in the last year of his feed-
ing on grass, would have been as competent as they were
to vote in Ireland. But I enlarge not upon this topic.
JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 793
To touch upon it is enough for the present; the detail
must be reserved for a future occasion and another place.
It belongs only to the hopeless to be angry. Do not you,
therefore, be angry where you cannot be surprised. You
have been insulted, and oppressed, and betrayed ; but what
better could you hope from such a ministry as their own
nation is cursed withal? They hear the voice of suffer-
ing England now thundering in their ears; they feel they
cannot retain — they are anxious to destroy — they are act-
ing upon the principle of liussian retreat. . . .
Shall I, my friends, say one serious word to you upon
this serious subject? Patriotism is of no one religion;
Christianity belongs exclusively to no sect; and moral
virtue and social duty are taught with equal exactness by
every sect, and practiced with equal imperfection by all;
and therefore, wherever you find a little interested bus-
tling bigot, do not hate him, do not imitate him, pity him if
you can. I scarcely wish you not to laugh when you look
at one of these pearl-divers in theology, his head barely
under water, his eyes shut, and an index floating behind
him, displaying the precise degree of his purity and his
depth.
A word or two upon your actual position; and what
upon that subject but a word of sadness, the monumental
inscription upon the headstone of our grave? all semblance
of national independence buried in that grave in which
our legislature is interred, our property and our persons
are disposed of by laws made in another clime, and made
like boots and shoes for exportation, to fit the wearers as
they may. If you were now to consult my learned friend
here, and ask him how much of your property belongs to
yourself, or for what crime you may be whipped, or
hanged, or transported, his answer would be, " It is im-
possible, sir, to tell you now, but I am told that the packet
is in the bay." It was, in fact, the real design of a rash,
and arbitrary, and short-sighted projector at once to de-
prive you of all power as to your own taxation, and of
another power of not very inferior importance, and which,
indeed, is inseparably connected with taxation, to rob you
of all influence upon the vital question of peace or war;
and to bring all within the control of an English minister.
This very power, thus acquired by that detested uuion,
794 IRISH LITERATURE.
has been a millstone about the neck of England. From
that hour to this she has been flaring away in her ruinous
and wasteful war : her allies no more — her enemies multi-
plied— her finances reduced to rags — her people depressed
and discontented — her artisans reduced to the last ebb,
and her discontents methodized into the most terrific com-
binations; her laborers without employment — her manu-
factures without a market, the last entrance in the North
to which they could have looked being now shut against
them, and fastened by a bar that has been reddened in the
flames of Moscow. But this, gentlemen, is a picture too
heart-rending to dilate upon; you cannot but know it
already; and I do not wish to anticipate the direful con-
sequences by which you are too probably destined to feel
it further to the quick. I find it a sort of refuge to pass
to the next topic which I mentioned as calling for your
attention, namely, what foundation, what ground we had
for hope.
Nothing but the noblest and most disinterested patriot-
ism led the Protestants of Ireland to ally themselves, of-
fensively and defensively, with their afflicted, oppressed
Catholic countrymen.
Without the aid of its rank, its intellect, and its prop-
erty, Ireland could do no more for herself now than she
has done for centuries heretofore, when she lay a help-
less hulk upon the water; but now, for the first time, we
are indebted to a Protestant spirit for the delicious spec-
tacle of seeing her at length equipped with masts, and sails,
and compass, and helm — at length she is seaworthy.
Whether she is to escape the tempest or gain the port
is an event to be disposed of by the Great Ruler of the
waters and the winds. If our voyage be j>rosperous our
success will be doubled by our unanimity; but even if we
are doomed to sink, we shall sink with honor. But am
I over-sanguine in counting our Protestant allies? Your
own country gives you a cheering instance in a noble
marquis x retiring from the dissipation of an English court,
making his country his residence, and giving his first en-
trance into manhood to the cause of Ireland. It is not
from any association of place that my mind is turned to
the name of Moira; to name him is to recognize what your
idolatry has given to him for so many years. . . .
