When the sensation caused by my entrance had subsided somewhat, we

settled down to a performance which consisted of music and recitation

by the rising generation, and speechification by the risen one. The

rising generation had the best of it. Whenever the girls did anything,

we were delighted; whenever an adult began, we were bored to the very

verge of possible endurance. The deplorable member of Parliament who

gave away the prizes may be eloquent in the House of Commons; but

before that eager, keen, bright, frank, unbedevilled, unsophisticated

audience he quailed, he maundered, he stumbled, wanted to go on and

couldn’t, wanted to stop and didn’t, and finally collapsed with a few

remarks to the effect that he felt proud of himself, which struck me as

being the most uncalled-for remark I ever heard, even from an M.P. The

chairman was self-possessed, not to say hardened. He quoted statistics

about Latin, arithmetic and other sordid absurdities, specially

extolling the aptitude of the female mind since 1868 for botany. I

incited a little girl near me to call out “Time” and “Question,” but

she shook her head shyly, and said “Miss---- would be angry;” so he

had his say out. Let him deliver that speech next Sunday on the common,

and he will not get 16s. 9d. He will get stoned.

But the rest of the programme was worth a dozen ordinary concerts.

It is but a few months since I heard Schubert’s setting of “The

Lord is my Shepherd” sung by the Crystal Palace Choir to Mr. Manns’

appropriate and beautiful orchestral transcript of the accompaniment;

but here a class of girls almost obliterated that memory by singing

the opening strain with a purity of tone quite angelic. If they could

only have kept their attention concentrated long enough, it might have

been equally delightful all through. But girlhood is discursive; and

those who were not immediately under the awful eye of the lady who

conducted, wandered considerably from Schubert’s inspiration after a

time, although they stuck to his notes most commendably. Yet for all

that I can safely say that if there is a little choir like that in

every High School the future is guaranteed. We were much entertained

by a composition of Jensen’s, full of octaves and chords, which was

assaulted and vanquished after an energetic bout of fisticuffs by an

infant pianist, who will not be able to reach the pedals for years to

come.

* * * * *

I need hardly say that my remarks about the Tonic Sol-fa have brought

letters upon me insisting on the attractive simplicity of the notation,

and even inviting me to learn it at once. This reminds me of a sage

whom I consulted in my youth as to how I might achieve the formation of

a perfect character. “Young man,” he said, “are you a vegetarian?” I

promptly said “Yes,” which took him aback. (I subsequently discovered

that he had a weakness for oysters.) “Young man,” he resumed, “have

you mastered Pitman’s shorthand?” I told him that I could write it

very nearly as fast as longhand, but that I could not read it; and

he admitted that this was about the maximum of human attainment in

phonography. “Young man,” he went on, “do you understand phrenology?”

This was a facer, as I knew nothing about it, but I was determined not

to be beaten, so I declared that it was my favourite pursuit, and that

I had been attracted to him by the noble character of his bumps. “Young

man,” he continued, “you are indeed high on the Mount of Wisdom. There

remains but one accomplishment to the perfection of your character.

Are you an adept at the Tonic Sol-fa system?” This was too much. I got

up in a rage, and said, “Oh, d--the Tonic Sol-fa system!” Then we came

to high words, and our relations have been more or less strained ever

since. I have always resolutely refused to learn Tonic Sol-fa, as I am

determined to prove that it is possible to form a perfect character

without it.

* * * * *

The other evening I went to the Wind Instrument Society’s concert at

the Royal Academy of Music in Tenterden Street. Having only just heard

of the affair from an acquaintance, I had no ticket. The concert, as

usual, had been kept dark from me; Bassetto the Incorruptible knows

too much to be welcome to any but the greatest artists. I therefore

presented myself at the doors for admission on payment as a casual

amateur. Apparently the wildest imaginings of the Wind Instrument

Society had not reached to such a contingency as a Londoner offering

money at the doors to hear classical chamber music played upon

bassoons, clarionets, and horns; for I was told that it was impossible

to entertain my application, as the building had no licence. I

suggested sending out for a licence; but this, for some technical

reason, could not be done. I offered to dispense with the licence; but

they said it would expose them to penal servitude. Perceiving by this

that it was a mere question of breaking the law, I insisted on the

secretary accompanying me to the residence of a distinguished Q.C. in

the neighbourhood, and ascertaining from him how to do it. The Q.C.

said that if I handed the secretary five shillings at the door in

consideration of being admitted to the concert, that would be illegal.

But if I bought a ticket from him in the street, that would be legal.

Or, if I presented him with five shillings in remembrance of his last

birthday, and he gave me a free admission in celebration of my silver

wedding, that would be legal. Or, if we broke the law without witnesses

and were prepared to perjure ourselves if questioned afterwards (which

seemed to me the most natural way), then nothing could happen to us. I

cannot without breach of faith explain which course we adopted; suffice

it that I was present at the concert.

* * * * *

I went to the Prince of Wales’ Theatre on Wednesday afternoon to hear

the students of the Royal College of Music.... I am sorry to say that

the bad custom of bouquet-throwing was permitted; and need I add that

an American _prima donna_ was the offender? What do you mean,

Madame----, by teaching the young idea how to get bouquets shied? After

the manner of her countrymen this _prima donna_ travels with

enormous wreaths and baskets of flowers, which are handed to her at the

conclusion of her pieces. And no matter how often this happens, she is

never a whit the less astonished and delighted to see the flowers come

up. They say that the only artist who never gets accustomed to his part

is the performing flea who fires a cannon, and who is no less dismayed

and confounded by the three-hundredth report than by the first. Now,

it may be ungallant, coarse--brutal even; but whenever I see the fair

American thrown into raptures by her own flower-basket, I always think

of the flea thrown into convulsions by his own cannon. And so, dear

but silly American ladies, be persuaded, and drop it. Nobody except

the very greenest of greenhorns is taken in; and the injury you do

to your own artistic self-respect by condescending to take him in is

incalculable. Just consider for a moment how insanely impossible it is

that a wreath as big as a cart-wheel could be the spontaneous offering

of an admiring stranger. One consolation is, that if the critics cannot

control the stars, they can at least administer the stripes.

* * * * *

Last Saturday evening, feeling the worse for want of change and country

air, I happened to voyage in the company of an eminent dramatic critic

as far as Greenwich. Hardly had we inhaled the refreshing ozone of

that place ninety seconds when, suddenly finding ourselves opposite

a palatial theatre, gorgeous with a million gaslights, we felt that

it was idiotic to have been to Wagner’s Theatre at Bayreuth and yet

be utterly ignorant concerning Morton’s Theatre at Greenwich. So we

rushed into the struggling crowd at the doors, only to be informed that

the theatre was full. Stalls full, dress circle full; pit, standing

room only. As the eminent dramatic critic habitually sleeps during

performances, and is subject to nightmare when he sleeps standing, the

pit was out of the question. Was there room anywhere? we asked. Yes, in

a private box or in the gallery. Which was the cheaper? The gallery,

decidedly. So up we went to the gallery, where we found two precarious

perches vacant at the side. It was rather like trying to see Trafalgar

Square from the knife-board of an omnibus half-way up St. Martin’s

Lane; but by hanging on to a stanchion, and occasionally standing with

one foot on the seat and the other on the backs of the people in the

front row, we succeeded in seeing as much of the entertainment as we

could stand.

The first thing we did was to purchase a bill, which informed us that

we were in for “the entirely original pastoral comedy-opera in three

acts, entitled ‘Dorothy,’ which has been played to crowded houses in

London 950, and (still playing) in the provinces 788 times.” This

playbill, I should add, was thoughtfully decorated with a view of the

theatre showing all the exits, for use in case of a reduction to ashes

during performing hours. From it we further learnt that we should be

regaled by an augmented and powerful orchestra; that the company was

“No. 1”; that---- believes he is now the only HATTER in the county of

Kent that exists on the profits arising solely from the sale of HATS

and CAPS; and so on. Need I add that the eminent one and I sat bursting

with expectation until the overture began. I cannot truthfully say

that the augmented and powerful orchestra proved quite so augmented

or so powerful as the composer could have wished; but let that pass;

I disdain the cheap sport of breaking a daddy-long-legs on a wheel

(butterfly is out of the question, it was such a dingy band). My object

is rather to call attention to the condition to which 788 nights of

Dorothying have reduced the unfortunate wanderers of “No. 1 Company.”

I submit to the manager of these companies that in his own interest

he should take better care of No. 1. Here are several young persons

doomed to spend the flower of their years in mechanically repeating the

silliest libretto in modern theatrical literature, set to music which

must pall somewhat on the seven hundred and eighty-eighth performance.

As might have been expected, a settled weariness of life, an utter

perfunctoriness, an unfathomable inanity pervaded the very souls of

“No. 1.” The tenor, originally, I have no doubt, a fine young man, but

now cherubically adipose, was evidently counting the days until death

should release him from the part of Wilder. He had a pleasant speaking

voice; and his affability and forbearance were highly creditable to him

under the circumstances; but Nature rebelled in him against the loathed

strains of a seven-hundred-times repeated _rôle_. He omitted the

song in the first act, and sang “Though born a man of high degree,”

as if with the last rally of an energy decayed and a willing spirit

crashed. The G at the end was as a vocal earthquake. And yet methought

he was not displeased when the inhabitants of Greenwich, coming fresh

to the slaughter, encored him. The baritone had been affected the other

way; he was thin and worn; and his clothes had lost their lustre. He

sang “Queen of my heart” twice in a hardened manner, as one who was

prepared to sing it a thousand times in a thousand quarter-hours for

a sufficient wager. The comic part, being simply that of a circus

clown transferred to the lyric stage, is better suited for infinite

repetition; and the gentleman who undertook it addressed a comic lady

called Priscilla as “Sarsaparilla” during his interludes between the

_haute-école_ acts of the _prima donna_ and tenor, with a

delight in the rare aroma of the joke, and in the roars of laughter

it elicited, which will probably never pall. But anything that he

himself escaped in the way of tedium was added tenfold to his unlucky

colleagues, who sat out his buffooneries with an expression of deadly

malignity. I trust the gentleman may die in his bed; but he would be

unwise to build too much on doing so. There is a point at which tedium

becomes homicidal mania.

The ladies fared best. The female of the human species has not yet

developed a conscience: she will apparently spend her life in artistic

self-murder by induced Dorothisis without a pang of remorse, provided

she be praised and paid regularly. Dorothy herself, a beauteous

young lady of distinguished mien, with an immense variety of accents

ranging from the finest Tunbridge Wells English (for genteel comedy)

to the broadest Irish (for repartee and low comedy), sang without the

slightest effort and without the slightest point, and was all the more

desperately vapid because she suggested artistic gifts wasting in

complacent abeyance. Lydia’s voice, a hollow and spectral contralto,

alone betrayed the desolating effect of perpetual Dorothy; her figure

retained a pleasing plumpness akin to that of the tenor; and her

spirits were wonderful, all things considered. The chorus, too, seemed

happy; but that was obviously because they did not know any better.

The pack of hounds employed darted in at the end of the second act,

evidently full of the mad hope of finding something new going on; and

their depression when they discovered it was “Dorothy” again, was

pitiable. The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals should

interfere. If there is no law to protect men and women from “Dorothy,”

there is at least one that can be strained to protect dogs.

_George Bernard Shaw_ (1856).

FROM PORTLAW TO PARADISE.

Wance upon a time, an’ a very good time it was too, there was a dacent

little man, named Paddy Power, that lived in the parish of Portlaw.

At the time I spayke of, an’ indeed for a long spell before it, most

of Paddy’s neighbours had wandhered from the thrue fold, an’ the sheep

that didn’t stray wor, not to put too fine a point on it, a black lot.