1 The Marquis of Downsliire.
JOHN PHILPOT CUR RAN. 795
Let me pass to another splendid accession to our force
in the noble conduct of our rising youth in the election of
our university. With what tenderness and admiration
must the eye dwell upon the exalted band of young men,
the rosy blush of opening life glowing upon their cheeks,
advancing in patriotic procession, bringing the first-fruits
of unfolding virtue a sacred offering on the altar of their
country, and conducted by a priest in every point worthy
of the votaries and of the offering. The choice which they
have made of a man of such tried public virtue and such
transcendent talents as Mr. Plunket is a proof of their
early proficiency in sense and virtue.
If Mr. Plunket had been sent alone as the representa-
tive of his country, and was not accompanied by the illus-
trious Henry Grattan, I should hesitate to say of him
what the historian said of Gylippus when he was sent
alone as a military reinforcement to a distressed ally who
had applied for aid to Sparta: Gylippus /.lone (says the
writer) was sent, in whom was concentrated all the ener-
gies and all the talents of his country. ... It is only
due to justice that upon this subject I add, with whatso-
ever regret, another word; it would not be candid if I left
it possibly for you to suspect that my attestation could
have been dictated by mere private attachment, instead of
being measured by the most impartial judgment. Little re-
mains for me to add to what I have already said. I said
you should consider how you ought to act, I will give you
my humble idea upon that point : do not exhaust the re-
sources of your spirit by idle anger or idle disgust ; forgive
those that have voted against you here, they will not for-
give themselves. I understand they are to be packed up in
tumbrils, with layers of salt between thein, and carted to
the election for the county, to appear again in patriotic
support of the noble projector of the glories of Walcheren.
Do not envy him the precious cargo of the raw ma serials
of virtuous legislation; be assured all this is of use. Let
me remind you before I go of that pre< ept, equally pro-
found and beneficent, which the meek and modesl Author
of our blessed religion left to the world: "And one com-
mandment I give you, that you love one another." Be
assured that of this love the true spirit can be no other than
probity and honor. The great analogies of the moral
706 IRISH LITERATURE.
and the physical world are surprisingly coincident : you
cannot glue two pieces of board together unless the joint
be clean — you cannot unite two men together unless the
cement be virtue, for vice can give no sanction to compact,
she can form no bond of affection.
And now, my friends, I bid you adieu, with a feeling at
my heart that can never leave it, and which my tongue
cannot attempt the abortive effort of expressing. If my
death do not prevent it we shall meet again in this place.
If you feel as kindly to me as I do to you, relinquish the
attestations which I know you had reserved for my de-
parture. Our enemy has, I think, received the mortal
blow, but though he reels he has not fallen, and we have
seen too much, on a greater scale, of the wretchedness
of anticipated triumph. Let me, therefore, retire from
among you in the way that becomes me and becomes you,
uncheered by a single voice, and unaccompanied by a
single man. May the blessing of God preserve you in the
affection of one another !
THE DESERTER'S MEDITATION.
If sadly thinking, with spirits sinking,
Could more than drinking my cares compose,
A cure for sorrow from sighs I 'd borrow,
And hope to-morrow would end my woes.
But as in wailing there 's nought availing,
And Death unfailing will strike the blow,
Then for that reason, and for a season,
Let us be merry before we go !
To joy a stranger, a way-worn ranger,
In ev'ry danger my course I Ve run ;
Now hope all ending, and death befriending,
His last aid lending, my cares are done;
No more a rover, or hapless lover,
My griefs are over — my glass runs low ;
Then for that reason, and for a season,
Let ns be merry before wre go !
JOHN PHILPOT CUBRAN. 797
THE MONKS OF THE SCREW.1
When Saint Patrick this order established,
He called us the " Monks of the Screw ; "
Good rules he revealed to our Abbot
To guide us in what we should do;
But first he replenished our fountain
With liquor the best in the sky ;
And he said, on the word of a saint,
That the fountain should never run dry.
Each year, when your octaves approach,
In full chapter convened let me find you ;
And when to the Convent you come,
Leave your favorite temptation behind you.
And be not a glass in your Convent,
Unless on a festival found ;
And, this rule to enforce, I ordain it
One festival all the year round.
My brethren, be chaste, till you 're tempted;
While sober, be grave and discreet;
And humble your bodies with fasting,
As oft as you 've nothing to eat.
Yet, in honor of fasting, one lean face
Among you I 'd always require;
If the Abbot should please, he may wear it,
If not, let it come to the Prior.
Come, let each take his chalice, my brethren,
And with due devotion prepare,
With hands and with voices uplifted.
Our hymn to conclude with a prayer.
1 The " Order of St. Patrick," or " Monks of the Screw," was a society
partly convivial, but intended also to discover and encourage the wit, hu-
mor, and intellectual power of its members. The Convent, as it \v;<s
called, or place of meeting, was in St. Kevin Street. Dublin, and it was
the custom for the members to assemble every Saturday evening during
the law term. They had also another meeting-place near Rathfarnham.
Curran's country seat, which he appropriately called The Priory, he being
elected Prior. The furniture of the festive apartment in Dublin was i ■
pletely monkish, and at the meetings all the members appeared in the
habit of the order, a black tabinet domino. The members of the olub
were nearly all distinguished men, including Lord Mornington (composer
of the celebrated glee " Here in Cool Grot"), the Marquis of Townshend
(when Viceroy), Yelverton (afterward Lord Avonmore), Dr. O'Leary,
Grattan, Flood, George Ogle, Judge Johnson, Hussey Burgh, Lord Kil-
warden, and the Earl of Arran. The society lasted till 1795.
See, also, the story with this title by Charles J. Lever.
798 IRISH LITERATURE.
May this chapter oft joyously meet,
And this gladsome libation renew,
To the Saint, and the Founder, and Abbot,
And Prior, and Monks of the Screw !
SOME OF CURRAN'S WITTICISMS.
Reference has been made to the jokes and witticisms of the
great orator, who would not be adequately represented without
some examples of them. The following are only a very small
part of the great number which are accredited to him : —
A tall and portly Irish barrister remarked to him :
" If you go on so I '11 put you in my pocket."
" Egad ! if you do, you '11 have more law in your pocket than
ever you had in your head," was the neat retort.
He often raised a laugh at Lord Norbury's expense. The
laws, at that period, made capital punishment so general that
nearly all crimes were punishable with death by the rope. It
was remarked that Lord Norbury never hesitated to condemn
the convicted prisoner to the gallows. Dining in company with
Curran, who was carving some corned beef, Lord Norbury in-
quired, "Is that hung beef, Mr. Curran?" "Not yet, my
lord," was the reply, " you have not tried it."
One day, when out riding with Lord Norbury, they came to
a gallows, and pointing to it the judge said, " Where would
you be, Curran, if that scaffold had its due?" "Riding alone,
my lord," was Curran's prompt reply.
Declaiming against the spies brought up from prisons after
the rebellion of '98, Curran finally spoke of " Those catacombs
of living death, where the wretch that is buried a man lies till
the heart has time to fester and dissolve, and is then dug up an
informer."
A Limerick banker, remarkable for his sagacity, had an iron
leg. " His leg," said Curran, " is the softest part about him."
Retorting upon a speaker who had given utterance to a piece
of empty self-glorification, Curran said : " The honorable and
learned gentleman boasts that he is the guardian of his own
honor — I wish him joy of his sinecure."
JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 799
Of a learned sergeant who gave a confused explanation of
some point of law, Curran remarked that " Whenever that grave
counselor endeavored to unfold a principle of law, he put
him in mind of a fool whom he once saw trying to open an
oyster with a rolling-pin."
Asked for a definition of " Nothing," Curran said : " Nothing
defines it better than a footless boot without a leg, or a bodi-
less shirt without neck or sleeves."
A barrister, having entered the court with his wig awry and
having endured chaff from a number of persons he met, at
length addressed himself to Curran, saying —
"Do you see anything ridiculous in this wig?"
" Nothing but the head," was the reply.
Curran, having made a statement in support of one of his
cases, Lord Clare curtly exclaimed —
" Oh ! if that be law, Mr. Curran, I may burn my law-
books ! "
" Better read them, my lord," was the sly rejoinder.
Hearing that a stingy and slovenly barrister had started
for the Continent with a shirt and a guinea, Curran promptly
observed, " He '11 not change either till he comes back."