But Paddy had always conthrived to keep his last end in view, an’ he

stuck to the ould faith like a poor man’s plasther.

Well, in the coorse of time poor Paddy felt his days wor well-nigh

numbered, so he tuk to the bed an’ sent for the priest; an’ thin he

settled himself down to aise his conscience an’ to clear the road in

the other world by manes of a good confession.

He reeled off his sins, mortial an’ vanyial, to the priest by the yard,

an’ begor he felt mighty sorrowful intirely whin he thought what a

bad boy he’d been, an’ what a hape of quare things he’d done in his

time--though, as I’ve said before, he was a dacent little man in his

way, only, you see, bein’ so close to the other side of Jordan, he tuk

an onaisy view of all his sayin’s and doin’s. Poor Paddy--small blame

to him--was very aiger to get a comfortable corner in glory in his old

age, for he’d a hard sthruggle enough of it here below.

Well, whin he’d towld all his sins to Father McGrath, an’ whin Father

McGrath had given him a few hard rubs by way of consolation, he bent

his head to get the absolution, an’ lo an’ behold you! before the

priest could get through the words that would open the gates of glory

to poor Paddy, the life wint out of the man’s body.

It seems ’twas a busy mornin’ in heaven, an’ as soon as Father McGrath

began to say the first words of the absolution, down they claps Paddy

Power’s name on the due-book. However, we’ll come to that part of the

story by-an’-by.

Anyhow, up goes Paddy, an’ before he knew where he was he found himself

standin’ outside the gates of Paradise. Of coorse, he partly guessed

there ’ud be throuble, but he thought he’d put a bowld face on, so he

gives a hard double-knock at the door, an’ a holy saint shoves back the

slide an’ looks out at him through an iron gratin’.

“God save all here!” says Paddy.

“God save you kindly!” says the saint.

“Maybe I’m too airly?” says Paddy, dhreadin’ all the time that ’tis the

cowld showlder he’d get.

“’Tis naither airly nor late here,” says the saint, “pervidin’ you’re

on the way-bill. What’s yer name?” says he.

“Paddy Power,” says the little man from Portlaw.

“There’s so many of that name due here,” says the saint, “that I must

ax you for further particulars.”

“You’re quite welcome, your reverence,” says Paddy.

“What’s your occupation?” says the saint.

“Well,” says Paddy, “I can turn my hand to anything in raison.”

“A kind of Jack-of all-thrades?” says the saint.

“Not exactly that,” says Paddy, thinkin’ the saint was thryin’ to make

fun of him. “In fact,” says he, “I’m a general dayler.”

“An’ what do you generally dale in?” axes the saint.

“All’s fish that comes to my net,” says Paddy, thinkin’, of coorse,

’twould put Saint Pether in good humour to be reminded of ould times.

“An’ is it a fisherman you are, thin?” axes the saint.

“Well, no,” says Paddy, “though I’ve done a little huckstherin’ in fish

in my time; but I was partial to scrap-iron, as a rule.”

“To tell you the thruth,” says the saint, “I’m not over fond of general

daylin’, but of coorse my private feelin’s don’t intherfere wud my

duties here. I’m on the gates agen my will for the matther of that; but

that’s naither here nor there so far as yourself is consarned, Paddy,”

says he.

“It must be a hard dhrain on the constitution at times,” says Paddy,

“to be on the door from mornin’ till night.”

“’Tis,” says the saint, “of a busy day--but I must go an’ have a look

at the books. Paddy Power is your name?” says he.

“Yis,” says Paddy; “an’, though ’tis meself that says it, I’m not

ashamed of it.”

“An’ where are you from?” axes the saint.

“From the parish of Portlaw,” says Paddy.

“I never heard tell of it,” says the saint, bitin’ his thumb.

“Sure it couldn’t be expected you would, sir,” says Paddy, “for it lies

at the back of God-speed.”

“Well, stand there, Paddy _avic_,” says the holy saint, “an’ I’ll

have a good look at the books.”

“God bless you!” says Paddy. “Wan ’ud think ’twas born in Munsther you

wor, Saint Pether, you have such an iligant accent in spaykin’.”

Faix, Paddy was beginnin’ to dhread that his name wouldn’t be found on

the books at all on account of his not havin’ complate absolution, so

he thought ’twas the best of his play to say a soft word to the keeper

of the kays.

The saint tuk a hasty glance at the enthry-book, but whin Paddy called

him Saint Pether he lifted his head an’ he put his face to the wicket

again, an’ there was a cunnin’ twinkle in his eye.

“An’ so you thinks ’tis Saint Pether I am?” says he.

“Of coorse, your reverence,” says Paddy; “an’ ’tis a rock of sense I’m

towld you are.”

Well, wud that the saint began to laugh very hearty, an’ says he--

“Now, it’s a quare thing that every wan of ye that comes from below

thinks Saint Pether is on the gates constant. Do you raley think,

Paddy,” says he, “that Saint Pether has nothing else to do, nor no way

to pass the time except by standin’ here in the cowld from year’s end

to year’s end, openin’ the gates of Paradise?”

“Begor,” says Paddy, “that never sthruck me before, sure enough. Of

coorse he must have some sort of divarsion to pass the time. An’ might

I ax your reverence,” says he, “what your own name is? an’ I hopes

you’ll pardon my ignorance.”

“Don’t mintion that,” says the saint; “but I’d rather not tell you my

name, just yet at any rate, for a raison of my own.”

“Plaize yourself an’ you’ll plaize me, sir,” says Paddy.

“’Tis a civil-spoken little man you are,” says the saint.

Findin’ the saint was such a nice agreeable man an’ such an iligant

discoorser, Paddy thought he’d venture on a few remarks just to dodge

the time until some other poor sowl ’ud turn up an’ give him the chance

to slip into Paradise unbeknownst--for he knew that wance he got in by

hook or by crook they could never have the heart to turn him out of it

again. So says he--

“Might I ax what Saint Pether is doin’ just now?”

“He’s at a hurlin’ match,” says the deputy.

“Oh, murdher!” says Paddy, “couldn’t I get a peep at the match while

you’re examinin’ the books?”

“I’m afeard not,” says the saint, shakin’ his head. “Besides,” says he,

“I think the fun is nearly over by this time.”

“Is there often a hurlin’ match here?” axes Paddy.

“Wance a year,” says the saint. “You see,” says he, pointin’ over his

showldher wud his thumb, “they have all nationalities in here, and

they plays the game of aich nation on aich pathron saint’s day, if you

undherstand me.”

“I do,” says Paddy. “An’ sure enough ’twas Saint Pathrick’s Day in

the mornin’ whin I started from Portlaw, an’ the last thing I did--of

coorse before tellin’ my sins--was to dhrink my Pathrick’s pot.”

“More power to you!” says the saint.

“I suppose Saint Pathrick is the umpire to-day?” says Paddy.

“No,” says the saint. “Aich of us, you see, takes our turn at the gates

on our own festival days.”

“Holy Moses!” shouts Paddy. “Thin ’tis to Saint Pathrick himself I’ve

been talkin’ all this while back. Oh, murdher alive, did I ever think

I’d live to see this day!”

Begor, the poor _angashore_ of a man was fairly knocked off his

head to discover he was discoorsin’ so fameeliarly wud the great Saint

Pathrick, an’ the great saint himself was proud to see what a dale the

little man from Portlaw thought of him; but he didn’t let on to Paddy

how plaized he was. “Ah!” says he, “sure we’re all on an aiquality

here. You’ll be a great saint yourself, maybe, wan of these days.”

“The heavens forbid,” says Paddy, “that I’d dhrame of ever being on an

aiquality wud your reverence! Begor, ’tis a joyful man I’d be to be

allowed to spake a few words to you wance in a blue moon. Aiquality,

_inagh_!”[52] says he. “Sure what aiquality could there be between

the great apostle of Ould Ireland and Paddy Power, general dayler, from

Portlaw?”

“I wish there was more of ’em your way of thinkin’, Paddy,” says Saint

Pathrick, sighin’ deeply.

“An’ do you mane to tell me,” says Paddy, “that any craychur inside

there ’ud dar’ to put himself an an aiqual footin’ wud yourself?”

“I do, thin,” says Saint Pathrick; “an’ worse than that,” says he,

“there’s some of ’em thinks ’tis very small potatoes I am, in their

own mind. I gives you me word, Paddy, that it takes me all my time

occasionally to keep my timper wud Saint George an’ Saint Andhrew.”

“Bad luck to ’em both!” said Paddy, intherruptin’ him.

“Whisht!” says Saint Pathrick. “I partly admires your sintiments, but I

must tell you there’s no rale ill-will allowed inside here. You’ll feel

complately changed wance you gets at the right side of the gate.”

“The divil a change could make me keep quiet,” says Paddy, “if I heard

the biggest saint in Paradise say a hard word agen you, or even dar’ to

put himself on a par wud you!”

“Oh, Paddy!” says Saint Pathrick, “you mustn’t allow your timper to get

the betther of you. ’Tis hard, I know, _avic_, to sthruggle at

times agen your feelin’s, but the laiste said the soonest mended.”

“An’ will I meet Saint George and Saint Andhrew whin I get inside?”

“You will,” says Saint Pathrick; “but you mustn’t disgrace our counthry

by makin’ a row wud aither of ’em.”

“I’ll do my best,” says Paddy, “as ’tis yourself that axes me. An’ is

there any more of ’em that thrates you wud contimpt?”

“Well, not many,” says Saint Pathrick. “An’ indeed,” says he, “’tis

only an odd day we meets at all; an’ I can tell you I’m not a bad hand

at takin’ my own part--but there’s wan fellow,” says he, “that breaks

my _giddawn_ intirely.”

“An’ who is he? the bla’guard!” says Paddy.

“He’s an uncanonised craychur named Brakespeare,” says Saint Pathrick.

“A wondher you’d be seen talkin’ to the likes of him!” says Paddy; “an’

who is he at all?”

“Did you never hear tell of him?” says Saint Pathrick.

“Never,” says Paddy.

“Well,” says Saint Pathrick, “he made the worst bull----”

“Thin,” says Paddy, interruptin’ him in hot haste, “he’s wan of

ourselves--more shame for him! Oh, wait till I gets a grip of him by

the scruff of the neck!”

“Whisht! I tell you!” says Saint Pathrick. “Perhaps ’tis committin’

a vaynial sin you are now, an’ if that wor to come to Saint Pether’s

ears, maybe he’d clap twinty years of Limbo on to you--for he’s a hard

man sometimes, especially if he hears of any one losin’ his timper, or

getting impatient at the gates. An’ moreover,” says Saint Pathrick,

“himself an’ this Brakespeare are as thick as thieves, for they both

sat in the same chair below. I had a hot argument wud Nick yesterday.”

“Ould Nick, is it?” says Paddy.

“No,” says Saint Pathrick, laughin’. “Nick Brakespeare, I mane--the

same indeveedual I was tellin’ you about.”

“I beg your reverence’s pardon,” says Paddy, “an’ I hopes you’ll excuse

my ignorance. But you wor goin’ to give me an account of this hot

argument you had wud the bla’guard whin I put in my spoke.”

Begor, Saint Pathrick dhrew in his horns thin, an’ fearin’ Paddy might

think they wor in the habit of squabblin’ in heaven, he says, “Of

coorse, I meant only a frindly discussion.”

“An’ what was the frindly discussion about?” axes Paddy.

“About this bull of his,” says Saint Pathrick.

“The mischief choke himself an’ his cattle!” says Paddy.

“Begor,” says Saint Pathrick, “’twas choked the poor man was, sure

enough.”

“More power to the man that choked him!” says Paddy. “I hopes ye

canonised him.”

“’Twasn’t a man at all,” says Saint Pathrick.

“A faymale, perhaps?” says Paddy.