At the assizes at Cork, Curran had once just entered upon his
case, and stated the facts to the jury. He then, with his usual
impressiveness and pathos, appealed to their feelings, and was
concluding the whole with this sentence: "Thus, gentlemen,
I trust I have made the innocence of that persecuted man as
clear to you as" — at that instant the sun, which had hitherto
been overclouded, shot its rays into the courthouse — " as
clear to you," continued he, " as yonder sunbeam, which now
bursts in upon us, and supplies me with its splendid illustra-
tion."
Curran, having quarreled with another barrister, ended by
calling him out. Now Curran was a very small man, and liis
opponent, who was a very stout one, objected, saving: "You
are so little that L might fire at you a dozen times without
hitting, whereas the chance is that you may slioot me at the
first fire."
" To convince you that I don't wish to take any advantage,"
said Curran, "you shall chalk my size on your body and all
hits out of the ring shall go for nothing."
800 IRISH LITERATURE.
During Cumin's last illness his physician observed one morn-
ing that he coughed with more difficulty.
" That is rather surprising," said he, " as I have been prac-
ticing all night."
Curran was at Cheltenham when his friends drew attention
to a fashionable Irish gentleman who had the ugly habit of
keeping his tongue exposed as he went along. On being asked
what his countryman 's motive could be, Curran readily
hazarded the reply : " Oh ! he 's evidently trying to catch the
English accent."
Curran's hatred of the Union is shown in his answer to a
peer who got his title for supporting the Government measure.
Meeting the orator near the Parliament House on College
Green, his lordship said to him—
" What do they mean to do with this useless building? For
my part I hate the very sight of it."
" I do not wonder at it, my lord," said Curran ; " I never yet
heard of a murderer who was not afraid of a ghost"
A rich barrister who had no overplus of brains once said
sententiously that " No one should be admitted to the bar who
had not an independent landed property."
" And pray, sir," said Curran, " may I ask how many
acres make a wise-acre ? "
Having had a violent discussion with a schoolmaster, Curran
worsted him, and the pedagogue, loth to admit his defeat, said,
with an evident show of temper, that he would lose no more
time, but must return to his scholars.
"Do, my dear doctor," said the witty barrister, "hut don't
indorse my sins upon their hacks."
When Lundy Foot, the tobacconist, set up his coach, he
asked Curran to suggest a motto for it.
" I have just hit on it," said the wit ; " it is only two words,
and it will explain your profession, your elevation, and con-
tempt for the people's ridicule; and it has the advantage of
being in two languages, Latin and English, just as the reader
chooses. Put up ' Quid rides' upon your carriage."
During a case in which Curran was concerned, and while
he was addressing the jury, an ass brayed, whereupon the judge
interposed —
" One at a time, Mr. Curran, if you please."
JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 801
Later on, when the judge was summing up, the donkey was
again heard braying outside, whereupon Curran seized the op-
portunity of a retort, and inquired of the judge —
" Does not your lordship hear a remarkable echo in the
court ? "
A certain actor, known for his meanness, billeted himself
during a professional visit to Dublin upon all his acquaint-
ances in the town.
Later on in the year he encountered Curran in London, and
referring to his great expenses, asked the wit what he supposed
he had spent during his visit to the Irish capital.
" I 'm sure I don't know," said Curran, " but probably a
fortnight."
A person with whom Curran was conversing, and who was
very precise in his pronunciation, en*1*] out on one of the com-
pany, who had just cut down curiosity into curosity. "Oh,"
said he in a low voice to Curran, "how thai man murders the
language ! " " Not exactly so bad," was the reply, " he has
only knocked an / out of it."
Curran once met his match in a pert, jolly, keen-eyed son of
Erin, who was up as a witness in a case of dispute in the mai ter
of a horse deal. Curran much desired to break down the cred-
ibility of his witness, and thought to do it by making the man
contradict himself — by tangling him up in a network of
adroitly framed questions — but to no avail.
The hostler was a companion to Sam Weller. His good com-
mon sense, and his equanimity and good nature, were not to be
overturned. By-and-by Curran, in a towering wrath, belched
forth, as not another counsel would have dared to do in lie'
presence of the court : —
"Sirrah, you are incorrigible! The truth is not to be got
from you, for it is not in you. I see the villain in your face! "
"Faith, yer honor," said the witness, with the utmost sine
plicity of truth and honesty, "my face must be moity clam'
and shinin', indade, if it can reflect like thai."
Tor once in his life the great barrister was floored by a simple
witness. He could not recover from that repartee, and the case
went against him.
A farmer attending a fair with a hundred pounds in his
pocket, took the precaution of depositing it in the hands of the
landlord of the public-house at which he stopped. Next day
he applied for the money, but the host affected to know nothing
51
802 IRISH LITERATURE.
of the business. In this dilemma, the farmer consulted Curran.
" Have patience, my friend," said the counsel ; " speak to the
landlord civilly, and tell him you are convinced you must have
left your money with some other person. Take a friend with
you, and lodge with him another hundred, and then come to
me." The dupe doubted the advice ; but, moved by the author-
ity or rhetoric of the learned counsel, he at length followed it.
" And now, sir," said he to Curran, " I don't see as I am to be
better off for this, if I get my second hundred again ; but how
is that to be done? " " Go and ask him for it when he is alone,"
said the counsel. " Ay, sir, but asking won't do, I'ze afraid,
without my witness, at any rate." " Never mind, take my
advice," said Curran: "do as I bid you, and return to me."
The farmer did so, and came back with his hundred, glad at
any rate to find that safe again in his possession. " Now, sir,
I suppose I must be content; but I don't see as I am much
better off." " Well, then," said the counsel, " now take your
friend with you, and ask the landlord for the hundred pounds
your friend saw you leave with him." It need not be added
that the wily landlord found that he had been taken off his
guard, whilst the farmer returned exultingly to thank his
counsel, with both hundreds in his pocket.
JOHN D'ALTON.
(1792—1867.)
John D' Alton was born at Bessville, Westmeath, in 1792; was
graduated at Trinity College, Dublin, in 1813, and was afterward
called to the bar. He had a strong literary turn, and was familiar
with the Irish language. A number of his translations from the
works of the old Celtic bards are preserved in Hardiman's ' Irish
Minstrelsy.' In 1814 he published ' Dermid, or Erin in the Days of
Boroimhe' — a metrical romance in twelve cantos, in which the
manners and customs of the period are poetically portrayed.
In 1835 Mr. D' Alton was appointed Commissioner of the Loan
Fund Board in Dublin ; he was then able to devote himself more
closely than ever to the study of Irish antiquities and archaeology,
and the following books resulted: ' Annals of Boyle,' 'History of
County Dublin,' ' King James the Second's Army List,' and '"The
Memoirs of the Archbishops of Dublin.' For years he was a con-
tributor to The Gentleman's Magazine, and his essay on ' The
Social and Political State of Ireland from the First to the Twelfth
Century ' obtained the highest prize of the Royal Irish Academy
and the Cunningham gold medal. 'The History of Drogheda'
next appeared, and in 1861 ' The History of Dundalk,' written in
conjunction with Mr. J. R. O'Flanagan, M. R. I. A.
Mr. D' Alton passed his life in Dublin, only leaving it for an oc-
casional tour in England and Wales. He died in Dublin, Jan. 20,
1867. As poet, historian, and antiquarian, he made noteworthy
additions to Irish literature.
CLARAGH'S LAMENT.
Translated from the Irish of John MacDonnell.
The tears are ever in my wasted eye,
My heart is crushed, and my thoughts are sad ;
For the son of chivalry was forced to fly,
And no tidings come from the soldier lad.
Chorus. — My heart it danced when he was near.
My hero! my Caesar! my Chevalier!
But while he wanders o'er the sea
Joy can never be joy to me.
Silent and sad pines the lone cuckoo,
Our chieftains hang o'er the grave of joy;
Their tears fall heavy as the summer's dew
For the lord of their hearts — the banished boy.
803
804 IRISH LITERATURE.
Mute are the minstrels that sang of him,
The harp forgets its thrilling tone;
The brightest eyes of the land are dim.
For the pride of their aching sight is gone.
The sun refused to lend his light,
And clouds obscured the face of day ;
The tiger's whelps preyed day and night,
For the lion of the forest was far away.
The gallant, graceful, young Chevalier,
Whose look is bonny as his heart is gay;
His sword in battle flashes death and fear,
While he hews through falling foes his way.
O'er his blushing cheeks his blue eyes shine
Like dewdrops glitt'ring on the rose's leaf;
Mars and Cupid all in him combine,
The blooming lover and the godlike chief.