“Fie, fie, Paddy,” says Saint Pathrick. “Come, guess again.”

“Ah, I’m a poor hand at guessin’,” says Paddy.

“Well, ’twas a blue-bottle,” says St. Pathrick.

“An’ was it thryin’ to swallow the bottle an’ all he was?” says Paddy.

“He must have been ‘a hard case.’”

Begor, Saint Pathrick burst out laughin’, an’ says he, “You’ll make

your mark here, Paddy, I have no doubt.”

“I’ll make my mark on them that slights your reverence, believe me,”

says Paddy.

“Hush!” says Saint Pathrick, puttin’ his finger on his lips an’ lookin’

very solemn an’ business-like. “Here comes Saint Pether,” he whispers,

rattlin’ the kays to show he was mindin’ his duties. “He looks in

good-humour too; so it’s in luck you are.”

“I hope so, at any rate,” says Paddy; “for the clouds is very damp, an’

I’m throubled greatly wud the rheumatics.”

“Well, Pathrick,” says Saint Pether, comin’ up to the gates--Paddy

Power could just get a sighth of the pair inside through the bars of

the wicket--“how goes the enemy? Have you had a hard day of it, my son?”

“A very hard mornin’,” says Saint Pathrick. “They wor flockin’ here

as thick as flies at cock-crow--I mane,” says he, gettin’ very red in

the face, for he was in dhread he was afther puttin’ his fut in it wud

Saint Pether, “I mane just at daybreak.”

“It’s sthrange,” says Saint Pether, in a dhramey kind of a way, “but

I’ve noticed meself that there’s often a great rush of people in the

airly mornin’; often I don’t know whether it’s on my head or my heels

I do be standin’ wud the noise they kicks up outside, elbowin’ wan

another, an’ bawlin’ at me as if it was hard of hearin’ I was.”

“How did the match go?” says Saint Pathrick, aiger to divart Saint

Pether’s mind from his throubles.

“Grand!” says Saint Pether, brightenin’ up. “Hurlin’ is a great game.

It takes all the stiffness out of my ould joints. But who’s that

outside?” catchin’ sighth of Paddy Power.

“A poor fellow from Ireland,” says Saint Pathrick.

“I dunno how we’re to find room for all these Irishmen,” says Saint

Pether, scratchin’ his head. “’Twas only last week I gev ordhers to

have a new wing added to the Irish mansion, an’ begor I’m towld to-day

that ’tis chock full already. But of coorse we must find room for the

poor sowls. Did this chap come _viâ_ Purgathory?” say he.

“No,” says Saint Pathrick. “They sint him up direct.”

“Who is he?” says Saint Pether.

“His name is Paddy Power,” says St. Pathrick. “He seems a dacent sort

of craychur.”

“Where’s he from?” axes Saint Pether.

“The Parish of Portlaw,” says Saint Pathrick.

“Portlaw!” says Saint Pether. “Well, that’s sthrange,” says he, rubbin’

his chin. “You know I never forgets a name, but to my sartin knowledge

I never heard of Portlaw before. Has he a clane record?”

“There’s a thrifle wrong about it,” says Saint Pathrick. “He’s down on

the way-bill, but there are some charges agen him not quite rubbed out.”

“In that case,” says Saint Pether, “we’d best be on the safe side, an’

sind him to Limbo for a spell.”

Begor, when Paddy Power heard this he nearly lost his seven sinses wud

the fright, so he puts his face close up to the wicket, an’ he cries

out in a pitiful voice--

“O blessed Saint Pether, don’t be too hard on me. Sure even below,

where the law is sthrict enough agen a poor sthrugglin’ boy, they

always allows him the benefit of the doubt, an’ I gives you my word,

yer reverence, ’twas only by an accident the slate wasn’t rubbed clane.

I know for sartin that Father McGrath said some of the words of the

absolution before the life wint out of my body. Don’t dhrive a helpless

ould man to purgathory, I beseeches you. Saint Pathrick will go bail

for my good behaviour, I’ll be bound; an’ ’tis many the prayer I said

to your own self below!”

Faix, Saint Pether was touched wud the implorin’ way Paddy spoke, an’

turnin’ to Saint Pathrick he says, “’Tis a quare case, sure enough. I

don’t know that I ever remimber the like before, an’ my memory is of

the best. I think we’d do right to have a consultation over the affair

before we decides wan way or the other.”

“Ah, give the poor _angashore_ a chance,” says Saint Pathrick.

“’Tis hard to scald him for an accident. Besides,” says he, brightenin’

up as a thought sthruck him, “you say you never had a man before from

the parish of Portlaw, an’ I remimber you towld me wance that you’d

like to have a represintative here from every parish in the world.”

“Thrue enough,” says Saint Pether; “an’ maybe I’d never have another

chance from Portlaw.”

“Maybe not,” says Saint Pathrick, humourin’ him.

So Saint Pether takes a piece of injy-rubber from his waistcoat-pocket,

an’ goin’ over to the enthry-book he rubs out the charges agen Paddy

Power.

“I’ll take it on meself,” says he, “to docthor the books for this

wance, only don’t let the cat out of the bag on me, Pathrick, my son.”

“Never fear,” says Saint Pathrick. “Depind your life on me.”

“Well, it’s done, anyhow,” says Saint Pether, puttin’ the injy-rubber

back into his pocket; “an’ if you hands me over the kays, Pat,” says

he, “I’ll relaise you for the day, so that you can show your frind over

the grounds.”

“’Tis a grand man you are!” says Saint Pathrick. “My blessin’ on you,

_avic_!”

“Come in, Paddy Power,” says Saint Pether, openin’ the gate; “an’

remimber always that you wouldn’t be here for maybe nine hundred an’

ninety-nine year or more only that you’re the only offer we ever had

from the Parish of Portlaw.”

_Edmund Downey_ (1856).

[Illustration: “‘COME IN, PADDY POWER,’ SAYS SAINT PETHER,

OPENIN’ THE GATE.”]

_THE DANCE AT MARLEY._

Murtagh Murphy’s barn was full to the door when eve grew dull,

For Phelim Moore his beautiful new pipes had brought to charm

them;

In the kitchen thronged the girls--cheeks of roses, teeth of

pearls--

Admiring bows and braids and curls, till Phelim’s notes alarm

them.

Quick each maid her hat and shawl hung on dresser, bed, or wall,

Smoothed down her hair and smiled on all as she the _bawnoge_

entered,

Where a _shass_ of straw was laid on a ladder raised that made

A seat for them as still they stayed while dancers by them

cantered.

Murtagh and his _vanithee_[53] had their chairs brought in to see

The heels and toes go fast and free, and fun and love and

laughter;

In their sconces all alight shone the tallow candles bright--

The flames kept jigging all the night, upleaping to each rafter!

The pipes, with noisy drumming sound, the lovers’ whispering sadly

drowned,

So the couples took their ground--their hearts already dancing!

Merrily, with toe and heel, airily in jig and reel,

Fast in and out they whirl and wheel, all capering and prancing.

“Off She Goes,” “The Rocky Road,” “The Tipsy House,” and “Miss

McLeod,”

“The Devil’s Dream,” and “Jig Polthogue,” “The Wind that Shakes

the Barley,”

“The First o’ May,” “The Garran Bwee,” “Tatther Jack Welsh,” “The

River Lee,”--

As lapping breakers from the sea the myriad tunes at Marley!

Reels of three and reels of four, hornpipes and jigs _galore_,

With singles, doubles held the floor in turn, without a bar low;

But when fun and courting lulled, and the dancing somewhat dulled,

The door unhinged, the boys down pulled for “Follow me up to

Carlow.”

Ned and Nelly, hand in hand, footed in a square so grand,

Then back the jingling door they spanned, and swept swift as

their glances;

Nell, indignant-like, retired, chased by Ned until he tired,

Her constancy so great admired, that he soon made advances.

But young Nell would not be won, and a lover’s chase came on--

The maidens laughed to see the fun, till she surrendered fairly:

Hands enclasped in rosy pride, tripping neatly side, by side,

They turned and bowed most dignified to all the folk of Marley!

Poorly pen of sage or scribe could such scenes of joy describe,

Or due praises fair ascribe, where all were nearly equal!

The love-making I’ve forgot in each cosy _saustagh_[54] spot--

Yet now I think I’d better not go tell, but wait the sequel.

Everything must have an end, and the _girshas_[55] home did wend,

With guarding brother and a friend--this last was absent rarely!

Late the Murphys by the hearth talked about the evening’s mirth--

Ne’er a dance upon the earth could match that one at Marley.

_Patrick J. McCall_ (1861).

[Illustration: “FAST IN AND OUT THEY WHIRL AND WHEEL, ALL

CAPERING AND PRANCING.”]

_FIONN MACCUMHAIL AND THE PRINCESS._

Wance upon a time, when things was a great’le betther in Ireland than

they are at present, when a rale king ruled over the counthry wid four

others undher him to look afther the craps an’ other industhries, there

lived a young chief called Fan MaCool. Now, this was long afore we gev

up bowin’ and scrapin’ to the sun an’ moon an’ sich like _raumash_

(nonsense); an’, signs an it, there was a powerful lot ov witches an’

Druids, an’ enchanted min an’ wimen goin’ about, that med things quare

enough betimes for iverywan.

Well, Fan, as I sed afore, was a young man when he kem to the command,

an’ a purty likely lookin’ boy, too--there was nothin’ too hot or too

heavy for him; an’ so ye needn’t be a bit surprised if I tell ye he was

the mischief entirely wid the _colleens_. Nothin’ delighted him

more than to disguise himself wid an ould _coatamore_ (overcoat)

threwn over his showlder, a lump ov a _kippeen_ (stick) in his

fist an’ he mayanderin’ about unknownst, _rings around_ the

counthry, lookin’ for fun an’ _foosther_ (diversion) ov all kinds.

Well, one fine mornin’, whin he was _on the shaughraun_, he was

_waumasin_’ (strolling) about through Leinster, an’ near the

royal palace ov Glendalough he seen a mighty throng ov grand lords

an’ ladies, an’, my dear, they all dressed up to the nines, wid their

jewels shinin’ like dewdrops ov a May mornin’, and laughin’ like the

tinkle ov a _deeshy_ (small) mountain strame over the white rocks.

So he cocked his beaver, an’ stole over to see what was the matther.

Lo an’ behould ye, what were they at but houldin’ a race-meetin’

or _faysh_ (festival)--somethin’ like what the quality calls

_ataléticks_ now! There they were, jumpin’, and runnin’, and

coorsin’, an’ all soorts ov fun, enough to make the trouts--an’

they’re mighty fine leppers enough--die wid envy in the river benaith

them.

The fun wint on fast an’ furious, an’ Fan, consaled betune the

_trumauns_ an’ _brushna_ (elder bushes and furze), could

hardly keep himself quiet, seein’ the thricks they wor at. Peepin’ out,

he seen, jist forninst him on the other bank, the prencess herself,

betune the high-up ladies ov the coort. She was a fine, bouncin’

_geersha_ (girl) with goold hair like the furze an’ cheeks like

an apple blossom, an’ she brakin’ her heart laughin’ an’ clappin’

her hands an’ turnin’ her head this a-way an’ that a-way, jokin’ wid

this wan an’ that wan, an’ commiseratin’, _moryah_![56] the poor

_gossoons_ that failed in their leps. Fan liked the looks ov her

well, an’ whin the boys had run in undher a bame up to their knees an’

jumped up over another wan as high as their chins, the great trial ov

all kem on. Maybe you’d guess what that was? But I’m afeerd you won’t

if I gev you a hundhered guesses! It was to lep the strame, forty foot

wide!