His curling locks in wavy grace,
Like beams on youthful Phoebus' brow,
Flit wild and golden o'er his speaking face,
And down his ivory shoulders flow.
Like Engus is he in his youthful days,
Or Mac Cein, whose deeds all Erin knows,
Mac Dary's chiefs, of deathless praise,
Who huns1 like fate on their routed foes.
*&
Like Connall the besieger, pride of his race,
Or Fergus, son of a glorious sire.
Or blameless Connor, son of courteous Nais,
The chief of the Red Branch — Lord of the Lyre.
The cuckoo's voice is not heard on the gale.
Nor the cry of the hounds in the nutty grove,
Nor the hunter's cheering through the dewy vale,
Since far— far away is the youth of our love.
The name of my darling none must declare,
Though his fame be like sunshine from shore to shore;
But, oh, may Heaven— Heaven hear my prayer!
And waft the hero to my arms once more.
Chorus. — My heart — it danced when he was near,
Ah! now my woe is the young Chevalier;
'T is a pang that solace ne'er can know,
That he should be banished by a rightless foe.
JOHN D' ALTON. 805
WHY, LIQUOR OF LIFE?
From the Irish of Turlough O'Carolan.
The Bard addresses whisky —
Why, liquor of life! do I love you so;
When in all our encounters you lay me low?
More stupid and senseless 5 every day grow.
What a hint — if I'd mend by the warning!
Tattered and torn you 've left my coat,
I 've not a cravat — to save my throat,
Yet I pardon you all, my sparkling doat,
If you'd cheer me again in the morning!
Whisky replies —
When you 've heard prayers on Sunday next.
With a sermon beside, or at least — the text.
Come down to the alehouse — however you 're vexed,
And though thousands of cares assault you,
You '11 find tippling there — till morals mend,
A cock shall be placed in the barrel's end,
The jar shall be near you, and I '11 be your friend,
And give you a "Read mille faults."1
The Bard resumes his address —
You 're my soul and my treasure, without and within,
My sister and cousin and all my kin :
'T is unlucky to wed such a prodigal sin, —
But all other enjoyment is vain, love!
My barley ricks all turn to you —
My tillage — my plow — and my horses too —
My cows and my sheep they have — bid me adieu,
I care not while you remain, love!
Come, vein of my heart! then come in haste,
You're like Ambrosia, my liquor and feast.
My forefathers all had the very same taste—
For the genuine dew of the mountain.
Oh ! Usquebaugh ! I love its kiss ! —
My guardian spirit, I think it is.
Had my christening bowl been filled with Ibis.
I 'd have swallowed it — were it a fountain.
Many 's the quarrel and fight we 've had,
And many a time you made me mad,
1 Read mille faidle , a thousand welcomes.
SOG IRISE LITERATURE.
But while I 've a heart — it can never be sad,
When you smile at me full on the table;
Surely you are my wife and brother—
My only child — my father and mother—
My outside coat — I have no other !
Oh! I '11 stand by you — while I am able.
If family pride can aught avail,
I 've the sprightliest kin of all the Gael —
Brandy and Usquebaugh, and Ale!
But Claret untasted may pass us;
To clash with the clergy were sore amiss,
So, for righteousness' sake, I leave them this,
For Claret the gownsman's comfort is,
When they 've saved us with matins and masses.
GEORGE DARLEY.
(1785—1846.)
George Darley, poet and mathematician, was born in Dublin in
1785. He entered Trinity College, Dublin, in 1815, and was grad-
uated in 1820. In 1822 he settled in London and in the same year
produced his ' Errors of Ecstacie ' (a dialogue with the moon).
Then followed ' The Labors of Idleness ' (prose and verse) by ' Guy
Penseval,' 1826; ' Sylvia ' (a fairy drama) in 1827; and ' Nepenthe '
in 1839. Two dramas, ' Thomas a Becket ' and ' Ethelstan,' were
published in 1840 and 1841. He died in London in 1846.
A memorial volume of his poems containing several till then un-
printed pieces has been published for private ch-culation. This com-
prises the chief of his poetical Avorks. In the domain of science he
wrote 'Familiar Astronomy,' first published in 1830, followed by
'Popular Algebra,' 'Geometrical Companion,' 'Geometry,' and
' Trigonometry,' which all ran through several editions.