List’nin’ to them whisperin’ to wan another, Fan heerd them tellin’

that whichever ov them could manage it wud be med a great man intirely

ov; he wud get the Prencess Maynish in marriage, an’ ov coorse, wud be

med king ov Leinster when the ould king, Garry, her father, cocked his

toes an’ looked up through the butts ov the daisies at the skhy. Well,

whin Fan h’ard this, he was put _to a nonplush_ (considering) to

know what to do! With his ould _duds_ (clothes) on him, he was

ashamed ov his life to go out into the open, to have the eyes ov the

whole wurruld on him, an’ his heart wint down to his big toe as he

watched the boys makin’ their offers at the lep. But no wan ov them

was soople enough for the job, an’ they kep on tumblin’, wan afther

the other, into the strame; so that the poor prencess began to look

sorryful whin her favourite, a big hayro wid a _coolyeen_ (curls)

a yard long--an’ more be token he was a boy o’ the Byrnes from

Imayle--jist tipped the bank forninst her wid his right fut, an’ then

twistin’, like a crow in the air scratchin’ her head with her claw, he

spraddled wide open in the wather, and splashed about like a hake in a

mudbank! Well, me dear, Fan forgot himself, an’ gev a screech like an

aigle; an’ wid that, the ould king started, the ladies all screamed,

an’ Fan was surrounded. In less than a minit an’ a half they dragged me

bould Fan be the collar ov his coat right straight around to the king

himself.

“What ould _geochagh_ (beggar) have we now?” sez the king, lookin’

very hard at Fan.

“I’m Fan MaCool!” sez the thief ov the wurruld, as cool as a frog.

“Well, Fan MaCool or not,” sez the king, mockin’ him, “ye’ll have

to jump the strame yander for freckenin’ the lives clane out ov me

ladies,” sez he, “an’ for disturbin’ our spoort ginerally,” sez he.

“An’ what’ll I get for that same?” sez Fan, _lettin’ on_

(pretending) he was afeerd.

“Me daughter, Maynish,” sez the king, wid a laugh; for he thought, ye

see, Fan would be drownded.

“Me hand on the bargain,” sez Fan; but the owld chap gev him a rap on

the knuckles wid his _specktre_ (sceptre) an’ towld him to hurry

up, or he’d get the _ollaves_ (judges) to put him in the Black Dog

pres’n or the Marshals--I forgets which--it’s so long gone by!

Well, Fan peeled off his _coatamore_, an’ threw away his

_bottheen_ ov a stick, an’ the prencess seein’ his big body an’

his long arums an’ legs like an oaktree, couldn’t help remarkin’ to her

comerade, the craythur--

“Bedad, _Cauth_ (Kate),” sez she, “but this beggarman is a fine

bit ov a _bouchal_ (boy),” sez she; “it’s in the arumy he ought to

be,” sez she, lookin’ at him agen, an’ admirin’ him, like.

So, Fan, purtendin’ to be fixin’ his shoes be the bank, jist pulled two

_lusmores_ (fox-gloves) an’ put them anunder his heels; for thim

wor the fairies’ own flowers that works all soort ov inchantment, an’

he, ov coorse, knew all about it; for he got the wrinkle from an owld

_lenaun_ (fairy guardian) named Cleena, that nursed him when he

was a little stand-a-loney.

Well, me dear, ye’d think it was on’y over a little _creepie_

(three-legged) stool he was leppin’ whin he landed like a thrish jist

at the fut ov the prencess; an’ his father’s son he was, that put his

two arums around her, an’ gev her a kiss--haith, ye’d hear the smack

ov it at the Castle o’ Dublin. The ould king groaned like a corncrake,

an’ pulled out his hair in hatfuls, an’ at last he ordhered the bowld

beggarman off to be kilt; but, begorrah, when they tuk off his weskit

an’ seen the collar ov goold around Fan’s neck the ould chap became

delighted, for he knew thin he had the commandher ov Airyun for a

son-in-law.

“Hello!” sez the king, “who have we now?” sez he, seein’ the collar.

“Begonnys,” sez he, “you’re no _boccagh_ (beggar) anyways!”

“I’m Fan MaCool,” sez the other, as impident as a cock sparra’; “have

you anything to say agen me?” for his name wasn’t up, at that time,

like afther.

“Ay, lots to say agen you. How dar’ you be comin’ round this a-way,

dressed like a playacthor, takin’ us in?” sez the king, lettin’ on to

be vexed; “an’ now,” sez he, “to annoy you, you’ll have to go an’ jump

back agen afore you gets me daughter for _puttin’ on_ (deceiving)

us in such a manner.”

“Your will is my pleasure,” sez Fan; “but I must have a word or two

with the girl first,” sez he, an’ up he goes an’ commences talkin’ soft

to her, an’ the king got as mad as a hatther at the way the two were

_croosheenin_’ an’ _colloguin_’ (whispering and talking), an’

not mindin’ him no more than if he was the man in the moon, when who

comes up but the Prence ov Imayle, afther dryin’ himself, to put his

pike in the hay, too.

“Well, _avochal_ (my boy),” sez Fan, “are you dry yet?” an’ the

prencess laughed like a bell round a cat’s neck.

“You think yourself a smart lad, I suppose,” sez the other; “but

there’s one thing you can’t do wid all your prate!”

“What’s that?” sez Fan. “Maybe not,” sez he.

“You couldn’t whistle an’ chaw oatenmale,” sez the Prence ov Imayle, in

a pucker. “Are you any good at throwin’ a stone?” sez he, then.

“The best!” sez Fan, an’ all the coort gother round like to a

cock-fight. “Where’ll we throw to?” sez he.

“In to’ards Dublin,” sez the Prence ov Imayle; an’ be all accounts he

was a great hand at _cruistin_ (throwing). “Here goes pink!” sez

he, an’ he ups with a stone, as big as a castle, an’ sends it flyin’ in

the air like a cannon ball, and it never stopped till it landed on top

ov the Three Rock Mountain.

“I’m your masther!” sez Fan, pickin’ up another _clochaun_ (stone)

an’ sendin’ it a few perch beyant the first.

“That you’re not,” sez the Prence ov Imayle, an’ he done his best, an’

managed to send another finger stone beyant Fan’s throw; an’ shure, the

three stones are to be seen, be all the world, to this very day.

“Well, me lad,” says Fan, stoopin’ for another as big as a hill, “I’m

sorry I have to bate you; but I can’t help it,” sez he, lookin’ over

at the Prencess Maynish, an’ she as mute as a mouse watchin’ the two

big men, an’ the ould king showin’ fair play, as delighted as a child.

“Watch this,” sez he, whirlin’ his arm like a windmill, “and now put on

your spectacles,” sez he; and away he sends the stone, buzzin’ through

the air like a peggin’-top, over the other three _clochauns_, and

then across Dublin Bay, an’ scrapin’ the nose off ov Howth, it landed

with a swish in the say beyant it. That’s the rock they calls Ireland’s

Eye now!

“Be the so an’ so!” sez the king, “I don’t know where that went to, at

all, at all! What _direct_ did you send it?” sez he to Fan. “I had

it in view, till it went over the say,” sez he.

“I’m bet!” sez the Prence ov Imayle. “I couldn’t pass that, for I can’t

see where you put it, even--good-bye to yous,” sez he, turnin’ on his

heel an’ makin’ off; “an’ may yous two be as happy as I can wish you!”

An’ back he went to the butt ov Lugnaquilla, an’ took to fret, an’ I

undherstand shortly afther he died ov a broken heart; an’ they put a

turtle-dove on his tombstone to signify that he died for love; but

_I_ think he overstrained himself, throwin’, though that’s nayther

here nor there with me story!

“Are you goin’ to lep back agen?” sez ould King Garry, wantin’ to see

more sport; for he tuk as much delight in seein’ the like as if he was

a lad ov twenty.

“To be shure I will!” sez Fan, ready enough, “but I’ll have to take the

girl over with me this time!” sez he.

“Oh, no, Fan!” sez Maynish, afeerd ov her life he might stumble, an’

that he’d fall in with her; an’ then she’d have to fall out with

him--“take me father with you,” sez she; an’, egonnys, the ould king

thought more about himself than any ov them, an’ sed he’d take the

will for the deed, like the lawyers. So the weddin’ went on; an’ maybe

that wasn’t the grand _blow out_. But I can’t stay to tell yous

all the fun they had for a fortnit; on’y, me dear, they all went into

_kinks_ (fits) ov laughin’, when the ould king, who tuk more than

was good for him, stood up to drink Fan’s health, an’ forgot himself.

“Here’s to’ards your good health, Fan MaCool!” sez he, as grand as you

like--“an’ a long life to you, an’ a happy wife to you--an’ a great

many ov them!” sez he, like he’d forgot somethin’.

Well, me dear, every one was splittin’ their sides like the p’yates,

unless the prencess, an’ _she_ got as red in the face as if she

was churnin’ in the winther an’ the frost keepin’ the crame from

crackin’; but she got over it like the maisles.

But I suppose you can guess the remainder, an’ as the evenin’s gettin’

forrad I’ll stop; so put down the kittle an’ make tay, an’ if Fan and

the Prencess Maynish didn’t live happy together--that we may!

_Patrick J. McCall._

_TATTHER JACK WELSH._

Did you e’er meet a boy on the road to the fair,

With his merry blue eyes and his curly brown hair,

With his hands in his pockets, and whistling a jig,

To humour the way for himself and his pig?

Oh, that was the boy who has won my fond heart,

Whose eyes have sent through me a dangerous dart;

And cut out my sweetheart of old, Darby Kelsh--

Oh, my blessing attend you, my Tatther Jack Welsh!

Well, he lives up the lane, by the side of Lug Dhu,

And the dickens a ha’porth in life does he do,

But breaking the hearts of the girls all around--

Not a single one, whole and entire, can be found.

For he is the boy that can lilt up a tune--

Troth, you’d think ’twas the fairies were singing “Da Luan.”

Oh! your feet would go jigging in spite of yourself

If you heard the fife played by that musical elf.

One fine evening young Darby came up to our house,

And indeed the poor boy was as mute as a mouse,

Till my Jacky came in, and says he, “Darby Kelsh,

Shure you can’t court at all--look at Tatther Jack Welsh!”

So up the rogue rushes, and gave me a _pogue_,[57]

And Darby ran out, like he’d got a _polthogue_,[58]--

“Arrah, what can be ailing,” says he, “Darby Kelsh?”

“Haith, you know well enough,” says I, “Tatther Jack Welsh!”

_Patrick J. McCall._

_THEIR LAST RACE._

I.--THE FACTION FIGHT.

In the heart of the Connemara Highlands, Carrala Valley hides in a

triangle of mountains. Carrala Village lies in the comer of it towards

Loch Ina, and Aughavanna in the corner nearest Kylemore. Aughavanna is

a wreck now: if you were to look for it you would see only a cluster

of walls grown over by ferns and nettles; but in those remote times,

before the Great Famine, when no English was spoken in the Valley,

there was no place more renowned for wild fun and fighting; and when

its men were to be at a fair, every able-bodied man in the countryside

took his _kippeen_--his cudgel--from its place in the chimney, and

went out to do battle with a glad heart.

Long Mat Murnane was the king of Aughavanna. There was no grander sight

than Mat smashing his way through a forest of _kippeens_, with

his enemies staggering back to the right and left of him; there was

no sweeter sound than his voice, clear as a bell, full of triumph and

gladness, shouting, “Hurroo! whoop! Aughavanna for ever!” Where his

_kippeen_ flickered in the air his followers charged after, and

the enemy rushed to meet him, for it was an honour to take a broken

head from him.

But Carrala Fair was the black day for him. That day Carrala swarmed

with men--fishers from the near coast, dwellers in lonely huts by

the black lakes, or in tiny ragged villages under the shadow of the

mountains, or in cabins on the hill-sides--every little town for miles,

by river or seashore or mountain-built, was emptied. The fame of the

Aughavanna men was their ruin, for they were known to fight so well

that every one was dying to fight them. The Joyces sided against them;

Black Michael Joyce had a farm in the third corner of the Valley, just

where the road through the bog from Aughavanna (the road with the cross

by it) meets the high-road to Leenane, so his kin mustered in force.

Now Black Michael, “Meehul Dhu,” was Long Mat’s rival; though smaller

he was near as deadly in fight, and in dancing no man could touch him,

for it was said he could jump a yard into the air and kick himself

behind with his heels in doing it.

The business of the Fair had been hurried so as to leave the more

time for pleasure, and by five of the afternoon every man was mad for

the battle. Why you could scarcely have moved in Callanan’s Field out

beyond the churchyard at the end of the Village, it was so packed

with men--more than five hundred were there, and you could not have

heard yourself speak, for they were jumping and dancing, tossing their

_caubeens_, and shouting themselves hoarse and deaf--“Hurroo for

Carrala!” “Whoop for Aughavanna!” Around them a mob of women, old men

and children, looked on breathlessly. It was dull weather, and the

mists had crept half-way down the dark mountain walls, as if to have a

nearer look at the fight.

As the chapel clock struck five, Long Mat Murnane gave the signal. Down

the Village he came, rejoicing in his strength, out between the two

last houses, past the churchyard and into Callanan’s Field; he looked

every inch a king; his _kippeen_ was ready, his frieze coat was

off, with his left hand he trailed it behind him holding it by the

sleeve, while with a great voice he shouted--in Irish--“Where’s the

Carrala man that dare touch my coat?” “Where’s the cowardly scoundrel

that dare look crooked at it?”

In a moment Black Michael Joyce was trailing his own coat behind him,

and rushed forward, with a mighty cry, “Where’s the face of a trembling

Aughavanna man?” In a moment their _kippeens_ clashed; in another,

hundreds of _kippeens_ crashed together, and the grandest fight

ever fought in Connemara raged over Callanan’s Field. After the first

roar of defiance the men had to keep their breath for the hitting, so

the shout of triumph and the groan as one fell were the only sounds

that broke the music of the _kippeens_ clashing and clicking on

one another, or striking home with a thud.

Never was Long Mat nobler: he rushed ravaging through the enemy,

shattering their ranks and their heads, no man could withstand him; Red

Callanan of Carrala went down before him; he knocked the five senses

out of Dan O’Shaughran of Earrennamore, that herded many pigs by the

sedgy banks of the Owen Erriff; he hollowed the left eye out of Larry

Mulcahy, that lived on the Devil’s Mother Mountain--never again did

Larry set the two eyes of him on his high mountain-cradle; he killed

Black Michael Joyce by a beautiful swooping blow on the side of the

head--who would have dreamt that Black Michael had so thin a skull?

For near an hour Mat triumphed, then suddenly he went down under foot.

At first he was missed only by those nearest him, and they took it for

granted that he was up again and fighting. But when the Aughavanna men

found themselves out-numbered and driven back to the Village, a great

fear came on them, for they knew that all Ireland could not out-number

them if Mat was to the fore. Then disaster and rout took them, and

they were forced backwards up the street, struggling desperately, till

hardly a man of them could stand.

And when the victors were shouting themselves dumb, and drinking

themselves blind, the beaten men looked for their leader. Long Mat was

prone, his forehead was smashed, his face had been trampled into the

mud--he had done with fighting. His death was untimely, yet he fell as

he would have chosen--in a friendly battle. For when a man falls under

the hand of an enemy (as of any one who differs from him in creed or

politics), revenge and black blood live after him; but he who takes his

death from the kindly hand of a friend leaves behind him no ill-will,

but only gentle regret for the mishap.

II.--THEIR LAST RACE.

When the dead had been duly waked for two days and nights, the burying

day came. All the morning Long Mat Murnane’s coffin lay on four chairs

by his cabin, with a kneeling ring of dishevelled women _keening_

round it. Every soul in Aughavanna and their kith and kin had gathered

to do him honour. And when the Angelus bell rang across the Valley from

the chapel, the mourners fell into ranks, the coffin was lifted on the

rough hearse, and the motley funeral--a line of carts with a mob of

peasants behind, a few riding, but most of them on foot--moved slowly

towards Carrala. The women were crying bitterly, _keening_ like an

Atlantic gale; the men looked as sober as if they had never heard of a

wake, and spoke sadly of the dead man, and of what a pity it was that

he could not see his funeral.

The Joyces too had waited, as was the custom, for the Angelus bell, and

now Black Michael’s funeral was moving slowly towards Carrala along

the other side of the bog. Before long either party could hear the

_keening_ of the other, for you know the roads grow nearer as they

converge on Carrala. Before long either party began to fear that the

other would be there first.

There is no knowing how it happened, but the funerals began to go

quicker, keeping abreast; then still quicker, till the women had to

break into a trot to keep up; then still quicker, till the donkeys

were galloping, and till every one raced at full speed, and the rival

parties broke into a wild shout of “Aughavanna _abu_!” “Meehul Dhu

for ever!”

For the dead men were racing--feet foremost--to the grave; they were

rivals even in death. Never did the world see such a race, never was

there such whooping and shouting. Where the roads meet in Callanan’s

Field the hearses were abreast; neck to neck they dashed across the

trampled fighting-place, while the coffins jogged and jolted as if the

two dead men were struggling to get out and lead the rush; neck to neck

they reached the churchyard, and the hearses jammed in the gate. Behind

them the carts crashed into one another, and the mourners shouted as if

they were mad.

But the quick wit of the Aughavanna men triumphed, for they seized

their long coffin and dragged it in, and Long Mat Murnane won his last

race. The shout they gave then deafened the echo up in the mountains,

so that it has never been the same since. The victors wrung one

another’s hands; they hugged one another.

“Himself would be proud,” they cried, “if he hadn’t been dead!”

_Frank Mathew_ (1865).

_IN BLARNEY._

_He_--Be the fire, _alanna_, sittin’,

Purty ’tis you look and sweet,

Wid yer dainty fingers knittin’

Shtockin’s for yer daintier feet.

_She_--It’s yer tongue that has the blarney,

Yis, and impudence _galore_!

Is it me to thrusht ye, Barney,

When yer afther half-a-score?

_He_--Shure, I ne’er, in all I thravelled,

Found at all the likes o’ you.

_She_--Now my worsted all is ravelled

And whatever will I do?

_He_--Might I make so bould to ask it,

Shure I know the girl o’ girls;

And I’d make me heart the casket,

And her love the pearl o’ pearls.

_She_--Ah, thin, Barney dear, I’m thinkin’

That it’s you’re the honied rogue.

_He_--Faix, I’d be the bee a-dhrinkin’

From yer rosy lips a _pogue_.[59]

_She_--Is it steal a colleen’s kisses,

When it’s all alone she’s left?

_He_--Wor they all as sweet as this is,

Troth, I’d go to jail for theft.

_She_--Barney! Barney, shtop yer foolin’!

Or I’ll soon begin to scould.

Sure, I’d like to know what school in

Did ye learn to be so bould?

_He_--Och! it’s undher Masther Cupid

That I learned me A, B, C.

_She_--That the scholar wasn’t stupid,

Faith, is very plain to see.

_He_--Ah, then Eily, but the blush is

Most becomin’ to ye, dear!

Like the red rose on the bush is----

_She_--Sir I you needn’t come so near!

_He_--Over lane and road and _boreen_,

Troth, I’ve come a weary way,

Jusht to whisper ye, _asthoreen_,

Somethin’ that I’ve longed to say.

I’ve a cosy cottage, which is

Jusht the proper size for two----

_She_--There, I’ve tangled all me stitches,

And it’s all because av you!

_He_--And, to make a sthray suggestchun,

Maybe you me wish might guess?

_She_--Sure, an’ if ye pressed the question,

Somehow--I--might answer--YES!

_Patrick J. Coleman_ (1867).

[Illustration: “GATHERIN’ UP THE GOLDEN GRAIN.”]

_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,

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’, _asthore machree_, 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_?[60]

How could I help but there deliver

My heart for ever

To such a beautiful little rogue?

Bindin’ the oats, ’twas 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!

_Patrick J. Coleman._

_SELECTED IRISH PROVERBS, ETC._

A man ties a knot with his tongue that his teeth will not loosen.

Honey is sweet, but don’t lick it off a briar.

The doorstep of a great house is slippery.

The leisure of the smith’s helper (_i.e._, from the bellows to the

anvil).

You have the foal’s share of the harrow.

Laziness is a heavy burden.

You’d be a good messenger to send for death--(said of a slow person).

Better be bald than have no head at all--but the devil a much more than

that.

Better the end of a feast than the beginning of a fight.

Let him cool in the skin he warmed in.

A man is shy in another man’s corner.

The pig in the sty doesn’t know the pig going along the road.

’Tis on her own account the cat purrs.

Cows far from home have long horns.

A black hen lays a white egg (_i.e._, do not judge by appearances).

’Tis a good story that fills the belly.

A drink is shorter than a story.

The man that’s up is toasted,

The man that’s down is trampled on.

He knows more than his “Our Father.”

A mouth of ivy and a heart of holly.

A soft word never broke a tooth yet.

He comes like the bad weather (_i.e._, uninvited).

Who lies down with dogs will get up with fleas.

The eye of a friend is a good looking-glass.

’Tis the fool has luck.

What the Pookha writes, he himself can read.

A blind man can see his mouth.

To die and to lose one’s life are much the same.

Don’t leave a tailor’s remnant behind you.

’Tis a wedge of itself that splits the oak.

The three sharpest things at all--a thorn in mire, a hound’s tooth, and

a fool’s retort.

When it goes hard with the old hag, she must run.

The jewel most rare is the jewel most fair.

He that loses the game, let him talk away.

A heavy purse makes a light heart.

He is like a bag-pipe--he never makes a noise till his belly’s full.

Out of the kitchen comes the tune.

Falling is easier than rising.

A woman has an excuse readier than an apron.

The secret of an old woman scolding (_i.e._, no secret at all).

A bad wife takes advice from every man but her own husband.

The daughter of an active old woman makes a bad housekeeper.

Never take a wife who has no faults.

She burnt her coal and did not warm herself (_i.e._, when a woman

makes a bad marriage).

A ring on the finger and not a stitch of clothes on the back.

A hen with chickens never yet burst her craw.

A big belly was never generous.

One bit of a rabbit is worth two of a cat.

There is hope from the sea, but no hope from the cemetery.

When the hand ceases to scatter, the mouth ceases to praise.

Big head and little sense.

The tail is part of the cat (_i.e._, a man resembles his family).

A cat’s milk gives no cream (said of a stingy person).

Butter to butter’s no relish (said when two men dance together, or two

women kiss each other).

One cockroach knows another.

A heavy load are your empty guts.

The young thorn is the sharpest.

Sweet is wine, bitter its payment.

Whoever drinks, it is Donall that pays.

An alms from his own share, to the fool.

Better a wren in hand that a crane promised.

The man on the fence is the best hurler (against critics and idle

lookers-on).

A closed hand gets but a shut fist.

It is not all big men that reap the harvest.

Easy, oh woman of three cows! (against pretentious people).

Fair words won’t feed the friars.

Never poor till one goes to hell.

Not worried till married.

Brother to Donall is Theigue (= _Arcades ambo_).

Three without rule--a wife, a pig, and a mule.

When your hand is in the dog’s mouth, draw it out gently.

Better a drop of whisky than a blow of a stick.

After their feeding, the whelps begin to fight.

The four drinks--the drink for thirst, the drink without thirst, the

drink for fear of thirst, and the drink at the door.