"He was," says Mr. T. W. Rolleston, in 'A Treasury of Irish
Poetry,' "misanthropic, wayward, and afflicted with an exception-
ally painful impediment in his speech, which drove him from society
in morbid isolation." He " seems never to have met his peers in
wholesome human contact, and lived alone, burying himself in the
study of mathematics, of Gaelic, and what not, weaving his rich and
strange fancies, apparently indifferent to public approval or criti-
cism, which indeed the public spared him by entirely ignoring
him. . . . The Celtic intoxication of sounding rhythm and glitter-
ing phrase," he continues, "was never better illustrated than by
George Darley. Frequently it happens that his verse, though
always preserving in some curious way the outward characteristics
of fine poetry, becomes a sort of caput mortuum ; the glow of life
fades out of it. Or, again, it gives us only ' splendors that perplex '
and leaves the spirit faint and bewildered. But when, as sometimes
happens, spirit and sound, light and life, come together in their
miraculous accord and form a living creation of spiritual ecstasy,
then indeed we can yield ourselves wholly to the spell of the Celtic
enchantment."
George Darley's work won cordial recognition from his brother
poets of the clay. Tennyson offered to pay the expenses of publish-
mg his verse ; Browning was inspired by ' Sylvia ' ; and Carey, the
translator of Dante, thought that drama the finest poem of the day.
TRUE LOVELINESS.
It is not beauty I demand,
A crystal brow, the moon's despair,
Nor the snow's daughter, a while hand,
Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair.
807
808 IRISH LITERATURE.
Tell me not of your starry eyes,
Your lips that seem on roses fed.
Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies,
Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed.
A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks,
Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours,
A breath that softer music speaks
Than summer winds a-wooing flowers,
These are but gauds. Nay, what are lips?
Coral beneath the ocean-stream,
Whose brink when your adventurer slips,
Full oft he perisheth on them.
And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft
That wave hot youths to fields of blood?
Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft,
Do Greece or Ilium any good?
Eyes can with baleful ardor burn ;
Poison can breath, that erst perfumed;
There 's many a white hand holds an urn
With lovers' hearts to dust consumed.
For crystal brows there 's nought within,
They are but empty cells for pride;
He who the Siren's hair would win
Is mostly strangled in the tide.
Give me, instead of beauty's bust,
A tender heart, a loyal mind,
Which with temptation I would trust,
Yet never linked with error find — ■
One in whose gentle bosom I
Could pour my secret heart of woes,
Like the care-burthened honey-fly
That hides his murmurs in the rose.
My earthly comforter! whose love
So indefeasible might be,
That when my spirit wonned above,
Hers could not stay for sympathy.
GEORGE DARLEY. 809
SONG.
Prom • Etheletan.'
O'er the wild gannet's bath
Come the Norse coursers !
O'er the whale's heritance
Gloriously steering!
With beaked heads peering,
Deep-plunging, high-rearing,
Tossing their foam abroad,
Shaking white manes aloft,
Creamy-necked, pitchy-ribbed,
Steeds of the ocean !
O'er the sun's mirror green
Come the Norse coursers!
Trampling its glassy breadth
Into bright fragments!
Hollow-backed, huge-bosomed,
Fraught with mailed riders,
Clanging with hauberks,
Shield, spear, and battle-axe,
Canvas-winged, cable-reined
Steeds of the ocean !
O'er the wind's plowing-field
Come the Norse coursers !
By a hundred each ridden,
To the bloody feast bidden,
They rush in their fierceness
And ravin all round them!
Their shoulders enriching
With fleecy light plunder,
Fire-spreading, foe-spurning,
Steeds of the ocean !
THE FAIRY COURT.
Song from * Sylvia.'
Gently ! — gently ! — down ! — down
From the starry courts on high,
Gently step adown, down
The ladder of the sky.
810 IRISH LITERATURE.
Sunbeam steps are strong enough
For such airy feet! —
Spirits blow your trumpets rough,
So as they be sweet !
Breathe them loud the queen descending,
Yet a lowly welcome breathe
Like so many flowerets bending
Zephyr's breezy foot beneath!
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