A woman is more obstinate than a mule--a mule than the devil.

All the world would not make a racehorse of a jackass.

When the goat goes to church he never stops till he goes up to the

altar.

A strip of another man’s leather is very soft.

’Tis a bad hen that won’t scratch for herself.

Better riding a goat than the best marching.

Death is the poor man’s doctor.

If ’tis a sin to be yellow, thousands will be damned.

There’s no good crying when the funeral is gone.

Buttermilk is no milk, and a pudding’s no meat.

Though near to a man his coat, his shirt is nearer (_i.e._, blood

is thicker than water).

Better a fistful of a man than a basketful of a woman.

What cannot be had is just what suits.

An unlearned king is a crowned ass.

’Tis the end of the little pot, the bottom to fall out of it.

A woman’s desire--the dear thing.

Twelve things not to be found--four priests not covetous, four

Frenchmen not yellow, and four cobblers not liars.

Nora having a servant and herself begging (shabby gentility).

A man without dinner--two for supper.

The man without a resource is hanged.

Poor women think butter-milk good.

Harsh is the poor man’s voice--he speaks all out of place.

A wet mouth does not feel a dry mouth (_i.e._, plenty does not

understand want).

’Tis a fine horse that never stumbles.

Take care of my neck and go on one side (_i.e._, do not lean

altogether on one).

A man loses something to teach himself.

A hen carried far is heavy.

The day of the storm is not the day for thatching.

Winter comes on the lazy.

A crow thinks its own young white.

Putting on the mill the straw of the kiln (_i.e._, robbing Peter

to pay Paul).

Truth is bitter, but a lie is savoury at times.

’Tis a bad hound that is not worth whistling for.

Better to-day than to-morrow morning.

Patience is the cure of an old complaint.

Have your own will, like the women have.

It is not the same thing to go to town (or to court) and to come from

it.

An old cat does not burn himself.

A foolish woman knows the faults of a foolish man.

The man that’s out his portion cools (_i.e._, out of sight, out of

mind).

That’s great softening on the butter-milk.

The law of lending is to break the ware.

No heat like that of shame.

A candle does not give light till lit.

Don’t praise your son-in-law till the year’s out.

It is not a sheep’s head that we wouldn’t have another turn at it

(there being only one meal in a sheep’s head).

The glory the head cannot bear, ’twere better not there.

He that does not tie a knot will lose his first stitch.

The fox never found a better messenger than himself.

Better a little fire that warms than a large fire that burns.

Better a short sitting than a long standing.

Better be idle than working for nothing.

Do not show your teeth when you cannot give a bite.

Better come empty than with bad news.

Trust him as far as you can throw a cow by the tail.

Praise the end of it.

To know one since his boots cost fourpence (_i.e._, from an early

age).

Never was door shut but another was opened.

The heaviest ear of corn bends lowliest.

He who is bad at giving lodging is good at showing the road.

The husband of the sloven is known amongst a crowd.

Where there’s women there’s talk, and where there’s geese there’s

cackling.

More beard than brains, as the fox said of the goat.

A bad reaper never got a good reaping hook.

A trade not learned is an enemy.

An empty house is better than a bad tenant.

He knows as much about it as a dog knows of his father.

He’d say anything but his prayers.

A vessel will only hold the full of it.

Blow before you drink.

Better fame (_i.e._, reputation and character) than fortune.

A blind man is no judge of colours.

Fierceness is often hidden under beauty.

When the cat is out, the mice dance.

There is often anger in a laugh.

A fool’s gold is light.

No one claims kindred with the homeless.

An empty vessel makes most sound.

The lamb teaching her dam to bleat.

Both hard and soft, like the cow’s tail.

He that gets a name for early rising may sleep all day.

Talk is cheap.

When the hand grows weak, love gets feeble.

If you have a cow you can always find somebody to milk her.

Long-lived is a man in his own country.

Forgetting one’s debts does not pay them.

Nearer is God’s aid than the door.

Bad is the walk that is not better than rest.

Diseases without shame are love and thirst.

It is hard to dry a rush that has been dipped in tallow (_i.e._,

it is hard to break off a habit).

Might is not lasting.

Wrath speaketh not true.

A bribe bursts the rock.

What goes to length goes to coldness.

Better the good that is than the double good that was.

Often a mouse went under a cornstack.

A good retreat is better than a bad stand.

Not better is food than sense at time of drinking.

The idiot knows the fault of the fool.

Thy complexion is black, says the raven.

Better be sparing at first than at last.

Whoever escapes, the peacemaker won’t.

I would take an eye out of myself to take two out of another.

A hedge on the field after the trespass.

Melodious is the closed mouth.

A spit without meat is a long thing.

Alas for a house that men frequent not.

It’s many the skin that sloughs off youth.

Time is a good story-teller.

The quills often took the flesh with them.

One debt won’t pay another.

There never came a gatherer but a scatterer came after him.

There’s none for bad shoes like the shoemaker’s wife.

No man ever gave advice but himself were the better for some of it.

A man of learning understands the half-word.

O’Brien’s gift and his two eyes after it (_i.e._, regretting it).

[Illustration]

BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX OF WRITERS.

BARRETT, EATON STANNARD.--Satirist and poet, and one of

the wittiest of writers. Born in Cork in 1786, he graduated at

Trinity College, Dublin, and became a barrister in London. Some

of his satires had great vogue, especially “All the Talents,”

which was directed against a ministry still known by that

description. He was the author of various burlesque novels,

plays, and poems, but could write well on serious topics.

Barrett died in Glamorganshire, Wales, on March 20th, 1820,

through the bursting of a blood-vessel.

BOUCICAULT, DION.--The real name of this popular

dramatist and actor was Dionysius Lardner Bourcicault. He was

born in Dublin on December 26th, 1822, and wrote the comedy of

“London Assurance,” when only nineteen years old. His Irish

dramas are well known, and are still considered the best of

their kind. He was an admirable comedian, as well as dramatic

writer. He spent many years in the United States, and died there

in September 1890.

BOURKE, JAMES JOSEPH.--Born in Dublin on September

17th, 1837. His poems are very widely known and appreciated

among Irish people. Over the signature of “Tiria” he wrote

largely for the Irish newspapers of the last thirty years. He

died on April 28th, 1894.

BOYLE, WILLIAM.--There are few Irish authors whose

writings are more racy than his. He was born in 1853 at

Dromiskin, co. Louth, and was educated at St. Mary’s College,

Dundalk. He entered the Inland Revenue department in 1874, and

is now stationed in Glasgow.

CANNING, GEORGE.--Born in London on April 11th, 1770.

His father and mother were Irish, and he insisted that he was an

Irishman born out of Ireland. After a brilliant Parliamentary

career he became Prime Minister in 1827, but only held the

position about three months, his death occurring on August 8th

of that year. His witty essays were written in early life for

_The Microcosm_ and _Anti-Jacobin_.

CANNINGS, THOMAS.--A private soldier, who published at

Cork in 1800, or thereabouts, a volume of _Detached Pieces in

Verse_. He belonged to the 61st Regiment.

CARLETON, WILLIAM.--Author of the _Traits and Stories

of the Irish Peasantry_, and recognised as one of the

greatest delineators of Irish character. Born at Prillisk, co.

Tyrone, in 1794, he was the son of a peasant. His best-known

work, already mentioned, appeared in 1830, and after that date

scarcely a year passed without a new work of his appearing.

He wrote largely for the _Dublin University Magazine_,

etc., and was granted a Civil List pension of £200 by Lord John

Russell. He died near Dublin on January 30th, 1869.

COLEMAN, PATRICK JAMES.--A native of Ballaghadeerin,

co. Mayo, where he was born on September 2nd, 1867. He

matriculated in London University, and in 1888 went to

America. He now occupies a position in the journalistic

world of Philadelphia, and is regarded as one of the rising

Irish-American poets.

CURRAN, JOHN PHILPOT.--This noted orator and wit was

born at Newmarket, co. Cork, on July 24th, 1750. His patriotism

has endeared him to his countrymen, and his eloquence and humour

have made his name widely familiar. He became Master of the

Rolls in Ireland in 1806, and died in London on October 14th,

1817.

DAWSON, ARTHUR.--A Baron of the Exchequer in Ireland,

was born about 1700, and graduated B.A. at Dublin University. He

was appointed Baron of the Irish Court of Exchequer in 1742, and

died in 1775.

DE QUINCEY, J.--A solicitor’s clerk in Limerick, who

wrote a little humorous verse in the Irish papers some years ago.

DOWNEY, EDMUND.--Author of the well-known stories

signed “F. M. Allen,” such as “Through Green Glasses,” etc.

These richly humorous Irish stories are perhaps better known,

but can hardly be considered superior to his excellent

sea-stories. “Anchor-Watch Yarns” and kindred tales by Mr.

Downey place him in the front rank of writers of sea-stories.

He was born in Waterford in 1856, and is the son of a shipowner

and broker. He came to London in 1878, and was for a time in the

office of Tinsley the publisher. He afterwards became a partner

in the firm of Ward & Downey, from which he has now retired.

DUFFERIN, LADY.--Born in 1807, the daughter of Thomas,

son of Richard Brinsley Sheridan. She and her two sisters were

noted for personal beauty; one of them, the Hon. Mrs. Norton,

was also well known as a poetess. She married first the Hon.

Pryce Blackwood (afterwards Lord Dufferin), and afterwards the

Earl of Gifford. The present Marquis of Dufferin is her son. She

died on June 13th, 1867. Her poems are often exquisite in their

pathos, humour, or grace.

ETTINGSALL, THOMAS.--A fishing-tackle manufacturer of

Wood Quay, Dublin, and was born about the close of last century.

He wrote only a few sketches and stories for _The Irish Penny

Journal_ (1840) and _Dublin Penny Journal_ (1832). It

was in the last-named magazine, on December 15th, 1832, that

the story here given appeared. He was concerned with H. B.

Code in the authorship of _The Angling Excursions of Gregory

Greendrake_, which was published in Dublin in 1824. He was

“Geoffrey Greydrake” of that work, which was reprinted from

_The Warder_. He died in poor circumstances about 1850.

FAHY, FRANCIS ARTHUR.--One of the raciest and most

humorous of Irish poets. Born in Kinvara, co. Galway, on

September 29th, 1854, and came to London as a Civil Service

clerk in 1873. He wrote many poems for the Irish papers, signed

“Dreoilin” (the wren), and in 1887 published a collection of

_Irish Songs and Poems_ in Dublin. He is represented

by a few pieces in the recently-issued _Songs of the Four

Nations_, and some of his later songs have been admirably set

to music by Mrs. Needham.

FARQUHAR, GEORGE.--This noted dramatist was born in

Derry in 1678, and was the son of a clergyman. He studied at

Dublin University and did not graduate. He went on the stage

in 1695, but though successful as an actor, he left the stage

and wrote plays, of which his most important are “The Beaux

Stratagem,” “The Inconstant,” and “The Recruiting Officer.” He

died in April 1707.

FERGUSON, SIR SAMUEL.--Is regarded as one of the

greatest of Irish poets. Was born on March 10th, 1810; graduated

at Dublin University, and was called to the Bar. He was one of

the leading contributors to _Blackwood’s Magazine_, his

“Father Tom and the Pope” (often attributed in error to others)

appearing in its columns, and also his fine poem, “The Forging

of the Anchor.” He published several volumes of very admirable

poetry, and some graphic stories of ancient Ireland. He died on

August 9th, 1886.

FRENCH, WILLIAM PERCY.--Born at Clooniquin, co.

Roscommon, on May 1st, 1854, and graduated at Dublin University.

He is one of the cleverest of living Irish humorists, and is the

author of many verses, stories, etc., most of which appeared in

a small Dublin comic, _The Jarvey_, edited by himself. Some

of his songs have become very popular, and he is also the author

of the _libretti_ of one or two operas.

GOLDSMITH, OLIVER.--The leading facts of Goldsmith’s

career are almost too well known to need even bare mention. He

was born at Pallas, near Ballymahon, co. Longford, on November

10th, 1728. He entered Dublin University, and graduated B.A.

there in 1749. After wandering about the Continent he settled

down in London to a literary life, his first experiences being

those of a badly-paid hack. He died on April 4th, 1774, and was

buried in the Temple.

GRAVES, ALFRED PERCEVAL.--The author of “Father

O’Flynn” is decidedly the most popular, after Lover, of the

humorous Irish song-writers. He has not only produced many good

songs in the lighter vein, but has also written excellent ones

of a pathetic character. He is the son of the present Bishop

of Limerick, and was born in Dublin in 1846. He is a graduate

of Dublin, and holds the position of Inspector of Schools. He

resided for some years in Taunton, but now lives in London. It

would have been easy to extract a dozen inimitable pieces from

his several volumes. He has done much to make Irish music and

the Irish character better known.

GRIFFIN, GERALD.--Born in Limerick on December 12th,

1803, came to London in youth to carve out his fortune. He wrote

some admirable Irish stories and some beautiful poems, as well

as a tolerable play, but just as he was succeeding in literature

he withdrew from the world, joining the order of the Christian

Brothers. He died in Cork on June 12th, 1840. His best-known

book is _The Collegians, or, the Colleen Bawn_.

HALPINE, CHARLES GRAHAM.--Author of one or two volumes

of verse, some of which is occasionally very humorous. He was

born at Oldcastle, co. Meath, in 1829, and was the son of a

Protestant clergyman. He went to the United States in the

fifties and fought through the Civil War, gaining the rank of

colonel. He died through taking an overdose of chloral to induce

sleep, on August 3rd, 1868.

HYDE, DOUGLAS, LL.D.--Is the son of Rev. Arthur Hyde

of Frenchpark, co. Roscommon, and was born at Kilmactranny, co.

Sligo, somewhere about 1860. Graduated at Dublin University, and

had a brilliant career there. Is one of the foremost of living

Irish writers, and a master of the Gaelic tongue. He is well

known as a scholar and an enthusiast in folk-lore studies, and

has published fine collections of Irish folk-tales and popular

songs of the West of Ireland. He is also a clever writer of

verse, both in Irish and in English.

KENEALY, EDWARD VAUGHAN HYDE, LL.D.--Born in Cork

on July 2nd, 1819, and graduated LL.D. at Dublin University

in 1850. Was called to the English Bar in 1847, and had a

somewhat stormy career as a member, being finally disbarred on

account of his conduct in the famous Tichbourne case. He wrote

a good deal for _Fraser’s Magazine_ in its early years,

as also for _Bentley’s Miscellany_, and published various

collections of poetry. He was a vigorous journalist, and a man

of undoubtedly great ability, and entered Parliament in 1875. He

died on April 16th, 1880.

KICKHAM, CHARLES JOSEPH.--A poet of the people, and

a novelist of some power. To get a genuine impression of

the home-life of the Munster people, his stories, _Sally

Cavanagh_ and _Knocknagow, or the Homes of Tipperary_,

should be read. He was born at Mullinahone, co. Tipperary, in

1828, and became a Fenian. He was connected with _The Irish

People_, the Fenian organ, and in 1865 was arrested and

sentenced to fourteen years’ penal servitude. He lost his sight

during his imprisonment, and was much shattered in health. He

died on August 22nd, 1882.

LEFANU, JOSEPH SHERIDAN.--Born in Dublin on August

28th, 1814, and graduated B.A. at Dublin University in 1837. He

was called to the Bar, but devoted himself to literature and

journalism. He owned two or three Dublin papers, and was editor

of _The Dublin University Magazine_, also his property,

where most of his novels and poems appeared. He is one of the

most enthralling of novelists, his _Uncle Silas_, _In a

Glass Darkly_, etc., being very powerful. His poems, such as

“Shamus O’Brien,” are also very well known. He died on February

7th, 1873.

LEVER, CHARLES JAMES.--This most widely read of Irish

novelists was born in Dublin on August 31st, 1806, and graduated

M.B. at Dublin University in 1831. He took his M.D. degree at

Louvain, and became a dispensary doctor in Ireland, but also

practised abroad for a time with success. He was editor of

_The Dublin University Magazine_ from 1842 to 1845, and

wrote much for it, for _Blackwood’s Magazine_ and other

leading periodicals. There is no necessity to name any of his

novels. He acted as English Consul in Italy, and died at Trieste

on June 1st, 1872. His life has been admirably told by Mr. W. J.

Fitzpatrick (1879; 2nd ed. 1882).

LOVER, SAMUEL.--Poet, painter, musician, dramatist, and

novelist--and successful in all departments. His work in each

was excellent, and he might have been considered great if he

had confined himself to any one of them. He was born in Dublin

on February 24th, 1797, and was first notable as a miniature

painter. His weak eyesight, however, compelled him to give up

the art. He wrote several clever plays, one or two tremendously

popular novels, and some hundreds of songs, most of which he set

to music himself. He died in Jersey on July 6th, 1868.

LUTTRELL, HENRY.--At one time Luttrell was one of the

most popular men in London society, and known far and wide for

his powers of repartee. He was born in 1766 or 1767, in Dublin,

and was for a time a member of the Irish Parliament. After

the Union he came to England, and was a frequent guest at the

brilliant social functions of Holland House. He died in Brompton

Square on December 19th, 1851. His “Advice to Julia” and

“Crockford House” are clever verse of the light satirical order.

LYSAGHT, EDWARD.--One of the most famous of Irish

wits, born at Brickhill, co. Clare, on December 21st, 1763,

and educated at Cashel, co. Tipperary, and at Oxford, where he

graduated M. A. in 1788. He became a barrister, but was too much

of a _bon vivant_ to succeed greatly in his profession. His

reputation as a wit is not sustained by his collected poems. He

has been accredited with the authorship of “Kitty of Coleraine,”

“The Sprig of Shillelagh,” “Donnybrook Fair,” and “The Lakes

of Mallow,” not one of which was written by him (_vide_

“The Poets of Ireland, a biographical dictionary,” by D. J.

O’Donoghue). He died in Dublin in 1810.

MAGINN, WILLIAM, LL.D.--One of the greatest scholars

and humorists Cork has produced. He was born in that city on

July 10th, 1793, and graduated LL.D. at Dublin University

in 1819. He was, from its commencement, the most brilliant

contributor to _Blackwood’s Magazine_, and also edited

_Fraser_ on its appearance in 1830. His fatal propensity to

liquor prevented his doing himself justice, though he wrote many

inimitable pieces, which have mostly been collected. He was one

of the most lovable of men. He died on August 21st, 1842.

MAHER, WILLIAM.--A Waterford clothier, who is

considered the most likely author of “The Night before Larry

was Stretched.” One thing is certain, Dean Burrowes of Cork

did _not_ write it, as has often been claimed. Walsh’s

_Ireland Sixty Years Ago_ (1847) gives it to Maher, who

flourished about 1780.

MAHONY, REV. FRANCIS SYLVESTER.--Better remembered as

“Father Prout,” the name he took as his pseudonym in writing.

He was of Kerry family, but was born in Cork in 1804--not 1805,

as is frequently said. He was educated for the priesthood at

Amiens and Paris, and joined the Jesuit order. After some

years, however, he practically gave up his functions, and led

a Bohemian life. He was one of the most admired contributors

to _Fraser_, where his “Reliques” appeared. In later life

he acted as Paris correspondent of _The Globe_ (which

he partly owned) and as Roman correspondent of _The Daily

News_. Before his death, which occurred in Paris on May 18th,

1866, he repented of his disregard for his sacred calling. He

was buried in his native city. It is extremely difficult to

make extracts from his prose, on account of the superabundant

classical allusions and references which it contains. He was not

a very agreeable man, personally.

MANGAN, JAMES CLARENCE.--One of the first of Irish

poets, and held to be the greatest of them by many of his

countrymen. He was born in Dublin on May 1st, 1803, and was

the son of a grocer. He wrote innumerable poems to the Irish

periodicals of his time, notably _The Nation_ and _Dublin

University Magazine_. He knew various languages, but his

pretended translations from Turkish, Coptic, Hebrew, Arabic, and

Persian are so many elaborate jokes. He was most unfortunate

in life, mainly through his addiction to drink. His was a

wonderful personality, which has attracted many writers, and

his great poetical gifts are gradually becoming evident to

English critics. He was greatly encouraged by his admirers, but

to little purpose. His poems have been collected into several

small volumes, but there is no complete edition, though it is

badly wanted. He died in a Dublin hospital on June 20th, 1849.

See John McCall’s _Life of J. C. Mangan_ for further

particulars of his interesting career.

MATHEW, FRANK.--Is a solicitor and a nephew of the

eminent English judge, Sir James Mathew. Was born in 1865, and

his first literary work was his biography of his illustrious

relative, Father Mathew, “The Apostle of Temperance.” His

admirable Irish stories, which appeared in _The Idler_,

have been collected in a volume called _At the Rising of the

Moon_. They are very graphically told.

MCCALL, PATRICK JOSEPH.--A genuinely Irish poet,

whose original poems and translations from the Irish are very

characteristic. He is the son of a Dublin grocer (the author

of a memoir of Mangan), and was born in Dublin on March 6th,

1861. Was educated at the Catholic University School in his

native city, and for some years has been a frequent and welcome

contributor to the Dublin Nationalist press. A good selection of

his poems has just been published under the title of _Irish

Noinins_. His stories have mostly appeared in _The

Shamrock_ of Dublin.

MCKOWEN, JAMES.--Born at Lambeg, near Lisburn, co.

Antrim, on February 11th, 1814. He received only an elementary

education, and was first employed at a thread manufactory,

afterwards working as a linen-bleacher for many years. He wrote

principally for North of Ireland papers, and was exceedingly

popular with Ulster people, but one or two of his songs have

found a much wider audience. He died on April 22nd, 1889.

MOORE, THOMAS.--Son of a Dublin grocer, and born in

that city on May 28th, 1779. He graduated at Dublin University,

and studied law in London. He began to woo the muse, as the

saying goes, at a very early age, but his first great success

was occasioned by his _Irish Melodies_, which began to

appear in parts in 1806. He died on February 26th, 1852.

O’CONOR, CHARLES PATRICK.--Born in co. Cork in or

about 1837, and came to England in his youth. He has written

some good verse, and was granted a Civil List pension of £50 a

year. To Irish papers he contributed very largely, and published

several small collections of verse. His complete works were

published by himself, and are to be obtained from him at Hither

Green, Lewisham.

O’DONNELL, JOHN FRANCIS.--An Irish writer who is best

known to his countrymen as a poet. He was born in Limerick in

1837, and began to write for the press at the age of fourteen.

In 1861 he came to London, and wrote largely for various

journals, including those of Charles Dickens. He died on May

7th, 1874. A selection from his poems was published in 1891,

through the exertions of the Southwark Irish Literary Club.

O’FLAHERTY, CHARLES.--Born in 1794, in Dublin, where

his father was a pawnbroker in Ross Lane, and was apprenticed

to a bookseller, eventually turning to journalism. He was on

the staff of the Dublin _Morning Post_, and afterwards

edited the _Wexford Evening Post_. He died in May 1828. He

published three volumes of verse, and some of his songs enjoyed

great popularity, especially “The Humours of Donnybrook Fair,”

which is taken from his _Trifles in Poetry_, 1813.

O’KEEFFE, JOHN.--This popular dramatist was born in

Dublin on June 24th, 1747, and was at first intended as an

artist, as he was very deft with the pencil. But he preferred

the stage, and was a successful actor for a time. Removing to

London, he began to earn repute as a dramatist, writing numerous

plays, chiefly operas and farces, which had great vogue. His

“Wild Oats,” a comedy, still keeps the stage, and other pieces

of his are still remembered. He lost his sight many years before

his death, which occurred at Southampton on February 24th, 1833.

O’LEARY, JOSEPH.--Author of _The Tribute_, a

collection of prose and verse, published anonymously at Cork in

1833. He was born in Cork about 1790, and was a contributor to

the scurrilous _Freeholder_ and other papers of his native

city and of Dublin. He came to London in 1834, and acted as

parliamentary reporter for the _Morning Herald_. Between

1840 and 1850 he disappeared, and is said to have committed

suicide in the Regent’s Canal. “Whisky, Drink Divine” first

appeared in The _Freeholder_ about 1820.

O’LEARY, PATRICK.--One of the foremost writers in

Irish at the present day. He is a resident of West Cork, and is

probably a native of that locality. The original of the sketch

quoted appeared in _The Gaelic Journal_, and was translated

by himself for the present collection.

O’RYAN, JEREMIAH.--Born near Bansha, co. Tipperary,

about the close of last century, and died in March 1855. He is

generally known as “Darby Ryan of Bansha.” Some of his songs

were collected and published in Dublin in 1861.

PORTER, REV. THOMAS HAMBLIN, D.D.--Born about 1800, and

died some years ago, but little is known about him. He graduated

D.D. at Dublin University in 1836, and wrote a few pieces, which

were published in Dublin magazines. “The Nightcap” appeared

about 1820.

ROCHE, SIR BOYLE.--Born probably in the south of

Ireland about 1740. Was a soldier, and distinguished himself

in the American War. He entered the Irish Parliament, and was

created a baronet in 1782 by the Government for his unwavering

support. He was pensioned for his service in voting for the

Union, and died in Dublin on June 5th, 1807. He was noted for

his very carefully prepared blunders in speech.

SHALVEY, THOMAS.--A market-gardener in Dublin, who

wrote some amusing poems for James Kearney, a vocalist who used

to sing at several music-halls and inferior concert-rooms in

Dublin a good many years ago. Kearney was very popular, and some

of his best songs were written for him by Shalvey.

SHAW, GEORGE BERNARD.--Born in Dublin in 1856, is now

recognised as one of the most brilliant of musical critics in

London. He was for a time a land agent in the West of Ireland,

but was always a musical enthusiast, and belongs to a musical

family well known in Dublin. He has a profound knowledge of

music, but a somewhat flippant way of showing it. He has written

several clever novels, and literary, art, and musical criticisms

for leading London papers. He was the caustic “Corno di

Bassetto” of _The Star_, and is now the musical critic of

_The World_. He is also a brilliant speaker, and has quite

recently come to the front as a dramatist.

SHERIDAN, RICHARD BRINSLEY.--Born in October 1751, in

Dorset Street, Dublin, and son of a noted actor and manager.

As dramatist, orator, and spendthrift, Sheridan’s name figures

very prominently in the memoirs of his time. His wit was

squandered in every direction as well as his cash, and he has

been reproached for making every one of the characters in his

plays as witty as himself. He was an important personality in

the politics of his day, and sat in the English Parliament for

many years. He died in debt and poverty on July 7th, 1816, and

was accorded a grand burial in Westminster Abbey.

STEELE, SIR RICHARD.--Born in Dublin in 1671 or 1672,

and educated at the Charterhouse School, London, and at Oxford.

In 1709 he commenced the publication of _The Tatler_, and

followed it up by _The Spectator_, etc. He also wrote

several comedies, and other works. He entered Parliament in

1713, and held one or two Government offices. He died in Wales

on September 1st, 1729.

STERNE, REV. LAURENCE.--Born at Clonmel, co. Tipperary,

on November 24th, 1713, and graduated M.A. at Cambridge in

1740. His father was an officer in the army. He was ordained

about 1740, and after some years of inactivity at home and

travel abroad, wrote his great work, _Tristram Shandy_,

which appeared at intervals between 1759 and 1767. _His

Sentimental Journey_ appeared in 1768. He died on March 18th,

1768.

SULLIVAN, TIMOTHY DANIEL.--This well-known politician

is one of the most widely read of the Irish verse-writers, and

has written a few songs which have deeply impressed themselves

on Irish memories. But he excels in the writing of political

skits, which at one time formed one of the chief features of the

_Nation_ newspaper, then edited by him. Several volumes of

his poetical work have been published. He was born at Bantry,

co. Cork, in 1827.

SWIFT, REV. JONATHAN, D.D.--This greatest of satirists

in the English tongue was born in Hoey’s Court, Dublin, on

November 30th, 1667, and graduated B. A. at Dublin University

in 1686, and afterwards at Oxford. He was ordained in 1694,

and published The _Tale of a Tub_ in 1705. _Gulliver’s

Travels_ followed in 1726–27, and innumerable other works

came from his pen. He was one of Ireland’s champions, and had

an extraordinary popularity with the people. He died on October

19th, 1745.

WADE, JOSEPH AUGUSTINE.--An unfortunate Irish genius,

born in Dublin in 1796, and the son of a dairyman in Thomas

Street. As a poet and musician Wade has been highly praised. He

composed some excellent songs. He made large sums of money by

his writings and music, but was very erratic in his career. He

died in poverty on September 29th, 1845.

WALLER, JOHN FRANCIS, LL.D.--Born in Limerick in 1809,

and connected with the Wallers of co. Tipperary. He graduated

LL.D. at Dublin University in 1852, and held an important

Government position in Dublin for many years. He was editor

of The _Dublin University Magazine_ for some time, and

published several volumes of clever prose and verse. He is one

of the best of Irish song-writers. Died on January 19th, 1894.

WILLIAMS, RICHARD DALTON.--Born in Dublin, of Tipperary

family, on October 8th, 1822. Was one of the earliest and one of

the leading contributors to _The Nation_, writing generally

over the signature of “Shamrock.” His writings are often very

fierce and intense, but his true power lay in the humorous vein,

some of his parodies being almost unrivalled. He was implicated

in the ’48 rising and was arrested, but was soon released,

and went to America, where he became a professor of English

literature at Mobile, Alabama. He was a medical student when he

wrote for _The Nation_. He died in Louisiana on July 5th,

1862.

WINSTANLEY, JOHN.--A Fellow of Trinity College, Dublin.

He was born in 1678, and died in 1750. His poems first appeared

in 1742, a second series being published after his death by his

son.

NOTES

_The Monks of the Screw_, p. 102.--Curran belonged to a small

convivial society in Dublin known by this name in the latter part of

the last century. It included some of the most famous Irishmen of the

time, and Curran was prior, and called his residence at Rathfarnham

“The Priory” on that account.

_To a Young Lady, etc._, p. 132.--From _The Shamrock, or

Hibernian Cresses_, 1772, a collection of poems edited and largely

written by Samuel Whyte, the schoolmaster of Moore, Sheridan, etc.

_Daniel O’Rourke_, p. 175.--This was written for Crofton Croker by

Dr. Maginn, together with other stories, and as they were included in

the former’s _Fairy Legends_ without a signature, they have been

always assigned to Croker.

_Kitty of Coleraine_, p. 188.--This very popular song is based

on an old story, of which one version will be found in “La Cruche” by

M. Autereau, a contemporary of La Fontaine, the fabulist, which is

included in some editions of the latter’s works.

_Brian O’Linn_, p. 198.--This version is made up from several in

the possession of Mr. P. J. McCall, of Dublin.

_Bellewstown Hill_, p. 228.--An inferior song on the same subject

was written by Richard Sheil, a Drogheda printer and poet.

_The Peeler and the Goat_, p. 231.--This famous song, thought

written at the time of, or very soon after, the establishment of the

Irish police force, is still popular in Ireland. A version of it will

be found in Gerald Griffin’s _Rivals_, 1835.

_Nell Flaherty’s Drake_, p. 239.--Many versions of this ballad

are to be found in the Irish ballad-slips. They are all corrupt and

generally very gross.

_Father Tom’s Wager with the Pope_, p. 267.--This is extracted

from the story of “Father Tom and the Pope,” which, though attributed

to Dr. Maginn, John Fisher Murray, and others, was really written

by Sir Samuel Ferguson. It appeared anonymously, in May 1838, in

_Blackwood’s Magazine_, at the time of a famous controversy

between a Father Maguire and the Rev. Mr. Pope.

_Molly Muldoon_, p. 273.--This poem was written about 1850, and

its authorship has always been a mystery. An American journal once

ascribed it to Fitzjames O’Brien, the Irish-American novelist.

_Lanigan’s Ball_, p. 306.--A version made up from several, and as

near absolute correctness as seems possible.

_The Widow’s Lament_, p. 308.--This piece is of comparatively

recent origin. It appeared in an Irish-American paper some years ago,

and attempts to find its author have proved futile.

_Whisky and Wather_, p. 310.--Taken from a song-book published

in Dublin, and there attributed in a vague way to “Zozimus” (Michael

Moran), the once celebrated blind beggar of Dublin. He, however, could

not have written it, any more than the other matters assumed to be his

compositions because he recited them.

THE WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING CO., LIMITED, FELLING-ON-TYNE.

12-07

FOOTNOTES:

[1] _I.e._, Wexford, the natives of which are nicknamed “yellow

bellies,” from a legend current amongst them. Queen Elizabeth first

gave them the name (so they say) on witnessing a hurling match when

the Wexford men, with yellow scarves round their waists, won. Said the

queen, “These Yellow Bellies are the finest fellows I’ve ever seen.”

[2] Mourn.

[3] Forsooth.

[4] Law commentators of the time.

[5] A celebrated and noisy French singer.

[6] A noted French actress.

[7] Hanged.

[8] Generous, satisfying.

[9] Fool.

[10] My boy.

[11] O’Connell’s.

[12] Lament.

[13] Catholic.

[14] Anything eaten with potatoes.

[15] A pig.

[16] Be it so.

[17] Hat.

[18] A draw, a whiff.

[19] Short pipe.

[20] Darling of my heart.

[21] Friend.

[22] A forked stick.

[23] Cudgel.

[24] Come hither.

[25] Evidently _sprissaun_, a diminutive, expressing contempt.

[26] Blockhead.

[27] Puppy.

[28] Lout.

[29] Child.

[30] Devil.

[31] _Knapawns_, a huge potato.

[32] _Knasster_, a big potato.

[33] A seat made of straw or hay ropes.

[34] _Casoge_, a coat.

[35] Reclaimed mountain-land.

[36] A species of diver.

[37] The small toe.

[38] _Gom_ or _Gommach_--a fool.

[39] Bard.

[40] Harped.

[41] Cudgels.

[42] _Beimedh a gole_--Let us be drinking.

[43] The “American wake” is the send-off given to people the night

before their departure for America.

[44] A hundred thousand welcomes--pron. _cade meelya falltha_.

[45] _Canavaun_--blossom of the bog.

[46] _Floohool_--generous.

[47] Kindliest.

[48] Woman of the house.

[49] _Doreen_--small drop.

[50] _Colleen dhas_--pretty girl.

[51] Overcoat.

[52] Indeed.

[53] Woman of the house.

[54] Suitable.

[55] Girls.

[56] Forsooth.

[57] A kiss.

[58] A blow.

[59] Kiss.

[60] Kiss.

Transcriber’s Notes:

1. Obvious printers’, punctuation and spelling errors have been

corrected silently.

2. Some hyphenated and non-hyphenated versions of the same words

have been retained as in the original.

3. Italics are shown as _xxx_.

4. Where appropriate, the original spelling has been retained.